Courtyard House: Home Alone

"So there are also radio stations." Lin Yifan pointed to the line on the list, "Twenty radio stations, from regimental headquarters to battalion headquarters, and from battalion headquarters to company headquarters, for real-time communication. If the Japanese make any unusual moves, 'Ghost' will also assist you in protecting Beiping."

Kong Jie fell silent. Radios were something only headquarters leaders could be equipped with; they were the nerve center between the division and brigade headquarters. Now this person was saying he would give them twenty.

"Young Master Lin," Xiao Yifu put down his brush, the ink on the rice paper already dry, like a contract written in blood, "what...how can we repay what you've said?"

Lin Yifan finally smiled. The smile was faint, like a ray of sunlight shining through the clouds in winter, carrying a somewhat indescribable meaning.

"Political Commissar Xiao, as I just said, this is a matter for the gentleman and your deputy commander to consider."

He picked up the now-cold ginger tea again, took a sip, and said, "What you should be considering is how to train an elite force with these weapons and ammunition."

The next step is not only to protect Beiping, but also to fight our way out.

However, I'll make this clear from the start: if I find you lacking ability or failing to act, I will request your superiors to replace you.

Lin Yifan put down his teacup, his gaze falling on Kong Jie's calloused hands. Those hands were unconsciously rubbing his knees, as if confirming that he was still sitting in the chair and not in a dream.

"Commander Kong, Political Commissar Xiao."

His voice suddenly softened, "That's enough for today. The things you need will be ready in the next couple of days. Just contact Chairman Tang then."

"I have something to do, so I'll be leaving now." After saying that, he stood up.

Lin Yifan's figure disappeared through the doorway, his footsteps gradually swallowed by the sound of falling leaves in the courtyard. A strange silence descended upon the hall, like the surface of the sea after a storm, with only lingering ripples remaining.

Kong Jie was still sitting in the chair, his back straight, but he was no longer the bamboo pole that had been forcibly straightened, but a dead tree that had been struck by lightning and remained frozen in place.

His gaze was fixed on the ink-stained Xuan paper on the table. The numbers looked like a swarm of ants crawling along his veins toward his heart.

"Old Kong." Xiao Yifu's voice was very soft, as if he was afraid of disturbing something.

Kong Jie did not respond. He slowly raised his right hand, which was still trembling slightly. He looked down at the crisscrossing lines on his palm, the marks left from holding guns, knives, and reins over the past ten years.

In Hubei, Henan, and Anhui provinces, these hands buried the remains of comrades-in-arms; on the Long March, these hands dug up tree bark and grass roots; on a snowy night in the Taihang Mountains, these hands rubbed the feet of frostbitten soldiers.

"Old Kong," Xiao Yifu called again, this time with a stronger voice.

Kong Jie finally moved. He slowly clenched his fist, his knuckles making a soft cracking sound, like a string of firecrackers exploding in the distance. Then he stood up, his movements slow, as if carrying a thousand-pound burden. He walked to the table and bent down to look at the sheet of Xuan paper.

"One hundred heavy machine guns," he read aloud, his voice dry as if speaking a foreign language, "Twenty radios."

"Yes." Xiao Yifu stood beside him, also staring at the paper. "And ten mountain guns."

"Hillbilly."

Kong Jie repeated the word, then suddenly laughed, a laugh more painful than a grimace. "I've fought my whole life, and I've only ever seen what a mountain gun looks like in Yan Xishan's Jin-Sui Army."

He straightened up and walked to the window. In the courtyard outside the window, the leaves of several old locust trees had all fallen, and their branches stretched out in the gray sky, like withered hands grasping at something.

"Old Xiao," he said in a low voice, his back to Xiao Yifu, "do you think... this is true?"

Xiao Yifu didn't answer immediately. He walked to Kong Jie's side, and the two of them stood side by side, gazing out the window. After a long while, he finally spoke: "Old Kong, do you remember what we heard in northern Shaanxi back in 1936?"

"What is it?"

"American journalist Edgar Snow went to Bao'an," Xiao Yifu said softly. "His book later reached Xi'an, and our people made a copy. In it, he said the Red Army was an 'invincible force.'"

Kong Jie frowned slightly: "That's different. That's..."

"Is that advertising?"

Xiao Yifu turned his head and looked at Kong Jie's profile. "But Snow did go, and he definitely saw it. And didn't we see this young Master Lin with our own eyes?"

Kong Jie's Adam's apple bobbed. He recalled the way the boy sat in the chair and spoke, the calm tone in which he said "130,000," and the way he recited that string of numbers as if it were a casual conversation.

That kind of composure wasn't feigned. What could be faked couldn't be hidden from his eyes, honed by over a decade of war.

"But how old is he?" Kong Jie finally voiced his doubts, "Thirteen? Fourteen?"

"I heard he's not even ten years old yet. Being young doesn't mean he's incompetent."

Xiao Yifu adjusted his glasses. "Gan Luo became prime minister at twelve, and Huo Qubing was ennobled at seventeen. Don't we also have division commanders who were twenty years old?"

Kong Jie fell silent. He thought of Lin Biao, and the young division commander who had so confidently directed operations at Pingxingguan. But behind Lin Biao was the entire 115th Division, the strategic planning in Yan'an, and the prestigious reputation of the Eighth Route Army.

And what's behind this "ghost," this Lin Yifan? A mysterious name? An organization whose name can't even be revealed?

"Old Xiao,"

He suddenly turned his head, staring intently at Xiao Yifu, "Do you think... this 'ghost' might be one of ours?"

Xiao Yifu's glasses flickered. He glanced instinctively at the door, making sure Old Zhou and the accountant were indeed gone, before lowering his voice: "That's what I thought at first too. But think about it, if they were our people, why would they go through such a roundabout way? Wouldn't it be better to go directly through organizational channels?"

"That's the Kuomintang?"

"That doesn't seem likely either," Xiao Yifu shook his head. "If the Kuomintang had that kind of ability, would they have lost Nanjing? Would they have lost Wuhan?"

Kong Jie's brow furrowed even more. Not the Communists, not the Kuomintang, then what was it? A gang? But what gang could procure artillery, a radio, and tons of grain? Foreign powers?

But the boy's accent was clearly that of a native Beijinger, and the few foreign words he occasionally used were the kind that had become popular in Beijing in recent years.

"I just can't figure it out." He finally admitted, slamming his fist on the windowsill, sending dust flying from the glass. "I've been fighting for over a decade, and this is the first time I've encountered something this weird."

"Strange things may be strange."

Xiao Yifu's voice calmed down, "But the things are real. Old Kong, what we should be thinking about most right now isn't where the 'ghost' came from, but how to use these things to complete the mission from our superiors."

Kong Jie turned around and looked at his partner. Xiao Yifu was two years younger than him, and wore a pair of glasses with a broken leg that was tied with thread, making him look like a schoolteacher.