Courtyard House: Rebirth of a Shopkeeper in 1937

The following afternoon, as the setting sun gradually sank behind the mountain peaks, casting a warm yellow glow on the village's eaves and roads, the sound of a procession could be heard again from the western stone path. However, this sound was completely different from the previous day—there were no synchronized footsteps, but rather a jumble of shouts, the creaking of cart wheels, and the casual conversations of soldiers, as loose as a hastily assembled group.

The disciplined troops of the previous day had slightly changed the villagers' preconceived notions about the army, but the appearance of this troop today nearly shattered that newly established belief. However, as soon as the troops entered the village, several soldiers went straight to Chief Wang, pulled out a county government order for "supplies along the way," and handed it to him, their tone urging: "We are heading to Shanghai to support the front lines. Please prepare food and water as soon as possible, so as not to delay our march!"

After carefully reviewing the order and confirming its accuracy, Wang Jiazhang, though displeased with the disorganized behavior of the group, could only helplessly gather the villagers to follow the order. Everyone silently returned home, placing the prepared tea, sweet potatoes, and boiled eggs at their doors, but the eagerness of the previous day was gone from their faces. The young women and girls of the village dared not stay in the streets, hiding behind doors and windows, peeking through the cracks at the group, hoping they would leave the village as soon as possible.

Xingbao stood at his doorstep, watching the approaching column, his heart filled with complex emotions. Compared to yesterday's column, whose uniforms, though old, were neat and whose soldiers were weary yet resolute, this group of soldiers appeared noticeably more casual: some wore their caps askew, the brims pulled low, obscuring half their faces and making their expressions unclear; some had their collars open, revealing sweat-soaked undershirts, exuding a sense of nonchalance; others wiped sweat from their foreheads with their sleeves as they walked, their movements somewhat frivolous, completely lacking the urgency of heading to the front lines. Even more striking were the many villagers mixed in with the column, carrying loads of bedding and grain on their shoulders, and even pots and pans in their wheelbarrows. They were clearly conscripted laborers, their heads bowed, their faces filled with exhaustion and helplessness, their steps particularly heavy.

What struck Xingbao most was the dozen or so young men in the group, their faces still bearing the marks of youthful innocence, yet their eyes held a naive excitement for the battlefield. They huddled around two dark heavy machine guns and a mortar covered in tattered canvas, taking turns grabbing the cold gun mounts and barrels to help carry them. Occasionally, they would stumble a few steps due to uneven exertion, eliciting laughter and playful banter. The machine gun barrels gleamed coldly, and although the muzzles were unloaded, they still exuded a formidable power—heavy weapons Xingbao had only ever seen on television. Looking at these young men, only a few years older than his older brother, Xingbao felt a complex mix of emotions—admiration for their courage, regret for their lack of understanding of the cruelty of war, pity for the danger they were about to face, but above all, unbearable—unbearable to see these vibrant lives swept into the flames of war.

"Big brother! Look! Those are heavy machine guns! And mortars!" The second brother's eyes were already fixed on the two heavy machine guns. He gripped his eldest brother's arm tightly, his knuckles white from the force, his voice filled with barely suppressed excitement, and even his breathing was more rapid than usual. He stood on tiptoe, trying to get a closer look, his eyes wide open, afraid of missing a single part of the machine guns, constantly exclaiming, "These guns look amazing! If we used them to fight the Japanese, they could wipe out a whole bunch of them!"

The second brother had long forgotten his task of delivering sweet potatoes. He was pulling several teenagers of similar age along the roadside, sometimes running to the front of the group to observe the machine gun up close, and sometimes going around to the back to scrutinize the details of the mortar. He kept muttering, "If this weapon were fired at the Japanese invaders, it would surely blow them to pieces!" The children echoed him, their clear laughter ringing out loudly at the solemn village entrance, a stark contrast to the somber expressions of the surrounding villagers. Even the air seemed to lighten temporarily thanks to the enthusiasm of these young people.

However, just as everyone was watching the group about to leave the village, an untimely voice suddenly rang out: "My uncle and Uncle Xingbao are both artillerymen in the Central Army, even more impressive than their cannons!" The speaker was Fugui, who was puffing out his chest, hands on his hips, his expression full of arrogance. He deliberately emphasized the words "Uncle Xingbao," glancing in Xingbao's direction with a hint of deliberate boasting; his bangs were slightly blown up by the wind, his eyes brimming with pride, as if his uncle and Uncle Xingbao's glory could be directly draped over him, becoming the capital he could flaunt in front of his companions.

These words caused a brief silence to fall over the lively crowd. The atmosphere, which had just been somewhat warmed by the children's laughter, suddenly cooled. Xingbao's mother's face turned pale, and she swayed slightly, nearly losing her balance if she hadn't leaned on her father's shoulder. She quickly covered her mouth with her hands, trying to suppress the sobs that were about to spill out, but the violent trembling of her shoulders betrayed her emotions—after Xingbao's uncle joined the army, he had only sent one letter home; the other letter, which had been delivered through multiple channels, had been kept secret by her father for fear of worrying her. Now, the Hunan Army had gone to the front lines, and Xingbao's uncle, as an artilleryman in the Central Army, was probably already on the battlefield amidst gunfire, his fate unknown.

Behind the crowd, Xingbao's maternal grandfather and maternal uncle, whose expressions had initially held a hint of relief, instantly became grave. The two, their bodies hunched, carefully supported their grandmother, who had already lost all strength, as they slowly moved towards home. The grandmother's steps were unsteady, her eyes vacant; clearly, the words "Central Army artillery" and "battlefield" had stirred deep worry for her son, making it difficult for her to even stand. Behind them followed several other families, whose members also served in the Central Army. The ease on their faces had vanished, replaced by an unconcealable desolation as they gazed anxiously into the distance.

"You brat! What nonsense are you spouting!" A furious shout suddenly broke the heavy silence from the crowd. Uncle Youcai, his face grim and his brows furrowed, forcefully pushed aside the onlookers and rushed out. He grabbed Fugui's arm and slapped him hard on the buttocks twice without any politeness. Then he dragged him home with such force that Fugui could barely keep his feet off the ground and could only stagger as he was dragged along.

Fugui, still unaware of the enormity of his actions, struggled and shouted, "Dad, why are you hitting me! Didn't Uncle say in his last letter that they are artillerymen from the Central Army? I wasn't wrong!" His cries echoed jarringly at the quiet village entrance, but no one responded as before; only a suppressed silence prevailed. The villagers understood Fugui's unintentional words, but they could better empathize with the worry and pain felt by Xingbao's family and other military dependents. No one wanted to add to the turmoil at this moment.

Then, the villagers suddenly remembered that several young men from the village had joined the army a few years ago along with Liu Youchu and Li Youde, all of whom resolutely joined the Central Army. The local Hunanese troops passing through in the past two days had already gone to the front lines, and the Central Army must have already engaged in fierce fighting. Where were those children who had left home to join the army? Were they safe? Were they well-fed and clothed? Were they wounded? Everyone started discussing this, their previous excitement gone, replaced by undisguised worry—on the battlefield, guns and cannons have no eyes, no one could guarantee their children would return unharmed, or even alive. Only a group of children, still unaware of the cruelty of war, remained by the roadside, enthusiastically discussing the power of mortars and heavy machine guns, completely oblivious to the sudden change in the adults' emotions, still immersed in their curiosity and longing for the weapons.

The father gently patted the mother's back, soothing her with a low, gentle voice, trying to ease her grief and anxiety. Once the mother's emotions had calmed down somewhat, he turned to his two older brothers and instructed them, "You brothers, tidy up the things by the door. Wash the dishes and carefully put them in the kitchen, handling them gently so they don't break. I'll help your mother inside to rest for a while." The two older brothers and Ding, who was helping, nodded quickly and began to gently tidy up the empty bowls and wooden buckets on the door, afraid of making any noise that might further upset the mother. The father carefully supported the mother, who was still sobbing softly, and slowly walked into the kitchen in the courtyard. Xingbao and Guixiang followed silently behind, Guixiang even reaching out to hold onto the hem of her mother's clothes.

After their mother lay down in the inner room, her breathing gradually becoming steady and her emotions calming down, Xingbao followed his father back to the counter in the outer room. His brothers, who had been waiting there, immediately surrounded them. The eldest brother, his face full of anxiety, was the first to ask, "Dad, did you hear clearly? They went to Shanghai. My younger brother guessed right. Will Uncle receive our letter? Will our plans be effective?"

Looking at his children's expectant and worried eyes, the father sighed softly, his tone heavy yet tinged with hope: "Once war breaks out, the situation changes rapidly. No one can predict what the future holds. You must understand the weight of the saying, 'A letter from home is worth a thousand pieces of gold when war rages for three months.' Now that the postal routes at the front are blocked, no one can guarantee whether the letter will reach your uncle safely." He paused, noticing the disappointment on his children's faces, and added, "But we can't lose heart. The letter has been sent for over half a month. With the help of those in the front, it should have reached Jiangsu by now, and there's hope your uncle has received it. As for the methods we've come up with, even if they only help the soldiers at the front a little bit, giving them a little more safety, it's still useful."