Courtyard House: Rebirth of a Shopkeeper in 1937

Two days passed in the blink of an eye, and Xingbao had another important task these days—whenever he had a spare moment, he would hide in a corner of the woodshed and secretly organize the information he had memorized from his previous life. Paper was very precious at home, and he couldn't bear to use it carelessly, so he specially asked his friends Dashan and Fugui for help, finding several thick, strong chicken feathers from their homes. Following his memory of how to make a quill pen, he figured out how to sharpen the tip, then soaked it in warm water to soften it. He wasted several feathers, but unexpectedly, he actually made a few simple quill pens. Using these quill pens, he first wrote down the core points of the quality management system and the basic standards of industrial production on paper, hiding them in the thatched hut in his spatial dimension, planning to complete them slowly later when he had the chance.

Whether it was due to the convergence of two souls or the nourishing effect of the spiritual spring water in the space, the knowledge he had acquired while working in the factory in his previous life, the production processes he had witnessed, even the mechanical principles, tool structures, and a few commonly used steel formulas that he had unintentionally memorized, were all clearly etched into his mind, making recalling them effortless. However, as soon as he finished making three feather pens, Gui Xiang and his older brother each took one—Gui Xiang found the feather pens novel and fun, and took them home to scribble on paper; his older brother wanted to use them to keep track of the shop's accounts. Looking at the remaining half-pile of feathers, Xingbao couldn't help but chuckle to himself: Now he had another reason to persuade his mother to kill a rooster for a meal, and then he could collect more feathers to make more pens.

At noon today, several travelers came to the inn to rest and eat. They sat around the table, chatting as they ate, and the conversation drifted to the war in the north. One of the travelers, carrying a bundle, lowered his voice and said, "Have you heard? The Japanese have started advancing towards Shanxi, and the Nationalist army is also gathering there. Judging by this, it looks like another major battle is about to begin!"

Xingbao, carrying tea, passed by and stopped abruptly upon hearing this, his heart sinking. Shanxi? The Japanese are attacking Shanxi? His mind raced, recalling the history he'd learned in his previous life—could it be the Battle of Taiyuan about to begin? Judging by the time, the Eighth Route Army should have already finished its reorganization and be heading to the front lines! Thinking of the anti-Japanese war dramas he'd watched in his past life, his blood boiled, and he longed to rush to the front lines immediately. But looking down at his thin arms and legs, he couldn't help but feel discouraged: this wasn't a place where he could truly make a difference!

In the afternoon, Xingbao and his three siblings were observing the newly sprouted rice ears in the experimental field when they heard the sound of orderly footsteps coming from the road in the distance. Unlike the usual scattered and sluggish footsteps, the sound was like countless pairs of military boots striking the ground in unison, carrying a heavy, steady rhythm, gradually approaching from the west of the village, each step exuding the power of strict discipline. Xingbao's keen hearing was the first to detect this unusual movement. His hands abruptly stopped, and he looked up urgently, saying, "Big brother, second brother, sister, listen!"

The eldest brother immediately realized what was happening, speaking quickly yet calmly: "We need to hurry back and tell Mom and Dad that the army is coming from this side of the road, so the food needs to be placed over here!" The five siblings then divided the work and helped their parents quickly move the bowls, tea canisters, and dried sweet potatoes to the front of the bamboo shed and place them on the door panels, their movements full of tacit understanding. Xingbao, looking at the newly paved dirt road in front of them, hurriedly said to his father, "Dad, there's a lot of dust on this road, we need to sprinkle some water on it, otherwise the food we prepared will get dusty." At this time, the thoughtful villagers had also placed the food on the road, and Dad took his two older brothers to fetch water to sprinkle on the road.

Before they could even select a second naval force, the sight of the soldiers was already upon them. The first thing to appear at the bend was a row of round steel helmets, the insignia on the brims gleaming faintly yet clearly in the sunlight—a style the villagers had never seen before, resembling an inverted fried egg, radiating a sense of novelty. Later, they learned that the official name for this type of helmet was "Plum Blossom Helmet," also known as "Mangosteen Head" or "Mangosteen Helmet," while "Fried Egg Hat" was a colloquial name given by the villagers based on its shape, making it all the more endearing. Next, squads of soldiers marched in orderly ranks, their khaki uniforms soaked with sweat, yet still impeccably clean; the leggings beneath their shorts were tightly and neatly bound, outlining sharp lines. With each step, the bullet belts slung across their shoulders swayed gently, the crisp clinking of metal buckles mingling with the footsteps, invigorating the spirits and dispelling some of the somber atmosphere previously instilled by the battle.

"It's the Guangxi clique!" Father suddenly leaned closer to Mother, his tone no longer tense like when facing scattered troops before, but filled with certainty and excitement. He pointed to the weapons set up every few rows in the ranks, his fingertips trembling slightly, unable to hide his excitement: "Look at those heavy machine guns, and the mortars carried by the soldiers in the rear—this equipment far surpasses that of the troops we've encountered before!"

Xingbao and Guixiang had already squeezed in front of their mother, their eyes wide open, even their breathing deliberately held low, afraid of disturbing this spirited team. Xingbao could clearly see that the Mauser rifles on the soldiers' shoulders were polished to a gleaming shine, the bayonet holsters below the barrels securely fastened, without a trace of rust; each soldier had two hand grenades hanging from their waists, and some also carried grenade launchers, the tubes covered in durable canvas, yet their inherent intimidating presence was undeniable. What made his heart race the most was at the rear of the column—four anti-aircraft machine guns, carried by groups of three soldiers, their barrels pointing straight to the sky, their metal casings gleaming coldly in the sunlight, exuding immense lethality. Xingbao recognized these weapons; he had only seen them in documents before—the Hotchkiss 132mm anti-aircraft machine gun, and seeing them in person now was even more awe-inspiring.

"Second Brother! Look at those machine guns!" Xingbao clung tightly to his second brother's clothes, his voice filled with barely suppressed excitement, his eyes fixed on the anti-aircraft machine guns. His second brother had long forgotten his errand of delivering sweet potato chips; he was leading several other children his age back and forth along the roadside, sometimes running to the front of the column to examine the grenade launcher's structure up close, sometimes circling around to the back to scrutinize the details of the anti-aircraft machine guns. He had even learned from the soldiers carrying the machine guns that they could shoot down airplanes. He couldn't help but mutter, "If we had more machine guns like these, the Japanese planes wouldn't dare take to the skies!" The other children echoed his sentiments, their clear laughter ringing out loudly at the solemn village entrance, making even the surrounding air feel lighter.

As the entire column drove out of the village, the villagers who had been scattered around gathered around, their faces mostly free of worry, replaced by undisguised excitement. Wang Jiachang stood at the forefront of the crowd, clutching his usual water pipe but forgetting to smoke. He simply squinted at the direction the column had gone, his tone tinged with emotion: "I heard this unit was diverted here due to congestion on the main road. Their main force and heavy weapons have already been transported by train, while other friendly forces are heading to Shanghai from Hengyang." The villagers beside him nodded, their eyes following the departing soldiers—their faces showed none of the weariness of the previous columns passing through; instead, they radiated high morale, each step steady and firm, their eyes filled with unwavering determination for victory.

Standing in the crowd, Father gazed at the well-organized and well-equipped army, a rare smile spreading across his face. The pent-up emotions of the past month, suppressed by the war, were finally released. In his view, perhaps only an army with such discipline and superior weaponry could truly contend with the Japanese. He turned to Mother and said, "It seems our sweet potato chips weren't wasted. If more armies like this pass through, let's prepare more hot water and dry rations." Mother smiled and nodded, the bamboo basket in her hands swaying gently, the sweet aroma of the sweet potatoes wafting through the air, mingling with the receding footsteps of the advancing troops, creating a sense of peace. Xingbao, however, felt a pang of regret. If such an army had joined the battle at the beginning of the Shanghai campaign, working alongside the German-equipped divisions, they would have driven the Japanese back into the sea long ago. Why the nearly three months of piecemeal tactics, ultimately resulting in utter defeat?