The Courtyard House: The Little Red Devil Returning from the Peninsula

Late at night.

Chen An waited for him at the mouth of the ditch. Ten men followed behind Chen An, their faces covered in blood, their clothes torn in several places, and their pistols tucked into their waistbands, the handles of which were covered in mud.

"Sister Zhizi told us to come and provide backup first," Chen An said in a low voice. "She said she held them off from behind for a while."

Zhao Weiguo nodded. He glanced at the ten men; they were all soldiers from the Independent Regiment. Their cotton-padded jackets were a shade lighter than those of the Assault Battalion, and the stitching was finer, indicating it was made by the Independent Regiment's clothing factory.

He lifted his foot and walked into the ditch, his boots crunching on the broken bricks.

When Zhao Weiguo reached the outer perimeter of the Liushugou outpost, he smelled gunpowder and burning wood. The two smells mixed together, making his eyes sting and his eyes water.

The collapsed kiln of the ammunition depot was still glowing red. The embers in the kiln wall, like a piece of red-hot charcoal buried in the ash, flickered on and off.

Willow Grove has changed.

It's not the Willow Gully shown on the map anymore.

On the map, Liushugou was a few rows of cave dwellings, a stream, two sheds, and a flagpole. What we see in front of us is a cave dwelling that has collapsed halfway, shell casings scattered all over the ground, and the carcasses of mules and horses lying by the roadside.

There was also black smoke rising from the bottom of the ditch, as black as ink.

The flagpole is still there. There's no flag on it, it's bare, just like when he last came.

But there was an extra bullet hole at the base of the flagpole; it went in from the front and came out from the back, leaving the wood shattered all over the ground, white and crumbly.

"Who goes there!"

Someone shouted in the darkness. The voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grinding on sheet metal.

Chen An took a step forward and called back.

"Assault Battalion! Zhao Weiguo!"

There was a two-second silence on the other end.

Then a dark figure stood up from behind the half-collapsed cave dwelling, holding a Hanyang rifle in his hand, pointing the muzzle at them and waving it twice.

The shadowy figure took two steps forward, until it reached the spot illuminated by the moonlight.

He was a sentry in an independent regiment. He was in his early twenties, his face covered in soot, except for the whites of his eyes, which were bright, like two pieces of glass embedded in his face.

His cotton-padded coat was torn, with half of the left sleeve ripped off, revealing the shirt underneath. The shirt was soaked in blood, dried, and stiff, like a piece of sheet metal.

He stared at Zhao Weiguo's face for three seconds. Then his mouth opened slightly, and his chin twitched.

"Zhao Weiguo?"

Where is Commander Kong?

The sentry's hands trembled, and so did the muzzle of his gun. He wiped his face with his other hand, smearing away the soot to reveal the flesh beneath, stained with blood.

"The regimental headquarters cave dwellings are still there."

Zhao Weiguo led his men inside, walking very quietly.

As he passed the ammunition depot, he glanced at it. The entire depot had collapsed; the kiln roof had crumbled, burying all the ammunition boxes inside, with wood chips and shrapnel mixed together.

The fire had gone out, but the heat was still rising. Within three steps, you could feel the burning sensation on your face, as if someone was branding you with a hot iron.

Fragments of the ammunition box were scattered all over the ground, some still smoking. The smoke was yellow and smelled of sulfur; inhaling it made one cough.

A corpse lay by the roadside.

Some were from the Independent Regiment, wearing gray cotton-padded jackets with their collar insignia still on; others were special agents, dressed in civilian clothes, long gowns, short jackets, and the coarse cloth clothes of a coachman.

The two groups of people were mixed together, some pressed together, making it impossible to tell who was who. The blood had softened the soil on the ground, making it sticky to the feet.

Zhao Weiguo squatted down to examine the body of a civilian officer. There was a bulge at the waist of the body. He lifted the collar to reveal a Nambu pistol, the barrel still warm and the handle stained with blood.

Southern style. Yamamoto's secret service agent.

He stood up and continued walking, leaving a trail of footprints on the ground from the blood on the soles of his boots.

A soldier from the Independent Regiment was pinned down by a roof beam. The beam, as thick as a bowl, had fallen from the collapsed cave roof and was pressing on his waist; the wood was almost embedded in his flesh.

His upper body was still mobile; he was holding a grenade in his right hand, the pin half-pulled, still attached to the grenade. His fingers were clenched tightly, his knuckles white.

His eyes were open, staring at Zhao Weiguo, and he was saying something, but his voice was too soft to be heard; only his lips were moving.

Zhao Weiguo squatted down, his knees sinking into the cold mud.

"Don't move."

He grabbed the roof beam and tried to lift it. The beam was heavy, sluggish, and he couldn't budge it. The muscles in his shoulders were taut.

Chen An came to help, and the two of them lifted it together, shifting the beam two inches. The soldier's body slid out a little, but his lower body was still stuck between the broken bricks and wood, causing him to bleed even more.

"Wait a minute," Zhao Weiguo said.

He lowered the roof beam, picked up a wooden stick from the side, inserted it under the broken bricks, and pried. The broken bricks loosened, making a cracking sound, and the soldier's body slid a little further out. Chen An grabbed his arm and pulled him out, causing the wound on his arm to bleed again.

It was pulled out.

The soldier's lower body was covered in blood; his trouser legs were soaked in blood, blackened, and stuck to his legs.

He had no feeling below his waist; his legs dragged on the ground like two sticks, unresponsive no matter how much he dragged them. But in his right hand, he held a grenade tightly, his knuckles white.

"Don't throw it." Zhao Weiguo pressed his hand down; his hand was ice-cold. "The pull tab isn't fully pulled out yet; if you throw it, it'll explode."

The soldier's grip loosened slightly, but not completely. Zhao Weiguo slowly pulled the grenade from his hand and put the pin back on. He handed the grenade to Chen An, stood up, and dusted off his hands.

"stretcher."

The two men carried the soldier to the roadside and placed him on a flat surface. The soldier's eyes were still open, looking at Zhao Weiguo. His lips moved slightly, his voice barely audible.

"Commander Kong is still here."

Zhao Weiguo nodded and walked forward, his boots sticking to the bloody mud.

The regimental headquarters' cave dwellings were halfway up the mountain. The tarpaulin at the entrance of the cave dwelling had been torn down and thrown on the ground, covered with footprints—some from military boots, others from cloth shoes. A person lay collapsed at the entrance.

It's Lao Peng.

He lay in a pool of blood, his body turned to the side, face down, his left hand outstretched as if reaching for something, his fingers still in a grasping position.

There were three small bullet holes in his chest, made by a Nambu pistol at close range with great accuracy; the three holes were almost in a straight line.

There was also a knife wound on his back, running from his left shoulder to his right waist. The cut was deep, and his clothes were cut open, exposing the flesh underneath, which was white in color and the blood had already congealed.

Zhao Weiguo squatted down and turned him over. Old Peng was very heavy, and it took two people to lift him.

Old Peng's eyes were still open. His face was expressionless, as if he were asleep, and the shrapnel scar under his left eye was still there, pale.

But he was holding something in his right hand. Zhao Weiguo pried open his fingers, which were as hard as wood. It took him a while to pry them open, and it was a piece of paper.

The note was mostly soaked in blood, and the writing was blurred, but a few words could still be made out.

"The doctor is a fake."

Just those four words. The rest of the words were covered in blood and couldn't be seen; they were blurred into a red mess.

Zhao Weiguo stared at the note for a long time.

He recalled the staff officer's report on how Lao Peng questioned Zhongcun at the medical clinic, asking about his hometown accent, common prescriptions, and the authenticity of medicinal materials. He asked questions seriously and checked carefully, even pinching the cross-section of the astragalus root.

After checking, he said "no problem" and went back to report to Kong Jie.

He investigated diligently. But he didn't find anything.

He only realized it in the moment before he died.

Zhao Weiguo folded the note and put it in his pocket. Then he reached out and closed Lao Peng's eyes; his eyelids were as cold as ice.

"Chen An. Remember this. Old Peng, adjutant, killed in action."

Chen An didn't say anything more. He took out a pencil from his pocket and wrote on a piece of paper. The pencil tip broke off, but he bit it with his teeth and continued writing.

Zhao Weiguo stood up and walked into the cave dwelling at the regimental headquarters. The curtain was gone, and the cold wind blew straight in.

An oil lamp burned in the cave dwelling. It was nearly extinguished; the wick was burnt to a black stick, and the flame, now only the size of a bean, flickered precariously, as if it might go out at any moment. Kong Jie lay on the kang (heated brick bed) against the wall.

His left shoulder was wrapped in bandages, which were soaked with blood, changing color from white to red, then from red to black, and as stiff as a board.

His right leg was also wrapped in bandages, but they weren't wrapped well and were loose. Blood seeped out from the gaps in the bandages, dripping onto the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) and then onto the ground, where it pooled in a small puddle.

There was a knife wound on his abdomen, covered with a strip of cloth. The cloth was soaked with blood and wet; when pressed, it would blister with blood.

The medic squatted by the kang (a heated brick bed), holding the last piece of clean gauze in his hand. There wasn't enough gauze left; it could only cover half of the knife wound, and blood was seeping out from the edges.

His hands were covered in blood, as were his sleeves, and a few drops had splattered on his face, making it look like he had red pockmarks.

Kong Jie's eyes were half-open. When he saw Zhao Weiguo come in, his lips moved slightly, and the scab at the corner of his mouth cracked open.

"I'm late." His voice was very soft, as if squeezed from deep in his throat, and it tasted of blood.

Zhao Weiguo walked to the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) and squatted down. He took out a bamboo tube of sulfanilamide powder from his pocket, unscrewed the wax seal, and poured the sulfanilamide powder onto Kong Jie's abdominal knife wound.

The white powder was sprinkled on the red wound, like snow falling on fire, making a sizzling sound.

"It's not too late."

The medic paused for a moment when he saw the sulfanilamide powder, then quickly pressed the powder down with his hand to prevent it from being washed away by the blood; his hand was trembling.

"Is it enough?" the medic asked, his voice trembling.

Zhao Weiguo took out two more bottles and placed them on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed). The glass bottles clinked against the wood.

"Use these for now. The incision in my abdomen needs to be stitched up again, can you do that?"

The medic squeezed the gauze tighter, his knuckles turning white. "It can be sewn, but there's no anesthetic."

"He'll sew it up," Zhao Weiguo said. "He can handle it."

Kong Jie's lips twitched, whether from laughter or pain, the muscles in his face twitched.

"Zhao Weiguo." His voice was even softer. "Yamamoto went to Wild Chicken Ridge with more than thirty men. The Independent Regiment was scattered."

Zhao Weiguo nodded, his knees a little numb from kneeling.

"I know."

Kong Jie reached his hand out from the kang (a heated brick bed) and grabbed Zhao Weiguo's sleeve. His hand was very cold, so cold it didn't feel like a living person's hand. His fingers gripped the cuff tightly, as if afraid he would leave, his fingernails digging into the fabric.

"The Independent Regiment. You're in charge."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him. His eyes were bright, but not in a good way; they were a kind of dim, lifeless brightness.

"Mind your own business," Kong Jie repeated. His breath was as light as a thread, as fragile as a wisp of air.

Zhao Weiguo put his hand back on the kang (a heated brick bed) and covered it with a quilt.

"Sew up the wound first."

He stood up, walked to the entrance of the cave dwelling, and the wind blew in, making his back feel cold.

A man in his thirties stood at the doorway. He had an old scar on his face, running from his forehead to his chin, and it had turned white. He was the deputy battalion commander of the Independent Regiment, surnamed Zhou, and everyone called him Old Zhou.

"Report the numbers," Zhao Weiguo said.

Old Zhou lowered his head, his words squeezed out from between his teeth, his voice hoarse like a broken gong.

"More than 300 men were able to move. Over 40 were seriously wounded. More than 200 were killed in action."

Zhao Weiguo's pencil paused for a moment, and the lead broke.

"Of the three battalion commanders, two were killed in action, and one was seriously wounded."

Old Zhou continued, "Of the seven company commanders, most have been killed. Zhang Degong, the first battalion commander, is dead. Li Shouyi, the second battalion commander, was seriously wounded and sent to the brigade hospital. Liu Tiezhu, the third battalion commander, is dead. There are only a few company commanders left."

"That's enough," Zhao Weiguo interrupted him, throwing the pencil stub on the ground.

He looked outside the cave dwelling.

The fire had been mostly extinguished, with only a few red lights still flashing in the direction of the ammunition depot. Smoke drifted up from the bottom of the ravine, reaching the mountainside before being dispersed by the wind, carrying the smell of burning.

The distant mountain ridgeline pressed against the horizon, dark and indistinct, making it impossible to distinguish where the mountains ended and the sky began.

"The remnants of the Independent Regiment are temporarily under my command," Zhao Weiguo said. "Those who can carry guns, follow me to Wild Chicken Ridge. The seriously wounded and Regiment Commander Kong will be sent to the brigade hospital later."

Old Zhou looked at him, his lips moved slightly, but he didn't speak; the scar on his face twitched.

Kong Jie's voice came from inside the cave. It was very soft, as if it were squeezed out from a crack in the stone.

"Listen to Wei Guo."

Old Zhou's shoulders slumped for a moment, then he straightened up again, his back ramrod straight.

"Yes."

Fifteen minutes later, Zhao Weiguo stood at the mouth of Liushugou.

Behind him were fifty assault battalions and over two hundred mobile soldiers from the Independent Regiment. The faces of the Independent Regiment soldiers were covered in soot and blood; some had bandages wrapped around their arms, some had torn trouser legs exposing their knees, and some had broken rifle butts bound with strips of cloth, the cloth stained red with blood.

But their eyes were bright; they looked at Zhao Weiguo as if he were a pillar of salvation.

Zhao Weiguo looked back.

Old Peng's body was still at the entrance of the regimental headquarters cave dwelling. Someone had covered him with an oilcloth, and the wind blew up a corner of the oilcloth, revealing his shoes. The red light from the ammunition depot was still flashing, flickering like an eye about to close.

He turned his head and walked forward, his boots clicking on the hard ground.

"Walk."

Two hundred and fifty people followed him, heading towards Wild Chicken Ridge. The sound of their footsteps carried far in the night, like someone beating a drum, one beat after another, making one's heart tremble.