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

Before dawn, the two rode out of Baima Ridge.

Zhao Gang rode a chestnut horse, which Li Dazhu had picked out from the regimental stable. The horse was old and walked slowly, but it was steady.

Old Zhou rode a gray horse. The gray horse was young and had fast hooves, but Old Zhou didn't let it run. He held the reins and slowed his pace, walking alongside the chestnut horse.

The mountain path was narrow, with bushes on both sides, covered in dew. As the horse walked by, the dew would splash onto its trousers, making it feel cool.

There was a gray line on the horizon, and everything above and below it was black, making it impossible to distinguish where the sky ended and the mountains began.

Old Zhou remained silent.

He hasn't uttered a single word since leaving the regimental headquarters. His face is expressionless, the old scar running from his forehead to his chin is taut and shiny, the flesh on either side of the scar shrinking inward, making it look deeper than usual.

His hands gripped the reins, his knuckles turning white.

Zhao Gang wasn't in a hurry. He sat on his horse, his body swaying with each step, the hem of his long robe damp with dew, clinging to his legs. He repeated his purpose.

"Commander Kong is currently recuperating from his injuries in Shuangbaigou, where Ding Wei's New Third Regiment is stationed. The Independent Regiment needs to become one family, and the veterans can't keep holding onto this grievance. I'll take you to see Commander Kong and let him speak frankly with you."

Old Zhou didn't respond.

Zhao Gang didn't urge them any further. The two of them rode on their horses, the sound of hooves clattering on the gravel, for three hours.

As they passed a mountain ridge, Old Zhou suddenly reined in his horse and glanced eastward. That was the direction of Willow Tree Gully, separated by several mountains, and he couldn't see anything there.

Zhao Gang also reined in his horse, said nothing, and watched with him.

Old Zhou watched for a while, then kicked the horse in the belly and continued walking forward.

Shuangbaigou is located 30 li southeast of Baimaling, after crossing two ridges and a dry riverbed.

The New Third Regiment's encampment was located in a mountain valley, with several rows of cave dwellings surrounding a threshing ground. Bandages and cotton-padded clothes were drying on the threshing ground. The bandages had been washed but still had faint red stains, and the cotton-padded clothes had holes that were sewn up with coarse thread, the stitches crooked and uneven.

Two walking sticks leaned against the entrance of the cave dwelling. The sticks were made of willow wood, with an uneven surface and strips of cloth wrapped around the handles.

Old Zhou paused for a moment when he saw the two sets of canes.

He recognized it. This wasn't the work of the New Third Regiment. The method of wrapping cloth strips around the cane was from the Independent Regiment. Veterans from Liushugou were used to wrapping cloth strips around the handle of their canes, saying it would make them easier to hold.

Kong Jie is here.

The sentries of the new Third Regiment recognized Zhao Gang. The brigade headquarters had sent a notice yesterday saying that the new political commissar of the Independent Regiment was coming. The sentries saluted and led them inside.

Ding Wei emerged from the cave dwelling, a pencil stub in his hand. The pencil was dull, and he habitually used his teeth to bite the wood to expose the lead. He glanced at Zhao Gang, then at Old Zhou, and responded with a sound of agreement.

"Commander Kong is in the inner room. His injuries are much better; he can sit up, but he's still limping."

Zhao Gang stayed in the courtyard and chatted with Ding Wei on a stone bench by the threshing ground.

Ding Wei asked him about the situation of the Independent Regiment. Zhao Gang gave a brief answer: there were enough guns but ammunition was scarce, food could last for half a month, and the three groups of people had not yet come together.

Ding Wei listened, drew a few lines on his notebook with a pencil, but made no comment.

Old Zhou pushed open the door to the inner room.

The cave dwelling was dimly lit, with windows covered by paper. A hole in the paper allowed a ray of light to shine through and onto the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed).

An old cotton quilt was laid on the kang (a heated brick bed), and there was a dark red stain on the quilt, which was left by blood that could not be washed away.

Kong Jie sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), with his back against the wall.

He had lost weight. The flesh on his face had sagged, his cheekbones protruded, and his eye sockets were sunken. His left shoulder was wrapped in a new bandage, its whiteness almost blinding.

His right leg was outstretched, with thick gauze wrapped around his knee, the gauze smelling of medicine. The bullet had been removed, the bone wasn't broken, but the tendons were injured, making it difficult for him to walk, and he was left with a slight limp.

His abdomen was also wrapped in bandages, and underneath the bandages was a knife wound, left by Yamamoto that night.

But his eyes hadn't changed. They were still bright, like a sharpened blade, staring at Old Zhou.

Old Zhou stood at the door, his lips moving slightly.

He wanted to salute, but lowered his arm halfway. He wanted to call out "Commander," but opened his mouth and then closed it again.

Something was moving on his face. Something that had been stuck in his heart for too long, so stuck that he didn't know what expression to wear.

Kong Jie looked at him and suddenly smiled.

"Old Zhou, what the hell are you doing standing there like a doorman? Come in."

Old Zhou's nose tingled with emotion.

He went inside and stood in front of the kang (a heated brick bed). Kong Jie patted the edge of the kang.

"sit."

Old Zhou sat down. The two men faced each other, separated by the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed).

Kong Jie didn't ask Zhao Weiguo or the Independent Regiment first. He looked at Old Zhou's face, at the scar on his forehead, for a few seconds.

"Old Zhou, do you still remember the brothers who died in Willow Gully?"

Old Zhou's body stiffened for a moment.

He remembers. Of course he remembers.

That night in Liushugou, Yamamoto's special forces sneaked in, and gunshots rang out from the regimental headquarters courtyard. He rushed out of the cave dwelling and saw Lao Peng lying at the entrance of the regimental headquarters, three bullets in the chest and a stab wound in the back, still clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

He saw Kong Jie being carried out, his left shoulder, right leg, and abdomen covered in blood. He saw corpses lying haphazardly in the yard, some face down, some curled up in corners, and some still holding guns.

He remembered every name. Old Peng, Second Platoon Leader Liu Gui, Ammunition Handler Xiao Sun, Messenger Ma Juzi. And those new recruits whose names he couldn't recall, seventeen or eighteen years old, who died before they even got to handle a gun.

"I remember," Old Zhou's voice was hoarse.

Kong Jie poured himself a glass of liquor. It was baijiu, served in a rough porcelain bowl with a chipped rim. He picked it up, his hand hovering in mid-air, not drinking immediately.

"Old Zhou, how many battles have you fought alongside me?"

Old Zhou was stunned for a moment.

"Three years. About thirty battles, big and small."

"Have I, Kong Jie, ever lied?"

"no."

"So, do you believe what I say today?"

Old Zhou looked at the bowl of wine but didn't say anything.

"The defeat at Liushugou was my responsibility." Kong Jie placed the bowl on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), and the bowl hit the wood with a sound.

Old Zhou looked up at him.

"Zhao Weiguo sent someone to warn me that Yamamoto was going to attack me and that I should leave the garrison. I didn't believe him. I said that small groups of Japanese soldiers wouldn't dare to approach Liushugou. Old Peng also checked the outsiders but found nothing wrong."

I underestimated my opponent.

He pushed the wine bowl forward and spoke slowly.

"Yamamoto's special forces team of twelve, disguised as doctors, porters, and herbal medicine merchants, infiltrated the area for three days and discovered five of my weaknesses."

"That night they attacked, and my Independent Regiment was utterly destroyed. Old Peng died, more than a hundred brothers died, and I, Kong Jie, almost died there too."

Old Zhou clenched his fist.

"No one took my group," Kong Jie said, looking at him. "It's my mistake that I, Kong Jie, must admit."

The inner room fell silent. A breeze picked up outside the window, rustling the paper windowpanes.

Kong Jie poured himself another bowl of wine, but didn't drink it, just held it in his hand. He looked down at the bandage on his abdomen; the knife wound beneath it was still throbbing faintly.

"Zhao Weiguo led his men and traveled eighty li overnight. When they arrived at Liushugou, he first saved my life, then gathered the remaining troops, then pursued Yamamoto, and then attacked Yejiling."

Without him, the Independent Regiment wouldn't even have these bones left.

Old Zhou lowered his head.

"I'm convinced that the Independent Regiment has been handed over to Zhao Weiguo." Kong Jie placed the wine bowl in front of Lao Zhou. "It's not just lip service; it's heartfelt. He's young, but he's a better fighter than me."

Old Zhou's eyes reddened.

He recalled Zhao Weiguo pressing him down by the back of the neck in Baimagou, pinning him to the ground, and saying, "If you go down now, all the brothers will die in their own people's bullets."

He still remembers those words. Every time he tries to ejaculate, the back of his neck goes numb.

Kong Jie looked at him and lowered his voice.

"Old Zhou, I know you feel sorry for the old regimental commander. You've followed me for three years, and so have the brothers in Liushugou. Now the Independent Regiment has been given a newbie to lead it, and you all feel resentful, like you've been abandoned. I don't blame you for that."

Old Zhou's lips trembled slightly.

"But heartache can't turn into a faction," Kong Jie said. "If you don't respect Zhao Weiguo, you don't respect me, Kong Jie. If you cause trouble for Zhao Weiguo, you're letting down the brothers who died in Liushugou."

They died not so that the veterans could become bandits in the regiment, but so that the Independent Regiment could live, win battles, and avenge them.

Old Zhou didn't say anything. His hands were pressed against his knees, and his pants were wrinkled into a ball.

Kong Jie pushed the wine bowl in front of him.

"I drank it."

Old Zhou picked up the bowl and took a sip. The dry liquor burned his throat, and he coughed, tears welling up in his eyes. He wiped them quickly with his sleeve, but Kong Jie saw it.

"Old Zhou," Kong Jie's voice softened, "I wasn't driven away. I'm handing over the responsibility. If Zhao Weiguo can handle it, then I'll let him. I'll recover and go back to the front lines to fight the Japanese again. But I won't need the Independent Regiment anymore."

Old Zhou finally spoke.

"Commander."

"Don't call me commander anymore." Kong Jie waved his hand. "I'm a wounded soldier now, just call me Old Kong."

Old Zhou couldn't call out. He looked at Kong Jie, at the bandages on his shoulder, at the gauze on his leg, at the sunken flesh on his face.

He finished the wine in the bowl.

"I give up."

Kong Jie shook his head.

"It's not about submitting to me. It's about going back to submit to Zhao Weiguo. It's about submitting to the new rules of the Independent Regiment."

Old Zhou didn't say a word.

The two of them drank half a jar of wine. Ding Wei gave it to them, saying it was brewed by the Xin San Tuan (New Third Regiment) themselves; it was sweet potato liquor, not very strong, but spicy.

Kong Jie drank little; his wound was still hurting, so he could only take a few sips. Old Zhou drank a lot; by the end, his face was flushed, and he became more talkative.

He told Kong Jie the names of the brothers in Liushugou, who was a good shot, who could run fast, and whose mother was still waiting for him to come back.

When he mentioned Lao Peng, he paused, raised his bowl, and poured some wine onto the ground.

"Old Peng, may you rest in peace."

Kong Jie watched as the pool of wine slowly seeped into the soil, then picked up his bowl and poured some in as well.

"Take care."

Finally, Lao Zhou said something.

"Commander, can I stay here and take care of you instead of going back to the Independent Regiment?"

Kong Jie slammed the bowl down on the table.

"Bullshit. You're the deputy battalion commander of the Independent Regiment. If you don't go back, who's going to lead the entire battalion?"

Old Zhou lowered his head.

"Go back," Kong Jie said. "Go back and work hard. Do whatever Zhao Weiguo tells you to do. He's better than me; you won't suffer if you follow him."

Old Zhou nodded.

The next day, we returned home.

The two men rode horses along the mountain path. The sun came out and shone on the hillside, casting short shadows of the bushes.

The sound of horses' hooves clattering on the gravel was a soft, rhythmic thud.

Old Zhou didn't speak. After walking halfway, his mouth moved slightly, then closed again. After walking a while longer, he suddenly spoke.

"Political Commissar Zhao."

Zhao Gang turned to look at him.

"After returning to Baimaling, I will salute Zhao Weiguo and apologize in front of the entire regiment."

Zhao Gang looked at him but didn't say anything.

"You can't hide your mistakes in your heart. I whistled in front of everyone in the regimental headquarters courtyard, showing no respect for him. I have to make amends in front of everyone."

Zhao Gang nodded.

"it is good."

The two continued riding. The distant mountain ridges gleamed golden in the sunlight. The mountain road wound its way around a ridge, and from the parade ground of Baimaling came the chants of morning exercises.

The sound of the horn echoed through the valley, buzzing loudly.

Old Zhou reined in his horse and looked at the densely packed figures on the distant parade ground. More than a thousand people were running in a square formation, their footsteps and shouts mingling together like a drum beating in the mountains.

He kicked the horse's belly, and the gray horse trotted off towards White Horse Ridge.