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

Four o'clock in the morning, Heisonggou.

Zhao Gang stood on the slope at the mouth of the gully, with a battalion of five hundred men squatting in front of him.

Before dawn, the moon was obscured by clouds, and the light was so dim that one could not see faces. Only rows of dark figures could be seen crouching in the grass, gun barrels pressed against the turf, and no one moved.

Zhao Gang lowered his voice.

"In this battle, we must fight accurately, fiercely, and withdraw on time. We will withdraw at the time the regimental commander says. Anyone who lingers and refuses to leave will be court-martialed upon return."

When Old Zhou, who was squatting at the front, heard the words "withdraw on time," he tapped the handle of his pistol.

After Zhao Gang finished speaking, he left. Old Zhou stood up, squatted down at the positions of each platoon in the First Battalion, and gave instructions one by one.

"Fire on my signal. Nobody is allowed to move until I lower the gun. We'll fire after the Japanese have entered the ditch, and we'll withdraw in three minutes."

A young platoon leader asked, "Deputy Battalion Commander Zhou, what if the Japanese don't all come in?"

Old Zhou glanced at him.

"We'll wait until they're all in. We can wait, but the Japanese can't."

Its daybreak.

The mountain wind in Heisonggou was very cold; it was so cold that my hands felt numb even when gripping the butt of my rifle. The slopes on both sides were covered with shrubs, all of which had lost their leaves, leaving only bare branches.

At the bottom of the ditch was a dirt road, with two ruts worn into it by mules and horses, and thin ice in the ruts.

Five hundred men from the battalion were scattered on both sides of the slope, lying prone behind the bushes. The muzzles of their guns were pressed against the turf, and the sights were aimed at the bottom of the ditch. No one spoke, no one moved, and they even held their breath.

Old Zhou lay prone in a ditch on the left slope, his hand gripping a Mauser pistol, the trigger cocked and the safety switched to automatic. His face was pressed against the cold, damp earth, which made his fingers numb.

A new recruit, about sixteen or seventeen years old, was lying next to him, his lips purple from the cold and his teeth chattering. Old Zhou turned his head and lowered his voice.

"If you shake again, I'll kick you into the ditch."

The recruit gritted his teeth and stopped shaking.

Old Zhou turned his head back and stared at the bottom of the ditch. The old scar on his right cheek was rubbed dirty by the soil, looking like a worm crawling on the ground.

He touched the bullet pouch at his waist; the pouch was tightly tied, and there were three magazines inside.

7:30.

The sound of a motorcycle came from the mouth of the gully.

Three motorcycles drove in from the mouth of the ditch. They were Japanese Type 97 motorcycles, with scouts sitting in the sidecars, holding light-handled rifles and sweeping the muzzles to the sides.

The motorcycle wasn't going fast; the wheels rolled over the thin ice, sending ice shards flying.

Behind the motorcycle was a company of infantry, about 150 men, lined up in two columns, walking at a moderate pace.

Behind the infantry was a mule train carrying ammunition boxes and shells. The mules walked slowly, their hooves slipping on the ice.

Old Zhou didn't move.

He waited. He waited until the motorcycles reached the middle of the ditch, until all the infantry had entered the ditch, and until the mule and horse team also entered. He counted them: the vanguard had 150 men, plus the motorcycle soldiers and the mule and horse team, making about 200 men in total.

He put his hand down.

Fire was opened simultaneously on both slopes.

The first volley of fire hit the motorcycle and the vanguard squad. The motorcycle's sidecar was overturned, and the scouts fell off, landing directly on the roadside. One or two others struggled behind the wreckage.

Half of the dozen or so men at the front of the vanguard team collapsed, some lying in the middle of the road, others rolling into the roadside ditch, scattered haphazardly.

The sounds of rifles and machine guns mingled together, bouncing back and forth in the ditch, so loud it felt like they were exploding right next to your ears.

The Japanese vanguard was pinned down at the bottom of the ravine by the fire, and the marching column instantly descended into chaos. Some lay prone on the ground firing uphill, others hid behind mules and horses, and still others ran backward—each minding their own business.

But the Japanese army reacted quickly.

Less than two minutes later, the infantry behind began to deploy. The light machine gunners carried their Type 11 light machine guns and ran behind the rocks by the roadside, set them up, and began firing up the slope.

The bullets hit the bushes, breaking off branches that flew up and hit the soil, splashing clods of dirt onto Old Zhou's face.

Two soldiers beside Lao Zhou were shot down and unable to lift their heads. One lay prone by the edge of a ditch, bullets flying over his head. He buried his face in the dirt, his hand gripping his gun, his knuckles white.

The other man was lying on his side; a bullet hit a rock next to him, and the shrapnel bounced up and cut his ear, blood flowing down his neck.

He reached up and touched his ear, saw his hand was covered in blood, paused for half a second, and then continued firing.

Lieutenant Colonel Yamazaki heard the gunshots about a mile outside the ditch.

He was mounted on horseback, with his staff officer and communications soldier beside him. Gunfire came from the direction of Black Pine Gully, dense but not the intensity of a large-scale battle. He assessed the situation.

The Eighth Route Army set up an ambush in Heisonggou, but their forces were not many, at most a battalion.

"Artillerymen, move forward and flatten the hillside position."

His staff officer immediately relayed the order. The artillery detachment, carrying two Type 92 infantry guns, moved forward from the rear, with mules pulling the gun carriages, their wheels creaking as they rolled over gravel.

Old Zhou spotted the artillery's movements.

The observation post ran down from the top of the slope, squatted down beside him, and said, panting, "The Japanese have brought the artillery up."

Old Zhou's first reaction was to launch another round. There were still about a hundred men alive in the front line; if they fought for another three minutes, they could wipe out half of them.

His finger was on the trigger, the muzzle of his pistol pointed at the bottom of the ditch, and the sights were on a Japanese gunner who was setting up a machine gun.

His fingers tightened slightly.

Three more minutes. Just three minutes. The shooter is right there; pull the trigger, and a life is gone.

The scene from Baimagou flashed through his mind. Zhao Weiguo pressed him down by the back of his neck, pinning him to the ground, and said, "If you go down now, all the brothers will die in their own people's bullets."

The sound was like a bucket of cold water being poured over my head.

Then he remembered Zhao Weiguo's words.

"Withdraw after three minutes."

He looked up at the sky. Exactly three minutes had passed since the firing began.

His fingers loosened. The sights shifted from the shooter. His hand trembled slightly as he pulled the pistol back. A sense of suppressed tension lingered. The prey was right in front of him, but he had to stop.

"Withdraw. Withdraw according to plan. Retreat in three groups into the mountain gullies, with twenty key assault troops left behind to provide cover."

The order was given. The soldiers of the First Battalion began to retreat. Some slid down the slope, some emerged from the bushes, and some carried the wounded to the ravine behind the mountain.

There was chaos during the withdrawal.

Someone slipped and landed hard on the frozen ground, only to be pulled up by those behind them. Someone shouted "This way!" but their voice was drowned out by the sound of artillery fire, so they had to use hand gestures instead.

A man was struggling to pull his rifle sling from a bush, stamping his feet in frustration. An old soldier nearby pulled out his bayonet, cut the sling in one swift motion, and dragged him away.

But the team didn't break up. Each platoon and class followed the predetermined route, and no one wandered off.

Old Zhou was the last to leave. He left on the slope with twenty key assault troops, firing two rounds towards the bottom of the ditch to draw the Japanese army's attention before withdrawing.

One of the assault team members was shot in the shoulder and staggered. Old Zhou reached out and grabbed his belt, pulling him up.

"Run! Don't stop!"

He crawled out of the pit and ran hunched over towards the ravine behind him. After running twenty steps, a loud crash came from behind him.

The first shell landed on the ditch where he had just been lying.

Soil and gravel were kicked up and flew more than ten meters high. One piece of gravel grazed Old Zhou's right cheek, cutting him and drawing blood that immediately dripped down his chin and onto his collar.

Old Zhou wiped his face; his hands were covered in blood. He cursed.

"Hold."

He kept running. Shells rained down on the original position, blasting bushes and craters to pieces. Gravel and dirt flew up, hitting his back, head, and covering him completely.

Yamazaki rode his horse into Black Pine Valley.

The ditch was still filled with the smell of gunpowder, half of which had been blown away by the wind, but the smell was still there. Several corpses lay on the road, some Japanese soldiers and some Eighth Route Army soldiers.

The wreckage of the motorcycle was still burning by the roadside, the flames flickering in the wind.

The staff officer reported the results: the vanguard suffered more than 30 dead, more than 20 wounded, and all their motorcycles were destroyed.

Yamazaki looked at the slopes on both sides. The slopes were empty, with only soil blown up by the shells and the still-smoking remnants of shrubs.

He frowned. The Eighth Route Army retreated too decisively; it didn't seem like they were driven back by artillery fire, but rather like they were intentionally leaving.

But the forwards are already pushing forward, and the rest of the team is following suit. If he stops now, morale will be affected.

"The Eighth Route Army has been defeated. Continue the advance."

He didn't know this was the first line of defense. He thought Heisonggou was the main position of the Eighth Route Army, and that the fact that they were fighting and then running away meant they were short of troops.

He ordered his troops to continue advancing along the mountain road toward the dry river gully, aiming to take advantage of the Eighth Route Army's retreat to expand their gains.

Ganhegou reception point.

Li Dazhu and the Second Battalion waited there.

The dry river gully is wider than the black pine gully, but there is a section of stone embankment in the middle, which is about half a person's height and cannot be crossed by mules or horses. The sides are gentle slopes covered with pine trees, so dense that people can hide there.

The soldiers of the First Battalion withdrew from the ravine behind the mountain and ran to the rendezvous point. Old Zhou was at the very back; the blood on his right cheek had dried and formed a dark red scab, half of his face was swollen, and he could barely open his eyes.

Li Dazhu went to meet him.

"How's the injury?"

"Just some minor injuries," Old Zhou said. "He's not dead."

Li Dazhu ordered the wounded from the First Battalion to be carried away, and then reassigned the able-bodied soldiers from the First Battalion to the flank of the Second Battalion. The two battalions briefly crossed paths, and the battle line remained intact.

Old Zhou squatted behind a pine tree, wiping the blood from his face with a strip of cloth. He looked towards Black Pine Gully; the sound of cannons was still ringing in the distance, and Yamazaki's troops were advancing in their direction.

He recalled Zhao Weiguo's words: "Fire once and run, snatch your brothers out from under the cannon."

The regimental headquarters command post.

Zhao Weiguo stood on a high point at the mouth of the ditch, holding binoculars. The binoculars were captured Japanese goods; the magnification wasn't high, but it was sufficient. There was a layer of fog on the lens, which he wiped with his sleeve.

He saw the smoke from the direction of Heisonggou dissipate, and saw Yamazaki's troops pouring out of the gully and heading towards Ganhegou along the mountain path.

The column marched in neat formation, but there was a slight gap between the vanguard and the middle ranks. Yamazaki, on horseback, kept turning back and shouting something. Zhao Weiguo couldn't see his lip movements, but he could guess that he was urging the column to hurry up.

Li Dazhu's messenger ran over.

"Reporting to the regimental commander, the 1st Battalion has withdrawn to the dry riverbed rendezvous point, and the wounded have been transferred. Over a hundred enemy soldiers were killed, and the 1st Battalion suffered seven dead and eleven seriously wounded."

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

Seven lives. In exchange for over a hundred Japanese soldiers. The debt wasn't bad, but it wasn't light either.

He lowered his binoculars and looked at the mountain path in the distance. Yamazaki's troops were marching towards the dry riverbed, moving in neat formation, like a military expedition rather than a pursuit.

Zhao Gang walked over to his side.

"Well done, First Battalion. Old Zhou withdrew as ordered."

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

"The second dry ditch, watch Li Dazhu's."

The wind blew in from the mountain valley, carrying the smell of gunpowder from afar. Zhao Weiguo put his binoculars back into their case and turned to walk back to the command post.

He took two steps, then stopped and looked back at the direction of Qianhegou.

Yamazaki's team, like a long, yellowish-brown snake, was slowly making its way into the second ditch.