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

When the feint order was given, a fire broke out first in the Yangquan direction.

Zhao Weiguo laid out the map of the Zhengtai Line on the square table in the main hall of the ancestral hall, weighing it down at the four corners with tea mugs and a map ruler. The water in the tea mugs had long since cooled, and a ring of rust had formed around the rim. The pencil lines on the map were already quite dense. A red circle marked the stronghold on the east side of Shouyang; that was the real target. But to gnaw on it, they had to first divert the Japanese soldiers' attention from that direction.

"The real target is the stronghold east of Shouyang." Zhao Weiguo moved the red and blue pencil from Shouyang northeastward and tapped it on the location of Yangquan. "The First Battalion is making a big show of force towards Yangquan, setting up ample smoke and fire to make the Japanese think we're going to attack Yangquan."

Old Zhou pulled the pipe out of his mouth and looked closely at the picture. He didn't speak, waiting for Zhao Weiguo to continue.

"Duan Peng's Third Battalion feigned a move towards Yuci." Zhao Weiguo's pen then shifted to the south, "creating the appearance of an attempt to flank from the south. With disturbances in both areas, the Japanese forces would have to be drawn to both ends. Naturally, the defenses of Shouyang would be weakened."

Old Zhou tapped his pipe on the sole of his shoe, then looked up at him: "The Japanese are really well-positioned over there in Yangquan. If we just pretend, will they take it seriously?"

"I'm afraid he won't take it seriously." Zhao Weiguo looked up, his lips twitching slightly. "Yangquan is a major station on the Zhengtai Railway, heavily guarded by the Japanese. He'd rather believe it's true than gamble. The more excited you are, the more panicked he'll become."

Old Zhou pondered these words for a moment, put the pipe back in his mouth, and didn't ask any more questions.

Duan Peng leaned against the doorframe, glanced at the difference in position between Yuci and Shouyang on the map, and roughly understood the situation before turning to make arrangements. His footsteps echoed briefly on the stone slabs outside the ancestral hall before fading into the distance.

That night, Lao Zhou's battalion reached the outskirts of Yangquan.

He made no attempt to hide. A row of bonfires burned on the ridge, and red flags were planted all over the slope. The flames were torn into streaks by the night wind, leaping and dancing on the hilltop, visible from afar. Every now and then, the bugler would blow a charge, the sound rolling down the ridge, shattering against the brick walls of Yangquan city, bouncing back, and echoing through the valley before fading away.

The searchlights from the city walls of Yangquan swept across the hillside, their beams sweeping back and forth, illuminating the silhouettes of men in gray military uniforms wherever they touched. Old Zhou squatted beside the fire, poking at the embers with a stick to make the fire burn brighter. Sparks flew out and landed on his sleeves, burning a few small holes, but he ignored them.

The Japanese soldiers dared not sleep. Hurried footsteps and shouts echoed from the other side of the city wall as the defenders ran from one end to the other, carrying ammunition boxes onto the south wall. The tungsten filaments of the searchlights were burning hot, and a layer of dust floated in the beams of light, yet everything was clearly illuminated.

Old Zhou, pipe in mouth, watched the commotion on the city wall without a word. A platoon leader squatted down beside him and whispered, "Battalion Commander, are we really going to fight?"

"Shut up." Old Zhou didn't turn around, his eyes fixed on the searchlight on the city wall. "Just keep an eye on the fire, and sound the horn when it's done."

Duan Peng's Third Battalion went even further. They moved close to Yuci, neither concealing themselves nor engaging in battle. They left food supplies at the entrances of several villages and had the cavalry run through the crossroads several times, leaving a dense carpet of hoofprints on the dirt roads, as if a large army had just passed through. Several villagers squatted at the village entrance, holding bowls and chopsticks suspended in mid-air, watching the column pass by the village and disappear at the other end of the road.

Duan Peng, still mounted on his horse, glanced back at the commotion his men had made, but didn't stop, continuing forward. A rifle hung from his saddle, its barrel gleaming a dark gray in the moonlight.

Gardenia's men delivered the intelligence back to the regimental headquarters on the third night.

There was no writing on the envelope; it was sealed with rice grains. When Zhao Weiguo tore it open, he heard a soft cracking sound as the rice grains broke, like a dry grass stem snapping. It was written by Zhi Zi herself; the characters were small, on rough straw paper, the veins of the grass still visible on the surface.

Yangquan dispatched a company to reinforce the south gate. Yuci dispatched a company to the south to pursue your feinting force. The garrison at the Shouyang East outpost remains unchanged, with the same number of personnel.

Zhao Weiguo read the note twice. He pressed his finger down on the paper to smooth out the creases, folded it neatly, and placed it under the paperweight on the table. Turning to Zhao Gang, he said, "The main force in the direction of the true target can move."

Zhao Gang took the pencil off his ear, opened his notebook, but didn't write anything. He glanced up at him. "Which routes are you sending messages to?"

"Old Zhou will leave a platoon in Yangquan to continue setting fires, while the main force withdraws and moves towards Shouyang. Duan Peng will do the same, leaving some men to maneuver around, while the main force of the Third Battalion is brought back. The artillery and cavalry battalions will move now."

Zhao Gang nodded, wrote a few words in his notebook, stood up, and went to find the communications soldier. He walked slowly, each step steady, as if he were already mentally processing command after command.

The main force was a makeshift unit assembled from the previous battles. Zhou and Duan Peng's battalions, along with artillery, engineers, special agents, and cavalry, formed a sharp spearhead. They remained unseen in peacetime, only revealing themselves when needed. After the signalman relayed the order, the troops began moving towards Shouyang under the cover of night.

The mules' hooves, wrapped in strips of cloth, pounded the stones with a dull thud, like fists landing on thick cloth. The axles were oiled, turning without a creaking sound. They moved in complete darkness, without lamps or words, communicating by patting shoulders. One pat from the front meant stop; two pats meant go. The entire column flowed like a silent river, skimming the ground in the ravine. Zhao Weiguo stood on a rock by the roadside, watching the column pass beneath him. The night was too dark to see faces, only silhouettes moving past, the outlines of bayonets casting blurry shadows in the darkness.

The communications soldier crouched under the pole, cranked the phone several times to test the connection, and only after confirming it was working did he give a hand signal to the command post.

Zhao Tieshan led the artillery battalion to pre-position the positions. Six mountain guns were pushed behind the North Mountain Road, their positions chosen at the bottom of a steep slope. From the direction of the stronghold, the slope was bare, with only a few clumps of withered grass; nothing else was visible. Branches and snow covered the gun barrels, lowering the angle of the barrels to obscure even the muzzle glare. The ammunition handlers stacked the ammunition boxes behind the gun positions, prying the lids open halfway to ensure they were within easy reach when firing.

Zhao Tieshan squatted down next to the last cannon, touched the angle of the barrel, and then stood up and looked towards the stronghold for a while. Under the moonlight, the outline of the stronghold was blurry, like a dark shadow crouching on the ground. He turned back and said something to the ammunition handler, who nodded and moved the ammunition box forward another half a foot.

The communications battalion's multi-line telephones were hung on poles and stretched along the ridge to the regimental headquarters. The communications soldier walked forward, pulling the lines, the spool spinning rapidly in his hands, the copper wire stripped from the spool, shimmering in the moonlight.

The cavalry battalion went the furthest. They patrolled back and forth along the Black Pine Gully. The dirt road in the gully was a route frequently used by Japanese scouts. The cavalrymen scattered behind the bushes on both sides of the gully, and when they saw a Japanese scout, they devoured him. If they didn't kill him, they would approach him, cover his mouth, disarm him, gag him, tie his hands, and throw him into the gully to guard him. The cavalry company commander's sword was not drawn, but only dangled at his waist, a layer of moonlight condensing on the blade.

The scouts hadn't returned to report for two days, leaving the outpost completely blind. The Japanese soldiers at the outpost didn't know what was going on with the fire in Yangquan, nor did they know which unit left the hoofprints in Yuci. The entire scout network along this section of the Zhengtai Railway was broken; messages couldn't be sent out or received.

Over the next few days, the defenses at the Shouyang East outpost were indeed significantly weakened. A small portion of the original company's strength had been redeployed from Taiyuan to reinforce Yangquan and Yuci. The remaining garrison was guarding an outpost with half its original strength, and the intervals between patrols grew increasingly longer. For the first two days, there were three patrols a day, but by the third day, only one in the morning and one in the evening remained. The scout perched in the tree lowered his binoculars, made a note on a piece of paper, then looked at it again for a while to make sure he wasn't mistaken, before sliding down from the tree.

Zhao Weiguo stood before the map in the main hall of the ancestral hall, looking at the Japanese troops he had manipulated so carelessly. The pencil stub twirled between his fingers, then stopped.

The feint line towards Yangquan was marked with a red arrow, the feint line towards Yuci with a blue arrow, and the actual attack direction from the Shouyang East stronghold was marked with a thick black line. The three lines were lined up in a row on the map. He manipulated the Japanese troops into the way he wanted them to look. He stood in front of the map for a long time, staring at the three lines. The pencil stub twirled between his fingers again, but didn't fall.

The main force has reached the eastern edge of Shouyang. Zhao Tieshan's artillery has suppressed the northern mountains. The cavalry has blockaded Heisonggou. The entire game is now complete.

He reached out and thickened the red circle around the Shouyang East stronghold. The pencil lead made a soft scraping sound on the paper, then broke. He unscrewed the broken lead from the pencil and picked up a new one from the table, stuffing it inside.

"The main force is in position," he said softly. "The rest will regroup at the four corners."

He glanced at Zhao Gang. Zhao Gang sat at the other end of the table, a notebook in his hand, a pencil tucked behind his ear, also looking at the diagrams.

"Pass on the order," Zhao Weiguo said, "the four-corner meeting will be held tomorrow afternoon at the regimental headquarters."

Zhao Gang opened the notebook, wrote a stroke with a pencil, looked up at Zhao Weiguo, didn't ask any more questions, closed the notebook and walked out.

Outside the window, the bonfire in the direction of Yangquan was still burning. A gust of wind blew in, carrying the smell of smoke, slipping in through the window cracks, circling the room, and then exiting through the door cracks. Zhao Weiguo placed the broken pencil lead on the table, stood by the window, and looked at the patch of firelight on the distant mountain ridge. The bonfire flickered in the night wind, like someone breathing in the distance.