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

The phrase "continuous convergence" next to the broken track was changed to "twenty minutes along the line" the next day.

No two bells are alike: some are old bronze bells salvaged from temples, their bodies purplish from incense smoke; a single strike sends the echo rolling far down the mountain gully. Others are bells taken from mules' necks, their crisp sound like a peddler arriving at the village entrance. The most wretched are three sections of railway track, hung from tree branches by hemp ropes; when hammered down, the sound is muffled, audible even across two ridges.

A sound was heard, and the Japanese army was spotted.

Two sounds, and a small team passed by.

Three calls, and the village was immediately evacuated.

There are only three rules. If the sergeant can't remember them, replace him.

From Yangquan in the west to Shouyang in the east, it's about sixty kilometers. The twenty sentry posts are arranged in three layers: the outer layer watches the road, the middle layer operates telephones, and the innermost layer connects to three cavalry stations. Even if the cavalry at the eastern end travels non-stop to the middle section, it would take them more than an hour.

Zhao Weiguo squatted on the hillside for most of the night, his hands tucked into his sleeves. The wind from the bottom of the ravine swirled with coal dust, and his lips quickly cracked. He didn't speak, only watched the people below test the bells, lead the horses, and connect the telephone lines.

In the first week, the clock struck the wrong time nine times.

The most outrageous time was when the shepherd boy saw dust rising in the distance, threw down his whip and went to smash the bell. The sentry leader panicked and followed up with two more blows. Only after everyone had crawled into the ditch did they realize that a grain transport mule cart had taken the wrong turn.

More than two hundred transport workers carried the grain and spent the night in the ditch. When they climbed back at dawn, their trousers were covered in mud, some had chafed shoulders, and there were bloodstains on the burlap sacks. They didn't even bother to curse the sentry leader when they saw him.

There was also an old man who was hard of hearing. He misheard "cavalry" as "enemy soldiers" and shouted it out three times long and two times short. The whole village was thrown into chaos. Two militiamen took down their own door panels to block the road. They were busy until late at night and then had to put the doors back on.

All twenty sentry leaders were summoned to the big locust tree in Xigou.

Zhao Weiguo moved a tree stump to sit on and asked them one by one.

"How many people did you see? How big is Chenzi? Which side is his gun slung over?"

"Did you strike the first blow, or did someone shout at you to do it?"

Some could answer clearly, while others, with their mouths agape, could only manage a weak "It looks like it to me." Those who couldn't answer were to retreat and follow the cavalry for three days, figuring out where people could hide, where the dust was thick, and which villages had livestock caravans, before returning.

Zhao Gang stood behind a tree, red ink still embedded in his fingernails. He looked at the several sergeant officers with their heads bowed, and spoke to Zhao Weiguo.

"A false alarm is worse than a missed alarm. If we call the wrong number, four hundred men will have carried a whole night's worth of rations for nothing. When we actually see the Japanese, they won't even be able to run, and that will be the real disaster."

In the second week, the number of false alarms dropped to two.

The real test has begun.

More than fifty riders emerged from the direction of Yangquan, heading west along the broken railway track. The outer sentries did not fire, only knocked once. The middle sentries started ringing their telephones, and the message was relayed from station to station.

Within two hours, the people from the villages along the route left first, followed by livestock and grain carts. When Duan Peng arrived with his mobile battalion, the water in the village pots was still warm, and the houses were already empty. The slogans on the back wall hadn't been properly pasted up; the upper half had been blown down by the wind and was swishing around on the ground in the yard.

The Japanese troops walked another three miles through the deserted village when two landmines went off ahead, causing seven men and their horses to fall to the ground by the roadside. Snipers on the hillside fired a burst of shots from one side and a couple from the other, refusing to get close or let them see the number of soldiers.

The group retreated to Yangquan that day. Before leaving, they said they would come back to deal with it another day.

The Independent Regiment did not pursue.

That night, the bridge planks that had been removed during the day were put back on. When the villagers returned, they checked the grain first, then the livestock, and only then did they have time to curse. The well rope had been hidden in a cave, and a few young men went to retrieve it in the dark, only to be scolded by the old man when they returned.

The fire in the kitchen was reignited, and steam rose from the pot. The well rope and the bricks along the well's edge were also brought back from their hiding place. The village was deserted during the day, but at night the sounds of spatulas hitting the edge of the pot could be heard again.

Three alarms traveled from the outermost layer to Shouyang East, taking a total of twenty-seven minutes—a number not calculated on a table. After the bell rang, the telephone operator's arm ached from shaking the line; cavalrymen continued the relay at the point of disconnection, their horses' muzzles foaming at the mouths; livestock in the village fled north to the ditch, grain carts took the south slope, women and children went into caves, and able-bodied men used door panels and stones to seal off the forks in the road. By the time the cavalrymen caught up with the news, the stoves were still steaming, but the people and the grain were gone.

Zhao Weiguo watched the entire set of movements from the slope.

Zhao Gang brushed the dust off his hat.

"Two hours isn't enough. People can get out, but the food supplies can't keep up."

The next day, each of the three supply depots received twenty more wheelbarrows. They were used first to haul medicine, then ammunition, with grain following behind. If a wheelbarrow broke, the supply depot would provide the wood, the village would offer the repairmanship, and the wheelbarrow would be returned to its owner.

Gradually, life returned to the area on both sides of the broken track. The old platform at Heisonggou, no longer used by trains, became a place to exchange salt, cloth, and needles and thread. The salt grains were sharp, the coarse cloth smelled of starch, and the sounds of bargaining drifted along the tracks. Some people would be halfway through a conversation when they heard the railway bell ringing in the distance, and they would immediately pack up their stalls; a while later, after confirming it was a test bell, they would set up their stalls again, grumbling and cursing.

Before, no one dared to use the underpasses and side roads, but now people carrying loads began to cross them. They carried little—a small bag of salt, half a bolt of cloth, and a few bundles of needles and thread—enough to trade from east of Shouyang to west of Yangquan. Whether the road was passable depended not only on whether the main force could get through, but also on whether these loads could return safely.

Zhao Weiguo traveled along the route for eight days.

The Yangquan West Depot stored 300 men's rations for ten days, ammunition for five days, and medicine, which was scarce, only one box. The warehouse door had three locks, and the keys were divided among three people; if any one of them was missing, the warehouse couldn't be opened.

When opening the warehouse, each of the three men took a key, and no one could substitute for anyone else. As soon as the door opened, the first thing you smelled was the earthy odor of the grain sacks, and the medicine box at the far end looked even emptier.

Zhao Tieshan wrinkled his nose as he looked at the empty medicine shelf.

"If three supply depots aren't even full, can you even call them supply depots?"

"The fuller it is, the more people will burn it." Zhao Gang showed him the account book. "Ten days' worth of food, five days' worth of ammunition, enough to take out and fight once. Store the rest in the village granary, spreading it out will help us hold on."

Who manages the village granary?

"There are three sets of accounts: one for the village, one for the military post, and one for the local armed forces. All three parties must sign before anything can be done."

Zhao Tieshan pulled his hat brim down further, no longer commenting on whether it was full or not, only muttering, "You manage the grain business a hundred times more than I do measuring steel plates."

The Heisonggou military post was in charge of steel. Of the 261 rails handed over last time, 111 were used to repair the bridge, 90 were sent to the military supply depot, and the remaining 60 were stored in the old warehouse. Each rail was numbered. The bearings, copper pipes, and pressure gauges removed from the locomotives were also separately recorded, and Zhao Tieshan checked them line by line with his fingers.

The Shouyang East Supply Station only stored grain, not ammunition. It was close to the county seat, so any disturbance there would easily attract attention. The grain sacks were distributed among four village granaries; there were no visible markings outside the granary doors, but the accounts matched.

Zhao Gang said that if they lose an inch of steel, they can find a way to make more the next day. But if they lose a bag of grain, they lose a pot of food on the front lines that day.

Zhao Tieshan opened his mouth, but then swallowed his words.

The more than 400 support personnel were not directly assigned to the Independent Regiment. They were divided into twelve groups, each group only traveling ten li (approximately 5 kilometers). A bag of grain had to be transported from east of Shouyang to west of Yangquan, requiring three changes of shoulders and crossing two ridges and three gullies. The records only recognized which group delivered the grain to which location and where the handover took place.

Each person only recognizes their own handover record. Each person walks ten miles, and no one can claim all sixty miles as their own.

This method was slow, but it prevented the loss of entire cartloads of grain.

The expanded accounts look even worse.

Over 1,400 people signed up in eight weeks. The first round of identity and family background checks left 910 people; another 170 were eliminated on the parade ground. 112 people recovered from their injuries and returned to the unit, and 258 people were selected from local armed forces. All these additions brought the total to 1,110.

The number of casualties, serious injuries, reassignments, and personnel shortages from the previous battles accounted for 610. The actual number officially recorded was only 500.

Eight thousand five hundred people.

Another volume lists 4,300 local armed forces. Temporary support for the front is in a separate volume.

Zhao Weiguo spread out the two booklets, writing 8,500 on one and 4,300 on the other. After finishing, he rubbed his thumb back and forth on the corner of the paper a few times, wrinkling that corner.

"These two accounts shouldn't be mixed up to make things look better. It could be fatal if something goes wrong."

Zhao Gang pushed the third booklet over.

Zhao Weiguo looked at the cover but didn't take it immediately.

"Being able to fight doesn't mean being able to manage. From now on, troop strength will be divided into three categories: officially registered, local armed forces, and temporary support forces. Each category will be recorded separately, and no one is allowed to fill their own gaps in the other category."

Zhao Gang grunted in agreement, then delivered another blow.

"I've been saying this to you for almost two years, and it's only today that I've finally heard it."

"We can't take care of things when there are few people."

"You used to say the same thing. Everyone rushes into work without any distinction between officers and soldiers. I've had enough of that."

Zhao Weiguo turned the booklet over without responding to that sentence.

The mobile battalion still consisted of 1,200 men; they didn't move stones or pull plows. The remaining main force battalions rotated every ten days, with one batch guarding, another training, and the third following the engineers to build roads and bridges.

The bridge still had an accident.

A vehicle had just driven onto the temporary bridge when a plank snapped in the middle. Eleven soldiers fell into the river; three hit rocks and broke their bones. Chen An arrived and immediately sealed off the scene, forbidding any movement of the broken beams or rotten wood.

"Who did the calculation?"

An old craftsman raised his hand. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his arms were covered in thick calluses.

"I calculated it."

"Has it been tested?"

The foreman in the corner remained silent.

Chen An lifted the broken beam, splinters of wood piercing his tiger's mouth, blood trickling down his palm. He glanced down at the mortise and tenon joints, then put the beam back in its place.

"The materials are sufficient. The mortise and tenon joints are uneven in depth, which means they can't hold the load properly; the craftsmanship wasn't verified. From now on, all bridge materials will have iron tags indicating who made them, who inspected them, and their load-bearing capacity. Materials that are not clearly labeled will not be used."

After this incident, Zhao Weiguo handed over some of the production and transportation management to Chen An.

When Chen An received the call, he rubbed his hands together.

"I'm a complete novice when it comes to gun manufacturing."

"I won't let you make guns." Zhao Tieshan shoved the report into his arms. "I'm telling you to keep an eye on people's hands. You can't measure with five fingers today and then change the mold tomorrow."

More than two hundred lines of text pressed down on Chen An's hand, and his hand sank downwards.

In the seventh week, the sound of lathes returned to Xigou.

The factory wasn't all crammed into one place. The mother machine was hidden in a deep stone kiln, the power room was in another ditch, and the explosives and shell casings were three miles apart. The three locations were about twenty miles apart, and the semi-finished products were carried by people and mules.

The first old lathe had its bearings replaced with those from a captured locomotive, and the repaired spindle was reconnected. But as soon as it was turned on, the belt suddenly slipped off, grazing a worker's scalp. The man rolled down the slope two meters, his face covered in dirt when he got up, with a white mark on his head.

Zhao Tieshan shut down the factory for half a day and had a protective cover made of iron plates. No amount of urging him to stop did anything about it.

After production resumed, Xigou could produce 700 to 800 fully reloaded rounds per day. Copper supplies were stuck, and coal was only enough to keep the fire going; it was far from 1200 rounds.

However, someone has already written in the monthly report that the daily output is 1,200.

Zhao Tieshan slapped the curled-edge paper on the table.

"Fake?" Zhao Gang asked.

"Take the best day of the three days and multiply it by thirty. With a stroke of the pen, the result is ready."

Zhao Tieshan pressed his thumb against the crease and tore the report apart little by little. He tore slowly, the paper making a rustling sound, pausing, then rustling again.

"From now on, only report seven consecutive days. Remove the highest and lowest values, and take the average of the middle five days."

Shredded paper was scattered across half the table.

"Write 700. If you write it as 1200, the people in front will use that number to fight, which is gambling with their lives."

Over the course of eight weeks, enemy reconnaissance teams approached the enemy six times. In skirmishes, encirclements, and spy hunts, the Independent Regiment suffered seven dead and nineteen wounded; an additional eleven were injured in a road construction accident.

Finally, Gardenia's men captured a scout disguised as a railway worker. The man carried no gun, only a small booklet the size of a palm. The pages were soaked with sweat, and the pencil writing was densely packed: the depth of the West Ditch waterwheel, the route of the mule carts, and the locations of the three chimneys.

The last page contains only one sentence in Chinese.

Zhao's unit possesses independent industrial supply capabilities.

Zhi Zi shoved the booklet into Zhao Weiguo's hands. Zhao Weiguo flipped through it, closed it, and asked no questions.

The booklet didn't list the location of the regimental headquarters or the full troop strength. However, the water depth, the route taken by the mule carts, and the location of the chimney all matched up. The enemy hadn't yet figured out how the Xigou area was divided, but they already knew it wasn't just a few gun repair shops.

Zhao Weiguo placed the booklet under the three ledgers. The paper was thin, and the edges were still damp; when he pressed it down, it left a small, deep imprint on the cover.

At dusk, he walked to the broken railway track in the direction of Shouyang. The tracks were covered in rust, and he could see the sentry post on the slope. Villagers pushed wheelbarrows through the bridge arch, loaded with salt and freshly ground flour. A communications soldier climbed a pole to reconnect telephone lines, which stretched east and west, turning into a bend in the mountain.

The scent of fresh wheat wafted on the wind, mingled with the acrid smell of burnt railway sleepers.

The twenty bells won't ring at the same time, but the people along the route already know which bell rings and where to go next.

A victory can only drive people away.

To keep the sixty-odd kilometers in our hands, we relied on bells, food, medicine, telephones, bridges, and the reloaded ammunition that we accumulated every day, numbering seven or eight hundred rounds.

Zhao Weiguo returned to the regimental headquarters, where a report of 8,500 people had just been delivered. After signing it, the pen lingered on the paper for a moment.

The system interface unfolds above the three ledgers.

There were no new guns, no cannons, and no complete blueprints. The merit exchange section remained unchanged, except for a new line of text at the bottom.

Military technology tree: Independent research and development stage, can be unlocked.

Zhao Weiguo stared at the line of text, and first heard his own heartbeat.

"Make it myself..."

He put down his pen.

"It's finally here."