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

The snow fell on the afternoon of September 21st.

First, a few flakes of white snow were mixed in with the rain, melting as soon as they landed on the butt of the rifle. In less than half an hour, the soil color was no longer visible at the West Gully Pass; the wet snow flowed down the trench walls, covering the tops of shoes, and then froze into a thin layer of ice.

The gunshots over the phone were very close.

"We've lost the first two slopes." The commander of Xigou was panting heavily. "We have about nine hundred men, and those who can move are still on the third line. The other side has at least three thousand two thousand, and we only have thirty percent of our machine gun ammunition left."

Zhao Gang asked, "What about the two mountain guns?"

"Still there. We've turned onto the next reverse slope. The snow is too heavy to move, and the leading edge is all tangled up, so we can't get through."

The line went dead as soon as he finished speaking.

Only the static of the receiver remained in the command post.

The Independent Regiment had just been officially replenished to 11,000 men. Sixty-seven men were killed in the initial battles on the four fronts and their deaths were written off. One thousand and sixty-seven key personnel from the four counties returned to their posts to fill gaps in logistics, guard duty, and other lines. There were a thousand extra men on paper, but spread across the four fronts, there wasn't enough to go around.

The only ones who could rush to Xigou immediately were the two companies, totaling 360 men, that Lao Zhou had brought from Sandaoliang.

The remaining 600 men of the battalion were still holding the second pass. That pass connected the rear supply route and the ammunition route, and no matter how urgent the situation in Xigou was, they couldn't afford to evacuate all 600 men. The orders were to hold the line, not to pursue; if the enemy retreated, they would be responsible for receiving the survivors, not for seizing any spoils of war.

"Now that you're gone, who will take over Sandaoliang?" Zhao Gang asked.

"The deputy will take over the second line of defense." Old Zhou brushed the snow off his military cap. "I'll send the men to Xigou and help them get through this round."

Zhao Weiguo stared at the map: "Take the two infantry guns with you. Leave the mountain guns on the original line."

"Not many shells."

"Only attack the assembly point below the mountain pass. The front lines are in chaos; no one is allowed to use artillery to try their luck."

Old Zhou nodded, turned around and left.

Zhao Tieshan was already waiting outside. He changed the antifreeze oil on the breechblock and bolt, and had the transport team remove the wheels and tie the ammunition boxes to the sleds. Since hot meals couldn't be delivered upstairs, each person had two bags of fried noodles tucked behind their waist. When thirsty, they filled their water bottles with snow and let it melt slowly against their cotton-padded coats.

The old factory extends about four kilometers into the third mountain pass. Sleds were used to carry artillery shells uphill, and stretchers were used to carry them downhill; in narrow sections, the sleds had to be staggered one on top of the other. Zhao Tieshan had wooden tags attached to the tail rope of each sled to prevent wounded soldiers from being dragged into the ammunition delivery trench at night.

By the time the 360 ​​people arrived at the mountain pass, it was already dusk.

No one fell behind on the way, but seven or eight collapsed upon arrival. Their feet, soaked white in wet cotton shoes, wouldn't obey them after stopping. The company commander in charge made them sit in a sheltered ditch, empty the icy water from their shoes, and then tore cloth from his leggings to wrap their feet. Old Zhou only glanced at them and didn't urge them on. Less than half a mile ahead was the muzzle of a gun; if people couldn't even stand firmly on their toes, sending them up would only add another stretcher.

When the Xigou commander came to pick up the man, he first counted the guns, then the ammunition pouches, and only then did he look at Old Zhou.

"Three hundred and sixty?"

"Not a single one is missing. Those who can go into action immediately will have fewer people with cold feet."

"It's the same on my end. Everyone in the tent is here, whether or not we can pull the trigger is another matter."

After saying this, neither side mentioned the total of 1,260 again. Yamaguchi recognized the leg that could still stand and the bolt that could still be pushed open, not the ink on the regimental headquarters' form.

The original defenders of Xigou retreated to the third level. A Type 92 heavy machine gun position fell into the hands of the Japanese, with the gun muzzles pointing directly at the communication ditch. Several wounded soldiers lay in the ditch, less than twenty paces from the bunker; whoever tried to drag them away would be met with bullets skimming across the snow.

The chief official of Xigou lay prone behind the stone embankment, his left hand frozen purple.

"We charged head-on twice, but less than half of them came back. If we charged again, we'd be completely wiped out."

Old Zhou didn't reply, but instead shuffled forward a dozen steps through the snow.

The machine gun was mounted below the protruding rock. Directly in front was a patch of white ground about thirty paces wide, without even a single rock to block the way. To the right was a drainage ditch, its mouth frozen over, the edges covered with snow. The Japanese soldiers disliked the area because it was low-lying and prone to flooding, and only stationed one person there to guard it.

"How many enemies are left down there?" Old Zhou asked.

The artillery observer concealed his binoculars in his cotton sleeve: "A company is gathering at the foot of the slope."

The commander of Xigou understood: "You attack from the foot of the slope, and I'll bring the gun barrel forward from the front. Your men will take the drainage ditch."

"Don't really go for it from the front."

"I can't bear to just throw people out like that."

Their hands touched on the snow and then parted.

Two infantry guns were mounted on the reverse slope. The gunners supported the gun mounts with their shoulders. The first shot missed and landed outside the pass. The second shot hit the assembly area, and the third shot sent the crowd at the foot of the slope scattering into several groups.

Gunfire erupted simultaneously from the Xigou position.

A dozen or so soldiers peeked out from the front, fired, and then rolled back down the stone embankment. The Type 92 heavy machine gun was indeed moved there.

Old Zhou led a row of drills into the drainage ditch.

The ditch was full of icy water. My cotton trousers, soaked with water, clung to my legs, making every step feel like dragging sandbags. Someone slipped, their rifle hitting a rock with a dull thud, and the Japanese sentry ahead had already turned around.

Old Zhou rushed up to the edge of the ditch.

The bayonet pierced his left shoulder, the tip tearing through his cotton-padded coat behind him. He staggered, but the butt of his rifle still struck the enemy's chin. The soldiers behind him stepped over the half-step he had vacated and charged forward, wrestling with the Japanese soldiers beside the machine gun.

The second bayonet grazed the right rib, leaving two cuts. Old Zhou grabbed the gun and pulled it into his arms, then used his knee to push the man into the abdomen, rolling him and the gun into the snow.

"Turn the machine gun back!"

The Type 92 rifle rack was frozen to the ground, and it took three people to lift it. Just as the shooter lowered the muzzle, the Japanese counterattack reached the foot of the protruding rock.

One after another, the spring plates were inserted.

Gunfire pressed down on the mountain pass. The original defenders of Xigou raised their heads from the front and slowly recaptured the lost communication trenches.

Another group of Japanese soldiers ran into them on the left. As Old Zhou got up, his foot slipped, and his bayonet pierced his left thigh. He immediately knelt down, his hand still gripping the machine gun mount.

"Don't lose your shooting range!"

The commander of Xigou led his men to rush up and drag him away from behind his gun position.

"I've taken your people."

"Three Ridges..."

"Your deputy isn't dead."

The stretcher wasn't brought up until midnight.

Yang Xiuqin cut open Lao Zhou's cotton-padded coat, first looking at his left shoulder, then touching his right rib, and finally removing the blood-stained cloth from his thigh.

"One deep wound in the left shoulder, two shallow wounds in the right rib area, and one wound in the left thigh, without touching the bone."

Old Zhou asked, "Where can we go after we finish packing?"

"Back on the stretcher."

"The three ridges are missing a chief official."

Zhao Gang's call came through just in time to the rescue emplacement: "The location has been handed over. Now you listen to the medical team."

Old Zhou stared at the snow water dripping from the cave ceiling for a long time before finally cursing. Yang Xiuqin ignored him and tied a strip of cloth with four wound locations written on it to the head of the stretcher.

There were still more than a dozen stretchers in the first-aid shelter. Those who could sit up on their own were placed against the left wall, those who had lost more blood were placed further inside, and those with frostbite on their feet had their shoes and socks trimmed first. When someone saw Old Zhou being carried in, they leaned against the wall and tried to make way for the front line. Yang Xiuqin pressed him back onto the straw mat, only asking about his wounds, not his rank. His left shoulder had a penetrating wound, two shallow wounds on his right ribs, and a stab wound to his left thigh; all four wounds were clearly written down, and he was not allowed to be sent back if any was missing.

The machine guns were recaptured, but the battle wasn't over yet.

The Japanese army held the 7-kilometer pass for 28 hours. Sleds carried ammunition uphill and carried people downhill. The soldiers pulling the ropes had their shoulders chafed, blood seeping into their cotton-padded clothes, freezing and then sticking back to their skin. The third sled was overturned by a shell, and a box of machine gun ammunition rolled into a deep ravine; no one went down to retrieve it.

The hardest part was when the gunfire subsided. Nobody knew if the men down the slope were retreating or withdrawing to be replaced. No one dared to light a fire in the trenches; the fried noodles they poured into their mouths were immediately blown away by the wind. Some people held their water bottles to their chests for ages to warm them, but what came out was still ice; they had no choice but to hold a mouthful in their mouths and wait for it to melt on its own.

The commander of Xigou walked along the trench and saw a young soldier tapping a frozen gun bolt against a rock. He snatched it away. He didn't scold the soldier, but simply stuffed the gun into his cotton-padded coat and warmed it against his stomach. After a while, the bolt loosened, and he returned it to the soldier.

"Beat it a couple more times, and even if the gun isn't broken, the stone won't be able to fight the Japanese for you."

The young soldier lowered his head and smiled, his teeth chattering.

The two infantry guns remained fixed on the foot of the slope. The two mountain guns that originally belonged to Xigou were left on the reverse slope behind, their barrels covered with tarpaulins and their shells sealed in bunkers. Unable to move along the snowy road and with the front lines too close together, they hadn't fired a single shot.

The phone line was cut off twice. The communications squad patched seven broken sections, but the wooden poles, barely erected, were bent over by the weight of the snow. From the rear, they could only rely on signal flares to deliver supplies: two white flares for ammunition, one green flare to report a large number of wounded. No one on the mountain pass knew when the sleds would arrive; they could only distribute the remaining ammunition by squad.

On the evening of September 22, the Japanese army finally ceased its offensive and withdrew a portion of its troops to move south.

Xigou was defended.

The cost was clearly stated: 118 dead and 267 wounded. The Japanese army left approximately 760 corpses on the snow-covered slope and at the mouth of the gully. The original garrison of Xigou and the two companies brought by Lao Zhou were all severely wounded and could only be withdrawn in batches for replenishment. No one dared to include the 875 men who were not listed as casualties as a complete unit.

The captured Type 92 heavy machine gun was listed separately in the equipment section. The gun mount was covered in frozen mud and blood, and only half a magazine remained. Who captured it, who took the gun, and who dragged it back to the third shelf—all these details would have to wait for reports from each company. It could continue firing, but it couldn't remove a name from the fallen list.

After receiving the list, Zhao Gang left the "missing" section untouched. Those who hadn't returned from repairing the lines, those who had gotten separated while carrying the wounded, and those who had fallen into ditches at night would all have to wait for each company to re-report. One cook didn't crawl back from a snowdrift until dawn, having lost two toes to frostbite, yet his name had already been written on the list of the dead. Zhao Gang crossed it out with a red pen and had the messenger take the list back.

"Hold on" were the two words on the battle report. In each company, it meant whose bunk was empty and whose rice bowl would no longer be filled.

When the enemy entered the old factory, all they found were discarded molds, empty shell casings, and a waterwheel that wouldn't turn. The real machine tool had long since been moved away, leaving them not a single usable screw in the mountains.

Old Zhou's stretcher was carried backward along the snow ditch. His wounds ached all over, and he didn't ask about the machine gun again along the way. He just clutched the three-section joint strip, his knuckles frozen white.

That night, just as the regimental headquarters had separated the lists of the dead, wounded, and evacuees from Xigou, a phone call came in from Sandaoliang.

The communications soldier covered the receiver: "The enemy is moving sealed iron cylinders down the main ridge, and there are wind direction flags next to the cylinders."

After Zhao Weiguo finished drawing the red circle around Xigou, he moved the pencil to Sandaoliang.

Snow stopped.

Another oppressive dark shadow has appeared on the map.