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

On the morning of September 23, twenty-four sealed iron cylinders were placed under the main ridge of Sandaoliang.

The iron cylinders weren't sent to the artillery positions; they were all carried to the mouth of a low-lying ditch. A wind direction flag was planted nearby, and several Japanese engineers squatted upwind, their faces covered with protective gear.

Zhi Zi handed the binoculars to Zhao Gang: "The serial number matches the Japanese records we intercepted in the previous few attempts."

The command post fell silent for a moment.

Zhao Weiguo picked up the phone: "Abandon the first low-lying position. Retreat to the opposite slope, the wounded first. Observers, gunners, and engineers, get gas masks. The rest of you follow the protective orders. No one is allowed to stay in the ditch and act recklessly."

Zhao Tieshan opened the equipment box.

Forty-seven sets.

The canvas at the bottom of the box was exposed.

Zhao Tieshan didn't distribute the supplies immediately. He spread the job list out on the lid of the box and checked each set one by one: lookout, reporting, artillery crew, chemical defense soldiers. He crossed out one of the circles that had been drawn next to someone's name. If there weren't enough supplies, someone would take an extra set, leaving someone else to go into the fog empty-handed.

In the end, only one old mask with a broken eyepiece remained in the box. Zhao Tieshan examined the cracked mask for a long time, but ultimately set it aside and didn't use it to deceive anyone.

The monk led a special operations company of 120 men to guard the main ridge, but his name wasn't on the requisition list. He squeezed the wet towel and glanced at the box.

"If they really press in, how long can this hold out?"

"If you can't hold out, charge down into the ditch." Zhao Tieshan handed the last set of equipment to the engineering observer. "Your company is on higher ground, so hold your posts first. The masks are for those who keep watch, fire artillery, and store them."

The monk tied the towel tightly and stopped arguing.

The damp towels were divided into two stacks; the unused ones were placed on top of the wooden box, while the ones that had been dampened with mist were thrown into a basket marked with red. The water basin was placed on the opposite slope, and whoever took a towel would announce their name. Zhao Tieshan didn't say that these things could save lives, but only that people should remember not to go down into low-lying areas, and not to try to endure a dry towel.

There were about 850 special service battalionmen on the front of Sandaoliang, 120 men from the monk's special operations company, and 80 engineers and chemical defense teammen. There were also 300 engineers guarding the supply line and retreat route at the fork in the road behind. Zhao Weiguo had given a strict order in advance: no matter how tight the main ridge was, those 300 men were not to be dragged in to fill the trench.

The regiment's official staff has been increased to 12,000. This number, though on paper, cannot conceal the fact that the three main ridges still only house these people.

The 118 dead in Xigou were first deducted from the accounts, and then 288 people from the rear training team and 830 local armed forces backbone were added to fill the gaps, resulting in a net increase of 1,000. The newly added personnel first filled the vacancies in the original battalion, as well as in sanitation, guard, and transportation. No team could magically stand on the three ridges before 8:00 a.m.

At eight o'clock in the morning, the air at the bottom of the ditch changed color first.

The fog skimmed the ground, creeping into the low-lying areas of the position. The sixty paces that had been cleared earlier were quickly swallowed up, and the water buckets, ammunition boxes, and a stretcher with a broken leg left there were nowhere to be seen.

The last class to evacuate was slow.

The squad leader pushed the three soldiers up the edge of the ditch, then climbed halfway up himself when his hand suddenly let go. The monk took a step forward, but Yang Xiuqin stepped aside to block him.

"Those who go down must also be carried."

There are still people in the ditch.

"I know."

She stared at the wind direction sheet. The white sheet remained taut towards the main ridge, showing no signs of softening.

Zhao Weiguo's order came over the phone: "Wait for the engineers. Don't go down until the wind changes."

The monk gritted his teeth, only able to have the special operations company move the ropes, door panels, and water to the top of the ditch. After observing the edge move away, the engineers, wearing masks, went down and carried two men back. The other two were already lifeless.

The squad leader held on until he reached the first aid pod, his throat tight, but his hand still gripping his rifle sling.

Yang Xiuqin pried his hands off: "Leave the gun, send the person later."

The cadre next to him became anxious: "The position is short-handed, but he can still stand."

Being able to stand doesn't mean you can catch your breath.

"It can affect the spine..."

Zhao Weiguo overheard the argument on the other end of the phone and only said one sentence: "The wounded should listen to the medical team."

Yang Xiuqin then handed the gun sling to the guard. By the time the squad leader got onto the mule cart, his eyes were already closed.

Japanese infantry followed behind the poisonous fog, pushing upwards.

They reached the first level and saw only an empty trench and a no-entry line marked with red wooden stakes. Further up, the muzzles of guns rose from the reverse slope.

This was the first time the monk had been in charge of the entire main spine of 120 people; he was no longer leading a few people to risk their lives.

"Who will take the left side?"

"The second platoon leader just delivered it!"

"Deputy platoon leader, take over. Second platoon, stay in your positions and don't follow me."

"There are only two boxes of machine gun ammunition left on the right side."

"Equalize three boxes, leaving one box to seal the last opening."

When the Japanese troops rushed down the stone embankment, he didn't charge into the area with the loudest gunfire. Wherever a commander fell, he replaced him first; wherever an ammunition box was empty, he looted the remaining ammunition elsewhere. The special operations company launched a short counterattack from the reverse slope, recaptured a section of the stone wall, and then stopped; no one pursued them into the low-lying area.

The stone wall on the left had been lost once earlier that morning. The deputy platoon leader guarding the wall was poisoned and carried away, and the two squads instinctively moved closer to the monk. However, the monk sent them back to their original positions and had the communications soldier deliver the list of deputy commanders. After the stone wall was recaptured, he first reinforced the observation post, then the machine gunner, and the rest of the men lay in ambush behind the wall, not pursuing the enemy down the slope.

The main ridge of Sandaoliang is twelve kilometers long, with valleys extending five kilometers on each side. The enemy force numbered about 2,800, and they pressed forward simultaneously from several slopes as soon as the battle began. The monk could only see a few hundred paces ahead of him; he relied on flags and messengers to report any gaps in the distance.

After the first counterattack, he was missing two squad leaders.

After the second time, only one platoon leader remained who could accurately state the number of people in his class.

He tucked the list under the ammunition box, the corners of the paper covered in mud. Every time someone reported "We've held on," he would ask again, "Who's holding on? How much is left?"

The Japanese tried several times to move the iron cylinder and the personnel to be towed forward. The Independent Regiment's firepower only targeted the personnel transport, covering fire, and passageways, avoiding the iron cylinder. No one knew where the cylinder would move its contents after being hit, and the gunners preferred to suffer fewer casualties rather than risk the wind by destroying the entire main ridge.

The supply line was shut down for about two hours due to quarantine checks.

Hot meals were left to cool at the crossroads, and ammunition boxes had to be inspected one by one before being allowed to be sent up. The three hundred engineers at the rear guarded the detour, separating the stretchers, livestock, and ammunition transport teams. Red stakes were placed in the polluted ditches, and no one was allowed to take water.

Two hours isn't a long time; down the mountain, it's only enough to boil a pot of water, but on the main ridge, it can empty a box of bullets. The ammunition transport team watched anxiously as the seals were put on. Those at the front had no choice but to untie the ammunition pouches of fallen soldiers and distribute the bullets one by one into their own bags. No one said it was bad luck, and no one reached out to touch the half-eaten pancake.

More and more people are getting into the rescue cave.

Gunshot wounds were set aside, and those poisoned were placed in a separate area. Yang Xiuqin listened to their breathing, looked at their lips and eyes, and then decided who should go first. Someone leaned against the wall saying they could still fight, but she didn't even look up and simply wrote their name in the delivery slip.

The lightest group sat at the cave entrance. If someone coughed violently, the person next to them would move a little further out to give them room to breathe. A seventeen-year-old communications soldier kept saying that his chest didn't hurt. Yang Xiuqin listened to him twice, then suddenly pressed her ear against his back. A moment later, she crossed out the "under observation" she had written and revised the "severe case" section.

The communications soldier retorted, "I can walk by myself."

"Then walk to the mule cart yourself, save on a stretcher."

He couldn't utter a second word, and after taking three steps while leaning against the wall, he bent over. Yang Xiuqin didn't look at the battalion officer, but simply tied the critical care number to his wrist.

The three groups of wounded soldiers were transported in three special mule carts. The carts were not used for ordinary minor injuries, and the empty spaces were reserved for those whose breathing deteriorated during the journey.

By evening, the number of people injured or poisoned had risen to 314, of whom 57 were in serious condition.

The first aid registration form went from one sheet to four. The first sheet could still record the wound, the second sheet started to include breathing and eye information, the third sheet recorded the transport vehicle number, and the fourth sheet only wrote the critical case number. After three mule carts completed two trips, the third batch was still lined up at the cave entrance, with all the empty berths reserved for those who might run out of breath on the way.

As the monk descended from the main ridge to change ammunition, he encountered the third batch of mule carts departing. A special operations company soldier lay on the outermost side, his face covered with a wet cloth, his fingers still hooked on the list that the monk had pressed under the ammunition box during the day.

"Company Commander," the man called softly, "the second platoon hasn't broken up."

The monk took the list back, rolled it up, and stuffed it into his robes: "I know. Catch your breath first."

At night, the wind shifted to the southeast. The Japanese troops stopped pushing the cannons, and the infantry launched two more attacks, but were pushed back under the main ridge each time.

Twenty hours later, the central supply ridge was still in the hands of the Independent Regiment.

Ninety-six were killed in action. Three hundred and fourteen were wounded or poisoned, fifty-seven of whom were seriously injured. The Japanese left behind approximately six hundred and twenty corpses. None of the three hundred engineers at the rear fork were pulled into the front; they preserved the wounded line and ensured that the next batch of ammunition could be delivered.

Seven unused iron cylinders remained on the battlefield.

Zhao Tieshan led his engineers to create a sheltered area, which was used only for sealing off, registering, and guarding. The cylinders were not to be opened, tested, or mixed with ordinary spoils. Ropes and tools that had been handled were placed in a separate location, and even the names of those who carried them were written in a register.

Gardenia lay on the stone slab, copying down the Japanese numbers of the seven iron cylinders one by one. Each cylinder corresponded to its discovery location, eyewitnesses, and poisoning records, with charcoal rubbings between the pages.

One of the cylinders was covered in mud, and only the latter half of the number was visible. Zhi Zi didn't let anyone wipe it clean, afraid of erasing the traces at the scene. She changed the direction of the light and traced the visible parts stroke by stroke, then wrote next to it, "The first two are covered by mud." If it's not clear, it's not clear; evidence can't be pieced together by guesswork.

A soldier looked at the iron cylinder and asked what to do next.

Zhao Gang pressed the sealing slip onto the box lid: "Keep it as evidence. Nobody should try anything funny."

The seven iron cylinders remained sealed in place and were not counted as usable spoils.

As dawn approached, the monk sat behind the stone wall, his arms trembling so much he could barely hold the bowl of water. The rim of the bowl chipped from his teeth as he drank two mouthfuls, then handed the rest to the newly appointed deputy platoon leader.

"Master, you keep an eye on things. I'll go and complete the list."

In the command post, Zhi Zi delivered intelligence from the direction of Yangquan.

The main forces of the eastern and northern routes were all deployed to the central and western lines, leaving only a Japanese and puppet stronghold and a nearby garrison at the junction of Yangquan and Shouyang.

Zhao Weiguo did not give the order immediately, but instead placed the list of wounded soldiers from Sandaoliang next to the map.

The 314 people are still in the tent.

The third batch of wounded soldiers hadn't all been evacuated yet. A mule cart had just returned from the fork in the road; the straw on the cart was completely soaked, and the medic was changing it. A gap had appeared in the direction of Yangquan, but the rear transport line at Sandaoliang couldn't make way for the others.

A moment later, he pointed the pencil southeast of Yangquan.

"Next hammer blow, smash here."