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

Sixteen stretchers were placed at the foot of the mountain.

Duan Peng squatted at the front of the stretcher team, a straw dangling from his mouth, staring intently at the hilltop. The highlands stretched for six kilometers, with seven bunkers linked together by three sections of trench, like seven iron nails driven into the mountain by the Japanese army. Inside were 530 men and six Type 92 heavy machine guns. The most gruesome thing was the firing port of the main bunker, hidden on the reverse slope. The muzzles were visible from the foot of the mountain, but there was no angle to send shells in.

He tested the waters twice.

The first time they went up the slope, they reached the edge of the barbed wire, and a machine gun opened fire, killing nine men. The second time, they switched to the stone ditch on the right, and as soon as their shoulders were exposed, they were pinned down by crossfire from another bunker, and seven were carried down. Of the sixteen wounded, not one died—but the line of fire was something they gained by trading those sixteen stretchers.

No one in the Third Battalion said "Let's do it again" anymore.

The first road was breached, and the second gully was also under enemy surveillance. If they kept sending people to the same opening, the stretcher line at the foot of the mountain would only grow longer and longer. Duan Peng understood this better than anyone, but understanding was useless; understanding and actually taking control were two different things.

A platoon leader came over and squatted down next to him.

"Battalion Commander, how about... we change direction?"

"Change direction?" Duan Peng spat out the straw. "Seven bunkers, six heavy machine guns, tell me where to change to? You go up and try it for me?"

The platoon leader shrank back, not daring to utter a sound.

Duan Peng went to question the wounded himself. One said the gun barrel swept from the front, and the other said someone waved from the upper right. With these two testimonies, each containing half a sentence, they pieced them together and finally uncovered the object hidden near the firing port.

The Japanese army's main firing port did not seek out targets themselves.

There was always a guard peeking out on the right side of the bunker, first checking for smoke and shadows, then raising his hand to adjust the direction of the machine gun. The moment that hand pointed, the gun barrel would quickly follow. The peeker only served as an eye; the gunner couldn't see him, and the gunner wouldn't fire. Only when the two were together did they form a complete "mouth."

Duan Peng put the grass stalk back into his mouth and chewed it a couple of times.

"Damn. One pair of eyes for sixteen of my men."

The four mountain guns were pushed to a slope 600 meters away and aimed directly at the target.

The first shot hit the outer edge of the stone wall. The second shot was less than two meters from the firing port, sending rubble flying everywhere, but the trajectory still couldn't deviate from the opening on the reverse slope. After three hours of firing, an entire layer of the bunker's surface had been sheared off, but the machine guns inside continued to fire, not a single one falling silent.

Artillery battalion commander Zhao Tieshan spoke frankly over the phone.

"The angle of the mountain guns wasn't right; the shells hit the wall and didn't go any further. The small mortars weren't powerful enough; even if they hit, they'd only leave a white mark. The barrels, base plates, and heat-resistant materials of the large-caliber mortars were all substandard; firing them directly would just be filling craters with shells."

Duan Peng grabbed the phone.

"Then what do we do? bang our heads against it?"

Zhao Tieshan didn't respond to that, but instead asked a question.

How much explosives are left?

Two packs.

"That means you only have two chances."

In the first round, sixty men used the smoke screen to sneak under the barbed wire and blasted a gap. But the guard on the right side of the bunker raised his hand, and the main firing port swept across, forcing the men at the front to retreat close to the ground, preventing the explosives from reaching the base of the wall. One pack of explosives replaced another gap in the barbed wire.

Zhao Weiguo called off the third frontal assault.

Old Zhou arrived at the observation post at this time.

He spent about five weeks recovering from his injuries. The two shallow wounds on his right ribs had just scabbed over, his left shoulder couldn't even be raised above his head, and his left leg would tighten whenever he climbed a slope. According to the medical team's rules, he was only allowed to watch the gun position and the firing line, and was not allowed to move forward even half a step.

The distance from the aid station to the observation post was less than two miles, and he rested three times along the way. Each time, he said he was checking the terrain, and Yang Xiuqin didn't call him out on it, only letting the stretcher bearers follow closely behind. By the time they arrived, the bandages inside his trousers were soaked with sweat and stuck to his wound.

Yang Xiuqin followed behind, her face long the whole way.

"Old Zhou, if you take another step forward, I'll really have someone tie you up and take you back."

Old Zhou didn't reply, but stayed behind the binoculars for a long time.

"Did you hear me?" Yang Xiuqin raised her voice.

"I heard you." Old Zhou waved his hand. "Make sure you have enough bandages ready; you'll need them later."

Yang Xiuqin laughed in anger. This man had been lying in bed for five weeks, and the first thing he thought about when he got out of bed was how to ruin her bandages.

Old Zhou asked again about the route taken during the first demolition. He had the scouts draw the positions of the guards' probing eyes, the intervals between machine gun turns, and the blind spot under the protruding rocks three times on the muddy ground, erasing and drawing repeatedly until everyone understood.

The guards only showed half their bodies each time, and the duration of their exposure varied. Old Zhou instructed his men to keep track of the number of exposures: the first time for two breaths, the second time for one breath, and the third time for more time while observing the smoke screen. He didn't say they were guaranteed to hit, only that the demolition team had to get into position first and wait for the guards to actually peek out.

"The demolition team doesn't need to climb the cliff." He pointed to the map on the muddy ground. "The blind spot is here."

Duan Peng leaned closer. "How do we get in from a blind spot?"

"Make those eyes close for three seconds."

Duan Peng straightened up and looked at him. "How do you close your eyes?"

Old Zhou pointed to a protruding rock below the bunker. "When a shot is fired from the mountainside, the firing port sweeps across first. From there, you can see the guard's chest. He only stares at the mountainside, not at his feet."

The protruding rock was less than thirty paces from the bunker. Thirty paces, an open, unobstructed slope, and a wounded soldier who couldn't lift his shoulder. Duan Peng gasped.

"Old Zhou, you're gambling."

"I'm not gambling," Old Zhou put down his binoculars. "I'll calculate. That guard will scout back three times, each time for a shorter period, and the third time he'll definitely be watching the smoke screen. I'll wait behind the protruding rock, and as soon as he peeks out, I'll strike. A bayonet to the chest—he can't dodge it, and the firing port will have to stop. Three seconds is enough for the demolition team to rush into the blind spot."

Zhao Weiguo squatted down, his gaze shifting back and forth between the protruding rock and Old Zhou's left shoulder.

"Your shoulders can't reach above your head."

"I threw it while lying down."

"His leg is also lame."

"Throw it while lying down; your legs are superfluous."

Zhao Weiguo stared at him, remaining silent for a long time. "What if you've thrown it all away? It's an open area of ​​thirty paces; how are you going to get back?"

Old Zhou put the binoculars down on the ground, his voice flat. "Have someone drag me back."

Yang Xiuqin immediately exploded. "If you dare come any closer, I'll have someone tie you up and take you back!"

She wasn't bluffing. The two stretcher bearers who had come with him had already untied the straps; one stood to Old Zhou's left, and the other guarded his legs. Old Zhou looked around and knew he was really going to be tied up this time, so his arrogance immediately diminished.

Zhao Weiguo didn't look at Yang Xiuqin. He squatted there and recalculated the time, explosives, and the window for the puppet troops' rotation. After a long while, he finally spoke, only allowing Lao Zhou to go behind the protruding rock.

"The demolition team will first infiltrate the blind spot. You, carry only one gun. Throw it out, and have it dragged back immediately—do not get up, do not linger, and do not touch a second gun."

Old Zhou clicked his tongue for a moment. "One shot for one deal, and you're setting three rules?"

"Even if you break one, don't even think about going back to the artillery battalion once you recover."

The smile vanished from Old Zhou's face. This rule struck at his Achilles' heel. Of the entire regiment, the only thing he couldn't let go of was those few cannons. After a while, he nodded.

"I'll listen to you."

Duan Peng watched from the side, took the straw out of his mouth, and then stuffed it back in. "Old Zhou, if you miss, I'll go up there myself and twist that guard's head off."

Old Zhou glanced at him. "You twist yours, I'll shake mine. Don't try to take it from me."

The second smoke screen was deployed.

The sixty men were divided into three groups. The first group carried the last pack of explosives, the middle group carried light machine guns, and the last group carried the wounded. Old Zhou was carried by two soldiers to the back of the protruding rock. As he lay down, his left leg twitched. He moved his leg away, gripped the butt of his rifle with his right hand, and only held the barrel with his left hand.

The mountain wind tore a gap in the smokescreen, forcing the demolition team at the front to wait close to the rocks. The fuse was pressed against the chest of the innermost man, the outer layer of oil paper already soaked with sweat. Everyone knew that if this wasn't delivered to the base of the wall, there wouldn't be a third pack of explosives that day.

The guard peeked out for the third time.

First look at the smoke screen, then raise your hand towards the mountainside.

Old Zhou rolled half of his body out from behind the protruding rock.

The rifle was held close to the ground and then swung upwards.

The bayonet cut through the blind spot and pierced the guard's chest, the gun barrel sending him crashing into the stone wall.

The main firing port stopped.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

Three seconds is too short to even finish a command. But it's enough.

The demolition team charged into the blind spot. Just as the machine gun turned back, the light machine gun blocked the firing port from the side and below. Two demolition workers pushed explosives into the crevice beneath the hole, and a third pulled the fuse.

"retreat!"

boom.

The explosives ripped off the outer edge of the firing port, and half of the stone wall collapsed inward. The heavy machine gun was buried in the rubble, and the puppet troops on top threw down their guns first. The Japanese troops retreated along the trench to the second stone beam.

Duan Peng then ordered the Third Battalion to charge to the summit.

The Third Battalion advanced through the frontal breach, while the First Battalion's reinforcements cut their retreat along the right-hand trench. The reserve company at the foot of the hill remained pinned to their spot. The entire battalion failed to even make it up a single slope. Duan Peng had learned this tactic from Zhao Weiguo: when attacking a group of bunkers, you can't just throw lives at them; you have to peel back the layers one by one.

Five hours later, all seven bunkers were destroyed.

By the time the last bunker was covered with a white sheet, the stretchers at the foot of the mountain had all been used up. The soldiers dismantled two wooden doors and tied the wounded soldiers side by side to the doors. The prisoners emerged first from the trenches, while the Third Battalion turned back to clear out the enemy section by section, wary of anyone lurking in a corner and taking sniper shots.

The Independent Regiment suffered 47 dead and 121 wounded. The enemy suffered 356 dead, 143 captured, and 31 scattered towards the mining area—530, closed the tent.

Old Zhou didn't participate in the final charge.

The moment he swung his gun, his old, penetrating wound in his left shoulder reopened, and his old wound in his left thigh began to bleed again. Two soldiers, following orders, dragged him back behind the smoke screen, where Yang Xiuqin cut the bandages to stop the bleeding.

Old blood soaked through the newly changed gauze again. Old Zhou tried to prop himself up on his right elbow to watch the results of the explosion, but the stretcher bearers held him down. Only when the agreed-upon whistle blew three times from the mountain did he put his head back on the ground.

Yang Xiuqin reported to the recorder, "No new injuries. An old wound on my left shoulder has reopened, an old wound on my left thigh is bleeding, and my right rib hasn't been touched. I need at least two more weeks of rest."

In front of Duan Peng and the artillery commander, Zhao Weiguo gave the order: "Escort immediately. No one is allowed to return to their artillery position without the medical team's signature."

Old Zhou lay on the stretcher, turning his head to look at Zhao Weiguo.

Was that shot worth it?

"value."

"It's worth it, so why punish them?"

"Results are results, orders are orders. They are two different things."

Old Zhou stared at him for a long time before finally lying down and looking up at the sky.

"Alright. You're really starting to look like a regimental commander now."

Duan Peng squatted to the side, spitting out the straw from his mouth. "Old Zhou, I'm truly impressed by that shot."

Old Zhou didn't even lift his eyelids. "Stop talking nonsense. Give me the cigarette."

Duan Peng pulled half a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and stuffed it into Lao Zhou's mouth. Yang Xiuqin glared at him but didn't stop him.

A tent was unearthed beneath the collapsed main bunker.

Piled up inside were ledgers: miner rosters, unpaid wages, coal shipment records, and lists of those forcibly conscripted—four stacks in total. More than three hundred miners were marked "suspicious," with forty-seven of them circled in red. Tucked inside the ledgers was a mine tunnel map, with a secret meeting point circled on it.

The edges of the ledger were worn black by coal ash, but the red circles were freshly drawn, the ink still wet. Someone was still adding names to the list. Zhi Zi counted all forty-seven circles, then checked the order of the pages; one missing page meant one less group of people to be arrested.

She didn't guess how many people were still being held at that assembly point while she was there. She copied the forty-seven red circles page by page onto another sheet of paper: rosters, unpaid wages, transported numbers, forced conscription lists, and mine tunnel maps, sealing each one. The paper bags only had the location and page number written on them; no identification was given to these miners beforehand. The mining area was still to the north; those on the list might not all live to see dawn.

Ten kilometers north of the high ground lies the Yangquan mining area.

The last stronghold on the perimeter is gone.

Beneath the collapsed firing port, Old Zhou's rifle remained buried in the rubble. No one pulled it out as a memento; the demolition team carried the wounded away first.

Zhao Weiguo looked north.

The door that truly needs to be opened is in the mine, in Yangquan City.