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

Zhao Weiguo lay down behind a clump of jujube trees on the edge of the ravine, his binoculars resting on his left fist, his right eye peering through the lens, scanning the entire Jingxing station area from beginning to end.

The sky wasn't completely dark yet; the last vestiges of gray light on the western horizon pressed down on the railway tracks, gleaming like a straight blade. The station area was already lit: two lights at the main gate, one atop the water tower, and lights scattered throughout the warehouse area, their glow veiled by coal dust, dim and yellowish. The railway tracks entered from the east, branching into five or six lines within the station area, with a long, uncountable string of freight cars lying on the sidings.

He counted twice. Forty sections.

Duan Peng crawled to his side, the crumbs of dry food still in his mouth. "How much did you see?"

"A little over a thousand. The patrol team has at least one hundred and fifty."

"What about the airport?"

"I can't see it. It's five kilometers to the north."

Duan Peng cursed, whether at the Japanese or at the terrain, it was unclear. He took the binoculars from Zhao Weiguo and looked around again, his face long and drawn when he put them down.

"Old Zhao, there are over seven hundred men lying here. How many do you want to take in?"

"Twelve."

Duan Peng thought he had misheard. "How much?"

"Twelve. Divide them into three groups."

"You son of a bitch—" Duan Peng almost jumped up, but Zhao Weiguo grabbed his shoulder and pressed him down.

"Keep it down."

Duan Peng lowered his voice, forcing the words out through clenched teeth: "There are over a thousand people inside. You're going to use twelve to touch them? What if they get bumped or injured?"

"If they bump into something, they run. Twelve people can run, but a hundred and twenty can't." Zhao Weiguo put away his binoculars, took a few steps back, and squatted behind a jujube tree. "We're not going to fight. We're going to observe. After we've observed, we'll come back and draw a plan. Only when the plan is complete can we decide how to attack."

Duan Peng opened his mouth, then swallowed his words. He had been working with Zhao Weiguo for over half a year and knew that the guy had a quirk in warfare—he never fought a battle he hadn't anticipated. Before attacking the bunker in Yangquan, he had Lao Zhou brave bullets and lie behind a rock to count the pattern of the guards peeking out three times. Before intercepting Muxia on the North Mountain Road, he had Duan Peng's cavalry keep a close watch on them for two whole days, keeping a tight but not deadly grip, just observing how Muxia's convoy moved, how fast it moved, and whether the wounded or the artillery were loaded onto the vehicles first.

This time was no different. Seven hundred and ninety-eight people walked nearly two hundred kilometers of mountain road to reach Jingxing. He was in no hurry to fight; he first had twelve people go in on foot to measure the distance.

"How should we divide them into three groups?" Duan Peng asked.

"I'll take Zhizi along the eastern route, going into the drainage ditch. Old Zhou will take three men in a coal truck along the western route. You pick four people to pretend to be drivers, watching the roads outside the station and the airport."

What about me?

"You'll lead the airport team."

Duan Peng paused for a moment, then nodded. He was both capable of walking and fighting, and he was the most convincing rickshaw puller than anyone else.

Zhao Weiguo retreated into the abandoned brick kiln and pushed a few jujube branches back into place. A dim oil lamp, covered with a tattered rag, shone in the kiln, barely illuminating a face. Old Zhou squatted against the wall, and Yang Xiuqin was changing the bandage on his shoulder. Five months had passed; the hole left by the bullet that had pierced his scapula had closed, but his left shoulder couldn't be raised high, and it tightened with any exertion. Yang Xiuqin crossed out all the "heavy items" on his packing slip, leaving only "medicine pack." Old Zhou glared at her, but Yang Xiuqin didn't even look up.

"We'll take the western route tonight," Zhao Weiguo said, squatting down in front of him. "We'll mix the coal transport convoy with the cargo, and measure the warehouses and oil pipelines."

Old Zhou's eyes lit up. After five months, he could finally get inside again.

"Just measure it." Zhao Weiguo interrupted him before he could speak, "Don't get itchy hands just because you see oil."

"Don't worry."

"I'm not at ease," Zhao Weiguo stared at him. "Old Zhou, you're not one to never get your hands dirty. I'm telling you this upfront—the fuse seal must not be broken. Anyone who touches the target will be dealt with according to military discipline."

Old Zhou's lips twitched, but he didn't argue back. He knew Zhao Weiguo too well. This kid didn't talk much, but every word he uttered was like a nail, once it was hammered in, it couldn't be pulled out.

Zhao Tieshan walked in from the outer circle, clutching a piece of paper in his hand. The paper had four columns marked: "Carried in Reality," "Sealed in System Space," "Issued by the Reconnaissance Team," and "Returned." He handed over two delayed-action fuses from a cloth bag; the sealing wax was intact.

"It's for measuring position, not for ignition," Zhao Tieshan said. "The wax wasn't broken. I checked the wax first when I came back, then I pressed my fingerprint."

Old Zhou rolled his eyes. "You're afraid I'll steal the fuse?"

"I'm afraid you'll forget your own name when you see the warehouse."

Old Zhou laughed in anger. Zhao Tieshan was more meticulous about accounting than warfare. Twenty barrels of gasoline were sitting on the system's transfer log, and not a single one had been retrieved beforehand. In his eyes, anything without a signature didn't exist.

The documents were readily available. Two names were salvaged from an old register seized in Yangquan; the original owners were confirmed dead long ago, and the seal was taken from the mining area management office. The paper had been smoked and rubbed with dirt; from a distance, it looked plausible, but up close, it couldn't withstand close scrutiny. Zhao Weiguo wasn't impersonating a military officer—an officer appearing in a coal transport convoy was more conspicuous than a fly in a porridge pot. He carried a cloth bag containing wrenches, and when asked, he only said three words: "Checking the switches."

Gardenia was squatting in the corner flipping through her documents when she suddenly looked up.

"Why would someone be targeting you?"

"Check the turnout."

Which section are you asking about?

"The western section of Jingxing. Ask further questions, you take over."

Zhi Zi tucked the documents into her sleeve. Her lips twitched, as if she wanted to say something sarcastic, but she held back. This girl was never one to mince words, but she never went against Zhao Weiguo's orders.

As darkness fell, the three groups set off separately.

Old Zhou's group moved first. He led three soldiers to infiltrate the coal convoy, which was full of empty baskets, destined for the airport boiler room to load coal. Old Zhou, head down, huddled behind the side of the truck, tapping his knuckles three times on the inside of the basket. It was a coded signal, indicating that the first group had finished measuring the location of the first warehouse.

As the car approached the water tower, a patrolling sergeant raised his hand to stop it. Old Zhou's heart skipped a beat, but his face still showed the tired look of someone used to driving at night.

"What are you carrying?"

"Empty basket. Go to the airport boiler room to load coal."

The sergeant lifted a basket, which contained only coal ash and tattered hemp rope. He glanced at the cart again, and Old Zhou could feel that gaze sweep over his head—he was wearing an oil-stained cotton-padded jacket with coal ash smeared on his face, the same color as the coal ash on the cart.

"get off."

All three soldiers reached for the wrench at their waists. Old Zhou was faster; he jumped down first, squatted down next to the right wheel, patted the rim, and grinned at the sergeant.

"Sir, the bearing is overheating. You can impound the train if you want, but if the boiler runs out of coal, I don't know who the stationmaster should contact first."

The sergeant crouched down and touched the wheel hub. It was scalding hot. Before entering the station, Old Zhou had someone warm it with hot coal ash for twenty minutes; the bearing felt like it had just finished a long-distance run. The sergeant cursed something and waved for them to pass.

The vehicle emerged from the shadow of the water tower, and the three hands that had been gripping the wrench finally released their grip. Old Zhou turned and glared at the youngest soldier—the kid's hand was still trembling.

"Keep your breathing down. Do you think this is a market?"

Old Zhou followed the truck for two more trips. On the second trip, he noticed a pattern during the shift change on the south side of the water tower: everyone had to go around to the north side to sign off during the second shift change, and the south side was unattended for about three minutes each time. He made a second mark on the inside of the basket. Three minutes. What could that be enough time for? Enough to start a fire, enough to insert a fuse, enough for someone to feel their way to the oil tank valve from the back wall of the warehouse. But today he would only measure, not touch. He suppressed this thought and continued counting the coal ash patterns on the basket.

Zhao Weiguo's situation is more grueling than the western front.

He and Zhi Zi walked along the drainage ditch behind the station area. The ditch wasn't deep, but it was narrow, too narrow for two people to walk side by side. Three barbed wire fences stretched from the outside in: the first bordered the cinder road, the second ran along the edge of the ditch, and the third connected to the back wall of the warehouse. Two lights were on at the gate, and four sentries paced back and forth. There was only one low light in the drainage ditch, the lampshade covered with a layer of black ash, like the bottom of a pot; the bottom of the ditch was so black that you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.

Zhao Weiguo didn't rush to crawl in. He squatted on the edge of the ditch and counted steps forward along the cement seam. Every seven steps there was a wire stake. When he counted to the thirty-fifth step, a section had collapsed, with a wooden plank underneath it. The mud around the plank hadn't been trampled all at once; someone had moved it repeatedly.

Gardenia squatted down and scraped away the mud marks with her fingernails.

"It was dragged outwards."

Are people leaving the station?

"It's also possible that the patrol officers are being lazy and taking shortcuts. Who knows?"

Before he could finish speaking, footsteps came from the direction of the warehouse. A patrolling sergeant led four men to inspect the ditch, two of them pressing themselves against the bottom. Zhao Weiguo and Zhi Zi pressed the cloth bag under their bodies, shrinking into the shadows of the ditch wall. The stones at the bottom of the ditch were bone-chillingly cold, but no one moved. A beam of flashlight swept overhead, illuminating the wooden planks, and the sergeant paused.

"Third shift, don't go this way, there's a dead cat in the ditch."

The group grumbled and walked away. Once the footsteps were out of earshot, Gardenia whispered in the darkness.

"No dead cat."

How did you know?

"If there really was a dead cat, those two dogs at the kennel would have barked long ago."

Zhao Weiguo didn't speak, but he made a mental note. This piece of paper might come in handy later. He wasn't the type to solve a riddle on the spot, but his good memory was something he'd risked his life for.

Of the six warehouses, Zhao Weiguo instructed Zhi Zi to memorize only three things: the type of door lock, the number of guards, and the transport tracks. She was to avoid touching anything else. The first warehouse had a sign that read "Miscellaneous Goods." Zhi Zi leaned close to the window crack and sniffed, her brow furrowing.

"gasoline."

"How many?"

"I can't smell anything. But there's no weapon serial number on the wooden crate."

Zhao Weiguo nodded. The Japanese know how to use deceptive tactics, like selling dog meat under the guise of mutton. Zhi Zi circled the words "miscellaneous items" on the sketch.

The second and third buildings were right next to the railway tracks, with armory guards standing at the entrance, checking passes to ensure entry and exit. The fourth building had moisture-proof wooden planks at its base, and the corners of mountain artillery shell boxes could be glimpsed. The fifth building contained winter clothing and medicine boxes. Only empty cars passed through the sixth building, so nothing could be clearly seen.

"Don't fill in anything you can't verify," Zhao Weiguo said.

Forty train cars lay slumped on the side line. Zhao Weiguo only remembered the car numbers, the seals, and the parking locations; he didn't pry open a single door. Zhi Zi asked him why he didn't knock and listen for any sounds, and he shook his head.

"Knocking on it is just guesswork. I only write down what I actually saw."

Changing shifts is the most meticulous process. Zhi Zi observed six shifts, each with different habits. The first shift was the most meticulous, reaching out to touch the lock on every warehouse door. The second shift was quick, but they had about two minutes to spare during the handover near the water tower. The sergeant on the third shift was the laziest, simply glancing at the door from afar under the lamp and that was it.

"Don't write 'shift changes every hour,'" Zhao Weiguo told Zhizi. "If they really sneak in on the hour, they'll die because of those four words."

Zhi Zi drew a different symbol for each of the three shifts—a triangle, a circle, and a cross. A single patrol took a minimum of 57 minutes and a maximum of 63 minutes. One shift was blocked by a coal truck, adding six minutes to the time; Zhi Zi circled this separately, not treating it as a fixed rule. This girl's meticulousness sometimes even impressed Zhao Weiguo.

The oil depot was at the southern end of the station area, with three large oil tanks connected to the loading platform, and sentries guarding each of the two valves. The oil pipeline ran close to the ground to the vicinity of the water tower, then branched off towards the airport. Zhao Weiguo walked along the oil pipeline for about ten steps before stopping. Zhi Zi lowered her voice behind him.

"We can't burn water here. If the pipes burst, the water tower will collapse. The fire department in the station area and the drinking water for nearby residents all depend on that tower."

"Valves are marked separately, oil tanks are charged separately. Water towers are not involved."

Where's the plane?

"Only count what you see with your own eyes. Don't record what you can't see or what you guess."

Zhi Zi wrote "Don't touch the water tower" next to the map, and added another line: "Residential buildings and water sources must not enter the fire line." Zhao Weiguo glanced at her but didn't say anything. Sometimes he felt that this girl didn't seem to be fighting alongside him, but rather like she was there to be his parent. She wanted to manage everything and protect everything.

Duan Peng's group went the furthest.

The airport was five kilometers northwest of the station area, on a flattened dirt field with two rows of hangars and a gravel road leading directly to the railway. Three planes were parked in the hangars, their fuselages intact. Another plane, its wings removed, was piled against the wall and was not considered usable. There were fewer guards there than at the station, but they kept two military dogs. Duan Peng didn't go into the hangars—two dogs were more troublesome than twenty sentries. He only noted the kennels, barracks, and changing-of-guard times on the coal transport route, and then walked along both evacuation routes.

The north road runs along the river, it's fast, but you have to cross a wooden bridge. The south road goes back to the cinder road, it's slow, but you can get shade from the station buildings. Duan Peng squatted by the roadside and urinated, his eyes scanning both roads from beginning to end. He had never traveled such a frustrating road in his life—he came but couldn't fight, he looked but couldn't touch, it was like visiting a brothel and not getting anything done.

After dark, the three groups of people returned to the abandoned brick kiln one after another.

The last scout to emerge from the drainage ditch had a gash on his calf from a piece of metal. The wound wasn't deep, but it bled quite a bit. Yang Xiuqin made him bite down on a strip of cloth. His leg trembled twice when the needle went in, but he never loosened his grip on the sketch in his hand.

All twelve men returned. No one died, and the garrison was not alerted.

But Zhao Weiguo didn't let anyone speak first.

"Submit the drawings first. Each group should finish drawing, then we'll go around and discuss them one by one."

Three sketches were pinned to the wall of the abandoned brick kiln. The first, drawn by Zhao Weiguo and Zhi Zi, measured distances in steps. The second, drawn by Lao Zhou's group, used railway sleepers as a reference. The third, drawn by Duan Peng's group, only noted the turns and light positions. The three drawings were superimposed, resulting in a ten-step difference in the warehouse door's location. Zhao Weiguo asked Lao Zhou and Zhi Zi to each describe their reference points. Lao Zhou counted the steps from the warehouse doorway, while Zhi Zi started counting from the thirty-fifth step from the drainage ditch. The two reference points were different, so a ten-step difference was normal.

"Using the drainage ditch as a reference, Old Zhou's steps are ten paces east."

The valve was only seen by the group with the gardenia, so it was marked as isolated evidence and not allowed to be used to determine the ignition point. The recorder then used twine to pull the twine from the warehouse to the water tower, and then to the drainage ditch. Only where the twine crossed was the position where all three groups could match up.

Old Zhou reported the western route first.

"Six warehouses. Armory is being transported between the third and fourth. South of the water tower, the second shift's handover occurs within three minutes."

Gardenia immediately pressed, "Which class is 'three minutes'?"

"Second shift. I checked twice more; the person handing over the work had to go around to the north side to sign."

"The coal trucks are carrying patrol loads, not water tower shift changes. You need to write these two things separately."

Old Zhou frowned, retrieved the patrol cycle column, and added "vehicles may be delayed" after 57 to 63 minutes. He didn't say it, but he was impressed. This girl's attention to detail was sometimes even better than his, an old artilleryman.

Duan Peng then reported the airport. Three intact military aircraft were on board, and one aircraft with its wings removed was listed separately. The wooden bridge over the North River could not support the entire convoy, and the cinder road on the south side was passable, but if a fire broke out, it would be illuminated by the oil depot.

When it came to evacuation routes, Duan Peng and Zhi Zi got into a heated argument.

"Going north is faster." Duan Peng patted the picture.

"A wooden bridge can't withstand a heavy machine gun," Zhao Weiguo said.

"It was disassembled. One person carried one section, and then we reassembled it after crossing the bridge."

Gardenia shook her head. "The moment the airport sounds an alarm, the North Bridge will be the first to be closed. The Japanese aren't stupid; their first reaction will be to block the bridge and impassable the exits. The South Road is slower, but at least there are side roads; if one is blocked, there's another."

Duan Peng glared at her. "What if the oil depot lights up the south road? More than seven hundred people are walking under the firelight, do you think the Japanese are blind?"

"Therefore, the oil depots cannot be set on fire first; we must wait until the main force has passed the southern route before igniting them."

"What if the oil depot can't be ignited? The main force has already moved south, and there's no fire blocking their way—"

"You can get it." Zhao Weiguo suddenly spoke up, and the two of them shut up at the same time.

He drew an arc on the diagram.

"Only a false line was left on the north side. Empty coal trucks were pushed across the bridge, leaving tracks to make the Japanese think the main force was moving north. The main force marched twenty kilometers from the south, then turned east."

"Who's bringing the fake thread?" Duan Peng asked.

"No passengers. If the car can roll, let it roll; if it can't, abandon it."

Duan Peng clicked his tongue. "You little rascal, you even schemed to take advantage of an empty truck."

"Even an empty vehicle is still a soldier. If we can trick a patrol into making one more trip north, then we'll have one less person watching the south route."

Duan Peng grinned. He'd worked with Zhao Weiguo for a long time and knew that while these words sounded cold, they were actually a matter of risking one's life for another. This guy never lost out in battle; he'd even make a living off an empty coal truck.

Before midnight, the three sets of records were pieced together. Zhao Weiguo then had each of the twelve men point out the evacuation route again. Two men mistook the second fork on the south side and were immediately taken outside the kiln to re-examine the mountain shape. Upon their return, the incorrect entry wasn't erased; only an X was drawn next to it—to prevent the next person from copying the wrong map.

Zhao Tieshan remained squatting on the perimeter, checking the inventory list. He spread the four-column sheet of paper on his lap. When the two delayed-action fuses were returned, he first checked the sealing wax, then had the recipient put their fingerprints on it. The twenty barrels of gasoline were still in the transfer ledger in the system space; not a single barrel had been touched.

"We have enough to cover both main targets," he said, pushing the list into the middle of the group. "If you spread it out and burn it, nowhere will get a good burn."

Old Zhou leaned forward. "The oil depot and the ammunition depot?"

Zhao Weiguo did not answer immediately. The troops were first divided according to their responsibilities for withdrawal: 358 men entered the core area, 240 men guarded the outer perimeter for 5 kilometers, and 200 men stayed in the south to provide support, totaling 798 men.

Zhao Tieshan placed three blank receipts on his lap.

"No items will be issued until the target is set. Once it's set, the team leader will write down the quantity, the time of receipt, and the person in charge. Any remaining fuses will be returned in their original bags; even if only one is missing, the accounts must be made up even if we have to move them to the mountains."

Old Zhou reached out to take a card, but he stopped him.

"You're just looking now; it's not your turn to sign yet."

"Afraid I'll renege on the debt?"

"I'm afraid you'll see the warehouse and stuff an extra one in."

Old Zhou withdrew his hand and cursed. Zhao Tieshan remained expressionless; the three sheets of paper were still blank. For him, signing was more serious than going to war.

Zhao Weiguo stood up, walked to the drawing nailed to the wall, and tapped it with a charcoal pencil.

"Oil depots, ammunition depots, and airfields—choose two as primary targets. Leave one as a delayed-fire location to lure them into splitting their forces."

Gardenia touched the water tower in the picture with her fingertip.

"No fires are allowed around here."

"The water tower is only for reference. We won't touch residential buildings or water sources."

Outside the kiln, the station gate was still lit. The drainage ditch behind it was shrouded in darkness. The twelve men had already measured the width of the planks, the depth of the ditch, and the entrance and exit points with their own feet.

We took action at 1:20 a.m.

Where the first fire will land will have to wait until the final grouping.