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

In the first month after the fire in Jingxing, Zhi Zi's notebook was thicker than anyone else's.

The enemy's phone calls doubled compared to usual. For the first few days, it was a flurry of activity as each station frantically inquired about the situation in Jingxing, whether railcars could be rerouted, and where to get fuel. Later, the initial panic subsided, and things became busy. Fewer requests for railcars, more requests for highway patrols. Telegrams were sent repeatedly—bridge guard posts, requests for temporary encampments, extra night patrols—all concerning matters on the road.

Two highway routes gradually emerged. One went west from Shijiazhuang, passing Huolu and Pingshan, then turning into mountain roads to reinforce various outposts. The other went east from Taiyuan, following the old post road to Yangquan. After the railway to Jingxing was cut off, the Japanese had no other choice but to move their supplies onto the highway.

Zhao Weiguo stared at the two lines drawn by Zhi Zi for a long time without saying a word.

"Don't touch it yet," he said as his last words.

Zhao Gang frowned beside him. "Not going to touch it? We know the way around; what are we waiting for if we don't nip it in the bud?"

"Wait until they've connected the warehouse, convoy, guards, and radio. Wait until they know the route well." Zhao Weiguo drew a circle on each of the two lines with a pencil. "Only when they know the route well will they dare to stuff things into it. Cut it off when it's full, one line at a time. If we cut it off now, they can just take another route."

Zhao Gang didn't say anything more. He knew what Zhao Weiguo was waiting for—not the road, but to fatten up the fish before casting his line.

On May 3rd, the brigade headquarters' commendation arrived in Heshun.

It wasn't a formal notice, but a letter handwritten by the brigade commander. His bodyguard delivered it on horseback; the envelope had no recipient's name on it, only "To Zhao Weiguo, Independent Regiment." Zhao Weiguo opened it, read two lines, and then handed it to Zhao Gang.

The first half of the letter praised their courage. A 400-kilometer raid, 800 men burning down a key strategic point—well done, reminiscent of my own past exploits. The second half, however, began to berate them: how did they lose all nine lives? Were there enough medicines for the seriously wounded? What compensation for the fallen wasn't paid? It was all being blamed on the regimental officers. The brigade commander's original words were: "Winning a battle doesn't mean you don't have to settle accounts; the debts of the dead are harder to settle than the debts of the living."

The commendation order was posted in the regiment's history book. The brigade commander's letter wasn't posted; it was locked in a cabinet along with the list of pensions for the nine martyrs. Zhao Gang kept the key.

Nine pensions were verified household by household. Zhao Gang personally oversaw the process, ensuring that the hometown address, family members' names, and delivery routes for each household were clearly recorded. For those whose hometowns were in enemy-occupied areas, the money and grain were sealed at the transportation station, and local transportation routes were used to locate their relatives. Nine households, nine delivery routes—not a single one could be ambiguous.

The medical expenses for the twenty-six wounded were listed in a separate book. Seven were seriously injured, eleven moderately injured, and eight slightly injured; the cost of each, the medication used, and the outstanding balance were all meticulously recorded. Zhao Gang forbade the use of awards to offset medical expenses. Awards were awards, and medical expenses were medical expenses; the two accounts could not be mixed up.

Old Zhou, whose old injury hadn't fully healed, wanted to touch the stretcher. Yang Xiuqin blocked the doorway, preventing him from leaving.

"That bullet went through your left shoulder only five months ago. If you hit anything heavy again, the fracture in your scapula won't close properly, and you won't even be able to hold a gun anymore."

Old Zhou muttered curses, "When I was fighting the Japanese, you were still wearing open-crotch pants," but he didn't actually leave the house. He sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), taking things out of the cloth bag one by one and putting them back: a whetstone, old bullet casings, and a gun cleaning cloth. He hadn't touched a cannon in five months, and his hands were itching.

The celebratory tea was arranged by Zhao Gang. There was no wine, and it was impossible to buy any in Heshun, nor was drinking allowed at the celebration. The meal consisted of only three things: coarse tea, steamed buns, and meat soup. The steamed buns were made of white flour, and the meat soup contained two slices of meat—two more than usual. Zhao Gang said this was what a celebration was all about.

The names of nine martyrs were posted on the wall. Written in black ink on white paper, one name per line. No one spoke while they were being posted, and no one applauded when they were finished. Soldiers carrying bowls walked past the wall; some glanced up, others walked with their heads down.

Zhao Weiguo paused for a moment as he walked past the wall. He looked at all nine names once, then continued on his way.

Duan Peng stood at the base of the wall, not moving. He looked at the youngest name, Liu Mancang, nineteen years old. He had been transferred to the Second Battalion from the training team last autumn. When he arrived, he couldn't ride a horse, and Duan Peng personally taught him for three days. On the fourth day, he could mount a horse, and on the fifth day, he could fire while running. Duan Peng said this kid had the makings of a cavalryman. At Jingxing, Duan Peng assigned him to the rearguard, but the rearguard didn't enter the station area. He bumped into a patrol squad during the retreat; at thirty paces, both sides fired simultaneously.

Duan Peng stood under that wall for a long time. Later, Yang Xiuqin came to find him and said the wounded soldier needed his dressing changed. Duan Peng nodded and followed. He walked slower than usual.

In mid-May, the regiment discussed expanding its size.

There are 15,500 officially employed personnel. This number hasn't changed since the Battle of Yangquan, and not a single one has been added since the return of the 800 men from Jingxing. Zhao Gang placed the number on the table, next to which was the roster for training replenishment. There were quite a few people who signed up, but Zhao Weiguo's rules were strict.

"Soldiers can be added gradually, but the ranks can't grow with the courage." Zhao Weiguo flipped through the roster. "The training team only accepts three categories: verified volunteer youths, mine transport workers, and veterans who have undergone re-examination. Old unit numbers and ranks are not allowed. Signing up is not the same as enlisting, and enlisting is not the same as going to the battlefield. Those who don't meet the requirements will be sent back and asked to come back again."

Zhao Gang added from the side, "Among those who signed up, there were a few with former military officer titles, saying they had served as company commanders in the Jin-Sui Army. Let them shed their titles first, and then they'll learn from scratch in the training camp like new recruits. We'll see how they perform."

Duan Peng, who was listening at the door, interjected, "Then shouldn't I also relinquish my position as the 'main force commander' of the cavalry battalion?"

Zhao Gang glanced at him. "I crossed out that title you used. The highest official designation is battalion level. The phrase 'Commander of the Main Force Group' is no longer allowed to appear in any documents."

Duan Peng chuckled twice and didn't say anything more. He turned around, took a few steps, then turned back, poked his head into the doorway, and asked, "Is the cavalry battalion going to withdraw after the battle?"

"Withdraw after the battle." Zhao Gang didn't even look up. "The battalion is still your battalion, the number remains the same. Don't let temporary formations become ingrained; once they're there, they can't be removed."

Duan Peng is really gone this time. His footsteps echoed in the corridor, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, his left foot slipping due to an old injury.

Before summer, two mobile drills were conducted on both the eastern and western fronts. The battalion flags displayed their official unit numbers, while missions spanning several counties were simply labeled "temporary operational formation"—they were to be completed and withdrawn without leaving any loose ends. During the eastern front drill, a heavy rainstorm caused one battalion to take a wrong turn, adding twelve miles to the journey. The battalion commander returned and wrote a self-criticism stating that the road signs had been washed askew by the rain. Zhao Gang wrote four words on the self-criticism: "Next time, plant them deeper." He neither scolded nor offered any comfort. Road signs being washed askew by rain is common, but common occurrences are not an excuse for not planting them deeper to prevent them from becoming askew.

In June, three main telephone lines were connected to the regimental headquarters.

Three lines—one from the brigade headquarters, one from the Yangquan supply depot, and one from the ordnance and medical supply depot—converged from three directions and connected to a switchboard in the regimental headquarters courtyard. Zhi Zi was in charge of the radio, while the telephone line was managed by the communications platoon. The first heavy rain washed away the line from the ordnance supply depot. Two communications soldiers carried the spool of wire for seven miles along mountain paths, reconnecting it in the rain. When they returned, they were both soaked to the bone, the copper wire on the spool turning a greenish hue from the rain.

Zhao Gang wrote a line in the maintenance log: "Main quest will be interrupted."

He didn't write "Pay attention to maintenance," that would be redundant. He wrote "The main line will break," meaning: don't expect a line to last a lifetime. If it breaks, repair it; if you repair it, record the breakage; and then think about how to prevent it from breaking in the same ditch next time. The communications team later truly took this as their motto. Every time they repaired a line, they would record the location and cause of the breakage in their notebooks. After six months, they had compiled a "line breakage ledger," remembering which ditch was prone to breakage, which pole was bent, and which section of line had been crushed by tree branches more clearly than a family tree.

The arsenal had extra night shifts in the fall.

Zhao Tieshan staggered the day and night shifts, keeping the furnace running even when people weren't working. Monthly production increased by about 30%, but the monthly output of gun barrels was still less than 300, while mortar shell casings remained stable at a small batch. In the corner of the workshop stood a scrap rack, where cracked shell casings, out-of-tolerance gun barrels, and parts with incorrect quenching temperatures were hung one by one, with notes next to them indicating the process, date, and the name of the person who handled them.

Zhao Tieshan said, "Scrap products are more valuable than finished products. Finished products tell you what you did right, scrap products tell you what you did wrong. You can't remember what you did right, but you'll remember what you did wrong for a lifetime."

A new worker didn't believe it and secretly hid a cracked gun barrel, intending to have it repaired. Zhao Tieshan counted them while going through the scrap rack and found one was missing. He didn't get angry; he simply had someone call the worker over and put the cracked gun barrel on the table.

"Look at this crack. It appeared in the third process, and you can't get rid of it even if you go back to the fifth. If this pipe were loaded with a gun, it wouldn't last thirty shots before cracking. And who's holding the gun when it cracks? Your brother."

The new worker's face turned pale. Zhao Tieshan hung the gun barrel back on the scrap rack, and added a line to the note: "Missing inspection in the third process; the person in charge has been spoken to."

Duan Peng visited the workshop once and pointed to the scrap rack, asking, "So much scrap?"

Zhao Tieshan didn't even look up. "If you're willing to hang up all the junk from your cavalry battalion, I'll make room for half a shelf for you."

Duan Peng smiled but didn't reply. He knew Zhao Tieshan was telling the truth; the cavalry battalion also had its share of defective soldiers—those with crooked horseshoes, loose saddles, or those injured in training. It's just that the cavalry battalion's defective soldiers weren't displayed on racks for anyone to see.

After winter set in, the enemy's changes came to light one by one.

The large warehouse was split up. Orders from Okamura Yasuji to no longer concentrate supplies for more than three days at a single point were relayed from Beiping to every station area. Highway escort was expanded from a company to a battalion. Bunkers were added at river valley bridgeheads and highway bends. After changing stopping points several times, they became fixed; the Japanese had learned their lesson and no longer stopped at the same place twice.

Every five days, Zhi Zi updates a table: number of vehicles, number of guards, length of stay, and time of telegram transmission. Two tables showing the highway routes are on Zhao Weiguo's desk, and he has drawn several circles on them with a red pencil. Some circles indicate the peak traffic hours between 3 PM and 5 PM every day. Other circles indicate blind spots, such as a section of road that is not patrolled at night, roughly eight kilometers long.

Zhao Gang looked at the circles and asked, "An eight-kilometer blind spot, should we send someone to check it out?"

Zhao Weiguo shook his head. "Touching him now is like telling him we know where he's blind. We should wait until he's familiar with the area and feels more comfortable before touching him."

Zhao Gang understood what he meant. This was the same strategy as in Jingxing: measure the area, leave it still, and wait for the fish to fatten up before casting the line. The difference was that in Jingxing, they targeted a single hub, while this time they were targeting all the vehicles on two highways. If the rod wasn't long enough, they would have to slowly weave a net.

Zhao Gang compiled a summary table at the end of the year. The official roster numbered 15,500, no more, no less. Including training and replenishment, the total registered number exceeded 27,000. These two sets of figures were written in separate columns and were not to be mixed up. During the year, small-scale battles resulted in approximately 180 deaths and 500 injuries, deducted first from the replenishment lists of their respective battalions, and then added back by the training teams.

The training team sends out at least 3,000 replacements every quarter. They come in as new recruits and leave as soldiers; those who aren't qualified are sent back, but they can come back again. Zhao Gang calls this a "sieve," and the mesh can't be too big or too small. If it's too big, slackers get in; if it's too small, good soldiers get away.

Small-scale battles continued throughout the year. Two supply wagons were intercepted on the highway, three ambushes were launched on the railway branch line, and two small pillboxes were captured on the outskirts of Yangquan. Each battle was small in scale, the largest involving two battalions and the smallest only a platoon. But these small incidents added up, resulting in approximately 180 dead and 500 wounded over the year. Behind each number was a name, a family, and a pension. Zhao Gang deducted these casualties from the replenishment list of his battalion before having the training team add them. Deducting and adding names didn't show on paper, but the battalion commander knew in his heart that the new recruits and the departing veterans were not the same people.

At the end of the year, Zhao Weiguo placed two wooden chess pieces at the entrance of the valley.

The chess pieces were carved by Old Zhou from the wooden planks of discarded artillery shell boxes. Two pieces were placed on the east and west sides of the valley on the map, without being pushed down. Zhao Gang looked at the two pieces, opened his summary sheet and did some calculations: 15,500 officially employed, plus more than 27,000 trained and supplemented, plus the local friendly forces that could prepare a combat force of 30,000 in the summer.

"Being able to prepare doesn't mean we already have it." Zhao Gang wrote a note on the form. "Cadres, guns, food, telephone lines—if any one is missing, it will be deducted from the headcount. Thirty thousand people isn't just thirty thousand mouths; it's thirty thousand guns, thirty thousand pairs of feet, three thousand vehicles, and three hundred stretchers. If any one of these is missing, it's not thirty thousand."

Zhao Weiguo left the chess piece at the entrance of the valley untouched. He knew Zhao Gang was right. Thirty thousand people still lived on in four ledgers, a few roads, and a string of names. The final stretch of the road was missing—the stretch from numbers to people, from paper to the ground beneath their feet.

When the two pieces are pushed down, 30,000 people will be able to stand in one place.