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

The telephone was placed in a small room below the city gate.

The wire sheath was blackened by artillery fire, and the receiver was stained with bloody handprints. The telephone operator knelt by the table, one ear pressed against the receiver, the other hand holding a pencil, the tip trembling so much that it poked black dots on the paper.

The deputy battalion commander took over Zhao Weiguo's words, his throat still gritty.

Report to Beiping.

The telephone operator looked up.

The deputy battalion commander spoke slowly and deliberately.

"Wanping was not lost."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, followed by static and hurried voices.

"Duplicate! The battle is repeating itself!"

The deputy battalion commander snatched the receiver, blood dripping from his shoulder down his sleeve.

"The garrison at Wanping has repelled several Japanese attacks. The southwestern breach remains in our hands. We have captured one Type 92 infantry gun, one Type 92 heavy machine gun, and several Type 38 rifles. The 219th Regiment has made contact with our troops. Ammunition supplies have been delivered."

They asked a few more questions.

The deputy battalion commander looked at Zhao Weiguo.

"Who commanded the destruction of the artillery position east of the bridge?"

The room fell silent.

The major stood at the door, still holding the mud hat in his hand. He glanced at Zhao Weiguo, then at the telephone, suddenly turned the hat back on, and went inside.

"Major Han Fucheng of the 219th Regiment testified on behalf of the garrison of Wanping."

He reached for the receiver, his voice drowning out the sound of the stretcher outside.

"It wasn't just blind luck. There was someone on the city wall who could spot the artillery positions, calculate firepower, and catch the Japanese soldiers reloading their ammunition. Yes, it was a child. About ten years old. His name was Zhao Weiguo."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

Han Fucheng frowned.

"I didn't drink, and I wasn't stunned by the cannon fire. Report my exact words to your superiors."

Zhao Weiguo stood by the table, not looking at them. He disassembled the captured Type 38 rifle, placed the bolt next to the paper, and used a rag to wipe the mud out of the rifling.

The telephone operator glanced at his hand, but repeated what was being said on the other end of the receiver.

"Zhao... Zhao Weiguo, male, around ten years old, from Nanluoguxiang, assisted in the repair of ordnance for the 29th Army and participated in the defense of Wanping City..."

Old Xu coughed by the door.

"Don't write 'around ten years old,' write 'Mr. Zhao.' It sounds more resolute."

The deputy battalion commander glared at him.

"Shut up and recover."

Old Xu leaned his head back against the sandbag, blood still dripping from the corner of his mouth.

"I'm just embellishing the battle report."

Zhao Weiguo pushed the bolt back, and with a click, everyone in the room turned their heads.

He looked up.

"Don't write too much."

Han Fucheng frowned.

"Why? Merit is merit."

Zhao Weiguo placed the gun on the table, his fingertip pointing to the corner of the war newspaper.

"The Japanese army had intelligence networks. They knew about 'Knife Boy' and also knew that I was knowledgeable about weaponry. The more detailed the battle reports were, the more accurately they could find me next time."

The color drained from the deputy battalion commander's face.

"You're saying the Japanese are already targeting you?"

Old Xu pressed his hand against the wound, and curses escaped through his teeth.

"You were too quick to spot it. Fifty silver dollars went up to two hundred, those bastards are more diligent than the King of Hell himself."

Han Fucheng's eyes changed.

"Knife Boy?"

Zhao Weiguo didn't accept that form of address. He took the piece of gunpowder fragment from his pocket and placed it on the table. The black iron was still warm, and when it pressed down on the war newspaper, the corner of the paper immediately drooped.

"Write about assisting with ordnance repair and participating in fire control calibration. Don't write about sand table exercises, early warning systems, or how I knew there were people at the secret door."

The telephone operator, holding a pencil, froze in mid-air.

The battalion deputy glanced at Han Fucheng.

Han Fucheng nodded.

Write it as he says.

The telephone operator lowered his head to correct words, the pencil scratching on the paper.

Outside, a soldier surnamed Meng dragged in an ammunition box. The bottom of the box was leaking, and bullets were scattering everywhere. He put the box down against the wall and wiped his face.

"Mr. Zhao, we've brought back that Type 92 rifle from the east side of the bridge. The barrel is so hot you could bake a pancake in it, and the assistant gunner is clinging to the magazine and can't be pried open."

Zhao Weiguo carried the Type 38 rifle on his back.

"take me."

The deputy battalion commander grabbed his arm.

"Wrap your hands first."

Zhao Weiguo glanced at his palm. A thin crack appeared on the hard scab, and a bead of blood oozed out, but it was quickly absorbed by the ash.

"Wait a minute."

The deputy battalion commander did not let up.

"Now."

Old Xu was laughing at the door.

"Hey, someone's got your back."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

"The stitches under your ribs are loose; if you laugh again, your intestines will come out."

Old Xu immediately looked down at the bandage.

The soldier surnamed Meng suppressed a laugh, his shoulders twitching slightly.

Han Fucheng pulled a clean roll of bandage from his first aid kit and threw it on the table.

"Finish the bag first, then check the gun. The gun won't escape, but if the person escapes, we won't be able to explain ourselves."

Zhao Weiguo didn't refuse again. He extended his hand.

The deputy battalion commander rinsed off the blood and ash with water, his movements heavy, as if washing a stubborn rock.

Zhao Weiguo frowned.

The deputy battalion commander looked up.

"pain?"

"Are you washing the gun barrel?"

Several people inside the room burst into laughter, a short laugh tinged with the bitterness of surviving a catastrophe.

The telephone operator finished writing the battle report and handed it to the deputy battalion commander.

The deputy battalion commander glanced at it and handed it to Han Fucheng. Han Fucheng scanned it and nodded.

"hair."

The telephone operator shouted into the receiver:

"The first sentence of the Wanping battle report is: Wanping was not lost."