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

The telephone operator's voice scraped through the small hut.

"Wanping was not lost. Repeat, Wanping was not lost."

The static on the other end of the receiver was like raindrops hitting a sheet of metal, intermittently swallowing the rest of the sentence. The telephone operator hugged the junction box tightly, his forehead pressed against the edge of the table, as if afraid that the wire would break free from the city of Beiping.

Zhao Weiguo pressed down the last loop of the bandage and bit off the last piece of cloth with his teeth.

The deputy battalion commander frowned when he saw this action.

"Don't use your teeth. It's dirty."

Zhao Weiguo spat the cloth scraps onto the ground.

"Is this something you do on the battlefield?"

Han Fucheng picked up a steel helmet from the doorway and put it on Zhao Weiguo's head. The helmet was too big and pressed down on his eyebrows.

"Making the most of life. Put it on."

Zhao Weiguo raised his hand and pushed his helmet up.

"Obstructing the view."

"It's more valuable to stop a bullet."

Old Xu leaned against the sandbag, laughing so hard that a little red seeped through the bandage under his ribs.

"Major Han's words are harsh. Mr. Zhao, you'll just have to accept it."

Zhao Weiguo looked at Lao Xu.

"If you bleed again, I'll have someone tie you to a cannon wheel."

Old Xu immediately suppressed his laughter.

The guard surnamed Meng urged them on from outside the gate.

"Mr. Zhao, that gun is really hot. The brothers dare not pry it open, for fear that there is still fire inside the magazine."

Zhao Weiguo slung his Type 38 rifle over his shoulder and bent down to pick up the fragments of gun steel from the table.

Han Fucheng reached out to stop him.

"What are you going to do with this piece of iron?"

"Keep accounts."

"What accounts?"

Zhao Weiguo stuffed the gunpowder into the tattered sack.

"The steel the Japanese devils owed."

Han Fucheng was stunned for a moment, then twitched the corner of his mouth.

"Alright. Let's go, take a look at your ledgers."

The group left the small gatehouse.

Outside the city gate, Wanping City looked as if it had been gnawed by a giant beast. The brick walls had collapsed, the wooden beams were charred, and blood seeped down the cracks, mixing with lime and congealing into pinkish mud. A stretcher was carried past them, and a wounded soldier clung to the edge of the stretcher, cursing under his breath.

"Don't carry me off the plane, I can still load bullets."

The soldiers carrying the stretcher spat at him.

"Your guts are practically sticking out, you son of a bitch."

The wounded soldier stared wide-eyed.

"Place me next to the ammunition box, and I'll keep an eye on me."

Zhao Weiguo stopped.

"Give him a row of empty magazines."

The soldiers carrying the stretcher were taken aback.

The wounded soldier was also stunned.

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

"Lie down while pressing the bomb. If your hands can still move, don't let them be idle."

The wounded soldier's eyes lit up immediately.

"Did you hear that? Mr. Zhao has spoken! Give the old man the magazine!"

Han Fucheng watched as the stretcher was carried away, his voice lowered.

"You're quite the charmer."

Zhao Weiguo stepped over a pile of broken tiles.

"If you don't let him do something, he'll feel like he's no longer useful."

Han Fucheng didn't say anything more.

The Type 92 heavy machine gun, towed back from the east of the bridge, was placed inside the city wall, its mount askew and its barrel smeared with mud and blood. The barrel was still steaming, and the handguard had two dents from bullets. The assistant gunner's body had been moved, leaving only a tattered strip of cloth wrapped around the magazine well, the blood dried into a hard, black layer.

Li Shuanzi squatted to the side, holding a bayonet, but didn't dare to make a move.

"Mr. Zhao, the springboard is stuck."

The garrison soldier surnamed Meng pointed to the ammunition tray slot.

"Just now, one of the brothers hit me with the butt of his rifle, almost burning my hand."

Zhao Weiguo squatted down without touching the barrel. He first checked the serial number on the gun, then the feeding mechanism, and then gently poked the jammed cartridge plate with an iron ruler.

Click.

The springboard moved slightly.

Li Shuanzi immediately shrank back.

"There really are bullets?"

Zhao Weiguo looked up.

"The last shot didn't go in. Don't tap the firing pin."

Han Fucheng squatted down on the other side.

"Can it be repaired?"

Zhao Weiguo pointed to the crack in the gun rack.

"The gun body is usable. The barrel is overheating and needs to be replaced. One leg of the gun frame is broken; if it can't be welded, we'll have to make a wooden frame. The magazine well is deformed and needs to be re-filed."

The soldier surnamed Meng grinned.

"So it works?"

"It's usable, but don't rush to use it."

Zhao Weiguo wrapped the bolt handle with a rag and slowly pulled it back. The metallic scraping sound was ear-piercing, like a rusty knife scraping bone. Half of the stuck cartridge case was exposed, and the base of the cartridge was blackened.

"Shuanzi, get an empty can."

Li Shuanzi immediately handed it over.

Zhao Weiguo used an iron ruler to pick out the dud bullet and put it into the box.

"Bury it. Don't throw it in the fire."

Li Shuanzi held the box, his face turning green.

"This thing can explode?"

"Would you like to try?"

"In no mood."

Li Shuanzi ran off with the box in his hand.

Zhao Weiguo pulled out the magazine, which contained seven crooked bullets. He ejected them one by one and laid them out on the ground.

The system panel lit up in front of me.

[Recoverable military equipment detected: fragments of a Type 92 heavy machine gun]

[Disassembleable materials: high-quality barrel steel, receiver steel, spring steel]

[Recommendation: Retain the entire gun for replication and research]

Zhao Weiguo paused for a moment.

Han Fucheng noticed it.

"What's wrong?"

Zhao Weiguo wiped the mud off the gun, revealing the machining marks on the edge of the receiver.

"Don't disassemble the whole gun."

The Meng-surname garrison was in a panic.

"Didn't you just say gun barrel steel is valuable?"

"The whole gun is more valuable."

Zhao Weiguo pointed to the ammunition supply mechanism.

"The Japanese machine guns weren't top-of-the-line, but their feeding, cooling, and tripod systems saved the arsenal a lot of trouble. If you disassembled them and broke them, you'd only be left with scrap metal. If you kept them, you could teach a group of people."

Han Fucheng's eyes darkened.

"You want the armory to copy it?"

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

"They want us to stop picking up Japanese trash so often in the future."

The people around remained silent.

The wind swept across the shell craters from outside the city, bringing with it a burnt smell. In the distance, at the bridgehead, men from the 219th Regiment were still moving ammunition; some were pushing captured gun racks, shouting for people to make way.

Old Xu was helped up by someone at some point and leaned against the wall, his face deathly pale.

"This needs to be written in the battle report."

Zhao Weiguo did not turn around.

"I won't write it."

Old Xu was taken aback.

Why?

Zhao Weiguo closed the receiver cover, making a quiet sound.

"If I write it down, the Japanese will know I'm targeting their guns. Next time, they'll destroy the guns first, then withdraw their men."

Han Fucheng looked at the Type 92 rifle, then at Zhao Weiguo.

"How should we report this gunshot?"

Zhao Weiguo picked up a piece of cloth and covered the gun with it.

"Seized. Awaiting repair."

The battalion deputy ran from the breach in the city wall, his face freshly washed, but bloodstains still stuck behind his ears.

"Major Han, a reply has arrived from Beiping."

Han Fucheng stood up.

"explain."

The deputy battalion commander glanced at Zhao Weiguo.

"The higher-ups want to meet this Zhao Weiguo."