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

The sound of the iron pot hitting the ground was even more muffled than Zhao Weiguo had expected.

The iron hit his head, bounced off his shoulder, and fell onto the gravel ground in front of the threshold along with the hemp rope. It rolled twice before stopping, scattering the stones in the pot all over the ground.

The puppet army squad leader screamed and fell forward, his forehead slamming into a large rock. His Hanyang rifle flew from his hand, the butt hitting the doorframe. He clutched his head, blood seeping from between his fingers and streaming down his face. He wasn't dead, but his legs gave way. He slumped on the doorstep, muttering incoherent curses as he struggled to his feet.

The people behind were all stunned.

Zhao Weiguo didn't wait for their reaction.

He stood up from behind the woodpile, holding his pistol level. Six bullets. The first shot ricocheted, the bullet grazing the puppet army squad leader's ear before flying deep into the courtyard, striking the earthen wall of the main house and kicking up a cloud of dirt.

It veered off course. My left arm was frozen stiff, and my right hand, which had hit a rock, was still numb.

But it's not a loss to throw the other side into chaos.

The puppet army squad leader was already crawling when the gunshot rang out. He immediately shrank back, buried his face in the snow, and stopped moving, clutching his head.

The Japanese soldiers behind instinctively took two steps back and bumped into the courtyard wall. The three puppet soldiers scrambled back, and one of them stepped on an iron pot on the ground and almost tripped.

"Sir! There's an ambush!" a puppet soldier yelled at the top of his lungs.

The Japanese sergeant didn't run. He stood close to the courtyard wall, holding his Type 38 rifle, and fired towards the woodpile. The bullets hit the earthen wall beside Zhao Weiguo, and frozen clods of mud splattered onto his face, leaving a bloody gash.

Zhao Weiguo squatted back behind the woodpile and switched the gun to his right hand.

The red dots in my mind were flickering. Two were outside the courtyard wall, and one was moving westward into the village.

"Stone!" he growled in the direction of Aunt Qin's house.

This isn't gunfire aimed at the enemy. This is a signal.

In Aunt Qin's courtyard, Chen An, Lao Liang, and the old man who had fled were already in their respective positions as Zhao Weiguo had instructed. Chen An squatted at the kitchen door, holding a stack of broken bricks in his arms, his fingers white with cold, and his whole body trembling violently. Lao Liang stood behind the courtyard wall, holding a fist-sized stone in his hand, his arm raised high like a stiff wooden stake.

Uncle Zhao had already climbed back over the wall after leaving his footprints. He was now leaning against the low wall, holding a pitchfork, his face ashen.

As soon as the gunshot rang out, Aunt Qin shoved the woman holding the child into the cellar entrance, covered her with a tattered mat, and poured half a ladle of water over her. Her movements were as swift as if she had done it a hundred times before.

Chen An's hands trembled so badly he could barely hold the bricks. He tried to stand, but his legs gave way, and he knelt on the ground. An old man fleeing from his predicament snatched three bricks from his arms and hurled them over the courtyard wall with all his might.

The bricks crashed onto the gravel ground in Old Song's yard with a loud crackling sound.

Uncle Zhao also threw his stone out.

The noise wasn't loud, but it was particularly jarring during the brief pauses in the gunfire.

The Japanese sergeant lying on the outside of the courtyard wall heard the sound of bricks and stones falling and judged that someone was being moved inside. He whispered something in Japanese and led the Japanese soldier with a Type 38 rifle close to the wall towards the courtyard gate.

The other three puppet soldiers huddled on the village road, neither daring to advance nor retreat. One of the bolder ones peeked into the courtyard and saw the puppet soldier squad leader lying on the threshold, the blood from his head staining the snow, an iron pot leaning to one side, and a rope still wrapped around his arm.

"Squad leader...is the squad leader still alive?" His voice trembled.

The puppet army squad leader gave a muffled groan. He wasn't dead, but he couldn't get up either. He was a little dizzy, and he worked for the Japanese because he was afraid of dying. Now, the Japanese soldiers were too busy to care about him, so he might as well play dead and hide. He figured his men would come to his rescue after they dealt with this group of Eighth Route Army soldiers.

The Japanese sergeant ignored him. He carried his gun, walked around the puppet army squad leader lying on the ground and the iron pot, and stepped into Old Song's yard.

The boots crunched and squeaked on the snow.

Zhao Weiguo moved behind the woodpile.

He didn't stand up and fire. He only had five bullets left out of six, and he couldn't waste them on a distance where he couldn't see clearly. He crouched down and retreated through the gap between the woodpile and the crumbling wall until he reached the breach in the back wall.

Chen An was still kneeling at the kitchen door.

Zhao Weiguo grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him up.

"Go to the back wall of Old Song's house." Zhao Weiguo's voice was choked with urgency. "There's a snowdrift at the base of the back wall, and a pile of dry firewood next to it. Squat there, don't move, and don't make a sound."

"What... what can I do?" Chen An's teeth chattered, and his voice seemed to drift from a great distance.

"Count the people." Zhao Weiguo stared at him. "How many went into the courtyard? How many came out? If you miscount, I'll beat you when you get back."

Chen An nodded, his legs still trembling, but he had already moved. He bent over along the base of the wall and disappeared into the wind and snow.

Zhao Weiguo turned around and unlatched the back door of Aunt Qin's house.

Old Liang stood behind the door, raising the stone in his hand again.

"Put it down," Zhao Weiguo said.

"There are still Japanese soldiers outside!"

"I know." Zhao Weiguo glanced at the stone in Lao Liang's hand. "Are you strong enough to throw it over Lao Song's courtyard wall?"

Old Liang paused for a moment, looked at his arm, and said nothing.

"If you can't throw it, then don't." Zhao Weiguo's tone left no room for negotiation. "You take the pitchfork and stand guard at Aunt Qin's back door. If anyone climbs over the wall, you stab them in the stomach, not the chest. There are ribs in the chest, the pitchfork can't go in there."

Old Liang's face paled for a moment, but he gripped the pitchfork in his hand even tighter.

Zhao Weiguo didn't say anything more. He went out the back door, followed the narrow alley between the two walls, and circled around to the back wall of Old Song's house.

Chen An was already crouching in the snowdrift. He was huddled up in the cold, his eyes wide open, staring intently at the front yard.

"How many went in?" Zhao Weiguo squatted down next to him.

"Two," Chen An said softly, "one wearing an iron hat, and the other wearing a yellow coat."

A Japanese sergeant and a puppet soldier.

"Anything else?"

"There are more outside. I heard them cursing on the village road." Chen An swallowed hard. "The one in the yellow coat was shouting, 'Sir, there are people inside!' The one in the iron hat said something to him in a rather unpleasant tone, but I couldn't understand it."

Zhao Weiguo closed his eyes, and the blurry red dots in his mind lit up again. Two were in the yard, one at the east end of the village road, and the other at the west end.

Four people. Plus the puppet army squad leader who couldn't get up on the threshold, that makes five.

One Japanese sergeant and four puppet soldiers.

Zhao Weiguo opened his eyes and drew his pistol from his waist. Five bullets.

He poked half his head out through the gap in the back wall.

In the courtyard, a Japanese sergeant was squatting beside a woodpile, rummaging through the broken pieces of iron on the ground—shards from a smashed iron pot. He was cautious, not heading towards the main house, but first observing the surrounding ruins and the half-collapsed roof. A puppet soldier huddled behind him, holding a Hanyang rifle, its muzzle flashing erratically.

Zhao Weiguo pulled his head back and whispered to Chen An, "Climb out through the gap in the back wall, but don't go back to Aunt Qin's house. Crouch down against the wall on the side of the narrow alley closest to Aunt Qin's house, facing Old Song's house."

"What are you doing?"

"Look," Zhao Weiguo stared at him. "If I fire, you need to see clearly whether I hit him or not. Where did I hit him? Did he fall down? If he fell, is he still moving? Even if you can't see clearly, you still need to look and tell me when you get back."

Chen An's face paled for a moment, but he still nodded.

"After you've finished watching, go back to Aunt Qin's house and tell Uncle Zhao and Lao Liang that no matter what sound they hear, they are not allowed to move, not allowed to come out, and not allowed to throw anything."

And what about you?

"I'm here."

Chen An didn't ask any more questions and climbed out through the gap using both his hands and feet.

Zhao Weiguo squatted alone against the back wall.

The wind picked up. The snowflakes stung my face like needles.

He is waiting.

The Japanese sergeant searched the courtyard for about the time it takes to brew a cup of tea. He overturned the woodpile, kicked the broken door of the main house, and poked the rotten wooden crate in the corner with his bayonet. He found nothing.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out from the east end of the village.

He stood up, waved his hand, and signaled the puppet troops to give chase.

Zhao Weiguo did not move.

The sergeant walked to the courtyard gate, glanced down at the puppet army squad leader slumped over the threshold and the iron pot lying askew beside him. He squatted down, used his gloved hand to lift the puppet army squad leader's eyelids, and then pinched his chin. The puppet army squad leader gave a muffled groan; he was still breathing.

The sergeant stood up and waved towards the village road. Two puppet soldiers ran over, grabbed the puppet squad leader by the arms, and dragged him out.

Only the sergeant remained in the courtyard.

He stood at the gate of the courtyard, not leaving immediately. He turned around, his gaze sweeping over the crumbling walls, the woodpile, and the half-collapsed roof, finally settling on the gap in the back wall.

Zhao Weiguo had already pulled his head back. He crouched inside the breach, his back pressed against the frozen earthen wall, his gun muzzle pointing downwards.

My heart is racing.

The sergeant's footsteps sounded. He was heading into the courtyard. His boots crunched on the snow, getting closer and closer.

Zhao Weiguo closed his eyes; the red dot in his mind was getting closer. Closer. Even closer.

Fifteen steps. Ten steps.

He opened his eyes and poked half a finger out of the gap with the muzzle of the gun.

The sergeant appeared outside the breach. He was sideways, rifle at the ready, bayonet pointing forward, searching along the back wall towards the narrow alley. His back was facing Zhao Weiguo.

eight steps.

Zhao Weiguo placed the Mauser pistol on the frozen ground at the gap, his right index finger on the trigger, his left arm hanging down, and used his shoulder and the corner of the wall to brace the gun.

He pulled the trigger.

A shot rang out.

The bullet struck the sergeant in the lower left side of his waist. He lurched forward, his rifle slipping from his hand and hitting the snow. He didn't fall immediately, but staggered a couple of steps, his right hand reaching for his waist as if to draw his pistol.

Zhao Weiguo did not give him a chance.

The second shot. The bullet struck the sergeant's right shoulder blade, sending him spinning halfway around before he fell backward, his head slamming against the frozen ground with a dull thud.

The sergeant kicked his legs twice, then stopped moving.

Across the narrow alley, behind the wall of Aunt Qin's courtyard, Chen An squatted at the base of the wall.

He saw everything.

When the Japanese soldier wearing the iron hat walked past the gap, he was less than three steps away from Chen An. Chen An could see the mud on his boots, the leather ammunition box hanging on his belt, and the glint of snow reflecting off his bayonet.

Then a shot rang out.

A cloud of blood billowed from the man's lower back, a bullet tearing a small hole in his cotton-padded coat. He stumbled forward, his rifle flying through the air. A second shot struck him in the back, and he spun around, landing face up in the snow.

Chen An saw that face.

The iron hat flew off, revealing a very young face. Probably in his early twenties. Eyes were open, mouth slightly agape, as if trying to shout something. The snow beneath him was turning red, the red circle gradually expanding.

Chen An's stomach suddenly clenched.

He squatted against the wall, his hands bracing against the frozen ground, and gagged twice. He didn't vomit anything; he hadn't eaten all day. But his stomach was churning, his throat tasted bitter, and tears streamed down his face uncontrollably.

He did not make a sound.

Zhao Weiguo climbed over the gap in the back wall and landed next to the sergeant. The fall made his wound on his left arm throb with pain. He gritted his teeth, squatted down, kicked away the rifle next to the sergeant, and then reached out to touch the sergeant's neck.

The pulse is weak. It's still beating, but getting slower and slower.

Zhao Weiguo didn't wait long. He unfastened the leather ammunition pouch and pistol holster from the sergeant's waist. The ammunition pouch contained thirty .65mm bullets, slightly thinner than .792mm. The pistol holster contained a Nambu Type 14 rifle, its barrel scorching hot, with four rounds remaining in the magazine.

He picked up the rifle as well. It was a Type 38, the bolt was clean, and there was an old scratch on the stock.

Three guns, forty-seven bullets, and one grenade.

Zhao Weiguo stood up and called out across the narrow alley, "Chen An."

A head popped out from behind the wall. Chen An's face was as white as paper, his lips were trembling, and his eyes were red.

"Did you see it clearly?"

Chen An nodded.

"Where did it hit?"

"Lower back...and back." Chen An's voice was very soft, as if it were squeezed out from between his throats.

"Is the person still alive?"

"He's fallen. Face up." Chen An swallowed hard. "His eyes are still open."

Zhao Weiguo didn't ask any more questions. He picked up his rifle and the spoils, walked around the sergeant's body, and headed towards the back door of Aunt Qin's house.

Chen An remained squatting by the wall, motionless.

Zhao Weiguo took two steps, stopped, and looked back at him.

"Walk."

Chen An stood up. His legs were trembling, but he was already moving. He followed Zhao Weiguo, stumbling through the narrow alley.

When Lao Liang pushed open the back door of Aunt Qin's house, he almost poked Zhao Weiguo in the face with his pitchfork.

"It's me." Zhao Weiguo stepped aside to let the fork tip pass.

Old Liang let out a long breath, and the pitchfork drooped down.

"Where are the Japanese devils?"

"One died," Zhao Weiguo threw the spoils on the ground. "Another squad leader was injured by a pot and was carried away by his accomplices. The rest are gone."

The courtyard was quiet for a moment.

Then everyone looked at the pile of things on the ground.

Type 38 rifle, Type 14 pistol, leather ammunition box, and a hand grenade.

Aunt Qin poked half her head out of the cellar entrance, saw the gun, and then shrank back inside.

Zhao Weiguo bent down, placed the three guns side by side on the ground, opened the cartridge case, and counted out the bullets one by one.

"One Type 38 rifle, thirty rounds of .65 ammunition. One Nambu pistol, four rounds. Three rounds fired from the Mauser C96, three left. One hand grenade." He picked out the old rounds, placing three with greenish casings aside. "These three old rounds won't fit into the gun; they're prone to exploding. Seal them separately."

He squatted down and divided the bullets into three piles: .65, .792, and Nambu pistol rounds. Next to each pile was a stone with numbers drawn on it with his fingernail.

Everyone in the courtyard was stunned.

"This is the spoils," Zhao Weiguo said calmly. "The Japanese soldier I killed was shot by me. The squad leader who was injured by the pot—I took the ammunition box and grenades from him. All the spoils will be inventoried and stored together."

He looked up at Chen An, Uncle Zhao, and Lao Liang.

"No one is allowed to take even a single bullet. Not even one."

Uncle Zhao opened his mouth: "Then...then where's the gun?"

"The guns are under my control," Zhao Weiguo stood up. "You don't know how to use them; they'll only cause trouble if you take them."

Old Liang's expression was rather unpleasant.

Zhao Weiguo saw through his thoughts.

"You want a gun?"

Old Liang didn't say anything, but his eyes betrayed him.

"I'll teach you when you've learned not to stab your own people in the face with your fork."

Old Liang's face flushed red, and he tightened his grip on the pitchfork, but ultimately remained silent.

Footsteps could be heard outside the courtyard gate.

Old Wei is back. His face is even paler, and his lips are trembling.

"At the east end of the village..." he gasped for breath, "two dead. One was wearing a yellow coat, his intestines spilling out onto the ground. The other... I can't tell who it was, his face was smashed to pieces by a rifle butt."

He paused, then lowered his voice even further: "It's one of ours. The one who escaped... the one in plainclothes, probably from the district squad."

The courtyard fell silent.

Aunt Qin covered her mouth. The woman holding the child retreated back into the cellar.

Zhao Weiguo remained silent for a few seconds.

"The food and the wounded must be moved before dawn," he said, his voice flat. "The pursuers know the location of this village. No matter how many die tonight, they'll come back tomorrow."

"Which way to turn?" Old Wei asked.

"I don't know," Zhao Weiguo said.

That's the truth. He knew nothing about the terrain of the Taihang Mountains, the strongholds of the Eighth Route Army, or the routes of the transportation lines. The system simulation only gave him blurry red and blue dots, not a map, much less a guide.

"But we can't stay here."

He squatted down, wrapped the pistol, grenade, and bullets back into his cotton-padded coat, tied a knot, and handed it to Chen An.

"Take this. Don't open it, don't shake it, it'll explode if you drop it."

Chen An took the bundle with both hands, then froze, not daring to move.

Zhao Weiguo glanced at him. Chen An's face was still pale, and his lips were still trembling. But he stood still, without squatting down or gagging.

"What did you just see?" Zhao Weiguo asked.

Chen An remained silent for a while.

"A man," he said softly, "shot in the lower back, then in the back. He fell face up. His eyes were open."

Are you scared?

Chen An did not answer immediately. He lowered his head and looked at the bundle in his arms.

"I'm scared," he said.

"It's good to be afraid," Zhao Weiguo said. "Remember this feeling. Next time you see it, still be afraid. But your hands can't shake."

Chen An nodded.

Zhao Weiguo looked up at the sky. The snow was still falling, the clouds were low, and the stars were nowhere to be seen.

"Old Wei, you know the way. Lead us to a fighting force."

Old Wei stared at the twelve-year-old child for a long time.

"Who exactly are you?" His voice was hoarse.

Zhao Weiguo did not answer. He turned around, walked into the wind and snow, and headed towards the village entrance.

Behind them, Chen An, carrying a bundle, followed with uneven steps. Following them were Old Wei, the old man who had fled, Uncle Zhao, and Old Liang. Aunt Qin didn't follow; she had to stay behind to take care of the wounded in the cellar.

Zhao Weiguo walked at the very front.

He didn't turn around. Blood was seeping from the wound on his left arm, and drops of blood fell onto the snow, only to be quickly covered by the newly fallen snow.

He recalled the days in his previous life when he was debugging weapons in an arsenal. There were temperature-controlled workshops, precision measuring tools, and complete quality inspection processes. But here, there was only a broken iron pot with a chipped edge, a few bricks, and a frightened exiled student who was about to wet his pants.

But that's enough.

Tonight's pledge of allegiance has been made. Whether we can find a truly capable fighting force remains to be seen after dawn.