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

The sentry peeked halfway out from behind the rock, his gun not yet fully lowered.

"Battalion Commander Zhang, who is this child?"

"I found it on the road."

The sentry stared at Zhao Weiguo again. He was twelve years old, shorter than Zhang Dabiao's shoulder, his cotton-padded jacket sleeves were worn with white lint, dried blood ran down his cheekbones to his ears, and his lips, purple from the cold, were tightly pressed together.

"Found it?"

"Are you some kind of sentry or a census taker? Is the battalion commander here?"

"exist."

Zhang Dabiao tucked his pistol behind his waist and, without turning his head, gestured towards Zhao Weiguo with his lip.

"Keep up, don't fall behind."

As Zhao Weiguo took a step, Chen An's hushed voice came from behind him: "Brother."

He turned around. Chen An and a few other boys were huddled at the back of the line, their faces blue with cold, their wet shoes crunching on the frozen ground. Shi Tou was rubbing his hands, while Xiao Man hunched his shoulders, his eyes darting around restlessly.

"Don't look around, don't reach out, just follow Lao Wei."

Chen An nodded vigorously.

Old Wei patted Chen An on the shoulder and gathered the boys around him.

The new regiment's encampment was nestled in a mountain valley. It wasn't in a village; it was likely a temporary camp. The makeshift shacks, hastily constructed with branches and thatch, were placed in a sheltered spot, with the sky visible through several of the roofs. Mules and horses were tethered to the base of a cliff, listlessly chewing on dry grass. Ammunition boxes were piled under tarpaulins, and a soldier with a rifle stood nearby, his eyes glued to Zhao Weiguo the moment he entered.

The cooks' pot was placed on the stone stove, with only a thin layer of porridge remaining at the bottom. Several soldiers squatted by the stove with bowls in their hands, but when they saw Zhang Dabiao bring in a child, they stopped holding their bowls.

"Battalion Commander Zhang, whose child is this?"

"Enough with the nonsense, I'll tell you later."

Zhang Dabiao walked straight to the largest shack in the middle of the camp.

A single oil lamp flickered in the shack, its wick extremely short, the flame no bigger than a soybean. A man in a gray cotton-padded jacket sat atop an ammunition box, a hand-drawn map spread out before him, half a cold cornbread resting on the edge. He had a long face, high cheekbones, and thick eyebrows like two brushes. The collar of his jacket was open, revealing a grayish-white shirt underneath. A pencil stub tucked between his right hand, his left hand picking at his ear—he bore an uncanny resemblance to Li Yunlong, the character from the TV series.

"Commander."

Li Yunlong didn't look up.

"They're back? Where's the transport team?"

"The man is alive, but one mule is dead. Two ammunition boxes are waterlogged, and one has a torn tarpaulin."

"Flooded?" Li Yunlong slammed his pencil on the map. "Do your men think mules can swim?"

"The mountain road is narrow, and the grain and ammunition are mixed together; if the mules get startled, the cart will veer off course."

"Mixed?" Li Yunlong finally raised his face. "How many times have I told you? Grain is grain, and ammunition is ammunition. Are you trying to make the Japanese wipe us out by mixing them together?"

Zhang Dabiao didn't reply, but the muscles on his face tensed up.

Li Yunlong stood up and tapped him twice with the end of his pencil: "Zhang Dabiao, you're a shrewd fighter, how come you make such a basic mistake leading a transport team?"

"Commander, we're short on mules, there's nothing we can do about it."

"Short? Short of mules? You think you can cram bullets and millet into one truck? Why don't you just pile the wounded on top of that? That would save you trouble!"

Zhang Dabiao's lips moved, but he ultimately didn't argue back.

After Li Yunlong finished cursing, he noticed a child standing behind Zhang Dabiao.

He was as thin as a stick, and the white wadding on the cuffs of his cotton-padded jacket was particularly conspicuous under the light. The bloodstain from his cheekbone to his earlobe had dried, and the edges were raised, like a black worm crawling on his face.

Li Yunlong frowned.

"Who is this?"

"He rescued the transport team."

"he?"

Li Yunlong looked him up and down, then suddenly laughed. Not out of joy, but out of a sense of absurdity.

"Zhang Dabiao, have you been beaten senseless? A kid saved your entire transport battalion?"

"He shot down the Type 98 rifle," Zhang Dabiao said. "Three shots from a Type 38 rifle, and he took out that firing point at the mouth of the ditch."

Li Yunlong's smile faded slightly.

He walked up to Zhao Weiguo and bent down to look at him. The two were so close that Zhao Weiguo could smell the smell of his tobacco and sweat.

Zhao Weiguo did not back down.

What's your name?

"Zhao Weiguo."

How big?

"twelve."

Where did it come from?

"Beiping."

"Beiping?" Li Yunlong straightened up, slowly circling halfway around him, his gaze sweeping from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. "From Beiping to Taihang, from Laiyuan to Lingqiu, the Japanese and their puppet troops were like sieves. How did you, a mere child, manage to survive?"

"They came over here."

"Walking here?" Li Yunlong scoffed. "Twelve years old, walked from Beiping to the Taihang Mountains, and even helped my men fight a battle along the way. You think I'm easy to fool?"

Zhao Weiguo offered no explanation.

Li Yunlong stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly walked to the entrance of the shack and shouted outside.

"Old Wei!"

Old Wei stood up from the group of teenagers and strode over.

"Commander."

"Did you bring this child?"

"Yes. Mr. Zhang is online."

"Which Mr. Zhang?"

Old Wei didn't answer immediately, but glanced around at the soldiers in the shack.

Li Yunlong understood and waved his hand towards the inside: "Everyone out, wait outside."

The soldiers filed out. Only Li Yunlong, Zhang Dabiao, Lao Wei, and Zhao Weiguo remained in the shack.

Old Wei then leaned close to Li Yunlong's ear and whispered a few words.

After listening, Li Yunlong's brows furrowed. He turned to look at Zhao Weiguo, then back at Lao Wei.

Why did he send people to our Eighth Route Army?

"Mr. Zhang only left a code and a scroll, without mentioning his age," Old Wei said. "I checked; the password, the details of Wanping, and the map all match."

"Does it all match?" Li Yunlong turned around and looked Zhao Weiguo over again. "You fought in Wanping?"

"I've fought with them."

There was a moment of silence in the shack.

Li Yunlong's expression changed. It wasn't surprise, but the alertness of an old hunter suddenly smelling his prey.

"Wanping? How old were you back then?"

"eleven."

"He was already on the walls of Wanping at the age of eleven?"

Li Yunlong picked up the pencil, twirled it between his fingers twice, and said nothing.

He walked to the ammunition box, sat down, pulled Zhao Weiguo's Mauser pistol from behind Zhang Dabiao's waist, ejected the magazine, pulled the bolt, and inspected the chamber. His movements were swift and efficient, unlike someone handling a Mauser pistol for the first time.

A bullet fell out of the magazine, its surface gleaming yellow, and rolled halfway under the oil lamp.

Just one?

"Leftovers from a ride."

"How many were hit?"

"I don't know."

"Didn't you count them?" Li Yunlong gripped the bullets between his fingers. "You didn't count the bullets when you fired?"

"I counted. There's only one left after I finished."

Li Yunlong put the bullets back into the magazine, put the magazine back into the gun, and didn't return it to him, but kept it by his side.

Where did the gun come from?

"Borrowed by Company Commander Zhou of the 29th Army."

"Company Commander Zhou?" Li Yunlong raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

"He knows me. I've fixed their knives before."

"Repairing the knife?"

Li Yunlong put down his Mauser pistol, turned around, and picked up an old Hanyang rifle from the corner. A piece of wood was chipped off the buttstock, the bolt wouldn't pull back, and the muzzle was rusted.

"Can you repair guns?"

"I know a little. I spent over a year at the 29th Army's ordnance depot."

"How much is 'a little'?"

"As long as it's not too serious, and we have the materials and tools, it can be repaired."

Li Yunlong handed the Hanyang rifle to Zhao Weiguo.

"You take it apart."

Zhao Weiguo took it.

The gun was heavy. The wound on his shoulder was still throbbing, and his arm trembled slightly when he picked it up.

But he didn't let it go.

He first pointed the gun outwards, pulled back the bolt, and checked the chamber; it was empty. Then he touched the charging handle, tried twice, but couldn't pull it back.

"The lever is stuck," he said. "It's bent inside."

How do you know it didn't rust to death?

"Rust makes it stiff. A gun can still be pulled even if it hasn't been used for six months, but if it's bent and deformed from an impact, it'll be completely jammed inside. A rusted gun can still be forcibly pulled open, but a jammed one can't. If you try to force it open, either the handle will break or the bolt will be ruined."

Li Yunlong squinted.

"dismantle."

Zhao Weiguo tucked the rifle butt between his knees and used his frostbitten fingers to unscrew the bolt guard. The bolt was rusted, and it took him three tries to loosen it. His fingertips were pricked by the screwdriver handle, leaving a red mark, and the bolt caught his thumb.

He removed the bolt and held it under the oil lamp.

"The cocking handle is bent, and the firing pin is worn flat," he said. "It's not that the gun can't be repaired, but it's not worth the money."

What does "not worth it" mean?

"The charging handle needs replacing, and the firing pin needs grinding. We don't have the new parts, and grinding the firing pin requires the tools. It takes a lot of work, and the gun is still an old gun with rust pits in the barrel. It still goes astray when firing and doesn't offer much combat effectiveness."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

"Disassemble the parts. The stock is usable, the handguard is usable, the screws are usable. The barrel and bolt are scrap. When another broken gun arrives, we'll disassemble parts of the same model and assemble them."

Li Yunlong stared at him for a long time.

This time, the laughter is genuine.

"You're not only good at dismantling things, you're also good at accounting."

"Guns are for saving lives, not for showing off your skills," Zhao Weiguo said. "I understand the math: it's better to dismantle a usable gun than to repair a broken one."

Li Yunlong patted the ammunition box, his attitude softening considerably. Li Yunlong still respected talent. Just like in the original series, he initially treated Zhao Gang with disdain, only winning Li Yunlong's respect later when Zhao Gang demonstrated his sharpshooting skills.

"sit down."

Zhao Weiguo placed the disassembled bolt carrier next to the ammunition box and sat down.

Li Yunlong pushed the map between the two of them.

"You said you walked from Beiping to Taihang Mountains and encountered Japanese soldiers along the way?"

"I've run into them."

"Which road has the most Japanese soldiers?"

Zhao Weiguo looked down at the map. The map was drawn roughly, with crooked ridgelines, but several major passes and roads were marked. He pointed to them.

"There are fixed checkpoints along the highway from Laiyuan to Lingqiu. You'll be checked if you take the highway. I took the mountain road west of Laiyuan, which took me three days."

How do you find your way on a mountain road?

"Look at the mountain ridges. The Taihang Mountains run north-south; just follow the ridgeline, and you can't go wrong."

"Did the Japanese soldiers chase you?"

"I did chase after him."

"How did you shake them off?"

"I don't care," Zhao Weiguo said. "The Japanese chase people by their footprints. I walk along streams, rocky beaches, and sheep trails. When the footprints stop, they stop chasing."

"What if the footprints can't be broken?"

"Then let them chase them. Let them chase until nightfall, then they won't dare go into the mountains."

How do you know they wouldn't dare?

Zhao Weiguo raised his head and looked at Li Yunlong.

"The Japanese are afraid of night fighting, afraid of the mountains. Their machine guns are useless at night, and their grenade launchers are inaccurate. They don't know the mountain roads well, but we do."

Li Yunlong did not respond.

When he wasn't speaking, all the playful grin on his face disappeared. His eyebrows furrowed, forming two thick lines like knife marks etched on his forehead, and his eyes stared at Zhao Weiguo as if he were looking at a piece of unheated iron.

"Zhang Dabiao."

"arrive."

"Did you hear what the child said?"

"I heard you."

"He put it more clearly than some of your platoon leaders."

Zhang Dabiao didn't say anything, but he pressed the corners of his mouth down.

Li Yunlong stood up and paced back and forth in the shack twice.

"Zhao Weiguo."

"exist."

"You said you can repair guns, read maps, and assess enemy positions. You're absolutely right." He stopped and turned around. "But the more accurate your claims are, the more uneasy I feel."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him but didn't reply.

"A twelve-year-old kid, yet he speaks more clearly than some of my veteran soldiers. Either you're a genius, or you're a monster." Li Yunlong stared into his eyes. "Tell me, who are you?"

"None of that," Zhao Weiguo said. "I crawled out of a pile of corpses."

"Many have crawled out of piles of corpses," Li Yunlong said in a low voice, "but not many have managed to crawl out still so lucid."

Zhao Weiguo did not respond.

The oil lamp flickered.

Li Yunlong walked back to the ammunition box, picked up the Mauser pistol, ejected the magazine, and poured the bullets into his palm.

One.

Li Yunlong twirled the bullet between his fingertips, put it back in the magazine, loaded the magazine back into the gun, and then tucked the gun behind his waist.

"I'll keep the gun for now. Your men will stay outside."

"OK."

Aren't you going to ask why?

"I'll answer if you ask. If you don't ask, I don't need to explain."

Li Yunlong stared at him for three seconds, then suddenly smiled.

"Come with me to see the camp tomorrow at daybreak."

"What are you looking at?"

"Let's test your skills and see your eyesight. If you can spot the flaws in my base, I'll believe you halfway."

"half?"

"Half," Li Yunlong said, his smile fading. "The other half, you'll have to pay with the lives of Japanese soldiers."

Zhao Weiguo stood up.

"See you tomorrow."

Li Yunlong didn't respond, he just waved his hand.

Zhang Dabiao led Zhao Weiguo out of the shack and to a side shed in the corner of the camp. The side shed was drafty, with dry grass on the ground and several empty ammunition boxes piled in the corner. The wooden boards on the boxes were warped at the edges, and the nails were sticking out.

"You'll sleep here tonight. Don't wander around."

"Where are the boys?"

"Old Wei is watching over it; it's next door."

Zhao Weiguo sat down on the haystack.

My fingers were still trembling. They were so frozen that I couldn't even clench my fist, and my fingertips felt numb.

Zhang Dabiao took two steps, then stopped.

Zhang Dabiao stared at him for a long time, as if trying to find some flaw in his face.

In the end, he only said, "Go to sleep early."

The footsteps faded into the distance.

Zhao Weiguo leaned against the ammunition box and closed his eyes.

The walls of the shed were made of a few broken wooden planks pieced together, with gaps only a finger's width wide. The wind blew in through the gaps, like tiny knives stabbing into the bones. From next door, Chen An's voice could be faintly heard, as he whispered words of comfort to someone, but the words were indistinct.

My hands are still shaking.

He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his cotton-padded jacket and curled up into a ball.

My mind suddenly quieted down.

The outline of the new regiment's garrison slowly emerged before his eyes. The direction of the rocky cliff to the north, the location of the retreat route to the west, the distribution of ammunition piles, the spacing between sentry posts. It was as if someone had drawn a diagram in his mind with charcoal sticks.