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

Zhao Weiguo fired the three bullets that Li Yunlong gave him that evening.

All three shots hit the wooden target behind the earthen embankment. The wire brace on the stock of the Hanyang rifle was digging into my shoulder, but the gun fired, and the point of impact wasn't too far off. The problem was with the ejection. One of the three shots had the extractor engaged too deeply, and when the cartridge case was pulled out, a piece of the rim was chipped.

Zhao Weiguo picked up the spent cartridge and squatted under the oil lamp, examining it for a long time.

Staff Officer Chen was left at the brigade headquarters to oversee ammunition registration. Test-fired bullets were drawn from captured supplies, recorded one by one, and returned after each casing was removed for cancellation. Staff Officer Luo had established a rule before leaving: ammunition used by the repair team was reported by the repair team, and ammunition used by the new regiment was reported by the new regiment, with each side keeping its own records.

The spent cartridge case sat under the oil lamp all night.

Zhao Weiguo couldn't bear to throw it away. The extractor had gnawed a deep groove into the bottom edge of the cartridge case, and the bottom of the case wall was bulging. It wasn't exactly a barrel explosion, but the bullet had been stretched too much inside the chamber. With these two problems combined, it was no wonder it jammed during ejection.

He squatted under the oil lamp, alone, facing the tattered wooden board. On the board were the bolt of the No. 1 rifle, the extractor patch, three spent cartridge cases, and the remaining test rounds recorded by Staff Officer Chen. Zhou Yuan and the other children had long been sent to bed.

Zhao Weiguo used his fingernail to scrape the groove on the bottom of the shell.

The extractor bit too hard. The shell wasn't cleaned properly either. There are problems at both ends.

He didn't blame the gun, nor did he entirely blame the bullet. In the gun repair business, the worst thing is to find an excuse first. The faster you find an excuse, the faster the next shot will explode. Guns and bullets are sworn enemies; when something goes wrong, you have to investigate both sides.

He removed the extractor and gently rubbed the edge of the patch with a fine file. Then he used a small piece of copper to pad the back of the extractor, reducing the engagement depth by less than half a millimeter. After grinding, he didn't rush to install it; instead, he took three discarded cartridge cases and tested the extraction one by one.

One, smooth.

Two, in order.

Three, then it got stuck.

He set the third one aside. The bottom of the shell was soft and unusable.

Using this method, you have to throw two or three shots out of ten. But throwing two or three shots is cheaper than blowing up half a face.

As dawn broke, the Zhongzheng (Chinese Type 24) rifle was returned to its original configuration. Zhao Weiguo didn't try to take advantage of the night to collect the remaining ones. The flaws in the Zhongzheng weren't completely eradicated; any further repairs would only mitigate the risks. Mitigation doesn't equal elimination.

It wasn't until the sun came out the next day that he dragged out the other two breech-loading guns of the same model.

One was a Hanyang rifle, the barrel old, the rifling worn shallow, but the receiver intact and the bolt compatible. The Type 38 rifle next to it had better rifling than the other two, but the problem was a missing corner in the magazine tray. Zhao Weiguo didn't force it; he modified it to single-shot loading—fire one round and reload. It was a bit slow, but a gun that doesn't fire is worse than being slow.

Li Yunlong's face fell when he heard this.

"Single-shot? What kind of gun is that?"

"Anything that can be used is called a gun."

"Fire one shot, then reload; you're still reloading when the Japanese are right in front of you? Doesn't that drive you crazy?"

"It's better than firing a shot that explodes and kills your own people."

Li Yunlong opened his mouth, but didn't shut up. He turned and fired at Zhang Dabiao: "What are you looking at? Go and call the ammunition handler!"

The ammunition clerk brought over two wooden boxes. One box contained Japanese Type 65 rifle cartridges, and the other contained Type 79 rifle cartridges, all selected from captured ammunition. Staff Officer Chen sat beside him, following brigade regulations, and registered each cartridge individually. Zhao Weiguo was only in charge of sifting the ammunition, not issuing it. Staff Officer Luo had set a rule—the repairmen didn't touch the ammunition inventory; each managed their own section.

He handled each bullet one by one. Those with proper primers were placed on the left, those with intact case tips on the right, and the rest were pushed into a broken bowl as waste.

Zhang Dabiao squatted down beside him, watching, his face growing greener and greener with each passing moment.

"Why are you saying these perfectly good ammunition are useless?"

"The primer is off-center."

"What about that one?"

"The shell opening is cracked."

"Is this one alright?"

Zhao Weiguo picked it up, brought it to his nose, smelled it, and then threw it into the waste bomb bowl.

"It smells musty. You probably just brought it back the day before yesterday."

Zhang Dabiao scooped it up and sniffed it too. After sniffing for a long time, he couldn't smell anything.

"Your nose is even more sensitive than a dog's."

Zhao Weiguo didn't respond to that. Fourteen unusable bullets were lined up in a broken bowl. Zhang Dabiao looked at the row of bullets as if they were a pile of discarded rations, and his lips twitched.

By noon, all three guns had been pulled into the dry ditch.

Test firing cannot be taken lightly. Zhao Weiguo used a clumsy method: he tied a hemp rope to the trigger, squatted behind the earthen embankment, and pulled the rope to fire. Only when the gun fired was the first hurdle cleared. The second hurdle was firing it manually.

The Chinese army went first. Two shots with the rope pulled, three shots manually, the shell was removed cleanly, the sound was right, and it passed.

The Hanyang rifle followed behind. The first two shots fired by pulling the rope were fine, but the third shot fired manually missed the wooden target by half a foot. The gun itself was not faulty; the deviation was due to the bullet.

The Type 38 rifle, loaded with a single shot, was the final piece. Two shots fired normally with the cord pulled, but when it came to manual firing, the second shot was difficult to eject; the veteran had to exert considerable effort to pull the bolt. Zhao Weiguo immediately decided: it could go to the battlefield, but it must be used by a veteran.

Staff Officer Chen wrote the results in the log: qualified, temporarily qualified, restricted use. None of the three words meant "fully repaired." But Zhao Weiguo preferred the harsh truth to a pleasant lie. On the battlefield, lies are paid for with lives.

Just then, the outpost returned.

A small group of enemies was spotted at the southeast mountain pass. Eight Japanese soldiers, four puppet troops, and six laborers escorting two donkeys carrying goods appeared to be a small patrol coming from the southern blockhouse complex. There weren't many people, but they were heading close to the outer perimeter of the New First Regiment, and if they continued forward, they could reach several communication points.

After listening, Li Yunlong asked one question.

"How far is the nearest ambush point?"

"A half-hour walk."

"beat."

Staff Officer Chen frowned. "You're already pulling it up after just checking the gun?"

Li Yunlong ignored him and turned to look at Zhao Weiguo. "You speak."

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer immediately. He glanced at the three repaired guns, then at the remaining usable ammunition in the ammunition box. His mind was calculating, and his fingers were calculating too. It was a habit from his past life; his fingers would unconsciously move whenever he did calculations.

"They can go. But only as supplementary firepower, not as the main attackers. Three rifles and three veterans, eight rounds each of the Type 24 and Hanyang rifles, and only five rounds of the Type 38 rifles, to engage targets within thirty paces. Register each round of ammunition, and collect the spent casings after each shot."

Zhou Yuan, standing at a distance, suddenly became anxious. "Brother Weiguo, I can move ammunition..."

"no."

"I don't touch guns!"

"no."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him. The twelve-year-old boy's eyes were full of resentment, and his lips were tightly pursed.

"That's the rule."

Zhou Yuan bit his lip and remained silent. Chen An tugged at his sleeve, but he didn't move. Chen An tugged again before he finally followed him behind the shed.

This time, Li Yunlong didn't disagree.

"Da Biao. Pick three people. They need to be reliable, not the kind who get itchy."

"Yes."

Half an hour later, the ambush team lay prone on both sides of the mountain pass.

The mountain pass was narrow, with a dirt road flanked by two stone walls. The winter shrubs were all withered, and the wind rustled the dry branches against the gun barrels. Li Yunlong positioned the main firepower on the left slope, while Zhang Dabiao led his men to block the exit on the right. The three repair guns weren't placed at the front, but rather in the middle of the right slope, with only one mission—to fill the firepower gap on the right side once the enemy was inside the trap.

Zhao Weiguo also went.

He didn't have a gun.

Staff Officer Chen initially didn't want him to go, and Li Yunlong didn't want him to go either. Zhao Weiguo simply said, "If the gun malfunctions and I'm not there, things might go wrong."

This statement convinced both of them.

He squatted down beside a rock on the right side of the slope, with a small cloth bag next to him containing thin wire, rags, an oil can, and three spare qualified bullets.

The enemy arrived quickly.

Eight Japanese soldiers led the way, followed by four puppet troops, with six laborers in between. The laborers carried sacks on their shoulders, and two donkeys carried wooden crates wrapped in oilcloth, obscuring their contents. The leader, a sergeant, gripped his saber hilt, muttering curses under his breath.

Li Yunlong lay prone on the left slope, his palm raised but not falling.

The two Japanese soldiers in front passed the first white stone.

All the laborers in the middle ended up in the pocket.

The puppet troops also came in from behind.

He slashed downwards with his palm.

The first volley of gunfire exploded in the mountain pass. The new regiment had few guns and limited ammunition; the volley wasn't dense, but it was sudden. The sergeant at the front was hit in the shoulder and fell headlong into the roadside ditch. A puppet soldier panicked and fired his gun haphazardly, only to be swept away by short bursts of machine gun fire from the left slope.

The laborers all collapsed to the ground, their cries and shouts mingling together.

The three repair rifles also fired. The Type 38 rifle had a deep, resonant sound; the first shot hit the Japanese soldier in the waist, causing him to stagger but not fall. The second shot struck him in the chest, finally causing him to collapse. The Hanyang rifle had a muffled sound; the first shot went astray, but the second shot forced a puppet soldier back behind a embankment. The single-shot Type 38 was the most patient; the veteran, heeding Zhao Weiguo's advice, didn't rush, waiting until a Japanese soldier was within thirty paces before firing, hitting him squarely in the chest, and causing him to fall backward.

Zhao Weiguo didn't look at the results of the battle. He only listened to the gunfire. The sounds of the Type 38 rifles and Hanyang rifles were consistent, indicating that nothing went wrong. The second round of the Type 38 was slightly delayed in ejection, but it didn't jam.

The veteran on the middle section of the right slope instinctively wanted to insert another shot.

"Wait a minute," Zhao Weiguo said in a low voice.

The veteran held back. He took out the spent cartridge case and examined it carefully. There were no signs of bulging on the casing, so he loaded the third round.

The battle didn't drag on for long. Li Yunlong's ambush point was ruthless enough that once the enemy entered the mountain pass, they had no room to maneuver. Zhang Dabiao blocked the exit, and the puppet troops collapsed first. The Japanese tried to put up a stubborn resistance on the spot but were scattered by fire from both sides.

The most dangerous enemy was the last Japanese soldier.

He lay prone behind the donkey carcass, rifle resting on the pack, and fired two shots in quick succession. The second shot grazed the ear of an old soldier on the right slope. The old soldier ducked, and his No. 2 Hanyang rifle struck a rock.

The veteran's index finger was already on the trigger, his fingertip deathly white. Zhao Weiguo pushed the gun away, removing the muzzle from his comrade in front of him. Almost simultaneously, the veteran, gripped by tension, pulled the trigger.

Bang.

The sound is wrong.

A plume of black smoke billowed from the muzzle, and the bullet veered off course and into the soil below the slope. A barely noticeable bulge appeared around the tip of the barrel. The veteran's face turned deathly pale.

It was a close call. If the gun had still been pointed at the person in front, whether the shot would have exploded or not is another matter, but the off-target bullet alone could have hit one of our own.

Zhao Weiguo snatched the number two gun.

"Use this one first!" He bent down, grabbed a rifle from the side, and handed it to the veteran. "Use this."

The veteran took it with trembling lips, his hands still shaking.

The last Japanese soldier was still firing from behind the donkey. Zhang Dabiao circled around from the side, and a grenade exploded behind the earthen embankment, knocking the Japanese soldier out. Li Yunlong shot him in the leg, and Zhang Dabiao pounced on him and pinned him down.

The gunfire stopped.

The mountain pass was filled with the smell of gunpowder and the acrid smell of earth.

The first thing Li Yunlong asked was not about the spoils.

"Is anyone injured?"

"One abrasion! One ear bleeding from the shock!"

Li Yunlong nodded before walking down the slope to rummage through the things.

The mountain pass was littered with corpses. Only three Japanese soldiers survived: two wounded and one pinned to the ground and bound. The puppet troops were even more scattered; one was dead, two were captured, and the third escaped into some ditch. All six laborers were rescued. One donkey died, but the surviving one was carrying two boxes of rifle ammunition, a box of canned food, and several packets of cotton wool.

There weren't many items, but enough to make the eyes of the new recruits light up.

Zhao Weiguo carried the No. 2 Hanyang rifle to Li Yunlong and placed the gun on the ground.

"This gun is ruined."

Li Yunlong crouched down to take a look. The bulge at the front of the gun barrel was barely noticeable unless you looked closely.

"What's the reason?"

"The barrel had old damage that wasn't visible. It hit a rock earlier, causing the muzzle to become warped, and the bullet may have grazed the barrel. It's also possible the bullet itself had excessively high chamber pressure. Both possibilities are possible."

Li Yunlong stared at him. "Didn't you say the gun wasn't fixed?"

"Maybe so."

These words surprised Li Yunlong. Most people would have blamed the bullet, the old wound, or bad luck. This kid, however, was quick to admit his own fault.

Zhao Weiguo continued, "This Hanyang rifle is scrapped. The Type 24 will continue to be used, while the Type 38 will be restricted in use. All spent cartridges fired today must be collected, and the rifles must be disassembled and inspected. Repaired rifles cannot be used as new."

Zhang Dabiao walked over carrying the captured rifle and happened to hear this.

"Aren't you annoying, kid? You just won a battle and you're already throwing cold water on it."

"Good medicine tastes bitter, but it cures the disease. Even unpleasant words can save a soldier's life."

Zhang Dabiao opened his mouth to curse, but his gaze swept over the old soldier who had almost been injured. The old soldier was still sitting by the rock, his hands on his knees, his ten fingers still trembling slightly. Zhang Dabiao swallowed back the words he was about to say.

Li Yunlong stood up, his gaze sweeping over the guns on the ground one by one. The Type 38 rifle was usable, the Type 38 was restricted to certain uses, and the Hanyang rifle was obsolete.

Three days. A pile of scrap metal. The repairs were imperfect, and some nearly cost our own men their lives.

But they did indeed fire at the mountain pass. They did indeed fill the gap in firepower on the right slope. They did indeed help the New First Regiment rescue six civilians and two boxes of ammunition.

This is enough.

Li Yunlong stretched out his hand, opened his palm, and showed it to Zhao Weiguo.

"The gun. Give it to me."

Zhao Weiguo looked at the hand. It was rough and thick, with calluses all over the knuckles.

He didn't hand it over immediately.

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. The paper wasn't big, folded twice, and covered with dense writing. He'd been collecting it over the past few days while repairing guns. It contained the serial number of each gun, the condition of the barrel, the bolt engagement, the chamber wear, the test firing results, and usage restrictions.

"Here's the gun. And this is for you too."

Li Yunlong took it, unfolded it, and looked at it. His brows furrowed.

"Gun card?"

"Each gun has its own card. It records everything: when it was repaired, what parts were replaced, how many rounds it can fire, and whether it has any hidden damage. Whoever receives the gun signs for it, and they return to register how many rounds they've fired. If a gun breaks down, the card is checked; if it's not recorded on the card, it hasn't been inspected, and uninspected guns are not allowed on the battlefield."

Li Yunlong turned the paper over and looked at the back. The back was blank.

"Just this one?"

"One gun, one card. I'll finish writing the cards for these three guns tonight. Starting tomorrow, all the guns in the entire regiment will need to have cards created."

Li Yunlong's eyebrows twitched.

"The whole group?"

"The entire regiment. How many guns do you have? What's the condition of each one? Can you fire them? How much ammunition do you have? You need to know everything. If you don't know how many guns you have that can fire, you'll be like a blind man groping an elephant in battle."

Zhang Dabiao chimed in from the side, "Commander, is this kid trying to take control of all the guns in our regiment?"

Zhao Weiguo ignored him and looked only at Li Yunlong. "Forget about guns. I just want you to know how many guns you have that can fire. Knowing your resources is crucial for effective warfare."

Li Yunlong folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He neither said it was good nor bad.

He turned and took two steps, then turned back.

"The entire regiment's weapons inventory. Okay. We'll start with the 1st Battalion tomorrow."

He left. Zhang Dabiao followed behind, and after a few steps, he turned back to glance at Zhao Weiguo. His expression was ambiguous, perhaps a mixture of admiration and annoyance.

Zhao Weiguo returned to his post in the evening but did not rest.

Old Zhong brought over a bowl of porridge and placed it on the worktable. Zhao Weiguo took two sips and put it down; the porridge cooled quickly and formed a skin. He pushed the bowl aside and pulled a withered willow branch from the pile of discarded guns.

The willow branches were frozen stiff. He took a knife and whittled them a couple of times, creating a slanted cut. He walked to the open space outside the shed, squatted down, and stuck the willow branches into the frozen soil.

The soil was hard. It took two tries to insert it halfway in.

Chen An followed him out to see him.

"Brother, why are you sticking this in?"

"Establish rules."

Zhao Weiguo planted the willow branch securely, then stood up and patted the dirt off his hands.

"From today onwards, this willow branch is the rule of the repair team. The branch stands, the rule stands. Anyone who breaks the rule will have the branch broken and be fired."

Chen An looked at the withered willow branch. It was thin and swayed slightly in the cold wind.

"What are the rules?"

"Regimental Commander Li mentioned three points today: If you can't repair it, just say so; no touching ammunition—I'm in charge." Zhao Weiguo paused, then added, "Let me add one more: all repaired guns must be registered; unregistered guns are not allowed to leave the shed."

Chen An nodded. He squatted down, tamped the soil around the willow branches, and then found a few stones to weigh down the roots.

"Brother, can I learn to repair guns?"

Zhao Weiguo looked at him. Chen An was twelve years old, a refugee from Beiping. His parents died on the road, and he survived by crossing a blockade ditch with a group of children. His fingers were thin, but steady.

"Learn how to clean a gun first."

How much should I wipe?

"One hundred. After you've used one hundred, I'll look at your hands."

Chen An pulled his hand out of his sleeve and looked at it. He had frostbite on his fingers and an old scar on the web of his hand, from being scratched by barbed wire when he was clearing the blockade trench.

"OK."

When he said this word, he circled his tongue in his mouth before sticking it out.

Late at night.

The kerosene lamp in the side shed was refilled with oil. Zhao Weiguo was hunched over the worktable, writing the first page of the entire regiment's weapons inventory. The paper was torn from the ledger by Lao Zhong; it was oilcloth-covered and didn't bleed ink. The pen was half a charcoal pencil, producing thick but legible characters.

Chen An, wrapped in a quilt, squatted down beside him and watched. He wasn't asleep.

"Brother, how many guns does the whole regiment have?"

"I don't know. That's why I have to count."

"When the battalion reports tomorrow, will you be able to finish writing it all by yourself?"

"If you can't finish writing it, write it tonight."

Chen An fell silent. He draped a corner of the blanket over Zhao Weiguo's back. The gash on Zhao Weiguo's hand was still bleeding; even after the cloth strip was turned inside out and wrapped around him, it still seeped dark red.

Outside the shed, the snow started falling again.

The withered willow branch stood in the snow, its thin shadow stretched long by the light of the kerosene lamp.

Zhao Weiguo lowered his head to write in the accounts. The charcoal pencil scratched on the oilcloth.

We'll find out how many guns the whole regiment has tomorrow.