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

Zhao Weiguo woke up before dawn.

The kerosene lamp in the shed was still lit, the oil almost burned out, and the flame had shrunk to the size of a bean. He was asleep on the workbench, half his face pressed against the gun cardboard, leaving a charcoal mark on his face.

Chen An left at some point; the blanket was still draped over his back.

Zhao Weiguo folded the quilt and placed it in the corner before walking outside the shed. The snow had stopped, leaving a thin layer on the ground. The withered willow branch still stood in the open space, a small clump of snow atop the stone at its base. He squatted down to examine it; the branch was not bent.

The sky was overcast, and only a dark edge had just emerged from the mountain ridgeline. In the distance, a battalion of sentries was changing guard, their footsteps crunching on the frozen ground.

Zhao Weiguo returned to the shed and sorted through the gun cards he had written the night before. Three guns, three cards. The Type 24 rifle was marked "Qualified, Continue to be used," the Hanyang rifle was marked "Scrapped, barrel bulging," and the Type 38 rifle was marked "Restricted use, assigned to veterans, limited to 10 rounds."

He pulled out the discarded one separately and set it aside.

This card needs to be cancelled. Just like a gun that's no longer usable, a card needs to be cancelled too. If it's not cancelled, it becomes an unresolved issue, and if too many unresolved issues accumulate, the system becomes an empty shell.

Footsteps could be heard outside; it was more than one person.

Zhang Dabiao's voice came first: "Zhao Weiguo! Are you up yet!"

Zhao Weiguo neatly arranged the gun cards and placed them on the worktable. "Come in."

Zhang Dabiao lifted the curtain and walked in, followed by three soldiers from the First Battalion. Each of them carried several guns, muzzle down, butts sticking out.

"The regimental commander said we'll start with the first battalion today." Zhang Dabiao leaned the pile of guns in his arms against the wall. "All the guns the entire battalion has that are available since there are no missions are here. Sixty-seven."

Zhao Weiguo glanced at the pile of guns. Most were Hanyang rifles, there were more than a dozen Type 38 rifles, a few old-style rifles, and one carbine he had never seen before.

Where is the gun's owner?

"Wait outside. Go through each item one by one, and when you're done, call someone in to sign." Zhang Dabiao found a wooden stool and sat down. "Let me be clear from the start, some of the soldiers aren't happy about this. Guns are their lifeblood; letting a twelve-year-old touch their guns will make some of them uncomfortable."

"I know."

"You know that's good. Don't push your luck; call me if you need anything."

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer. He walked to the wall, picked up a Hanyang rifle from the top, and glanced at it.

There was oil on the bolt, but it was old, black, and covered with a layer of dust. He pulled out the bolt and examined the chamber against the light. There were tiny, shallow, but numerous scratches on the chamber wall.

When was this gun last disassembled and inspected?

Zhang Dabiao thought for a moment. "I don't know. Nobody's ever cared about this."

Zhao Weiguo put the bolt back in and used a charcoal pencil to write on the gun card: serial number, barrel condition, bolt fit, chamber wear, test firing results, and usage restrictions.

He placed the card next to the gun and picked up the second one.

The guns of the First Battalion passed through their hands one by one.

Zhao Weiguo remained silent, only observing the gun. He pulled back the bolt, held the chamber up to the light, probed the barrel with a wire to check its depth, and scratched the cracked stock with his fingernail to trace its direction. After reviewing each point, he wrote it on a card and placed it next to the gun.

After lunch, Zhao Weiguo called the gun owner in to sign the papers.

The first person to enter was an old soldier, in his forties, with frostbite on his face, carrying a Type 38 rifle. He placed the rifle on the table and stared at Zhao Weiguo's hands.

Zhao Weiguo picked up the gun and cocked it.

The veteran spoke up: "How old are you?"

"twelve."

The veteran didn't say anything more. But his hand didn't leave the gun; it remained beside the butt, less than a fist's distance from Zhao Weiguo's hand.

Zhao Weiguo didn't look at him. He pulled out the bolt and examined the locking lug. The lug was half-ground down, the edges shiny. He ran his fingernail over it, feeling the step.

"The bolt of this rifle is badly worn." He handed the bolt to the veteran. "Look at this step; the lug is half worn down. If you fire any further, it won't lock properly and might misfire."

The veteran took the bolt and examined it. His lips moved, but he didn't speak.

"It's not that I don't want you to use it," Zhao Weiguo said, putting the bolt back in. "It's so you know how many more rounds this gun can fire. With the bolt worn down like this, it can only fire a maximum of fifty more rounds. After that, come back and disassemble it, replace the bolt, or replace the entire gun."

The veteran put the bolt back in and placed the rifle on the table. "Okay."

Zhao Weiguo handed over the gun card. "Sign it. Here."

The veteran took the paper and looked at it. It was covered in dense writing, and he couldn't recognize all of it. Zhao Weiguo pointed to the bottom line: "Sign your name. If you can't write, just draw a circle."

The veteran drew a circle on the paper.

The second person to enter was a young soldier, in his early twenties, carrying a Hanyang rifle. He didn't ask Zhao Weiguo's age, but simply placed the gun on the table.

Zhao Weiguo pulled the bolt, which got stuck before he could pull it open. He looked at the chamber and saw a shallow horizontal scratch on the chamber wall, but it was in the wrong place.

"The bolt of this gun is stuck." He pulled the bolt out. "Look here, there's metal filings in the locking groove."

A young soldier sidled up to look. "I got stuck there once during the last war."

"You didn't report the problem?"

"I thought it was frozen, and then I didn't think much of it after the card was removed."

Zhao Weiguo used a wire to pick out the iron filings from the locking groove and placed them on the table. The iron filings were small, but they were angular and sharp, and were from the bolt of a gun.

"Report it if it jams again. One jam might be due to freezing, but two jams mean there's a problem. If you don't report a malfunctioning gun, it could endanger you or others in the next battle."

The young soldier nodded. "Understood."

Zhao Weiguo finished writing the gun card and handed it over. The young soldier's hand was very steady when he signed it.

In one morning, a battalion of more than twenty guns passed by.

Zhao Weiguo squatted by the worktable, his knees aching so much he couldn't stand up. The cut on his hand was bleeding again, the dark gray cloth soaked with dark red, but he didn't change it, wrapping it around twice more and continuing.

Zhang Dabiao came in from outside, carrying a bowl of porridge.

"Let's eat first."

Zhao Weiguo took the bowl and drank two mouthfuls. The porridge still tasted the same as yesterday; it would solidify into a skin when cold and burn his mouth when hot. He put the bowl down at his feet and picked up the next gun.

Zhang Dabiao watched him handle the gun. Zhao Weiguo pulled the bolt very gently. Zhang Dabiao, who had handled guns for over a decade, always pulled the bolt forcefully. This kid's technique was different.

"Who did you learn from?"

Zhao Weiguo didn't look up. "What?"

"Pulling the bolt back. The way you do it doesn't look like a soldier."

"A gun repairman." Zhao Weiguo put the bolt back in place. "A gun repairman can't just pull the bolt forcefully; doing so will damage the locking mechanism."

Zhang Dabiao thought for a moment. "Then you can teach my soldiers from now on."

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer. He placed the completed gun card next to the gun and picked up the next one.

In the side shed, Chen An squatted in the corner, cleaning his gun.

The guns were delivered by the First Battalion, and Zhao Weiguo told him to start by cleaning the cleanest ones. The first one was a Hanyang rifle; there was mud on the outside of the barrel, but the inside of the chamber was relatively clean.

Chen An removed the gun barrel, wrapped a strip of cloth around a wire, dipped it in oil, and pushed it into the barrel. The cloth went in tightly but came out loosely. He turned the cloth over and saw that it was covered in dark gray oil stains.

"Stone," he called out.

Stone ran over from the other end of the shed. "What's wrong?"

"Tear me another strip of cloth. A wider one."

Stone tore a strip of cloth from the pile of rags beside him and handed it to him. Chen An wrapped the strip of cloth around the wire and poked the gun barrel again. This time, the strip of cloth came out a little cleaner.

Xiaoman squatted down beside him watching him clean the gun. "Chen An, which one have you cleaned?"

"The first one."

"Only the first one?"

"Brother Zhao said, learn how to polish first. Polish a hundred sticks before learning anything else."

Xiaoman fell silent. He squatted back down and continued wiping the parts in his hands. The parts were salvaged from a pile of scrap guns. Zhao Weiguo had them learn to identify the parts first—which was the bolt, which was the extractor, and which was the hammer. If they couldn't even remember the names, how could they put them back together?

After wiping the barrel, Chen An laid out the parts one by one in front of him: bolt, extractor, hammer, recoil spring, and magazine. He picked up the bolt and examined it. There was a small hole at the bottom of the bolt, and he didn't know what it was for. He poked around in the hole with a strip of cloth, and when he pulled it out, the cloth was covered in black grease.

He didn't ask. Zhao Weiguo had said that if you don't understand something, just remember it and ask after you've polished a hundred tubes.

He put the bolt back and picked up the extractor. The extractor was a small piece of metal, bent into a hook shape, with edges as thin as a knife. He wiped it with a cloth, and after the grease on the metal was removed, a tiny crack was revealed.

The crack wasn't big, but Chen An noticed it. He set the shell-picking hook aside and drew a mark on the wooden board next to him with a charcoal pencil.

Brother Zhao said that parts with cracks cannot be put back together.

In the afternoon, Zhao Weiguo went through old records in the first battalion's armory.

Zhang Dabiao had someone bring over the First Battalion's firearms register. The register was covered in oilcloth, the cover worn white, and the words inside were written in ink, charcoal, and some had bled so much that they were illegible.

Zhao Weiguo turned the pages one by one.

The register recorded the gun's serial number and the name of the person who received it. Some entries were checked off, indicating the gun was still in existence. Some entries were blank, leaving the gun's whereabouts unknown. Some entries were marked "killed in action," but the gun's whereabouts were not recorded.

"This gun," Zhao Weiguo pointed to a serial number, "is listed as belonging to Sun Degui, with 'killed in action' written after it. Where's the gun?"

Zhang Dabiao leaned over to look. "Sun Degui disappeared last month over at Beiya. His gun… I don't know. He probably left it on the position."

"That's a missing gun. Nobody reported it when it was lost, and it's still listed in the register."

Zhang Dabiao frowned. "Nobody cared about this before."

"The past is the past." Zhao Weiguo drew a circle next to that line with his charcoal pencil. "From today onwards, guns and cards must match. A gun is a gun, and the person is a gun; if the gun is lost, the person is lost. If a gun is lost, it's lost; report it and it will be removed from the register."

Zhang Dabiao stared at the circle. "You mean, destroy the guns of the fallen brothers too?"

"If the guns aren't destroyed, the accounts are fake. Fake accounts are worse than no accounts at all. We can be humane, but the data can't lie."

Zhang Dabiao didn't speak. He stared at the circle for a long time, then finally nodded. "Okay. I'll look into those you circled. I'll report back to you when I find them."

Zhao Weiguo continued flipping through the pages. He stopped when he reached the last page.

On the bottom right corner of the last page, there was a line of text written in pencil, the handwriting crooked and uneven: "Number Two Hanyang Rifle, barrel cracked, scrapped."

There was no date, no signature, and no number.

Zhao Weiguo stared at that line of text for a long time. He didn't know when the gun was scrapped, nor who wrote the decree. But the fact that it wasn't deregistered meant that the gun was still on the register.

He circled the line of text with charcoal and wrote two words: "To be checked."

In the evening, Li Yunlong arrived.

Without saying hello, he simply lifted the curtain and walked in. The shed was dimly lit, and Zhao Weiguo was still squatting on the ground looking at the guns, with a row of gun clipboards next to him. Chen An was cleaning guns in the corner, and after cleaning them all afternoon, he had only cleaned the fourth one.

Li Yunlong glanced at the pile of gun cards.

How many are there?

Zhao Weiguo stood up. "The First Battalion reported two hundred reports. The first batch of sixty-seven unused reports has passed; the remaining one hundred and thirty-three are with the various companies. We'll continue tomorrow."

"Did they find anything?"

"Four rifles have severely worn bolts and should be disassembled and inspected. Two rifles have old barrel damage and should be scrapped. Six rifles have cracked stocks and are usable for now, but need to be monitored. There are also seven rifles registered under the names of fallen comrades, but the rifles cannot be found; they are unaccounted for."

Li Yunlong picked up a gun card and looked at it. It was covered with dense writing, including the gun serial number, barrel condition, bolt engagement, chamber wear, test firing results, and usage restrictions—everything was included.

"Did you write this all by yourself?"

"Written by one person."

Li Yunlong put down the gun card. He took out the sample gun card from last night from his pocket and placed it on the table.

"Last night I took this to the Second Battalion and then to the Third Battalion."

Zhao Weiguo remained silent.

"Old Zhou from the Second Battalion said he has to get things done on his end too. Old Zheng from the Third Battalion said he'll go to his place after you finish with the First Battalion." Li Yunlong paused. "I said the weapons accounting will start with the First Battalion, that's true. But the Second and Third Battalions can't just sit around waiting."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"You first establish the rules in the First Battalion. Once they're established, the Second and Third Battalions will follow suit." Li Yunlong picked up the scrapped Hanyang rifle card from the table. "This rifle... is it scrapped?"

"The barrel is bulging; firing another shot might cause it to explode."

"Where's the gun?"

"In the pile of discarded guns in the side shed."

Li Yunlong put the gun card into his pocket. "I'll take this gun."

Zhao Weiguo was taken aback. "What are you going to do with that scrapped gun?"

"It's useful." Li Yunlong didn't explain further. He turned to leave, but turned back at the door. "Continue with the weapons inventory. After the First Battalion has finished, you need to go through the weapons for the Second and Third Battalions as well. But you won't be doing it alone; you'll teach Zhang Dabiao's men. Just focus on writing the cards."

Zhao Weiguo did not answer.

Li Yunlong lifted the curtain and left.

The shed fell silent.

Chen An squatted in the corner, still clutching the cloth he used to clean his gun. He looked up at Zhao Weiguo.

"Brother, the commander took the gun card."

"Um."

"What did he take it for?"

Zhao Weiguo squatted back down and picked up the next gun. "I don't know."

Aren't you going to ask?

"I won't ask."

Chen An fell silent. He lowered his head and continued cleaning the guns. When he cleaned the sixth one, he took out the extractor and examined it under the light of the kerosene lamp for a long time.

"elder brother."

Zhao Weiguo looked up.

Chen An handed over the shell-picking hook. "This one has a crack."

Zhao Weiguo took it and examined it. The crack was at the base of the hook, not large, but in a difficult position. He set the shell-picking hook aside and drew a mark on the wooden board with a charcoal pencil.

"Remember, cracked parts cannot be put back in."

Chen An nodded. He gathered the parts of that gun aside and picked up the next one.

Zhao Weiguo pulled back the bolt of the gun and examined the chamber. There was rust in the chamber, not deep, but it needed to be fixed. He pulled out the bolt, wrapped a piece of wire with cloth, dipped it in oil, and inserted it into the chamber, turning it around a few times.

When the wire came out, the cloth had dark red rust marks on it.

He put the bolt back in, took a charcoal pencil and wrote on the gun clip. After he finished writing, he blew off the charcoal ash and placed it on the buttstock.

Outside the shed, it was already completely dark.

The withered willow branch stood in the snow, out of sight, but Zhao Weiguo knew it was still there.

The only sounds in the shed were the scratching of charcoal pencils on oilcloth and the sound of Chen An cleaning his gun. The two sounds alternated, one fast and one slow.

Thirty-three guns from the first battalion were still missing.

---------------Separator--------------

The plot of these past few chapters has indeed been a bit boring, but that's understandable; there needs to be a transition. We're about to enter the next minor climax, and the later chapters will still focus on war. Readership has been steadily increasing recently. Thank you for reading.