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

Before the smoke of battle had even cleared, Zhao Weiguo was already squatting at the bottom of the valley, counting the spoils.

Li Yunlong stood behind him, his trouser legs covered in mud, the mud dried into hard clumps, crumbling with every step he took.

"Kid, the battle's over, aren't you going to take a break?"

Zhao Weiguo picked up a Type 38 rifle cartridge case and ran his thumb along the bottom of the case. The breech mark on the bottom of the case was slightly off-center. He frowned and set the case aside.

"It's not over yet."

"The Japanese soldiers are all kneeling in a row, and it's still not over?"

"The guns weren't all collected, the wounded weren't all distributed, and the boxes weren't opened."

Li Yunlong wanted to curse, but swallowed the words back. He saw Zhao Weiguo squatting in the blood, his legs soaked from the knees down, his trousers clinging to his calves, his small hands rummaging through the pile of spent cartridges, his fingernails filled with black mud and dried blood.

The valley floor is indeed quite chaotic right now.

The prisoners were held inside the north gate, squatting in three rows, each with their necks hunched and their eyes vacant.

The soldiers who could speak Japanese called out to them, telling them to put their hands on their heads.

Several seriously wounded Japanese soldiers lay on the ground, groaning, blood seeping from the seams of their clothes, staining the rubble beneath them blackish-red.

At the mouth of the valley, stretchers were being carried out one after another, the stretcher bearers staggering, their shoes slipping in the bloody mud. On the right slope, people were still searching for those who hadn't died, and every now and then a muffled groan or a short scream could be heard.

A gust of wind blew, and half of the smoke dissipated.

There were even more dead bodies than before. The corpses were piled up haphazardly, some lying face up, some face down, their hands still gripping their guns.

A dead horse had its belly ripped open by shrapnel, its entrails spilling out onto the ground. Flies, drawn by the smell, had already arrived and were swarming over it.

Staff Officer Luo walked over with a blood-stained piece of paper in his hand.

He folded the paper twice, and the edges were wet. Blood had soaked through a section of the paper, and reddish-brown stains seeped from the back of the paper.

He stood in front of Li Yunlong, saluted, his voice was terribly hoarse, his lips were cracked in several places, and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

"The casualty statistics are out."

Li Yunlong reached out his hand.

Staff Officer Luo did not hand it over.

"I'll read it."

Li Yunlong glanced at him: "Read it."

"The New First Regiment suffered 169 dead, 136 seriously wounded, and 279 lightly wounded. The Independent Regiment suffered 99 dead, 129 seriously wounded, and 156 lightly wounded. The New Third Regiment suffered 54 dead, 124 seriously wounded, and 141 lightly wounded. The militia and stretcher bearers suffered 4 dead and 7 seriously wounded."

The two battalions of the Independent Regiment and the New Third Regiment held their positions and almost everyone was wounded. Kong Jie's battalion suffered even greater losses because it was subjected to a major attack by the Japanese and even engaged in a bayonet charge.

The valley floor fell silent for a moment.

Not far away, a soldier was pulling his bayonet from beside a dead horse.

Upon hearing the number, his hand froze in mid-air, a piece of horse intestine still hanging from the bayonet, dripping blood.

Li Yunlong's face twitched.

His lips moved, as if he wanted to curse, or perhaps say something else, but in the end, he said nothing. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, but after a couple of tries, he couldn't find it; his pocket was covered in mud.

"Put them together."

Staff Officer Luo swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty, as if something was stuck in his throat.

"Three hundred and twenty-two dead. Three hundred and eighty seriously wounded. Five hundred and seventy-six lightly wounded."

This can be considered a great victory that will be recorded in history since the outbreak of the full-scale War of Resistance against Japan. However, on paper, each of these soldiers was a veteran who had been with them for a long time.

Kong Jie leaned against a rock, his left arm already re-bandaged, wrapped in three layers of gauze, the outermost layer still oozing a faint red. Upon hearing this, he clenched his teeth tightly, the veins on his temples bulging and throbbing.

"We're actually holding a favorable position and waging an ambush."

Ding Wei squatted to one side, using a pencil stub to count in his notebook. When the pencil stub became dull, he bit the wood with his teeth, revealing half of the lead, and continued writing.

"The exchange ratio of 4:1 is already quite high. But this battle can't be judged solely on the score. How many of the seriously injured won't make it through the night?"

Staff Officer Luo did not answer.

The paper in his hand drooped slightly, his fingertips trembling—not from the cold, but from holding back his breath while reciting the numbers.

Chen An dragged a wounded soldier back from the right slope.

The wounded soldier was still wearing his new cotton-padded coat, the front of which was soaked with blood, dripping down and leaving a long red trail on the ground. Chen An's waistband was also stained red, his face was pale, his lips were white, and his forehead was covered in sweat, which mixed with mud and streamed down his cheeks. He dragged the man to Zhao Weiguo, the veins in his arms taut, his fingers digging into the man's cotton-padded coat until his knuckles turned white.

"Brother Zhao, he was panting just now."

Zhao Weiguo glanced at it.

The man's eyes were half-open, blood and foam were at the corners of his mouth, and his chest was no longer moving. The blood on his face was still wet, running from his eyebrows down to his chin, covering half of his face.

Chen An's hand was still gripping the man's collar, his knuckles white, and the veins on the back of his hand bulging.

"He was panting just now."

Zhao Weiguo picked up an empty bullet casing from the ground and put it into Chen An's palm.

The cartridge case was still warm, from the residual heat of the shot.

Chen An was stunned.

"Take it."

"Brother Zhao?"

"Remember. Next time, save those who can breathe first. Those who can't shout but whose chest is still moving, save them first. Those who can still curse, put them later. Those whose eyes aren't blinking, whose pupils are dilated, and who are bleeding from their mouths, just find a comfortable position for them to lie down in."

Chen An looked down at the bullet casing in his palm.

The cartridge case was so hot that his fingers recoiled. He clenched his fist, then loosened it, then clenched it again, the edges of the copper case digging into the calluses on his palm.

Zhao Weiguo did not try to comfort him.

"On the battlefield, follow the rules. Being soft-hearted will only harm more people."

Chen An gripped the spent cartridge case tightly.

He didn't cry.

His shoulders twitched twice, then he turned and ran down the right slope. After a couple of steps, his feet slipped on the bloody mud, and he almost fell, but he managed to stay upright and kept running.

Zhou Yuan stood behind the stretcher team, his face pale as a ghost, blood seeping from his bitten lips. He had wanted to move forward, but stopped when he saw the spent cartridge case in Chen An's hand. His hands clenched into fists inside his sleeves, his nails digging into his palms, leaving several red marks.

Zhao Weiguo glanced at him.

"Go find Old Ma. Learn how to apply a tourniquet."

Zhou Yuan bit his lip: "I can lift people."

"You can't lift a seriously wounded person. Applying a tourniquet can save lives."

Zhou Yuan lowered his head and said, "Yes." His voice was very soft, as if it were being squeezed out of his throat.

Li Yunlong listened from the side, remaining silent for a long time.

He had seen too many dead people, but the image of a twelve-year-old teaching another child how to pick out the living from a pile of corpses was unsettling. He finally took out his cigarette, put it in his mouth, but forgot to light it.

Ding Wei closed the notebook.

"Let's stop here for casualties. What about the spoils?"

This sentence pulled those at the bottom of the valley out of the list of casualties.

Zhang Dabiao was leading his men to clear the guns.

One by one, Type 38 rifles were stacked on an oilcloth, bolts pulled back, barrels inspected, bayonets set aside. A Type 96 light machine gun sat alone, its barrel still hot to the touch, requiring a cloth to cushion it before moving.

The Type 92 heavy machine gun had its tripod removed, and two soldiers carried it. The gun was so heavy that it bent the carrying pole, and the soldiers carrying it could not straighten their backs.

Old Ma kept a close eye on the grenade launcher, forbidding the young soldiers from touching it.

"One thousand three hundred and eighty-six rifles."

Zhang Dabiao's voice was very loud when he announced the numbers, and it echoed in the valley, startling a few crows.

"Thirty-one light machine guns, twelve heavy machine guns, forty-nine grenade launchers, sixty and a half boxes of hand grenades, one hundred and twenty-seven boxes of rifle ammunition, and eighty boxes of machine gun ammunition. Thirty-seven mules and horses, twenty-two of which are still functional. Sixteen officers' knives, six map tubes, and three radios—whether they are broken or not has not yet been checked."

Li Yunlong's eyes lit up, and he almost dropped the cigarette from his mouth.

"Radio station?"

Staff Officer Luo also looked up.

Zhao Weiguo interjected, "Don't touch it yet. Let someone who knows about these things check it out. This thing is very valuable."

Zhang Dabiao grinned.

"Did you hear that? This thing is more valuable than your heads. Anyone who touches it will get a beating."

The soldiers quickly pulled their hands back.

Kong Jie's expression softened slightly as he stared at the two Type 92 machine guns. His eyes were glued to the heavy machine guns, like someone who hadn't eaten for three days seeing a steamed bun.

"These ten heavy machine guns are enough to save half my life."

Li Yunlong glanced at him.

"You wish! The spoils will be returned to the brigade headquarters for unified distribution."

Kong Jie sneered, "Before returning to the brigade headquarters, they all have to go through you, Li Yunlong, first. Do you think your hands, once they've been in the rice jar, will come out clean?"

Just as Li Yunlong was about to retort, Ding Wei interrupted him.

"Quiet. There are still boxes."

All eyes turned to the center of the valley.

Those large wooden crates are still lying there.

The tarpaulin was blackened by gunfire ash, ropes lay scattered on the ground, and a dozen or so Japanese soldiers' corpses lay close together around the crates. Two of them were still lying on the crate lids when they died, their fingers dug into the cracks in the wood, their nails split open, blood embedded in the cracks, their fingers stiffened into the shape of chicken claws, impossible to pry open.

Li Yunlong walked over and kicked the corner of the box.

"These bastards are risking their lives to protect it; it can't be cotton inside."

Old Ma squatted down and looked around.

"It was nailed on too tightly. Three layers of tarpaulin, with a waterproof coating on the outside. There were iron hoops at the bottom of the box."

Zhao Weiguo squatted down and used the tip of his knife to pry open the edge of the oilcloth.

A strong smell of rust-preventing oil wafted out, making him squint. The smell was pungent, with the characteristic acrid odor of chemicals, mixed with the smell of wood and rust.

He paused for a moment.

Ding Wei noticed it.

"You smelled it?"

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer. He pushed the oilcloth aside, revealing the wooden box lid. Japanese serial numbers were nailed to the lid, along with several red paint marks. The red paint was covered in mud, leaving only half a circle. He scraped away the mud with his fingernail, revealing the serial number underneath, and began to decipher it character by character.

Old Ma inserted a crowbar into the crack.

"Push harder?"

"Slow down," Zhao Weiguo said, "Don't hurt the inside."

Li Yunlong was itching to see this.

"Why be so particular about opening a box?"

Zhao Weiguo pointed to the iron hoop.

"I'm afraid of bumping into things inside."

These words silenced everyone. They saw Zhao Weiguo's fingers lightly trace the iron hoop, as if touching a fragile piece of porcelain.

Old Ma pressed the crowbar down, while another soldier used his bayonet to slowly pry open the nails. The loosening of the nails produced a dry, rattling sound, like the sound of bones dislocating. The first layer of the box lid was lifted, revealing oiled paper inside. Beneath the oiled paper was a thick layer of anti-rust grease, a grayish-yellow color, applied very thickly; pressing it with a finger could leave a dent, and the grease would squeeze out between the fingers.

Kong Jie frowned.

"What the heck? The Japanese are packing lard in boxes?"

Li Yunlong reached out to touch it.

Zhao Weiguo slapped it away.

"Don't touch them."

Li Yunlong glared: "Can't I even touch it?"

"You have sand in your hands."

Zhang Dabiao almost burst out laughing in the back, but he held it back. Only Zhao Weiguo would dare to speak to the regimental commander like that.

Zhao Weiguo used a clean corner of cloth to peel off the rust-proofing.

A section of dark, shiny metal was revealed. The metal surface gleamed with a cold light, and the machining marks were as fine as hair, arranged neatly in rows.

The object was long and straight, with finely ground edges and dense machining marks on both sides. Zhao Weiguo continued to peel back the oil paper, revealing another section of dovetail groove. He ran his fingers along the dovetail groove, feeling the precision of the metal surface, as smooth as ice.

His face immediately darkened.

Ding Wei squatted down to the side.

"What is this?"

Zhao Weiguo steadied the metal piece. It was so heavy that he could barely lift it with both hands.

"guide."

Kong Jie was completely confused.

"What are you guiding?"

Zhao Weiguo did not explain, and turned to open the second box.

The second box contained the spindle box, next to which was a long lead screw secured with wooden wedges. The threads on the lead screw wound around and around, as precise as those of a watch part. The third box contained a chuck, a tailstock, and a set of gears. The gears meshed perfectly, and could be turned several times by hand. The fourth box contained cutting tools, a micrometer, a vernier caliper, and two rolls of blueprints wrapped in oil paper. The micrometer's dial gleamed faintly in the dim light, each division as fine as a spider's thread.

Zhao Weiguo's fingers stopped when he saw the blueprints.

He took out the blueprints, unfolding only a corner of them.

Japanese annotation.

size.

Installation serial number.

Transport dismantling list.

He rolled up the blueprints again. His fingers trembled with excitement as he did so.

His Adam's apple bobbed, and he swallowed back what was rising in his throat.

"Machine tools."

Li Yunlong didn't understand.

What is a machine tool?

Zhao Weiguo stared at the boxes. His eyes gleamed in the darkness, like a cat spotting a fish.

"Making guns, repairing cannons, turning axles, milling grooves, grinding parts—it all depends on it. Without machine tools, iron is just iron."

With machine tools, iron can be transformed into bolts, breechblocks, gears, and barrels.

Zhang Dabiao scratched the back of his head.

"That's the stuff used to make guns?"

"This is more expensive than a gun."

Zhao Weiguo looked up.

"One of these is equivalent to a hundred machine guns."

Now the valley floor was truly quiet. Even the wind seemed to stop for a moment.

Li Yunlong glanced at the ten Type 92 rifles, then at the boxes. His mouth opened and closed, then opened again, like a fish thrown ashore.

"What did you say? This box of iron lumps is equivalent to a hundred machine guns?"

"It's not just one box. It contains the main components of at least three lathes, a small milling machine, a set of measuring tools and cutting tools, and blueprints. We won't know if any parts are missing until we've cleared everything out."

Kong Jie had been staring at the heavy machine gun, but now his eyes were glued to it. His Adam's apple bobbed twice, his lips moved, and it took him a while to finally manage to squeeze out a sentence.

"The Japanese are sending a whole battalion to escort this?"

Ding Wei took the pencil stub off, wrote a few words on the paper, and then crossed them out. The crossing marks were so deep that they tore the paper.

"Are they going to build a military factory in the heart of North China?"

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

"It might not just be repairing weapons. Spare parts, shell casings, small parts for breechblocks—they can all be made. The Japanese are suffering heavy losses at the front, and the closer the rear repair and manufacturing points are, the faster the resupply will be."

Li Yunlong cursed.

"Damn it, no wonder Yamada fought so hard and needed a whole battalion of Japanese soldiers to protect him."

Staff Officer Luo stared at the blueprints, his face even more somber than when he was reading the casualty report earlier.

His fingers rubbed the edge of the drawing, his fingertips stained with rust-preventive oil, turning them black.

"This item cannot be classified as ordinary loot."

"We can't just report anything randomly," Zhao Weiguo said. "First, find a dry place. Don't throw away the oil paper, and don't wipe off the rust-preventive grease. Number each box, and put the parts back exactly as they were. Make a list of what's missing. Record who disassembled everything."

Li Yunlong stared at him.

"Can you put it back?"

"able."

"Can it be used?"

"We need to check if the machine bed has any dents, if the leadscrew is straight, and if any gears in the spindle box are missing. It would be best if it had a motor, but if not, we can try to replace it with a belt."

Ding Wei asked, "How many people do you need?"

"Give me ten literate men, two carpenters, two skilled metalworkers, and a leak-proof house. Today we're just counting inventory, not installing anything."

Kong Jie looked at Li Yunlong.

"Did you hear that? This is far more than your entire New First Regiment can handle."

Li Yunlong snorted.

"When did I say I was going to swallow it?"

Ding Wei said coldly, "The way you looked at the Type 92 just now, you seemed to want to devour it."

Zhang Dabiao lowered his head and coughed.

Li Yunlong raised his foot and kicked him.

"What are you coughing for? Go see the prisoners!"

Zhang Dabiao ran quickly, but after taking a few steps, he looked back at the boxes, his eyes filled with reluctance.

Staff Officer Luo wrote down the blueprint numbers in his notebook. His fingers were a little stiff, and the pencil tip poked several holes in the paper.

"I'll send someone back to brigade headquarters immediately. Even the brigade headquarters might not dare to make this decision on their own; they'll probably have to report it to higher levels."

When Li Yunlong heard the words "report to higher authorities," his face fell.

"Even if you report it to your superiors, you have to leave it with me first. If the Japanese manage to take it back on the way, who will be held responsible?"

Staff Officer Luo put away his notebook.

Zhao Weiguo carefully placed the blueprints back into the oil paper and resealed them, as if afraid of wrinkling the paper. He pressed the edges of the oil paper twice with his fingers to ensure there were no gaps.

"Don't move the boxes too far yet. Separate the prisoners, wounded, and captured goods into three groups. Have separate guards assigned to the machine tools."

Staff Officer Luo looked at him and suddenly asked a question.

"Zhao Weiguo, how old are you exactly this year?"

Li Yunlong's face darkened.

Why ask this now?

Staff Officer Luo didn't look at Li Yunlong, but only at the bomb craters, detonation ropes, and those boxes at the bottom of the valley.

Zhao Weiguo rubbed the anti-rust oil on his hands onto a cloth, rubbing it very carefully, one finger at a time, not even missing the crevices under his fingernails.

"twelve."

Staff Officer Luo held the pencil, paused for two breaths, and then continued writing in the notebook.

"Twelve years old."

The sound of the pencil tip scratching across the paper was very soft, as soft as a sigh.

The spoils of war were piled up at my feet.

The wounded soldier was still groaning.

The large wooden crate was covered again with tarpaulin, and four soldiers stood guard beside it, their guns pointed outwards. Their faces were covered in ash and blood, but their eyes were fixed on the crate.

Staff Officer Luo closed the notebook.

"The brigade headquarters will conduct a separate evaluation of achievements and machine tools."