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

The assault battalion was stationed in Willow Gully.

The gully wasn't large, with earthen slopes on both sides. Sparse jujube trees grew on the slopes, their leaves all fallen, leaving only branches swaying in the wind. At the bottom of the gully were several rows of adobe houses, their walls cracked, the largest crack wide enough to fit a fist. Half of the roof tiles were missing, patched together with thatch and mud, and when the wind blew, bits of thatch fell down.

Zhao Weiguo stood at the mouth of the ditch, looking at this place.

Three hundred and fifty people stood behind him, but they weren't standing properly. Some were squatting on the ground tying their shoelaces, some were yawning while holding their guns, and some were whispering to the people next to them. The line was crooked and twisted, like a snake that had been stepped on.

Chen An stood next to Zhao Weiguo and whispered.

"Brother Zhao, this place is even more dilapidated than the New First Regiment."

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer and walked into the ditch.

He first looked at the mud-brick houses. There were five rooms in a row, each capable of housing about twenty people, but the walls were cracked, and the windows had no paper, only a few wooden frames. The ground was covered with straw, which was damp, soft, and musty underfoot.

"Can people live in this house in winter?"

Chen An shook his head.

"have no idea."

Zhao Weiguo squatted down and touched the base of the wall. The base was made of adobe bricks, and the bottom section was already soft from the dampness; it crumbled easily when scratched. He stood up and patted the dirt off his hands.

"Find a carpenter," he said. "First, reinforce the base of the wall, then paste paper on the windows."

Chen An nodded and took out his notebook to write it down.

Zhao Weiguo continued walking forward until he reached the innermost room. This room was larger, and a wooden sign hung at the door with the words "Armory" written on it, the characters crooked and illegible, as if carved with a knife.

The door wasn't locked; it was secured with a twisted wire. Zhao Weiguo unscrewed the wire and pushed the door open.

The room was dark, with only a small hole in the corner letting in light. He stood there for a while until his eyes adjusted, and then he could see what was inside.

A row of guns hung on the wall, Hanyang rifles, butts down, muzzles up. He counted them: forty-seven. Several wooden crates were piled in the corner, their lids open, revealing bullets inside—yellowish, loose, and unsorted.

He walked to the wall and took a Hanyang rifle from the hook.

The stock was cracked and bound with wire. He pulled back the bolt, but it was stiff and took three tries to open. The chamber was rusty; the rust wasn't deep, but it covered a large area, indicating it hadn't been cleaned in a long time.

He pushed the bolt back and took out a second one.

This one is even worse; the stock is broken off and tied with hemp rope, and the parts on the bolt are loose, making a rattling sound when you shake it.

He inspected more than a dozen guns, and most of them were like this: the bolts were rusted, the stocks were cracked, and the parts were loose. The sights of some guns were crooked, the magazines of some guns couldn't hold the magazines, and the cleaning rods of some guns were broken in the barrels. Only a few Type 38 rifles were in relatively good condition, with clean barrels and tight bolts, but there were only seven of them.

He put the gun back on the hook, then went to the corner and rummaged through the wooden crates. Inside the crates, besides bullets, were several oilcloth packets. Opening them, he found gun oil and cleaning cloths. The gun oil had dried, and the cleaning cloths were stiff and hard, like pieces of sheet metal.

He put the oilcloth bundle back and continued rummaging. In the corner of the bottommost box, he found a rusty iron box with a lid that wouldn't open. He pried at it with his fingers, and the lid popped open, revealing twelve pistol rounds inside, brass-cased, with intact primers.

He closed the metal box and stuffed it into his pocket.

He crouched down and rummaged through the ammunition boxes.

The bullets in the box were loose, a mix of .79 caliber and .65 caliber. He reached out and stirred them; something felt off. Some bullets had dented primers, and some cartridge cases had cracks; none of them were usable.

He picked out the unusable bullets and piled them aside.

Chen An stood at the door, watching him examine each skewer one by one, picking out each one carefully. Zhou Yuan also arrived, standing behind Chen An, too afraid to go in.

After inspecting the armory, Zhao Weiguo stood up and walked to the door.

"Call someone," he said. "Bring out all the guns and separate them by type. Separate the ammunition too, one pile for .79 caliber, another for .65 caliber."

Chen An nodded.

Zhao Weiguo walked out of the armory and stood in the courtyard.

A number of people were already standing in the courtyard; some were looking at him, some were looking at the sky, and some were rubbing their hands together. An old soldier squatted against the wall, a straw dangling from his mouth, squinting at Zhao Weiguo.

Zhao Weiguo walked over, squatted down, and looked him in the eye.

The veteran had pockmarks on his face, an old scar on his chin, and the cuffs of his cotton-padded jacket were worn white. He glanced at Zhao Weiguo, and his lips twitched slightly.

"You're the battalion commander?"

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

The veteran took the straw out of his mouth and flicked it with his finger.

"My name is Sun Desheng," he said. "I fought for six years, from Xinkou to Niangziguan, and then from Niangziguan to here. I have three bullet holes in my body, and my left leg was grazed by a piece of shrapnel."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

What do you want to say?

Sun Desheng put the grass stalk back into his mouth and chewed it twice.

"I just want to see," he said, "how a twelve-year-old can lead us in war."

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer, but stood up and walked to the middle of the courtyard.

He stopped and glanced at everyone.

"From now on, let's take stock."

No one spoke.

"Gun, ammunition, food, medicine, bedding, tools," he counted, one item at a time. "All must be cleared out within an hour."

A new recruit asked in a low voice, "How do we clean it?"

Zhao Weiguo pointed at Chen An and Zhou Yuan.

"Those two will tell you. Guns are sorted by model, bullets by caliber, grain by weight, and medicine by type. Once everything is sorted, each item must be registered."

He took the chart out of his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on the ground.

"Registration is complete. Let me verify."

He stood up and dusted off his hands.

"Let's begin."

The crowd stirred, a chaotic commotion, but at least it was moving. Some went to move guns, some to carry boxes, and some to find scales. Chen An stood at the armory entrance directing the operation; his voice wasn't loud, but his instructions were clear. Zhou Yuan squatted on the ground, taking notes in his notebook with a pencil.

Zhao Weiguo stood in the middle of the courtyard, watching them busy themselves.

Sun Desheng remained squatting against the wall, motionless. He chewed on a straw, his eyes fixed on Zhao Weiguo as if he were looking at something strange.

Zhao Weiguo walked up to him and squatted down.

Aren't you going to help?

Sun Desheng took out a straw and pointed to his left leg.

"My legs hurt."

Zhao Weiguo glanced at his left leg. His trouser leg was rolled up, revealing a section of his calf. There was an old scar on his calf, which had turned white, but the surrounding muscles had atrophied, making it thinner than his right leg.

"Can you walk?"

Sun Desheng nodded.

"Can walk, but can't run."

Zhao Weiguo stood up.

"Then go and clear the grain."

Sun Desheng paused for a moment, then smiled, a somewhat bitter smile.

"You little rascal, you really don't hold back."

He leaned against the wall to stand up, patted the dirt off his trousers, and limped toward the granary.

Zhao Weiguo watched him walk away, then turned back to stare at the people in the courtyard.

An hour later, the inventory was completed.

Zhao Weiguo squatted on the ground, with a piece of paper spread out in front of him, covered with numbers. He pointed to each line with his finger as he read.

Of the 197 Hanyang rifles, less than two-thirds were usable; the rest either had rusted bolts or cracked stocks. The Type 38 was slightly better; only three out of the 32 were unusable. Of the five Czech light machine guns, one had a broken bolt, while the other four were in good working order.

The ammunition, when put together, amounted to over 6,000 rounds of .79mm caliber ammunition, a little over 1,000 rounds of .65mm caliber ammunition, less than 3,000 rounds of light machine gun ammunition, and only enough mortar shells for two volleys. Enough for one battle, but no surplus for a second.

He looked at the grain section three times. 1200 jin of millet, 300 jin of mixed noodles, plus dried vegetables and salt—enough for 350 people to eat half a jin of grain per day, enough for seven days. If they ate sparingly, they could last ten days, but what about after ten days?

The medicines were what made him frown the most. The bandages, iodine, and hemostatic powder were passable, but there were only six fever reducers. Six tablets would be enough for one seriously injured person. There was no sulfonamide powder.

He folded the paper, stood up, and walked to the middle of the yard.

Everyone was looking at him.

"Three days," he said. "In three days, I need these men to be ready to fight."

No one spoke.

Sun Desheng squatted at the entrance of the granary, a straw still dangling from his mouth. He chewed it a couple of times without making a sound. A young soldier next to him whispered, "He said three days, do you believe him?" Sun Desheng took the straw out, looked at it, and then put it back in his mouth.

"Believe it or not," he said, "you'll find out in three days."

Zhao Weiguo stuffed the paper into his pocket, turned, and walked towards the mud-brick house. After a few steps, he stopped and looked back at everyone.

"Training starts tomorrow," he said. "Anyone late will have their rations docked for a day."

He turned and left without looking back.

Chen An followed behind him and asked in a low voice.

"Brother Zhao, is three days really enough?"

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer. He went into the mud-brick house, squatted down, and unfolded the paper again to read it once more. Food for seven days, medicine insufficient, half the guns unusable, ammunition barely enough for one battle.

He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket.

He didn't know if three days would be enough. But the brigade commander had said they had to be ready to fight within three months. Three months, ninety days—he had to turn these 350 men into soldiers capable of fighting.

He sat down against the wall and closed his eyes.

My mind was racing: Three days, what should we train for? If marksmanship isn't enough, then we'll train discipline. Discipline is the backbone; only when the backbone is strong can the flesh grow.

He opened his eyes and looked at the doorway. The light at the doorway had already dimmed; the sun was about to set. The people in the courtyard were still busy—some were moving guns, some were carrying boxes, and some were sweeping the floor.

Chen An stood at the door, clutching a notebook, waiting for him to speak.

"Go and fetch Sun Desheng," Zhao Weiguo said. "I have something to ask him."

Chen An ran away.

Zhao Weiguo leaned against the wall, continuing to ponder.