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

On the first day, Zhao Weiguo did not allow anyone to touch the gun.

He had everyone sit in the courtyard and listen to him speak.

"From today onward, guns are your lives," he said. "Life is not something to be taken lightly."

He instructed Chen An to separate all the guns by model: one group of Hanyang rifles, one group of Type 38 rifles, and one group of Czech-made rifles. Then he inspected them one by one, placing the usable ones on the left, the ones that needed repair on the right, and the scrapped ones in the corner.

He inspected each of the forty-three guns that needed repair. Some had rusted bolts, so he had them sanded; some had cracked stocks, so he had them tightened with wire; some had loose parts, so he had parts salvaged from scrapped guns to replace them.

He took matters into his own hands, squatting in the courtyard with a Hanyang rifle in his hand. The bolt was stiff, so he sanded it for half an hour until it shone and became smooth to pull. Several new recruits nearby watched him, not daring to say a word.

"Have you understood it yet?" He asked without looking up.

The recruit nodded.

"Then do it yourself."

The new recruit squatted down and began to grind the bolt of his rifle, imitating him. After a couple of strokes, he used too much force and ground a deep groove into the bolt. Zhao Weiguo glanced at it, said nothing, took the rifle, and taught him how to apply force and control the angle.

"Be gentle," he said, "like touching a woman's face."

The recruit blushed, and a few people around him laughed. Zhao Weiguo didn't laugh; he handed the gun back to him and continued sharpening his own weapon.

After a morning of cleaning, the bolts of all forty-three guns were finished. Zhao Weiguo stood up, stretched his legs, which were numb from squatting, and walked with a slight limp.

He walked to the armory door and looked inside. The guns hanging on the wall were neatly arranged; those on the left were usable, those on the right needed repair, and those in the corner were scrapped. The bullets were also sorted, one pile of 79mm caliber and another of 65mm caliber, each pile covered with an oilcloth.

"Chen An," he said.

Chen An ran over.

How much of the gun has been repaired?

"Thirty-eight have been repaired," Chen An said, flipping through his notebook. "There are still five that can't be repaired; parts are missing."

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

"Those five were thrown into the scrap heap."

Ammunition was redistributed. 79mm bullets were distributed per person, fifteen rounds each, with any surplus stored together. 65mm bullets were left for veterans using the Type 38 rifle, twenty rounds each. Light machine gun ammunition was left for machine gunners, one hundred rounds per machine gun.

After the distribution was completed, Zhao Weiguo had someone write down the number of ammunition in a notebook, which was then given to Chen An for safekeeping.

"From today onwards," he said, "anyone who is short of bullets must report it. Anyone who has too many bullets must also report it. Failure to report will be treated as ammunition theft."

No one spoke.

That night, after everyone else had gone to sleep, Zhao Weiguo squatted in the mud-brick house and opened the system.

He mixed three more packets of sulfanilamide powder, wrapped them in oil paper, and stuffed them under his pillow, stacking them together with the five packets from last time. Early the next morning, he smuggled the medicine into the captured supplies and handed it to the medic. The medic had already accepted it once, so this time he didn't ask many questions, simply recording it in the books.

That afternoon, Zhao Weiguo began forming the squadron.

Fifty veterans and three hundred new recruits were mixed together to form three infantry companies and one artillery platoon. Each company had one hundred and twenty men, each platoon had forty men, and each squad had twelve men. Each squad consisted of two veterans and ten new recruits.

Veteran soldiers become squad leaders, and new recruits become soldiers.

Zhao Weiguo stood in the courtyard, holding a piece of paper with the squad list written on it. He read out a name, and that person stepped forward and took their designated spot.

After they finished reading, the queue was formed, crooked and uneven, but at least it had a shape.

"From today onwards," he said, "the squad leader commands the soldiers, and the soldiers listen to the squad leader. If there's a problem, go to the squad leader; the squad leader goes to the platoon leader; the platoon leader goes to the company commander. No skipping levels."

He glanced at Sun Desheng.

"You, squad leader of the first platoon, first squad."

Sun Desheng paused for a moment, his lips twitched, but he didn't say anything and stood in his position.

In the afternoon, Zhao Weiguo began to teach tactics.

He drew a triangle on the ground with a twig.

"This is a triangular formation," he said. "Three people per group, one in front, two behind. The one in front fires, the one behind provides cover. When the one in front reloads, the one behind pushes forward."

He called out three men to demonstrate. One veteran was in front, and two new recruits were behind. He shouted "Fire!" The veteran raised his gun, but the two new recruits didn't know what to do and stood there dumbfounded.

"Move it," Zhao Weiguo said.

The new recruits moved, but they were too slow. The veterans had already changed their magazines, but the recruits hadn't even raised their guns yet.

Zhao Weiguo didn't get angry; he just told them to do it again.

I practiced it over and over again, more than a dozen times, before I could barely keep up with the movements.

"That's enough," he said. "Next."

In the evening, one of the veterans was indignant.

His name was Liu Tiezhu, he was in his thirties, and he had a scar on his face that stretched from his forehead to his chin, like a centipede crawling across his face. He squatted against the wall, holding a gun, watching Zhao Weiguo instruct the new recruits, muttering something under his breath.

Zhao Weiguo walked over and squatted down.

"Do you have something to say?"

Liu Tiezhu took the straw out of his mouth and pointed to the earthen slope in the distance.

"I fought for ten years," he said, "and I never let a child teach me how to fight."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

"Would you like to give it a try?"

Liu Tiezhu stood up and patted the dirt off his trousers.

"Let's give it a try."

He walked to the edge of the yard, picked up a fist-sized stone from the ground, and placed it on a branch of a jujube tree fifty paces away. The stone wasn't very stable, and it wobbled twice in the wind. He walked back, raised his gun, squinted, aimed for a long time, and then fired.

The gun fired, but the stone remained still.

The bullet hit the tree trunk, missing the rock by two inches.

Liu Tiezhu's face turned slightly red, and he fired another shot.

This time, the bullet hit the rock but missed.

He put the gun down and remained silent.

Zhao Weiguo walked over and took the gun from his hand.

He weighed the gun in his hand; it wasn't heavy, a Hanyang rifle, a little over four pounds. He pulled back the bolt, loaded a bullet, and engaged the safety.

Then he raised his gun, without aiming, and pulled the trigger.

The gun fired, and the stone shattered.

The debris flew everywhere, landing on the withered leaves under the tree with a rustling sound.

Everyone in the courtyard was looking at him, but no one said a word.

Liu Tiezhu's face turned even redder, as if it were about to bleed. He took the gun back from Zhao Weiguo, turned around and walked away. He walked to the base of the wall, squatted down, hugged the gun, and said nothing more.

Sun Desheng squatted down beside him, chewing on a straw, and looked at Zhao Weiguo with a changed expression.

On the third day, Zhao Weiguo had the entire battalion conduct a tactical drill.

The exercise involved assuming the enemy charged down the hillside, with the entire battalion divided into three groups: one to meet the enemy head-on, and the other two to flank them from the sides.

The drill began, and chaos ensued.

Before the front line had even taken their positions, the flanks had already charged out. Some soldiers ran in the wrong direction, some forgot to fire, and some fired but missed, sending bullets flying into the air.

Zhao Weiguo stood on high ground watching, without getting angry. He knew it was indeed difficult to ask these people, who were farmers just a few days ago, to do this, but they didn't have much time, and the Japanese wouldn't give them time to grow.

After the drill ended, he stepped down and stood in front of everyone.

The three hundred and fifty men stood crookedly, some panting heavily, some wiping sweat, and some rubbing their arms. Some carried guns on their shoulders, some held them in their arms, and some dragged them on the ground.

"It's a little better than yesterday."

Chen An whispered from the side.

"Only a little stronger?"

Zhao Weiguo glanced at him.

"That's enough."

He walked to the front of the line and glanced at everyone.

"There are three problems today," he said. "First, you're too slow. By the time the enemy charges, you're already dead before you're even in position. Second, you're not aiming properly. Bullets are life, don't waste them. Third, you don't follow orders. I said stop, and you were still running."

He paused for a moment.

"Let's continue practicing tomorrow."

He turned and walked toward the mud-brick house, then stopped after a few steps.

"We'll continue tomorrow," he said. "Anyone who falls behind will have their rations docked for a day."

He went into the mud-brick house, squatted down, and unfolded the troop formation list to look through it. Three hundred and fifty people, in three days, had transformed from a disorganized group into a well-organized team.

The shape is still rough, but at least it's there.

He folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

Footsteps sounded at the door, and Chen An ran over, panting.

"Brother Zhao, someone reported that a small group of Japanese troops has been spotted nearby."

Zhao Weiguo stood up.

How many people?

"I don't know, but they said a group of Japanese soldiers were driving seven or eight laborers in several mule carts towards Huanghuaigou."

Zhao Weiguo walked to the door and looked at the distant hillside. The sun was about to set, and the jujube trees on the hillside swayed in the wind, casting long shadows.

"Call Sun Desheng," he said. "Take a few more good marksmen with him, and the rest of the team should go too. Let them see some blood."

Chen An nodded and ran away.

Zhao Weiguo stood at the door, looking at the distant hillside, his fingers stroking the handle of the Mauser pistol at his waist.