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

Zhao Weiguo's hand was raised in mid-air.

Everyone is watching to see when he will let go.

They lay prone on the slopes on either side of Huanghuai Gully. The slopes weren't high, only seven or eight meters, and were covered with withered grass and jujube trees. The withered grass had turned yellow and lay flat on the ground, just enough to cover them. At the bottom of the gully was a dirt road, narrow, only wide enough for a mule cart to pass through, its ruts frozen solid.

Zhao Weiguo lay prone on the hilltop, a Type 38 rifle in his hand, buttstock against his shoulder, muzzle pointing towards the mouth of the gully. His finger rested on the trigger guard, but he didn't touch the trigger. He had picked out the rifle from the armory; the barrel was clean, the bolt was sturdy, and it was the best of the batch of Type 38s.

Chen An lay on his left, clutching a grenade in his hand. His palms were sweaty, and the wooden handle of the grenade slipped. He wiped it with his sleeve and then gripped it tightly again.

"Brother Zhao," he whispered, "why haven't they come yet?"

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the ditch entrance. He had been waiting for almost an hour; his legs were numb and his arms ached, but he didn't move. His tactical simulation covered a range of 300 meters, and the ditch entrance was at the edge of that range. He could sense movement there, but he couldn't see it clearly.

Sun Desheng lay prone on the right, no straw in his mouth, his face expressionless, the muzzle of his gun steadily pointed at the bottom of the ditch. His left leg was bent, his knee pressed against a rock, the rock hurting him, but he didn't move.

Liu Tiezhu lay prone behind Sun Desheng, the scar on his face turning white in the morning light. He held his gun, the muzzle pointing downwards.

"They're here," Sun Desheng said.

A figure appeared at the mouth of the gully, dressed in a yellow military uniform, carrying a gun, walking slowly, stopping every two steps, as if scouting the way. Behind him was a mule cart piled with sacks, tied with ropes. The mule walked with its head down, its hooves slipping on the frozen ground.

More people followed behind the mule carts; some carried guns, some drove the carts, and some carried boxes. The procession stretched very long, from the mouth of the gully all the way to the edge of the valley.

Zhao Weiguo counted about forty Japanese soldiers guarding the column, scattered on both sides, some walking, some squatting and smoking. The transport team consisted of even more laborers, all wearing gray cotton-padded coats, heads down, driving mule carts.

He raised the muzzle of his gun slightly, aiming the crosshairs at the Japanese soldier scouting ahead at the mouth of the ditch.

His hand was still raised.

Chen An's palms became even wetter.

"Brother Zhao?"

Zhao Weiguo suddenly swung his hand.

A shot rang out.

The Japanese soldier who was scouting at the mouth of the ditch suddenly swayed and fell to the side of the road.

Then came the second, the third, and the fourth shot. The sound echoed across the slope, the gunfire reverberating in the gully like someone banging on an iron bucket.

The first round of shooting was fired by the new recruits.

Bullets flew everywhere; some hit the ditch walls, sending dirt flying; some hit the mule carts, tearing the sacks and spilling flour; some flew into the sky, their destination unknown.

The Japanese guards reacted quickly, lying on the ground and returning fire. Bullets whizzed over the hilltop, striking the dry grass and sending grass clippings flying.

"The veterans go first!" Zhao Weiguo shouted.

Sun Desheng fired, one shot at a time, taking down the Japanese soldiers lying prone at the front. Liu Tiezhu also fired, his face expressionless, the muzzle of his gun trembling, each tremor causing a man to fall at the bottom of the ditch.

The new recruits watched the veterans shoot; some started aiming, some were still trembling, and some hadn't even raised their guns.

"Finish off!" Zhao Weiguo shouted again, "If you miss, give it a shot!"

The recruits moved; some fired, others missed, but at least they were moving. One recruit fired three shots, all hitting the mule cart, creating three holes in the planks, from which flour leaked out. He panicked and fired again, this time hitting the ditch wall, sending dirt flying into his face. He blinked and continued aiming.

The Japanese soldiers at the bottom of the ditch were pinned down, lying on the ground, too afraid to move. Some hid behind the mule carts, others behind the ditch walls. The officers of the guard were shouting something, but their voices were drowned out by the gunfire and could not be heard.

Zhao Weiguo didn't fire; he was watching.

He saw several Japanese soldiers running backwards at the end of the ditch, trying to escape from there.

"Three rows!" he shouted, "Block the end of the ditch!"

Gunfire erupted from the direction of the gully's end. The third platoon opened fire, bullets striking the earthen slope at the gully's mouth, sending dirt flying. The Japanese soldiers were stopped, lying prone on the ground, too afraid to move.

The battle lasted less than fifteen minutes.

The gunfire ceased, and the ravine fell silent, save for the loud braying of mules echoing through the valley. A breeze blew in from the ravine's mouth, causing the white powder to float in the air like mist.

Zhao Weiguo stood up and walked down the slope. His legs were a little numb; he had been lying down for too long, and his knees had hit the rocks, making him limp.

He walked to the bottom of the ditch, his feet sinking into the frozen ground. The frozen ground was hard and covered with yellowish bullet casings that crunched underfoot. He bent down and picked up a casing, which was still hot. He pulled his hand back and stuffed the casing into his pocket.

More than forty corpses lay at the bottom of the ditch. Blood flowed slowly on the frozen ground because the cold caused it to congeal quickly. Some of the corpses still clutched guns, muzzles pointing upwards, unfired.

He walked to a mule cart and lifted the sack. Inside the sack was flour, which was scattered all over the ground, mixed with blood and turned pink.

He then opened a box on another mule cart. Inside the box were bullets, gleaming yellow, packed in iron boxes, one hundred rounds per box.

Chen An ran over, panting.

"Brother Zhao, the inventory is complete. Forty-three enemy soldiers were killed, and seven were captured, all of them civilian laborers. We also seized twenty sacks of grain, thirty bundles of cotton clothing, over five thousand rounds of ammunition, and two boxes of canned goods."

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

What about us?

Chen An was taken aback.

"us?"

"casualties."

Chen An flipped through the notebook.

"No casualties."

Zhao Weiguo didn't speak. He walked to the mouth of the ditch and looked at the distant hillside. The sun rose, shining on the corpses in the ditch, on the scattered white powder, and on the faces of the new recruits.

The recruits' faces were still pale; some were trembling, some were dry heaving, and some were squatting on the ground, clutching their rifles, silent. One recruit squatted by the ditch, vomited all over the ground, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and squatted back down, clutching his rifle, saying nothing. Another recruit stood beside the corpse, staring at it for a long time; the corpse's eyes were still open. He reached out and closed the corpse's eyes.

Sun Desheng walked over and stood next to Zhao Weiguo.

"For the first battle," he said, "it's not bad to have achieved this result."

Zhao Weiguo glanced at him.

"What was it like when you fought your first battle?"

Sun Desheng chewed his lips, but there was no grass in his mouth; his mouth was empty.

"It was worse than that," he said. "The first time I went to war, I wet my pants."

Zhao Weiguo didn't laugh. He turned his head and looked at the new recruits.

"Clean up the battlefield," he said. "Bury the bodies and take the spoils."

He walked over to a mule cart, squatted down, and looked at the white flour. The flour was mixed with blood and was pink, but he didn't find it dirty and reached out to touch the sack.

The burlap sack was new, rough to the touch, and smelled of wheat.

He remembered the chipped iron pot in the outbuilding of the new regiment, and how Chen An's fingers were so burned when he first picked up the bowl of porridge that he couldn't hold the rim.

He stood up and clapped the flour off his hands.

How long will the food supply last?

Chen An flipped through the notebook.

"Based on 350 people, plus the original grain reserves, it's enough to last for twenty days."

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

"That's enough."

He walked over to the box of bullets, squatted down, opened the metal box, and counted them. Each box contained one hundred rounds, and there were fifty boxes in total, five thousand rounds. Adding this to the original six thousand two hundred rounds, the total was eleven thousand two hundred rounds. Each person would receive more than thirty rounds, double the amount before.

He closed the tin box and stood up.

"Where's your cotton-padded coat?"

"Thirty bundles," Chen An said. "Ten pieces per bundle, three hundred pieces in total. Enough for one piece per person."

Zhao Weiguo nodded, turned around and walked back. After a few steps, he stopped and looked back at the bottom of the ditch.

The corpses at the bottom of the ditch were still there, the blood was still there, and the white powder was still there. Several laborers squatted by the roadside, their hands tied behind their backs, their heads bowed, not daring to look at anyone.

He turned around and kept walking.

"Brother Zhao," Chen An whispered, following behind, "you won the first battle."

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer and continued walking.

"Zero casualties," Chen An added.

Zhao Weiguo still did not answer.

He reached the top of the slope, stopped, and looked towards Willow Gully in the distance. There, 350 men were waiting for him, waiting for him to bring back food and ammunition, waiting for him to tell them: You can fight now.

He put his hands in his pockets, where the census form lay, the paper now soft and damp with sweat and flour. Beside it was a spent bullet casing, which he'd picked up from the bottom of the ditch; it was cold and smooth to the touch.

"Go back," he said.

Chen An nodded, turned and ran down the slope, shouting as he ran, "Gather up! Let's go back!"

The new recruits at the bottom of the ditch started moving; some stood up, some were still squatting, and some were pulled up. They carried the captured grain and ammunition, and their cotton-padded clothes, and followed Zhao Weiguo back.

As Zhao Weiguo watched the grain sacks swaying on his shoulders, he suddenly remembered the thin porridge in the new shack. It contained little rice and a lot of water; you could see the bottom of the pot just by stirring it with chopsticks.

The line was quite long and a bit more orderly than when they arrived.