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

The Japanese company commander used the blood of his own men to suppress the circular formation.

The private who tried to run away fell to the bottom of the ditch, a deep gash on the back of his neck from which blood gushed out, staining the frozen earth a dark reddish-brown. The company commander, still on horseback, hadn't wiped the blood from his saber; it dripped from the tip onto the saddle and the horse's mane.

"Whoever backs down," he shouted, "is just like him."

The remaining soldiers dared not move. Some lay prone on the ground, some crouched behind the ditch wall, and some knelt, their guns pointed forward but their hands trembling. The corporal kicked a new recruit who was chanting Buddhist prayers up from the ground, shoved the bayonet back into his hand, and pushed him to the front row.

"Fire," the corporal ordered.

The recruit's hands were shaking, and he almost dropped his bayonet. He gripped the gun with both hands, fired a shot, and the bullet flew into the air.

The circular formation stabilized. The front rank fired while the rear rank reloaded; the movements were chaotic, but the skeleton remained intact. The company commander had kept this skeleton afloat by killing. The remaining soldiers weren't fearless of death, but they were more afraid of the knife behind them.

The new recruits of the Third Company lay prone in the thicket, some gagging, some pale-faced, some with their faces buried in the dirt; none dared to look at the bottom of the ditch. One recruit vomited, spewing sores all over the ground, the sour liquid mixed with the porridge he had drunk that morning, the smell pungent.

Liu Dashan lay down next to him and slapped him on the back.

"Take the plunger after you've vomited."

The recruit raised his head, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then lay back down and aimed his gun at the bottom of the ditch.

Zhao Weiguo squatted behind the crooked jujube tree, watching the battle at the bottom of the ditch. The Japanese circular formation was still there, though it had been badly damaged, but the company commander was holding back and they were still able to fight back. He saw the company commander organizing a counterattack, and the remaining soldiers were forced to charge forward, but after a few steps, they were pushed back by the fire.

"He was using officers charging forward to boost morale," Zhao Weiguo said.

Staff Officer Luo nodded.

"We need to take him down first."

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer; he was watching.

A scream came from the bottom of the ravine, not the kind that could be drowned out by gunfire, but a scream torn from the throat, tinged with sobs. A wounded Japanese soldier clutched his stomach, his intestines spilling out of the wound, dragging on the ground, stained with mud and blood. He tried to stuff them back into his stomach with both hands, but couldn't; blood gushed from between his fingers.

The sergeant next to him tried to pull him up, but just as he bent down, bullets from the 3rd Company came flying. The sergeant and the wounded soldier fell down at the same time, their blood mingling and indistinguishable.

Another corner of the circular formation is missing.

Zhao Weiguo saw the gap. The company commander saw it too. He cursed something and slapped a crouching soldier with the back of his knife, forcing him to fill the gap. The soldier crouched down, his legs went weak, and he knelt on the ground, rifle raised, his hands trembling.

Zhao Weiguo turned to look at Staff Officer Luo.

"Grenade launcher."

Staff Officer Luo was taken aback.

What is he trying to do?

Zhao Weiguo pointed to a spot slightly east of the bottom of the gully. A grenade launcher operator was crouching behind the gully wall, setting up the launcher, while his assistant passed him grenades. Their movements were swift; they were clearly veterans, their hands steady, their eyes fixed on the hillside.

"He wanted to bombard our firing positions with grenade launchers," Zhao Weiguo said. "Shoot them down before they're set up."

He turned his head to look in the direction of the Third Company, raised his hand, and made a gesture.

The gesture means: slightly east, grenade launcher.

The third company's machine gun opened fire, bullets striking the ditch wall next to the grenade launcher, sending dirt flying. The grenade launcher was covered in dirt and instinctively ducked, while the assistant gunner was hit in the shoulder, his ammunition rolling on the ground.

The grenade launcher wasn't set up.

Zhao Weiguo looked away and refocused his gaze on the company commander.

The company commander rode on his horse, which galloped back and forth at the bottom of the ditch, its hooves trampling over corpses, splattering blood and flesh. The company commander gripped a military knife, shouting something in Japanese, which was indistinct, but the madness in his voice was palpable.

He was organizing a final counterattack.

Zhao Weiguo pulled out his pistol and released the safety.

He raised his gun, pointing it at the company commander.

But it wasn't open.

He was waiting, waiting for the company commander to turn around. The moment he turned, the company commander's side would be exposed, which would be the best shooting angle. The effective range of the Mauser pistol was fifty paces. The company commander was at the bottom of the ditch, less than forty paces away, but the Mauser pistol's accuracy was insufficient. If he shot the chest head-on, the bullet might deflect to the shoulder or arm, not killing him, and the company commander could still give orders.

He needs to be shot dead.

The company commander didn't turn around; he remained mounted, facing the hillside, directing the remaining troops to fight back. The horse circled at the bottom of the ditch, its hooves thumping against the frozen ground.

Zhao Weiguo waited for ten breaths.

His finger rested on the trigger, its warmth making it hot. The butt of the rifle pressed against his shoulder, the flesh there tingling. His eyes were fixed on the company commander's left chest, where the heart lay. A single shot would send blood gushing from the wound, a rapid flow that would send the man sprawling from his horse.

The company commander finally turned around, looked at the remaining soldiers behind him, and shouted something.

A shot rang out.

The bullet struck the company commander in the left chest. He staggered and fell headfirst from his horse, his military cap rolling into the blood and mud. His saber fell to the ground, the red tassel on the hilt stained with blood. The horse, startled, neighed and galloped towards the ditch, its hooves trampling the corpses, splattering flesh and blood everywhere.

The squadron leader's body slammed onto the frozen ground, splashing up a cloud of mud. His eyes were still open, his mouth agape, as if he wanted to shout something, but no sound came out; only blood flowed from the corner of his mouth, down his chin, and dripped onto his collar.

The command to counterattack was only half-said.

The remaining soldiers were stunned. Some lay motionless on the ground, some threw down their guns, and some knelt on the ground with their hands raised.

The second lieutenant platoon leader wanted to take over command. He drew his sword and shouted something, trying to get the remaining soldiers to continue fighting back.

The gun fired again.

A bullet struck the lieutenant in the shoulder, causing him to stagger and drop his sword, the tip of which embedded itself in the frozen ground, wobbling twice. As he tried to pick it up, another shot struck him in the chest, and he fell to the ground, motionless.

The gunshots came from the direction of the First Company; it was Zhi Zi who fired them. Zhi Zi was a veteran trained by Liu Dashan, in his thirties, with pockmarked face, and an excellent marksman, taking down enemies with a single shot.

The chain of command has broken.

The company commander was dead, the second lieutenant was dead, the sergeant was dead, and the remaining soldiers were without a leader. Some knelt down and raised their hands, some crawled into the bushes, and some pulled out grenades, intending to die with them. A Japanese soldier pulled the pin on a grenade, held it above his head, and shouted something. Before he could throw it, a bullet from the 3rd Company hit his wrist, and the grenade fell at his feet, exploding with a bang and knocking him down.

"According to the rules of Huanghuaigou," Zhao Weiguo said, "Those who surrender are not killed, those who resist are killed."

The gunfire intensified, bullets whizzing across the ditch floor and striking the walls, sending dirt flying. Some of the remaining soldiers were killed, while others were pinned to the ground with their hands tied behind their backs.

While clearing a ditch, Shuanzi encountered a wounded soldier who was pretending to be dead. The wounded soldier lay motionless on the ground. Shuanzi walked over and tried to turn him over, but the wounded soldier suddenly pulled out a small pistol from his pocket and pointed it at Shuanzi.

Shuanzi reacted quickly, stabbing the wounded soldier in the neck with his bayonet. The wounded soldier's finger was on the trigger, the gun fired, and the bullet hit the ground, only an inch away from Shuanzi's foot.

Shuanzi pulled out his bayonet, his hands trembling so badly he could barely hold the rifle, the butt hitting the ground with a dull thud. He crouched down, clutching the rifle, his shoulders shaking.

Chen An rushed over and pressed on the shoulder wound of a veteran who had been shot. The veteran's shoulder had been pierced by a bullet, and blood was gushing from the wound rapidly. Chen An sprinkled sulfanilamide powder on it, and the veteran cursed in pain, but then grinned.

"I won't die," he said.

Chen An didn't answer, and continued to press on the wound.

The battle is over.

Staff Officer Luo squatted at the bottom of the ditch, holding a notebook in his hand and writing on the paper with a pencil. He wrote very quickly, and the handwriting was crooked, but still legible.

"One hundred and sixty-eight enemy soldiers were killed," he read, "and twelve seriously wounded soldiers were captured. We seized two heavy machine guns, one mountain gun, over one hundred and fifty rifles, over ten thousand rounds of ammunition, and over twenty mules and horses. Our side suffered one dead and three lightly wounded. The dead soldier was a new recruit from the Third Company, struck in the chest by a stray bullet; of the three lightly wounded, two were grazed in the arms by shrapnel, and one was hit in the face by a piece of gravel."

He put the pencil away and looked at Zhao Weiguo.

"Two cavalrymen also fled back."

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

"Send them back to report."

Staff Officer Luo looked at him.

"What message are you sending?"

Zhao Weiguo looked north. On the hillside to the north, the shadows of two cavalrymen grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared behind the mountain.

"Send a message to Willow Bay," he said. "Let them know this is what will happen to them if they come."

Staff Officer Luo lowered his head and wrote a line in his notebook. After finishing, he handed the notebook to Zhao Weiguo.

Zhao Weiguo glanced at it; the notebook read: "Fourteen-year-old Battalion Commander Zhao Weiguo led the ambush at Willow Bay, annihilating a reinforced Japanese company."

He crossed out the words "Fourteen-year-old Battalion Commander Zhao Weiguo" with his finger.

"Write the name of the entire assault battalion," he said. "Don't write my name."

Staff Officer Luo looked at him, as if he wanted to say something, but then swallowed his words. He put away his notebook and nodded.

Zhao Weiguo stood up and looked at the bottom of the ditch. More than a hundred corpses lay there, some lying face down, some supine, some curled up, scattered haphazardly. Blood flowed slowly on the frozen ground because the cold caused it to congeal quickly.

He remembered the porridge in Liushugou, Old Hu standing by the pot, and him saying, "Keep it for us to drink when we come back."

The porridge is still in the pot; I don't know if it's still hot.

He turned and walked back. As he passed the hillside, he saw a soldier lying behind a rock, two marks etched into the butt of his rifle. He didn't ask, nor did he stop. There were many good marksmen in the assault battalion; the marks were fresh.

"Go back," he said.