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

Tiger's Mouth, just as dawn was breaking.

There was fog in the canyon, a thin fog that hugged the ground. The stones on the ridge were damp and icy to the touch. The birds were silent, the wind was still, and the whole canyon looked like an open coffin.

Zhao Weiguo lay prone behind a large rock high up behind him, clutching his pistol. The rock wasn't big, just enough to cover half of his body. He took out his pocket watch and placed it on the rock, dial facing upwards.

The second hand ticked away, one tick at a time.

6:50. Seventy minutes to go.

He closed his eyes and mentally reviewed every minute of yesterday's simulation. 8:00 AM: First to enter the valley; 8:15 AM: Main force to enter; 8:30 AM: Block the breach; 8:32 AM: Full-scale attack. Every node was crucial; neither too early nor too late.

Chen An lay prone two steps to Zhao Weiguo's left, holding a captured Japanese telescope in his hand. The lens of the telescope was fogged up, so he wiped it with his sleeve and then raised it to look towards the valley entrance.

"Mouth in place," he whispered.

Zhao Weiguo nodded without opening his eyes.

Staff Officer Luo lay prone to Zhao Weiguo's right, a pencil scribbling a time in his notebook: 06:50. He tucked the notebook under his chest and the pencil behind his ear. The deduction sheets were still in his breast pocket, five copies, folded into small pieces. He felt around a couple of times to make sure they weren't lost.

The fog in the canyon slowly dissipated. The sun hadn't yet crossed the ridge, but it was already light. Water droplets on the rocks began to evaporate, and the air carried a damp, earthy smell.

Zhao Weiguo lay there motionless for twenty minutes. His left arm was numb from being pressed against the rock, but he didn't change position. Changing position would make a sound, and the sound would travel to the bottom of the valley. The valley floor was empty now, but the sound would bounce off the mountain walls and echo for a long time.

At 7:20, Chen An raised his binoculars again.

"Mid-section in place."

Zhao Weiguo nodded again.

7:40.

"Tail end in place."

7:55.

"The west side is in place."

Zhao Weiguo opened his eyes, picked up his pocket watch, and glanced at it. It was five minutes to eight. He put the watch back on the stone and released the safety on his Mauser pistol.

The canyon was eerily quiet.

It's exactly eight o'clock.

Two cavalrymen appeared at the valley entrance, their hooves echoing through the canyon like drumming. The horses were brown, stocky, and Japanese. The cavalrymen wore yellow woolen overcoats, their helmets pulled low, obscuring their faces. They rode slowly, their hooves crunching on the gravel.

Following the cavalry was an advance platoon of about thirty men, all with rifles at the ready and bayonets cocked. Their helmets were adorned with white cloth, the insignia of the Sakata Regiment. They moved slowly, stopping every few steps to listen, like hunting dogs sniffing out a scent. A sergeant led the way, map in hand, occasionally glancing up at the ridges on either side of the canyon.

On the eastern ridge, a new recruit in the First Regiment's company moved his gun barrel slightly. The platoon leader pressed down on the back of his head with one hand, burying his face in the ground. The recruit's nose hit a rock, and tears welled up in his eyes from the pain, but he didn't dare make a sound.

The vanguard platoon marched slowly, stopping frequently, and took ten minutes to cross the canyon entrance. They found nothing amiss. One of the cavalrymen turned his horse around and galloped back towards the canyon entrance, shouting in Japanese. Zhao Weiguo understood; it meant "safe passage." He remained calm; the knowledge he had gained from studying Japanese equipment manuals in his previous life came in handy now.

He counted in his mind: one hundred and twenty steps, one hundred and fifty steps, one hundred and eighty steps.

The cavalrymen ran out of the valley and disappeared into the fog.

Zhao Weiguo didn't move. He didn't want the vanguard platoon, he wanted the main force.

8:15.

Louder footsteps echoed from the valley entrance. Hundreds of leather boots crunched on the gravel, like rain. Two infantry companies entered the valley side by side. Riflemen led the way, three men abreast, lined up tightly. Behind them came the machine gun crew, their light machine guns slung over their shoulders, ammunition handlers carrying ammunition boxes, the leather straps digging into their flesh. Further back were mules and horses, carrying two mountain guns. The guns' wheels chugged and thumped on the rocky road. The artillerymen followed on either side of the mules, holding onto the gun barrels to prevent falls. The mules walked slowly, occasionally lowering their heads to graze on the roadside grass, only to be pulled along by the artillerymen's reins.

Behind them was another company, pressing down on the supply wagons. The wagons were loaded with ammunition boxes and food sacks, tied together with ropes, and the wheels creaked as they rolled over the stones.

Chen An held up the binoculars, his fingers trembling.

"The horsemen are in the middle," he whispered. "Captain, with four guards."

Staff Officer Luo wrote in his notebook: 08:15, main force enters the valley, two companies + mountain guns + supplies.

Zhao Weiguo stared at his pocket watch. The hands moved very slowly, almost as if they had stopped. In his mind, he counted the Japanese soldiers' steps and the sound of mules and horses' hooves.

8:25.

He closed his eyes and mentally reconstructed the Japanese formation. The vanguard, at the entrance to the canyon, consisted of two companies, about 240 men. The middle section carried mountain guns and mules, with an artillery crew of about 20 men. The battalion commander rode in the middle section, escorted by four men. The rearguard consisted of another company and supply wagons, about 150 men. There were three signalmen, two on horseback and one beside the supply wagons.

Every step of the simulation matched perfectly. He mentally reviewed the calculations again: the central army was at least five li from the vanguard, and Sakata's main force should currently be on the official road east of Tiger's Mouth. By the time the gunfire reached them, it would take at least forty minutes for the central army to arrive. Forty minutes was enough.

A faint heat rose in his chest. He ignored it, his eyes fixed on his pocket watch.

He opened his eyes.

8:28.

The Japanese troops at the bottom of the valley had all entered the canyon. The vanguard reached the middle bend, while the rear guard's supply wagons had just passed the valley entrance. The entire canyon was crammed with men and horses, like a snake swallowing a rabbit, its belly bulging.

8:30.

At the rear, Liu Dashan stretched out a hand from the bushes, clutching a strip of white cloth. He held the cloth above his head and waved it three times.

"Stab him to death," Chen An whispered.

Zhao Weiguo glanced at his pocket watch. 8:30. He put the watch back in his pocket and placed his hand on the trigger of his Mauser pistol.

8:32.

His hand fell down.

On the western ridge, three machine guns opened fire simultaneously. The gunfire exploded in the valley, echoing between the mountain walls, making it impossible to tell which side was firing. Bullets struck the rock walls, sending shards of rock flying and sparks flying. Tracer rounds, trailing red tails, swept across the valley floor, striking the Japanese troops in the middle like a knife cutting through tofu.

The two infantry companies at the front were cut in two by the fire. The men at the front lay prone on the ground, some even dropping their rifles, their hands covering their heads. The men at the back were stuck in the bend, unable to spread out, huddled together in a tight mass.

On the eastern slope of the middle section, Wang Huaibao's company launched a cluster of grenades. Six grenades were bundled together, tied with hemp rope, the fuse hissing. The first bundle struck the wheel of the first mountain gun with a deafening roar, sending the wheel flying and shrapnel flying. The gun barrel tilted to one side, and the gunners were thrown overboard by the blast wave. One man's leg was severed below the knee, with bone fragments protruding from his trouser leg. The second bundle missed, landing near the mules. Startled, the mules dragged the gun along, causing the barrel to crash into a rock wall, sending sparks flying and shattering the breechblock. The artilleryman tried to pull the reins but was kicked by a mule, flying three steps before lying motionless on the ground.

Two mountain guns, one round was rendered useless.

On the western ridge, Zhou Dayong's company's rifles were specifically designed to engage cavalry and signal corps soldiers. Zhou Dayong himself lay prone at the front, a Type 38 rifle in his hand, buttstock against his shoulder, eyes glued to the front sights. As soon as a messenger mounted his horse, Zhou Dayong pulled the trigger. The bullet entered the messenger's left ear and exited his right, sending him tumbling from his horse, his feet still caught in the stirrups. The horse dragged the body for twenty paces before stopping. Another messenger ran towards the valley entrance, but after twenty paces, he was struck three times in the back and collapsed to the ground, his hands still outstretched. A third signal corps soldier, hiding under a supply wagon, had just peeked out when a shot hit the wheel, a splinter of wood embedding itself in his face. He screamed and recoiled, too afraid to move again.

The vanguard's connection with Sakata's central army has been severed.

A large contingent of Japanese soldiers at the bottom of the valley collapsed. Within five seconds, at least forty men did not get up again.

But the remaining people were not stragglers.

A corporal peeked out from behind a rock and shouted in Japanese, his voice shrill and piercing. Three soldiers immediately knelt and fired, their rifles pointed at the eastern hillside. The Type 38 pistols fired crisply, unlike the rattling of machine guns. Bullets struck the front of Wang Huaibao's company's position, sending clods of earth flying. One bullet hit a soldier in the face, leaving an immediate gash.

A sergeant led five men, crouching close to the stone wall as they made their way towards the bend, trying to find a blind spot for fire. They moved quickly, bending over and taking steps in a staggered pattern.

The Japanese company commander drew his sword, the blade still stained with blood. He slashed at the shoulder of a soldier who was trying to retreat. The soldier screamed and lay motionless on the ground, blood streaming down his shoulder and seeping into the soil. The company commander shouted in Japanese, his voice hoarse but powerful. The remaining soldiers formed a makeshift firing circle around him. Four men crouched in a circle, rifles pointing outwards, muzzles pointing in four directions.

Zhang Dabiao's company pressed down from the ridge, the gunfire intense. Zhang Dabiao himself stood on the ridge, firing his pistol downwards, changing position after each shot to prevent the Japanese from aiming. His voice, though loud amidst the gunfire, still rang out: "Hold on! Don't let them look up!"

Two companies at the rear of the assault battalion blocked the retreat route, pinning the Japanese rear guard to the canyon. The Japanese rear guard tried to charge back, but were mowed down by machine gun fire. The remaining men huddled behind supply wagons, using the wagons as cover.

The advance of Wang Huaibao's company slowed down in the middle section. A remaining light machine gun swept across from behind the rock face, sending clods of earth flying down the eastern slope. The machine gunner was skilled; he fired a burst and then moved to a different position, giving Wang Huaibao's company's gunner no chance to aim. Three soldiers from Wang Huaibao's company were hit. One tumbled down the slope, his head hitting a rock, blood flowing from his ear. The other two lay prone in shell craters, too afraid to look up.

Wang Huaibao lay prone in the shell crater, cursing under his breath. He took a grenade from his waist, pulled the pin, waited two seconds, and threw it. The grenade exploded in mid-air, shrapnel hitting the stone wall, but it missed the machine gun. The machine gun fired again.

The five departments worked together, but the first attempt failed.

8:35.

The valley floor was thick with smoke, the stench of gunpowder stinging the eyes. The smoke, greyish-white, drifted upwards from the valley floor, dissipating at the ridge. Zhao Weiguo peeked out from behind a rock and scanned the valley floor with his binoculars. The Japanese battalion commander was still on horseback, but surrounded by his guards, who completely obscured his horse's face.

He counted the Japanese soldiers still able to move at the bottom of the valley. The front column had about thirty men fighting back, the middle column about twenty, and the rear column was blocked by the assault battalion and could not be seen clearly. In total, there were less than a hundred people resisting, but these hundred men fought very methodically, not running around or firing randomly, each finding cover and covering each other.

The soldiers of the Sakata Regiment were definitely not ordinary Japanese soldiers.

Staff Officer Luo became anxious.

"Should we flush it in advance?" he asked in a low voice. His voice was very low, but Zhao Weiguo could hear the urgency in it. Staff Officer Luo poked a hole in his notebook with his pencil.

He glanced at the man but didn't reply. He looked at his pocket watch. 8:35.

The Japanese battalion commander hadn't yet been exposed to the optimal field of fire. The simulations had calculated that when the battalion commander rode to the mid-section of the bend, his guards would disperse to make way for the infantry. That position was 180 paces from the western ridge, on the edge of the effective range of the Mauser pistol, but within the absolute range of the machine gun.

We have to wait a while longer.

"Wait four more minutes," Zhao Weiguo said.

Staff Officer Luo's pencil stopped in mid-air.

At the bottom of the valley, the Japanese company commander's sword slashed at another soldier trying to escape. The soldier didn't die; he lay on the ground crying, his sobs drowned out by the gunfire. Under the watchful eyes of the enemy, the remaining soldiers raised their guns again, pointing them in all directions. A sergeant led three men towards the bend, trying to seize a blind spot, but two were mowed down by Zhang Dabiao's machine gun, and the remaining two retreated behind some rocks.

The battle at Tiger's Mouth, which started with a massacre, turned into a head-on stalemate.

Zhao Weiguo lay prone behind a rock, his finger on the trigger, his eyes fixed on his pocket watch. His heart was pounding, but his hand was steady. He was waiting for the battalion commander to peek out, waiting for the 180-pace firing arc calculated in the simulation.

He recalled what Wang Huaibao had said in the cave yesterday: "That's too arrogant."

He wasn't angry. He's not angry now. He's waiting.

The ticking of the pocket watch bounced lightly on the stone, but he heard it.