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

In early 1940, winter came to the mountains.

It was evening, four days after the first battle at Baimagou.

The wind blew down from the mountain ridge, causing the gray cloth flag that had just been hung at the entrance of the regiment's office to stick to the flagpole and flutter loudly.

A guard named Shuanzhu, about seventeen or eighteen years old, stood at the entrance of the regimental headquarters. He held a Hanyang rifle in his hand, with a red cloth strip tied to the butt. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his cotton hat down to cover his ears.

A cloud of ash slowly rose from the mountain road in the distance.

It was a gray mule, so thin that you could count its ribs. After walking all day, its hooves dragged on the ground, and every step seemed like a sigh.

A person sat on the mule's back, wearing a long blue cloth robe with mud splattered on the hem, and black cloth shoes with the forefoot almost worn through.

He was carrying an old leather suitcase in his left hand; the lock was broken and it was tied with a strip of cloth.

The man dismounted from the mule, his movements a little clumsy, his feet wobbling as he touched the ground. He reached out to steady himself on the mule's back, then dusted off his long gown and walked towards the entrance of the regimental headquarters.

Shuanzhu held the gun horizontally in front of him.

Who are you looking for?

The man looked up. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and a sharp jawline. He didn't look like a soldier, nor a farmer. His fingers were long and slender with thick knuckles, and there were several shallow scars on the back of his hands.

"Is this the headquarters of the Independent Regiment?"

He spoke in a low voice, with a slight Beijing accent, but enunciated clearly.

"Yes. Who are you looking for?"

"My name is Zhao Gang." He put his suitcase on the ground and took out a letter from the inside pocket of his long gown. "The old brigade commander sent me. I am the newly appointed political commissar of the Independent Regiment."

Shuanzhu was stunned.

He glanced at Zhao Gang's long gown, then at the letter. He recognized the brigade headquarters' seal on the envelope, the red ink. But he still couldn't quite believe it.

This man had no gun in his hand, no knife on his back, only an old leather suitcase, and looked like a schoolteacher.

"Wait a moment."

He turned and ran into the yard, almost tripping over the threshold.

Li Dazhu was organizing ammunition ledgers in the regimental headquarters cave dwelling. Upon hearing the report, he put down his pen, got up, and went outside.

As I walked to the door, I saw Zhao Gang standing there, the setting sun casting a dark gold hue on his long robe.

Li Dazhu had never met Zhao Gang, but he recognized the brigade headquarters' envelopes and inkpads. He stood at attention and saluted.

"Reporting to Political Commissar, Li Dazhu, Chief of Staff of the Independent Regiment."

Zhao Gang returned the greeting, raising his arm deftly with his five fingers together.

"Chief of Staff Li, thank you for your hard work."

Li Dazhu led him toward the regimental headquarters, saying something in a low voice along the way.

"The regimental commander is in the cave dwelling; he just finished interrogating the prisoners."

Zhao Gang didn't ask any further questions, but simply glanced around the courtyard. A group of new recruits were practicing bayonet fighting on the parade ground, their shouts scattered, and someone had dropped their gun on the ground.

In the corner, there were piles of confiscated grain sacks. One of the sacks was torn open, and white rice was leaking out, rolling to one side in the wind.

When Zhao Weiguo came out of the cave, his hands were still covered in gun grease.

He had just been cleaning his pistol when a grain of sand got stuck in the barrel, and it took him a while to get it out with a cleaning rod. Hearing voices outside, he tucked the pistol back into his belt, wiped his hands with an oilcloth, and went outside.

There were two people standing at the door. Li Dazhu and a stranger.

Zhao Weiguo glanced at that person.

He was around twenty-four years old, a head taller than him, thin but with level shoulders. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a deep, resolute look in his eyes and brows.

Their gazes fell on him, neither looking away nor scrutinizing him.

Zhao Weiguo was wearing an old military uniform, his cotton-padded jacket still had oil stains left from cleaning his gun yesterday, his boots were covered in mud, and he had a Mauser pistol tucked into his waistband with old strips of cloth wrapped around the handle.

The two stood at the entrance of the regimental department and looked at each other for three seconds.

Zhao Gang extended his hand first.

"Commander Zhao, I've heard so much about you. My name is Zhao Gang. The old brigade commander sent me here to be the political commissar."

Zhao Weiguo grasped his hand. Zhao Gang's hand was two sizes larger than his, with thin calluses on his palm. His grip was steady and firm, neither probing nor showing weakness.

"Just call me Weiguo. You can also call me Lao Zhao."

Zhao Gang smiled.

"Then I'll call you Weiguo, and you'll call me Lao Zhao?"

"OK."

Li Dazhu, standing nearby, secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

He quietly lowered his hand from the gun handle. Zhao Gang didn't notice, but Zhao Weiguo did, though he said nothing.

Zhao Gang picked up his suitcase and followed Li Dazhu toward the regimental headquarters. After taking a few steps, he turned back and glanced at Zhao Weiguo.

"Weiguo, why are your eyes red?"

Zhao Weiguo reached out and rubbed the corner of his eye.

"I was looking at maps until the wee hours last night."

Zhao Gang didn't ask any more questions.

That night, at the regimental headquarters cave dwelling.

The oil lamp was lit. The cave dwelling was small, with a table and two chairs. On the table were a roster, an ammunition ledger, and a battle report of the first battle at Baimagou.

A map of the area surrounding Baimaling hangs on the wall. It was hand-drawn by Zhao Weiguo, with crooked pencil lines, but every punctuation mark was clear.

Zhao Gang put the suitcase in the corner and sat down at the table opposite him.

Zhao Weiguo poured him a bowl of coarse tea. The tea was made from tea leaves, and the water was well water, which had an earthy taste.

Zhao Gang picked up the bowl, took a sip without frowning, and then put the bowl down, making a sound as the bottom of the bowl hit the table.

"I saw the roster of the Independent Regiment at the brigade headquarters before we set off." Zhao Gang took out a small notebook from his pocket, opened it, and wrote: "The whole regiment has 1,600 men, including more than 300 remnants of Kong Jie's original troops, 350 assault battalions, 500 new recruits from the brigade headquarters, and several junior students and technical backbones."

"Three battalions plus the regimental headquarters, with over 800 rifles, 11 light machine guns, 2 heavy machine guns, and 2 mortars."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

The figures Zhao Gang mentioned were almost identical to those in the regimental headquarters' ledgers. This indicates that he wasn't parachuted in to shout slogans; he had done his homework before setting off.

"What about the grain?" Zhao Weiguo asked.

"Enough to last twelve days," Zhao Gang said. "We seized thirty bags of grain in Baimagou, and with our previous reserves, we can last for half a month if we eat sparingly."

But we need to find a solution in two weeks; relying solely on the spoils is not a reliable strategy.

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

"What about the wounded?" he asked again.

"Eleven seriously injured, thirty-seven slightly injured." Zhao Gang turned a page of his notebook. "The medical team has two bottles of iodine left, four packets of hemostatic powder left, enough bandages, but almost no anti-inflammatory drugs."

Chen An re-divided the medicine last night, minimizing the dosage for the seriously wounded.

Zhao Weiguo remained silent. He knew these numbers, of course, but the fact that Zhao Gang could recite them word for word meant that this man had seen more than just the roster.

"You're right." He put down his teacup. "I can fight, but I can't take care of the food, drink, and daily needs of more than a thousand people, their political education, and their relationships with the masses all by myself."

"You're here just in time; these things are your responsibility."

Zhao Gang looked at him, his eyes flashing in the light.

"Aren't you afraid I'll take away your power?"

Zhao Weiguo shook his head.

"The political commissar is in charge of politics, culture, logistics, and the masses. I am in charge of combat, training, spoils, and casualties. The clearer the division of labor, the less likely we are to fight."

Zhao Gang hadn't expected Zhao Weiguo to agree so readily. He nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Then starting with the next operational order, the regimental commander and political commissar will both sign it. The dual-command system is the rule."

"Rules are rules," Zhao Weiguo said.

"Weiguo." Zhao Gang put down his teacup. "I'll tell you the truth. In the past, I mainly worked on student movements and cultural and educational work. I led student marches, edited mimeographed newspapers, and taught soldiers to read."

This is my first time having a political commissar with over a thousand people. But I know what I need to do, and I won't be ambiguous about it.

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

"The biggest problem for the Independent Regiment right now is that we have enough guns and enough food. The three groups of people can't get along. The original Kong Jie's troops, the old guard from the assault battalion, and the new recruits from the brigade headquarters are all standing in separate rows when they line up."

"Your ability to unite them as one family is more effective than winning ten battles."

Zhao Gang nodded. He understood that Zhao Weiguo truly needed a political commissar to fill this gap.

"I have a condition," Zhao Gang said.

Zhao Weiguo looked up.

"I'll handle the literacy classes, the registration of families of the wounded and the injured, and the rehabilitation of veterans. But when I'm doing these things, the regimental commander has to be involved. You can't just leave me to do a one-man show."

"Sure," Zhao Weiguo said. "I'll stand wherever you need me to."

Zhao Gang's lips twitched, as if he wanted to laugh, but he held it back.

"We'll start with a meeting for the entire regiment tomorrow," Zhao Gang said. "Then we'll begin with literacy classes and registering the families of the wounded and killed. Veterans who can't read won't receive notifications from their families if they die in battle."

The new recruits couldn't read, and they couldn't understand the orders. These two things were the most urgent.

"Okay," Zhao Weiguo said. "Once you've decided, we'll get on with it."

Late at night.

The moon was bright outside the cave dwelling, shining on the slopes of Baima Ridge and casting long shadows of the bushes. In the distance, wolves howled, their high-pitched cries carried away by the wind.

Zhao Gang didn't leave. He sat across the table, finished the teacup in his bowl, and poured himself another.

"Wei Guo, I have a question for you."

Zhao Weiguo looked up at him.

"You're fifteen," Zhao Gang said. "How come you can be so calm?"

Zhao Weiguo didn't answer immediately. He picked up the teacup and took a sip. The tea had gone cold, and tea dust was stuck between his teeth. He tried to lick it with his tongue, but couldn't get it out.

He stared at the undissolved tea leaves at the bottom of the bowl for two seconds.

"My father used to work in the Ordnance Bureau, but he passed away. I've been an orphan since I was little, and I grew up in the courtyard at No. 95 Nanluoguxiang."

Zhao Gang didn't speak. He leaned forward slightly.

"I was twelve years old when I was at Lugou Bridge. I squatted in an alley in Beiping listening to the cannon fire. Later, I followed the 29th Army to Wanping, went up to the city wall, and helped defend the city."

Later, after Beiping was completely lost, a scout named Lao Wei led me over the blockade trenches and into the Taihang Mountains.

Zhao Weiguo put down his teacup. The bottom of the cup hit the table with a thud.

"So you asked me how I manage to stay calm," he said. "I don't know. Maybe it's because I've seen much harder times, or maybe it's because I don't have time to think about these things."

Zhao Gang looked at him. Zhao Weiguo's face showed neither sadness nor self-pity; he was simply stating a point.

But Zhao Gang noticed a detail. When Zhao Weiguo said, "Then the person disappeared," his finger moved slightly on the table. It was very light, as if unconscious. Then his finger flattened again.

"I understand," Zhao Gang said.

He put down the teacup.

"I'll talk at tomorrow's meeting," Zhao Gang said, standing up. "I'll handle the veterans, the new recruits, and the old guard from the assault battalion. You just focus on fighting."

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

Zhao Gang picked up his suitcase, walked to the entrance of the cave dwelling, and stood there for a moment.

Two items were placed side by side on the table. On the left was Zhao Weiguo's Mauser pistol, with old strips of cloth wrapped around the handle, the edges worn and frayed.

On the right is Zhao Gang's fountain pen, with a brass cap and a piece of paint chipped off the black lacquered barrel, revealing the bakelite inside.

Zhao Gang turned and left.

Zhao Weiguo sat at the table, looking at the pen and the gun.

He picked up the gun and ejected the magazine to check it. The magazine was full.

He pushed the magazine back, put the gun on the table, and trimmed the wick of the lamp.

The flames dwindled, and the cave became darker. He stared at the pen for a moment, then reached out and pushed it closer to the gun, making the two objects more aligned.

Outside the window, the night wind from Baimaling blew by, causing the pen to roll and hit the gun barrel with a very soft sound.