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

The day after the war, it was still dark.

Smoke lingered in the ravines of Baimaling. The wind, blowing from the dry riverbed, carried the acrid smell of burning gunpowder and the stench of blood. The two smells mingled together, and inhaling them made one want to vomit.

Half the pine trees on the hillside had been sheared bare by artillery shells, their charred branches pointing skyward. The ground was littered with scorched earth, shrapnel, and tattered leggings stained with dark red blood.

A rifle butt was stuck diagonally in the mud, and half a charred cotton sleeve was hanging on a splinter.

Zhao Weiguo stepped over the stones and continued walking. The soles of his suede shoes crunched dryly on the gravel.

He wasn't wearing a coat; the cuffs of his old military uniform were frayed, and the sleeves swayed loosely in the wind.

The temporary medical station was set up in an air-raid shelter halfway up the mountain.

Even before you get close, you can hear the wounded soldier's muffled groans, barely suppressed. The sound isn't loud, but it's like a thin thread pulling you into the cave.

Zhao Weiguo lifted the curtain and went inside.

The cave was dimly lit, with a few kerosene lamps hanging from the earthen walls, their flames flickering in the wind blowing in from the doorway. A strong smell of alcohol mixed with the stench of ruptured intestines assaulted the nostrils, stinging the eyes.

On the innermost bed of hay, a young soldier lay. His right leg was gone down to the knee, and the gauze wrapped around the severed leg was soaked with blood, dripping onto the ground and leaving a dark stain on the hay beneath him.

An old soldier was squatting nearby. He was holding a tattered straw sandal in his hand, the sole of which was still covered in dark red mud.

His gaze was fixed on the blood on the ground, his shoulders tense, as if afraid that if he moved, the water would overflow.

Zhao Weiguo walked over and touched his shoulder with his fingertips.

The veteran was like a stone, not moving an inch.

How much anti-inflammatory medication do we have left?

Zhao Weiguo turned to ask the military doctor who was washing his hands.

The military doctor's hands were covered in blood, and when the cold water hit them, his fingers turned bright red.

"The sulfonamide is almost gone." His voice trembled slightly. "The amount Bai Ze left behind before he left is barely enough for each of the seriously wounded to have half a piece."

Zhao Weiguo's gaze fell on the young soldier with the broken leg.

The soldier's lips had turned white, his face was ashen, and he was in so much pain that he couldn't even groan. Every now and then, his eyelashes would tremble.

"Use it on the seriously wounded first."

Zhao Weiguo took out the last two cigarettes from his pocket and stuffed them into the hand of the dazed old soldier.

The veteran's fingers twitched slightly, as if he dared not accept it.

"I'll figure out the medicine," Zhao Weiguo said in a low voice. "Not a single one of them can die."

After he finished speaking, he turned and walked out of the air-raid shelter.

As soon as the curtain was lifted, a gust of cold wind rushed in, causing the lanterns inside the cave to sway violently.

---

Upon reaching the south side of the position, a section of a tunnel that had been destroyed by artillery fire was being cleared.

Three thick, load-bearing logs collapsed, sealing off half of the exit. Soil mixed with gravel filled the gaps, and faint coughing sounds could be heard from inside.

Five soldiers, shovels and crowbars in hand, were digging, their brows slick with sweat. The sound of the shovels digging into the cracks in the rocks was dull and muffled.

Is anyone else down there?

Zhao Weiguo strode over.

"Commander!"

The squad leader, who was in charge, wiped the mud off his face, tears mixed with black ash, leaving two streaks on his face.

"The bolt for the third company is inside! They were banging on the wood for a while, but now it's silent! This beam is too heavy; they even broke two crowbars!"

Zhao Weiguo stuffed the pencil into his shirt pocket. He took a few steps to the thickest load-bearing beam.

The log was a pine trunk that was as thick as two people could hug, and with the scorched earth and stones pressing down on it, it weighed at least seven or eight hundred pounds.

He bent down and gripped the crevice beneath the log with both hands. The rough bark pierced his palms, and the charred ash from the wood covered his hands.

"Commander, this won't do. We need to get two mules to pull it."

The squad leader was so anxious he kept stamping his feet.

"Too late."

Zhao Weiguo's feet were firmly planted in the mud, his back muscles tensed violently, and his teeth clenched so tightly they made a grinding sound. His eyes were fixed on the gap under the log.

"Get up!"

A muffled roar escaped his throat.

He gripped tighter. His waist slumped, and the tendons in his arms tightened one by one.

Click!

The log buried deep in the mud suddenly sank, creating a narrow gap as he pried it open. The gravel pressing on it tumbled down, hitting his uniform and his feet.

The five soldiers around him were stunned, and the shovels in their hands clattered to the ground.

"What are you standing there for! Pull them up!"

Zhao Weiguo's eyes were bloodshot, the veins on his neck bulged like ropes, his hands gripped the crossbeam tightly, and his legs were like steel pillars driven into the ground, completely still.

Several soldiers snapped out of their daze and scrambled over to squeeze through the gap.

After a frantic scramble, they finally pulled out a soldier whose face was covered in blood. Half of his body was buried in mud, and he was still coughing up black dirt when they pulled him out.

"The person is out!"

The class monitor shouted.

Zhao Weiguo withdrew both hands. With a loud crash, the crossbeam slammed back into the pit, splashing up a cloud of mud half a person's height.

He stood there, his chest heaving violently. His knuckles were bluish-white from the exertion.

I moved my fingers around a bit. My joints didn't feel as sore as I had expected.

Instead, a surge of heat welled up in his chest, traveled down his spine, and spread through his limbs, as if something was slowly awakening within his muscles and bones.

He frowned. This wasn't the first time he'd felt this way.

He didn't let anyone see the message that popped up in the cave last night.

"Anti-sweep mission completed, physical enhancement progress being calculated..."

The heat is still slowly circulating under my skin.

Zhao Weiguo didn't say anything, but clenched his fist and then relaxed it.

Just then, Zhi Zi jumped down from the nearby trench, carrying the Mosin-Nagant rifle. She looked at the crossbeam, then at Zhao Weiguo.

"Commander, the person has been rescued."

Zhao Weiguo tore off a rag and wiped the mud and blood off his hands.

"Take him away and let Chen An take a look."

Zhi Zi didn't ask any more questions. She turned around to help the stretcher bearers, the gun barrel on her shoulder flashing in the morning light.

Zhao Weiguo glanced at Shuanzi, who was being carried onto the stretcher. Shuanzi's hand twitched, as if trying to grab something.

"Everyone, assemble at the regimental headquarters."

---

In the courtyard of the Baimaling regimental headquarters, there were twenty-seven fewer people lined up than before the battle.

The empty space is very conspicuous.

The first battalion lost seven men, the second battalion lost three men, the third battalion lost thirteen men, and the regiment's directly subordinate units lost four men.

The autumn wind blew into the yard from the dry ditch, making the withered tree branches whistle.

The men in the ranks stood ramrod straight, not one of them moving. Some had dirty bandages wrapped around their faces, dark red bloodstains showing through the gauze. Some uniforms were torn to shreds, their original color unrecognizable from the smoke of gunpowder.

Zhao Gang stood at the front of the line, holding a piece of paper in his hand.

The paper contained a list of the dead and seriously wounded, written in the dead of night, the ink from the fountain pen bleeding slightly across the rough paper. A gust of wind blew, making the hem of the paper rustle.

Zhao Gang gripped the pages tightly with his fingertips. He glanced at the empty spaces, his lips pressed into a thin white line.

"List of the fallen."

Zhao Gang opened his notebook and began to speak in the empty courtyard.

The names were read out one by one, like pebbles hitting the ground.

"Zhang Daniu, First Company, First Battalion."

The old soldier who had been wearing straw sandals in the medical station was now standing at the front of the battalion's ranks. The moment his name was heard, his neck stiffened. His rough fingers gripped the wooden stock of his rifle tightly, squeezing out the dried dirt from under his fingernails.

The tears that had been welling up in his eyes for a long time finally slid down his dust-covered cheeks, pooling into muddy water on his chin and dripping onto his belt.

"Liu Gensheng, 2nd Company, 1st Battalion."

"Ma Fulai, 1st Company, 2nd Battalion."

On the other side of the Second Battalion, a young soldier with a bandage wrapped around his head trembled violently. He quickly lowered his head, biting his lower lip tightly. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his chapped mouth, but he managed not to make a sound.

"Zhao Xizi, 1st Company, 3rd Battalion."

"Third Battalion, Second Company, Chen Ergou."

Twenty-seven names.

With each recitation, the atmosphere in the courtyard grew heavier. The wind died down, and only heavy breathing echoed through the ranks.

No one whispered, no one wiped away tears. Everyone was like a wooden stake driven into the ground.

The list was finished being read. Zhao Gang didn't say anything more, folded the paper twice, and silently put it in his pocket.

The courtyard was so quiet that you could hear the echo of gravel falling from the distant ravine.

---

Old Zhou strode out from the ranks of the First Battalion.

He was holding an old porcelain bowl in his hands. The bowl was made of coarse porcelain, with most of the celadon glaze gone and a chipped rim.

The bowl contained water, freshly drawn from the Baima Ridge Stream that morning, clear and transparent. The morning light slanted across the water's surface, creating small, shimmering patches of light.

Old Zhou walked up to Zhao Weiguo, touched his heels together, and stopped.

Zhao Weiguo looked at him quietly.

Old Zhou's right cheek was swollen badly, and the cut from the flying stone in the dry ditch had scabbed over with dark red blood. He didn't avoid eye contact, but instead pressed his eyes to the broken bowl in his hand.

Old Zhou held the bowl up to his chest.

"Commander," his voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against rough wood, "I represent the veterans of Kong Jie's former unit."

The courtyard became even quieter, even the heavy breathing from before had subsided.

"This bowl of water is cold water from the Baima Ridge Stream." He paused, the veins on the back of his hand holding the bowl bulging. "I'm drinking this on behalf of the brothers in Liushugou. Drink it, and I'll acknowledge the current Independent Regiment. I won't acknowledge the old grievances."

He raised the bowl to his lips and tilted his head back.

Glug, glug.

Water trickled from the corner of his mouth, slid over the dark red scabs, and flowed into his mud-stained collar. He turned the bowl upside down, not a drop left.

He suddenly raised his right arm to his eyebrows, his fingers pressed together, and paused for a full three seconds. Old Zhou gave Zhao Weiguo a perfect military salute.

The veterans of the First Battalion looked at Old Zhou and at his empty, broken bowl.

The old soldier who had been wearing straw sandals loosened the stock of his rifle and raised his right arm.

Swish.

Then one. Two. Then a piece.

The men from the second battalion raised their arms, then the men from the third battalion raised their arms, and even the cooks from the logistics department wiped their hands on their aprons before raising their hands as well.

The sound of military uniforms rustling filled the air. More than a thousand arms were raised in the air in the courtyard, and more than a thousand pairs of bloodshot eyes pressed down on Zhao Weiguo on the steps.

Zhao Weiguo stood on the steps. He didn't put on any airs of a regimental commander, nor did he prepare any long-winded speech.

His gaze fell on Old Zhou's swollen face, paused for two seconds, and then slowly swept over the pairs of bloodshot eyes below.

"Old Zhou."

He spoke.

"The Independent Regiment was led by Commander Kong. Now that I've taken it over, I have to risk my life and my abilities to hold it up." He took a step forward, his suede shoes clicking on the bluestone slabs. "I remember the names of the people from Willow Grove and White Horse Ridge. As long as the flag flies, the regiment stands."

The courtyard fell silent for a second.

"Commander!"

The roar erupted from the direction of the First Battalion; it was the old soldier. His voice was completely hoarse and carried the stench of blood.

The others joined in the shouting.

"Commander!!"

The sound drowned out the mountain wind, and a few withered leaves in the distance were shaken down.

Zhao Weiguo watched them, waiting for the roar to gradually subside.

"Old Zhou, no alcohol for three days."

Old Zhou paused for a moment, his hand holding the broken bowl frozen in mid-air.

A soldier next to him, whose face was wrapped in gauze, grinned and chuckled.

The string, taut as if about to snap, suddenly loosened. Laughter echoed from the front row to the back. Some people wiped their eyes with their sleeves while laughing, while others plopped down on the floor, panting heavily.

The anger, frustration, and grief that had been building up for half a month dissipated in the wind of Baimaling.

---

After the team disbanded, Zhao Weiguo returned to the regimental headquarters cave dwelling alone.

The cave dwelling was dimly lit. He walked to the rough wooden table.

Two things were on the table. On the left was the newly released counter-insurgency report, stamped with a square, vermilion bronze seal. On the right was the list of the fallen, written by Zhao Gang.

He reached out and steadied himself on the corner of the table. His gaze shifted to the list of the fallen on the right.

Zhang Daniu, Liu Gensheng, Ma Fulai, Zhao Xizi, Chen Ergou, and twenty-two other names. Some he recognized, others he had never even met before.

Rough fingertips traced the paper, stopping at the three characters "Zhang Daniu". The ink from the fountain pen darkened slightly from the warmth of the fingertips.

The one less, the more pain.

He folded the list again, making it into a small square, and carefully put it into the pocket next to his left breast, pressing it firmly through his military uniform.

After pressing, he didn't let go immediately. The heat in his chest was still there; even through his military uniform, he could feel the slight burning sensation under his skin.

Zhao Weiguo looked down at his hands. There were still blood marks on his palms from lifting the crossbeam, and a small cut on the web between his thumb and forefinger. But when he clenched his fists, the strength felt more than twice as great as usual.

He picked up a cracked old wooden plank from the table; it had fallen from the window frame. He pressed his thumb against the wood grain and gently tapped it.

Click.

The wooden board split in the middle, with jagged edges.

Zhao Weiguo looked at the shallow indentation he had made with his thumb and remained silent.

Outside the window, the sun over Baimaling had fully risen. A beam of light slanted through the wooden windowpane, striking a small clump of wood shavings scattered on the corner of the table.

Outside the gate, on the dirt road, came the soft footsteps of a stretcher team carrying the wounded.

He gently placed the half-wooden plank back on the table and then pressed the list on his chest.

The faint footsteps of the stretcher team carrying the wounded gradually faded into the distance on the dirt road outside the gate.