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

Seven days after the anti-sweeping operation.

Zhao Weiguo led Zhao Gang out of Baimaling Village and deeper into the mountain valley. The mountain path was narrow, with bare shrubs on both sides, their leaves long gone, leaving only grayish-white branches trembling in the wind.

The further in you go, the faint smell of gunpowder and coal ash begins to waft through the air. Occasionally, the clanging of metal echoes from the mountains, muffled and like someone drumming in their chest.

After rounding a bend, a stone wall blocked the way. A small opening was carved into the base of the wall, just large enough for two people to walk side-by-side. The area outside the opening was overgrown with weeds; at first glance, it looked no different from any other cliff.

A sentry, holding a Hanyang rifle with the muzzle lowered, stood up from behind the bushes. Upon seeing Zhao Weiguo, he stood at attention, saluted, and stepped aside.

"There's another hidden sentry inside." Zhao Weiguo stopped and turned to Zhao Gang, saying, "Everyone has to register when they enter or leave—name, time, reason for entry. If any one of these is missing, no one will recognize you."

Zhao Gang looked at the dark entrance and nodded.

A few dim oil lamps hung on the uneven stone walls inside the cave. The air was stuffy, a mixture of the sour smell of sweat and the pungent smell of gunpowder; after only two steps inside, my nose started to itch.

A dull, rhythmic metallic clanging sound came from deep within, making one's eardrums tingle.

"Was this place the brigade headquarters' original secret warehouse?" Zhao Gang asked.

"It was only half-built before the War of Resistance against Japan, then abandoned." Zhao Weiguo took two steps forward. "I had someone dig it up again; it's habitable now, and can also be used to hide machinery."

---

The first stone kiln was the widest.

Three long wooden tables were pushed together, piled high with brass shell casings salvaged from the battlefield. A dozen or so children from a special program for gifted children sat around the tables, their eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. They were working in shifts, busy with their tasks.

A boy was vigorously poking the inside of a cartridge case with a stiff-bristled brush. The brush head brought out blackish-gray grime, which made him sneeze twice. He rubbed his nose and grabbed the next one.

The people next to them used small iron hammers to tap the primers one by one.

"Ding, ding, pfft."

Hearing the muffled "thud," he picked out the spent cartridge and threw it into the bamboo basket at his feet.

The boy responsible for loading the gunpowder held his breath, his wrist suspended in the air, and steadily poured the black powder into the cartridge case with a small copper ladle. The lever next to him suddenly pressed down, making a creaking sound.

At the end of the long table sat two old blacksmiths from the village. They were shirtless, their backs glistening with sweat. One of the blacksmiths stuffed a spent cartridge case filled with gunpowder into a homemade iron mold, raised his hammer, and brought it down with a "clang." The mold jolted, and the deformed cartridge case was forced back to its standard size.

Zhao Tieshan emerged from the shadows. His gray military uniform was stained with oil, his left leg was slightly lame, the thin wire on the temple of his glasses was digging into his temple, and the back of the lenses was covered with blood vessels.

"We can reload 800 rounds a day."

He grabbed a handful of bullets; their gleaming bronze casings shone coldly under the oil lamp.

"The hardest part is the primer," he said, holding the bullet up to the oil lamp. "The original mercury fulminate was used up, and there's no material to replace it. This batch of primers was made by scraping off match heads, mixing them with gunpowder and saltpeter."

He pointed to a boy next to him, his face covered in soot, and said, "We ruined three pots and burned off two layers of skin just to produce this little bit of usable gunpowder clay."

Zhao Weiguo picked up a bullet and rubbed it between his fingers. The primer still had rough marks from being filed.

"Label each batch." Zhao Weiguo put the bullets back. "Write down the date it was made, who made it, and the inspection results clearly, and stick it on the box. The soldiers on the front lines need to know whether the guns will fire."

Zhao Tieshan nodded, took out a charcoal pencil from his pocket, and drew a line on the wall. The wall was already covered with dense marks, like some kind of account book that only he could understand.

Zhao Gang stood silently in the corner. He looked at the sweat-drenched shoulders and calloused hands.

The oldest of these children was no more than sixteen, and the youngest was only thirteen. In the village, they would be chasing chickens and getting chased and beaten by their mothers. But now, surrounded by gunpowder and bullet casings, their eyes were bloodshot, yet their hands moved more steadily than adults.

---

As you walk further in, the temperature in the second stone kiln suddenly rises.

A fire burned at the bottom of the kiln, its flames casting a crimson glow on the stone walls. In the center sat an old lathe salvaged from Taiyuan, its base leveled with bluestone slabs. A pulley connected to a large wooden hand crank, and two strong laborers, shirtless, gritted their teeth and cranked the handle with all their might. Sweat streamed down their necks, dripping onto the slag-strewn muddy ground.

The lathe spindle emitted a sharp screech. The bluish steel cutting head gripped tightly onto a rough, cast-iron bullet blank, the ear-piercing cutting sound instantly drowning out all other noises. Curled iron filings, carrying intense heat, flew out, a red-hot piece landing on the lathe operator's shoulder, burning a blister. He didn't even flinch, the cranking speed remaining unchanged.

Zhao Tieshan took a freshly machined mortar shell casing from the shelf beside him. The surface still bore fine, intricate knife marks, and it was hot to the touch. The copper cap fuse at the top was polished to a gleaming shine.

"This blade isn't hard enough," Zhao Tieshan called out, leaning closer. "Once it's dull, you can only grind it slowly with a grinding wheel. The shell casings are made of molten pig iron, full of pinholes. One strike and iron filings fly everywhere; it's extremely easy for the blade to break."

He pointed to several dented and damaged spent cartridge cases on the ground, saying, "The success rate is only 70%; the rest have to be recycled."

He wiped the brass cap of the new shell in his hand with his sleeve.

"Fifty this week. One hundred next week. Once the three classes are proficient, we can produce two hundred a month."

Zhao Gang stared at the shell. The twenty-three shells that destroyed the Japanese infantry guns in Tuanbugou were pried out from under this knife tip.

"How reliable is the fuse?" Zhao Weiguo stared at the warhead.

"Ninety-five percent." Zhao Tieshan put the shell back on the shelf. "The remaining five percent will either misfire or explode as soon as it leaves the barrel. I'm still adjusting the propellant ratio, trying to get it down to ninety-eight percent next month."

"Rank them." Zhao Weiguo turned around. "Those who pass the random check go to the front lines, those who don't stay for training. If they're all mixed up, and one of them blows up their own man's chest, who's responsible?"

Zhao Tieshan put his glasses back on and tucked the charcoal pencil behind his ear.

"clear."

---

The third stone cave is the deepest and also the most stuffy.

There was no fire in the cave, only two lanterns hanging on the wall. The lathe here was more precise than the one outside, its cutting edge moving only slowly. An iron bar, held in the chuck, scraped off fine iron filings as the cutting tool moved. The pungent smell of machine oil assaulted the nostrils.

A young man wearing arm sleeves stood nearby, holding a wooden caliper in his hand, his eyes close to the tip of the knife.

Zhao Tieshan walked over and picked up a twisted iron pipe from the waste basket.

"Making gun barrels is difficult." He handed the cracked iron pipe to Zhao Weiguo. "The temperature difference in the mountains is huge, and there's no constant-temperature furnace. If the quenching water temperature isn't right, it cracks as soon as it's heated. Four were ruined; this one on the lathe barely managed to stay intact."

Zhao Weiguo touched the cracks on the iron pipe; the broken edges were jagged.

"The first replica of the Hanyang-made gun barrel will be completed in seven days," Zhao Tieshan said, patting the rust off his hands. "But the steel has a low carbon content, making it too soft. After firing two or three hundred rounds, the rifling will wear down, and all the bullets will go astray."

Zhao Weiguo took a step closer and looked at the iron filings on the lathe.

"What's missing in expanding production?"

Zhao Tieshan turned around and held up three fingers covered in grease.

"First, military-grade steel. It doesn't need to be top-notch; rail steel will suffice. If it's just ordinary pig iron, it'll just turn into a scrap metal rod."

"Secondly, we need skilled lathe operators. If I try to lead this bunch of greenhorns, they'll just waste time and produce a lot of materials."

He lowered his hand and glanced at the passageway outside.

"Third, secrecy. A single company of Japanese and puppet troops could wipe this place out."

Zhao Weiguo took out half a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and handed one over.

"Get the steel from the brigade headquarters, the special agents will scavenge it from the black market in Taiyuan. Make a list of workers, blacksmiths and gun repairmen are all needed." He struck a match, lit a cigarette, threw the matchstick on the ground, and stomped it out. "Zhao Gang will handle the secrecy."

Zhao Gang took a step forward.

"Files are created for everyone entering the kiln, including guarantors, places of origin, and family information. In case of an incident, the guarantors are arrested directly."

Zhao Tieshan held a cigarette between his fingers, but didn't rush to smoke it.

"Give me six months." He stared at Zhao Weiguo through his glasses. "After six months, we'll supply our own bullets and shells. We can't rely on the Japanese transport captain every time."

"Okay, six months."

Zhao Weiguo turned and walked out.

---

As they emerged from the cave, the setting sun hung on the mountain ridge. A cold wind blew, dispelling the smell of gunpowder and sweat from their clothes.

Zhao Gang looked down at the hem of his long robe. A layer of grayish-white stone powder clung to the fabric, and he reached out and brushed it off. The stone powder rose up, only to be swept away by the wind.

"Wei Guo." Zhao Gang put his hands back in his sleeves. "What's the next step?"

Zhao Weiguo looked at the barren mountain peaks in the distance.

"Expand your force by two thousand men first." He exhaled a puff of white breath. "The five hundred new recruits the brigade headquarters provided aren't enough; we need to recruit more able-bodied men from the surrounding villages." He turned to Zhao Gang. "Recruiting soldiers, collecting grain, and collecting scrap metal—that's all up to you."

"Then what?"

"Find a target the size of a Japanese battalion and smash it."

Zhao Weiguo clenched his fingers.

"The counter-sweep operation just ended, and the troops are still catching their breath." Zhao Gang frowned.

"It's not going to start tomorrow." Zhao Weiguo snapped a dead branch under his foot. "Arsenal, literacy classes, casualty reporting—we need to solidify the foundation. The Japanese supply lines and strongholds can't be left unattended for the New Year."

Zhao Gang didn't refute. He took out a small notebook from his inner pocket, pulled out a fountain pen, and wrote three words on the paper: radio, fortifications, and collaboration.

"To take over a stronghold, you need these three things."

Zhao Gang closed the notebook. Zhao Weiguo hummed in response.

The two walked back along the same path towards Baima Ridge. The stone wall behind them looked no different from any other cliff. The wind rustled through the bushes.

The clanging of metal mingled with the wind, one clang after another.

Zhao Weiguo glanced back. The grass on the stone wall was bent down by the wind, then stood up again.

After he finished speaking, he turned and walked towards Baimaling.