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

Three o'clock in the morning, Zhao Jia Yu.

There were no stars in the sky, and the moon had disappeared; it was so dark you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. The stone walls on either side of the valley entrance were only outlines in the darkness, like two walls pressing down on the valley.

The Independent Regiment began climbing the hill in the dark.

The battalion marched up the west slope. Old Zhou was at the head of the platoon, gripping the roots of bushes as he climbed. The slope was steep, and where his feet couldn't find a foothold, he used his knees to brace himself against the rocks. A soldier slipped and fell, his rifle butt hitting a rock with a dull thud. Old Zhou turned around and muttered a curse in a low voice.

"Be gentle."

The soldier dared not utter a sound, and hugged his gun as he climbed up.

One by one, the others followed. One soldier, halfway up, lost his grip on a bush root and slid down half a meter. The soldier behind him braced himself against him with his shoulder. The two men caught their breath and continued climbing.

The Second Battalion went up the east slope. Li Dazhu's men were numerous, and they climbed up from a landslide section in the middle of the valley. The east slope was steeper than the west slope, almost vertical in some places. The soldiers untied their leggings and tied them together to form ropes, pulling one after another up. Those behind pulled those in front, and those in front pulled those even further ahead. The ropes were so taut that some of them squatted at the top of the slope, panting for a while, sweat streaming down their foreheads and leaving white streaks on their dirty faces.

There was a rock at the top of the slope. The machine gunner from the Second Battalion mounted his Czech-made machine gun on it, muzzle down, aiming at the valley floor. When he pulled the bolt, it jammed. He spat on the receiver, pulled it again, and this time it worked.

The Third Battalion blocked the south entrance. Old Qian and his five hundred men crouched behind the bend at the end of the valley. The bend was narrow; two people side by side were packed together. The soldiers of the Third Battalion huddled together, holding their rifles, and no one spoke. A new recruit was trembling, and a veteran next to him slapped him.

"What are you shaking for? The fight hasn't even started yet."

The recruit didn't say anything, but gripped his gun tightly. The butt of the rifle pressed against his chest, his heartbeat traveling up the wood to his hand, thumping loudly.

The regimental headquarters was located in a small cave in the valley.

The cave wasn't large; it could easily hold seven or eight people. Inside, there was a small table with a radio, a map, and an oil lamp. The flickering flame cast long and short shadows in the cave. The radio, made by Zhao Tieshan, had a metal casing with knobs and terminals, and was connected to a hand-cranked generator. Two students from the special class took turns cranking the generator, which buzzed like a bee trapped in its metal shell.

Zhao Gang squatted down next to the radio, staring at the communications soldier.

The communications soldier was wearing headphones and holding a pencil. The headphones were a bit big, wobbling around on his head. He held the headphones with one hand and the microphone with the other, speaking into it.

"The anvil calls out to all battalions to report their positions."

There was static in my headphones. The static was hissing, like wind blowing through an autumn cornfield. Interspersed among the static were human voices, intermittent but still audible.

"Hammer in position," came Old Zhou's voice.

"The clamps are in place," came Li Dazhu's voice.

"Iron Wall in position," came Old Qian's voice.

"The needles are in place," came Gardenia's voice.

"Iron Rain, in position," came the voice of the artillery company commander.

Five directions, all reported within five seconds.

Zhao Weiguo stood at the cave entrance, listening to the sounds coming from his earpiece. Three kilometers away, several units simultaneously reported to him that they were in position. The sound traveled through a wire to his ears, accompanied by the crackling of electricity. In his mind, he ranked the positions of the five units: the sniper platoons on the west and east slopes, the south and north entrances, and the artillery company on the small hill outside the valley entrance.

All five points are present.

Zhao Gang whispered something to the side.

"If this battle is won, the Independent Regiment's command system will no longer rely solely on shouting and messengers."

Zhao Weiguo didn't speak, but nodded.

He was already thinking about other things.

---

7:30 in the morning.

Dust rose from the official road outside the valley entrance.

Zhao Weiguo poked his head out of the cave and raised his binoculars. Through the binoculars, dust rolled in from the south. First came the vanguard, about two hundred men, lined up in two columns, carrying Type 38 rifles, marching at a moderate pace. Some soldiers lit cigarettes and walked along, the smoke being dispersed by the wind.

Behind the vanguard was the main force of the central section, six hundred men, stretching out in a long column. Interspersed in the middle were mountain guns and ammunition carts pulled by mules; the barrels of the two Type 94 mountain guns were covered with gun covers. The machine gun company marched on either side of the artillerymen, heavy machine guns disassembled and carried in parts on the mules' backs. The mules walked slowly, their hooves clattering on the gravel.

A Japanese soldier leading a mule yawned, his mouth wide open, as if he hadn't slept well the night before.

The rearguard, three hundred men, moved at a snail's pace, like they were bringing up the rear. Some of them unzipped their pants as they walked and squatted down by the roadside, drawing laughter from the soldiers nearby.

Nobuo Yamada rode on his horse, walking in the middle section.

Zhao Weiguo glanced at him through his binoculars. He was wearing a yellow woolen military uniform, a military knife at his waist, and gripping the reins in his hand. The horse lurched along, and his body swayed with it. He straightened his back, shook the reins, as if he was getting tired of riding.

Zhao Weiguo put down the binoculars and counted.

1,100 men. Same as the intelligence. 200 in the front, 600 in the middle, and 300 in the rear.

He did not allow the Third Battalion to advance at Nankou.

He waited.

The vanguard entered Zhao Jia Yu. The valley entrance was narrow, and the column moved in a single file. Rifles were slung over their shoulders; some were talking, others were wiping sweat. A sergeant in the lead turned and shouted, and the column behind quickened their pace.

They were unaware that two thousand guns were lying on the slopes on both sides.

The vanguard marched past and reached the middle of the valley.

The main force of the central section followed behind, entering the field. The wheels of the mountain guns creaked and groaned on the dirt road. Mules walked slowly, their hooves clattering on the gravel. The heavy machine gun parts of the machine gun company swayed back and forth on the mules' backs. An ammunition carrier, supporting an ammunition cart, jogged to catch up with the column.

Nobuo Yamada's horse also entered the valley.

Zhao Weiguo put down his binoculars and walked to the front of the radio.

"Anvil calling all battalions. Await my orders. Once the main force and artillery in the central section have entered the core area, the entire regiment will open fire simultaneously."

Reports from each battalion came through the earpiece.

"Iron Hammer understands."

"I understand."

"Iron Wall understands."

Zhao Weiguo et al.

The cave was so quiet that only the crackling of the oil lamp and the low hum of the hand-cranked generator could be heard. Sweat beaded on the forehead of the boy in the special program who was cranking the generator; he switched hands and continued cranking.

At 8:05 AM, the middle section of the mountain field entered the narrowest part of Zhaojiayu.

The artillery was momentarily blocked by the collapsed rocks, and the mules slowly squeezed their way through the rubble, while the machine gun squadron behind was also held back. More than six hundred people were crammed into the valley floor, with steep slopes on both sides, and only a sliver of sky visible overhead. Someone looked up and cursed.

Zhao Weiguo picked up the microphone.

"Open fire, entire regiment!"

Five seconds.

The first to fire was the machine gun of the Second Battalion. Czech-made bullets roared from the machine gun emplacements on the east slope, sweeping across the valley floor and striking the artillerymen's mules. The mules brayed and collapsed, the artillery carriage overturned, and the cannon barrel protruded from its cover. The soldier leading the mule also fell, still clutching the reins, dragged several steps before finally letting go.

Then the sound came from the west slope. The rifles and machine guns of the First Battalion opened fire simultaneously, bullets flying down from the cliffs on both sides and hitting the ranks in the middle. Four or five infantrymen at the front fell, some tumbling directly to the roadside, others lying prone behind rocks. The soldier who had just lit a cigarette was already on the ground, the cigarette still burning, a wisp of smoke rising from the flame.

The Japanese army was stunned.

But in retrospect, it was fast.

The soldiers in the middle section began to return fire after being shot for three seconds. A sergeant, lying prone behind a rock, fired a shot from his Type 38 rifle towards the east slope. The bullet hit a rock next to the second battalion's machine gun emplacement, and gravel splattered onto the gunner's face, momentarily blinding him with the lime dust. The machine gun stopped firing for two seconds.

The sergeant fired another shot, but this time he missed and the bullet flew into the air.

In those two seconds, more than a dozen Japanese soldiers at the bottom of the valley scattered.

Old Zhou saw it on the west slope and picked up the microphone.

"Hammer calls for Anvil; the Second Battalion's machine guns were silenced for two seconds as the Japanese troops dispersed."

Zhao Weiguo's voice came through the earphone, his tone unchanged.

"Anvil received. Iron rain is being applied to the eastern side of the central section to suppress stragglers."

The mortar adjusted its angle, and two shells landed, hitting the middle of the skirmishers. The explosions kicked up rocks and dirt, burying more than a dozen skirmishers halfway up. One Japanese soldier crawled out of the dirt, blood streaming from his ear. He wiped it with his hand, saw his hand covered in blood, and froze, motionless.

The machine guns of the Second Battalion roared to life again.

On the south side, Lao Qian's Third Battalion also opened fire. Bullets struck the rearguard, cutting them in two. The front half was pinned down by the fire from the valley, while the rear half was blocked by the Third Battalion. A sergeant in the Japanese rear guard crouched in a ditch by the roadside, fired a shot up the slope, threw his gun on the ground, and shrank back into the ditch, remaining motionless.

At the north entrance, the special operations company blocked the valley entrance. Zhi Zi's sniper platoon opened fire from both sides of the slope. The first shot took down Yamada's communications soldier; the radio on the soldier's back was hit, and parts scattered everywhere. The second shot took down a lieutenant in the vanguard. The lieutenant took a step forward, but failed to take it, falling to his knees instead.

The artillery company fired mortars from the small hill at the north entrance. The shells flew over the valley and landed on the Japanese machine gun positions. Of the first volley of six shells, two missed, exploding on the hill and kicking up a pile of gravel. Four hit their targets, knocking the barrels of the two heavy machine guns askew. Ammunition boxes were also overturned, and bullets rolled out of the shattered wooden crates, landing in the dust.

Within five seconds, gunfire erupted simultaneously from several directions. The Japanese troops at the bottom of the valley seemed to be gripped by an invisible hand; their front and rear ranks were cut off, and their main force in the middle was pinned down in the narrowest point. Some Japanese soldiers were forced to squat on the ground, clutching their heads, muttering something unintelligible.

Nobuo Yamada fell off his horse.

Startled by the gunshot, the horse reared up, throwing him off. He fell to the ground, landing hard on his right shoulder, and the pain made his vision blur. The staff officer rushed over, and the two of them collided, dragging him behind a rock.

"Scatter! Form ranks!" Yamada shouted. His voice cracked and broke.

His soldiers tried to scatter. But the cliffs on both sides of Zhao Jia Yu were too steep to scatter. Some lay down by the roadside, some hid behind mules and horses, and some climbed up the slope, only to be driven back by fire from above after a few steps. One soldier climbed halfway down the slope, was shot in the leg, rolled down the slope, and lay motionless at the bottom of the valley.

Yamada ordered the machine gun squadron to set up heavy machine guns for a counterattack. The machine gunner carried the gun barrel and ran behind a rock. Just as he set it up, Old Zhou shouted over the radio.

"Hammer calling for Anvil: Japanese machine guns are behind rocks on the west side of the valley, requesting artillery cover."

Looking at the map, Zhao Weiguo combined the simulation and the observation post data to give a coordinate.

"Anvil calling for Iron Rain, coordinates 50 steps east-southeast, fire."

The artillery company adjusted its angle and fired twelve rounds in rapid succession. Shells rained down on the Japanese machine gun positions, blasting rocks and gun barrels into fragments. Most of the machine gun fire was silenced. One heavy machine gun had its barrel sheared off by shrapnel; the front half of the barrel rolled to the ground, still warm.

Yamada's face turned pale.

"Artillery company!" he shouted, "Block the west slope!"

He was unaware that the Third Battalion had already blocked his men at the south entrance. His artillery tried to turn their guns to attack the west slope, but the artillery carriages were blocked by overturned mules and horses; several mules and horses were dead and lying across the road, preventing the carriages from passing. The artillerymen were pinned to the end of the valley by the Third Battalion's firepower, lying on the ground, afraid to raise their heads.

Yamada's face turned from green to white.

He stood behind the rock, looking down into the valley. His soldiers were trapped at the narrowest point, blocked from both front and back, with gunfire coming from both sides and mortar shells flying overhead. Some were shouting, some were screaming, some were crawling on the ground, but stopped after a few steps.

Yamada gripped his military knife tightly, his knuckles white. His lips moved, but no sound came out.