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

After the gunfire stopped, the valley floor became even noisier.

The smoke of battle had not yet dissipated, and sunlight pierced through the gaps in the smoke, illuminating the rubble and spent shell casings. Surrendered Japanese soldiers squatted in the middle of the open space, their hands covering their heads, heavy breathing coming from their throats; some were sobbing quietly. Soldiers from the Independent Regiment were putting away their weapons, searching people, and carrying the wounded; shouts and footsteps mingled together.

Zhao Weiguo stood at the entrance of the valley, without the knife in his hand.

The knife lay on a nearby stone, the blood on its blade dried, leaving dark brown stains. A gust of wind blew, removing some of the dust clinging to the scabbard.

The communications soldier ran up from the valley floor. He was running so fast that he stepped on a loose rock and stumbled before regaining his balance.

"Commander, the casualty statistics are in."

Zhao Weiguo didn't look at the knife. His gaze was fixed on the communications soldier's face.

"explain."

"The 1st Battalion: 11 dead, 24 wounded. The 2nd Battalion: 8 dead, 19 wounded. The 3rd Battalion: 12 dead, 31 wounded. The engineer company: 3 dead, 5 wounded. The regimental headquarters' direct subordinate units: 4 dead, 6 wounded." The communications soldier paused, swallowing hard. "The entire regiment: 38 dead, 85 wounded."

Thirty-eight.

Zhao Weiguo closed his eyes briefly. He opened them a few seconds later, his voice flat and even.

"The list of the fallen must be delivered to me before nightfall. I need everyone's name, hometown, and when they enlisted."

The communications soldier stood at attention and walked away. Zhao Weiguo bent down and picked up the military knife from the stone. The cherry blossom pattern on the scabbard was half covered in blood. He rubbed it with his thumb, and the blood scab fell off, revealing the cherry blossom pattern again.

"Keep Yamada's sword, seal, and rank insignia separately. Send them to the brigade headquarters along with the battle reports."

He turned to look at Zhao Gang: "Is everything settled?"

"The rifles have been registered," Zhao Gang said. "The machine guns and ammunition are still being checked. Old Qian said there are still two mountain guns from Nankou that haven't been brought back."

"Drag it back. If you can't move it, disassemble it into parts and carry it; don't leave a single piece behind."

The spoils were piled up in a long line on the open ground at the bottom of the valley. Type 38 rifles were stacked together, their barrels still warm, their stocks stained with mud and blood. Next to them were machine guns; the barrels of two Type 92 heavy machine guns were still hot to the touch, and the machine gunners squatted beside them, wiping the grime with water, the cloth steaming as they did so. Ammunition boxes were stacked in two layers, hand grenades filled three sacks, and the lids of mortar shell boxes had been pried open, revealing straw and the shells. Further on were helmets, canteens, bayonets, and belts, piled up like a small mountain. A platoon of soldiers squatted beside them, sorting through the loot.

Old Qian squatted beside the pile of guns, casually pulled out a Type 38 rifle, and pulled the bolt—smooth, no jamming. He pulled out another one; the barrel still smelled of gunpowder, and the rifling was intact.

"All good guns." He clicked his tongue. "The Japanese take better care of them than we do."

Zhao Weiguo walked over, took the gun from him, and examined the barrel and serial number. "Issu them to each company. Replace the old Hanyang rifles first."

Two mountain guns stood at the mouth of the valley, their barrels covered in mud and grass. The engineers circled the guns, wiping the barrels with cloths and checking the sights. Old Qian walked over, squatted down next to one of the guns, and tilted his head to look at the recoil mechanism under the barrel. He reached out and touched it, his fingers getting oily.

"This one's good. The pipe isn't damaged, the scope isn't broken, it can be fired as soon as it's pulled back."

He then walked to another cannon and patted the barrel: "This recoil mechanism is leaking air; it'll veer off course when firing. We need to take parts apart."

Zhao Weiguo squatted down and examined the serial number on the cannon barrel. It was engraved in Japanese, with a row of small characters printed on the barrel wall. "Bring it back and fix it ourselves. Grind off the Japanese serial number and engrave the Independent Regiment's number on it. Dismantle the leaky cannon, take parts from it, and don't throw away anything usable."

Old Qian grinned: "Yamada's trip is enough to feed the Independent Regiment until the end of the year."

Zhao Weiguo stood up, his gaze sweeping across the valley floor. Rows of prisoners squatted on the southern open ground, heads bowed, some trembling. The bodies of fallen Japanese soldiers were carried to the southern side of the valley floor, lined up, waiting to be buried.

"The fallen Japanese soldiers were also buried," Zhao Weiguo said. "Dig a little deeper and put up a marker. Don't let them rot in the ravine."

Zhao Gang glanced at him but didn't ask why.

The battle report was written jointly by Zhao Weiguo and Zhao Gang. Zhao Weiguo provided the numbers, and Zhao Gang wrote them down.

"Nine hundred and seventy-three enemy soldiers were killed, and one hundred and twelve were captured. Four hundred and thirty-six rifles, six light and heavy machine guns, two Type 94 mountain guns, one hundred and twenty mortar shells, thirty-one thousand rounds of ammunition, and forty-seven mules and horses were seized. Food and military supplies were to be accounted for separately."

Zhao Gang wrote and read aloud, then looked up at Zhao Weiguo. "What about the dead and wounded?"

"Thirty-eight dead, eighty-five wounded."

Zhao Gang wrote down the numbers and laid them on the table to dry. Zhao Weiguo picked up Yamada's sword from the table, wrapped it in cloth, and then took the seal and rank insignia, stuffing them into the communications soldier's backpack. He added a line at the end of the battle report.

Zhao Gang glanced down at the figures and said, "The above figures for spoils of war and enemy casualties can be verified with evidence of spoils and prisoners of war. Please have the brigade headquarters send someone to check them."

He paused for a moment.

"Not even half the story?" he asked. "Other units usually report only half the story, afraid the higher-ups won't believe them."

Zhao Weiguo folded the battle report and stuffed it into an envelope. "If you discount it once, you'll have to discount it every time from now on. This time I won't discount it, so the brigade headquarters will only accept the figures I report directly from now on."

The envelope was sealed, and the communications soldier rode away. The sound of hooves grew fainter and fainter on the mountain road of Baimaling until it could no longer be heard.

When the battle report arrived at the brigade headquarters, the old brigade commander was looking at a map.

The communications soldier handed over the envelope, then took out a cloth bag from his backpack, opened it, and placed Yamada's sword and seal on the table. The old brigade commander saw the sword first, paused for a moment, picked it up, and examined the blade. There was dried blood on the blade, congealed into a dark line along the edge.

He placed the knife on the table and opened the battle report.

I watched it the first time without saying anything. Then I watched it again.

"Written by Zhao Weiguo?"

"Yes."

The old brigade commander slammed the battle report on the table, stood up, and walked around the map twice. On the third lap, he stopped and picked up the report again.

"Nine hundred and seventy-three enemy soldiers were killed, and four hundred and thirty-six rifles, six light and heavy machine guns, and two Type 94 mountain guns were captured."

He read it aloud once, then laughed.

"That kid."

He slapped the battle report into the hands of the communications soldier: "Report back to him. Battle report received, digital brigade headquarters to verify. Keep the sword and seal, send a copy to Yan'an."

After the communications soldier left, the old brigade commander stood in front of the map, looking at the location of the Taihang Mountains. He pointed to Baimaling with his finger and smiled. There was something indescribable in that smile; it wasn't just happiness, but more like the sense of security a soldier feels seeing his men grow stronger.

Three days later, the instructions from Yan'an arrived.

The headquarters sent someone directly to Baimaling. The headquarters leader's instructions were written in two lines. When Zhao Weiguo took it to read, his fingers were steady, but after reading it, his fingers tightened slightly.

Zhao Gang leaned over to take a look, and was stunned after reading it.

"Precise command, superb tactics, and solid political work. The Independent Regiment of the 386th Brigade is awarded the honorary title of 'White Horse Iron Brigade.'"

Zhao Gang read it aloud once, then a second time, before looking up at Zhao Weiguo: "An honorary designation. This isn't an ordinary award. Very few regimental-level units in the entire Eighth Route Army have this."

Zhao Weiguo folded the written instruction and put it in his pocket.

"Where's the banner?"

"The brigade headquarters is handling it," Zhao Gang said. "The old brigade commander said he would deliver it personally."

The old brigade commander arrived on the fifth day.

He rode a gray donkey, followed by two guards and a communications soldier. A wooden box wrapped in red cloth was carried on the donkey's back. The entire regiment of Baimaling stood in formation.

The soldiers of the Independent Regiment stood in eight rows. Their uniforms were a mixed bag; some wore gray military uniforms, some blue cloth jackets, and some wore Japanese overcoats. But everyone stood ramrod straight. The angle at which their rifles rested on their shoulders was the same, and the degree to which their chins were tucked in was also the same. Zhao Weiguo stood at the very front, next to Zhao Gang.

The old brigade commander dismounted from the donkey and held the wooden box in his hands. He didn't open it immediately, but first scanned the ranks. The ranks were quiet; no one spoke.

The old brigade commander looked around, nodded, and then opened the wooden box.

Red velvet base, yellow tassels, with four characters embroidered on it.

White Horse Railway Brigade.

As he raised the flag, the sunlight shone directly on it, and the four golden characters flashed briefly in the light.

"On behalf of the Eighth Route Army Headquarters and the 129th Division, I present this flag to you."

He held the flag and slowly walked around the front of the procession. The flag unfurled briefly in the wind, then drooped down again.

"The first honorary designation of the 386th Brigade."

The mountain breeze paused for a moment, and he sent his message into the crowd.

"It wasn't just for Zhao Weiguo. It was earned by every single person, living and dead, on Baimaling, through countless shots."

No one spoke in the line. Someone swallowed hard, their Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"Yan'an emphasized three points: precise command, excellent tactics, and solid political work. The Independent Regiment is up to the task."

The old brigade commander walked up to Zhao Weiguo and handed him the flag with both hands. Zhao Weiguo accepted it with both hands. His hands were covered in calluses, his thumbs had cracks, and his fingernails were still embedded with black gunpowder ash that couldn't be washed off. When he took the flag, he gripped the flagpole tightly with his fingers.

He held up the flag and walked around the entire regiment.

"This was won by two thousand brothers fighting together. Thirty-eight brothers who died in battle were also among them."

No one shouted in the line. Someone took off their hat.

Zhao Gang stood to the side, silently memorizing Zhao Weiguo's words. He later told Zhao Weiguo that those words were more effective than any political textbook. Zhao Weiguo didn't reply, but Zhao Gang knew he was doing it on purpose; the kind of person he was wouldn't just say something nice and leave it at that.

The banner was hung inside the cave dwelling of the regiment headquarters.

The cave dwelling wasn't large; the front was a wall with a map nailed to it. To the left of the map was a weapons rack, and to the right was a filing cabinet. Zhao Weiguo hung the White Horse Iron Brigade's flag in the middle, directly above the map. After hanging it, he took two steps back to confirm its position, then stepped forward and straightened the lower right corner of the flag.

Then he hung Yamada's sword on the left side of the flag. The scabbard had been wiped clean, and the cherry blossom pattern gleamed with a brassy light under the lamp.

He then hung the list of fallen soldiers written by Zhao Gang on the right side of the flag. It was written with a brush, on a sheet of A36 paper, with thirty-eight names arranged in three rows. The paper had creases, from when the signal corps sent it from the regimental headquarters to each battalion for verification.

Three things are on the same wall.

Zhao Gang entered the cave dwelling, saw this wall, and stopped. He walked to the front of the list and looked at each name one by one.

"I'll be giving a political lesson tomorrow," he said. "I'll explain to every soldier how the White Horse Iron Brigade came to be. If we don't explain this thoroughly to the new recruits, no matter how high the flag is hoisted, it's useless."

That afternoon, the old brigade commander didn't leave. He told Zhao Weiguo that he would take a walk on the ridge to digest his food before continuing his journey.

Zhao Weiguo accompanied him as they walked out of the regimental headquarters cave dwelling and headed south along the ridge. The guard followed about twenty paces away, not getting too close. The old brigade commander walked slowly, his shoes crushing a few clods of dry earth as he stepped on the mountain path.

He stopped and looked at the mountains in the distance. The mountains were in autumn colors, yellow and green intermingled, and the sky was high and blue.

How many people are in the Independent Regiment now?

"Three thousand two," Zhao Weiguo said. "The brigade headquarters added five hundred new recruits, and the supplementary company brought in over three hundred able-bodied men. Adding those who came from the surrounding areas to join, three thousand two is the full quota."

"Where's the gun?"

"Enough. Ammunition is scarce; each person has less than twenty rounds."

The old brigade commander nodded. "Don't count on the brigade headquarters for bullets. They don't have many either. We'll take them from the Japanese, or trade them with the puppet troops."

"I see."

The old brigade commander took out a cigarette, lit it, took a drag, and the smoke he exhaled was blown away by the wind. He flicked the ash off his cigarette and remained silent for a while.

Zhao Weiguo sensed that the old brigade commander had something to say, so he didn't urge him.

"Headquarters received some intelligence," the old brigade commander finally spoke, his voice lower than before. "The Japanese in North China may be planning a major operation this autumn. Headquarters is considering launching a large-scale attack before they make their move. We'll destroy their railway lines, preventing them from transporting troops and supplies."

Zhao Weiguo's heart skipped a beat. The railway line.

"When?"

"Before the end of the year," the old brigade commander said. "The specific time and objectives haven't been set yet. But you need to prepare in advance—ammunition, engineering, and railway sabotage training—get started. Don't tell me it's too late later."

Zhao Weiguo looked into the distance. The railway was on the other side of the mountain. He had never seen the Zhengtai Railway, but he remembered its location clearly.

"There's still time."

The old brigade commander glanced at him: "Are you confident?"

"Give me a month's notice."

The old brigade commander stubbed out his cigarette and stomped it into the ground. "I'll let you know in advance."

The setting sun shone on Baima Ridge. Zhao Weiguo returned to his cave dwelling and stood before the wall. The flag of the Baima Iron Brigade gleamed a dark red in the sunset, and Yamada's sword cast a long shadow in the light. The words on the list of the fallen were clearly visible.

He looked at it for a while, then sat on the edge of the bed and took out his notebook. He wrote a few lines in the notebook.

Ammunition reserves: 50,000 rounds of ammunition.

Engineer training: Basic demolition training to be completed in two weeks.

Railway sabotage: Select a suitable location for the drill.

After he finished writing, he closed the notebook.

Zhao Gang was organizing political lesson materials outside the cave dwelling. He lit a kerosene lamp and wrote under its light. After finishing, he blew on the paper to let the ink dry.

Inside the cave dwelling, Zhao Weiguo was still sitting on the edge of the bed.

He looked at the flags and lists on the wall, without turning on the light. The light dimmed, and the flags and lists on the wall slowly sank into shadow. Then the light went out completely.

He didn't move.

I just sat there, in the dark, facing that wall for a while.