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

Half of the smoke from the mouth of Coffin Gully dissipated, while the remaining half was carried northward by the morning wind, disappearing behind the unseen mountain ridge.

On the open ground outside the ditch, 21 Japanese soldiers lay in two rows. The blood that had congealed on their uniforms melted in the morning dew, seeping into the gravel through the folds of their uniforms, turning a dark color. Old Zhou led two assault teams to count the bodies from west to east, marking each one by sticking a dry twig at their feet.

Zhao Weiguo stood under the crooked jujube tree on the north edge of the open space. He didn't look at the body; his eyes were fixed on the northern mountain path outside the gully. On the steep slope, Yamamoto's right arm and the copper casing of the fuse still lay on a pine slab, untouched. He hadn't slept a wink all night; his eyes were now dark and bluish-black, and his shoulders slumped an inch.

"Commander." Old Zhou walked over, holding a roll of oilcloth in his hand. "The ones at the bottom of the steep slope have all been collected."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

Old Zhou spread out a corner of the oilcloth. Inside were the severed arm, the copper casing, and shredded bandage from last night; the blood had dried to a dark brown color. The copper casing was three centimeters long, narrow at one end and wide at the other, with a piece of twisted muscle fiber stuck to the wide end.

"21 bodies," Old Zhou said. "Including Tanaka Yuzuru, that's 22."

"Yamamoto doesn't count."

"No, that doesn't count." Old Zhou covered himself with the corner of the oilcloth. "I need to see him alive or dead."

Old Zhou's eyes looked older than usual today. The bloodshot veins under his eyes hadn't faded, and his left eyelid was drooping half an inch, as if it had been scratched by a bush branch while he was going down the hillside last night.

"Where's the file?"

Old Zhou turned around and called out. A soldier ran over, carrying a stack of oiled paper documents. Zhao Weiguo took them and flipped through them. On top was Tanaka's map of the Taiyuan area, the edges of which were worn. The next sheet was a list of soldiers' equipment, written in calligraphy, vertically arranged, each line listing the soldier's name, sidearm, knife, and equipment. The last line read, "One copper fuse case, carried on board, for use in detonating landmines." Zhao Weiguo's finger paused on that line of text.

He flipped to the second page. The third page.

"Where is the monk?"

"At the other end of Nanshan Road," Old Zhou said. "He's sitting on that stone slab by the steep slope."

"Call him over."

Old Zhou didn't move. He glanced at Zhao Weiguo, then at the direction of the turquoise slab, and said nothing.

Zhao Weiguo didn't urge him.

The pale sunlight to the east had already spread over the mountain ridge, illuminating the clearing outside the gully. The morning dew on the 21 corpses began to dissipate, turning into wisps of white vapor.

The monk walked from the other end of Nanshan Road. He walked slowly, his feet dragging on the gravel. He stopped in front of Zhao Weiguo, not standing at attention, but slumping his shoulders and lowering his head without looking up.

"I saw what happened on the steep slope," Zhao Weiguo said.

"Um."

"Why not pursue it?"

The monk glanced up at Zhao Weiguo, then looked away. "Slippery. One step down, the spear bounces off the rock, and he'll have an opening."

"The one-armed man is still bleeding."

"Even with only one arm, you dare to take this risk?" the monk said. "Last night, my grip loosened a little; I shouldn't have."

Zhao Weiguo didn't reply. He folded the stack of documents and handed them to Lao Zhou, who took them and stuffed them into his briefcase.

"He's a real man," the monk said.

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

"Yamamoto," the monk said. "I said Yamamoto."

"It was a wolf," Zhao Weiguo said. "A man doesn't turn back. He not only left, he left his arm behind."

The monk's lips moved slightly, but he didn't make a sound. He looked down at his right hand. The spur mark from pressing on Yamamoto's right shoulder last night was still on his right palm, and the skin there was white. He clenched his right hand, then released it.

"Starting today, we'll go through the escort procedures from the beginning," Zhao Weiguo said. "Search them thoroughly, determine who can and cannot be searched, and decide whether to change the binding method. Go back and draw the marks on that stone slab from last night, and show them to Zhao Gang later."

"Um."

"Go."

The monk turned and walked towards the other end of Nanshan Road. After a few steps, he stopped, glanced back at Zhao Weiguo, his gaze lingering on Zhao Weiguo's face for less than a second before looking away. He didn't speak, turned back, and continued walking.

Two military tables were set up under the crooked jujube tree at the east end of the open space. Zhao Gang sat behind one of the tables, on which lay a piece of paper, with a stone pressing down beside it. The paper contained Ma Si's confession and a list of physical evidence in the case of his treason. Three witnesses had signed and pressed their fingerprints.

Ma Si was squatting on the open ground in front of the table, his hands tied behind his back. Two soldiers guarding him were carrying Type 38 rifles. Ma Si's face was pale, his lips were dry, and the stubble under his chin was bluish. He stared at the table, not looking up.

Zhao Weiguo walked over and stood next to Zhao Gang. Zhao Gang looked up at him and pushed the statement paper an inch closer to him.

Zhao Weiguo looked down.

The written notice stated: Three silver dollars as deposit, 27 dollars as final payment, and a blind spot to be created by moving the sentry post 50 steps back from the west side of Liujiapo. Witnesses: Liu Dashan, Shuanzi, and Zhizi. All three signed and affixed their fingerprints neatly.

The list of physical evidence is written separately: three silver dollars, nine copper coins, a white cloth jacket worn by Ma Si himself (with a Japanese short sword sheath sewn into the lining), and three bullets from the Kwantung Army's imitation of the Type 24 rifle.

Zhao Gang spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but he enunciated each word clearly.

"Ma Si."

Ma Si looked up.

"The sentry post on the west side of Liujiapo was moved back 50 paces to create a blind spot for the Japanese army."

"Yes."

"A three-dollar deposit, and a 27-dollar balance."

"Yes."

"You admit it."

"I admit it."

Ma Si's Adam's apple bobbed. He swallowed. Not saliva, but something was forced down his throat.

"Why?" Zhao Gang asked.

Ma Si didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his hands, which were tied behind his back, and saw the veins on the back of his hands bulge and then relax.

"Loyalty," he said.

Zhao Gang didn't move. He didn't reply immediately, staring at Ma Si for a full two seconds. Ma Si's gaze rose to Zhao Gang's chin and stopped there, not daring to look any higher.

"Loyalty." Zhao Gang repeated the two words, lowering his voice even further. "Liu Dashan's family sent you two bags of cornmeal, and you called him 'Big Brother.' Shuanzi sewed up your blood-soaked shoe soles last year, and you called him 'Brother.' That's loyalty, I acknowledge it."

Ma Si's eyes flickered.

"But if you retreat 50 paces, that blind spot on the west side of Liujiapo's sentry post will be cleared for the Japanese," Zhao Gang said. "If the regimental commander hadn't made arrangements beforehand last night, those 30 men from Guancaigou would have rushed into that blind spot. Who would they have killed? Liu Dashan. Shuanzi. The entire platoon from Liujiapo."

Ma Si's shoulders twitched. He clenched his teeth and puffed out his cheeks.

"Loyalty doesn't mean helping the Japanese kill your own people."

As soon as Zhao Gang finished speaking, no one responded in the open space. The two soldiers guarding the convoy felt a sudden weight on their Type 38 rifles. Old Zhou stood under the jujube tree behind Zhao Weiguo, his knuckles white as he gripped the rolled-up oilcloth bundle in his hands.

Ma Si's eyes reddened. A tear rolled down his stubble and landed on the gravel.

"Political Commissar," Ma Si said. "Give me a quick answer."

Zhao Gang didn't speak. He folded the confession paper and the list of physical evidence, and placed them under the stone on the table. He glanced at Zhao Weiguo.

Zhao Weiguo neither nodded nor shook his head. Zhao Gang was in charge of this matter, and his word was law.

Zhao Gang stood up from behind the table. He pulled the Mauser pistol out of its holster and adjusted the safety. The muzzle was pointing downwards.

"take away."

The soldiers escorting the team lifted Ma Si from the open ground and led him towards the gravel ditch outside the gully. Under two crooked elm trees in the ditch was a newly dug mound of earth. Beside the mound stood a soldier from the firing squad, a Type 38 rifle slung over his shoulder.

Ma Si was forced to kneel down in front of the mound of earth.

Zhao Gang stood ten paces away. He didn't raise his hand, nor did he shout any slogans. He only glanced at the soldier with the Type 38 rifle.

A shot rang out.

A sound.

Ma Si slumped forward, his face pressed against the newly dug soil.

No one spoke in the open space. The wind from the other side of the gully carried the smell of gunpowder northward, over that unseen mountain ridge.

As Zhao Weiguo walked past Zhao Gang, Zhao Gang put his pistol back in its holster without looking at him.

"I'm going to Liujiapo this afternoon," Zhao Gang said.

"Um."

"I need to go to that platoon in Liujiapo myself."

"you go."

Zhao Gang turned and walked towards the folding table. He took two steps, then stopped, without looking back.

"Commander."

"Um."

"The monk is not responsible for this."

Zhao Weiguo did not respond.

"The escort procedures are the regiment's own procedures," Zhao Gang said. "The monk's actions were a loosening of the rules; the regulations are lax within the regiment. It will be brought up at the meeting."

"Um."

Zhao Gang walked back to the table and sat down, then unfolded the confession paper again.

Liu Dashan walked over from the mountain path on the west side. His guard company had been on guard duty on the perimeter last night. Liu Dashan had a scratch on his left cheek and a tear in the cuff of his uniform.

"Commander." Liu Dashan stood at attention in front of Zhao Weiguo. "The outer perimeter is cleared."

"How many."

"The guard company sustained one minor abrasion, but no one was seriously injured." Liu Dashan paused for a moment. "The perimeter wasn't breached."

"Um."

Liu Dashan glanced at the 21 corpses on the open ground at the mouth of the ditch, then looked away.

"The stretcher team has taken the wounded back to the medical team," he said. "Two are seriously injured. One in the chest, the other in the abdomen. Yang Xiuqin said the one with the chest wound probably won't make it through the day."

Zhao Weiguo didn't speak. He shifted his gaze from the 21 corpses to Liu Dashan's face.

"What's your name?"

"The one on the chest is Sun Xiaoman, 19 years old, an only child, from Cangzhou," Liu Dashan said. "The one on the stomach is Zhou Shuanlao, 22 years old, with a blind old mother in Shouyang South."

Zhao Weiguo silently repeated the two names in his throat.

"I'll go take a look."

Liu Dashan stepped aside. Zhao Weiguo walked towards the stretcher team's footprints outside the ditch.

The medical team was stationed in the stone kilns on the north side of Baimaling. Two bundles of firewood were burning hot water outside the kiln entrance. Yang Xiuqin, wearing an apron, came out of the kiln, her hands stained with blood, and the water in the basin was red.

Zhao Weiguo entered the kiln. There were two rows of straw mats. Seven wounded soldiers lay on the straw mats. Their breathing rose and fell, some heavy, some light.

On the innermost straw mat lay Sun Xiaoman. His chest was wrapped in three layers of gauze, with a dark red stain seeping through. His face was pale, and his lips were blue. His eyes were half-open; when he saw Zhao Weiguo enter, he tried to lift his head but couldn't.

Zhao Weiguo squatted down next to him.

"Don't move."

Sun Xiaoman's Adam's apple bobbed slightly.

"Commander." His voice was very soft.

Zhao Weiguo reached out and tucked in the corner of the blanket next to his straw mat.

"Rest," Zhao Weiguo said. "Don't think about anything."

Sun Xiaoman closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. He didn't say anything, just looked at Zhao Weiguo.

Zhao Weiguo wrote down his name. 19 years old. Cangzhou. Only son.

The next straw mat belonged to Zhou Shuanlao. His stomach was wrapped in gauze, and his breathing was shallow. His eyes were closed; he was unconscious. Zhao Weiguo stood beside his straw mat for a while and noted his name. 22 years old. Shouyang South. Blind old woman.

Yang Xiuqin called out from outside, "Commander, the one in her chest probably won't last until today. As for the one in her stomach, we'll have to see tomorrow."

Zhao Weiguo did not respond.

He walked from the innermost straw mat outwards, pausing beside each one. The third mat was of Shuanzhu, Shuanzi's cousin, a bullet piercing his leg, conscious, nodding. The fourth mat was of Li Tie, a new recruit in the Liujiapo Supplementary Company, with a scrape on his arm, his face flushed when he saw the regimental commander enter. He memorized the names on the remaining three mats one by one.

When he came out of the kiln, the hot water from the firewood pile outside had boiled again. Yang Xiuqin squatted at the kiln entrance to wash her hands, and the blood on the back of her hands washed into the basin, making it red again.

"Yang Xiuqin."

"Commander."

"Write down Sun Xiaoman and Zhou Shuanlao's names clearly and register them under my name."

Yang Xiuqin looked up at him, didn't ask why, and nodded.

Zhao Weiguo walked back to the crooked jujube tree at the mouth of the ditch. Telegram sheets were laid out on the work table. Old Zhou was already waiting for him there.

"Have you thought of the telegram?" Old Zhou asked.

"I've made up my mind."

Zhao Weiguo sat down behind the table and pulled the telegram over.

"Report from Zhao Weiguo, Commander of the Independent Regiment." He read aloud as he wrote, pausing after each character. "In the Battle of Coffin Gully, 22 members of the Japanese special forces, including Tanaka Yuzuru, were killed. A Japanese document and map, and a copper fuse case were seized. Yamamoto Ichiki, during the escort, suffered two shoulder injuries after hitting a sharp corner of a rock wall. He used the copper fuse case to unscrew his right arm, escaped by rolling down a steep slope, and managed to escape with only one arm. A search of the mountain was unsuccessful. The responsibility for the failed escort lies with me. The evidence against Ma Si for treason is conclusive; he has been executed. Further details will be telegraphed separately."

He paused for less than a second when he wrote the line, "The responsibility for the failed escort lies with me." Then he continued writing.

"The Independent Regiment suffered minor casualties, with two seriously wounded. Please provide further instructions from brigade headquarters."

He put down his pen. The ink on the telegram was still wet.

Old Zhou picked up the telegram, blew on it, folded it, and handed it to the communications soldier. The communications soldier saluted and ran towards the German-made radio at Baimaling.

Zhao Weiguo didn't look at the telegram.

Underneath the stone on the corner of the table was Ma Si's confession. Zhao Gang was still sitting there, not having left. Zhao Gang looked up and glanced at Zhao Weiguo.

"The responsibility for the failed escort lies with me." Zhao Gang read this line aloud. "You wrote that sentence too heavily."

"It should be heavy."

"Headquarters might not see it that way."

"What headquarters thinks is their business," Zhao Weiguo said. "That's how I'll write it here."

Zhao Gang didn't speak. He unfolded the statement paper again.

Around noon, a reply came from the German-made radio station at Baimaling.

Zhao Weiguo opened the envelope behind the folding table. The envelope bore the official seal of the 386th Brigade headquarters. Inside was a sheet of paper. It was written by the brigade's operations staff officer, with the last line containing seven characters handwritten by the former brigade commander.

Zhao Weiguo looked at that line.

"Yamamoto ran away, so be it."

He read the telegram twice. The first time, he read the section about the brigade's operations staff: "The Independent Regiment is to be expanded to 5000 men, approved. Equipment and supplies will be rescheduled separately. Regiment Commander Zhao Weiguo will report to the brigade headquarters during next month's military and political conference."

I looked at the old brigade commander's seven characters a second time. These seven characters weren't signed at the end, but next to the word "准" (approved) on that line. The ink was thick, and the pen pressure was heavy.

Zhao Weiguo didn't put the telegram down immediately. He folded it into a small square and placed it on the table. He glanced up at the open space outside the table. The 21 corpses had already been carried away by stretcher teams, leaving only pools of blackened blood on the ground. The severed arm and copper shell from last night on the pine slab on the south mountain road, heading towards the north mountain pass outside the gully, had been put into a briefcase by Lao Zhou.

Zhao Weiguo didn't speak. He didn't curse, nor did he sigh. He put the folded telegram into his inner jacket pocket and buttoned it up.

"Old Zhou."

"exist."

"The independent regiment has expanded to 5000 men. I will be reporting to the brigade headquarters next month."

"Um."

Old Zhou didn't press Yamamoto about it. He took the cigarette off his ear, rubbed it between his fingers, didn't light it, and put it back in.

A red light flashed on the program panel in Zhao Weiguo's right pocket.

Task completed. Rating: Grade A

[Reward: 1 Small Constitution Enhancement Agent]

[Current Constitution Level: LV3 (Enhanced to LV3.1)]

[Class A missions indicate that the adversary-level target has disengaged from combat, and the criteria for a BOSS-level objective have not been met.]

Zhao Weiguo turned off the control panel.

He didn't look at the line "opponent-level target disengaged from combat" a second time. This battle was against Yamamoto; Yamamoto was the nail. Once the nail was removed, that was that. The larger battlefield behind the nail wasn't in this battle. He read those seven words from the old brigade commander twice.

Zhao Weiguo stood up from behind the table and walked to the flat rock outside the ditch. On the rock lay a Mauser pistol, a magazine, a can of gun oil, and a cleaning cloth. He sat down, pulled the pistol out of its holster, ejected the magazine, pulled the bolt, and confirmed that there were no bullets in the chamber.

The gun cleaning cloth, soaked in gun oil, was pulled back along the barrel. A layer of grayish-black residue stained the cloth. He turned the cloth over and pulled it again.

The gun barrel was cold. The coolness of touching it with your fingers was cooler than morning dew, cooler than stone. It was the coolness of polished metal.

He hadn't gotten enough oil with one brush, so he dipped it into another cup. The cloth was pulled back along the gun barrel with a steady rhythm. Pull and stop, pull and stop. A stretcher team passed by on the mountain path outside the gully, their footsteps fragmented. On the patch of black blood at the gully mouth, a second layer of morning dew had dissolved, fading the color.

The hand that was wiping the gun paused for a moment.

It didn't stop in the middle of an action, but between one action and the next. The cloth was on the barrel, neither pulled nor loosened. The finger paused briefly at the point of application of force.

Old Zhou walked over from the jujube tree. He walked lightly, his footsteps barely making a sound on the gravel. He sat down on the flat stone next to Zhao Weiguo, without saying a word, and first took out his cigarette.

"Commander."

"Um."

Old Zhou lit a cigarette, took a puff, and let the smoke drift northwards.

Do you know why Yamamoto chose us?

Zhao Weiguo didn't immediately move his hand to clean the gun.

He removed the cloth from the gun barrel and placed it on his knee. He didn't look at Old Zhou. His eyes were fixed on the patch of dark bloodstains outside the ditch.

The smoke from the battle at the mouth of the gully has completely dissipated. The light on the eastern ridge has brightened a little more.