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

Before dawn, the roar of armored vehicle engines had already drowned out the city wall of Liujia Town's east gate. Two armored vehicles lay one behind the other in the morning mist, their headlights off, but their engines still running. The low vibrations traveled along the frozen dirt road, and fine white cracks appeared in the thin ice along the moat. When the searchlights swept down from the city wall, the two vehicles stopped, a layer of frost forming on their black steel plates; as soon as the beams moved away, the drivers released the clutch slightly, and the engines lurched forward again.

Those on the city wall could hear clearly but couldn't see clearly. The third armored vehicle remained at the rear. After the right rear steel plate was removed, both welds were cracked. Zhao Tieshan squatted under the vehicle for half the night, feeling around, and when he got up, he only said one sentence: "This vehicle can't go in today."

Old Zhou immediately panicked and asked him what they would use to ram the door if they were missing a car. Zhao Tieshan wiped his hands, which were covered in black oil, on his cotton coat and said bluntly, "You can ram it with your head, but you can't use it. If the steel plate breaks, everyone in the car will be killed."

There were only two vehicles outside the East Gate, and they weren't really expected to ram the iron-clad gate. The vehicles stopped about 300 paces away, positioned across the moat to block the machine guns on the city wall. As soon as the cannons fired, they changed positions. The driver's hands were frozen stiff, and every now and then he would rub them vigorously on his trouser legs before gripping the steering wheel.

On the southern earthen ridge, Zhao Weiguo pressed his binoculars against his eyes, the rim of the lens so cold it stung his eye sockets. The walls of Liujia Town lay hidden behind the fog. The town wasn't large, roughly three square kilometers within its walls. An additional gate had been added outside the east gate, a drainage ditch ran along the base of the north wall, and a moderately steep earthen ridge faced south. Inside the town were 1,100 Japanese and puppet troops. Two heavy machine guns were positioned on the east gate tower, and mortars were hidden behind the walls. Yangquan had another 800 men on standby. If the county-wide joint defense forces joined forces and the Independent Regiment attacked the town again, they would lose several teeth.

Thirty-six hours after the station was lost, a crowd had already gathered outside Liujia Town. Nine men had died in Heisonggou, their names just removed from the roster. Three county brigades from the surrounding areas of Beishan Road sent 309 qualified personnel as part of the reorganization order, bringing the Independent Regiment's strength to 7,800 after they were added to the various companies. The new recruits did not participate in the siege assault; before they were even familiar with their guns, they were assigned to transport, medical, and perimeter security, carrying artillery shells, stretchers, and guarding mountain passes.

Several large pots were set up on the reverse slope of Nanling. The cooks didn't dare to light an open fire, but instead stuffed the leftover cornbread from last night into their cotton-padded coats to soften it. The medical team's stretchers were leaning against the earthen embankment, with the white sheets turned over to avoid being visible after dawn. A young medic squatted in a sheltered spot, cutting bandages. When the scissors reached the last layer of cotton cloth, they became stiff. She used her teeth to help pull it, leaving a few tangled threads at the edge of the cloth.

Zhao Gang lifted the canvas of the command tent and crawled in, his shoulders covered in frost.

"Ding Wei's liaison officer has arrived."

The soldier who followed him in was covered in mud, and part of his leggings had come undone, with wet strips of cloth dragging behind his feet. He pulled out a piece of paper folded several times from his pocket and handed it to him; his ten knuckles were white with cold.

Ding Wei mobilized 600 men in the direction of Yuci, knocking on two strongholds north of the railway to tie down the mobile forces there. He didn't come to Liujia Town, nor did he hand over his troops; he simply held the designated points as agreed.

After reading it, Zhao Weiguo wrote "Withdraw on time" on the back of the paper. Only a short pencil remained. He held it very low, and the tip of the pencil grazed the paper, leaving a mark that showed through to the front.

The liaison officer took the paper back but did not leave immediately.

"Commander Zhao, should we move closer?"

"Need not."

"Commander Ding said that if a breach has indeed been made at the East Gate, he can send more men from his side."

Zhao Weiguo stuffed the pencil back into his breast pocket: "You guys keep the north side secured. Whether or not the breach is opened is the Independent Regiment's business." The liaison officer wanted to ask more, but Zhao Gang handed him a bowl of warm water first. The soldier held the bowl with both hands, and only when his lips touched it did he realize the water wasn't hot. He gulped down most of it in one go, his Adam's apple bobbing several times.

"Take those words back with you," Zhao Gang said. "Withdraw when the time comes, don't let the Japanese catch up from the Yuci direction."

The soldier nodded, wiped his mouth, and continued his hurried descent down the hill, his loose leggings leaving a wet trail on the gravel. Zhao Gang stood at the entrance of the shed for a while, then turned and asked, "Aren't we inviting our neighbors to come up this time?"

"They have their own unit designation and their own command structure." Zhao Weiguo spread the city defense map out on the wooden box. "We only issue orders to missions, not to individuals."

Several stones were pressed down on the map, but the wind still seeped in through the corners of the paper, rustling and blowing. Old Zhou squatted on the red line at the east gate, his thick fingers pressing against the urn door; Duan Peng was at Nanling; Li Dazhu guarded the ditch outside the north wall. The men, all covered in the smell of frozen earth and smoke, huddled together in front of the map, their breaths mingling.

Old Zhou's battalion attacked the east gate, with artillery, armored vehicles, and engineer ammunition carts all laid out before him. This side had to be fierce and ruthless, forcing the defenders to bring over every gun they could move.

Duan Peng led his men to cut through the southern ridge first, then advance along the western alley into the city, sealing off the south and west gates. The second battalion of seven hundred men lay in ambush in the ditch on the north side. They remained motionless during the artillery bombardment and during the assault at the east gate. They were waiting for the sound of the drainage ditch.

Old Zhou stared at the thin line on the north wall: "You think my men are just going to stand by and watch for two hours at the east gate?"

"Your people need to make their act real."

"The shells were real, the vehicles were real, how can you call it a theatrical performance?"

Zhao Weiguo looked up: "Because you didn't squeeze through the gate when you entered the city." Old Zhou's hand stopped on the map. The drainage ditch below the north wall had been in disrepair for years; its opening was narrow, and it was full of stinking water, broken bricks, and rotten grass. The sappers had crawled in there for six hours, their trousers soaked to their thighs, their elbows and knees burning from the chafing. The garrison disliked the stench and avoided it on patrol. Sixty kilograms of explosives had been stuffed into the inner wall of the ditch, the fuse dragged along the ditch a hundred paces away, the joint wrapped in three layers of tarpaulin.

"Blow up the North Ditch for fifteen minutes, then you can go in," Zhao Weiguo said.

Old Zhou frowned: "We have to wait another fifteen minutes?"

"The defending troops had just heard the sound from the north, and their first reaction was to pull men out from the east gate. If you push forward at that moment, they'll be moving their guns, turning their cannons, and adjusting their troops, and they'll all be clashing together."

Old Zhou clicked his tongue. The losses he suffered from rushing to be early the first time were still on the casualty log, so he didn't argue anymore, and just pulled his hat brim down.

"Fifteen minutes. Not a moment longer."

Zhao Tieshan opened the artillery ammunition quota book beside him: "One hundred and eighty rounds. Whoever has fired the required number, I'll go find them first." Old Zhou glanced at him: "The city hasn't even been captured yet, and you're already protecting the ammunition."

"If you don't protect us with cannonballs, are you going to let us bombard the city walls with your mouth?"

Zhao Weiguo drew a circle on the East Gate tower: "Press the city wall for the first five minutes, then slow down. Don't try to make a big splash; fire wherever you see firepower. Armored vehicles are not allowed to cross the marker before the city gate is opened."

Zhao Tieshan slammed his notebook shut: "Did you hear me? I'm in charge of watching the trucks too." Old Zhou muttered something under his breath, but ultimately didn't respond. At five in the morning, the mountain gun fired first.

The first shot landed to the left of the East Gate tower, sending a cloud of dust up from the top of the wall. Bricks slammed against the top of the gate arch and rolled down with a crackling sound. Immediately afterward, several other cannons fired simultaneously. The cannon fire turned the still-dawn sky orange-red, and the shockwave rose from the foot of the earthen mound. A pencil on the wooden box bounced and rolled to the back of Zhao Gang's hand.

Four mountain guns, six mortars, and two infantry guns were positioned at several locations, bombarding the city walls according to their designated firing parameters. The first five minutes were the most intense, with plumes of smoke rising from the east gate tower, the crenellations on both sides, and behind the barbican. Wooden beams were blown off, and half of the eaves fell diagonally, dangling above the city gate for a few moments before finally crashing into the dust.

Two armored vehicles drove back and forth along the dirt road behind the marker, their machine guns aimed short of the city wall. Shell casings clattered and rolled inside the vehicles, the smoke and gasoline fumes stinging the gunner's eyes and making them water. He dared not raise his hand to wipe them, only rubbing his face against his shoulder after firing a belt of ammunition, leaving a dark mark on his eyelid.

The defenders retaliated quickly. A mortar shell landed in front of the lead vehicle, ripping up the frozen ground and scattering mud and ice all over the front of the truck. The driver's foot tightened, and the armored vehicle lurched forward. The commander grabbed his cotton sleeve from behind, his hand scraping against the metal and drawing blood.

"Back up! Behind the marker!"

The driver's jaw ached from clenching his teeth, but he managed to reverse the car. The chassis scraped against the rocks, making a screeching sound. Another car then opened fire, the muzzle flashing through the smoke, forcing back the machine gun that had just appeared on the city wall.

The shelling lasted for half an hour, and the soil outside the east gate had been crushed into black mud by the wheels of vehicles. Old Zhou's men lay prone in the trench, with bits of soil constantly falling from above. The soldier at the front had his rifle tucked into his arm, a small piece of cold cornbread in his mouth, unable to chew it but not daring to spit it out. With each shelling, his back teeth would clink together, and bits of cornbread would stick to the corner of his mouth.

The cannon fire continued from five o'clock until nearly seven o'clock, a full two hours. The defenders' eyes and cannons were also locked at the east gate for two hours.

Old Zhou walked through the trench, bending down to look at each one. Someone looked up and asked if he wanted to go up, but he just waved his hand.

"If I don't hear a sound from the north, nobody's going to show their face."

After several rounds of attacks, the defenders indeed moved their reserves to that side of the tower. Through binoculars, the sandbags grew thicker and thicker, and men in yellow and gray uniforms crowded behind the crenellations, while machine guns were moved from one place to another. The mortars in the city also turned eastward, their shells sometimes landing near armored vehicles, sometimes crashing into the trenches, and mud pillars rose up one after another.

The commotion at the East Gate was so great it seemed the entire city was about to be breached. Only the sound of water could be heard in the drainage ditch to the north. The engineering company commander lay prone in the mud, half his face pressed against the damp, cold ditch wall. His cotton trousers were soaked through with the foul water, and his calves cramped intermittently. A young soldier responsible for planting the explosives huddled by a hole in the wall, his fingers numb with cold; the matchbox was right against his chest, yet he felt he couldn't reach it.

Footsteps approached from the city wall. Two puppet soldiers peered down from the crenellations. The ditch was dark, with a layer of rotten grass floating on the green water. One of them lowered his head, then covered his nose and cursed. The other spat into the ditch. The two walked away, their shoes crunching in the frozen mud.

The engineering company commander waited until the sound subsided before slowly raising his hand. His three fingers were covered in black grime. He pulled one back. Then another. As the last finger fell, the young soldier struck the match against the edge of the box. The first match broke in his hand, the second flicked out a tiny blue flame. He protected it with his palm, his hand trembling so much he almost extinguished the flame when it touched the fuse.

"Walk."

Several men turned in the water, their shoulders scraping against the ditch wall as they retreated. The soldiers behind grabbed the belts of the men in front, preventing anyone from moving quickly. The hissing sound of burning fuses chased after them along the water's surface, mingling with the cannon fire from the east gate, so faint that only they could hear it.

The explosives detonated inside the city wall. A burst of heat filled the ditch first, and the sapper company commander slammed his back against the stone wall, his ears suddenly going blank. He saw the people in front of him shouting, but he couldn't hear anything. Mud, water, broken bricks, and rotten wood rained down from above, burying them halfway up.

A clump of earth bulged up at the foot of the north wall, the base of the wall cracked, and bricks collapsed inward, creating a hole more than ten feet wide. The hole wasn't big, only big enough for two or three people to crawl through side by side, and soil kept falling from the edges.

Li Dazhu lay prone behind the edge of the ditch, his eyes fixed on the spot. As soon as the smoke from the explosion billowed out, he swung his arm forward.

"First company into the ditch, second company onto the wall, third company guarding the entrance!"

Not all seven hundred men rushed to the cave entrance. The first group of soldiers stepped into the drainage ditch; the foul water was knee-deep, and they splashed as they pulled their legs out. Someone stepped on a broken brick, stumbled, and the person behind him caught his ammunition pouch, preventing his gun from falling into the water. The two at the front crawled through the gap, crouched against the wall, and pointed their guns at the street entrance, one on the left and one on the right.

The puppet soldiers on the north wall looked down and saw people emerging from beneath their feet, and paused for a moment. Some turned and ran, while others frantically pulled the bolts of their rifles, but the bullets were stuck in the chambers. The Second Battalion did not give chase, but instead seized the ladders and winches. Two ladders were lowered from inside the city, and more soldiers climbed over the wall, their shoes crushing the thin frost, white dust falling softly along the cracks in the bricks.

A machine gun opened fire on the rooftops of North Street, bullets grazing the walls. The machine gunner from the Second Battalion, prone beside the breach, returned fire, shattering the tiles, and the man on the roof retreated. Taking advantage of the opening, several soldiers rushed across the street, stuffed a bundle of grenades into a hole in the earthen wall next to the door, pressed their fingers on the fuses, and cut off the retreat route of that source of fire.

Suddenly, the bell in the clock tower rang. A dull thud drowned out the nearby gunfire, followed by another. The people entering the city had already seized the winch; the bell was a signal to the outside world.

Zhao Weiguo looked down at his pocket watch. The luminous hands still glowed green, and a layer of fine dust had settled on the watch cover.

"The North Gate is complete. Fire ten more rounds at the East Gate, then move the artillery fire inwards."

Upon hearing the order, Zhao Tieshan grabbed the phone and reported the data. As he reported, he marked the numbers on the quota book. The loader at the gun position had already taken off his cotton gloves, his palms red from the cold of the shell casings. The breech opened and closed with a crisp, rapid metallic clang as ten shells crossed the east gate, heading towards the garrison's assembly point inside the city.

Old Zhou waited in the trench for the full fifteen minutes. As the last shell flew overhead, he raised his hand, and all the soldiers in the trench raised their guns.

"superior!"

The sappers pushed their explosive cart to a stop outside the gate. The moat and obstacles in front of the east gate would trap the vehicles and personnel under fire. The sappers crept along the remaining wall to the side of the gate, blew off one of the hinges, and then secured the gate with a steel cable. Captured trucks backed up against them, their tires spinning in the mud, black smoke billowing from their rear ends.

The steel cable taut, making a teeth-grinding cracking sound. A crack appeared first in the tin-clad door. A heavy machine gun inside the city fired at the crack, bullets hitting the tin and stone walls, sparks flying. Only then did two armored vehicles cross the marker, pull up outside the moat, and aim their machine guns at the crack side-by-side.

The gunner inside the vehicle couldn't see anyone, only the flash of light. He pressed his gun muzzle against that flash, and two bullets crisscrossed and went in. The heavy machine gun fired a few more shots, and then the infantry gun at the street corner fired a horizontal shot. The shell grazed the door frame and crashed into the bunker behind it, flipping the machine gun mount and sandbags over.

The door hadn't completely collapsed, but there was a gap big enough for a person to squeeze through sideways. Old Zhou was the first to crawl through the door, his shoulder brushing against a broken piece of wood, tearing a hole in his cotton-padded coat. When he landed, his feet were covered in broken bricks, and he almost knelt down, but the soldier behind him caught him.

He didn't rush towards the county government office. He wiped the ash from his mouth, turned around, and roared until his voice cracked.

"The clock tower! The ammunition depot!"

One company headed straight for the clock tower, another cut along East Street toward the ammunition depot, machine guns were set up close to the alley entrance, and the rest pushed forward along the eaves. When they encountered open streets, they first threw away their tobacco canisters, then squeezed past the walls; when they saw a courtyard gate half open, they didn't rush in, but first passed grenades through the windows, then let two people in.

Old Zhou was passing a mill when a gun suddenly appeared from behind the door. The soldier beside him lunged forward and deflected the gun, the bullet hitting the doorframe and splintering his face with sawdust. Old Zhou pulled the man against the wall and kicked open the mill door himself. Inside were two puppet soldiers, one still clutching a gun, the other having taken off his hat and crouching against the wall.

"Throw the gun out!"

The man gripping the gun trembled a few times, and the gun fell to the ground. Old Zhou didn't go in; he told the men behind him to tie him up. He looked down at the soldier supporting him; his face was covered in splinters, and beads of blood rolled down his nose.

"Can you walk?"

"able."

"Go to the medical team."

"Just this little injury."

Old Zhou grabbed him by the back of his collar and shoved him directly to the stretcher team: "Your eyeball's been poked out, how are you going to aim?" The north wall was breached, and people entered through the east gate. The defenders, who had been forming an eastern formation, began to retreat. Machine guns were moved from the city wall into the street, mortar crews dragged their gun mounts to find firing positions, and messengers ran around haphazardly under the rooftops. Several orders collided: some ordered guarding the east gate, some ordered blocking the north street, and others were sending a message to the south gate.

The message from the south gate couldn't be delivered. Duan Peng's men had already cut up the southern ridge. Cooking and sanitation were set up behind the ridge, while the combat teams crept up the slope to the south of the city. When the Japanese messenger rode out the gate, his horse's hooves had just touched the slope when a gunshot rang out, and he tumbled from his saddle into a stinking ditch. The frightened horse shook its head on the spot, its reins dragging in the mud, refusing to run any further out of the city.

The three battalions blocked the south gate and advanced towards the city center along the west alley. The west gate was also blocked, leaving only a narrow path leading to the north gate. Li Dazhu sent someone to ask if they should seal the entrance.

Zhao Weiguo looked at the map, his finger pausing for a moment outside the North Gate.

"Keep it."

Zhao Gang pressed the newly delivered casualty report against the corner of the map: "For the people in the city to run?"

"Also, show it to the people of Yangquan."

Zhao Gang didn't ask any more questions. He took a pencil and wrote two small characters next to the North Gate: "Don't block it." From the breach in the North Ditch until 2 p.m., the street fighting lasted for seven hours.

The puppet troops in the city began to lay down their guns en masse. First, a few men leaned their guns against the corner of the wall, raised their hands, and came out of the courtyard. Those behind them, seeing that they were not shot on the spot, followed suit. The guns were lined up against the wall, the bolts removed and put into a separate basket. The political officers made them squat in the empty courtyard and asked them one by one for their names, former units, and hometowns. The Japanese officers were taken away separately.

The Japanese troops did not surrender, retreating to the vicinity of the county government office, the bell tower, and the ammunition depot, where they continued to hold out using the brick walls. Old Zhou's men were the first to seize the bell tower. The stairs were narrow, and the wooden planks were covered in dust. A soldier had just peeked out when he was shot in the shoulder from above and tumbled down the stairs. The monk squeezed past from behind, not sending anyone else to the top of the stairs. He climbed over the side wall onto the low roof, stepped on the eaves, and pressed himself against the window of the bell tower, first stuffing a grenade through the broken window.

The explosion shook the bell violently. When the monk climbed in through the window, everyone inside was stunned by the blast. One Japanese soldier tried to grab his gun, but the monk smashed the other's wrist with the butt of his rifle, pressed his shoulder against the soldier's chest, and slammed him against the bell frame. Another soldier lunged from behind a wooden pillar, his bayonet grazing the monk's cotton coat. The monk sidestepped, bracing himself against the rifle bar, and slammed his knee into the other's abdomen. The two men rolled into the dust, the bell hammers jingling overhead, emitting a deep, lingering sound.

The people downstairs rushed up again and saw the monk sitting on the edge of the steps, panting. His sleeve was torn and a line of blood was seeping from his arm.

"He won't die." He tossed the confiscated pistol to the men behind him. "Set up a machine gun on the roof and keep an eye on the county government office."

The ammunition depot was even harder to access. Sacks were piled outside the courtyard wall, and Japanese soldiers fired through holes in the wall. The Independent Regiment didn't force their way through the gate; instead, they occupied the rooftops on both sides and shoved grenades behind the wall. As soon as the smoke cleared, the engineers attached small packets of explosives to the door latch. The door slammed shut, and when Lao Zhou led his men into the courtyard, they saw a Japanese officer crouching beside a wooden crate, lighting a fire.

The gun fired first. The officer's shoulder slumped, and a match fell onto the loose tarpaulin. The flame licked at the two boxes of grenades, then quickly spread away along the sawdust.

"Get down!"

The explosion blew half of the warehouse off its roof. Wooden beams, tiles, and ammunition box boards flew over the courtyard wall, and the blast wave crashed down the street, tearing off the roofs of three nearby houses, with broken tiles clattering all over the street. The Japanese troops who were trying to break through to the east street from the direction of the county government were also thrown into disarray by the explosion. The vanguard continued to charge, but the rearguard turned back to look, and their formation immediately became a jumbled mess.

Around two o'clock in the afternoon, an armored vehicle blocked the entrance to the barbican. It didn't ram into the crowd; two machine guns crossed to block the street entrance. Soldiers on the rooftops crouched low and threw grenades to the rear of the breakout team. Those in front were pinned to the cobblestones by the fire, while those behind were blocked by the thick smoke and explosions from the ammunition depot, making it impossible to advance or retreat.

Three grenade launchers lay abandoned on the street corner, and about sixty rifles were scattered. Someone tried to pick up a gun, but as soon as he reached out, a bullet struck the side of the rifle butt, scattering stone chips all over his face. He lay back down, too afraid to move again.

The fire from the ammunition depot, however, licked out from under the eaves. When Zhao Gang arrived, half of East Street was shrouded in smoke. He covered his mouth and nose with his wet sleeve, but still coughed so hard he bent over. The transport team smashed open a water vat by the roadside, and several soldiers carried the vat toward the fire, the bottom of the vat scraping against the stone slab with a harsh sound.

"Put out the fire first!"

Someone shouted from the smoke, "The county government office hasn't been taken down yet!" Zhao Gang pointed to the roof: "If the fire goes there, half the street will burn down. Leave a company to watch the county government office; the rest of you who can move, fetch water first!"

One by one, the cellar doors opened. The villagers, who had been hiding all morning, peeked out and saw the Eighth Route Army soldiers dismantling the thatched roofs connecting their houses. At first, they were reluctant, but then, seeing that sparks had already fallen, they began to use pitchforks to clear the thatch. Buckets were passed from the well, their rims clanging against the stone slabs. An old man climbed onto the roof to remove tiles, but his foot slipped, and half his leg sank into a gap in the rafters. Two soldiers pulled him out, but he still clung to a tile, refusing to let go.

Gunfire continued to ring out across two streets, while East Street was crowded with people fetching water. Thick smoke blackened everyone's faces, and tears streamed down their cheeks in streaks of white. The medical team spread bandages against the wall; the lightly wounded bandaged their wounds and went to fetch water, while blood dripped continuously from the stretchers of the seriously wounded as they were carried away.

After entering the city, Zhao Weiguo first inspected the ammunition depot before proceeding to the county government office. The office was surrounded by thick brick walls, and all the doors and windows were blocked off. Less than a hundred Japanese soldiers remained. A direct assault would certainly have been possible, but his own men were already lying at the street corner. One soldier had been shot in the abdomen; the medic was pressing on the bandage, but blood was still seeping from between his fingers. His lips were pale, but his hand remained clutching the ammunition pouch, saying there were still two rows of bullets inside, and they shouldn't be lost.

Zhao Weiguo squatted down, took the ammunition pouch from his hand, and handed it to the person next to him.

"Yours, remember the name."

The soldier seemed not to have heard clearly, and struggled to lift his eyelids. When the stretcher was lifted, his hand was still hanging in mid-air until the medic tucked it back under the blanket.

Zhao Weiguo stood up, without urging a final assault.

"Push the infantry guns forward. Bombard one wall at a time, don't use people to fill the gaps."

The cannon wheel rolled over the broken bricks, and several men pushed from behind, their shoes slipping. The cannon muzzle was aimed at the outer wall of the county government office, and the position was changed after each shot. Brick dust fell from the wall, and the gunfire behind the wall grew fainter. Some people tried to peek out from the roof, but were forced back by the machine gun fire from the clock tower.

Zhao Tieshan followed the gunner into the city, his sleeves covered in black grease and gun ash. He would glance at his notebook after each shot, and as the gunner hurriedly loaded the next round, he would reach out and hold down the breech of the gun.

"Wait for the smoke to clear. See where it hit?"

The gunner wiped his face: "By the wall."

"Half a foot to the right, hit again."

The shot smashed open the corner of the wall, revealing a wooden cabinet blocking the door. The infantrymen pressed their gun barrels against the opening, waiting for the smoke from behind the wall to dissipate. Someone inside the county government office threw a grenade outwards; the grenade bounced off the broken bricks, landed inside the wall, and exploded, causing a brief moment of chaos.

Before dusk, the remaining Japanese troops rushed out of the main gate of the county government office. Bayonets gleamed in rows in the smoke, footsteps crunched over the bricks, and shouts mingled together. No one from the Independent Regiment went to meet them in bayonet combat. Machine guns swept through their legs first, while rifles blocked their retreat from both sides. Those at the front fell, and those behind were tripped and tumbled forward, their ranks quickly piling up outside the gate.

Someone else tried to climb further, but the monk poked his gun out from behind the wall and fired two shots. The man fell to the ground, his bayonet sliding from his hand, the iron blade scraping against the stone slab with a soft sound.

The survivors were disarmed. The wounded were dragged to the wall for bandaging; when there weren't enough bandages, they tore open their shirts to use as patches. One prisoner gritted his teeth, refusing to let anyone touch his leg wound, when the medic slapped him across the face and, taking advantage of his stunned expression, cut open his trouser leg. Shrapnel was lodged in the flesh, blood and mud frozen together; the scissors made his entire leg twitch.

At six o'clock in the evening, the gunfire in Liujia Town ceased. Darkness had fallen, but activity still lingered throughout the town. Some searched for the wounded in the ruins, others moved weapons to the foot of the clock tower, and still others washed the soot from their faces at the well. The water was changed repeatedly, but remained a reddish-brown. A soldier sat panting against the wall, his finger still bent as if pulling the trigger, unable to straighten it for a moment.

Battlefield statistics were reported to Zhao Gang's desk one by one. There were 603 enemy corpses, 327 prisoners, and about 170 escaped from the north gate.

The Independent Regiment suffered 71 dead, 52 seriously wounded, and 131 lightly wounded, for a total of 183 wounded. Zhao Gang first wrote "71" into the casualty register. The pencil tip paused on the paper, and the wooden stick he had been holding left a sweaty mark. The lists from the various battalions were still incomplete; some only had names, and some hadn't even had time to fill in their places of origin. He ordered people to circle the missing places, and that everything must be clarified before dawn, with the bodies, belongings, unpaid wages, and the whereabouts of families registered separately.

Nineteen houses in the town were damaged, and six were burned down. The fire on East Street had been extinguished, but smoke was still billowing from the base of several walls. The smell of burning mixed with damp ash lingered in the nostrils. An old woman sat beside a half-burnt roof beam, her hands rubbing the blackened wood back and forth, her fingertips covered in charcoal. Others advised her to go to the empty courtyard of the county government office, but she only shook her head, repeatedly muttering that there was still a grain jar inside.

The medical team carried the grain jar out from behind the collapsed wall. A piece of the rim was chipped off, but the sorghum flour inside was dry. The old woman's shoulders relaxed a little when she saw the grain jar. Two female soldiers carried her bedding over and sat down with her in the empty courtyard. Every now and then, she would look back at the direction from which smoke was rising on the east street.

Three tables were set up under the clock tower. One was for registering the wounded, one for registering damaged houses, and one for registering the spoils. Neighbors had to testify to every detail: which house was missing a roof beam, which water vat was broken, and which bag of grain had been soaked by fire. The people queuing were stamping their feet from the cold, and no one dared to push forward. There was only one lamp with a tin cover beside the table, its light barely enough to illuminate the ledgers.

Someone said they had lost two cows. The neighbor immediately retorted, "You sold your cows last autumn; I took them to the market for you."

A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd. The man who had said the cow had lost its head blushed instantly, lowered his head, and shrank back, his heels almost touching the bottom of the steps. Zhao Gang pushed over a wooden sign with a number on it.

"East Street is short of people to carry tiles. We'll come back to register your really bad stuff after we finish this job."

The man stood there clutching the wooden sign for a while, then slunk away towards East Street. Not long after, he returned carrying a stack of tiles, his shoulders covered in black ash.

At first, the villagers kept their distance from the Independent Regiment. Later, seeing that no one was going into their houses to rummage through the grain or taking anything, some people began to move their ladders, buckets, and timber to the foot of the bell tower. A carpenter brought over two rafters that hadn't been planed properly, his hands resting on the wood as if afraid people wouldn't remember whose they were. After the registrar asked for names and wrote numbers on the rafters with chalk, he finally let go.

1,700 shi of grain were found in the county government warehouse. Zhao Gang ordered his messenger to bring paste and paper strips to seal all the doors, windows, and grain sacks. The paste was not applied evenly, and one corner of a piece of paper kept curling up. The messenger pressed it down several times, but it still wouldn't stick. Finally, he warmed it with his palm and it stuck on.

"Keep it sealed for now," Zhao Gang said. "The affected households will receive their grain from here, and we'll keep a separate account. The troops won't touch the grain stored in the town."

Zhao Weiguo walked over from the wounded soldier registration table: "Where are the shells?" Zhao Tieshan opened the dusty quota book: "One hundred and eighty rounds, one hundred and sixty-three rounds were fired. Seventeen rounds remain, sealed in separate boxes. Both vehicles can move, but the front panel of vehicle number one has two dents; we'll have to open it up to check when we get back."

"The third one?"

"It should be repaired by tomorrow night at the earliest. I won't let the car out until the welds have been inspected."

Zhao Weiguo nodded, not urging them. By the time the Independent Regiment's flag was hoisted atop the city wall, the wind had turned cold. The flag's corners were ripped open with a loud cracking sound that carried beyond the north gate. Scattered along that road were helmets, leggings, and empty ammunition boxes abandoned by the Japanese and puppet troops; the further out one went, the more chaotic it became.

Old Zhou then ordered his men to throw two more stretchers and several empty ammunition boxes by the roadside. The tire tracks stretched from the North Gate all the way towards Liugou, leaving deep grooves in the mud. Several soldiers turned out their blood-stained clothes and draped them over the stretchers. From a distance, it looked like the attackers, wounded and unable to hold on, were hastily retreating north.

The second battalion of 700 men remained inside the city and in the ditch to the north, specifically to hide troops. During the day, they hid the men, and at night they lit several fires, so that outsiders could only see a city that had just finished a tough battle and was sparsely populated.

Gardenia took the intercepted telegram to town. The edge of the paper bore the pencil marks of the telegraph operator. She braved the wind the whole way, her thumb always pressed against the corner of the paper to prevent the telegram from curling up.

"They're assembling in Yangquan." She handed the paper to Zhao Weiguo. "About eight hundred people, with vehicles, including two armored vehicles."

"What do you want to ask?"

"Ask if Liujia Town can still be defended."

Zhao Weiguo stood atop the North Gate, looking down at the deliberately left path. A cold wind blew in through his collar, and he pulled his coat tighter.

"Report back in short message. The Eighth Route Army has retreated, and the remnants of the defending forces are in pursuit."

Gardenia did not respond immediately. She looked at the call sign on the telegram, her fingertip tracing the paper and stopping at the end of the call sign.

"Yangquan will verify the call sign."

"Use the set we got from the train station."

"A telegraph operator?"

"Find them among the prisoners. If they are cooperative, register them clearly. After the brief report is sent, put them in solitary custody."

Zhi Zi nodded and folded the telegram again. She didn't ask whether it would work or not, only leaving the source and risks on the table. Zhao Gang drew an arc connecting Liugou, Shiqiao, and the north gate of Liujia Town. The pencil traced the arc from outside the north gate, across the stone bridge, and stopped at the mouth of the ditch.

"Old Zhou led the first battalion north to retreat, and the troops scattered. Duan Peng went to Liugou first. Empty ammunition boxes, stretchers, and broken tire tracks were left on the road. The second battalion guarded the city, and at night they set fires to make a mess of things."

"Ammunition behind the bridge?" Zhao Weiguo asked.

"Two cars, enough for three hours."

"Add another truckload of grenades. The medical team advances to the south slope of the stone bridge, while the cooks remain on the reverse slope."

Zhao Gang added two strokes to the paper. When the pencil reached the page with "Seventy-one", he paused for a moment, then closed the casualty book and pressed it against the map.

In the distance, only the bluish silhouette of the mountains remained over Liugou, the stone bridge and dirt road disappearing into the twilight. Outside the north gate, someone dragged an empty box toward a designated spot, the wooden planks clattering against the ground with a series of thuds.

Zhao Gang asked, "Is Liujia Town the barbican?" Zhao Weiguo's pencil poked a small hole in the paper behind the stone bridge.

"Liugou is the one."

He looked towards Yangquan.

"Lure the Japanese soldiers out of Yangquan and attack them."