Red Sorghum

gravesite to retrieve their weapons.
    ‘Shall we let the goat go, Dad?’
    ‘No. Let’s take it with us. We’ll kill it when we get home, so we can celebrate the Mid-Autumn Festival.’
    They arrived at the village entrance at noon, near the tall black-earth wall that had been repaired not many years before. A hail of gunfire erupted from the heart of the village and beyond, and Granddad immediately knew that what they’d been dreading had finally happened. He was reminded of the premonition he’d had for the past several days, and was glad he’d decided to go into town that morning. They’d fought the odds and accomplished their task; that was all anyone could ask of them.
    Granddad and Father hurriedly picked up the half-dead goat and carried it into the sorghum field, where Father cut the hemp they’d used to sew up its rectum. They’d stuffed 550 bullets up the goat’s ass in that woman’s house, until its belly drooped like a crescent moon. During the trip back, Father had been worried that the bullets would split the goat’s belly or that the animal would somehow digest them.
    As soon as the hemp was cut, the goat’s rectum opened up like a plum flower, and pellets came pouring out. After relieving itself violently, the goat crumpled to the ground. ‘Oh no, Dad!’ Father cried in alarm. ‘The bullets have turned into goat pellets.’
    Granddad grabbed the goat by its horns and jerked it to its feet, then bounced it up and down. Shiny bullets came spilling out. They scooped up the bullets, loaded their weapons, and stuffed the rest of the ammunition into their pockets. Notworrying whether the goat was dead or alive, they ran through the sorghum field straight for the village.
    The Japs had surrounded the village, over which a pall of gunsmoke hung. The first thing Father and Granddad saw was eight mortar pieces hidden in the sorghum field, the tubes about half the height of a man and as thick as a fist. Twenty or more khaki-clad soldiers manned the mortars under the command of a skinny Jap waving a small flag. When he lowered his flag, the soldiers dropped their shells into the tubes, and the glistening objects were launched into the air in whistling arcs, to land inside the village wall. Eight puffs of smoke rose from the village, followed by eight dull thuds that quickly merged into a single loud explosion. Eight columns of smoke blossomed like dark, hazy flowers. The Japs fired another salvo.
    Like a man wakened from a dream, Granddad picked up his rifle and fired it. The Japanese waving the flag crumpled to the ground. Father saw the bullet bury itself in the man’s bony skull, which looked like a dry radish. His first thought was, the battle’s on! Looking confused, he fired his weapon, but the bullet struck the base of a mortar with a loud metallic ping. The Japs manning the mortars picked up their rifles and began firing. Granddad grabbed Father and dragged him down among the sorghum stalks.
    The Japanese and their Chinese lackeys launched an attack, running at a crouch into the sorghum field and firing indiscriminately.
    Machine-gun fire erupted. Crows perched on the village wall were silent. When the puppet troops reached the wall, wooden-handled grenades sailed over towards them and exploded in their ranks, bringing down at least a dozen men. Granddad hadn’t known about Ruolu the Elder’s purchase of grenades from Detachment Leader Leng’s munitions factory. Their comrades turned and ran. So did the Japanese. Dozens of men armed with hunting rifles and homemade cannons clambered up onto the wall, opened fire, then ducked back down, silent again. Later on, Granddad learned that similarly heated, bizarre battles had occurred at the northern, eastern, and western edges of the village.
    The Japs fired another salvo of mortars, scoring direct hits on the iron gate.
Thump, thump
, the gate was shattered, leaving a gaping breach.
    Granddad and Father opened fire again on the Japs manning the mortars. Granddad fired four shots, bringing down two Jap soldiers. Father fired only a single shot. Holding his Browning in both hands, he took careful aim on a Jap straddling a mortar and fired. The bullet struck the man in the buttocks. Terrified, he fell forward across the muzzle, his body muffling the sound of the explosion before being ripped apart. Father jumped for joy, just as something whizzed noisily past his head. The mortar tube had exploded, sending the bolt flying a good ten yards to