SHADOWS OF THE VALLEY
Chapter 9: A Lesson in Insecurity
Date: September 28, 1936
Location: Bluffs overlooking the Jialu River, Kuomintang 3rd Battalion Sector
The river was a silver scar in the moonlight. From their position in a thicket of wolfberry shrubs on the eastern bluff, Li Fan's team observed their target: Machine Gun Nest #2, marked on the Red Army commissar's map. It was exactly as described—a sandbagged emplacement dug into the riverbank, covering a shallow ford. Two men manned it through the night, a third slept in a small dugout behind it. A kerosene lantern cast a weak, swaying pool of light.
"Pattern confirmed," Liu Feng whispered, his lips barely moving. He had been watching for three nights. "Guard change at 2300 and 0500. The one on the left dozes after midnight. The one on the right smokes constantly. The sleeper never wakes unless there's an alarm."
The team was pared down for precision: Li Fan, Liu Feng, Zhao Quan, and Chen Rui. Zhang Wei had begged to come, but the Type 11 was a liability for this work. His fury at being left behind was a problem for another day.
"We are not here to kill them," Li Fan reiterated, his voice a low hum. "We are here to teach them fear. To make this position a liability, not an asset. Objective one: disable the machine gun. Objective two: leave a calling card. No chalk rounds tonight. Live ammunition, but only used on equipment. Is that clear?"
Nods in the darkness.
"Execution. Chen Rui, you are our overwatch and security. Position here." Li Fan pointed to a slight rise twenty meters back, with a clear view of the nest and the trail to the main camp. "If the sleeper wakes and raises an alarm, you silence him. A single shot, if you must. Zhao Quan, you and I will approach from the river side, using the sound of the water for cover. Liu Feng, you approach from the landward side. Your job is the gun. Once we are in position, I will signal. You disable it. We exfiltrate separately, rally at Point Charlie."
They moved out at 0130, during the deepest part of the guard's circadian slump. The air was cold, carrying the damp scent of the river. Chen Rui melted into his position, becoming another shadow among the rocks.
Li Fan and Zhao Quan slithered down the steep, crumbling bank to the water's edge. The river was shallow here, chuckling over stones. They waded silently, the icy water soaking them to the thighs, using the noise to mask any small sound. They crept up the far bank, ten meters downstream from the nest. The sentry on the left was indeed slumped, his chin on his chest. The one on the right was lighting another cigarette, the match flaring briefly on his bored, young face.
On the landward side, Liu Feng was a wraith. He used a drainage ditch, then a line of scrub, closing the final distance on his belly, inch by patient inch. He stopped within arm's reach of the sandbags, the sleeping guard's snores a soft rhythm from the dugout. He could see the heavy water-cooled barrel of the Type 24 Heavy Machine Gun protruding from the emplacement.
Li Fan, from his angle, watched the smoking sentry. He picked up a small, smooth stone from the riverbed. He judged the distance and the sound of the water. He threw it in a high arc. It landed with a soft plunk in the river five meters upstream.
The smoking sentry's head snapped up. "Eh? You hear that?"
The dozing one jerked awake. "What? A fish."
"Sounded bigger." The sentry stood, peering into the darkness upstream, presenting his back to the emplacement and to Liu Feng.
It was the moment. Li Fan made a soft, bird-like chirp—the signal.
Liu Feng moved. In one fluid motion, he rose, reached over the sandbags, and his hand found the machine gun's locking lug. From his belt, he produced a small, hardened steel wedge Zhang Wei had forged in a clandestine fire—a "gum," in sabotage parlance. He drove it with a leather-wrapped mallet into the gap between the barrel and receiver. One sharp, muffled tap. It was enough. The gun was now mechanically locked, unusable without a full armorer's disassembly. He then unscrewed the cap of the water jacket and emptied a small pouch of fine, abrasive loess silt into it. The next time they fired it for more than a few seconds, the overheating would warp the barrel.
As he melted back into the darkness, Li Fan performed his task. From his pack, he withdrew a small, square of stiff paper. On it, using a charred stick, they had drawn a simple, stark image: a valley with a single, staring eye in its center. Beneath it, two characters: 山谷 (Shāngǔ - Mountain Valley). It was their first insignia, their first claim of identity beyond "shadows."
He crept forward while the two sentries were still arguing about the river noise. With a dab of pine resin, he stuck the paper to the front of the sandbag wall, right between them, at eye level.
Then, they withdrew. Zhao Quan went first, back across the river. Li Fan followed. Liu Feng was already gone, a rumour in the night.
They regrouped at Point Charlie, a dry overhang two kilometers away. Chen Rui arrived last, reporting no pursuit, no alarm raised. They had been ghosts.
"The wedge will hold?" Zhao Quan asked, wringing water from his trousers.
"It will," Liu Feng said, a hint of professional satisfaction in his voice. "They'll think it's a mechanical failure. Until they find the silt. And the note."
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Date: October 2, 1936
Location: Site Delta
The reaction was swifter and more violent than anticipated. Liu Feng, on his daily observation run, returned with urgent news.
"They found it. At dawn. There was a huge commotion. An officer struck the two sentries. They've pulled the entire platoon from that sector back to the main camp for questioning." He paused, his face grave. "But that's not all. They've launched company-strength patrols, four of them, sweeping the countryside. Not searching for a specific trail… they're conducting reprisals."
Li Fan felt a cold knot form in his gut. "Explain."
"They raided two small hamlets suspected of 'harboring bandits.' They confiscated food, beat elders. At the second village, they… they shot three men. Publicly. As an example."
The fire in their sheltered cave seemed to grow dim. The mood, which had been one of triumphant stealth, curdled into something sick and heavy.
Chen Rui looked physically ill. Xu Hong's face was a mask of cold fury. "We did this," he said, his voice hollow.
"They did this," Zhao Quan corrected, but the conviction in his voice was thin.
"We provided the pretext," Li Fan said, accepting the terrible weight of cause and effect. This was the other side of asymmetric warfare—the enemy's frustration, taken out on the powerless. It was a classic counter-insurgency tactic, ancient and brutal. "Our lesson in insecurity taught them fear. A frightened animal lashes out."
"Was it worth it?" Lin Mao asked, the question hanging in the smoky air like an accusation.
Li Fan met their stares. There was no easy answer. "We demonstrated our capability. We proved we can touch them at will. That has strategic value. But we failed to anticipate their response fully. We thought like soldiers, not like the political entity they are. They cannot admit to being outwitted by ghosts, so they must create a tangible enemy to punish. We made the people our shield, unintentionally."
He stood, pacing the confined space. "This is the hardest calculus. Every action has a reaction. Our duty now is not to freeze in guilt. It is to adapt. We have made the people vulnerable. Therefore, we must make them resilient. And we must make the cost of reprisals too high for the battalion to bear."
"How?" Zhang Wei growled, eager for a target for his rage.
"First, we turn their reprisals against them. Liu Feng, you and Wang will make contact with the surviving villagers. Covertly. Offer them food from our caches. Offer to train one or two of their young men in basic early-warning techniques—hidden sentry posts, signal fires. We cannot protect every village, but we can help them see the patrols coming, give them time to hide their grain and their young men."
Liu Feng nodded, already calculating the risk.
"Second, we change our target profile. No more nuisance raids. Our next action must be a direct, undeniable strike against the military entity that ordered the killings. Something that hurts their capability, not just their pride. Something that makes further reprisals logistically difficult."
"The supply convoy," Zhao Quan said. "The one that comes every seven days. The one that feeds their reprisal patrols."
"Exactly. But we don't just ambush it. We hijack it. We take the food, the ammunition, and we give a portion of it to the villages they terrorized. We make it clear: hurt the people, and we cut your throat. We tie our fate to theirs, openly."
It was a massive escalation. It was a declaration of war, not just of existence. The men understood the gravity. They were silent, absorbing it.
"We will plan for the next convoy, in six days' time," Li Fan said. "Reconnaissance starts tomorrow. Drills for vehicle interdiction, fast loading, civilian interaction. This is no longer a game of shadows. This is becoming a campaign. Anyone who wishes to leave, may do so now, with no shame. This path leads into deeper darkness."
No one moved. No one looked away. The guilt over the dead villagers had fused with a hardened resolve. They had started this dance with the Kuomintang battalion. They would see it through.
The shadows were emerging from the valley, taking shape, and making a choice. They were becoming defenders, with all the terrible responsibility that entailed.
End of Chapter 9