Burial in the Clouds

February 20

It’s Sunday, but it looks like we won’t be allowed to leave the base for a while.

The chief instructor gave us a sermon after morning assembly. He said the reputation of student reservists like us is absolutely rotten, not merely in each operational unit, but at headquarters too. Our general slipshoddiness, he said, and our deficiencies as to loyalty, have drawn severe fire within the military establishment. Some even ventured to suggest that we student reservists are little better than monkeys dolled up in officers’ uniforms. So he wondered: Had we ever really made up our minds to devote ourselves to the navy? Didn’t some of us still regard navy life as a kind of interim arrangement? We should never entertain thoughts of visiting home, not even if our parents die. Each one of us shall perish in the decisive engagements of the war by this coming summer. Continue to be off guard, he admonished, and we would sully the tradition of the Imperial Navy. If we should ever find ourselves of two minds, suspended between the possibilities of life and death, we should without hesitation choose death. Etc. etc.

It’s not that we must prepare ourselves to die by summer. No, he is telling us simply to die. They never miss an opportunity to tell us to die. What, in the name of heaven, is their goal? Is it to carry the war through to completion, or merely to kill us all? If we really can save our country by dying, then by all means let us do precisely that. Since February 1, the day of the ceremony marking the assignment of the 14th Class of student reserves to the aviation branch, we have known that we must confront death. We are trying hard, lame though we may be, to brace ourselves for it, yet I cannot for the life of me believe that dying is itself the goal. It is pointless, no matter how you look at it, to rush headlong and heedless into the grave, and if I follow the chief instructor’s dictates to the letter, wouldn’t it qualify as “disloyalty” even to seek shelter during an air raid? I’m not a rebel like Fujikura, but even I took offense at the chief instructor’s words. After all, who made us give up our academic work? Who rounded up these “monkeys” and put them in uniform?

Our life at Tsuchiura Naval Air Station is simply inhumane. Cigarettes are strictly rationed. Not because we don’t have a sufficient supply, it is just that we should not in any degree be comfortable. So I seldom smoke, and when I smoke I feel dizzy.

As for correspondence, we are permitted only one postcard a week. But then the one postcard I wrote last week, to Kashima at Takeyama Naval Barracks, was returned to me because the censor said my handwriting was too small! I was instructed to write in a large hand, with characters the size of my thumb. I’d like to believe that all this bother actually contributes to my training. Anyway, I’ve grown used to treating a postcard on my desk as a treasure, and to debating whom I should send that treasure to each week until I’m quite at a loss, and I can’t say that there isn’t a kind of condensed pleasure in all this. Still, I don’t want to be such easy game as to consider it a meaningful exercise to sum up in just four lines of stamp-sized characters what is overflowing in my mind.

I told Fujikura that I think this war has historical significance, that, to say the least, Japan is obviously in a fateful crisis, that we do wish to give our all to save her, but that I can’t countenance entrusting our lives wholesale to a bunch of hysterical, fat-headed career officers—to men who regard us as monkeys undermined by “liberal education.” Fujikura said it is all too late. He opposes war on general principles, but he has always felt that there is something fundamentally wrong with this war in particular. He can’t say what exactly, but of this much he is certain: The war is essentially an extension of the so-called China Incident.[2] And what about the China Incident? As a matter of fact, he has given much thought to the matter, and cannot conclude, no matter how he looks at it, that justice was on our side. Japan should not have fought to begin with. We should have sought to settle the China Incident in such a way as to save face on both sides. Anyway, he said, that is all water under the bridge now. He may be destined to die before long, and there is nothing he can do. But, he added, not once has he ever wished to offer up his every effort, as I do. I’d very much like to discuss all this further with Fujikura if the opportunity arises. Strange to say, I noticed that, somewhere along the way, even he has ceased to use worldly terms like kimi and boku.[3]

We cleaned our quarters in the morning.

Those who needed a haircut visited the barber’s next to the canteen after the cleanup. It takes two minutes per head and costs fifteen sen. It’s certainly cheap, but what’s more amazing is the speed. The barber’s clipper makes three or four round trips on the scalp, and it’s done. We all ran back, with bits of soapy foam clinging to our ears. Then we had our pictures taken, one group at a time. We posed with our caps, on which our names had been chalked, in front of our chests. Our heads were all shiny, and we looked just like a group of convicts.

Sang martial songs from 1600, including “Lord Kusunoki and His Son,” “Death Squad,” and “The Brave Fight of the Akagi.” The sun was setting, and as we sang, marching around the drill ground in double loops, I was moved by the sheer vitality that young men like us possess.

Took a bath after dinner. It was a nice hot bath, and I had a good stretch for the first time in what seems like years. I emptied my bowels twice during the night. And thus my Sunday wound to a close.

February 22

On the 17th and 18th an enemy task force attacked the Truk Islands, and today’s papers reveal the results. We lost two cruisers, three destroyers, thirteen transport vessels, and one hundred twenty aircraft. The sinking of a single ship is major news in times of peace, and detailed accounts of the incident and any number of harrowing stories fill the pages of the newspapers. But all I see in front of me today is a set of cold figures, bluntly presented. For our part, we have learned, over time, to look at the figures alone, and to give no thought to the brutal realities that have unfolded behind them.

In the special course, we played interdivisional games of “Capture the Pole.” Our opponent was the 7th Division. “Capture the Pole” is a fierce game in which you are permitted to punch, to kick, and even to die. (Honestly, there was a casualty at this station last year.) “How can we imitate the boys at the Naval Academy?” some of the fellows grumbled. It is all so silly. Still, they formed their line, stripped to the waist and going barefoot. And once the whistle sounded, most got fired up like fighting dogs. Only after the fact did I reflect on the combative instinct in men.

I was in the attacking party. As I gathered momentum and thrust myself forward, I noticed Sakai in the 7th Division. He kept up a constant battle cry through the top of his head, as he stayed busily engaged for the sake of appearance, dashing about, this way and that, dodging skillfully. A wave of real antagonism rose in me, and I pounced on him. He slipped away, and soon I found myself drawn into a vortex of friends and foes. In no time, my head was forced down by a forest of wobbling legs in white fatigues. I was beaten, kicked, and trampled, countless times. I endured it all, seeing stars often enough, surely. Then the whistle sounded again, and our victory was confirmed. It was rather exhilarating to win, as I found out. Sakai approached me later, wearing an annoyed expression. He said he never dreamt I would rush him with such a ferocious look, even granting the fact that we were opponents.

The word is that the division officers of some of the defeated teams were so out of humor that they canceled dinner. Speaking of which, we had beef stew tonight. It contained a surprisingly generous amount of meat that had been steeped in sauce, though the latter was a bit on the floury side. Uncommonly delicious. Other defeated divisions found themselves slapped with sanctions, too, a snack withheld here, cigarettes denied there. On the other hand, I hear that one of the other winning divisions was allowed an extra postcard.

After the study session, we recited the “Five Reflections.” I heard that we must do this every night before taking down the hammocks. We are to straighten up and close our eyes, and as the student on duty softly reads out each item, we (supposedly) reflect, solemnly, on the events of the day.

N. poked my knee and whispered. “Doesn’t ‘Hast thou not become slothful?’ sound ridiculous somehow?” I almost burst into laughter, but managed to hold it back. It would have been a disaster if I hadn’t. In any case, they impose on us, at every opportunity, what is in fact a kind of mockery of the education the men receive at the Naval Academy in Eta-jima, which only feeds the antipathy of the students here. Even I am bothered by it. Much more so after seeing a captain, a full-fledged graduate of the Naval Academy, have parcels of pond smelt from Lake Kasumiga-ura shipped home on official flights. Our minds are not necessarily simple. For example, this diary differs altogether from the “Cadet Journal” I submit to the division officer, and which I am obliged to keep (again, in imitation of the practices at Eta-jima). In the journal meant for his eyes, my spirit already approaches the level of a war god.

February 26

I experienced sexual urges practically for the first time since joining the navy. I was in some kind of trance, clasping a woman’s warm hand in mine, and listening to a melody on the thirteen-stringed koto. (This all happened in a dream.) The woman wasn’t anyone I knew, and I couldn’t see her face. It was just a woman’s warm, meltingly supple hand. A fat goldfish swam leisurely around our two clasped hands, trailing algae behind it. As for the tune I heard on the koto, “The Dance of the Cherry Blossoms”: that turned up in the dream because the Yokosuka military band came yesterday and performed it. I don’t feel like saying anything more. It was a wet dream.

Many of the men exchange dirty quips, but few, I gather, actually suffer from frustrated sexual desires. It was an unusual incident for me.

March 1

The weather here is highly changeable. Strong winds blow, kicking up huge clouds of dust, into which Mt. Tsukuba disappears. The surface of Lake Kasumiga-ura itself gets dusty from time to time. They say this heralds the coming of spring, but however that may be, the weather is certainly fierce here, as the anonymous poem in the Manyoshu suggests: “the leaves in Musashino bend to and fro before the wind….” It is hard for Kansai people to get used to. Today, on the other hand, was actually quite warm. Energetic young trainee pilots tumbled through the wind in those big steel hoops. At night, when we get a break from our studies, we hear what might well be taken for the howling of dogs, as the trainees rehearse their shrill commands. They bed down soon afterwards, and I wonder if they dream the dreams of childhood. Something about their voices, and the way they look, puts me in mind of those Manyoshu poems by the sakimori—the young soldiers garrisoned in Kyushu in ancient days, so young as to still be smelling of milk. It gives me a catch in the throat.

As for our own group, today we were ordered to toss our jackets into the ditch below Waka-washi Bridge. Why? Because we left them in a pile during morning calisthenics. One by one, we were made to throw our white jackets into a filthy stream near Lake Kasumiga-ura, and then made to fetch them out again. This is too sadistic, too absurd. At night, we were all smacked in the face because we failed to fold our blankets properly. That was the eighth blow I’ve taken since arriving at Tsuchiura. A deck officer did the work. He knew that his hand would be badly swollen after slapping four hundred twenty men in the face, so he ordered the student assistant on duty to bring a washtub of water for him to cool his fist in as he carried out the task. Judging from the pitying look on his face, the student assistant obviously thought he would be exempted, but he also got his in the end.

We are watched every minute of the day. Maybe it isn’t easy to be the deck officer who constantly picks at us, but neither is it easy to live under such relentless surveillance. I realize I have been looking forward to emptying my bowels recently. The toilet is just about the only place where we really can lock ourselves in. There, I relish complete solitude, at least for five minutes.

A false rumor is making the rounds. The word is we are to leave this naval air station at the end of March, possibly to be posted overseas for flight training. Let’s go! Let’s do it!, I said to myself. Let’s really become pilots! To be sure, my mind suffers its contradictions, endlessly vacillating this way and that, but when the time comes, I will die bravely. Our life at this base is just too tiresome.

Lately we have done nothing but practice Morse code, day in and day out. We got bad marks again today. The average score for the division was 81.7, and we were denied our snack as a result. It’s contemptible of them to manipulate our physical desires every chance they get, simply to make us work harder. I myself missed three letters today. The ki sound is represented as ―· ― · ·”, which corresponds to “kii te hoo ko ku” (or, “listen and report?) in our mnemonics. But Fujikura routinely makes us chuckle by mocking the pattern with “kii te hoo ko ku, mi te jigoku” (or, “listen and report; you see it and it’s hell”). Consequently, I mistook ki for mi, and by the time I noticed the error I had already missed three letters.

March 8

It was overcast today. The wind shifted from south to east. The sun peeked out now and then, making it feel like spring. I saw some odd-looking sailboats on Lake Kasumiga-ura, and fresh grass on the opposite bank. In the center of the drill ground four gliders stood neatly arrayed, their wings in alignment.

Our morning lesson was glider training. Once every sixteen turns, I would cry out, “Cadet Yoshino, #39, ground run start,” and then taxi the glider for about twenty seconds. That’s it for now, but the pleasant shock of it all makes me feel as if we really are taking our first steps skyward. In flight lessons the other day, we were allowed to climb into a Junker and, for the first time, get our hands on the control stick. It thrills me to think we are about to tread a path into the clouds. No doubt it is also the path to the grave, but that doesn’t get me down. What’s depressing and annoying are all the daily trivialities.

I was running back from the bath, soap case in my right hand, washcloth in my left, when I came across the assistant division officer. I was bewildered. I stopped and passed the soap case to my left hand in order to make my salute. “You must run!” he barked, and gave me a smack. Blow number nine.

Today, we received a ration of milk for the second time, and it was wonderful after a bath. Octopus showed up at dinner tonight. It was delicious, but nevertheless I just want sweets. When it comes to food, we all snarl at each other like stray dogs. It’s shameful, but we can’t help it. And I find myself equally convinced by two contradictory theses. One holds that military life degrades you, and the other that it ennobles you. Two selves coexist inside me: a “noble” Yoshino, who would discipline his mind to the utmost of his ability, and an animalistic, base Yoshino. “It is evidence of a degraded character,” I once read in a book by a Western philosopher, “to obsess oneself with food, drink, and other affairs of the body.” At the time, I couldn’t have agreed more. I even congratulated myself that, in the light of this philosophy, my own good character shone, but now I know how easily, and how quickly, such half-baked “nobility” crumbles. If anyone who has never undergone the ordeal we are suffering here ever crows these words of philosophy to me, I certainly bite his nose. At a time like this, how can we not obsess over a precious bag of candy?

I experience pleasure when I take a bath, eat a snack, or change my undershirt. I take pleasure in the hum of a lark I noticed while advancing, on all fours, in a trying battle drill. It is a blessing that I find such bliss in insignificant things—things I always took for granted.

From the looks of it, the larks are immune to the common cold now running its course among us. Full of life, they sing their songs of spring, and are free. As for me, I take medication every morning, a Brocin solution and a stomach remedy called Adsorbin.

After the nightly study session, I joined the astronomy workshop. The clouds of the day had retreated, leaving behind them a beautiful starry sky. I learned to identify Cassiopeia, Orion, Andromeda, Perseus, and so on. It disquiets me a little to think that, a few months from now, we must fly over enemy territory, navigating by the light of these stars. All the same, gazing up into the sky seemed somehow to evoke a fine fellow-feeling among us. Even the instructors spoke with a strangely casual and intimate air. It was nice.

I watched as Douglases, Y20 “Ginga” bombers, navy Type-96 land-based attack bombers, and various trainers flew across the night sky, each at its characteristic speed, each with its characteristic roar. Their red and blue identification lights made streaks in the sky, and from where I stood I could plainly see the purple flash of the engines. The instructor who’d been at Rabaul expressed his deep regrets about those flashes, though. These telltale purple lights, he said, make it extremely hard for Japanese planes to conduct nighttime raids. U.S. aircraft don’t have this problem.

Alter we were dismissed, Wakatsuki, a guy in my outfit from Takushoku University, was happily chanting a Chinese poem, eyes cast down toward the drill ground, when a deck officer accosted him. “Stop pining for the outside world!” the officer quipped, and struck him twice. Wakatsuki returned to the barracks wearing a stupefied look. He had thought he had been displaying his true Japanese spirit.

March 19

The weather is utterly changeable. The night before last was awfully hot and humid, and we all broke out in a greasy sweat as we slept. I rose in the middle of the night and removed my shirt and drawers. Then last night, abruptly, we had a snowstorm. Flakes blew in through gaps in the windows, piling up inside the barracks. We got twelve centimeters in total, but today the sun shone. Mt. Tsukuba was all white.

A number of packages arrived yesterday and today, but most of the contents were confiscated. Hardly anything made its way to us. I received a package too, and I found myself presented with a pair of woolen socks. But everything else was seized.

Akame, the assistant division officer, failed to turn up at dinner. It was Fujikura’s turn to serve the meal, so he carried the officer’s dinner to his room. There, Fujikura beheld on the desk a mountain of confiscated treats—navel oranges, jellied bean paste, rice crackers, chocolates, and cans of fruit cocktail. No wonder the man hadn’t come to dinner. “It sure looked good,” Fujikura reported.

Yesterday, Wakatsuki was made to open his parcel in front of the assistant officer. He cut the string and out spilled roasted peanuts, all over the floor. “Throw those away,” the officer ordered. Wakatsuki swept the peanuts into a dustpan, but on his way to the incinerator he managed to wolf them all down, together with their fresh coating of dirt. No doubt that accounts for the severe diarrhea he has been experiencing all day. A copy of the Weekly Asahi was sent for N., but that, too, was confiscated. Only the wrapper made its way to the addressee. I don’t see why they should seize a magazine like the Asahi. Someday I will enter the teaching profession, and the way these instructors behave, including Akame, gives me food for thought.

In the afternoon they passed out cards on which we were to indicate whether we prefer to train for piloting or reconnaissance. Without hesitation I put myself down for piloting. Fujikura and Sakai did the same. I expected Fujikura to go for reconnaissance, judging from his words and deeds, because it carries a somewhat lower risk, but I was wrong. We are to take a Morse code test from 1730 to 1840 tomorrow, the results of which will figure into the decision as to who is assigned to the flight group and who to the recon group.

I also filed an application to buy a sword. With any luck I should be able to get a stainless steel Kamakura or Kikusui sword.

It seems like the date for our departure is finally drawing near, though the talk about our leaving the base at the end of March was nothing but a groundless rumor after all. I saw the calendar in the instructors’ room. The schedule is chock full through the whole month of April.

March 26

At 8:30, we fell in for an outing. Those who hadn’t pressed their pants under the bedding, or whose socks were dirty, or who hadn’t shaved or polished the heels of their shoes, were ordered to take a step forward. Each received a blow of correction from the division officer.

At quarter past nine, we were finally granted liberty. We passed through the gate and walked, one by one, for four kilometers along the Navy Road to the railroad station. They say that if you go up to the rooftop of the administration building on a liberty day, you can see a line of navy-blue military uniforms strung out from the base to the town like a procession of ants. Enlisted men gave me crisp salutes, and I acknowledged them with stiff ones of my own, feeling like an officer for the first time. We are commanded, most sternly, to preserve our honor as officers, yet we are hardly ever treated like officers at all. I don’t want to take a cynical view of the matter, but if the navy manages to send us all so willingly into the jaws of death simply by giving us an officers’ uniform—well, I must say they are doing it on the cheap.

At a used bookstore in town I came across a series of annotations of unpublished classic Japanese literature, but I passed it by, feeling no longer connected to things like that. The time left to me is short and priceless. I know that. I just don’t know what to do about it, other than to grow ever more anxious.

We must not drink, we must not enter a restaurant, we must not talk to the ranks, and we must not stray from our designated area. Come to think about it, we are not allowed to do anything at all.

I walked over to Tsuchiura House, the designated officers’ club, at a little after 10:30. More than ten men were packed into a tiny room of just four-and-a half tatami mats. This tatami room was so cramped that I could hardly stretch my legs, and once I finished the lunch and the fried-dough cookies I had brought with me, there was nothing else to do. The tea was first-rate, though.

In the afternoon I went to the railway station. I watched the southbound and northbound trains come and go, as the station attendant cried out, “Tsuchiura-a-a, Tsuchiura-a-a!” I bought a platform ticket and roamed around the waiting room, gazing blankly at the crowd for quite some time. The burning smell the brakes give off as the trains grind to a halt, the odor of the toilets—all of it made me nostalgic. A hazy heat shimmered over the tracks, and, vacantly, I imagined that the rails ran all the way through to Kyoto and Osaka, without interruption.

I dropped into a photo studio before heading back and had a picture taken to send home, and also to Professor O. Plum flowers bloomed on the hillside, and the barley fields were a beautiful green, though the grain is not yet tall. Still, I was dreadfully hungry, my legs were exhausted, and for some reason I arrived back at the air station utterly disenchanted. I never expected my long-awaited first outing to be so joyless.

We mustered at 1600 after returning to base, and sang martial songs. I hear that, up until a few years ago, outings inevitably meant a windfall of food. Singing carried the added benefit of aiding the digestion, and therefore of preventing what used to be called “Monday catarrh.” For us, that sort of thing is nothing but a dream.

After dinner I helped transplant a cherry tree to make room for an air-raid shelter. I saw two frogs hibernating in the earth.

April 1

The summer schedule started today. Reveille at 0515.

Glider training is now in full swing, as are examinations designed to sort out the pilots from the reconnaissance men. Yesterday I had my first real airborne experience. I probably flew ten meters. I can’t quite control my foot, and no matter how many times I try, the rudder bar always slants to the left. My plane turns left, banks off with its nose tipped down, and hits the runway. Judging from this performance, it’s doubtful whether I’ll make it into the pilot’s group.

Starting at 0745 we underwent what they call a “morphological character examination.” This was done by a visiting physiognomist. First he smeared our hands with mimeograph ink to take fingerprints and palm-prints. Then he read our palms, scrutinized the shape of our heads, and studied every aspect of our faces, turning us sideways and backwards. Afterwards they seated each of us on a swivel chair (rather like a barber’s) and whirled it around like all fury. Then, using a stopwatch, they timed us to see how long it took each one of us to walk a straight line and stand at attention. It seems I’m rather good at this. Those who have a defect in the inner ear, or some other physical impairment, collapsed the moment they staggered off the chair, groveling about for a spell like an animal.

The meteorology course began today.

We were given manju with white bean paste as a snack—a very rare occasion. It was delicious.

April 4

Lectures on “ship identification” began today. Finally we are getting some practical knowledge of the war. There are battleships of the West Virginia type, aircraft carriers of the Saratoga and Hornet types, Chicago-class cruisers, and so forth.

Incidentally, I read over my own journal today, and it unsettled me. Recently (or so I convinced myself, anyway) I have adopted a rather intrepid attitude with respect to death. However, I find that on March 19 I wrote: “Someday I will enter the teaching profession….” Evidently I “think that I must die, but all the while “feel” that I will surely return home alive. True enough, it gets my hackles up when, at every opportunity, our instructors tell us we must die. But really, it is high time I looked death squarely in the face and steered my mind toward it.

A postcard arrived from Kashima, and I read it over and over again. “Let us end our brief lives together,” he writes, “happily, gracefully, and meaningfully.” I was moved to see that Kashima had at last arrived at such a sentiment. I am certain he wouldn’t say these things merely to please the censors. I mustn’t fall behind him.

The study session was canceled this evening so that a truly singular man could deliver a lecture. The other day we had a physiognomist, and tonight it was this fox-like orator, this Mr. Gakushu Ohara of the Association for Enhancement of Imperial National Prestige. He is a meager-looking man, about forty years old. He made so many references to ancient texts the—Manyoshu, the Kojiki, Shinto prayers—that his lecture amounted to little more than a succession of esoteric phrases like “sumerami ikusa,” “kan-nagara no michi,” “kakemakumo ayani totoki,” and so on, and it was all perfect nonsense to me. Whenever he uttered the phrase kamemakumo ayani totoki (or, we must speak it only in utmost reverence), a reference to the imperial family inevitably followed, and this required us all to assume, each time, a ’ten-hut! posture in our seats. It was bothersome in the extreme. The man is indiscriminately fanatical, and often sounds as if he is chanting. And indeed, he did chant occasionally, joining his palms together. “A-a-amaterasu o-o-mikami-i, Goddess of the Sun….” None of us students took him seriously. Some snickered, some took out paperbacks to read, and still others snored away. I dozed off myself, halfway through. Several men farted. This gibberish dragged on for two and a half hours, and just when I thought it was finally ending, Ohara announced, “Now I’d like you all to purify yourselves in the waters of Lake Kasumiga-ura.” It was already past nine! Give me a break!! In any case, the division officer dashed over to confer with the executive officer, with the result that the proposal was declined, after all, on the pretext that “a bad cold was going around.” Who on earth got the idea of inviting such a man to speak?

But no sooner had we seen the lecturer off than the order came. “All hands turn out on the drill ground immediately! On the double!” I knew something was coming, and sure enough, the division officer mounted the platform and spoke.

“However the lecture was”—obviously he didn’t think he had heard a fine piece of talking either—“you should have known better. What’s with this attitude of yours anyway? All those who drifted off and passed gas, step forward now!”

Instantly, a hush descended upon us, which two men broke with their footsteps.

“There have to be many, many more. Come forward!”

I had itchy feet, but didn’t go after all.

“So, you men don’t have the backbone to come forward!” the division officer said. “Once, when I was at the Naval Academy, a midshipman farted during a moral lecture. The instructor ordered the perpetrator to show himself, and no less than five men came forward. The guest lecturer was thoroughly impressed. Your spirit is exactly contrary to theirs. The sixth division officer will take up the slack tonight!”

With that, the front and rear ranks of each division were made to face one another, and each of us was ordered to strike the man opposite him. If an officer determined that anyone was cutting corners, or going easy on his partner, he would say, “Hit him like this!” and damn well show you how till you collapsed. I faced Wakatsuki, a fellow who packs quite a punch. Curiously, the good beating had made me trigger-happy, and, at the command “Rear rank, go!” I smashed Wakatsuki’s face in. Both of us left with bloody cuts on our lips.

They made the rounds at 2215, an hour and a half behind schedule.

April 8

Father has written. Our goat gave birth to a kid. I guess they’ll have plenty of goat’s milk to drink. Also, the peas in the kitchen garden are doing well, and they’ll be ready to eat sometime next month. I can picture the butterflies fluttering around the pea-flowers in the yard. There’s been no word at all from my brother Bunkichi.

In the morning, we had a lecture on aerial ordnance, with particular attention to guidance systems. The instructor was Lieutenant Washimura, who barely escaped death during the strategic “advance” in New Guinea. Japanese ordnance, he tells us, is marred by defective instruments that were rushed into production, and which lag far behind American equipment. His words sank deep into my heart. Just think about our radar and our bombsights, he says, and you see how long a road Japan still has to travel. As for the battleship Kirishima, which went down in the Third Battle of the Solomon Islands: Unquestionably this was due to the unerring accuracy of our enemy’s radar-assisted firepower. Our men were flustered, the lieutenant explains, not knowing where the shells were coming from, and in the confusion they lost the rudder, and, with it, control of the ship. Thus the Kirishima sank, all too easily.

“True, the navy expects much of you,” Lieutenant Washimura said. “But in my view it’s regrettable that the press bureau at Imperial Headquarters sees fit to keep us all intoxicated with the results of the Battle of Hawaii and the Malay campaign, trumpeting our successes with such fanfare, as if to the very crack of doom.” Generally speaking, the instructors who have been in battle, and had a tough go of it, are quite unassuming, and there is nothing fanatical or desperate about them. Lieutenant Washimura, though, seems particularly philosophical. Really bad are the instructors who stay behind in the training units. They get used to being instructors and wind up like bitter old maids.

Lieutenant Washimura also told us a story about so-called “Australian pig.” They were marching through the jungle of New Guinea in retreat, with nothing to eat or drink, when they stumbled across an army unit. These soldiers possessed a rare store of mouthwatering meat. They had gotten hold of an “Australian pig,” they said, and would be happy to share it with the navy men. At first, the sailors were grateful for the windfall, but then they noticed a number of dead Japanese soldiers, whose bodies lay scattered here and there, along the path of retreat. Flesh from their backs and thighs had been carved out. The lieutenant did not say whether or not he ate any of the meat. He may have. What must it feel like to discover that you’ve just eaten human flesh? If I am starving to death, will I think, “Now that I have eaten it once, it doesn’t make any difference if I do it again”? Will I?

Air defense training this afternoon, and then again this evening. We had to conduct it inside the building, on account of the rain.

I feel gloomy, which probably has something to do with that story about “Australian pig.” Ordinarily, I should have been celebrating the Kanbutsue today, the anniversary of the Buddha’s birth, with hydrangea tea. For the Kanbutsue, we build a little “flower temple” (so called because its roof is bedecked with blossoms) and enshrine a figure of the Baby Buddha inside it. Then we fill a bowl at its base with hydrangea tea, to be sprinkled over the Buddha with a dipper. That sort of thing is so remote from us now. Come to think of it, though, the Kanbutsue might be celebrated on April 8 of the old lunar calendar. I’m not sure about these things anymore.

April 11

Antiaircraft drills immediately followed reveille. We were on Defense Condition 1 throughout the morning.

Glider training proceeded, while we maintained the high alert. My left foot is still stiff and gets tense easily, making the plane tilt leftward. This is no good. I still hope somehow to make the grade as a pilot. The word is that our scores in Morse code weigh heavily, and I do better at that by the day. So if I can remember to do my gliding with due care, I’ll probably be okay. As for Morse code, I can now understand without difficulty the flashing signals that the Red Dragonflies out of Kasumiga-ura Naval Air Station exchange with ground control during their night flights.

The cherry buds are swelling. They appear much later hereabouts than they do in Tokyo and points further west, but nevertheless it is spring. We may not live to see another one, but I’d be content if only my chapped skin would heal, as it has been killing me each time I do the laundry. I saw the first swallow along the lake today.

Mail call was at lunchtime. I received four postcards in total, from Professor E. at Kyoto University, from father, from K. in Shizuoka, and from Kashima in Takeyama. Every card spoke of cherry blossoms, inadvertently bringing me tidings of flowers from scattered parts of the country. According to Professor E., the whole university is now poised for the decisive battle. The Law and Economics Faculties have gone to Shimane Prefecture, and the Science Faculties to Shiga, to do their labor service. The Faculty of Letters alone remains in Kyoto, having completed its service in March. In the morning, the students attend lectures in the core curriculum. Afternoons are devoted to military drills, after which students audit lectures on topics of their own choosing. Three acres of fallow ground on campus have been dug up, and the tennis courts will be reclaimed as potato fields. Cherry blossoms are in bloom where K.’s Chubu 3rd column is stationed in Shizuoka. Kashima sent me a heartfelt letter, not exactly in his usual tone.

“The Miura Peninsula is a stretch of hilly terrain,” he wrote, “with a few copses scattered here and there. The cherry blossoms are out. To my right lies the ever-blue Sea of Sagami, over which I can see Mt. Fuji on a sunny day. There are no cherry trees on the barracks grounds, but kirishima azaleas, torch azaleas, tulips, pansies, daisies, and other such things grow riotously in the newly built beds. Looking at these flowers blooming in the sun comforts my weary heart. I’m always thinking about you guys. I suppose I now regret a little that I was judged ‘not flightworthy’ and ended up here alone, separated from you all.”

I showed the postcards from Professor E. and Kashima to Fujikura. He looked dismayed and said he hadn’t received any. Well, what can I say? He doesn’t write to anyone. He did say, however, that he plans to write a long letter to Professor E., once his assignment as a pilot comes through. He intends to send it through some back channel in order to avoid the censors, who would by no means approve it.

After dinner I went to see the newsreel, ditty box in hand. It’s just like the military to make us all run twenty minutes’ distance simply to watch a ten-minute film. But what I saw in the newsreel was very interesting: commencement ceremonies at the Naval and Army Academies, young tank-men undergoing training, a report on the progress of the war along the India/Burma border. Jogging back to my quarters, I met Fujikura again.

“Did you notice those Indian soldiers learning how to handle the high-angle gun?” he asked.

“Yeah, I did. I couldn’t tell what they are thinking.”

“I know. They were perfectly deadpan. And if I draw anything good from this war, that’ll probably be it.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“I can’t whisper while running,” he said. “I’ll explain it to you later.”

And that was all.

Maybe Fujikura isn’t as devoted to his “ingenuity” as one might suppose, with all his cynical talk. In truth, he probably does his fair share of brooding and agonizing. Anyway, I don’t have many occasions to chat privately even with the men in my own outfit, let alone with Fujikura, who is only in the same division.

The division officer admonished us during the study session, late this evening. “Military men, aircrews in particular, must rely on others to see to their personal effects when they are killed,” he said. “You must exercise due care with your belongings. Be scrupulous. Take diaries, for instance. You are certainly free to keep one. But private though it may be, you have no control over who might read it someday. It’s best, so far as you can manage it, never to write anything that might tarnish your name after death.” This discountenanced me somewhat, as I keep a diary rather diligently. Would I be made a laughingstock if classmates, my instructors, or my subordinates were to read it after I die? Needless to say, the navy is hardly the beautiful, perfect world that schoolgirls dream about, and it is only fitting that I should record my honest criticism of it. On the other hand, I worry that this diary might clearly expose the weak, unsteady mind that I possess, in light of the hardships I am to face. I will have to train myself as much as I can, so that I can write exactly what I feel and think, and yet not open myself to shame. Even as I write this, though, the merest introspection gives rise to doubt, just as in that book Santaro’s Diary: “You liar,” comes the reproach, and pricks the hand that holds the pen. It is no small feat to leave behind a diary that is both “respectable” and sincere. But I will, after all, write from the heart, and make my petty complaints until all weakness fades away. And I shall be content if anyone reading my diary sees a student who has studied the Manyoshu at university agonize over his infirmities, but in the end meet his death without ambivalence, in the belief that somehow, anyway, he takes his part at the very foundation of his fatherland. If this diary stains my name in death, that can’t be helped.

Or, if I learn that I am to make a sortie tomorrow, with little hope of coming back, I can always burn this notebook.

April 23

I am infested with lice, and not just any ordinary lice, either. It’s astonishing. I’ve heard a theory that this type of louse is sexually transmitted, but I haven’t laid a finger on anybody. Clearly, I got them when I took a bath. I slipped into the toilet to inspect the situation in private, and there they were, buried under my hair, pale-colored pests with wriggling legs, so small I could hardly make them out. A number of these quite undesirable creatures clung to my flesh, biting into it. I scraped some off with my fingernails, and pressed them. They popped and bled. It’s perfectly miserable. I am not suffering alone, though. Not a few students hereabouts are constantly scratching their groins, striking all manner of undignified poses.

“What are you scratching at!?” the division officer shouted at N. during battle drills this morning.

N. blushed deeply, but nevertheless seemed offended. “I got a dose of crabs at the petty officers’ bath, sir,” he began, but he couldn’t finish his explanation before another shout came.

“Stop your whining!” the officer said. His tone notwithstanding, he seemed to be suppressing a chuckle. “Why don’t you consult a doctor? Get some mercurial ointment at once.”

“Yes, sir,” N. replied, with a salute. He was all set to run, fists properly at his waist, when the thunder came:

“Idiot! Who the hell told you to get medical treatment for crab lice in the middle of a battle!?” And he dealt N. a blow. In nervous desperation, N. blushed even more deeply. My heart went out to him.

By contrast to the division officer, the drill instructors have the common touch after all. “Cadet Yoshino, you have crab lice, too, don’t you?” they would say, grinning. My face was as red as N.’s.

During the break, Petty Officer First Class Okamoto, who is attached to the student units, triumphantly imparted to us his great stock of knowledge about this particular type of louse.

Crab lice, he says, are so named for their physical similarity to crabs. They are by nature lethargic, and if left undisturbed will simply stay put for days, biting into the skin under the hair. When immersed in hot water, though, some of the little buggers get startled and cut loose. They cruise around the surface, and, as this happens to be at about the same level as our private parts, they sink their teeth into yet another victim. We student reserves, Okamoto said, turn all red and white, making a mountain out of a molehill, when we suffer even a mild infestation, but it can be much worse if you are assigned to a fleet where water is in short supply. A destroyer, which has a canvas bath, is particularly bad. Let one person get infested and the lice spread to the entire crew. Nobody is bashful or self-conscious about it. They say the condition can be fatal if it spreads to the eyebrows or the head, but, he assured us, this is quite rare. Experienced petty officers find it gratifying to dig out the lice with a toothpick while baring their pubic regions to the setting sun after a bath. In this manner they rid themselves of six or seven lice at a time. A petty officer would never willingly resort to so indelicate a tactic as to eradicate the lice with mercurial ointment. All the same, if you really do want to root them out, mercurial ointment is the thing, and you should never, ever, shave your private parts. Etc. etc.

The special course this afternoon was sumo wrestling. The cherry trees on the base are finally in full bloom, and the rape blossoms are also out. Still, I can don a wrestler’s loincloth, and the cherry blossoms can bloom, with rape blossoms in the bargain; but if it itches, it itches. My manners are not so delicate as those of Petty Officer First Class Okamoto. I will definitely visit the doctor’s office tomorrow and get some mercurial ointment.

April 29, The Imperial Birthday

Rained in the early morning. But the sky cleared away beautifully around seven-thirty. No excursion today. We bowed in the direction of the Imperial Palace, and then did obeisance to His Majesty’s photograph.

Sakai said: “Worshipping His Majesty’s photograph with such dignity, and in military uniform—it all makes me feel so solemn and so firm. I’m certainly changing, and I take that as a blessing.” To some extent, I share his feeling.

Sumo wrestling in the morning. The green turf looks exceptionally fresh after the rain, and the tender grass is strewn with the petals of the cherry blossoms. I treaded lightly over them, feeling almost as if I were committing a sacrilege. The clover, which had drawn up the water from the earth, felt soft and comfortable to my feet.

I saw a thunderhead cloud this afternoon. All of a sudden, the weather is like summer. Unit drilling from 1600. Tonight’s study session was open. I used this week’s postcard to write to Kashima.

May 5

Decisions as to who shall be pilots and who shall go into reconnaissance were announced today, as were also our new duty stations. I managed to make the grade as a pilot and am delighted from the bottom of my heart. The mercurial ointment completely eradicated that infamous infestation, so I feel refreshed in both mind and body. We were evenly divided into pilot and reconnaissance groups, and Sakai and Fujikura both belong to the first. I must bear in mind what an honor it is to be designated a pilot. Only some nine hundred out of three hundred thousand men conscripted into the Naval Air Corps in the emergency national call-up are judged fit to be pilots. Like it or not, we have now been geared, like toothed wheels, into the most crucial component of a huge machine, a machine that will affect the fate of our country and determine the outcome of the war. Crews of conventional planes are to be assigned to the naval air stations at Yatabe, Miho, and Izumi. As for myself, I am bound for Izumi, where the majority of the future pilots, six hundred of them, will also go. Izumi, I hear, is a small town along the Kagoshima main rail line, halfway between Kumamoto and Kagoshima.

Surely we will succeed in the important work entrusted to us. We need not necessarily take a grim view of the progress of the war. The 13th Class of student reserve fliers will bear up to hold the tide at its present level, and we of the 14th Class will make a rally. Today is the day of the Boy’s Festival, and though we have neither rice dumplings nor carp streamers to mark the event, I feel a kind of manly pride. As for our day-to-day life at the new station: I should imagine we will be allowed more letters, and the food might be better, too. Before long we will be commissioned, and the gloom will be swept out of me. I know I had better not let my hopes run after my desires, lest I be disappointed, but what a delight it will be to leave this place! The word is we will be allowed visitors on the 14th. This might be the last chance we ever have to see our parents, so the division officer says we must be in good spirits, make the most of the occasion, and eat as much as we please—ohagi, red rice, what have you.

Strangely enough, today I had the queerest dream, at dawn, on the day of the announcement of our new assignments. I have never been superstitious, but from this point forward I can’t help but believe in the separation of the soul from the body. I was back home in Osaka. I opened the door to the bookcase in my room, took from the right end of the second shelf my copy of Poems for the Reverend Emperor, and read it. I saw no one from my family. The blue curtain that hangs over the glass doors of the bookcase, however—that remains vividly before my eyes. I would be willing to say this was nothing but an ordinary dream if it weren’t for that particular book, a book I had bought just before joining the navy, and which I had never had the chance to so much as open. But in my dream I opened it, and there can be no doubt that I read “San-ten-ka,” a poem by an obscure author that deals with General Maresuke Nogi, a hero of the Russo-Japanese War, and his sons Katsusuke and Yasusuke. The poem celebrates the valor of both the father and the sons, and at one point in it the General, having escorted the great Emperor Meiji to the grave, puts into words his feelings toward his two sons, who had earlier fallen in battle. The following passage is particularly exquisite.

I remembered the poem clearly from the dream. I found this so odd that I asked Wakatsuki, who happens to own the same book, to show me his copy, and as I turned to the page an uncanny sensation overcame me. The poem was just as I had seen it in my dream, almost to the letter. I do not know how to interpret this incident, other than to say that my soul left my body as I slept and returned to my hometown. If our souls do what our bodies plainly cannot, if they are endowed with perception as mine was in this dream, then I simply cannot believe that the complex activity of the mind is extinguished at the point of death, or that it is buried in the grave with the flesh. This notion heartens me, and gives me courage. Most definitely some sort of kinship affiliates sleep and death, and the question might not necessarily lie beyond the reach of science. Instead, this may be a matter that awaits scientific confirmation at a future date. Simply because science cannot at present explain a thing, and for that reason takes a dismissive view of it, we shouldn’t sweep it all aside as “superstition.” At least, I certainly cannot disregard the miraculous dream I had this morning.

Notes by Akira Fujikura

Professor E.

Please excuse me for ever having been so discourteous. It has been quite a long time since I sent you so much as a simple greeting. In fact, it was right after I first joined the navy, at Otake, and all the while I have been receiving kind letters from you.

I assume that you have already heard from Yoshino or Sakai that we are allowed only one postcard per week. That is one of my excuses, but there was another reason why I chose not to write you for such a long time. So far as my parents and siblings are concerned, I can content myself with saying to them the sorts of things the censors permit us all to say, but I simply could not persuade myself to send so artificial a note to you. For the same reason, I have scarcely written to my oldest and closest friends. Of course, there were times when I almost wrote you to say that I was dashing about, right as rain, hopping into gliders, shouldering heavy machine guns, and gripping the fat oars of a cutter, that my weight had risen to sixty-five kilograms, and that I enjoyed splendid health, and often recalled debating with you as we ate pork cutlet at Ogawa-tei. But each time the result was peculiarly hollow, and each time I tore up the letter and trashed it. Sure, I remember the pork cutlet at Ogawa-tei, and I now weigh sixty-five kilograms. It’s all true enough. But I couldn’t banish the thought that there is something else I must write, something of my true feelings—something of which I want you, at least, to have some knowledge before I end this life of mine (which might not last much longer).

There is no reason I should be so ceremonious, but that, anyway, is why I have chosen to write for you, bit by bit, and as I find time to spare, something between a letter and a note of my impressions, and to send it all to you once it is done. And I shall be grateful if you accept my complaints as those of a man who harbors his warped, unspoken views and can direct them to no one else. Needless to say, this letter would never pass the censors. However, we will leave Tsuchiura Air Station soon for a flight training base in a town called Izumi, way down in Kagoshima. We should be allowed to see our families, if only briefly, during the journey, at Shinagawa Station in Tokyo, and, in Kansai, either at Kyoto, Osaka, or Kobe Stations. My thought is that on one of these occasions I may have a chance to deliver this letter to you by means of someone I can trust. With that hope in mind, I’ve started writing today.

It has been exactly five months to the day since we joined the navy. My life here is utterly lonely. To be lonely in the military is most peculiar, it seems. I live in close contact with the naked flesh of hundreds, even thousands, of other men, shoulder to shoulder, day and night, leading a lively, tumultuous life, always on the move. But when I escape for a moment from all the rush, an overpowering desolation cuts me deep, as if I were totally abandoned in an empty, tranquil wilderness. My heart bonds with nothing, never once have I laid bare my feelings. This loneliness differs completely in nature from the solitude I knew as I studied in my second floor, four-and-a-half tatami room in the Hyakumanben district near Kyoto University, warming my hands over a hibachi on cold winter nights, yet satisfied in the belief that I was doing work that related to the world.

My only consolation is that Sakai and Yoshino are here with me. Still, I rarely get the chance to speak with them in a relaxed sort of way. Besides, both men have changed considerably, each in his own way, over the course of the last five months. As a matter of fact, this place changes every living soul. We have ceased to talk about the Manyoshu. Everyone is trying his best, under a bitter trial, to find some sort of anchorage. I am by no means being sarcastic when I say that Sakai and Yoshino are, after all, uncommonly modest and supple at heart, compared to myself. We know that in order to survive as military men or as naval officers, and above all to face the shadow of death that looms before our eyes, we must have a firm sense of ourselves. We accept that, obediently. In fact, we are more than willing to re-create ourselves for the purpose at hand, when all we ever get drilled into us, by the chief instructor, the division officers, the flight instructors, the daily newspapers with their infamous tone and their conveniently selected extracts from books, is the necessity of carrying through this holy war to its end, our responsibilities as honorable youths, the glorious tradition of the Imperial Navy, and the ideal of “the whole world under one roof.” Neither Sakai nor Yoshino has ever been blindly fanatical, and I wouldn’t necessarily call them that now, but their critical, skeptical air seems to be diminishing with repeated exposure to all these mantras. First, they began to think that the slogans weren’t entirely empty, then they were persuaded that they actually made some sense, and finally they came to believe that these slogans were absolutely right, and that all along only their own “deficient consciousness” prevented them from seeing the light. At least, they seem to be moving in this direction. I stand alone in my pigheaded inability to abandon my suspicions. I could never assume the “spiritual” frame of mind that the instructors demand of me, and yet I can’t figure out for sure what to do about my future. In point of fact, that timid Sakai (and maybe this is precisely because he is timid) recently declared that he has begun to fathom the deep meaning of the phrase, “We shall be united into a single Emperor.” He is even prepared to espouse the theory that we never truly understood the Manyoshu, which is, after all, a collection of “ethnic” poems, because we failed to comprehend this great spirit of “being united into a single Emperor.”

Several days ago, Yoshino came to me with a somber look on his face and reported a dream he had had. He tells me that his soul left his body while he slept, and traveled to his home in Osaka. He says that, while there, it read Poems for the Reverend Emperor, which Yoshino himself had never read before, and that, now, he vividly remembers the lines of a poem in it. Yoshino was shaken. Maybe he has already sent you a postcard describing this incident. What touched me, though, was how thoroughly Yoshino struggles, thinking, as he takes matters so hard, that he must stir in himself a spirit of martyrdom, and that he must train himself up. No doubt he is anything but insincere. I can tell that by his look. Yet I think it highly symbolic that what Yoshino supposedly did, among all the other things he could have done, and would have wanted to do, at his old house, was read a bit of the Poems for the Reverend Emperor, such-and-such a poem celebrating the martyrdom of General Nogi. It was fortunate that Yoshino’s soul wasn’t caught when it went AWOL and given a blow by the rigorous guard commander at Tsuchiura Naval Air Station. Interestingly enough, though, in Yoshino’s outfit there is a geeky fellow named Wakatsuki from Takushoku University, and he has had in his possession, for some time now, this same book, volume one of Poems for the Reverend Emperor. Anyway, to me, it seems far more rational to suppose that Yoshino had read this poem a long time back, and had simply forgotten about it until it put in an appearance in his dream, than that his soul made an excursion to Osaka.

About a month ago, a Mr. Gakushu Ohara from the Association for the Enhancement of Imperial National Prestige visited our base, and gave a fanatical talk, pure gibberish, for two and a half hours, earning the ridicule of everyone present. He was one of those inspired leaders of whom there is an epidemic these days, the same genre of men you often complained about. Yoshino and Sakai were both scornful. But when things reach this point, we can’t content ourselves with sneering at Mr. Ohara alone, I think. Besides, fellows like this Mr. Something Ohara reap tidy profits making the rounds of the military training units and the schools, giving their “inspirational” speeches, and performing their “purifications.” And who knows, they may be perfect realists at heart, all the while laughing into their sleeves. But Sakai and Yoshino aren’t of a calculating turn of mind, and that makes me more apprehensive about them.

Professor E.

I know I wasn’t a very good student. I often put on airs, and now and then I launched into arguments against the theories of all you scholars out of conceit. Consequently, I was never a favorite with the professors. Many a time I wished I could, and thought I must, have an open, cheerful, supple mind, just like all the other students, but now I’m determined to stick to this cranky, arrogant disposition of mine. Only extraordinary crankiness can save you from being cajoled into the belief (and this, mind you, while leading the kind of life we lead here) that the war is indeed a great mission given to us by our country, and that our country will be saved by our martyrdom. Things will change someday. Our desperate feelings may not be understood forever, either by the older generation or the younger. Still, whenever I get the chance to see Yoshino and Sakai in private, I tell them, in the strongest terms possible, just how foolish it is to force themselves, and so rapidly, too, to change their way of thinking. Occasionally, after giving the matter some thought, they say, “You are right,” and we all agree in criticizing certain aspects of navy life and the general conduct of the war. But for the most part, they (Yoshino in particular) will not budge an inch, saying, “Still, at this point anyway, Japan must win the war. I take it to heart, as a Japanese citizen, that we must fight it all out, with the fate of our race at stake. It’s a supreme duty. You can’t quarrel with it. Our country will collapse if each of us starts to express his own particular view and turns his back.” Gazing into Yoshino’s earnest face makes me falter somewhat. It is true, the war is “in progress,” however wrong it may be. And though, as I say, I oppose the war and don’t want any longer to be a cog in its machinery, I can make no concrete answer if asked what it is I believe I should do. One possible course of action is simply to try to save my own life. Shrewd as I am, however, it would be extremely difficult for me, a navy pilot, alone to escape death. It’s not that I’ll be killed unless I finish off the enemy first. No, I’ll be eliminated whether or not I kill the enemy. It’s not that my friends will die unless I do. No, everybody must die, my friends, me, one and all. That such total war is our destiny I take for granted. Needless to say, I’m not prepared in the least.

I know I should explain to you why I ever volunteered to be a pilot, given the beliefs I hold. But I don’t have the courage to commit my thoughts about that to paper, not, anyway, until I have come to terms with my feelings in some measure. Be that as it may, at least I can say that part of the reason was my more or less irresponsible and apathetic attitude. Whichever course I took, I thought, piloting or reconnaissance, I wouldn’t have any control at all over my own life and death. To put it plainly, there was simply no guarantee whatsoever of my safe return, even if I went into reconnaissance.

Professor E.

I fear that you may be deeply disturbed on receiving this sloppily penciled letter. First of all, it must annoy you to read my illegible scrawl, and second, you may well feel that it is dangerous to have such a letter on hand. Please burn it when you are through. I don’t really believe, though, that what I say is especially dangerous or immoral, while I do concede that my writing is culpably verbose. Anyway, if we must endure such inconveniences, and run such risks, simply to think, say, and record thoughts as innocent as these, I have to wonder: What good can come of the civilization that my generation produces?

Well, now that I have begun, I will go ahead and say it. Lately I am all but convinced that we will lose this war. Don’t you agree? We are just a bunch of student reserves, still in training, but simply because we are now under the flag, and are quasi-officers, we regularly hear what appears to be confidential intelligence, of which you teachers are likely unaware. And judging from these scraps of information, it seems perfectly clear that, so far as materiel is concerned, the gap between Japan and America beggars belief. Japan lost most of the main force of her aircraft carriers in the Battle of Midway Island. Ninety-nine percent of our ace pilots, who had displayed skills unparalleled in the world at the beginning of the war, were killed in the air battle over the Solomon Sea. Due to changes in the complexion of naval combat, we have already passed the stage at which the super-dreadnoughts Yamato and Musashi might have demonstrated their capabilities. On the other hand, I hear that America, flush with her technological superiority in ordnance and radar, is steadily completing new armaments of terrifying scale. What is more, our line of defense in the southeastern theater is rapidly losing ground. I find it ironic that the tide of war has turned in this way, given that the U.S. Navy is said to do its utmost to save its crews’ lives, while the Japanese Imperial Navy still instructs its men that their entire duty is to die. Unless this war develops into some kind of “romantic” battle, in which a loyal subject emerges out of nowhere to lead our country to victory under his banner, it seems to me that Japan has no choice left but to carry its deteriorating military position forward to defeat. And I don’t think the end will be long in coming. This is no “Ten Years’ War” or “Hundred Years’ War,” as they sometimes say. I suspect that the war will be over within three years or so. And what if we manage to live that long, I sometimes fancy? Then Sakai, Yoshino, and the three hundred thousand odd students conscripted in the emergency call-up shall all be awakened from this hypnosis of war. And we shall find ourselves living in a defeated nation, Japan. The idea is so painful, even to me, that I can’t bear to imagine what the country will be like. But somehow we will make our way back to you, and to our old university in Kyoto. Well, I guess that’s just a fantasy after all. It will not happen. It’s too much, even for me, to assume that we will be alive three years down the road.

Professor E.

Ten days have passed since I started to write this clumsy letter during study sessions, avoiding the eyes of my instructors. We have been to the village of Obata at the foot of Mt. Tsukuba, about thirty kilometers distant, for three days of maneuvers, from the day before yesterday until today. We rose at 4:30 on the morning of the departure, shouldered our rain gear, clipped haversacks and canteens to our waists, took up our #38 rifles, and assembled in front of the drill platform in the darkness of dawn. (“#38” means old, by the way. This rifle hasn’t been updated since the 38th year of the Meiji era, in 1905.) The chief instructor almost shouted when he addressed us. “You are outfitted exactly as were your comrades who died their warriors’ deaths at Makin, at Tarawa, and in the Aleutian Islands. Brace yourselves. Tough it out with fire and spirit during these next three days of maneuvers.” By all appearances many among us did gird themselves up at this speech, burning with a Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead! sort of intensity. And in point of fact, we all “toughed it out,” without a single man dropping. But even an affair like this seems funny to me. Why should we find it moving rather than depressing, and how can it give us good reason to get all fired up, simply to be outfitted exactly like our hapless “comrades” who were ill-equipped, and, consequently, annihilated by our enemy’s overwhelming firepower? I just can’t help feeling that everything is standing wrong side up somehow.

Have you visited the country around here, by the way? Paulownia and wisteria were flowering gracefully in the prosperous villages at the foot of Mt. Tsukuba. Milk vetches were also in bloom, and frogs croaked in the rice fields. This is the spot where the poems in volume fourteen of the Manyoshu are set. As I lay in ambush under a chestnut tree, I tore off a Japanese pepper leaf and sniffed it, thinking, for no special reason, of the poem that says,

On our way back, we practiced an intense running engagement. The rifle butt bit into my shoulder, my fatigues were thoroughly mired, and my face broke out in a salty sweat. Now I realize how aptly put the expression “My legs are like lead” really is. So I have no words to describe the euphoria I felt when, after returning to base, after finishing the laundry and cleaning duty, and after taking a bath, I received a parcel of sweets. But then I heard a fellow in my outfit say, while nibbling away at some confection, “It was tough, but it was good experience.” I wanted to turn on him and had to struggle to suppress the urge. Isn’t it the luxury of those who look forward to a long life to say that hard times make for “good experience”? As for me, the hard times I have here are just hard times plain and simple, and I cannot by any means imagine they will bear good fruit in the future.

Professor E.

I’m writing the last part of this letter on the train. Today is May 25. We are supposed to pass through Kyoto around five o’clock tomorrow morning. You will be sleeping peacefully in your Kita Shirakawa residence. At the moment, we are running halfway between Odawara and Atami, with the ocean on our left. I can see Kashima’s Miura Peninsula looming low. A little while ago, I spotted a bunch of sorrel, a familiar face from the Manyo lectures, flowering along the railroad. The day after tomorrow we finally start our lives as real pilots in Izumi, down in southern Kyushu.

My heart is full, so I hope you will excuse me for writing out my scattered, incoherent thoughts at such length. As for the place where we may receive visitors, after many changes, they decided on Himeji Station, and the time appointed for it is tomorrow morning. My father should be there to see me. He is the kind of man who deeply reveres the Emperor and the Imperial Army and Navy, while he also respects you and Professor 0. It makes me a little anxious, but I think I will ask him to deliver this letter to you. If the instructors watch us so closely that I can’t carry out my plan, I will burn it in the toilet on the train. If this letter does happen to reach you, please destroy it after reading it through, as I said earlier.

Together with a few other students in his outfit, Yoshino is playing an old child’s game with a handkerchief. Sakai is in another car. I can’t see him from where I sit.

Professor, now I must bid you goodbye until I can write again. With best wishes for your good health and happiness.