Burial in the Clouds Page 4

  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  At a used bookstore in town I came across a series of annotations of unpublished classic Japanese literature, but I passed it by, feeling no longer connected to things like that.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 c
ynical 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.