Burial in the Clouds (21 page)

I still have some problems to solve, food, for example. But my plan is taking shape quite sensibly along the lines laid out above, and about ninety percent of it is now in place. However, one thing is strange. As the blueprint of my escape plan comes into focus, a certain indefinable emptiness sweeps through my mind. I don't know quite how to explain it, but suppose I somehow manage to survive on the island. There I am, spending my days fishing or whatever, when all of sudden I spot a detachment of the special attack force overhead—my comrades, roaring atop the clouds and heading south. And after they are gone there remains only the sky, absurdly bright and tranquil, and that hollow tint of it vividly strikes my eyes. So far as I can tell, it's not that my conscience is bothering me because what I intend to do is cowardly, and it's not exactly a fear of solitude, either. I fully intend to dodge the pointless death marked out for me here, but when I picture the color of that sky, the prospect of survival also begins to seem dreary. I can do nothing with this strange, empty, enervating void, so I will simply have to root out this feeling.

Actually, we occasionally hear that among the many who make their “Will Die, Will Kill” sorties, there are some who ditch their planes more or less in the way I have in mind, and they survive, marooned on an island somewhere. These men didn't follow a deliberate course of action, or so it seems anyway. They just fell into a funk along the way, and desperately ditched their planes on an impulse. But mine is a calculated move, planned far in advance, and this is doubtless what makes me feel so hollowed out. And now I'm thinking: Setting off in such a frame of mind, I might be impelled by the
opposite
kind of impulse, an impulse that says, “Maybe it's actually easier just to go ahead and die.” And thus I may end up meeting Fate with all my comrades, which is not impossible. I expect I will have to suppress that impulse by sheer willpower. I used to be a diffident student. I had my doubts about the value of studying the
Manyoshu
as it was, and now I can't possibly make it my mission to survive in order to work on it further for my comrades. Maybe that partly accounts for the emptiness I feel. I close my eyes, I strain my ears, but from nowhere do I hear a voice saying: “You must live. Don't think about the others. It's all right. You deserve to survive.” Needless to say, I am certainly not trying to coax any such words out of you. When you cannot accept this war, when you are poised to take a different path and watch your friends die before your very eyes, it is agony.

However, Professor, I intend to sustain myself and to endure the ordeal of this strange void, and if I am to suffer unspoken accusations, then I will endure them, too. When Japan stages its next big operation, and you hear that I made a sortie and am missing, please conclude that I'm probably alive on some southern island where I ditched my plane. I will wait for the war to end, and surely I will return to Kyoto. Would you welcome me? And if my attempt fails, and you get news that I “died in the line of duty” (?!), then please remember, from time to time, that there was one naval ensign among the men who came under your tutelage who just could not approve of this war, and that he died, rejecting it to the end.

When I write, I always end up producing a long, incoherent letter. I'm sorry about that. But setting aside our struggles, you yourself must be leading a terribly hard life. This might be the last letter I send you till the very day I make my sortie, but please take good care of yourself. And finally, I have a favor to ask of you. When we were stationed in Izumi, we visited, on every outing, a family in Minamata by the name of Fukai. They were very kind to us. The head of the household is Mr. Nobunori Fukai, and he has a daughter called Fukiko. I have already explained my plans, but in our situation nobody knows what the future holds, and if I die and Yoshino survives, I would like you to act as a go-between for Yoshino and this girl.

Miss Fukai appeared to like each of us, though in different ways. In other words, she was vaguely attracted to these brave naval aviation officers with a scholarly air about them. Rationally speaking, I don't want any woman to like me based on an overestimation of my character, and emotionally speaking, she is not exactly my type anyway, though she is certainly beautiful and sweet. So I feigned ignorance of her affections throughout our acquaintance. Yoshino, however, still pines for her, even four months after our leaving Izumi. I know this perfectly well, as I have watched him closely ever since I became convinced of his feelings while we were still at Izumi. He would never admit it, because he believes he is going to crash into the enemy and die, but he broods over Miss Fukai most unhandsomely, whenever he is alone. In any case, it's not as if I were giving away to a friend a woman I really love. Instead, I'm just a backseat driver, I suppose. Anyway, I wanted somebody else to know about this, in case the roll of the dice leaves Yoshino alive and me dead. And if the match should be made through the good offices of Professor E., that would be highly desirable. Indeed, perfect. And if there really is another world beneath the sod, I shall be watching the couple from there, with satisfaction. That is why I'm asking you to keep this in mind.

With best wishes. I will post this letter tomorrow, the 24th, in Beppu, during our excursion.

Usa Naval Air Station

January 25
(Continued from Yoshino's diary)

Our training flights resumed today.

We use alcohol fuel, which takes considerable nerve. I tossed and turned last night, my sleep interrupted frequently by dreams. No doubt anxiety about the fuel is at the bottom of it.

A number of carrier attack bombers and carrier bombers are making trial runs in front of the field headquarters. Three Type-96 carrier bombers particularly got into my brain, as they kept up a good roar right nearby. I had to endure
a constant pressure in my head, which grew heavy, as if I were holding the whole world on top of it. It wasn't much of a thrill.

Mutual flight. I climbed into the rear seat of Ensign W.'s plane. Truly, it's been a long while since I last flew. The cloud index was eight. The wind was strong, with a velocity of some ten meters per second, and the direction shifted frequently from west to northwest, and then to the north. But how rusty my skills are! First, I forgot about the flap. I couldn't attend to the tabs. The winds only made matters worse. The plane bounced up and down and waggled, speed fluctuating wildly. I got nauseated. How pathetic! It wasn't just me, though.

“The damn thing wouldn't go my way! I had no idea I'd so completely lost my touch!” That's about all you heard as everyone tottered out of the planes, quite beside themselves. I asked what route they took, but no one seemed to have the slightest idea. We were all soundly rebuked, but I really wish the officers wouldn't lecture us about our deteriorating performance when they've kept us grounded for two and a half months. The recon students enjoy two flights a day, morning and evening, and on regular fuel, too, while we carrier attack bombers attached to the special attack force fly every other day, and on alcohol. Nobody blinks at this bizarre state of affairs. It is not fair to compare our skills to theirs. But we will catch up to them, alcohol fuel or no. And we will learn enough to take us to the place where we mean to die.

Had a bath at 1900. The water was good and hot. I scrubbed my body with soap, which I haven't done for some time. As I got out, I gazed into the mirror and found myself looking pretty grave.
You cocky bastard, loosen up a little!
I said to myself, and I made some silly faces, pulling my cheeks, and poking out my lips, until my clownish mug made me a little melancholy. I heard somebody laughing. Through the bathroom window I could see the moon, hanging warped in the sky. I ate an orange, smoked a Hikari, and finished a leftover soda, and then sank into a sound sleep.

February 1

Flew in the morning. I'm beginning to get a sense of the air again. The winds were light. The thin, silver line of the Yakkan River, the Sea of Suo, the Kunisaki Peninsula, Beppu Bay off to the south—it all looked hazy, giving me the feeling of spring. I've managed to make a bit of room in my heart to enjoy the bird's-eye view. The rain came in this afternoon, putting an end to flights for the day. It kept up well into the night.

During the course on combat tactics we learned that the Ginga turned out to be pretty useless, falling well short of expectations. It was a real letdown. The Type-1
land-based attack bomber earned the nickname “Cigar” for its shape, but nowadays, seeing as how it so readily catches fire, everybody just calls it a “Match.” But even so, some Ginga crews purportedly say they prefer the Type-1, as their plane has proved so difficult to maintain and is forever getting them into accidents. This account accords with what we so often witnessed at Izumi.

The U.S. has occupied the air base at Clark Field, north of Manila, and at the end of January a total of some two hundred enemy warships and transports arrived at this strategic zone in the Philippines. I doubt whether we actually have two hundred aircraft left in all the Philippines. The situation is such that even if every single Japanese plane plunges into an enemy vessel and sinks it, we are still outnumbered. They say we now possess fewer than five aircraft carriers, and this figure includes our smaller auxiliary carriers. None of them ever puts out to sea, though, as fuel has to be conserved, and the crews have yet to complete their training. Only a few weeks ago we sat through a lecture on carrier takeoff and landing protocols. At the time I thought the lecture pointless, and indeed, the navy is shot through with hit-or-miss training and willy-nilly strategies. America is said to possess some eighty aircraft carriers, and they are about to commission three new forty-five thousand ton class vessels capable of carrying medium attack bombers. Well, we will mark out a line of defense along the shore of mainland Japan, and
there
we will annihilate the enemy, at a blow; we no longer need any aircraft carriers.
That's
the logic on our side, but it all sounds like sour grapes to me.
I
hear our Japanese comrades are struggling to complete air bases in Formosa and in southern Kyushu, but with hoes and pickaxes they are making extremely slow progress, whereas the U.S. military can complete the same task in three days using its bulldozers and dump trucks. Also, I hear the signs indicate that a major enemy task force will advance toward mainland Japan within two weeks. As for our situation, it looks like mass production of the Ryusei, the Shiden, and the Renzan won't get into gear until May or June.

“When May rolls around they'll probably tell us ‘not until July or August,”' the tactics instructor said, spilling the beans, evidently half in despair. He spared us the usual talk about “that's why you must steel yourself with do-or-die resolution, blah-blah-blah.” Felt all the more uncanny for it.

There are three young trainees who predict the future using a planchette. About once a week, we call them in and ask all kinds of questions. You have to be serious, though, if you actually expect an answer. They position a plate atop three interlocked chopsticks and summon the spirits. The chopsticks rattle, the plate flutters, and with that the prophesying begins. So far they've managed to find a few lost items, but today they prophesied that the greater East Asian war will end on April 23, Showa 22 (1947), with a victory for Japan. Incidentally, there is talk that a freak cow was born in Hiroshima, with a human face and the body of a beast. I saw the picture, and indeed, the creature has a very human look about it, with its high nose, like a pensive old man. The body, however, is undoubtedly a cow's. In any case, this freak cow purportedly spoke our language, and it said, just before dying, “After losing three battles, Japan will greet the end of the war in brilliant triumph.” Sakai, by the way, repeated the words of Admiral Saneyuki Akiyama at the Battle of Tsushima in 1905, which he stumbled across in some book: “Should Japan and America go to war, I can keep us in the running even if I lose Kyushu.” For his part, Fujikura is as sour as vinegar. Obviously, the freak cow and the planchette are simply too absurd for him. I myself can't see how the present war situation could lead to a Japanese victory in April of Showa 22. Still, I can't quite bring myself, like Fujikura, to sweep these prophecies aside as fakes, or as mere superstition.

Anyway, I guess I shouldn't be wasting time with matters like these. Whether Japan wins or loses, we will already have perished. Suppose a man is stopping up holes in some embankment, one by one, when the murky water starts coming through. The moment he loses his faith is the moment everything washes away.