Burial in the Clouds (4 page)

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.
*
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.
†

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.

-Hast thou not gone against sincerity?

-Hast thou not felt ashamed of thy words and deeds?

-Hast thou not lacked vigor?

-Hast thou exerted all possible efforts?

-Hast thou not become slothful?

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?