Burial in the Clouds (6 page)

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.