Burial in the Clouds Read Online Free Page B

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