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.
The special course this afternoon was sumo wrestling. The cherry trees on the base are finally in full bloom, and the rape blossoms are also out. Still, I can don a wrestler’s loincloth, and the cherry blossoms can bloom, with rape blossoms in the bargain; but if it itches, it itches. My manners are not so delicate as those of Petty Officer First Class Okamoto. I will definitely visit the doctor’s office tomorrow and get some mercurial ointment.
April 29, The Imperial Birthday
Rained in the early morning. But the sky cleared away beautifully around seven-thirty. No excursion today. We bowed in the direction of the Imperial Palace, and then did obeisance to His Majesty’s photograph.