Today is Imperial Rescript Day. The Sunday schedule was unexpectedly applied, and we were granted liberty. We took the train to Minamata and headed straight for the Fukais. Mr. Fukai was in Kumamoto today. The daughter, Fukiko, helped her mother prepare a meal for us, wearing pants made from a coarse, splash-patterned fabric. I felt guilty barging in unannounced. But what might otherwise have been a plain-looking pair of work pants looked fetching on Fukiko. The subdued light of the Fukais’ house imparted a grace to her fair face and limbs, and I have never known a girl with such elegant nails. Mrs. Fukai kept us company for the most part, while Fukiko, to our disappointment, tended to disappear into the kitchen, not that any of us (I assume) was thinking of her in any special way. We aren’t allowed to indulge such thoughts. Fukiko is quiet by nature, but she laughed with amusement when we related the story of Wakatsuki emerging from his plane so free of care after landing it upside down.
I learned for the first time that Tokutomi Roka was from Minamata. The Fukais have a number of old books of essays by local literary figures, and also a volume called the Ashikita County Chronicle, which compiles folk songs, ballads, and legends.
I found a few interesting hulling songs: “Long may my old man live, until the fire bell at the temple rots.” “Divert yourself with song, instead of crying about your work.” And a horse driver’s chant: “If you sing as you please, the trees and reeds will nod, and the river stop to listen.”
I suggested that we visit the Fukais whenever we are granted an outing, and that each time we copy out a few of these old folk poems, with a view toward making a notebook.
“Sure. Sounds interesting. Let’s do it,” Sakai agreed.
Fujikura, however, was displeased. “This isn’t a Japanese Lit class,” he said. “Stop your masturbatory trifling, and don’t be so mawkish.” He seems to be in the habit of objecting on principle to whatever it is we propose.
For dessert we were served a sweet soup of parched barley flour with dumplings. I stirred the barley flour into the boiling water and raised the bowl to my mouth, savoring its clean bucolic flavor, its gentle aroma and warmth. It was pure delight.
We returned to base at 1630. Tonight we learned that the final charge was in progress on Saipan.
July 18
First solo flight today. Intense heat, glaring sun, blue sky, and cumulonimbus clouds.
The men on Saipan died honorably, I heard. In the early morning of July 7, they launched their final all-out assault. Some managed to steer in close to Mt. Tapotchau, inflicting heavy losses on the enemy, but all are believed to have met their heroic deaths no later than the 16th. Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, task force leader at the Battle of Hawaii, was also killed in action.
“Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.” We may fall, or we may kick in hard, but we must do it all without question, and that is our life.
I scarcely have time even to write this.
July 31
I was permitted to fly solo only the other day, and now I am already training in aerobatics.
The summer sea and clouds are exceptionally beautiful. From an altitude of 1200 meters, I made a nosedive toward a fishing boat, a solitary dot on the sea. I made a loop and executed a hammer-head stall and a vertical turn. Up in the sky the air is cool and pleasant, and aerobatic flying is a thrill, but it seems that the brain works far less efficiently at high altitude. Besides, I feel lousy all day after a flight, and my head grows heavy, as if it were under pressure.
Still, since we began aerobatics and formation flight training, I have noticed on the faces of my comrades the serene expression of men who act without worry about the outcome, as well as a few menacing looks. Flying demands the most rigorous attention, a kind of total effort. At all other times, there is just no use thinking about anything. My body perpetually craves watermelon, cold drinks, and the like.
They conducted a survey as to which type of aircraft we wish to fly. I listed carrier-based attack bombers for my first choice, land-based attack bombers for my second. In short, I have decided to fly hugging a torpedo to my belly. After all, if we don’t do it, nobody will. Enemy troops have landed on Guam, and they have also reached Palau. Dalian reportedly suffered an air raid last night. The 1st Division and the 8th Division start night-flight training tomorrow. In fact, night-flight training is the ultimate course. We have come a long way in short order. Prepare for death with composure.
A letter from father arrived today, together with Mokichi Saito’s Winter Clouds and the Iwanami paperback of Chekhov’s stories. They still know nothing of my brother Bunkichi’s whereabouts, and, as news comes in of suicidal charges made on one island after another, they worry, ominously.
When I open Winter Clouds, the poems about battles, and about Yamato, naturally seize my heart. However, the poems collected here date from 1937 to 1939, which means Saito’s sentiment is often rather distant from ours, even if he does speak of war.
Given the present complexion of the war, I could never express such wholehearted “felicitations.” I will copy down a few other poems that caught my eye.
Saito wrote a couple of poems celebrating the wedding of Yoshiko Nakamura (probably the daughter of the late Kenkichi Nakamura).