Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Under the cliff at the southern edge of town, the Black Dragon River stretched frozen into the distance.

A horse-drawn sleigh glided lightly across the river from afar.

From the barracks to the hospital, along the frozen hill path, Kurimoto climbed cautiously, taking care not to slip. The wounds of his fellow injured soldiers improved every time he looked. Soon, they would be evacuated by hospital train and sent back to the home country.—From a wooden house below the hospital, a hulking American soldier, taking hold of the retired colonel’s daughter’s arm, pushed open the door and strode out. The girl, who had just turned sixteen, stood only about half the American soldier’s height and build. Clinging to the thick arm, she hurriedly adjusted her high-heeled shoes in quick steps.

“Coachman! Coachman!”

Supporting the girl who seemed about to stumble, the American soldier descended the hill with intense focus on his boot toes. The girl's coat fluttered repeatedly at the American soldier's knee. They were heading into town for a tryst. The girl had been someone the Japanese soldiers had struggled for about three months to get close to. That effort had been snatched away by the American soldiers who arrived later. Her name was Riza. “Coachman!” “Coachman!” At the foot of the hill, the Russian calls for a sleigh waiting at the crossroads were still being repeated.

Each time he breathed the frozen air, feeling a stabbing pain in his nose, Kurimoto came to the door of the sickroom that creaked on the concrete floor.

When he pushed open the door, warm air rushed out to meet him, carrying a nauseating blend of creosote, pus, and chamber pot stench that assaulted his still-throbbing nose. Onishi—the man who’d lost his heel—sat with his leg propped on a stool, the limb so thickly bandaged it had swollen into a rounded mass. Through the double-paned window, he watched American soldiers trudge down the hill. His face wore the grimy exhaustion unique to long-term casualties. “Heh,” he snorted. “Look at those mole-necked bastards waddling like they’re trying to twist heads they don’t even got!”

“Oh, so you were watching from here?”

“When those American bastards come around, I don’t budge from the window.” The fair-skinned nursing orderly sitting beside Onishi turned to look at Kurimoto. “It’s so damn irritating—those mole bastards snatch up every halfway decent girl there is.” Onishi did not take his eyes from the window. “Do those bastards really think the Russkies don’t realize they’re passing counterfeit bills?”

“We don’t even have those counterfeit bills to pass around.” “Even if we had counterfeit bills, we wouldn’t use ’em.” Between them and the American soldiers, there existed such a gap in their appeal to the Russian girls. They were all as rugged as dry branches; when spoken to, they turned red to the roots of their ears. They didn’t even have those counterfeit bills they so despised. They didn’t know how to sit properly in a parlor with chairs—such etiquette was beyond them.

II

In the sickroom, soldiers in soiled northern-style hospital gowns lay on iron beds once used by Russian soldiers, their heads turned toward the window and limbs wrapped in white bandages protruding from blankets. There were those whose toes had rotted and fallen off from frostbite. There was one whose upper lip had been grazed sideways by a bullet. There was one with a cross-shaped bandage around his head securing a partially torn-off earlobe. The man with the injured lip was pouring cold condensed milk and thin rice gruel down his esophagus as if swallowing fire, moving his mouth barely at all with gingerly care. He must have been the same age as the others, but he looked about eighteen. That man always wore a far more unbearable expression than those who had their femurs pierced by bullets.

Every time someone entered, they would lift their gaunt, pallid faces, assume expectant expressions, and stare fixedly at the newcomer. The frostbitten corporal abruptly sat up halfway, his face wearing a covetous look. The corporal's unwashed body odor from prolonged lack of bathing was especially rank. Kurimoto had long since moved past feeling sympathy for his wounded comrades who'd enlisted the same year. Instead, he envied them. The wounded would be shipped back to the home country within a month at most, escaping this wretched military life altogether. He had brought letters from the homeland and comfort packages from the barracks to the hospital. For those stranded in Siberia, even glimpsing envelopes bearing Japanese postage stamps brought fleeting joy.

About an hour later, after handing them over to his comrades, he descended the icy hill while minding his boot toes like the American soldiers. “Maybe I should get myself wounded too,” he murmured inwardly. “Staying healthy is what’s so goddamn foolish!”

Each wound retained fragments of battle. They had chased partisans deep through forests. Their train had been derailed only to face partisan attacks, fleeing in panic. Wounds differed by weapons and combat circumstances. Those with iron sand fragments peppered like freckles across their faces had been caught in bomb fights. Fractures and bruises came with overturned trains.

The wounded soldiers did not harbor such intense resentment toward the constraints and pain bound to their flesh. “We’ll be heading out to Urajio after thirteen more nights.” When Onishi said this, he couldn’t conceal his delight.

“Is that so?” Kurimoto forced a smile. He envied those who could return home. When he tried to hide that envy, his smile turned hollow and lonely. The unpleasant clarity of this realization struck him deeply. “Any messages you need sent?” “Nothing comes to mind.” “If I can steal away one step ahead of the rest, I’ll be damned glad.” Those gathered here now dwelled only on life after discharge. Their hearts brimmed with visions of home. One day while unpacking a comfort bag he’d brought, Kurimoto watched the Head Nurse amble into the ward. Each bag held different treasures. Silk wadding for layering against cold. Soap, hand towels, dried persimmons. A Koyasan postcard sheltering a ten-sen note... All steeped in the fragrance of Japan. The towels bore some village fertilizer dealer’s seal stamped in dye. Yet these remained mere whiffs of homeland to be savored in Siberia. When his comrade noticed the Head Nurse’s entrance, he abruptly abandoned interest in the comfort bag.

“Head Nurse, Fukuchi here—how much pension will I get?”

For Kurimoto, this came as a surprise. He left the half-opened bag on the bed and sat there dazed. "What’s your rank?" He endured everything in the military out of desire for a pension. That was the kind of Head Nurse he was. When it came to military pensions, he knew more than any encyclopedia. "First-class private." "Well, assuming it corresponds to an Article Five injury... with the increase added, that would be two hundred twenty yen." From the tips of his feet to his waist, he was entangled in gutter-like splints; most likely, that one leg would have to be amputated—that was Fukuchi. A penetrating gunshot wound to the thigh.

“Head Nurse—Onishi here. How much’ll I get?”

“You think they’d give you anything for a slight heel injury?” “If I don’t get it, it doesn’t balance out.”

The wounded soldiers each asked the Head Nurse which Article their injuries fell under. The military pension amount was determined by which Article governed their injuries. In such moments, Kurimoto saw them as having already become creditors against the state.

"What the hell! You get turned into cripples—lame, handless half-men—and take their miserable compensation in exchange! What’s there to be happy about?!" He felt an inexplicable resentment. However, he couldn't help but feel utterly sickened at the thought of how much longer he would be forced to chase partisans against his will from now on—an immeasurable span of time. Those who were healthy and remained on duty had no idea how long they would have to stay in Siberia.

"Maybe I should get myself a light injury."

He secretly thought. He had grown utterly weary of Siberia. He had grown sick of it all—exchanging gunfire with partisans, burning villages, capturing them, and handing them over to the White Army. Kalmykov, the White Army leader, massacred and buried the Bolshevik prisoners who had been handed over. In the forest, to obscure the traces of where Kalmykov had killed the prisoners, they had kicked and scattered the blood-stained snow with their boots. In that vicinity, large and small boot prints of all kinds were imprinted countless times across the snow in chaotic disarray. There were also traces of two boots that had fled at full speed further into the depths of the forest. The blood that had trickled out had dried up in places, while elsewhere it formed dots and thick lines running alongside the boot prints. Probably, a prisoner who had been struck with a blade had desperately managed to escape. The trail of blood led on for about a hundred meters before turning right through the trees, then veering left, winding its way until it vanished completely beneath a white birch. The snow there had been violently kicked about, trampled, and defiled. In the rock-hard frozen snow, blood had seeped in as though into stone. The prisoners must have resisted with every ounce of strength they had to stay alive. Along the forest path leading back lay hands severed diagonally from the wrist joint and a single boot with a foot still inside, carelessly discarded on the white snow. The hands and feet, along with the boots, had frozen hard and white like marble statues.

It was not the Japanese military that had killed the prisoners. However, the residents' hatred toward such atrocities was redirected at the aggressive Japanese military aiding the White Army.

Kurimoto thought about what they—the soldiers—were being made to do. They were being used as nothing more than tools by capitalists back home who sat idle and their local agents.—And he couldn’t stop the rebellious fervor surging within him. It wasn’t just him; many soldiers shared this same discontent and defiance. Sometimes they aimed their rifle muzzles skyward instead of shooting fleeing partisans. Other times they collapsed in the snow and refused orders to “Advance!” On another occasion, they pointed bayonets at that infuriating Lieutenant. Yet through repeating these acts of rebellion, they came to realize with painful clarity how ineffective such sporadic methods were when employed by only some of the soldiers.

III The mercury in the thermometer contracted. Seven degrees below freezing, eleven degrees, fifteen degrees—until finally it plunged below twenty. The partisans defending the Soviets intensified their attacks. Japanese soldiers lost their nimbleness to the cold. They swaddled themselves in bulky fur coats until they resembled porcupines. Their thick gloves hung from their necks like purses on strings. Rifles slipped through gloved fingers as though greased with wax. The partisans pressed this advantage.

The soldiers had to constantly chase extremists, conduct house searches, confiscate weapons, be roused at midnight, and hastily arm themselves to rush out as reinforcements. Along the railway line, split into many groups, small units went out on alert duty. Kurimoto’s company received orders to board a train and go out on alert to Iishi. Supplies such as rations, ammunition, and cold-weather gear had been loaded onto the train since evening. Dusk fell early, and dawn came late.

Kurimoto stood sentry by the railway tracks on the outskirts of town through the long night, being relieved numerous times. Waiting for morning to come, the soldiers would board it and depart. The cold bore down on them with a painful intensity. The warmth they had absorbed from the guard post's stove was stripped away by the storm roaring up from the lower reaches of the Black Dragon River before they had walked two minutes beyond the door. The cold-weather boots sank into the snow, clunking like a scoop with each step. Even so, their feet had to keep moving constantly, even when they stood still. Because if they remained still, that area would get frostbite.

As the night deepened, overhead, the stars grew piercingly sharp. From the hill with the bar to this hill, a sled without lights creaked and groaned over the frozen snow as it raced along the railway tracks. Amid the clatter of horseshoes and the groan of sled runners, Russian speech laced with an English accent reached Kurimoto’s ears.

“Halt!” It was around the time when the American soldiers who had taken out the Russian girl would return from the bar. “Halt!” The driver made a sharp tsk-tsk with his tongue, and the sled slowed its speed. “Who’s there?” “Don’t you worry!... Acting all high and mighty!” From their voices, it became clear they were American soldiers. At the same time, another voice—resilient and young—echoed through the darkness. The tone sounded arrogantly self-assured, as if stating something obvious. In that instant, Kurimoto’s ever-present fury erupted. He sensed the pitch darkness offered a perfect opportunity. The rifle he had swung up came crashing down onto the horse’s back with full force. All dangerous tasks where they might become bullet fodder at any moment were forced upon Japanese soldiers. Despite calling it a joint expedition, the American soldiers merely warmed themselves by barracks stoves in town, then went out to Russian homes each afternoon hunting young women. There they scattered counterfeit bills like water. That was their job. Moreover, those bills were perfect replicas of Bank of Chosen notes. Simultaneous with the expedition’s commencement, America had brought two shiploads of counterfeit bills to Urajio. There were those who claimed to have seen it.

"Why aren't we tearing off their disguises?!" The soldiers seethed at the Japanese authorities' spinelessness - how they wouldn't even lodge a single protest against the powerful despite having counterfeit bills scattered everywhere. The American soldiers were loathsomely detestable. They'd sneak over to those girls who'd flipped allegiances during stolen moments and parade their counterfeit bills.

“Why?”

The fair-skinned, high-nosed Russian girl retorted. “Then compare it with this!”

They showed the five-yen bills they had received as one month’s salary—along with some coins. “Why would Americans make counterfeit Japanese bills? Huh? How could they make them?”

The girl ran her tongue over her rouge-red, healthy-looking lips and assumed a serious expression. Her crimson lips stirred our carnal desires. The Russian girl couldn’t comprehend the American soldiers’ misconduct. “If these are counterfeit bills, then you’re the ones who made them!” “Of course they are!” “How could Americans make Japanese counterfeit bills?”

“Don’t talk nonsense! Would we use our own counterfeit bills?!” They did not know how to undermine the enemy from behind. “Americans are underhanded. That’s why they don’t make counterfeit dollars but counterfeit yen instead! They’re no good!”

The girl had already become a full-fledged woman at fifteen. The figure she cut walking in sturdy high-heeled women’s shoes was lively and appealing. There was a raw vitality not seen in Japanese women.

They had to steal time just to visit Russian homes. Of course, they had no counterfeit bills. But why did they alone have to stick their necks out volunteering to hunt partisans! And why did the women always get snatched up by those American bastards! To top it off, they alone bore the brunt of Russian hatred and resentment. Kurimoto seethed with loathing for the Americans—a restless itch crawled under his skin. America had sent troops just to keep tabs on the Japanese military. He wanted to roar "You bastard!" at their commander who worked them like pack mules with his bandit schemes.

Kurimoto welcomed the darkness. The struck horse reared up in shock. The sled nearly capsized as it slid five or six ken through the air instantaneously. The American soldiers shone a flashlight backward from their sled. In its electric glare, Kurimoto caught a fleeting glimpse of a large hand plunging into a right pocket to clutch a pistol.

“Damn it!” “They’re going to shoot.” He readied his rifle while standing. At that moment, a deafening pistol shot rang out from the sleigh. He squeezed the trigger. But the trigger gave way lightly; it clicked dryly and slid back. He had forgotten to release the safety catch.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

Startled by the pistol shot, Takeuchi came running from the sentry hut, his boots clattering. Kurimoto silently reset the safety catch and readied his rifle. The sleigh left the creaking sound of its runners and disappeared into the darkness. The sound of the whip lashing the horse’s rump echoed through the howling storm. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

“I let them get away.” “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“Ah, I let them get away.”

Kurimoto's laughing white teeth were there in the darkness.

IV

The horse, its legs painfully shod with ice horseshoes, strained as it climbed the hill. At the bottom of the sled, tilted like a boat run aground on rocks, the soldier clenched his teeth to suppress the pain from his wound each time they jolted violently along the uneven path.

“Oh, more admissions for the hospital. “Uhehehe.”

The neurasthenic corporal who had been chanting the Kannon Sutra suddenly stopped tapping his teacup with a tink-tink.

The wounded soldiers, while shielding their injuries, lifted their heads and turned their faces toward the window. Five or six sleds drew near the hospital grounds. Each sled looked ready to drag its horse backward and send both sliding down the hill. The driver who had dismounted from the coachman's seat kept lashing the horse's rump with his whip. "The company that went to Iishi was wiped out. “Uhehehehe.”

The corporal laughed happily and wildly.

“What’s so funny!” “You lunatic!”

A clamorous noise arose in the corridor, and in came someone whose hastily treated wound had been crudely bound with a triangular bandage already soaked through with blood. Every face was pale and haggard. Those who had their legs or internal organs damaged and couldn’t walk were carried in afterward on stretchers. “Oh, so you’ve been hit too?” Onishi laughed—unexpectedly, sarcastically. “Did you get hurt on purpose, just a little?” “……” The man with his arm in a sling grimaced irritably.

“You were just itching beyond measure to get back home to Japan, weren’t you?”

Even so, the other man didn’t respond. And since his wound hurt too much to remove the unbuttoned military coat himself, he asked an orderly to take it off for him. Wincing in pain, they finally managed to remove his clothes, revealing an undershirt caked with dried blood. It was Kurimoto, his face deathly pale, his jaw trembling violently. The orderly assigned beds to the wounded, then went back out to the hospital grounds to fetch the next group.

All manner of sighs, groans, pleading voices, and unbearable pained grimaces filled the ward in an instant, as though cast there. Blood-soaked military uniforms and undershirts were thrown all over the place. The superior private with a broken femur, left on the floor while still strapped to his stretcher, intermittently let out piercing screams that seemed to split the air. Then, the others too shuddered violently as if jabbed by an ice pick.

"Will all these many men really be sent back to the home country?" "If they did that, within a year an entire regiment's worth of soldiers would end up being shipped home." "But they’d never allow that." "—Some of them will get left behind in Siberia." Those who’d been there from the start had thought such things. The lightly wounded soldiers,

“I’m gonna be left behind in Siberia—wonder if I’ll end up one of those guys?” He worried about this inwardly. And toward those newly arrived with fresh wounds, they unconsciously bared their claws of competition and resentment. “Where were you hit? What’s it like?”

A man from the Third Company, his head bandaged in a cross shape, came peering at the untreated wounds with guilt-ridden eyes. "You didn’t get any bones shattered, did you?" Kurimoto nodded without any particular meaning, just a simple acknowledgment. "I see."

The guilt-ridden eyes turned toward the other beds as if relieved. Then he asked something else. In the neighboring ward too, a clamorous noise of groaning and wailing rose up.

Kurimoto seemed to have forgotten something important, his attention often snatched away by things that wouldn’t come into focus. He felt as though everything were happening just beyond a paper-thin divide. The tactile memory of stone-like snow when he leapt from the overturned train’s window, the deafening roar of American pistols entangled with partisan rifles—these still reverberated in his eardrums. His arm was numb and heavy. It had blazed up fiercely as if set aflame at first, but now was utterly cold, devoid of both sensation and warmth like a prosthetic limb. To stop the bleeding, a cord had been tightly bound above the wound. As a result, almost no blood was reaching his hand. His arm was as heavy as if a lead weight were hanging from it.

“Ah, I can’t take it! Go tell the military doctor that right now!” Blood began to seep through his freshly changed hospital gown. “Endure it!” An orderly who happened to be passing by cast a brief glance. Then those eyes suddenly gleamed fearfully. And he stared fixedly at the blood-soaked hospital gown. “What the hell? You’ve gone and ruined it! You’ve already gone and ruined a freshly laundered hospital gown!” “Ah, I can’t take it! Ah, I can’t take it! Hey! Hey!”

The groans kept coming.

Kurimoto had wished to get wounded. He had thought that if only he were wounded, he could return to the home country right away. Back there, his mother, sister, and bearded old man were waiting for his return. But now, his mother, sister, and bearded old man lived in a distant place far beyond his reach, their lives continuing on without any relation to him. No one cast a glance of pity his way. The orderly merely appeared busy—though his busyness seemed to irritate him—wearing a sullen face as he clattered around mercilessly. Until just yesterday he had been a mere private like the rest, yet now he suddenly carried himself with the arrogance of a second lieutenant.

"There’s not a single soul who gives a damn about us." Kurimoto thought on the bed. "Everyone’s only thinking about themselves!"

—He recalled the thatched-roof house in the home country. There, beyond its walls, awaited bone-grinding labor. But inside existed a warm hearth, freshly steamed potatoes, family love, and care given without reservation. There was local sake. He remembered these things. I’m not some damned orphan nobody cares about! Then why did I come to this frozen Siberia?! Why?! ……He sighed. And with it escaped another pathetic whimper.

“Every last one of you whimpering like those pathetic Russkies!” The Head Nurse who had come on rounds—well-versed in pensions—laughed bitterly. “What’s a little pain?! Aren’t you men of Japan?! You’re supposed to be dead men!” When he looked right, the superior private who often bought him canteen liquor lay with legs propped under blankets, teeth clenched in a fixed stare at the ceiling. A growl seeped through his gritted teeth. The private lacked even the capacity to register the Head Nurse’s acrid smile.

"He's just scolding us because we're being noisy," Kurimoto thought. "They don't even consider doing this for our sake!" "Why did I come to this godforsaken place?!" "Why did I board that train that was destined to overturn?!" Then another sigh escaped him, and he couldn't suppress a groan.

Across the endless wilderness stretched two rails—their tips barely peeking out from beneath the snow—tracing black lines through the white expanse. The large train carrying the fully armed company moved cautiously forward, its crew vigilantly scanning both sides. Security units had been deployed along the tracks all the way to the distant horizon. The railroad tracks ran perfectly straight—two iron lines stretching endlessly parallel. The town soon vanished from sight as the train began accelerating. The tracks entered a valley, passed through its frozen depths, and emerged once more into open country.

The snow lay deep, and the railroad tracks, the grasslands, the roads—all seemed to have been swept smooth. The surrounding forests and standing trees revolved ceaselessly around a distant mountain before the train window. Eventually, the train slowed its speed. Then, the snow-covered iron bridge appeared before their eyes.

“All clear!”

The bridge security unit looked up at the train window and shouted. “All right! Proceed.”

And then, the train approached the bridge, the roar of its wheels growing louder. The speed seemed to increase. The railroad tracks were perfectly parallel—two lines stretching flawlessly as far as the eye could see. However, when it reached the midpoint, with a thunderous crash, the locomotive—like a draft horse that had missed its footing—recklessly plunged off the iron bridge.

The square boxcars twisted in succession before capsizing toward the river of snow.

And then, the partisans’ rifles and machine guns that had been lying in wait erupted into violent fire from above the valley……

The more stringent the Japanese military's attacks became, the more acute the partisans' resentment and thirst for vengeance grew. And those means to vent their fury gradually emerged through stealth, striking when least expected. There were no explosive devices planted on the railroad tracks. Nor had they been sabotaged through conventional destruction. The partisans had simply placed oil-soaked embers beneath the railroad ties. Yet those ties—like green timber in a charcoal kiln—ignited within the snowpack, smoldering with muffled hisses as they carbonized. The smoldering railroad ties emitted neither flames nor smoke outward. Viewed from above, they formed flawless tracks without a single defect. Neither sentries nor security units could detect anything amiss. And still, when trains reached that accursed stretch, the rails would collapse as though plunging into a void—a thunderous crash inevitably derailing every carriage that passed.

V

After thirteen nights, they could board the hospital train and depart for Urajio.

That had now become the alphabet. It had been delayed another thirteen days. Adding thirteen days to thirteen days, they had to wait through as many nights as there were letters in the ABCs before they could depart for Urajio.

What was the reason for this? It was nothing more than the train's schedule. The soldiers couldn't understand anything beyond that.

The wounded soldiers waited for Day B after Day A had ended. When Day B ended, they waited for Day C. Then D, E, F...

If Z did not come, they could not be said to have fully saved their lives.

Guarded by soldiers, the sled slid quietly across the Black Dragon River toward the forest on the opposite bank. That caught the eye of the hospital on the hill. The Black Dragon River had carved out hills of ice.

The sled grew small and distant toward the forest ahead, like a few leaf-like boats.

At the same moment the train derailed, soldiers who had become prey to bullets were being carried away. After pushing aside the corporal who kept chuckling madly while reciting the Kannon Sutra, they all lay despondent in their beds without lifting their heads. We were still lucky after all!

Kurimoto thought. In the beds, when one patient vanished, another sick or wounded man would come to take his place. When that one disappeared, the next would arrive. The straw mattresses and blankets had been stained with the blood, pus, and sweat of countless men. He clenched the soiled bedding and secretly comforted himself. The wounded were cripples who had to drag their disabilities and agony with them until death.

They wanted the authorities to compensate them with their original-living hands, feet, and ears. Once a leg had been severed, it could never be reattached in its original state. This lay beyond debate. Yet whether possible or not, they wanted to demand compensation by force. They seethed with churning resentment, their dissatisfaction unbearable. They had no choice but to console themselves by watching sleds bearing those seething emotions being dragged toward the forest. How many who had been conscripted alongside them—who had eaten the enlistment's red bean rice, waited to become second-year soldiers, then awaited discharge days—had now been reduced to mere bones?

Some came straight from the battlefield, others from bandaging stations, still others arrived at the hospital on stretchers—and yet, at the entrance, they were informed there was no hope and carried away to the forest. Among them were some whose warm blood still flowed from their wounds. If they had lost consciousness from their injuries—if they had been told there was no hope before regaining it……. They shuddered at the thought. They could not definitively say there were no such cases.

“The smoke’s started rising… Heh heh heh.”

The corporal laughed morbidly and started clinking his teacup.

“Stop that!”

They recalled the foul stench of burning hair and nails. In the forest across the snow-covered river, pale purple smoke began to rise. “Who was it?”

Hatsuta, who had a bullet lodged in his hip, asked. “They say it’s six.”

“Six?” The six soldiers all knew their names. They knew their faces. Together that morning they had carried heavy backpacks from the station without a platform, finally climbed aboard the train, and set out for Iishi. In Iishi there were no American soldiers. The Russian girls had not yet been defiled by American soldiers. They were comrades who had been looking forward to that. At times they had lit a stove inside a red freight car and spent nights trembling together.

None of them spoke a word. They clenched their blankets and looked up from their beds at the grimy ceiling where the paint was peeling. Whenever there were war dead, a soldier who had once been a monk would chant sutras. That soldier too had gone into the forest.

When the hoarse chant of sutras echoed through the forest, the firewood was lit, and the war dead turned to smoke and vanished. The snow around the burning firewood began to thaw slightly.

Stripped of their own will and driven like single-purpose murder weapons, they had hung all their hopes on what might come after being released from military obligations. They were still young. Yet even those hopes had to vanish with that smoke. For the soldiers, no memory proved more unbearable than the cremations in the forest.

Even if the makeshift monk's sutra chanting resounded loudly through the trees, how could anyone believe those who never wished to die would find peace through it! What remained afterward but brittle white bones! "Have we really drawn a lucky lot?!" They wondered again.

They had to be grateful just for being alive.

And then, again,

"If we just count through the alphabet, can we go back to where our old men and ma are?" They thought those things. "Will they really give us our military pensions?" In this situation, the pension of about 220 yen for those who had lost a leg came to be felt as more precious than General ××’s 6,500-yen pension—the same general whose thievery had been exposed in the Siemens Scandal.

VI

The hospital rooms were all full.

Patients with pleurisy—their chests pierced by needles to drain brownish fluid like overbrewed bancha tea—those suffering from trachoma pannus, and a legless man were all jumbled together chaotically in one hospital room.

“Doctor, sir, will Kurimoto also get to return to the home country?” He asked in a voice so pitifully pleading that it grated on his own nerves.

“Ah.” Even if Kurimoto’s arm had healed, the sunken, ugly bald patch where flesh had been gouged out showed no sign of disappearing. “What about Fukushima, Doctor, sir?” “We’ll discharge him. We can’t just keep someone with periostitis like this around forever—they take up space and serve no purpose.”

There was now one week left. And so, they changed their counting method to Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday...

Now, the filthy, stinking hospital room, the occasional gunfire echoing in the dead of night, and the screams came to feel strangely, almost nostalgically dear to them. They would soon leave all those things behind and return to the home country. “What if everyone got wounded and returned to the home country without exception?” “With only officers and NCOs left behind, they couldn’t wage war.”

They whispered quietly to each other, careful not to let their voices carry outside. “After all, getting wounded and going back to the home country’s the shrewdest move.” “Don’t you think there’s a fair number of guys in here who got themselves wounded on purpose?” Onishi looked around the beds without reservation. “Those guys would be third-class cases.” “They’re not even third-class cases—they’re punishments!” Hatsuta—who had a bullet lodged in his hip and showed no signs of an intentional injury no matter how one looked—laboriously raised his head from the blanket.

“Don't talk nonsense! Who the hell would willingly get themselves hurt?!” They were at peace. They began to shine with hope.

They changed their counting method again. Tomorrow, the day after, then the next... Just three more days left. And then, as if trying to catch up, new wounded soldiers came thudding in once more. Among them was a warrior who had fought with American soldiers and slashed them with his military sword.

That had made them intensely happy. He was an artillery officer.

He had been shot in the shoulder with a pistol, but prior to that, he had slashed three hulking American soldiers.

The lieutenant had a ferocious face with a jutting jawbone, one that suggested a quick temper. Without making a show of his wound's pain, he settled into a special blue-walled private room. His eyes were directed toward the center of his skull, and all his attention was absorbed by a single matter.

The incident had occurred in a Russian family’s parlor. That was how the story went. There, the American soldiers—using Russian more fluently than the lieutenant—had intercepted the conversation between the girl and her family right from under him. The lieutenant’s temper was being needled relentlessly. But he knew that trouncing these Americans would only bring more trouble afterward. They weren’t like Russians or Chinese who’d swallow defeat with silent tears. He knew this well. Trying to leave nonchalantly while slipping into his overcoat, he cast a glance toward the table. There lay a crisp bundle of fresh banknotes—edges sharp enough to slice skin. Those damn Japs who lost out in this competition probably don’t have two coins to rub together.—The American soldier seated at the table glared at him with naked contempt.

“What kind of bills are those?” He was slipping one arm into his coat while keeping his hand raised toward the ceiling as he approached the table. “It’s not yours.” The long-faced American soldier cut in from the side in English. The other man was plucking two or three bills from the bundle with his large hand and passing them to the Russians. His movements were ostentatious, as if deliberately putting on a show. “That’s counterfeit money!” He held it in his hand while trying to attach his military sword to the scabbard.

"But as you can see, it works just fine." The American soldier pulled out two or three more bills and snapped them demonstratively between his fingers.

He felt an urgency burning through him like fire on his back. "And know the taste of a Japanese sword in your heart!" he muttered.

—That was the story told by the superior private who had brought in the hospitalized patient.

In the end, the Russian girl might have been the very woman the Lieutenant had his eye on first.

“Well now, in that case, I should’ve joined in too.” “I’d been thinking it would come to that someday.” The Russian words of the American soldier who had fired his pistol from the sled still lingered vividly in Kurimoto’s ears. “They should beat those bastards until fire shoots from their eyeballs!”

However, the officer in the blue private room, “I’m a lieutenant!” “I’m not some common soldier!” “I’m an officer!” “Why can’t those Ruskies understand that?!” “Why don’t they understand?!”

And these words he would mutter aloud in fits, like a fever patient. He was unbearably frustrated that the Russian girl considered him no different in rank from the American soldiers and treated him exactly the same way. To be treated no differently was, to him, to have his rank ignored and be regarded as inferior. The fear of the girl being taken away by the American soldiers also arose from that.

“Why don’t they recognize my shoulder insignia! Why don’t they recognize the military sword I carry?!”

That was perplexing. His chest was filled with pent-up frustration. "I should’ve done it more thoroughly!" "I should’ve done it!"

He fixed his eyes as if focusing on the center of his skull and impulsively repeated himself. Swinging his sword and roaring had both been attempts to make himself appear superior to the American soldiers. To him, those actions still felt insufficient—an unbearable regret festered in his chest. “I’m a lieutenant! I’m no common soldier!” “Why can’t those Ruskies understand that?!” “Why don’t they understand?!” But versed in military protocol, he kept his true feelings hidden—letting rumors about counterfeit bill outrage spread unchecked while feigning ignorance...

VII

About twenty horse-drawn sleds adorned with bells were lined up side by side in the hospital courtyard. The wounded soldiers' personal belongings were carried from the wards to the sleds. The rifles, knapsacks, and ammunition boxes loaded with live rounds only needed to be taken as far as Urajio; beyond that, they would serve no further purpose. They finally truly cheated death.

Outside, sand-like snow swept slantwise through the air. Swallowing their resentment at having to work on Sundays deep in their throats, the nursing orderlies clattered through the corridors and wards in their barracks shoes.

“Quickly, board! Board!” When the Head Nurse overseeing transport shouted from the corridor, wounded patients bundled in cold-weather gear emerged, boots scraping heavily across the floor. They clambered into the sleds five or six at a time, huddling like hens in a roost, their frost-rimed coats plugging every icy gap between bodies. Those unable to walk gripped nursing orderlies’ shoulders or were borne away on stretchers. Emerging from the ward’s months-stale air into the courtyard made their compressed lungs flare wide with crisp relief. The hill they’d ascended in a pain-dulled stupor when first hospitalized now lay beneath snowfall that fell clean and bright—a gentle veil over remembered agony.

From the eaves where no snow accumulated, the Head Nurse watched the wounded soldiers board.

“What? “What is it?” he said to the regimental messenger who had rushed in breathlessly. “Here it is, sir.” The messenger presented the envelope. “Let me see.” The Head Nurse removed his right glove and, seeming very much inclined to open it right there, brought two fingers to slit the seal—but then, as if remembering something, turned and hurried down the corridor into the depths of the building.

At first, the messenger was unrecognizable in his bulky cold-weather gear, but after a second look, he turned out to be a first-class private from Kurimoto’s company. He removed his hat with its shaggy fur trim and wiped the sweat from his brow with his palm. He had been in the same squad and barracks as Kurimoto when they first enlisted. They had often been made to run a lap around regimental headquarters together, having been slow to wrap their puttees and late for formation each and every time.

“Hey! Hey!” Kurimoto called out from the sled.

While waiting for the Head Nurse’s reply, Taguchi watched the wounded soldiers noisily trying to adjust themselves on the sled. “Hey, hey, Taguchi! “……It’s me.” When he waved his uninjured hand, the messenger finally seemed to notice Kurimoto. But between them, a patient whose legs had been amputated below the knees—and whose belly was swollen like a dolphin’s from peritonitis—was carried in on a stretcher, and the nursing orderlies raised their voices in a confrontational tone as they transferred him to the sled. Kurimoto, seeing that Taguchi wasn’t coming, got down from the sled and made his way around the front of the horse through the snow.

“We’re going back today.” Feeling joy at being able to return home, he said, “Give my regards to everyone.”

Taguchi muttered something incomprehensible and looked perplexed. And then he said another battalion would be dispatched from here to Semenovka—that they were short on soldiers and in trouble—and that he had brought directives concerning this matter. A battalion would be dispatched—that’s none of the wounded soldiers returning to the home country’s concern. But with Taguchi’s air of significance, Kurimoto was immediately filled with unease. “Was there another emergency?”

Taguchi reported that on his way here just now, he had been accosted by an American patrol. A few days earlier, an officer had drawn his sword—and now both sides were snarling at each other. They might end up clashing with the American soldiers.

At that moment, the military doctor appeared. Afterwards, the Head Nurse followed. There was a kind of grave solemnity on his face. “Everyone back to the hospital ward.” The military doctor’s voice, unlike the Head Nurse’s grave solemnity, was utterly listless.

The wounded soldiers couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. It seemed at once like nothing at all and yet like some major emergency incident. They remained seated in the sled they had boarded, making no move to rise for some time. The nursing orderlies nearby also stared fixedly, as though doubting the military doctor’s words. For some time, there was only the soft sound of falling snow. “Everyone back to the hospital!” The military doctor’s voice remained as listless as ever.

“Is it because of the snow?”

Someone asked. "Hmm." “Does that mean we can go back once the snow stops?”

There was no reply. The nursing orderly, having confirmed that what the military doctor had said was not mistaken, repeated the same words to the nearby wounded soldiers in a voice devoid of sympathy. Kurimoto's legs began trembling violently. "They're not planning to send us back, are they?"

Taguchi made a troubled face again and did not answer.

Kurimoto, concealing his desperation to clutch at any straw, deliberately affected a casual tone, “Was it wrong that our lieutenant slashed those American bastards?” he pressed again. “Yeah.” Taguchi gave an unenthusiastic reply. “That’s what caused the dispute to break out.” “But they were using counterfeit bills, weren’t they?” Taguchi seemed to disapprove of speaking ill of the American soldiers; he wrinkled the space between his nose and brows and forced an unnatural, bitter smile. Kurimoto tried to ask whether the officer had been at fault. But just then, those who had gotten off the sled began pushing forward laboriously from behind him. He tried to push past them. Everyone brushed off the snow clinging to their cold-weather gear, bumped into him, and passed by. The quivering legs were spindly. He became an obstruction, like a stone in the middle of the road. The nursing orderly barked harshly.

When he turned right to move aside, he saw the military doctor speaking to the head nurse in a low voice,

“Can you manage to have the sleds sent back smoothly?” He heard him say that. He stared at the military doctor’s face. He sensed some deeper meaning there. The military doctor avoided the wounded soldiers’ gazes with his pale face, deliberately fixing his eyes on the falling snow.

Kurimoto was startled. No matter how many details he heard from Taguchi now, he felt it was beyond remedy. At the entrance to the ward, the nursing orderlies who were supposed to be on escort duty had removed their cold-weather gear and swords, and two or three of them were whispering furtively among themselves. When the wounded soldiers approached, one orderly—who had looped his belt into a ring—forced an unnatural smile and hurried off toward the barracks, his lace-up boots clattering against the plaster.

The hearth, which had not been lit since morning because the patients were gone, had grown completely cold. The bedding and hospital clothes folded atop the straw mattress—creased from being wrapped around bodies, soiled with grime and grease—were as filthy as if someone else had worn them to tatters.

“Ah, ah—it’s like we’re auctioned-off cattle or horses.” “They’ll do whatever they want with us!”

They had returned once more to the beds they were supposed to have bid farewell to and left behind. Onishi, contrary to his usual vigor, was dejected and stretched out on his bed. “If we really up and leave home, we’ll never know what’ll become of us.”

That single item that had gone into the envelope had wrenched the rudder in the opposite direction. They were feeling it.

The rudder was once again turned toward where bullets rained down. The beautiful, alluring home country they had ceaselessly envisioned while manipulating the alphabet had been overturned by that single envelope.

Kurimoto sat on the bed and battled the turmoil in his heart. The thatched houses, the hearths, the local sake, the bearded old man, Mom—all filled with tranquility and radiance—had turned their backs on him and flown far away. How much unseen mental effort we had expended in our desire to return to the home country! That officer’s doing was coming back to plague us! Because of trivial matters, the hopes of those here were being uprooted completely. What would become of us now!

Through the double-paned window, empty sleds carrying only their drivers could be seen descending the hill road in a single line. The horses were leaping about wildly, as if delighted at having carried no people. The powdered snow had grown even thicker, slanting down at a brisk tempo with a soft, continuous whisper. "That’s right—if things had gone as they should, we’d be gliding along on those sleds right about now!" He suddenly thought this.

Corporal Onishi fiddled with the teacup from his handbox but did not utter a word of the Kannon Sutra, as if he had forgotten it.

“Even if they tell me to pick up a rifle again, no matter what they order me to do, I can’t move a muscle!” The superior private with the broken bone made a tearful face.

VIII

The men carrying rusted rifles were led by the weekly duty sergeant and trudged along, sinking into the fresh snow with each heavy step. As a group of discharged patients descended the hill toward the valley town below—growing smaller in the distance—another contingent came filing through the hospital gate behind them. From beneath their cold-weather caps, white bandages protruded on some. There were those who hobbled along unsteadily. Every face bore the pallor of prolonged sun deprivation and the sickly puffiness of chronic illness. Against those faces, rifles, ammunition pouches, and swords appeared utterly incongruous.

It was an unusually clear morning. However, those descending showed no sign of enjoying it; their faces were contorted in anguish. The company had been waiting for them to return. They would either be added to the unit being dispatched to Semiyanovka or to the troops preparing against the American soldiers—one or the other. The American security patrols were marching through the streets shouldering large rifles. With spiteful eyes glinting, they repeatedly came and went around the Japanese barracks. This was a belligerent stance, ready to clash at the first provocation they found. In the company, they kept restraining the soldiers—calmly, calmly. Yet troop numbers had to be maintained at full strength.

When Japanese soldiers walked through the town in small groups of two or three, American soldiers armed with weapons would advance aggressively toward them. The soldier felt a chill down his spine. At the same time, he experienced an indescribably unpleasant urge to resist. It was the same emotion Koreans held toward the Japanese. That’s how it felt. They had to pretend not to notice while keeping their focus fixed on the side where the American soldiers stood as they passed by. But if the Americans were to strike first from their side, could they still endeavor to remain composed and allow themselves to be hit? No, that was impossible. And so they had no choice but to forcibly bolster their numbers of soldiers to avoid being outmatched. The necessity of sending a squad to Semiyanovka dealt them a major blow here.

On the second floor of the regiment headquarters, high-ranking officers in boots with spurs clinked their spurs as they gathered in a corner room and discussed something in hushed voices. Then messengers were dispatched.…

Onishi, Kurimoto, and Hatada—who had a bullet lodged in his hip—were all led down by the weekly duty sergeant.

“Is there any rule that says you can haul out men who’d collapse if you so much as jostle them and make ’em carry rifles?!” One of the group shouted. “There aren’t enough.”

“Even if there’s a shortage, is there any law that says you can use sick men?!” Their chests were filled with violent thoughts and emotions.

On the day they returned from the sled, each of them underwent a medical examination by the army doctor. That was the final examination. Based on that, it would be decided whether they could return to the home country or have to shoulder rifles and march back into the snow. Even if they were quacks when it came to curing illnesses, those who carried out their superiors' orders to the best of their ability without defiance were promoted faster. The army doctor had fully grasped this essential technique of military life. To promise soldiers repatriation to the home country and then, before the words had even dried on his tongue, drive them back to the battlefield instead—this was a bitterly cruel affair. But he resolved he must carry out that bitter task.

For the wounded soldiers, if they couldn’t return to the home country now, when would they ever get another chance? The path ahead lay in darkness—before them loomed only the iron bridge’s collapse, sentry duty in the snow, bomb warfare, and those detestable American soldiers. There, they would either be wounded again or become one of the corpses transported by sled across the Black Dragon River into the forest. It was unbearable. They unconsciously exaggerated their wounds, striving to appear before the army doctor as men no longer fit for service.

The army doctor saw that every soldier coming for diagnosis wore a pitiful, lifeless expression. "I beg you, let me return to the home country!"

Those eyes pleaded for pure mercy. “So, you’re eating regular meals now?”

The army doctor asked this of the boyish-looking man whose upper lip had been grazed horizontally. “Yes.” “Open your mouth.” This man opened his mouth wide and showed it.

“Good! You’ve already healed up, haven’t you?”

And then, he motioned with his hand for him to leave the examination room. The man felt that with the word “Good,” he was being sent back to his company, “What terrible thing have I done to deserve being driven back under falling bullets again!” he pleaded with childlike eyes. And he looked all around. The army doctor’s expression held nothing but cold, hard resolve.

The boy once again pitifully opened his mouth, now missing the tip of his upper lip,

The boy’s eyes seemed to plead, “Is it really permissible to kill someone as gentle and defenseless as this?!” “I can’t let these eyes break me!” The army doctor steeled himself. The man with the nearly torn-off earlobe, the man with the severed heel, the man with the bullet lodged in his hip, the man with the broken humerus—each and every one of them entered feebly, their gazes mingling pity and entreaty. The desire to return to the home country was strong in everyone.

“Every damn one of these bastards is faking their injuries!” The army doctor thought. Kurimoto, too, approached the army doctor with eyes pleading for mercy and a feeble demeanor. He had even considered collapsing before the army doctor if it meant being left behind in Siberia. “How’s this?” “There’s something like a stiffness under the wound.” “Can you extend your hand?” “No, it still doesn’t extend.”

“Try gripping this.”

In the army doctor’s demeanor, there was something soft, a hint of warmth. Kurimoto, to make it appear he was gripping the back of the small, slippery hand presented to him with maximum force, held his breath and strained as if trying to defecate. In truth, he tried to exert as little force as possible.

“Does the wound still hurt?” “Yes.” “Good!” The army doctor motioned with his hand for him to leave. The warmth had abruptly transformed into something cold and stubborn. “I’m not healed yet!” “Even this hospital is fine—please leave me here!” “No!” “I still can’t carry a rifle!” Kurimoto’s eyes pleaded. And then, he stared defiantly at the army doctor’s face. “Good!” “Please send me back to the home country as you initially promised!”

His eyes pleaded it once more. “Good!” The army doctor’s stubborn coldness redoubled and grew harsher.

When he returned to his bed, his heart was shaken all the more. He still didn’t want to despair.

Outside the window, powdery snow still swirled diagonally at a brisk tempo.—Which way would he fall?! Now everything lay clutched within that single slippery, glistening hand of the army doctor's. He spent his time straining to hear sounds from the examination room and the duty boots of orderlies passing through corridors. That slippery-backed, slickly gleaming hand embodied an untrustworthy character. Some half-remembered passage from a book haunted him. When half past three came, the orderly adopted a servile grin, muffled his footsteps, and slipped out toward the rear gate. He'd taken fifty sen to go visit Marusha.

Anxiety had seeped into every corner of the hospital room. Kurimoto couldn't get his evening meal down. The only ones sleeping soundly were Fukushima, who had lost a leg, and the peritonitis patient with no hope of recovery anyway.

After the lights came on, the head nurse entered with a ledger tucked under his arm and a grin plastered across his face. There was something in that grin that jolted one’s intuition. The head nurse spread open the ledger and began calling out each name one by one. Hollow replies continued.

“Yes.” “Here.” “Here.” The faces that were called turned pale one by one with sudden swiftness. And the facial muscles began to spasm. “Yes.”

Kurimoto jolted. And then, his cheeks began to twitch and spasm.

“Those called here now will be discharged after breakfast tomorrow.” “Is that clear?!” In the same manner, grinning all the while, the Head Nurse pushed open the door and exited to the next ward. In the end, it had been inevitable all along. That—trying to cling to a single straw—had been the mistake. Kurimoto thought that was the truth.

The hospital existed to heal the wounded. When they healed them，they sent them back to where bullets flew. When those men were wounded again，they would heal them once more and send them back again. Three times，four times，five times—it made no difference. A tool must be repaired and used until it becomes useless—otherwise it’s wasted. It was just like that. For this reason，the hospital’s facilities had to be maintained properly! No doubt they would keep improving them more and more from now on. But all that meant nothing at all to us.

From the moment he jolted, Kurimoto felt as though the cells within his body began to change rapidly. He had nothing left to lose. There was nothing left to fear. They would all just be driven to death anyway.

They descended the hill. Their chests were filled with violent thoughts and emotions. Some dragged their feet. Some hobbled with limps. Some had white bandages protruding from under their cold-weather caps. They carried rifles, ammunition pouches and swords at their waists. Every face still bore patient-like fatigue.

It was a bracing morning. A wind from Lake Baikal swept away the snow-laden clouds, leaving the sun stark naked in the distant sky. They had no one left to restrain themselves for now. There was no need to be bound by anything. Their festering thoughts and emotions deemed it their natural right to seize whatever means would console them.

The fresh snow crumbled under the weight of their boots. They kicked it aside and marched on……

(November 1928)