Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

At the base of the cliff on the southern edge of the town, the Heilongjiang River lay frozen solid as far as the eye could see. A horse-drawn sled glided lightly across the river from afar. From the barracks to the hospital, along the frozen hill path, Kurimoto carefully climbed, taking care not to slip. Every time he saw them, the wounds of his comrades who had enlisted in the same year were improving. Before long, they would be evacuated by hospital train and return to the homeland.—From the wooden house below the hospital, a large-framed American soldier emerged, pushing open the door while holding the retired colonel’s daughter by the arm. The girl, who had just turned sixteen, stood no more than half the American soldier’s height and breadth. The girl clung to the thick, sturdy arm and nimbly adjusted her high-heeled boots in quick steps.

“Driver! Driver!” Supporting the girl who nearly tumbled, the American soldier focused on his boot tips while descending the hill. The girl’s coat fluttered lightly against his knees. They were clearly sneaking into town for a tryst. For three months, Japanese soldiers had strained to lay hands on her. Their efforts were snatched away by later-arriving Americans. Her name was Riza.

“Driver!” “Driver!” At the base of the hill, Russian calls for sleds waiting at the crossroads were still being repeated.

Each time he breathed the frozen air, feeling pain in his nose, Kurimoto came to the door of the ward that creaked on the tamped earth floor. When he pushed the door open, suddenly mingled with the warm air came the smells of cresol, pus, and bedpans that assaulted his nose which still throbbed with pain. Onishi, who had lost his heel, had his leg—so heavily bandaged it looked swollen—propped on a stool as he watched the American soldiers descend the hill through the double-paned window. His face bore the fatigue and grime of a wounded man.

“Heh! Look at them twisting around like moles trying to move their stiff necks!”

“What? You’ve been watching from here?” “I don’t budge from the window when those American bastards come around.” The fair-skinned nursing orderly standing 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 off the window. “Do those Russkies really not 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 them.” Between them and the American soldiers lay such a gulf in their appeal to Russian girls. They were all as rugged as dead branches, and when spoken to, they blushed to the roots of their ears. They didn’t even have those counterfeit bills they despised. They didn’t even know the etiquette of sitting properly in a parlor furnished with chairs.

II

In the ward, soldiers in soiled northern-style hospital gowns lay on iron beds once used by Russian soldiers, their heads turned toward the window, limbs wrapped in white bandages protruding from blankets. There were those whose toes had rotted and fallen off from frostbite. There were those whose upper lips had been grazed away horizontally by bullets. There were those with cross-shaped bandages on their heads securing nearly torn-off earlobes. The man with the injured lip was pouring cold condensed milk and thin rice gruel down his throat without moving his mouth, as if swallowing fire. He must have been the same age as the others, but looked about eighteen. That man always wore an expression far more tormented than those who had their femurs pierced by bullets.

Each time someone entered, they lifted their gaunt pale faces, assumed expectant expressions, and stared fixedly at whoever had come in. The one who suddenly heaved himself up to a half-sitting position with a covetous look was the frostbitten sergeant. The sergeant’s body odor—unwashed for months—hung especially thick in the air. Kurimoto had long moved past pitying his wounded comrades from the same enlistment year. Now he envied them instead. These injured men would be shipped back to the homeland within a month, free to leave this wretched military life behind. He’d brought letters from home and comfort bags from the barracks to the hospital. For those stranded in Siberia, even glimpsing a homeland postage stamp brought fleeting joy.

About an hour later, after handing it over to his comrades, he descended the icy hill, minding the tips of his boots like the American soldiers. "Maybe I should get myself wounded." He thought to himself. "Staying intact is so damn idiotic!"

Each wound bore traces of battles they had fought. They had chased partisans deep through forest thickets. There were times when trains had been derailed and partisan attacks added to the chaos, sending them fleeing in panic. The wounds differed by weapon and combat circumstance. Those whose faces were riddled with iron sand fragments like freckles had been caught in bomb warfare. Setbacks and bruises came from derailed trains.

The wounded soldiers did not harbor such intense indignation toward the physical disabilities and pain afflicting them.

“We’ll be heading out to Urajio after thirteen more nights.” Onishi could not hide his delight as he said this. “Is that so.” Kurimoto showed a strained smile. He envied their imminent return to the homeland. When he tried to conceal that envy, his smile became a hollow, lonely thing. He understood this with unpleasant clarity. “Need me to pass along anything?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” “If I think I can slip away one step ahead of everyone, it’s just unbearably delightful.”

The men there were already thinking about post-discharge life. Their hearts held nothing but thoughts of life back home. One day, as he was opening a comfort bag he had brought, the Head Nurse sauntered into the ward. In each comfort bag, something different had been placed. There was silk floss meant to be worn against the cold. There were bars of soap, hand towels, and persimmon cakes inside. A ten-sen bill was tucked into a Koyasan postcard......they were all steeped in the scent of the homeland. The hand towels had the seal of some village’s fertilizer dealer dyed into them. However, that was nothing more than a scent of the homeland to be savored in Siberia. The comrade, upon seeing the Head Nurse enter, suddenly lost all interest in the comfort bag.

“Head Nurse—Fukuchi’s case—how much pension applies?”

This came as a surprise to Kurimoto. He left the half-opened bag on the bed and sat in a daze. “What’s your rank?” They endured everything in the military out of their desire for pensions. Such was the Head Nurse. When it came to military pensions, she had mastered more than any encyclopedia. “First Class Private.” “Well, classifying it as an Article 5 injury...with the increase, that comes to 220 yen.” From the tips of his feet to his waist entangled in gutter-like splints—his one leg would likely have to be amputated—that was Fukuchi. It was a penetrating gunshot wound to the thigh.

“Head Nurse—Onishi’s case—how much will he get?” “Do you think they’d give anything for just a bit of heel damage?” “If we don’t get anything, it’s not worth it.” The wounded soldiers asked the Head Nurse one after another which injury article they fell under. Which injury article they fell under determined their military pension amount. In such moments, it seemed to Kurimoto they had already become creditors against the state. “What the hell! What’s there to be happy about—being turned into cripples, amputees, half-men—just to get some miserable pittance in return?!” He felt an inexplicable resentment.

But he couldn't help feeling disgusted at how much longer he would be forced to chase partisans against his will from now on. Those who remained healthy and on duty had no way of knowing how long they would be stuck in Siberia. "Maybe I should get myself a light wound." He thought in secret. He had grown sick of Siberia - sick of trading gunfire with partisans, burning villages, capturing them, and handing them over to the White Army. White Army leader Kalmykov had massacred and buried the partisan prisoners they'd delivered. In the forest, boot prints had scattered bloodstained snow to erase traces of Kalmykov's killings. Countless footprints - large and small, every type imaginable - lay tangled across the snow in that area. Deeper in the woods ran tracks where two pairs of boots had fled at full tilt. Sluggish blood trails broke off here and there, resuming as dotted lines and thick streaks racing alongside the prints. The prisoner struck by a blade must have desperately run for his life. The bloody footprints stretched about a hundred meters before veering right through trees, turning left, winding serpentine until vanishing under a white birch. There the snow lay savagely kicked about, trampled and defiled. Blood had seeped into the rock-hard frozen snow like stains in stone. The prisoners must have fought with every shred of strength to survive. Along the forest's return path lay hands severed diagonally at the wrist and a lone boot containing a foot, carelessly discarded on white snow. The limbs and footwear had frozen solid together, white as marble casts.

It was not the Japanese military that killed the prisoners. However, the residents’ hatred toward such brutality was redirected at the aggressive Japanese military aiding the White Army. Kurimoto thought about what they, the soldiers, were being forced to do—it was entirely that they were being used by capitalists back home sitting idle with their hands in their pockets, and as local lackeys. He could not stop the rebellious fervor from welling up within him. It wasn’t just him—many soldiers shared his discontent and rebellion. At times they would aim their rifle muzzles skyward without shooting the fleeing partisans; at others they collapsed in the snow refusing to obey the “Advance!” order; still other times they pointed their bayonets at some irritating lieutenant. Yet through repeating these acts of rebellion, they came to realize all too clearly how pathetically ineffective such capricious methods were when employed by a handful of soldiers.

III

The mercury in the thermometer contracted. Seven degrees below zero, eleven, fifteen—until finally it plummeted below twenty. The attacks by partisans defending the Soviets grew more intense. The Japanese soldiers lost their agility in movement due to the cold. They had to bundle themselves up in bulky fur coats until they were perfectly round like porcupines. The gloves on both hands were thick and heavy and had to be hung from the neck like a wallet on a cord. The rifle slipped slickly from between their gloved fingers as if coated with wax. The partisans exploited that opening.

The soldiers had to constantly chase partisans, conduct house searches, confiscate weapons, be roused at midnight, and rush out armed to provide support. Along the railway lines, they split into many small units and went out on patrol. Kurimoto’s company received orders to board a train and depart for security duty in Iishi. Onto the train had been loaded provisions, ammunition, and cold-weather gear since evening. Dusk approached early, and dawn came late.

Kurimoto stood sentry by the tracks on the town's outskirts through the long night, being relieved countless times while guarding the train. The soldiers would wait for morning to board it and depart. The cold pressed upon people with stabbing pain. The guardhouse stove's warmth was stolen within two minutes of stepping outside by a storm roaring up from the Amur River's lower reaches. The cold-weather boots sank into snow, clattering like winnowing baskets with each step. Even so, feet had to keep moving constantly, even when standing still. If you stayed motionless, frostbite would take hold.

As the night deepened, the stars overhead grew piercingly clear. From the hill with the bar across to this hill, a sled without lights screeched its runners over the frozen snow and raced along the railway tracks. From between the clatter of horseshoes and the screech of sled runners, Russian spoken with an English accent reached Kurimoto’s ears. “Halt!”

It was around the time when the American soldiers who had taken out a Russian girl were returning from the bar. “Halt!” The driver made a tsk-tsk clicking sound with his tongue, and the sled reduced its speed. “Who’s there?” “Don’t worry!... Acting all high and mighty!” Their voices revealed them to be American soldiers. At the same time, another resilient young woman’s voice resounded through the darkness. The tone of the voice sounded arrogantly self-assured, as if stating an obvious fact. In an instant, Kurimoto’s ever-present fury erupted. He was acutely aware that the pitch darkness presented an opportunity. The raised rifle came crashing down onto the horse’s back with full force. All the dangerous tasks where it was never known when they might become bullet fodder were being forced upon the Japanese soldiers. Despite calling it a joint expedition, the American soldiers did nothing but warm themselves by the stoves in their town barracks, then head out to Russian homes in the afternoon to scour for young women. There, they scattered counterfeit bills like water. That was their job. Moreover, those bills were exact replicas of Bank of Chosen notes. Simultaneously with the start of the expedition, America had brought in two shiploads of counterfeit bills to Vladivostok. There was someone who had seen it.

“Why don’t we tear off their masks?!” The soldiers seethed at the Japanese authorities’ spinelessness in not raising a single protest against the powerful, even after having counterfeit bills scattered around them. The American soldiers were detestably hateful. They went sneaking off during their free time to the girls who had switched sides and exposed the counterfeit bills.

“Why?” The fair-skinned, high-nosed Russian girl retorted. “Then compare this with that!” They took out the five-yen note—the one they’d received as their month’s salary, five yen and some change—and showed it.

“Why would Americans make Japanese counterfeit bills?” “What, why would they make them?” The girl licked her lips—red and healthy as if painted with rouge—and turned serious. The red lips stimulated their carnal senses. The Russian girl couldn’t comprehend the American soldiers’ deceit. “If these are counterfeit bills, then you’re the ones who made them.” “Of course it is!” “Why would Americans make Japanese counterfeit bills?”

“Don’t talk nonsense! Would we use our own counterfeit bills?!” They didn’t know how to ambush the enemy from behind. “Americans are sly.” “That’s why they don’t make counterfeit dollars—they make counterfeit yen instead.” “They’re not decent people!”

The girl had already become a full-fledged woman by fifteen. The way she walked in her sturdy-legged high-heeled shoes was brisk and invigorating. There was an earthy vitality absent in Japanese women.

They couldn't visit Russian homes unless they stole the time. Of course there were no counterfeit bills. But why did they alone have to go meddling about taking down partisans! And why must the women be snatched away by those American soldiers! Thus it was only them who received hatred and resentment from the Russians. He found the Americans detestable; his whole body prickled with irritation. America had sent troops just to keep watch over the Japanese military. At this outright banditry, he wanted to roar "Bastard!" at their commander who worked them like slaves.

Kurimoto welcomed the darkness. The horse that had been struck reared up in shock. The sled nearly flipped over as it slid five or six yards through the air in an instant. The American soldiers shone flashlights behind them from the sled. In the electric light, Kurimoto glimpsed a large hand thrusting into a right pocket and gripping a pistol. “Bastards!” “So you’re going to shoot.” He remained standing and aimed his rifle. At that moment, a deafening pistol shot rang out from the sled. He gripped the trigger. But the trigger was light; it slipped through with a hollow click. He had forgotten to fix the safety catch.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Startled by the pistol shot, Takeuchi came running from the sentry hut, his boots clattering. Kurimoto silently reset the safety catch and aimed his rifle. The sled disappeared into the darkness, leaving behind the creaking of its runners. The crack of a whip against the horse’s hindquarters echoed through the howling frozen storm. “What’s wrong? What happened?” “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 strained its legs shod with ice horseshoes and climbed up the hill. In the bottom of the sled—tilted like a boat run aground on rocks—the soldier gritted his teeth and pressed his wound each time they jolted along the jagged, uneven path. “Oh, more admissions are coming.” “Heh heh heh!” The neurasthenic sergeant who had been chanting the Kannon Sutra suddenly stopped tapping his teacup with a tink-tink. The wounded soldiers, while protecting their injuries, raised their heads and turned their faces toward the window. Five or six sleds approached the hospital courtyard. The sleds appeared to be dragging the horses backward, about to slide down the hill. The driver who had gotten down from the driver’s seat kept whipping the horse’s hindquarters with his whip.

“The company that went to Iishi was wiped out.” “Heh heh heh heh!” The sergeant laughed gleefully and hysterically.

“What’s so funny?!” “You lunatic!”

A clamorous noise arose in the corridor as a man entered—a roughly treated wound crudely bound with a blood-soaked triangular bandage. All faces were pale and haggard.

Those who had their legs or internal organs injured and couldn’t walk were later brought in on stretchers. “Oh, you got hit too?” Onishi laughed with an air of surprise, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Did you get yourself hurt on purpose? Just a little?” “……….” The man with his arm in a sling grimaced angrily. “You were just dying to get back to the homeland, weren’t you?” Even so, the other man paid no heed. With his military uniform unbuttoned—his wound too painful to remove it himself—he asked the nursing orderly to take it off. Wincing in pain, they finally removed his clothes, revealing a blood-caked undershirt. It was Kurimoto, his jaw trembling violently, his face deathly pale.

After assigning beds to the wounded, the nursing orderly went back out to the courtyard to fetch the others.

All sorts of sighs, groans, pleading voices, and unbearably contorted faces—as if imprinted there—permeated the ward in an instant. Bloodstained military uniforms and undershirts were thrown about everywhere. The superior private with a broken femur, who had been left on the floor still strapped to his stretcher, intermittently let out a piercing shriek as though something were splintering. Then, the others too shuddered violently as if jabbed by an awl.

Would all these many men really be sent back to the homeland? If they did that, within a year every soldier in a whole regiment would have to return home. But they wouldn't allow such a thing—some of them would surely be left behind in Siberia. Those who'd been there first had thought such things. As for the lightly wounded soldiers— I wonder if I'll be left behind in Siberia—if I'll become one of them. In his heart, he worried about this.

And toward the newcomers with raw, half-healed wounds, they unconsciously unsheathed claws of rivalry and resentment. “Where’d they get you?” “How bad is it?” The Third Company man—his head wrapped in a cross-shaped bandage—approached with furtive eyes to scrutinize the wound that still awaited the military doctor’s attention.

“You didn’t get your bone shattered, did you?” Kurimoto nodded vacantly, without meaning. “I see.” The man with guilt-shadowed eyes turned toward the other beds as if relieved. There, he asked another question. From the adjacent ward too rose a clamor of groans and wails. Kurimoto seemed to have forgotten something vital, his attention snagged by unfocused things. Everything felt separated by a paper-thin membrane. The stone-hard snow against his face when he’d leapt from the derailed train’s window, the deafening crack of American pistols tangled with Partisan rifles—they still echoed in his ears.

His arm was numb and heavy. It had blazed up fiercely as if ignited at first, but now stood utterly cold—devoid of both sensation and warmth like a prosthetic limb. To stop the bleeding, they had tightly bound a cord above the wound. As a result, blood had nearly ceased flowing to his hand. His arm hung heavy as if weighted with lead.

“Ah, I can’t bear it! Go tell the military doctor that right now!” Blood seeped through the freshly changed hospital gown. “Endure it!” A nursing orderly passing by glanced over. Then those eyes suddenly gleamed with menace. He stared fixedly at the blood-soaked hospital gown. “What do you expect? It can’t be helped!” “You’ve already ruined the freshly laundered gown!” “Ah, I can’t bear it! Ah, I can’t bear it! Hey! Hey!”

The groans kept coming.

Kurimoto had wished to be wounded. He had thought that if only he were wounded, he could return to the homeland immediately. There waited his mother and sister and a bristly-bearded old man—all anticipating his return. But now his mother, sister, and that old man were living in a distant faraway place utterly beyond his reach—existing completely apart from him. No one cast a glance of pity his way. The nursing orderly merely appeared busy—seemingly irritated by his own busyness—and worked away heartlessly with a sullen face. The same soldier who until yesterday had been just another private now suddenly carried himself with all the arrogance of a second lieutenant.

"There’s not a soul who gives a damn about us," Kurimoto thought in bed. "They’re all just thinking about themselves!"

—He recalled the thatched-roof house in the homeland. There outside awaited backbreaking labor. But inside were a warm sunken hearth, freshly steamed potatoes, family affection, and wholehearted devotion. There was local sake. He recalled these things. I’m no orphan nobody cares about! Then why did I come to this frozen Siberia?! Why?! ......He sighed. And with it came another pitiful groan.

“Every last one of you—whining like feeble Ruskies!” The Head Nurse, who had come on rounds and was versed in military pensions, laughed bitterly. “What’s a little pain?! Aren’t you Japanese men?! There’s dead men lying here!”

When he looked to the right, the superior private who often treated him to drinks from the canteen had his legs raised under the blanket, teeth clenched as he stared fixedly at the ceiling. A growling sound leaked from between his teeth. The superior private didn't even have the presence of mind to notice the Head Nurse's bitter smile. "She's scolding us because she herself is annoyed," Kurimoto thought. "They don't give a damn about us! Why did I come to this freezing Siberia?! Why did I get on that train that was going to be derailed?!"

And again, a sigh escaped, and he couldn’t help but groan.

Across the boundless wilderness, two rails that had barely emerged from beneath the snow ran on, tracing black lines. The large train carrying the fully armed company advanced slowly and steadily, scanning left and right. A security team had been deployed along the tracks all the way to the distant end. The tracks were perfectly straight; two rails ran parallel endlessly. The town soon disappeared from view, and the train began to pick up speed. The tracks entered a valley, soon passed through it, and emerged once more into the wilderness.

The snow lay deep, and the railroad tracks, the grassy plain, the road—all appeared swept smooth. The groves and standing trees spun ceaselessly before the train window, pivoting around a distant mountain. After some time, the train reduced its speed. Then a snow-clad iron bridge materialized before them.

“All clear!”

The bridge security team looked up at the train window and shouted. “Proceed!” “Advance!” And then, the train approached the bridge as the thunderous roar of its wheels grew louder. The speed seemed to increase. The railroad tracks stretched endlessly ahead—two perfectly parallel lines running intact. But when it reached the midpoint, with a thunderous crash, the locomotive—like a draft horse stumbling in its harness—burst wildly off the iron bridge.

The square box followed suit, twisting violently as it capsized toward the snowy river.

And then, the Partisans’ rifles and machine guns that had been lying in wait roared fiercely from above the valley……

The more stringent the Japanese military's attacks became, the sharper the Partisans' resentment and revenge grew. And the means to counteract it gradually emerged in covert, unexpected ways.

Explosive devices were not installed on the tracks. Nor were they destroyed. The Partisans had merely placed oil-soaked embers beneath the railroad ties. However, the railroad ties—like green wood in a charcoal kiln—were ignited in the snow, smoldering with a faint hiss as they turned to charcoal. The railroad ties smoldering in the snow emitted neither flames nor smoke to the outside. From above, it appeared to be a perfectly intact railway track without a single flaw. Neither the sentries nor the security team noticed. Moreover, when a train approached that spot, the tracks would collapse as if stepping on cotton with a thud, inevitably causing it to derail.

V

After thirteen nights, they could board the hospital train and depart for Vladivostok. This time, it had turned into letters of the alphabet. They had been extended by thirteen more days. They had to add thirteen days to thirteen days and wait through as many nights as there were letters in the ABCs before they could depart for Vladivostok. What was the reason for this? It was simply due to train schedules. The soldiers couldn’t comprehend anything beyond that. The wounded soldiers waited for Day B after Day A ended. When Day B ended, they waited for Day C. Then came D, E, F...

If Z didn’t come, they couldn’t truly say they’d completely escaped death. A sled guarded by sentries crossed the Amur River and glided quietly toward the forest on the opposite bank. That scene was reflected in the hospital’s gaze atop the hill. The Amur River had formed hills of ice. The sled grew small and distant as it headed toward the forest ahead, like two or three leaf-shaped boats. At the same time as the train’s derailment, soldiers who had fallen victim to bullets were transported away. When they pushed aside the sergeant—who kept bursting into sporadic fits of deranged laughter while reciting the Kannon Sutra—the others remained too despondent to lift their heads from their beds.

“We were still lucky after all!” Kurimoto thought. When one patient left a bed, another sick or wounded soldier would come to take their place. When that one was gone, the next one would come. The straw mattresses and blankets were soiled with the blood, pus, and sweat of several men. He clenched his teeth and secretly comforted himself. Wounded soldiers are cripples who must endure disability and pain until death.

They wanted the authorities to compensate them for their original, living hands, feet, and ears. A leg once amputated could not be reattached to its original living state. This was not up for discussion. But whether possible or not, they wanted to extort compensation by force. They seethed with resentment until it became unbearable. They had no choice but to console themselves by watching sleds hauling away such intense emotions into the forest. How many of those conscripted alongside them—men who had eaten the enlistment red bean rice, waited to become second-year soldiers, then waited for discharge—had now been reduced to bones?

Some came straight from the battlefield, some from dressing stations, some arrived at the hospital on stretchers—only to be told at the hospital entrance that they were beyond hope and carted off to the forest. Among them were those whose warm blood still flowed from their wounds. If they had been told there was no hope before regaining consciousness after being wounded... They shuddered at the thought. One could not definitively say there were no such cases.

“The smoke’s started rising.” “Heh heh heh!” The sergeant laughed maniacally and began clinking his teacup. “Stop it!” They recalled the foul stench of burning hair and nails. Pale purple smoke began rising from the forest beyond the snow-covered river. “Who was it?”

Hatsuda, who had a bullet lodged in his waist, asked.

“They say it was six people.”

“Six people?”

The six soldiers were all known by name. Their faces were known.

Together, that morning, they shouldered heavy backpacks at the station without a platform, finally clambered onto the train, and set out for Iishi. There were no American soldiers in Iishi. 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 the night trembling together.

None of them spoke a word. They bit into their blankets and stared up from their beds at the grimy ceiling where paint peeled away.

Whenever there were war dead, a soldier who had once been a monk would always chant sutras. That soldier also made his way into the forest. When the hoarse voice of sutra chanting echoed through the forest, the firewood was lit, and the war dead transformed into smoke. The snow around the burning firewood began to melt slightly.

Their wills mowed down and exploited like mere murder weapons, they had placed all their hopes in what would come after being released from military service. They were still young. But all those hopes too had to vanish along with that smoke. For the soldiers, the memory of cremations in the forest remained the most unbearable. No matter how loudly the makeshift monk’s sutra chanting resounded through the trees, how could anyone believe those who died unwillingly would attain peaceful Buddhahood through it! What remained afterward but brittle white bones!

"What, have we really drawn a good lot?!" They thought again.

They had to be grateful just for being alive.

And then again, "If we just count through each letter of the alphabet—could we really make it back home where Dad and Mom are waiting?" They thought such things. "Will they really give us our military pensions?" Thus, the pension of about 220 yen for those who had lost a leg came to feel more precious than General XX’s 6,500-yen pension from the Siemens Scandal where his thievery had been exposed.

Six. Every hospital room had filled to capacity. Patients with pleurisy—their chests tapped with needles to draw out brownish fluid like stale tea—those with trachoma pannus, and a legless man all jumbled together helter-skelter in a single ward. “Military Doctor, sir—can Kurimoto return to the homeland too?” He asked in a voice so pitifully pleading it grated even his own ears. “Ah.” Even should the wound heal, that sunken bald patch on Kurimoto’s arm—where flesh had been gouged out—showed no sign of vanishing.

“What about Fukushima, Military Doctor, sir?”

“We’ll send him back, of course. We can’t keep wasting space on this periostitis case forever.”

Only one week remained. And they changed their count to Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday...

Now, things like the filthy stinking hospital room, the occasional gunshots echoing through midnight air from somewhere, and shrieks had curiously come to feel like something dear worth missing. They would soon leave all those things behind and return to the homeland.

“What if every last one of us got wounded and went back to the homeland? With nothing but officers and sergeants left behind, they couldn’t wage war.”

They whispered quietly among themselves, careful not to let their voices carry beyond the room. “Getting yourself wounded’s still the quickest ticket home, ain’t it?” “Ain’t there a whole mess of bastards in here who got themselves shot up on purpose?” Onishi raked his eyes over the cots without ceremony. “Them’s third-class wound ratings at best.” “Third-class? Hell, this is punishment detail!”

Hatsuda—with a bullet lodged in his waist showing no signs of an injury that could be mistaken as intentional—slowly raised his head from the blanket. “Don’t talk nonsense! Who’d choose to get hurt like this on purpose?!”

They were at peace. Their hopes had begun to glow brightly. Once again, they changed their counting method. Tomorrow, the next day, the day after that— Only three days left now. Then, as if trying to catch up, new wounded soldiers came crowding in again. Among them was a brave soldier who had fought with American soldiers and slashed one with his saber.

That delighted them greatly. He had been an artillery officer. He had been shot in the shoulder, but before that, he had hacked down three hulking American soldiers.

The lieutenant had a jutting jawbone, a ferocious face that suggested a short temper. Without even pretending his wound hurt, he had ensconced himself in a reserved blue-walled annex room. His eyes focused inward toward his skull’s center, all attention consumed by one matter. It had occurred in the Russian’s parlor. That was how the story went. There, American soldiers—using Russian more fluently than any officer—had hijacked the conversation between the girl and her family right from under him. The lieutenant’s temper had been needled into fury. But causing trouble with Americans meant consequences. These weren’t Russians or Chinese who’d swallow defeat quietly—he knew that. So he’d started leaving casually, sliding his arms into his coat when he glanced at the table. There lay a stack of crisp new bills. These Japs who lost out don’t have a damn cent.—The American soldier seated at the table watched him with contemptuous eyes.

“Where’s that bill from?” He slipped one arm through his coat sleeve, keeping his hand thrust upward toward the ceiling as he approached the table. “It’s none of your business.”

A narrow-faced American soldier interjected in English from the side. The other soldier was plucking two or three bills from the stack with his large hand and handing them to the Russians. The way he handled them was practically flaunting them with exaggerated showmanship. "That's counterfeit money!" He was holding it in his hand, trying to attach his military sword to the scabbard hook. "But see? They work just fine." The American soldier pulled out two or three more bills and snapped them with his fingers to demonstrate.

He felt an impatience as if his back were on fire. And let them taste the edge of a Japanese sword in their hearts! he muttered.

――The story told by the superior private who had brought in the hospitalized patients was just that kind of tale. Before long, it turned out the Russian girl might have been the very woman the lieutenant had previously made advances on. “Oh ho! I should’ve backed you up then.” “I always figured it’d 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. “I’d thrash those bastards till fire shoots from their eyeballs!”

However, the officer in the blue annex room, "I am a lieutenant. I’m not some common soldier! I'm an officer! Why can’t those Ruskies understand that?! Why can't they understand?!"

He muttered such things aloud, spasmodically like a fever patient. He was bitterly dissatisfied that the Russian girl considered him no different in rank from American soldiers and treated him accordingly. That identical treatment meant she was ignoring his rank and handling him as inferior. The fear of having her snatched away by Americans grew from this soil. "Why can't they recognize my shoulder insignia?!" "Why can't they recognize the military sword I bear?!"

It was perplexing. His chest swelled with seething resentment. "I should've crushed them completely!" "I should've finished it properly!" He repeated compulsively, eyes drilling into his skull's center as if through sheer will. The sword-swinging and order-barking—all theater to tower above those Yank grunts. Yet still it fell short. The insufficiency ate at him like frostbite through a boot.

"I am a lieutenant—I’m not some common soldier! Why can’t those Ruskies understand that?! Why can't they understand?!"

Yet, as he understood military protocol, he spoke his true feelings to no one. He let the rumors about his outrage over the counterfeit bills spread unchecked while feigning ignorance.…

7

About twenty horse-drawn sleds fitted with bells were lined up alongside the hospital courtyard. The wounded soldiers' belongings were carried from the hospital rooms to the sleds. Rifles, knapsacks, ammunition boxes loaded with live rounds—all they needed to do was take them to Urajio; after that, they would serve no further purpose. At last, they truly managed to save their lives.

Outside, sand-like snow sifted diagonally through the air in whispering drifts. Swallowing down their resentment at having to work on Sundays, the nursing orderlies clattered through corridors and wards in barracks shoes that echoed like loose machinery.

“Alright, get on! Get on!” When the Head Nurse tasked with escorting them shouted from the corridor, the patients—huddled in cold-weather gear—emerged dragging their boots with a clatter.

Into the sleds they clambered, five or six at a time, like chickens huddling in a roost, using the fur of their cold-weather gear to fill the chilly gaps between them. Those who couldn’t walk clung to nursing orderlies’ shoulders or were carried away on stretchers. When they stepped out into the hospital courtyard from the long-stagnant air of the wards, compressed chests seemed to expand crisply. When they had been brought to the hospital—climbing that hill in a daze, conscious only of their pain—a pleasantly light snow now fell upon it.

The Head Nurse, watching the wounded soldiers board from under eaves untouched by snow, “What? What?”

said to the regimental messenger who had hurried in breathlessly. “This is it, ma’am.” The messenger presented an envelope. “Let me see.” The Head Nurse removed her right glove and moved two fingers toward the seal as if quite intent on opening it there and then, but then seemed to reconsider something and hurried down the corridor into the depths. The messenger was unrecognizable in his bulky winter gear, but upon looking twice, he was a first-class private from Kurimoto’s company. He removed his shaggy-furred hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his palm. He had been in the same squad and barracks as Kurimoto when they first enlisted. They were slow in wrapping their puttees, late for formation, and time and again made to run a lap around the regimental headquarters together.

“Hey, hey!”

Kurimoto called out from the sled.

Taguchi, while waiting for the Head Nurse’s reply, watched the patients clattering about as they tried to adjust their positions in the sled.

“Hey, hey, Taguchi!...It’s me.” When he waved his uninjured hand, the messenger seemed to finally notice Kurimoto. But between them, a patient whose legs had been amputated below the knees—abdomen swollen dolphin-like from peritonitis—was carried in on a stretcher, and the nursing orderly snapped orders while transferring him to the sled. Kurimoto, seeing no sign of Taguchi approaching, climbed down from the sled and made his way around the horse’s front through the snow.

“We’re going home today.” He said, feeling happy at being able to return home, “Give my regards to everyone.”

Taguchi muttered something incomprehensible and assumed a perplexed expression. Then he said they were dispatching another battalion from here to Semiyanovka—they were short on soldiers and struggling—and that he’d brought the orders concerning that. A battalion being dispatched—that was none of the wounded soldiers returning to the homeland’s concern. But something about Taguchi’s grave demeanor immediately filled Kurimoto with unease.

“Was there another emergency?” Taguchi reported that on his way here, an American patrol had picked a fight with him. A few days earlier, an officer had drawn his sword, leaving both sides snarling at each other. They might clash with the Americans too. Just then, the military doctor appeared. The Head Nurse followed close behind. Her face bore an air of solemnity. “Everyone back to your hospital rooms—immediately.”

The military doctor’s voice, unlike the Head Nurse’s solemnity, was despondent. The wounded soldiers couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. It seemed like nothing at all, and yet also like a major emergency. They did not try to rise from the sled they had boarded for some time. The nursing orderlies nearby also stared fixedly, as though doubting the military doctor’s words. For a while, there was only the whispering sound of falling snow.

“Everyone back to the hospital at once!” The Military Doctor’s voice remained despondent.

“Is it because of the snow?”

Someone asked.

“Hmm.” “So we can go home when the snow stops?” There was no reply. The nursing orderly—having verified the military doctor’s words weren’t mistaken—repeated the same command to the nearby wounded soldiers in a voice stripped of compassion. Kurimoto’s legs started shaking violently.

“They’re not planning to send us back, are they?”

Taguchi once again made a troubled face and did not answer. Kurimoto, concealing his desperation to clutch at even a single straw, deliberately spoke lightly, “Was it our lieutenant slashing the American soldiers that caused the trouble?” he pressed again. “Ah.” Taguchi gave a reluctant reply. “That’s why a conflict arose.” “But they were using counterfeit bills, weren’t they?” Taguchi seemed to disapprove of speaking ill of the American soldiers; he wrinkled his brow from nose to forehead and forced an unnatural, bitter smile. Kurimoto tried to ask whether the officers had made a mistake. But just then, someone who had gotten off the sled pressed forward laboriously from behind him. He tried to let it pass by moving ahead. Everyone brushed snow from their winter gear as they jostled against him while passing. His uncontrollably trembling legs looked spindly. He became an obstruction like a stone in the road’s center. The nursing orderly barked harshly.

When he tried to step aside and turned to the right, the military doctor was whispering to the head nurse in a low voice, “Can’t you arrange to have the sled returned properly?” He heard him say that. He stared at the military doctor’s face. He felt there was some deeper meaning there. The military doctor averted his pale face from the patients’ gazes and deliberately turned his eyes toward the falling snow.

Kurimoto jolted. He felt that no matter how many details he extracted from Taguchi now, there would be no reversing things. At the hospital room entrance, nursing orderlies meant for prisoner escort duty had stripped off their winter uniforms and unbuckled swords; two or three stood huddled in furtive conference. When wounded soldiers drew near, they pasted on strained smiles—one man with a looped belt-pouch clattered away toward barracks in hobnailed boots that rang against plastered floors.

The hearth, which hadn’t been lit since morning because the patients were gone, had grown completely cold. The folded sheets and hospital gowns atop the straw mattress, creased from being wrapped around bodies and soiled with grime and oils, looked as if someone else had dirtied them. Ah, ah—we’re just like cattle or horses sold off at market. We’re just being made to dance to their tune! They found themselves back in the very beds they had supposedly bid farewell to and left behind. Onishi, lacking his usual vigor, lay dejectedly stretched out on his bed.

“Truly, unless we actually leave for home, we won’t know what’ll become of us.”

That single item that had entered the envelope twisted the rudder in the opposite direction. They felt it keenly. The rudder was again turned toward where bullets fell like rain. The beautiful, alluring homeland they had constantly envisioned while manipulating the alphabet—that homeland they carried in their hearts—was overturned by that single envelope.

Kurimoto sat on the bed and battled his inner turmoil. The thatched house, the hearth, the local sake, the bearded old man, his mother—all filled with tranquility and radiance—every last one had turned their backs on him and flown far away. How much unseen mental strain had I endured in my desire to return to the homeland! The petty schemes of those officers were coming back to haunt us now! Because of some trivial matter, the wishes of those here were being completely uprooted. What lay ahead now?!

Through the double-paned window, empty sleds carrying only their drivers could be seen descending the hill road in a line. The horses pranced about wildly, as though delighted they hadn’t been made to carry passengers. The powder snow fell slantingly at an even faster tempo, sifting down in ever-increasing numbers. "That's right—if things were normal, we'd be gliding on that sled right about now!"

He suddenly had such a thought.

The sergeant was fiddling with the teacup from the lacquer box but did not utter the Kannon Sutra, as if he had forgotten it.

“Even if they tell me to hold a rifle again—no matter what they order—I can’t move!” The superior private with the fracture made a crying face.

VIII

Those carrying rusted guns, led by the weekly duty superior private, walked on, sinking deeply into the fresh snow with each step. As a group of discharged patients descended the hill toward the town in the valley, growing smaller in the distance, another group from behind came filing through the hospital gate. Some had white bandages peeking out from under their winter hats. There were those limping along unsteadily. Every face bore the pallor of those long deprived of direct sunlight and the swollen look of the infirm. The rifle, ammunition box, and sword looked utterly mismatched against their faces.

It was an unusually clear morning. However, those descending showed no sign of enjoying it; their faces were twisted in bitterness.

At the company, they were awaiting their return. They would either be added to the unit being detached to Semiyanovka or to the unit preparing for the American soldiers—it was one or the other. The American patrol was marching through the town carrying large guns. Gleaming with malicious eyes, they patrolled back and forth around the Japanese barracks time and again. They were poised to clash at the first provocation they could find. At the company, they were restraining the soldiers calmly, calmly. However, troop numbers had to be maintained at full strength.

When a small group of two or three Japanese soldiers walked through the town, American soldiers armed with weapons would challengingly press in on them.

The soldiers felt a sudden chill. At the same time, they experienced an indescribably unpleasant urge to retaliate. It was the same resentment Koreans harbored toward the Japanese. They felt that way. They had to deliberately feign ignorance while passing through with their nerves concentrated on the side where the American soldiers were. But if those men attacked first, could they still strive to remain calm and simply endure being struck? No, that was impossible. Therefore, they had no choice but to forcibly increase their numbers to avoid being outmatched. The necessity of dispatching a unit to Semiyanovka dealt a heavy blow here.

On the second floor of the regiment headquarters, high-ranking individuals in spurred boots gathered in a corner room, their spurs clinking as they whispered something in hushed tones. Then, a messenger was dispatched.……

Onishi, Kurimoto, and Hatada—who had a bullet lodged in his waist—were led down by the weekly duty superior private. “What kind of law allows them to drag out men who’d collapse if you so much as touch them and make them carry rifles?!” One from the group spoke. “The numbers are short.” “Even if we’re short, since when is there any sense in using sick men?!” Their hearts were filled with violent thoughts and emotions.

On the day they returned by sled, each of them received a diagnosis from the military doctor. That was their final assessment. Through this, their fate would be decided—whether they could return to the homeland or must shoulder rifles and march back into the snow. Even quacks at curing illnesses rose faster through the ranks if they obeyed superiors without question and executed orders flawlessly. The military doctor had thoroughly mastered this military logic. To promise soldiers repatriation only to drive them back to battle before the words left his lips—this was bitter work indeed. Yet he resolved to perform this bitter duty.

The wounded soldiers knew that if they couldn't return to the homeland now, the path ahead would be a dark abyss—who could say when they might see Japan again? Before them loomed nothing but falls from railway bridges, sentry duty in the snow, bomb battles, and those detestable American soldiers. There, they would have to either be wounded again or become one of the corpses transported by sled across the Amur River into the forest. That was unbearable. They unconsciously exaggerated their wounds and strove to present themselves to the military doctor as men no longer fit for service.

The military doctor saw that the soldiers coming for diagnosis all had pitiful, lifeless faces. "I beg you—let me return to the homeland!" His eyes held nothing but pure entreaty for mercy. "Well? You're eating standard rations again already, aren't you?"

The military doctor asked this to a youthful-looking man whose upper lip had been grazed horizontally.

“Yes.” "Now then, open your mouth and let me see." This man obediently opened his mouth wide. “Alright! “You’ve already healed up nicely.”

And then, he gestured with his hand for them to exit the diagnosis room. The man felt that with the word "Alright," he was being sent back to his company, "What wrong have I done to be driven back under falling bullets again?!" he pleaded with childlike eyes. And then, he looked all around. The military doctor’s expression held nothing but cold, hard resolve.

The boy pitifully opened his mouth—now missing the tip of his upper lip—once more. The boy looked up with eyes that seemed to ask, "Is it right to kill someone this docile and defenseless?" "I can't let those eyes break me!" The military doctor hardened his resolve.

The man with the nearly torn-off earlobe, the man whose heel had been severed, the man with a bullet lodged in his waist, the man with a broken humerus—each one entered feebly, their eyes a blend of entreaty and supplication. The craving to return to the homeland gripped them all like a fever. "Every last mother's son here is faking his symptoms!" The military doctor concluded.

Kurimoto too approached the military doctor with eyes begging for pity and a feeble demeanor. He had even thought that if he were to be left in Siberia, he might as well collapse right there before the doctor. “Well?” “There’s something like a hard lump under the wound.” “Can you stretch out your hand?” “No, it still won’t stretch.” “Try gripping this.”

There was something soft, almost warm, in the military doctor’s demeanor. Kurimoto, to make it appear he was gripping the small, smooth-backed hand presented to him with all his might, held his breath and strained as though he were trying to pass stool. In truth, he took care to exert as little force as possible.

“Does the wound still hurt?” “Yes.” “Alright!”

The military doctor gestured for him to leave. The warmth had suddenly transformed into a stubborn coldness. “I’m not healed yet!” “Even this hospital is fine—just let me stay here!” “I won’t!” “I still can’t shoulder a rifle!” Kurimoto’s eyes pleaded that. And he stared at the military doctor’s face as if in rebellion. “Alright!” “Please send me back to the homeland as we initially agreed!” His eyes pleaded it once more.

“Alright!” The military doctor’s stubborn coldness had now redoubled into stern severity.

When he returned to his bed, his heart grew all the more agitated. He wasn’t ready to despair yet. Outside the window, powdered snow continued to slant through the air in brisk, rapid flurries.—Which way would he fall?! Now everything was grasped in that single smooth-backed, gleaming hand of the military doctor’s.

He spent time listening intently to noises from the diagnostic room and the barracks-issue boots of nursing orderlies passing through the hallway. The smooth back of that slickly gleaming hand embodied an untrustworthy character. A memory from some book he'd read assailed him. After half past three, the nursing orderly put on a servile smile, muffled his bootsteps, and walked toward the back gate. He had taken fifty sen to visit Marusha. Anxiety permeated every corner of the hospital room. Kurimoto couldn't get his dinner down. The only ones sleeping soundly were Fukushima—who'd had a leg amputated—and the peritonitis patient with no hope of recovery anyway.

After the lights came on, the head nurse entered, tucking an account book under her arm and smiling obsequiously. There was something in that smile that sharply pricked at one’s intuition. The head nurse spread open the account book and called out each name one by one. Hollow responses continued. “Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.” The faces of those called turned starkly pale one by one. And the muscles of their faces began to convulse. “Yes.” Kurimoto jolted. And his cheeks began to twitch and spasm.

“Those called here now will be discharged tomorrow after breakfast.” “Is that clear?!” In the same manner, smiling obsequiously, the Head Nurse pushed open the door and went out to the next ward. In the end, this outcome had been inevitable all along. The mistake had been in trying to cling to even a single straw. Kurimoto thought that was the truth. The hospital exists to heal wounded soldiers. They heal the wounded only to send them back to where bullets fly. If they’re injured again, they’ll heal them once more and send them back. Three times, four times, five times.

A single instrument must be repaired and used until it becomes useless—otherwise it’s a waste. It was exactly the same. That’s why the hospital’s facilities must be kept in good order! In all likelihood, they would only be improved more and more from here on out. However, that does not amount to anything for us.

From the moment he was startled, Kurimoto felt as though the cells within his body began rapidly transforming. He had nothing left to lose. There was no one left to fear. We were all just being driven to our deaths anyway.

They descended the hill. Their chests were filled with brutal thoughts and emotions. Some dragged their feet. Some hobbled with limps. White bandages protruded from under winter caps. They carried rifles on their shoulders and wore ammunition pouches with bayonets at their waists. Not one face had lost its sickbed pallor.

It was a crisp morning. A wind from Lake Baikal blew away the snow-laden clouds, leaving the sun exposed in the distant sky. Now they had no one left to restrain themselves for. There was no longer any need to be constrained by anyone. Their pent-up thoughts and emotions had come to believe it was only natural for them to take measures to console themselves.

The new snow collapsed with a hollow crunch under the weight of their boots. They kicked it aside and kept walking.…… (November 1928)