Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

A nation cannot exist without newspapers.
Where there is war, there must be war correspondents.
The inclusion of war correspondents in military operations serves not merely one or two newspapers, but the nation itself and its soldiers and officers.
War correspondents inherently benefit the state and prove advantageous to troops.
It needs no argument that they deserve treatment commensurate with proper courtesy.
When examining actual conditions during the First Sino-Japanese War, disparities in treatment emerged across army divisions and logistics departments: some units equated them with officers, others with non-commissioned officers, and others still with enlisted soldiers.
Should they truly be ranked alongside officers?
Those who treat them as common soldiers display profound discourtesy.
Should they indeed be classed with soldiers?
Those who treat them as officers commit grave abuses of authority.
If we were to let each unit determine their treatment arbitrarily,
This would indicate a nation lacking discipline, contrary to constitutional governance's fundamental principles.
If Imperial Headquarters issued definitive orders that army divisions and logistics departments then disregarded,
This would reveal a military devoid of discipline - an army fundamentally unfit for warfare.

Soldiers of the First Army ate sorghum; soldiers of the Second Army were satiated with choice meats.
This was what geography dictated.
Journalists attached to the First Army sat on sorghum stalks; journalists attached to the Second Army slept on stone beds.
This was what circumstances dictated.
What geographical circumstances dictated should not have been called disparity in treatment.
If they could have let them be satiated with fine meats but instead gave them sorghum; if they could have let them sleep on stone beds but instead made them rest on sorghum stalks—
Such treatment could not but have been called the extreme of cold treatment.
However, as tangible matters had to be discussed by returning to the factual conditions of that time, there was no leisure to investigate each instance individually.
If one were to take at face value that certain officer's statement—"Journalists should be regarded as thieves"—
If one were to accept that statements like "Journalists are no different from soldiers" had genuinely sprung from their hearts?
This was not merely cold treatment—it was outright humiliation.
It was precisely because they regarded journalists as no better than dogs and cats that they must have uttered these words of insult.
However, journalists within the military had no right to dispute this.
Even if they had had the right to do so, the disadvantage of disputing it needed no argument.
As long as journalists remained within the military sphere, they had to suppress their anger and endure their humiliation for the newspapers' sake and the nation's.

In ancient times, officials were honored and commoners were lowly.
This was not only true in practice but was also considered valid in theory.
Now, in theory, no distinction is made between officials and citizens; yet in practice, the lingering custom of honoring officials and demeaning citizens still persists.
The scolding of taxpayers by petty officials at district offices would now be regarded as nothing more than a fleeting dream of bygone days.
That war correspondents—those meant to record military merits and be lauded throughout the nation—should exist in this Meiji present prostrating before officers and non-commissioned officers to beg for food and tea, as if trembling to incur their wrath, was a reality no one could have anticipated.
Should officials consider themselves noble? Their arrogance must be despised.
Should the people consider themselves lowly? The utter spinelessness of the people truly beggars belief.
Both partake of the same provisions of the nation.
Yet soldiers regard these provisions as their rightful possession, while war correspondents feel as though they are imposing on another’s household.
They are equally Japanese nationals.
Moreover, military men take it upon themselves to uphold solemn discipline and proper forms of address, yet they call journalists "newspaper peddlers" over and over.
The journalists obediently prostrated themselves before them.
Soldiers regard themselves as masters, while war correspondents feel themselves to be burdens.
Are those who feel this in the right, or are those who make them feel this in the wrong?
If those who feel thus are in the right, then those who make them feel thus must also be in the right.
If those who feel thus are in the wrong, then those who make them feel thus must also be in the wrong.
Should journalists be treated in this manner?

I believe journalists must not be treated without due courtesy.
Yet by what standard this 'due' should be measured—I choose not to expound here.
For now, I merely hope the government will standardize their treatment and publicly proclaim it.

I intended to recount my own experiences here to contribute to that purpose.
Therefore, I did not shy away from the fact that these events already belonged to the past.
It was merely that I had considerations for what lay ahead.

Those who reproach others must examine themselves inwardly.
Do war correspondents themselves not harbor any pangs of conscience?
Are there truly none among those who label us thieves and mock us as newspaper peddlers who themselves constitute the root cause of this treatment?
On this point, there are indeed many who must call for journalists' profound self-reflection.
However, as this falls outside my central argument, I refrain from elaborating further.

[*Nippon Appendix Weekly Report*, Meiji 29/1/13, No. 1]

Onboard the Kaijōmaru

I boarded the Kaijōmaru together with the Imperial Guards Division Headquarters on April 10 of last year and departed from Ujina.
Our quarters were on the shelves of the lower-class compartment and were not treated in the same manner as the soldiers.
We journalists, artists, Shinto priests, Buddhist monks, and interpreters formed a group occupying the middle section of the shelves; on one side there were several non-commissioned officers, and on the other side there were several Superior Privates adjacent to our group.
The group of photographers was also supposed to join here, but they never arrived.
On the tenth day, as evening fell amidst continued chaos before our minds could settle, a portly Sergeant Major came beneath the shelves and shouted: "All those on the shelves—descend here and form lines! Journalists and interpreters—all of you down! Superior Privates—descend quickly! Starting with the privates—no dawdling around! Hurry, hurry!"
We all, unaccustomed to military discipline, were so startled and frightened that we leapt down from the shelves and formed a line.
The Sergeant Major inspected the personnel count, divided them into groups of ten, and assigned each a numerical squad designation.
This was to establish the meal groups.
I was assigned to Squad Six.
Moreover, much to our chagrin, three or four members among us journalists ended up positioned at the edges and consequently could not be included in the same squads as the Superior Privates.
We lamented that all our colleagues should ideally be in the same squad, but this plea went unheeded.

That night too ended with restless dreams.
From the morning of the eleventh, meals were now fetched by one person from each squad going to the kitchen.
The Superior Privates—men who understood such matters—took initiative carrying rice containers themselves; we formed a circle with them and finished eating.
Though pebble-hard rice lay abundant, we could not stomach three bowls.
The side dishes consisted solely of miso, pickled plums, and tsukudani preserves—insufficient even for ten men.
At lunch we obtained some beef, but returning late meant finding only rice remaining.
Even tea barely dripped before being drained completely.
Having borrowed one bowl and chopsticks each without washing—and often lacking tea during meals—they grew crusted with grime beyond words.

This was on the eleventh day.
A most terrifying voice resounded by our pillows: “Line up in order! Push toward the front! You can’t take up this much space! Hurry up and pack tighter!”
Wondering what was happening, I raised my head to look and saw that it was not the portly Sergeant Major from before but a different one with a scruffy beard ordering our group to reduce our living space.
The timbre and tone of his voice made one imagine ox-headed and horse-headed demons rebuking hungry ghosts in this manner, making even the previous portly Sergeant Major begin to seem almost gentle by comparison. Our group already occupied spaces narrower than a single tatami mat per person, making compression difficult; faced with such an imperious command, we all stood dumbfounded and hesitated—whereupon the bearded Sergeant Major grew all the more enraged.
“There’s no reason for this spot alone to stay spacious when everywhere else is cramped! Hurry up and pack tighter—quickly, quickly!…If you can’t squeeze together, get out of here!” he bellowed.
Never having been scolded so harshly even by parents or masters, the sheer absurdity and terror left us frozen in place, holding our breaths and shrinking into ourselves.
However, due to this order, our living space narrowed further; most luggage hung from the ceiling while shoulder-strap leather bags served as pillows. We lay curled like sea slugs with shrunken limbs—when the Cavalry Superior Private sharing my sleeping area returned from the deck.
He admonished me with forced civility: “Would you please move further over? Otherwise I’ll have no place to sleep.”
I, who had been needlessly agitated since the previous night, startled by these words, hurriedly shifted aside.
“Ah, good. That will do. As long as you don’t cross this line here,” he said gently.
I could not endure the frustration.
The cavalryman must have spoken thus from natural compassion.
I did not exactly think to hate him either.
Yet when I considered being placed in a position where a single superior private addressed me kindly as though bestowing charity, I found myself involuntarily sullen and angered.

Having thus resolved to sleep, my body was so cramped that I could do nothing about it.
If I tried to turn right, I was hemmed in by people and luggage and couldn’t move an inch.
If I tried to turn left, I feared being scolded by the cavalryman.
I fretted about moving right, fretted about moving left, and couldn’t even properly form a dream.
[*Nippon*, Meiji 29/1/19, No. 2]

What struck me as strange was how the Shinto priests and Buddhist monks who had been mingling with our group had somehow vanished without notice. As I wondered what had become of them and went to inspect the upper-class cabin, I found those six priests and monks lodged behind the dining tables—near the ship’s stern—in a slightly elevated area with tables arranged in a circular formation. Upon thorough inquiry, it emerged that this had been arranged by none other than the Administrative Department Head.

One of our comrades voiced complaints to a certain officer about journalists’ treatment, whereupon the officer declared: “That’s your own fault! Those are famous drummers we’re talking about—in our ranks, we don’t even use their real names anymore, just call them ‘Drummer This’ and ‘Drummer That.’ The monks got favors because they’re good at beating the drum! You people don’t drum, so you lose out,” roaring with laughter all the while. From then on, even among our comrades, this “drum-beater” terminology began circulating.

On the fourth or fifth day after departure, the turn for meal duty finally came around to us.
“This time, it’s your turn,” the soldier said with apparent sympathy.
Until now, thanks to the soldier sirs, we had eaten three meals a day; in exchange today, we had to go fetch even the soldier sirs’ meals.
I immediately went to the Sergeant Major and said, “Please give me the meal ticket.” The Sergeant Major replied with a sullen expression, “You must come at the designated time to receive meal tickets,” while reluctantly handing it over.

Having received the precious ticket, I ascended to the deck and went to the kitchen area, only to find soldiers swarming everywhere, making approach impossible. This kitchen area was a space not even two tsubo in size, with entrances on both sides each about two shaku wide. People carrying buckets and kettles came pushing and shoving in such numbers that weaklings like us, defeated in this hellish competition, could only retreat backward. Finding no prospect of ever obtaining a meal this way, I detoured around the starboard side of the deck to try another entrance—only to find there the same situation prevailed. Finally steeling myself, I stood my ground for about twenty minutes until the crowd completely dispersed, then finally went to the kitchen area. Exchanging my ticket for a rice container and side dishes, I carried them to my room and handed them over to my squadmates. When I returned to the kitchen to request hot water afterward, I was refused—not a single kettle remained. When I insisted, "Give me something!", they finally drew hot water into a handleless kettle and gave it to me. This hot water—though it was something boiled in the ship’s bath—had already been drawn to the last drop, leaving the bottom scraped clean. Once the meal was finished, we would once again carry the rice container back to the kitchen area and leave it there.

In general, the world appeared governed by this ironclad rule—those who gave orders swaggered while those who received them cowered. Even these soldier sirs, while aboard ship eating ship’s rations, had to curry favor with the kitchen men—the cooks’ detestable arrogance thus laid bare the mercenary nature of this floating world.

Our comrades never failed to air grievances whenever they gathered together.
The complaints always began with the Sergeant Majors’ treatment and inevitably ended with matters concerning meals.
As for the rooms—there being no upper-class ones—nothing could be done.
If someone were to say, “At least let us eat our meals with the Shinto priests in the upper-class cabin—that would seem reasonable,” not a single person would voice agreement.
Were outsiders to hear this, they would surely think us a crass-mouthed lot.

However, in this military campaign where all things were restricted, more than anything else, it was only the meals that served as our sole pleasure.
“You, go to the Administrative Department Head and negotiate for us to at least have our meals in the upper-class cabin.”
“No, I’ll choose you as the representative.”
“No way! You go!”
They kept deferring to one another.
Not a single person went.

However much they resented their treatment, they could not possibly voice complaints about meal matters in such a vulgar manner, and thus their refraining from doing so was only natural.

By the time the bowls and chopsticks had become nauseatingly crusted with clumps of rice, the ship arrived at Dairen Bay.
Hunched beneath the three-shaku ceiling, we longed only to go ashore, yet permission was not easily granted.
After a day or two had passed, we were finally permitted to go to Kinchū; however, even that was ordered in such a way—splitting our group of journalists in half each day—as if they were bestowing some grand favor upon us.

By way of explanation:
The journalists attached to the Fourth Division, who had departed Ujina almost simultaneously with us, were also frequently indignant at their cold treatment.
However, they never received treatment so harsh as to be scolded by the ship’s cooks while carrying rice containers.

[『日本附録週報』 Meiji 29/1/27 No. 3]

Within Kinchū Castle, Shikishi

On the 15th, we landed at Ryūjuton and immediately entered Kinchū.

We stayed overnight at the lodgings for journalists attached to the Second Army Headquarters.
The preferential treatment of journalists by this headquarters was no different from that of officers; indeed, compared to ordinary officers, they were not without some degree of freedom.
When compared to the treatment our group received, theirs was as vastly different as heaven and earth.

On the 16th, we returned to the Kaijōmaru; on the 19th, we proceeded to Ryojun via small steamship.
The journalists attached to the Grand Governor's Office were just about to land.
Thus together we entered the same journalist lodgings.
Though imperfect for lacking sitting beds, all aspects of our treatment here defied comparison with what we had endured in the Imperial Guards Division.
We planned to sail to Yingkou; however, without permission from the Logistics Department, this came to nothing.
Now having no further business in this place, I urged my companions and returned to Ryūjuton on the 23rd.
Our presence in Kinchū or Ryojun resembled a bride departing for her foster father’s household; consequently, returning to our division from those places felt akin to going back under a mother-in-law’s dominion.
Thus while others remained in Ryojun with no easy means of return, we—having reason to prefer staying here—found ourselves compelled to press everyone until at last we returned to Ryūjuton.

Upon returning to Ryūjuton, we heard that the Imperial Guards Division had landed and were encamped in the Kinchū area. That night we went to Kinchū and entered the lodgings occupied by Shinto priests and Buddhist monks. There we inquired about what had transpired during our absence. What astonished us most was learning these lodgings—meant for Shinto priests, Buddhist monks, and journalists—had not been specially arranged by the Imperial Guards Administrative Department, but were instead temporarily borrowed through someone's mediation from an Administrative Department-affiliated facility. Thus the Administrative Department had ultimately never provided lodgings for us war correspondents. With no accommodations given, we war correspondents had no choice but to secure lodgings ourselves through personal arrangements. However, this lodging had been borrowed under a two- or three-day agreement whose term had already expired, yet the Administrative Department made no effort to arrange new quarters for us. They had confidentially ordered us to remain indefinitely in our current location. Being here meant we had to go to the Administrative Department ourselves to obtain food provisions. Fortunately, since there was a servant attending the monks, we requested him to collect our rations along with theirs.

On the 24th, we visited the lodgings of the Fourth Division-attached journalists within the city walls. When we returned home at dusk, everyone was packing up their belongings, and unfamiliar people in the room were even carrying our luggage outside.
When we asked what was happening, they replied that they were now moving the lodgings.
With that, I too shouldered my luggage and relocated next to the Shandong Hall Administrative Department.
When we journalists—one or two of us—first came to the new lodgings and looked around, on one side there was a stone platform bed spanning about four or five tatami mats.
On the other side, they had spread sorghum on the dirt floor to serve as bedding.
A certain colleague first intended to stake their claim on the stone platform bed.
We refused to comply and ultimately designated the sorghum spread as our dwelling place.
Indeed, the stone platform bed could accommodate no more than six or seven people.
And our group numbered more than ten people.
If we first arrivals—five or six people—were to occupy the stone platform bed, then all those who arrived later would have no choice but to remain on the dirt floor.
Deeming this an unpleasant arrangement, we yielded the stone platform bed to the interpreter-official and fairly took the dirt floor instead as a group.
There were three groups of journalists in Kinchū, and only our group was on the dirt floor.
Yet I did not find this particularly burdensome.
It must have been that I had experienced too many hardships.

After we had moved lodgings, one member of our group spoke to me.
At dusk that day, the Bearded Sergeant Major came to our former lodgings and bellowed: “Why don’t you come get your rice at the designated times? It’s troublesome when you show up late! From now on, if you’re late, we won’t hand over any rice—you’d better remember that! …And what’s this about sending someone else to collect your meals instead of coming yourselves? What kind of nonsense is this?!”
The colleague who had remained silent until now could no longer contain himself and responded: “We cannot go ourselves to collect our meals.”
The already enraged Sergeant Major, encountering this resistance, saw his fury intensify further, and he bellowed: “If you can’t come get your meals yourselves, then it’s better you don’t eat at all, you idiots!”
All of them, unable to endure such excessive abuse any longer, protested vehemently; but since this was a Sergeant Major who would never yield to reason, their efforts proved utterly futile.
In the end, they appealed to the Administrative Department Head; however, he merely made perfunctory greetings and evaded the issue—or so it was reported.
The speaker related this with palpable resentment.

Hearing this alone, I found tears welling up involuntarily.
For a time, the conversation ceased, and a single candle cast an eerie glow in the dark room.

The colleague continued speaking: “Amidst that commotion, Administrative Department personnel came and said, ‘The agreed deadline has already passed—vacate this house immediately!’ And before we knew it, they began hauling our luggage outside, creating utter chaos for a time.” My anger had already reached its peak.
“Wait—I’ll settle this tonight.”
[『日本』Meiji 29/1/31 IV]

Shikishi

At that moment, the Administrative Department Head came to our room and said, “How about it? Everyone’s moved out, eh? This room’s been open since earlier so you people can move in.” “Isn’t there anywhere that isn’t a dirt floor?”
“Well, you’ll have to endure that much—there are no houses, so it can’t be helped.” After some brief conversation, the Department Head departed.
I departed immediately after that.
The moment I stepped outside, I called out to the Department Head.
The Department Head stopped.
The conversation began as we stood in the pitch-black darkness.
I first opened with: “What I wish to discuss now concerns nothing other than the treatment of us journalists. Among our ranks, many complain that the Imperial Guards Division’s handling of us is unfair—and I share this view. However, what I speak of here is not poor lodgings or unpalatable meals. Fundamentally, I believe there have been many breaches of courtesy toward us. When we were aboard the ship, a Sergeant Major came and used language like ‘Get out!’ directed at us. Furthermore, according to a colleague’s account today, that same Sergeant Major arrived, spouted various abuses, and finally called us ‘idiots’—utterly disrespectful language, is it not? Were this a single occurrence, one might dismiss it as momentary anger. But when it happens two or three times, we cannot view it as transient fury. This undoubtedly stems from genuine contempt—we believe we have been insulted…”
“I’ve already heard about this matter from others earlier, which is why I’ve given proper instructions. But isn’t it troublesome to phrase it that way? You needn’t engage with such people.”
“Even if those individuals belong to the military and directly interact with us to convey orders or such, I must insist they observe proper courtesy befitting such interactions. However, if that is your perspective, then there is nothing to be done. Furthermore, regarding what I called unfairness—I speak of nothing other than discriminatory treatment like during our time aboard the ship, where Shinto priests and Buddhist monks were placed in superior rooms while we journalists were confined to inferior ones. Both priests and journalists are war correspondents; there should be no distinction between us.”
“Shinto priests and Buddhist monks are treated as appointed officials.”
“This is outrageous! Why are Shinto priests and Buddhist monks considered appointed officials?”
“Why, they’re called something like doctrinal rectifiers, so they’re practically appointed officials! You people have no official rank, don’t you? Those without rank must accept being treated like common soldiers.”
Until now, I had endeavored to restrain my emotions and conduct our discussion with utmost meekness.
However, upon hearing the term “common soldiers without official rank,” my suppressed anger seethed and welled up in my heart.
I tried to speak but found no words, managing only to utter: “Common soldiers… common soldiers… treated like common soldiers?” “Exactly—common soldiers.” At this point, there remained no room to continue the discussion.
Abruptly shaking my sleeves, I returned to the room.

At this moment, I resolved to return home.
I had originally desired to remain with the army as long as possible, both in the line of duty and out of a certain curiosity.
At a time when ordinary people—particularly those with families and somewhat older individuals—all intensely desired to return home due to Kinchū's filthy streets and the army's unpalatable rations, I had desired to remain with the military campaign longer, neither disliking the city's filth nor detesting that our provisions consisted solely of kōya tofu and frozen konjac jelly.
However, I had now resolved that I must return home no matter what, for I believed that those like that Sergeant Major had undermined my duties, and those like the Administrative Department Head had failed to preserve my dignity.
Therefore, even if I wished to remain, my duties would not permit me to stay.

I recounted to my companions the details of my discussion with Mr. Department Head and my resolution to return home.
Not a single one of them failed to feel indignation upon hearing the term "common soldier."
The following day, I went to the Staff Department, requested permission to return home, and outlined in general terms the grievances accumulated since the previous day.
We do not complain about tangible treatment; however, when it comes to intangible treatment not being duly received, we cannot endure it for even a moment.
The contempt shown by the Sergeant Major toward me—that is precisely what I mean.

The Chief of Staff remained silent; after a while, he said: “There would be no inconvenience in your returning home.”

Two or three days later, during a subsequent conversation, the Chief of Staff remarked: “Since that matter came up again recently, I did mention it to the Administrative Department Head. However, as each department has its established jurisdictions, we can’t directly intervene regarding the Sergeant Major…”

The Chief of Staff’s words were correct. Supervising subordinate Sergeant Majors was the Department Head’s duty. The Department Head must bear responsibility for his subordinates’ failings. Yet when the Department Head himself shared these faults, who should oversee their correction? In such circumstances, it was only natural that Headquarters should assume responsibility. Could Headquarters itself be entirely blameless? Yet the staff officers lacked authority to properly discipline the Administrative Department Head. And the one who could accomplish this was none other than the Chief of Staff himself. The Chief of Staff, as though unconstrained by trivialities, had consistently shown goodwill toward us. Still, we never heard of him reprimanding the Administrative Department Head. Was this too a result of his magnanimity? Or had the Department Head particularly gained his favor? We hesitated to give explicit voice to these conjectures.

[『日本附録週報』Meiji 29 (1896)・2・3 5]

When asked if there were no companions returning home, "I too shall return with you—wait two or three days more," said Matsueda.
With that farewell, we spent several more days there.

While intending to briefly record what I had seen and heard during this period, the Administrative Department Head went outside, discarded his jacket, and personally pried open a crate of Masamune sake bottles.
The Bearded Sergeant Major stood by idly watching this.
Those observing frowned and remarked, "Such tasks could be handled by a Sergeant Major—it’s most improper to trouble the Department Head’s hands with prying open crates." From around this time, someone began sarcastically referring to the Department Head as "Sergeant Major-sama."

And so, over two or three days, the Department Head began addressing us with ever-increasing familiarity.
He would occasionally bestow sake and canned goods upon us.
Even these he would personally bring without relying on others, personally presenting them.
"This is precious stuff—you must eat it properly! This here's that thing from earlier—the one you said tasted good, so I brought it over. If there's anything else you want, come take it. I'll give you whatever." He would routinely append remarks of this sort.
There were many other sudden acts of unexpected generosity.
The discrepancies in treatment before and after stemmed from several causes—partly due to that individual's nature, partly from certain interactions between the Staff and Administrative Departments, and partly from matters conveyed from within the Governor-General's Office to the Staff—though I shall refrain for now from recording rumors.

During the great storm on the 28th and 29th, though we could not step outside even once, our room had been further forced to serve as a kitchen area; thus, having no means to escape the smoke, we could only huddle small in the corner of the room. Yet the brazen smoke—sparing neither eye nor nose—invaded intolerably. Even when we pulled blankets over our heads, leaving not a sliver of space, still the smoke assailed our faces from somewhere, leaving our eyes streaming with tears without respite.

Since entering May, both Matsueda and I had been saying we would return home, but with ship departures being unfortunately scarce, another day or two slipped by.
On May 4th, they moved our lodgings next to headquarters.
Here there were stone sleeping platforms allowing one to lie down and rise with considerable ease.
This house was said to have existed from the very beginning.
From this time onward, meals came to be transported by a single laborer under orders.
The difference from when we had received meals in exchange for tickets aboard the ship was like night and day.
The Chief of Staff, staff officers, and Administrative Department Head took turns coming to offer courtesy visits.

The room required pillows to be stacked high.
Meals demanded no personal exertion.
The division's treatment showed signs of gradual improvement.
At this juncture, certain companions who had found modest comfort began to slacken their urgency for homecoming.
Yet paradoxically, as these courtesies accumulated, my own yearning for return sharpened to its keenest edge.

There being a high-ranking official in the military camp who persistently pressed us to remain here a while longer—questioning why we should hasten back to our hometowns—we found ourselves unable to brush him off and thus passed these thoroughly unpleasant days in one way or another.

Before long, the date for exchanging treaties drew near.
Now resolved not to entertain any further discussions on the matter, we finally reached the ninth day.
News arrived that a peace treaty had been concluded.
Thereupon gathering a party of seven or eight people, we set out for Dairen Bay.
On the road we encountered the Chief of Staff returning from Ryojun.
Seeing nearly all journalists attached to the Imperial Guards Division preparing to depart, he appeared dumbfounded.

[『日本附録週報』Meiji 29 (1896), February 10, 6]

Dairen Bay

The group of eight or nine arrived at the logistics department in Dairen Bay and sought lodgings.
The staff member first frowned at us: “You there—wait a moment.”
We were immediately intimidated by this single utterance.
Eventually, after being interrogated by the Department Head, we were released and proceeded to our lodgings.
The lodgings consisted of a single room within a warehouse; passing through the narrow entrance revealed a double partition.
Stooping and ducking our heads to pass through the partition, we entered a dim chamber that seemed about four or five tatami mats in size—that this cramped space served as lodgings for eight or nine men carried a certain macabre amusement, rather like a prison cell.
However, given that this area was known for heavy traffic and scarce housing, we found no grounds for complaint.
Since they did not provide laborers for us from the start, we hired only Chan and went to a kitchen area five or six blocks away to request meals.
If I can’t carry meals myself and must hire Chan for it, isn’t this at least better than enduring the Imperial Guards’ endless reprimands?

On the night of the 10th, we slept piled atop one another.

On the 11th, we were summoned from the local military police station.
When we went to investigate, we found ourselves interrogated about our newspaper articles.
The honorable military police's points were not entirely unreasonable; nor could our articles be said to consist wholly of the sort of wild fabrications they alleged.
This became an arena of mutual concession where being rebuked to that degree might have constituted an equitable compromise.
In the afternoon, we were summoned once more from that same station.
We found ourselves reprimanded anew over identical matters.

On this day too, they did not add two or three people to our group.
It remained the same lodgings.
Under these conditions sleep proved impossible, and so we finally secured a room from the Port Authority.
Though Navy and Army fundamentally differed in circumstances and customs—matters not to be judged by the same measure—the Navy's extreme hospitality made us feel as though we had ascended to heaven.
As for tangible treatment, there was no need to even discuss it.
When it came to the icy chill of intangible treatment, the Army could offer no defense worth hearing.

On the 14th, we boarded a government-chartered vessel called the Sado Province Maru.
I heard everyone called it the "pickled plum ship."
The passengers' grievances over the ship's disorderly conditions and inadequate management knew no end.
Not a soul was heard muttering that this was precisely the sort of vessel needing supervising officers.
When we reached Shimonoseki around the time a beriberi patient died, the onboard chaos defied comparison; even we and the crew officers ended up quarreling with the captain and chief officer until it resembled an outright brawl.

“Isn’t it troublesome to let laborers drink water?”
“We don’t distribute water on this ship.”
“Even if you claim otherwise, witnesses saw you doing it! And your hot water isn’t even kept properly heated!”
“Nevertheless, explicit orders prohibit providing drinking water.”
When the altercation showed no resolution, they finally stationed sentries at the kitchen area.

On the 23rd, we arrived at Wada Misaki and were all released.
At that moment, hundreds of officers, soldiers, and military laborers from all ranks clapped their hands and raised a thunderous cheer of *"Banzai!"*
as if they had captured an enemy fortress.
This alone should suffice to show how harsh the shipboard conditions had been.

Conclusion

The Imperial Guards Division’s initially cold treatment toward us truly stemmed from the misconduct of one or two individuals, and might nearly be called an accidental outcome.
Yet someone says: “Word had it that the Imperial Guards Division had gathered elite troops from across the nation and were just about to advance toward the Shanhaiguan front.
It was under these circumstances that journalists gathered from all directions, each clamoring ‘I too! I too!’ in their eagerness to accompany them, never ceasing their entreaties.
Under such circumstances, the Imperial Guards Division—already arrogant—turned their noses up ever higher, paying no mind whatsoever to establishing proper treatment for journalists, leaving it entirely to the Administrative Department Head as a matter beneath their concern.
(The Imperial Guards Division’s case stands unparalleled in how closely journalists became entangled with their Administrative Department.) Moreover, when the Imperial Guards arrived in Hiroshima, circumstances such as journalists failing to appear—which reportedly displeased the Headquarters Administrative Department—all became causes for the neglectful treatment.”

Whether this was truly the case or not, I did not know.
However, much of this was factual.
"I too had heard that the Chief of Staff boasted, 'It's because they're red caps.'"
It was also a fact that we had not immediately paid our respects when the division arrived in Hiroshima.
The truth was that we had not understood when we ought to go or how we ought to proceed.
To put it plainly, we had all been in a daze, utterly lacking in presence of mind.
We had not come to understand our close relationship with the Administrative Department until after joining the campaign.
Yet from the Imperial Guards' perspective—unless they had somewhat regarded us as hangers-on—it must have been that we came to consider ourselves subject to their commands upon the division's arrival in Hiroshima, just like their subordinate soldiers.
Had they wished to summon us, they could have learned all our addresses and names by making inquiries at the Imperial Headquarters.
Yet he specifically did not summon us and instead grew angry at our absence; we specifically did not pay our respects and instead awaited his summons.
During this period, neither side had harbored any malice.
That cold treatment arose from this was a story I found rather difficult to accept.
Even had this been true, it would have concerned only a single individual.

Therefore, what was it that caused us to receive such cold treatment?
The answer lay half in human factors and half in mere chance; the failings of human actions naturally became where responsibility resided.
Even if the law could not punish this, morality could punish it.
What brought about these accidental results?
It was said to be solely because journalists’ treatment was not standardized, solely because journalists’ treatment was not standardized.

Postscript.

The Imperial Guards Division, unfortunately diverted toward Taiwan instead of Shanhaiguan, endured days of grueling combat; yet journalists failed to properly document this, and the public instead came to revile the division.
Moreover, though it may be presumptuous, when they came to lose His Highness the Division Commander along with Brigade Commanders and Staff Officers, one could not but question those who brought calamity upon the Celestial Imperial Guards.
In exchange for this, while survivors counted themselves fortunate among many blessings, His Excellency the Department Head was graciously elevated to the Fourth Class of Merit—or so it is said.
Ah, how splendid!

[From Nippon, Meiji 29 (1896), February 19th, Issue 7]