Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Even after the lights-out bugle had sounded and the lights were turned off, Sergeant Takamura remained troubled for a while by the faces and figures of the new recruits flickering before his eyes. Remained troubled—though perhaps that wasn’t quite the right way to put it. When the time came, those who would become my substitutes, those who would even gather my bones—these lovable ones were whom I now intended to nurture and train with my own hands over the next two years.

As soldiers still utterly inexperienced yet full of potential, they would surely lay down their lives out of loyalty through my guidance—just like samurai of old. The great responsibility of educating them—though they were but a small number of soldiers in a single barracks squad—had been entrusted to me. It was precisely these thoughts that constantly tormented Sergeant Takamura regarding his own attitude toward them. And even in sleep, he would often dream of those new recruits. In every situation, he demanded and hoped his subordinates would be the bravest, the most obedient, and furthermore excel the most in military skills—marksmanship, bayonet techniques, academic studies.

He believed that fulfilling those demands and expectations of his not only satisfied himself but was also precisely why he could serve the Emperor with utmost diligence. Moreover, there was also his competitive spirit. He had cherished the hope of molding them into model soldiers who would not be inferior to any other squad’s recruits within the company. But that ambition soon transformed into a desire to create the best soldiers in the battalion, which then evolved into striving to mold the finest troops in the entire regiment. At this time, he felt a strange emotion welling up within him toward the regimental customs—those unwritten rules that had been passed down through the military since ancient times, or rather, those very traditions that now governed them—specifically regarding the brutal sanctions against subordinates. Moreover, whenever he saw corporals, sergeants, and superior privates—all far younger than himself—casually beating soldiers, particularly new recruits, as though they were cattle or horses, he felt an oddly irritated indignation. But when he realized that even he himself had been joining in doing exactly that until just yesterday, he felt something akin to wonder. Because they were bullied as new recruits, they take revenge on new recruits once they become veterans—could such an unreasonable thing even exist in this world? Tormenting new recruits who bear no relation to the veterans that once tormented them—for decades now, the military has perpetuated this very absurdity. And yet—a hundred men as a hundred men, a thousand as a thousand—not a single one of them ever questioned it. Why hadn’t I noticed something so obvious until now?—As he thought this, he found it utterly mystifying.

He was the most senior sergeant in the regiment. He was soon to complete his term and had to retire from active service. But he had nearly convinced himself he would undoubtedly be promoted to sergeant major before being transferred to the reserves. Moreover, by seniority order alone, it stood to reason he should be recommended for promotion to sergeant major that year. This was not merely his own conviction—his fellow sergeants shared this belief and often said as much. Yet one matter troubled him above all else. For he knew Captain S—the regimental adjutant from a neighboring village of his own—harbored not merely regional antipathy toward him, but outright loathing that breached all bounds.

If only Captain S would show me even a shred of goodwill—no, even if he felt nothing at all toward me—how grateful I would be. But that Captain S was someone who kept trying to demean me. Indeed, the fact that I had been ordered to transfer from the Eighth Company to this Twelfth Company just as the new recruits were about to enlist was undoubtedly orchestrated by that Captain S. That was already an undeniable fact.—

How he must have loathed Captain S’s base attitude—so unbecoming of a soldier, so steeped in peasant-like pettiness. He could never forget the impression from when he had left the Eighth Company—where he had lived for eight long years, from private to his current role as an NCO, as if it were his own family—and come to this company. Every last soldier of Barracks Squad × who were to become his subordinates, and every last one of his fellow NCOs, had welcomed him with cold eyes, gazes as though confronting an alien intruder. The soldiers in his current squad were all ones he hadn’t educated himself, hadn’t shared hardships with—mere strangers, he also thought. However, the new recruits entering this time were none other than his own true sons. He would welcome them with a warm heart and broad, understanding sympathy. He would educate them.—It was truly with these thoughts that he had welcomed these fifteen new recruits into his squad. So whenever he saw the second-year soldiers—mere strangers to him—tormenting the new recruits, his blood boiled. He scolded the second-year soldiers without even asking for their reasons.

Sergeant Takamura indeed endeavored, for all these varied reasons, to accustom the soldiers to his benevolence and win their allegiance. Moreover, to fully accomplish his assigned duty of training new recruits and create model soldiers unmatched in the regiment—this was nothing less than elevating his own performance record, which would in turn become the sole ticket to surmounting the formidable barrier of promotion to sergeant major. No matter how entrenched that shrewd Captain S was at regimental headquarters, if his own achievements were outstanding and the subordinates he trained became excellent soldiers—model troops—there would be nothing they could do about it. Sergeant Takamura closed his eyes, and as the faces of his subordinates floated into view, he directed a fond gaze at them while thinking such thoughts.

From now until the first inspection, there remained roughly four months. Until then... he, as though relishing the "time" of four months granted to him, spun out various plans concerning education.

When the day’s drills ended and they had finished bathing and dinner, the squad leaders of other units would entrust remaining duties to superior privates and go out. But those superior privates merely performed their tasks perfunctorily—gathering new recruits for twenty or thirty minutes to conduct lessons on reading or military regulations—and confined themselves to reporting to the squad leaders after returning to barracks. Thus soldiers with poor memory or those generally disliked—their mere presence further irritating superior privates who already felt their “time” was being sacrificed for new recruits—were subjected to rather grueling mistreatment. At times, the ghastly smack-smack sounds of cheeks being struck would even reverberate as far as the NCO room. Sergeant Takamura listened with an inscrutably complex expression before entering Barracks Squad × where his subordinates were, shuffling in his slippers.

“Salute!” A cry arose from the mass of subordinates, and they all stood up in unison and saluted Sergeant Takamura. He responded to it with a smile.

“Veterans are dismissed; first-years, gather over here! We’ll conduct academic studies!”

Sergeant Takamura said, still with a smile on his face. The first-year soldiers sat down facing each other on both sides of the large three-legged desk.

“Miyazaki!”

Sergeant Takamura shouted and made a first-year soldier stand up. Miyazaki lumbered to his feet and fixed Sergeant Takamura with a gaze—eyes squinting as though peering at blinding daylight from deep within a cave. Miyazaki was the soldier who gave Sergeant Takamura the most trouble. His eyes always darted restlessly, like a bat dragged into the light. “Hey, where’s your response!” Sergeant Takamura said gently, as if instructing a child, while looking at Miyazaki standing there blankly. “When called to stand, you must always respond with ‘Hai!’”

“Heez.”

Miyazaki said, wriggling and contorting his body while shaking it and drawing out the end of his words. Stifled laughter rose from both sides of the benches. “Do not laugh! The army is no place for laughter!” Sergeant Takamura said, briefly furrowing his brow. “Miyazaki! Recite the Five Articles of the Imperial Rescript I taught you yesterday!” “Heez,” Miyazaki said again, slowly lowering his neck while occasionally glancing up at Sergeant Takamura with bat-like eyes. “I forgot.”

“If you’ve forgotten, stand there until you remember!” Sergeant Takamura said, darting his eyes around as he scanned the first-year soldiers sitting stiffly in their seats. “Then Tanaka!” “Yes!” Tanaka sprang to his feet energetically. “One: A soldier must consider loyalty as his foremost duty.” “One: A soldier must…” he said, effortlessly rattling it off. A pleased smile spread across Sergeant Takamura’s face as he stared intently at Miyazaki again. “Come on, Miyazaki, give it a try!”

“One: A soldier must…” he began, only to falter once more.

Sergeant Takamura’s face clouded slightly, but this time he himself enunciated each phrase one by one and had Miyazaki repeat them after him. He said, “You must memorize this thoroughly whenever you have free time!” Thus, after about an hour of academic studies had concluded and Sergeant Takamura withdrew to the NCO room, before long, the roll call trumpet sounded. The non-commissioned officers who had been out also returned punctually en masse and lined up by squad. After roll call concluded and the lights-out bugle soon sounded, once everyone had settled into their beds, Sergeant Takamura would invariably come to his squad once before retiring himself to check that all were asleep, and only then return to his own bunk. However, when patrolling the squad, if a first-year soldier who should have been sleeping was missing from his bunk, he would wait there indefinitely. The soldiers generally went to the toilet after roll call before sleeping, so whenever they were delayed in returning from the toilet, they were always met by Sergeant Takamura’s worried face.

Sergeant Takamura would invariably leave the NCO room in just his shirt to check on his squad whenever he happened to wake during the night. There was one matter that weighed unbearably on his mind. This was because every night during his rounds through the barracks squad, amid the others snoring soundly in their sleep, he would find Miyazaki alone sighing and tossing restlessly. From his long military experience, soldiers prone to desertion were most numerous before the first inspection period while still unaccustomed to barracks life—and the most critical warning sign came when an uneducated man like Miyazaki sighed as if burdened by troubles or lay awake through the night.

What a troublesome fellow I’ve taken on—Sergeant Takamura’s mind had been perpetually tormented by this matter.

Sunday came.

In each squad, the first-year soldiers were grouped together, and a superior private would lead them out on their respective outings. However, Sergeant Takamura went out leading them himself without involving the superior private. So much did he value time that he thought to use even such holidays to impart some knowledge surpassing what soldiers from other squads could attain.

“What kind of place would you all like to go to for fun?”

Sergeant Takamura, walking at the head of the group, turned around and spoke. However, none of them stated their own wish to go to such-and-such a place.

“Then let’s try climbing Kannon Mountain.” After waiting briefly for everyone’s response and receiving none, he said this and took the lead once more. Kannon Mountain was a mountain that faced the regiment situated on the high ground across K River. At the mountaintop stood a Kannon Hall, said to have been built in imitation of the Kiyomizu Kannon Hall in Kyoto, imposingly flanked by high stone steps.

Crossing H Bridge that spanned K River, wheat fields and rice paddies spread out expansively. Sergeant Takamura spoke as he walked along that path.

“Such wide open areas are called open terrain. During drills or actual combat, when the army marches through them, they must pass through at maximum forced march speed.” “If you don’t do that, you’ll be spotted by the enemy immediately… Understand? Such a wide area is called open terrain.” After instructing them in this way, Sergeant Takamura barked the command: “Double time—tsu!” The fifteen first-year soldiers, who barely knew how to keep their feet in step, clumsily ran out after Sergeant Takamura. During academic lessons and even while sleeping, Miyazaki—who always drew Sergeant Takamura’s attention—now caught his eye during this double-time drill. Miyazaki dragged his feet as if he were lame, violently shaking his right and left shoulders and kicking up clouds of dust with each thudding step.

“Miyazaki! What’s wrong with you?” Sergeant Takamura asked while running. “You haven’t hurt your leg or something, have you?” At first, Miyazaki frowned and shook his head from side to side, indicating that nothing was wrong—but then said, “Sergeant! These boots are too big—I’m flopping around and can’t run properly.” The squad soon reached the base of Kannon Mountain and entered a village where farmhouses clustered here and there. “Quick pace—tsu! Oi!” Sergeant Takamura barked the command. Everyone, panting heavily, returned to a normal walking pace. When they came to a place where the road narrowed with bamboo groves and mixed woods on both sides, Sergeant Takamura turned around again and said.

“Such narrow places are called defiles.” “And when passing through such places as scouts, you must always fix bayonets to your rifles and be prepared to respond immediately should the enemy attack.” Sergeant Takamura said this and immediately called out to Miyazaki. “Miyazaki! What do we call such narrow places?” “They’re called defiles, and we pass through with bayonets fixed.” Miyazaki answered promptly this time, his bat-like eyes gleaming triumphantly.

“Hmm, you’ve remembered well this time! Make sure you don’t forget it—there’ll be lessons like this in the Field Service Regulations soon enough.” Sergeant Takamura said with a faint smile. Without taking the stone-step path laid before Kannon Hall, they entered a side path—a mountain trail wholly untouched by human hands, preserved in its primal state. Among scrub oaks with broom-like clusters of fine branches stood pine and cedar trees bearing green leaves. The moment they entered the mountains, Miyazaki’s gloomy, shriveled face flushed with vitality as vivid color returned to it. While the others’ legs grew heavy on the mountain path, Miyazaki’s feet overtook his faltering comrades to take the lead.

Sergeant Takamura looked at him with eyes of astonishment.

“Miyazaki! What were you doing before joining the army? What was your trade?” He asked quietly.

“Sergeant, I was a lumberjack.” “My comrades an’ I just roam from mountain to mountain, spendin’ our whole lives in the hills like this.” Miyazaki, gradually drawn in by Sergeant Takamura’s gentle tone, abandoned military speech and began talking in his own words. Yet he didn’t rebuke him for this and listened with a faint smile. “Is lumberjacking profitable?” he asked again. “Ain’t exactly profitable, but it’s an easy life, y’know? Just livin’ up in the mountains without havin’ to mind nobody ’cept monkeys an’ rabbits.”

“Don’t you get bored being stuck in the mountains every single day?” “Well, Sergeant, even stuck up in the mountains like that, there’s all sorts of fun to be had, y’know—we got odds and evens gamblin’, an’ everyone brews hooch on the sly.” Miyazaki said this and let his face—which had never once smiled—crumble into a snickering grin.

“Miyazaki! “You play odds and evens?” Sergeant Takamura said in astonishment. “But between lumberjacking and soldiering—which do you prefer?”

Miyazaki did not answer that at all. He remained silent, recalling something with a snicker.

二

One morning, during the morning roll call. When the officer of the week came to take roll call, Miyazaki’s figure was nowhere to be seen—where had he gone? Sergeant Takamura’s face twitched with an ominous premonition.

“Superior Private Y! Miyazaki might’ve gone to the latrine or something. Go check on him right away!”

The Officer of the Week hurled a sharp glance at Sergeant Takamura. “Investigate immediately and report back,” he said, then clacked off to another squad without another word. “Hey, S and T! Go search the area right away with Superior Private Y!” Sergeant Takamura instructed the second-year soldiers like this and immediately had them follow after Superior Private Y. In the other squads that had completed roll call without incident, they immediately set about cleaning their quarters, went to the mess hall to fetch meals, and by dividing tasks among themselves commenced their usual routines as always. However, only Sergeant Takamura’s squad remained properly lined up waiting for the report from the three who had gone out to investigate. At this moment into Sergeant Takamura’s mind surged a flood of various incidents from his military life thus far—deserters who had occurred time and again soldiers crushed to death by trains soldiers who had stolen bullets to shoot through their own throats—all these events now rose up to engulf his entire consciousness. But the fact came to mind that nearly all deserters—except those who turned themselves in—had never been caught.

Miyazaki had indeed deserted. He wasn’t the sort of man to kill himself. Nor had there been any reason for him to kill himself. He must have grown homesick for the freedom of life in the mountains—Sergeant Takamura suddenly recalled how, early one morning after a Sunday outing, he had seen Miyazaki returning alone to the company from the cliff overlooking K River, trudging dejectedly while deep in thought. He remembered asking, “Where did you go?” and receiving the reply: “Today I was on furnace duty and went to gather kindling cedar leaves.” Now viewing it through suspicious eyes, even that could only have been terrain reconnaissance for his escape plan. That place was perfect for desertion. While the other three sides had moats with sentries at every gate, this spot offered nothing but a high cliff descending to K River—completely unguarded. When fording the river, anyone willing to endure the cold could escape there freely.

Superior Private Y, S, and T soon returned and each gave their reports.

“He isn’t in the latrine anywhere. We’ve checked all other places we could think of but found no trace of him.”

Sergeant Takamura listened with a face on the verge of tears—a blend of indescribable sadness, despair, and rage. By the time breakfast had ended, Miyazaki's desertion had become a major issue throughout the company. Search parties were organized from each squad and set out toward their respective areas. One squad scoured every last well within the barracks and ventured into the copse behind the ammunition depot—where someone had once hanged themselves—to comb through it in their search. Another squad rushed to the train station, headed out along various main roads, and were even dispatched to his hometown. Yet Sergeant Takamura, who should have been at the center of the activity, remained dazed like a man who had lost his soul, occasionally giving nonsensical replies even to questions from the Officer of the Week and the company commander.

Because of that bastard, even "Sergeant First Class" ended up ruined. —He muttered to himself in a pitiful manner. I went to such great pains—exercised such meticulous care—with love, to mold a model soldier! What in the world has come of it! If that bastard gets caught somewhere… Hah! What an ungrateful wretch. That Captain S bastard is sneering. "Go ahead and look!" he spat. "How about that—that arrogant Kaiser mustache of yours—."

Disjointed, fleeting impressions leapt out in his mind and churned it into chaos. He could no longer make sense of what was what. Promotion to sergeant first class was now a dream of the past. If I grovel, won’t it just be a disciplinary reprimand?—he thought, and even speaking grew wearisome from the outrage of having his trusting heart betrayed. He clawed and mangled—clawed and mangled—the image surfacing in his mind: Miyazaki’s bat-like eyes.

In a daze as if in a dream, half the day had passed. The search parties that had gone to the train station and nearby main roads returned without obtaining anything. Now, all that remained was to wait for the report from the group dispatched to his hometown. But even that, arriving late into the night, merely brought futile disappointment to Sergeant Takamura.

III

Sergeant Takamura was eating the breakfast served every morning by the first-year soldiers on meal duty, together with the other squad leaders in that non-commissioned officers' room. When he picked up a mouthful with his chopsticks and put it in his mouth, a large rat dropping emerged afterward—waterlogged and off-white. He flinched in panic, looked around at the other non-commissioned officers' faces, then hurriedly pressed the feces to the bottom of his dish and set down his chopsticks. He didn't believe the first-year soldiers had deliberately chosen to bring him the portion with rat droppings, but he couldn't stay composed toward recruits who showed him such disregard. Yet more than that, he now feared his colleagues discovering the feces even more.

That Takamura was too soft—even the new recruits were looking down on him now. The thought of them thinking that was agony. Yet the other non-commissioned officers remained absorbed in shoveling down their own meals, none noticing the rat feces in Sergeant Takamura’s food. He clamped down on the fury surging from his core, elbows propped on the desk as he cradled his head in both hands. What could he say to hurl his rage at the mess orderly who’d come to clear the dishes?—he kept turning it over in his mind.

“Sergeant, is something wrong?”

Corporal I, who had only recently been promoted, inquired with feigned concern while concealing a somewhat mocking expression somewhere on his face.

“Oh, it’s nothing… Just a bit of a headache.” He replied in an unenthusiastic voice, struggling to hide his anger. Soon the duty soldier came to clear the dishes. He jerked his head up and twisted his face into severity, but the expected bellow of reprimand refused to leave his throat. Before all these colleagues—especially after just claiming a headache—he couldn’t bring himself to shout, “Why did you put rat feces in my food!” He clenched his jaw against the fury swelling in his chest, ready to burst. Like noxious gas trapped inside him, his chest cavity gurgled ominously.

“Fall in for drill!”

In the corridor, the Officer of the Week barked. At the same time, from various places within the company came a clamor as guns and swords began clattering noisily.

He stood up listlessly and began his own preparations. He immediately rushed out to the barracks grounds and watched the movements of the new recruits filing out from the company. Today of all days, the movements of his squad’s new recruits seemed particularly sluggish compared to those of other squads. Even their faces all appeared dull and lifeless. If I went down the line and slapped each of them across the face, wouldn’t their sluggish movements and lifeless expressions finally straighten out?—he thought. As he thought this, his right arm began to itch restlessly, and he could no longer remain motionless. He felt that if he heard a few cracks—like the sound of slaps—the foul gas-like substance pent up in his chest would drain away pleasantly.

Wasn't there someone making a mistake worth hitting?—His eyes instinctively sought such a person. However sluggish they were, he couldn't find anyone who had committed an error deserving a blow. "What are you dawdling for? Get out here now!"

He stood at the company entrance and shouted at those straggling out. He had them all line up completely and, while looking at the faces of the first-year soldiers forming their usual formation, said.

“The last ten men who came out late just now—step forward here!” “I’ll have you do double time.” “It’ll make your bodies light and keep you very agile for whatever comes next.” The ten men glared at by Sergeant Takamura timidly stepped forward one pace. And lined up in a row before him.

“Double time, ready—!” Sergeant Takamura barked while indicating a lone pine tree at the farthest corner of the barracks grounds. With a “Move!”, he sharply brought down his raised right hand. The ten men began running like racehorses. “I’ll make laggards repeat this drill!” Sergeant Takamura’s voice pursued them further. Their figures dwindled as they neared the target pine tree. When they wheeled around to return, a significant gap had opened between the lead and trailing runners. They pounded across the ground. Their forms gradually enlarged as they drew closer. Soon they halted abruptly before Sergeant Takamura. Neither stragglers nor leaders remained—the ten men had bunched into a disordered cluster.

Sergeant Takamura grimaced and turned his face away. What shiftless bastards they were. The thought that they'd conspired to cluster together like that made him feel utterly mocked—before everyone's eyes, the shame became unbearable. He couldn't even muster the will to scold them again.

At that moment, Lieutenant Ohara, the officer in charge of new recruit training, appeared. The non-commissioned officers all rushed over to the lieutenant’s side to salute him. As soon as they returned, the drill commenced. It was a day of fierce wind. Alongside the commands of the non-commissioned officers and superior privates, the wind ceaselessly howled at the soldiers’ ears. If they were careless, there were instances where they could not distinguish the commands.

Sergeant Takamura had them perform various individual drills one after another from one end to the other. One after another, he stood fifteen paces in front of the privates and barked, “Port arms—rifle!” He barked, “Present—arms!”

After completing this circuit, he returned to his original position and barked, "Standing fire position—rifle!" at one of the soldiers on the right flank. At that moment, a sudden gust of wind came scattering gravel and drowned out Sergeant Takamura's command. The soldier who had been given the command faltered momentarily in confusion but immediately dropped to his knees and assumed the kneeling-firing position.

Sergeant Takamura’s face, brimming with rage, flew like a stone. No sooner had this happened than his right hand lashed out to strike the left cheek of the soldier in the kneeling firing position with all his strength. Almost simultaneously with the sharp crack, a guttural “Ugh!” escaped from the struck soldier’s mouth as he collapsed sideways while still holding his rifle. Sergeant Takamura, ready to strike again with his trembling right hand, found that the fallen soldier refused to get up. Still prone, the soldier fixed Sergeant Takamura with a piercing glare and clamped down hard on his left ear.

“Bastard!” Sergeant Takamura suddenly roared. “You’re looking down on me… on Sergeant Takamura, aren’t you? For a damn new recruit, you’re downright insolent!” He then kicked the still-fallen soldier around the waist with his boot and returned to his original position. At that moment, he suddenly felt as if his surroundings had brightened and he had returned to his usual carefree self. The foul gas-like thing that had accumulated in his chest had vanished—he couldn’t tell when—and he even felt like belting out a song at the top of his lungs.

Oh, so it’s because I hit him—he thought. When he saw the soldier getting up and brushing the dust off his uniform, he grew even more certain there could be no mistake. When he realized it was Volunteer Soldier T, at this moment without any particular reason, he recalled how he normally felt no goodwill toward T. Yet when he had struck him, it hadn’t been with any conscious intent targeting T specifically as a volunteer soldier. But upon learning it was indeed T, the congestion in his chest lifted all the more decisively. After all—his chest seemed to shout as though making some extraordinary discovery—if you mean to do something, you must commit to it fully.

He came to feel that he was now intensely hungry. At the same time, he recalled the mouse feces incident. Even Miyazaki’s desertion surfaced in his mind. When he considered how the foul gas that had been accumulating in his chest since that time had exploded and scattered because of Volunteer Soldier T, an inexpressible gratitude toward Volunteer Soldier T welled up within him.

He shot a fleeting glance at Volunteer Soldier T. The pale, seemingly agitated face of Volunteer Soldier T suddenly cast a shadow of some inexplicable anxiety in his heart. That anxiety, which had at first resembled a mere speck of a dot, now unfurled its great black wings in an instant and once again filled his chest—now finally clear—to bursting.

The morning drill had ended. Sergeant Takamura ate his lunch as if chewing sand, unaware of whether it tasted good or bad.

The afternoon drill had begun. In the parade ground, each squad had taken up positions in the same formation as that morning. When he had them call out their numbers, they were short by one person. He tilted his head and ordered them to call out their numbers once again. But even then, they were still short by one person. A pain akin to forcibly tearing open a wound that had just begun to heal pierced through his anxiety-laden chest with a sharp stab. The bat-like image of Miyazaki nesting in his chest was gnawing through that wound. But his eyes immediately noticed that Volunteer Soldier T was not in the ranks. The inexplicable, merely dark anxiety that had plagued him until now suddenly coalesced into a single bomb that struck his heart.

Midway through the drill, the company duty soldier came running to him and said.

“Sergeant Takamura, sir! “The duty officer requires your presence.”

In the duty officer’s room stood Volunteer Soldier T, his ear bandaged and face pallid. When he entered, Volunteer Soldier T’s eyes met him with a coldly sarcastic smile. It was an insolent gaze—so intense that it clutched at his utterly despondent heart.

He intuited everything. He must have undoubtedly ruptured the eardrum. That bastard had reported it to the duty officer—he thought. The outcome had already become utterly clear—the path of fate he was now about to tread flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning.

Court-martial—heavy confinement—stripping of rank—discharge—. This was the path he was meant to walk.

“Sergeant Takamura!”

The duty officer spoke quietly and solemnly. But his words never reached Takamura's ears. Every nerve in his body quivered violently from his extreme hatred of Volunteer Soldier T. This fury—born of Miyazaki having utterly destroyed the illusion he'd dedicated half his life to build—must have now been redoubled by Volunteer Soldier T into compounded rage and sorrow. He could no longer recognize himself. His head spun dizzyingly—then with a roar of "You bastard!", he lunged savagely at Volunteer Soldier T.

(*Waseda Bungaku* *Taishō* 10th Year, August Issue)