Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

Even after the lights-out bugle had sounded and the electric lights had gone out, Sergeant Takamura remained troubled for a while by the faces and figures of new recruits flickering before his eyes. Tormented—though perhaps that wasn’t quite the right word in this case. For when the time came—those who would become his substitutes, those who would even gather his remains—these beloved ones he now intended to educate with meticulous care over the coming two years.

As soldiers, these new recruits who still knew nothing of east or west would surely, through his guidance, come to lay down their very lives before obligation 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. Due to these thoughts, Sergeant Takamura was constantly tormented by concerns over his own attitude when dealing with them. And even in his sleep, he would often dream of those new recruits. In every situation, he demanded and hoped that his subordinates would be the bravest, the most obedient, and furthermore excel in military skills—marksmanship, bayonet techniques, and academic knowledge.

He believed that fulfilling these demands and expectations not only satisfied himself but also constituted the very reason for his utmost devotion to the Supreme Sovereign. And there was also a competitive spirit. He had hoped to mold them into model soldiers who would not lose to any other squad’s new recruits within the company. But that hope soon became a desire to create model soldiers unmatched in the battalion, which then transformed into an ambition to forge the finest troops in the entire regiment. At this time, he felt a strange emotion arising toward the regiment’s traditions—those unwritten codes that had been passed down through the military since ancient times, or rather those that now governed them—the brutal sanctions against subordinates. Moreover, whenever he saw corporals, sergeants, and superior privates far younger than himself beating soldiers—especially new recruits—as if they were cattle or horses, half in jest, he felt an oddly irritating indignation. But when he realized that even he himself had been participating in it until just yesterday, he felt something akin to bewilderment. To torment new recruits as revenge for having been tormented themselves when they were new—could such an unreasonable thing even exist in this world? Tormenting new recruits who had no connection to the veterans who once tormented us—for decades, the military had been repeating this irrationality. And a hundred men remained a hundred men, a thousand men a thousand men—never once questioned it. Why had I not noticed such an obvious thing until now?—The thought left him utterly perplexed.

He was the most senior sergeant in the regiment. His term was nearly up, and he would soon have to retire from active service. But he had believed almost with certainty that he would be promoted to sergeant major before being transferred to the reserves. Moreover, by order of seniority, it was only natural that he should have been recommended for promotion to Sergeant Major this year. This was not merely something he himself believed, but something his other colleagues also trusted as fact and often voiced aloud. However, there was one thing that concerned him most. Because he knew that Regimental Adjutant Captain S—who hailed from a neighboring village—not only intensely disliked him due to regional animosity but harbored hatred that transcended mere personal aversion.

If only Captain S would show me some goodwill—no, even if he weren’t favorably inclined but simply indifferent—how grateful I would be. But that Captain S was someone who kept trying to demean me. In fact, my last-minute transfer from the Eighth Company to this Twelfth Company just as the new recruits were about to enter had undoubtedly been engineered by that Captain S. That was already an undeniable fact.—

How he must have loathed that unsoldierly attitude steeped in peasant-rooted baseness permeating Captain S. He could never forget the impression from when he left the 8th Company—where he had lived as if it were his own home throughout eight long years rising from private to senior NCO—and came to this company: how all the soldiers of the Xth Barracks Squad who were to become his subordinates, and all his fellow NCOs, had welcomed him with cold eyes—eyes reserved for foreign intruders. The soldiers in his current squad—he had neither educated them nor shared hardships with them—were all strangers, he also thought. However, the new recruits entering this time were truly his own children. I will welcome them with a warm heart and broad, understanding sympathy, and educate them properly—it was with this conviction that he had welcomed these fifteen new recruits into his squad. So when he saw the second-year soldiers—strangers to him—bullying the new recruits, his blood boiled. He scolded the second-year soldiers without even asking for reasons.

Sergeant Takamura had indeed endeavored, for all these various reasons, to accustom the soldiers to his obligation and win their allegiance. Moreover, to fully accomplish his assigned duty of educating new recruits and create the regiment’s finest model soldiers was nothing less than enhancing his own performance record—and that in turn would become the sole ticket to overcoming the formidable barrier of promotion to Sergeant Major. No matter how shrewdly Captain S entrenched himself at regimental headquarters, if his own achievements remained exceptional and the subordinates he trained became elite soldiers—model troops—then it shouldn’t make any difference. Sergeant Takamura closed his eyes and, gazing with affectionate eyes at the faces of his subordinates that floated into view, thought such thoughts.

There were roughly four months remaining until the first inspection. Until then... he resolved to enjoy the “time” granted to him—those four months—by devising various educational strategies. When the day’s drills ended and they had finished bathing and dinner, the leaders of other squads would entrust the remaining tasks to their superior privates and go out. But those superior privates themselves merely gathered the new recruits reluctantly for twenty or thirty minutes as part of their duties to conduct lessons on reading methods or military regulations, then limited themselves to reporting to their squad leaders after returning to barracks. Therefore, soldiers with poor memories and those generally disliked were tormented quite painfully by the superior privates, whose irritation only grew as they already felt their “time” was being sacrificed for the new recruits. At times, the eerie, painful smacks—*Whack! Whack!*—of cheeks being struck would even reach the NCO room. Sergeant Takamura listened to it with an indescribably complex expression on his face, then dragged his slippers across the floor as he entered the Xth Barracks Squad where his subordinates were.

“Salute!” A shout arose from within the clustered group of subordinates, and they all stood up in unison to salute Sergeant Takamura. He answered with a smile.

“Veteran soldiers dismissed! First-years gather here—we’ll begin academic lessons!” Sergeant Takamura said, still maintaining his smile. The first-year soldiers sat facing each other across the large three-legged desk.

“Miyazaki!” Sergeant Takamura shouted this and made a first-year soldier stand up. Miyazaki lumbered upright and, squinting his eyes as if gazing at bright daylight from deep within a cave, stared at Sergeant Takamura’s face. Miyazaki was the soldier who gave Sergeant Takamura the most trouble. His eyes always darted about restlessly like a bat dragged into bright light. “Hey! Where’s your reply!” Sergeant Takamura looked at Miyazaki—who stood rigidly with a blank expression—and spoke gently as if instructing a child. “When called to stand, you must answer ‘Hai-tsu!’”

“Hee-tsu.” Miyazaki squirmed his body, swaying as he prolonged the end of his utterance. Snickers arose from both sides of the bench. “No laughing! The army is no place for laughter!” Sergeant Takamura said, briefly furrowing his brow. “Miyazaki! Recite yesterday’s five articles of the Imperial Rescript!” “Hee-tsu,” Miyazaki repeated, jerking his head downward repeatedly as he occasionally glanced up at Sergeant Takamura with bat-like eyes. And said, “I forgot.”

“If you’ve forgotten, stand there until you remember!” Sergeant Takamura barked, his eyes darting as he surveyed the first-year soldiers sitting rigidly in their seats. “Now, Tanaka!” “Yes, sir!” Tanaka sprang to his feet and recited, “First: A soldier’s fundamental duty lies in devoted service.” “First: A soldier...” he smoothly finished reciting. A pleased smile floated across Sergeant Takamura’s face as he stared at Miyazaki again and said, “Now, Miyazaki—recite it!”

"First: A soldier..." he began, then stopped again.

Sergeant Takamura's face clouded momentarily, but this time he himself segmented each phrase and made Miyazaki repeat after him as he spoke. Then he said: “Whenever you have time, make sure to memorize this thoroughly!” When about an hour of academic lessons concluded and Sergeant Takamura withdrew to the NCO room, the roll call trumpet sounded shortly thereafter. The non-commissioned officers from each squad who had been out returned punctually in unison and formed up by squad. After roll call ended and the lights-out trumpet eventually sounded, once all had settled into their beds, Sergeant Takamura would invariably visit his squad once before sleeping himself—inspecting their sleeping faces—before retiring to his own bunk. Yet when making rounds through the barracks, if a first-year soldier’s bed that should have been occupied lay empty, he would wait there indefinitely. As soldiers typically visited the latrine after roll call before bedding down, those delayed in returning from the latrine would always find themselves greeted by Sergeant Takamura’s anxious countenance.

Sergeant Takamura would invariably leave the NCO room still in his shirt and go check on his squad whenever he happened to wake during the night. There was one matter that weighed unbearably on his mind. This stemmed from how during his nightly rounds through the squad quarters, he always noticed Miyazaki alone sighing and tossing restlessly amid all the others snoring in their sleep. Through his long years of military experience, Sergeant Takamura knew soldiers prone to desertion were most numerous before that first inspection period when recruits remained unaccustomed to barracks life—and that the critical warning sign came when simple men like Miyazaki sighed as if burdened or lay awake struggling to sleep.

What a troublesome one he had taken on—Sergeant Takamura's mind was perpetually tormented by this matter.

Sunday came. In each squad, first-year soldiers were grouped together, and one superior private would lead them out on excursions. However, Sergeant Takamura led them out himself without involving the superior private. He so begrudged wasting time that he intended to use even such holidays to impart some kind of knowledge that soldiers from other squads couldn’t match. “Where would you all like to go?”

Sergeant Takamura, leading the group, turned back while walking and said. But none of them voiced their own wishes about where they wanted to go. “Then let’s climb Kannon Mountain.” After waiting a while and receiving no response from the group, he said this and resumed his position at the front. Kannon Mountain was a peak separated by K River that faced the regiment stationed on the high ground. At the mountaintop stood a Kannon Hall, said to have been modeled after the Kiyomizu Kannon Hall in Kyoto, imposingly flanked by high stone steps.

When they crossed H Bridge spanning K River, wheat fields and rice paddies spread out expansively. Sergeant Takamura said while walking along the road there: “This kind of open area is called ‘open terrain,’ and during drills or actual combat, when the army marches through such places, they must pass through at maximum forced march speed. If you don’t do that, you’ll be spotted by the enemy immediately… Understand? This kind of open area is what we call ‘open terrain.’” After instructing them thus, Sergeant Takamura barked, “Double time—tsu!” The fifteen first-year soldiers, who barely knew how to align their feet, clattered after Sergeant Takamura in disarray. Miyazaki—who always drew Sergeant Takamura’s attention during academic lessons and while sleeping—now caught his eye even during this double-time run. As if dragging a lame leg, Miyazaki lurched his right and left shoulders violently, scuffing his feet and kicking up dust with each heavy step.

“Miyazaki! What’s wrong with you?” Sergeant Takamura asked while running. “Did you hurt your foot?”

At first, Miyazaki grimaced and shook his head side to side, indicating nothing was wrong—but soon said, “Sergeant! The boots are too big—I keep stumbling and can’t run properly!” The squad soon arrived at the foot of Kannon Mountain and entered a village with farmhouses clustered here and there. “Quick pace—Tsu! Hey!” issued from Sergeant Takamura’s mouth. Everyone returned to their normal walking pace while gasping for breath. When they came to a place where the road narrowed with bamboo thickets and mixed woods on both sides, Sergeant Takamura turned around again and said.

“This kind of narrow place is called a defile.” “And when passing through such places as scouts, always fix bayonets to your rifles and make sure you’re prepared to respond immediately if attacked by the enemy.” Sergeant Takamura said this and immediately called out to Miyazaki again. “Miyazaki! What do we call this kind of narrow place?” “We call it a defile and pass through with bayonets fixed.” Miyazaki answered promptly this time, his bat-like eyes gleaming triumphantly.

“Hmm, you’ve memorized it this time! Make sure you don’t forget this—there’ll be lessons like this in the Field Service Regulations soon enough.” Sergeant Takamura said with a hint of a smile. And without taking the stone-step path attached to the front of Kannon Hall, he entered a side path. There, the mountain path remained completely untouched by human hands, preserved in its natural state. Amidst the mixed woods bristling with broom-like clusters of fine, pointed branches stood pine and cedar trees adorned with green leaves. As they entered the mountain, Miyazaki’s face—which had been gloomy and withered—suddenly brimmed with vitality, its vivid color returning. On the mountain path, as everyone’s legs were growing tired, Miyazaki’s legs, in contrast, overtook his dragging comrades and took the lead.

Sergeant Takamura looked at him with astonished eyes.

“Miyazaki! What did you do before joining the unit? What was your trade?” He asked quietly.

“Sergeant, I was a woodcutter.” “My companions and I, we’d walk from mountain to mountain and spend our whole lives in the hills, y’know.” Miyazaki, gradually emboldened by Sergeant Takamura’s gentle tone, discarded military speech and began speaking in his own words. But he simply listened with a smile, offering no reprimand. “Is woodcutting profitable?” He asked again. “Ain’t exactly profitable, but it’s easy livin’, y’know? We’d spend our days in the hills with no one to mind but monkeys ’n rabbits.”

“Don’t you get tired of spending every single day stuck in the hills?” “Why Sergeant, no matter how deep in the hills you are, there’s all sorts of fun to be had—dice games here, secret sake brewing there—y’know?” Miyazaki said this and let his face—which had never once smiled—twist into a sly grin. “Miyazaki! Do you play dice games or something like that?” Sergeant Takamura said in shock. “But which is better—being a woodcutter or a soldier?”

Miyazaki had no answer to that. He remained silent, lost in some memory, grinning slyly to himself.

II

One morning, during the morning roll call. When the duty officer came to take personnel roll call, Miyazaki was nowhere to be seen. Sergeant Takamura’s face abruptly changed due to an ominous premonition.

“Superior Private Y! Miyazaki’s probably just gone to the latrine, hasn’t he? Go check on him right now!” The duty officer hurled a sharp glance at Sergeant Takamura, barked “Investigate immediately and report,” then briskly walked off to another squad.

“Hey, S and T! Go search the area immediately with Superior Private Y!” Sergeant Takamura ordered the second-year soldiers like this and immediately had them follow Superior Private Y. In the other squads where roll call had concluded without incident, they immediately set about cleaning within their units, went to fetch meals from the mess hall, and divided tasks to begin their usual routines as always. However, only Sergeant Takamura’s squad remained neatly 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 memories from his military life thus far—the deserters who had frequently occurred, the soldiers crushed by trains, those who stole bullets to blow out their own throats—all manner of such incidents now rose to engulf his entire consciousness. But he recalled the fact that almost all deserters—except those who voluntarily returned—had never been captured.

Miyazaki had indeed deserted. That guy wasn't the type to kill himself. Nor had there been any reason for him to commit suicide. It was simply that he'd grown nostalgic for life's freedom in the mountains—Sergeant Takamura was thinking this when he suddenly recalled how, early one morning after a Sunday outing, he'd seen Miyazaki returning alone to the company from the cliff overlooking K River, shoulders slumped as if deep in thought. He remembered how when he'd asked, "Where did you go?" at the time, Miyazaki had replied, "I was on furnace duty today and went to gather cedar leaves for kindling." Now viewing things through suspicious eyes, even that could only be interpreted as preparation for escape—a reconnaissance of the terrain. That spot made an ideal escape route. While the other three sides had moats with sentries posted at various gates, this place was merely a high cliff above K River with no particular security measures. When fording the river, anyone could escape there—as many as wished—if they could endure a bit of cold.

The three—Superior Private Y, S, and T—returned shortly and each gave their report.

“He isn’t in the latrine anywhere, and we searched all other likely places but couldn’t find him anywhere.” Sergeant Takamura listened with a face that blended indescribable sadness, despair, and anger—a face that looked on the verge of tears. When breakfast had ended, Miyazaki’s desertion had become a major issue throughout the company; search teams were organized from each squad and departed toward their respective directions. A certain squad searched every last well within the barracks and ventured into the copse behind the ammunition depot where someone had once hanged themselves, combing through the area. Another squad rushed to the train station, another headed out to various main roads, and yet another was dispatched to his hometown. But Sergeant Takamura, who should have been at the center of the search efforts, remained dazed like a grief-stricken man, occasionally giving absurd replies even to the duty officer and company commander.

Because of that bastard, I've finally thrown away my chance at Sergeant Major. He muttered wretchedly to himself. After working so hard—paying such meticulous attention—using love to mold a proper model soldier... What has it all come to! If that wretch gets caught somewhere... Hah! What an ungrateful bastard. That Captain S was laughing. Take a good look at this! he thought. How's that for your precious Kaiser mustache—

Disjointed momentary impressions leapt out in his mind, chaotically churning. He could no longer make heads or tails of anything. Promotion to Sergeant Major was nothing but a bygone dream now. Wouldn’t it just be a reprimand for bootlicking?—the thought of having his trust betrayed filled him with such resentment that even speaking felt wearisome. He frantically clawed and tore at the image of Miyazaki’s bat-like eyes that kept surfacing in his mind.

As if in a dream, half a day had passed while he drifted in a daze. The search party that had gone to the train station and nearby thoroughfares returned with nothing to show. All that remained now was to await the report from the squad dispatched to his hometown. Yet even this brought only futile disappointment to Sergeant Takamura when night fell late.

III

Sergeant Takamura was eating the breakfast served each morning by new recruits on meal duty and brought to him together with the other squad leaders in the NCOs’ room. When he picked up a bite and put it in his mouth, a large rat dropping—waterlogged and faded to a dingy white—emerged from beneath it. He started and looked around in panic at the other NCOs’ faces. Then he hurriedly pressed the rat dropping to the bottom of his dish to conceal it before setting down his chopsticks. He did not think the new recruits had deliberately selected a portion with rat droppings, but he could not remain calm toward recruits who showed no care in their duties. But more than that, he now feared the other NCOs discovering the rat dropping even more.

The thought that they might be thinking, “That Sergeant Takamura’s too soft—even the new recruits are looking down on him,” was unbearable. However, since the other NCOs were so engrossed in eating their own meals, none had noticed the rat dropping in Sergeant Takamura’s food. He suppressed the fury welling up from the depths of his heart and, propping his elbows on the tabletop, cradled his head in both hands. He was contemplating what he should say to vent his anger at the meal duty recruit who would come to clear the dishes.

“Sergeant, is something wrong?” Corporal I, who had only recently been promoted, asked with feigned concern while concealing a somewhat mocking look somewhere on his face.

“Oh, it’s nothing... I just have a bit of a headache...” He struggled to conceal his anger and spoke in a voice drained of enthusiasm. Soon, the meal duty soldier came to clear the dishes. He jerked his head up and hardened his entire face, but the furious shout he’d prepared refused to emerge from his throat. Before his numerous colleagues—having just claimed a headache—he couldn’t possibly demand, “Why did you put a rat dropping in my food?!” He clamped down on the fury swelling in his chest like compressed steam. As if noxious gas had pooled inside him, his torso emitted low, guttural growls.

“Drill formation!” In the corridor, the duty NCO bellowed. Simultaneously, from all over the company came a clamor as guns and swords began clattering noisily.

He stood up listlessly and began preparing himself. He immediately dashed out into the barracks courtyard and watched the new recruits filing out of the company. Today of all days, the movements of his squad’s new recruits seemed particularly sluggish compared to those of other squads. Their very expressions all appeared dull-witted. If he went and slapped each of their faces one by one—he wondered—wouldn’t their sluggish movements and dull-witted expressions finally straighten out? As he thought this, his right arm began to twitch restlessly, and he found himself unable to remain motionless any longer. If he could just hear that crack-crack sound two or three times—he felt—then this noxious gas-like thing pent up in his chest might pleasantly drain away.

Was there no one committing some blunder he could justifiably strike?—His eyes instinctively sought such a target. However, though they moved sluggishly, he found none who had erred egregiously enough to warrant blows. “Quit lollygagging—out here now!”

He stood at the company entrance and shouted at those trickling out. He said while looking at the faces of the new recruits, who had all gathered and formed up in their usual positions. “The last ten who came out late just now—fall out here!” “I’ll make you run.” “Your bodies will lighten up, making you highly agile for whatever comes next—good for you.” The ten recruits glared at by Sergeant Takamura timidly took a step forward. And lined up in a row before him.

“Prepare for the sprint—!” shouted Sergeant Takamura while pointing to a lone pine tree at the farthest corner of the barracks courtyard, then brought his raised right hand sharply down with a “Go—!” The ten recruits started running like racehorses. “Slackers will do it again!” roared Sergeant Takamura’s voice chasing after them. As they were watched, their figures grew smaller while approaching the target pine tree. By the time they had swiftly turned around there to face this way, a considerable distance had formed between the frontmost one and the rearmost one. They ran with heavy thuds. Again, as they were watched, their figures grew larger and approached this way. Soon, they came to an abrupt halt before Sergeant Takamura. There were neither stragglers nor frontrunners; the ten men had clustered together in a jumbled mass.

Sergeant Takamura averted his face with a look of displeasure. What an insolent bunch of good-for-nothings. They must have conspired to bunch up like that—the thought made him feel utterly mocked and unbearably humiliated before everyone. And he no longer even felt like scolding them.

At that moment, Lieutenant Ohara, the new recruit training supervisor, appeared. The non-commissioned officers all rushed over to the lieutenant to salute. As soon as they returned, the drill was commenced.

It was a day of fierce winds. Alongside the non-commissioned officers' and superior privates' shouted commands, the wind ceaselessly howled at the soldiers' ears. If they were careless, there were instances where they couldn't distinguish the commands. Sergeant Takamura proceeded to have them perform various individual training drills one after another from the end of the line. He stood about fifteen paces in front of the privates one after another and shouted, "Fix—bayonets!" "Present—arms!" he shouted. After completing a round in this manner, he returned to his original position and barked, "Standing fire position—rifles!" to a soldier 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 fumbled awkwardly for a moment but immediately dropped to one knee and assumed the kneeling firing position.

Sergeant Takamura’s rage-filled face shot forward like a pebble. No sooner had this happened than his right hand suddenly struck the left cheek of the soldier maintaining the kneeling firing position with full force. Almost simultaneous with the sharp crack came an "Agh!" escaping from the struck soldier’s mouth as he collapsed sideways still holding his rifle in position. Sergeant Takamura, ready to strike again, kept his right hand trembling, but the fallen soldier showed no sign of getting up. Still prone, he fixed his fiercely glinting eyes on Sergeant Takamura and clamped his hand over his left ear.

“Bastard!” Sergeant Takamura suddenly bellowed. “You’re mocking me—mocking Sergeant Takamura! How dare a mere new recruit be so impudent!”

He then kicked the still-prone soldier around the waist with his boot and returned to his original position. At this moment, he suddenly felt as though his surroundings had brightened and he had returned to his usual expansive self. The noxious gas-like substance that had accumulated in his chest had vanished without him noticing when, and he even felt like bursting into song at the top of his voice. Hmm, it’s because I hit him—he thought. When he saw the soldier getting up and brushing dust off his uniform, he became even more certain that it was indeed because of that. When he noticed, it was Volunteer Soldier T. At this moment, for no particular reason, he recalled how he had never regarded Volunteer Soldier T favorably. However, at the moment of striking, it wasn’t as if he had consciously targeted him for being Volunteer Soldier T. But when he learned that it was Volunteer Soldier T, the heaviness in his chest lifted even more. After all, if you think you should do something, you have to do it without hesitation—his chest cried out as though making some extraordinary discovery.

He began feeling intensely hungry now. At the same moment, he remembered the mouse droppings. Miyazaki's desertion too rose to the surface of his mind. When he considered how the foul gas that had been pooling in his chest since that time had exploded and dispersed because of Volunteer Soldier T, he now felt an indescribable surge of gratitude toward T welling up inside him.

He glanced briefly at Volunteer Soldier T. Volunteer Soldier T’s face, pallid yet strangely agitated, cast the shadow of some inexplicable anxiety into his heart. The anxiety—initially no more than a tiny speck—suddenly spread its great black wings and choked his chest that had only just begun to clear.

The morning drill ended.

Sergeant Takamura ate his lunch as if chewing sand, unaware of whether it tasted good or bad.

The afternoon drill began. In the parade ground, each squad took up positions in the same formation as that morning. When he had them call roll, one person was missing. He tilted his head and ordered them to call roll again. But even so, they were still one man short. The pain akin to forcibly tearing open a wound that had finally begun to heal jabbed through his anxiety-locked chest. The bat-like image of Miyazaki nesting in his chest was biting through that wound. However, he immediately noticed that Volunteer Soldier T was not in the ranks. The inexplicable, pitch-black 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 summons you,sir.”

In the duty officer’s room stood a pale-faced Volunteer Soldier T, his ear bandaged. As he entered, the volunteer soldier’s eyes greeted him with a cold, ironic smile. The insolence in those eyes was enough to make his thoroughly despondent heart clench violently. He intuited everything. He must have ruptured the eardrum without a doubt. That bastard had reported it to the duty officer—he realized. The outcome was already certain—the path of fate he was about to tread flashed through his mind like lightning.

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

“Sergeant Takamura!”

The duty officer spoke quietly and solemnly. But it did not reach his ears. His entire nervous system trembled violently from extreme hatred toward Volunteer Soldier T. The fury over Miyazaki shattering the illusion he’d spent half his life building was now compounded by Volunteer Soldier T into a redoubled wrath and grief. He could no longer recognize himself. His head swam—then with a furious “You bastard!”, he lunged savagely at Volunteer Soldier T.

(From Waseda Bungaku Taishō 10, August issue)