Pathway to Japanese Literature

I was assigned to instruct soldiers of the Railway Regiment.
For me, it was truly a long time.
According to the deputy in charge of operations, they had selected only exceptionally skilled locomotive engineers as instructors this time around, and as for me, it was a source of great joy.
Having worked as a locomotive engineer for nearly thirty years now, even if those soldiers were complete novices or not particularly bright, I had to properly train them to competence.
There were those who said it was unreasonable to expect them to learn how to operate locomotives in a mere three months or so, but given the times, we had no choice but to try whether it was possible or not.
Moreover, depending on one's perspective, all our soldiers were ultimately destined for the battlefield, and even in terms of mere mental preparedness, they must have differed considerably from peacetime norms.
With our approach, our breathing was sure to be in perfect sync.
No—we had to synchronize.
If we did that, even if someone handled the coal-shoveling poorly or complained about brake operation methods, we should have been able to avoid developing any unpleasant feelings toward each other.
To be honest, being at an age where I couldn’t go to the battlefield myself and with my children all being daughters who couldn’t be sent as soldiers either, I had resolved to at least perform my possible duties proactively and contribute in some way to the national emergency—and it seemed this determination had naturally instilled a renewed vigor in my work.

Moreover, what made it even more fortunate was that the soldier entrusted to me was remarkably quick to learn. When I inquired, I learned he had only graduated elementary school and had been working as a factory apprentice, yet he already knew machinery names well and quickly absorbed unfamiliar ones—a truly remarkable young man. Though still a one-star reservist, the service notebook that required my stamp each day after duty bore the name "Sagawa Shintarou." Born in a small town in Yamanashi, having lost his father to illness while attending elementary school, raised solely by his mother's home-based work, with that same mother still keeping house alone even after his enlistment—he possessed a gentle and earnest character that seemed incompatible with having commuted to factories for many years. For someone like me who had raised three tomboyish daughters, his gentle nature held an unexpected charm. To confess, I had even secretly entertained thoughts of how wonderful it would be if he married into our family as my eldest daughter’s husband—there was truly nothing to criticize about him. If granted but one indulgence as an old man, I would say there was indeed something occasionally irritable in how his outbursts of youthful righteousness took hold—though whether this stemmed from being an only son remained unclear. It might have been because he was an only son. While those like me remained separate, even trivial issues could spark disputes between Private Second Class Sagawa and the assistant engineer sharing the same locomotive. For instance, when entering an urban platform from a rural station and spotting women dressed in finery, if the assistant engineer casually muttered, "Still, they do look lovely," Private Second Class Sagawa would nod in agreement at first, only to add that excessive adornment grated on his nerves—a divergence of opinion that would escalate into emotional debates about women's roles on the home front, inevitably culminating in some petty commotion. Of course, that too was no trivial matter, but given the circumstances, I’d rather have it treated as a laughing matter. If emotional factors were to affect our collaborative work, it would spell serious trouble.

The work of Private Second Class Sagawa, apprenticing as a locomotive engineer, had to rely on firing techniques surpassing even those of the assistant engineer.
For a trainee engineer riding a provincial railway locomotive for the first time—unfamiliar with the tracks they were operating on and unaccustomed to constantly changing train speeds—the difficulties would only grow greater with slightly heavier cars. However, if the assistant engineer lacked the skill to produce steam at the engineer’s discretion or refused to demonstrate their ability even when capable, the train would ultimately have no choice but to stop.

In such cases, the problem became no simple matter.
It wasn't that this applied only to the present occasion, but in undertaking the short-term training of Private Second Class Sagawa as an apprentice engineer, what I considered most important was indeed that very matter.

Even after returning from duty, my days remained busy with daily send-offs for departing soldiers from our town, welcoming ceremonies for white-clad warriors and heroic spirits, assisting with care package shipments mainly handled by the Reservists Association and National Defense Women's Association, and attending various meetings—yet amidst all this, I managed to draft a concrete training plan for Private Second Class Sagawa in accordance with ministry guidelines.
Since they had to be immediately useful on the battlefield, it was only natural to prioritize hands-on training.
The practical aspects of an engineer's duties—ranging from fireman tasks like firebox operation methods and lubrication techniques, to handling steam regulators and reversing levers, operating various brake systems, managing branch line valves and drain cocks, addressing wheel slips, implementing fuel-efficient driving protocols based on car numbers, and conducting mechanical inspections—were so exhaustive that even compiling them into a single chart would prove overwhelming.
No matter which one was neglected, safe practical operation became impossible—a truly vexing predicament.
Moreover, academic studies couldn't be neglected either.
It would be good if the machines always obeyed smoothly, but you never knew where they might start acting up.
If the machinery were to break down en route and they lacked the knowledge required for repairs, that would be the end of it.
They would have no choice but to stand by helplessly.
I wanted to prevent such mishaps if at all possible.
So one day, on my way back from the engine depot, I took a slight detour and stopped by a bookstore in town.
If there was a book explaining locomotive structures and functions in terms even laypeople could understand, I thought I would purchase it and present it to Private Second Class Sagawa.
The store I peered into was quite a large bookstore in town, but none of the shelves held what I sought.
Though I had always thought such a highly specialized book wouldn't be easily obtainable, to find not a single copy amidst this vast sea of tens of thousands of yen worth of volumes left me feeling somewhat forlorn.
Though I stormed out in irritation at seeing nothing but garishly titled books that seemed utterly unrelated to me lined up in rows, my mood completely improved the moment I unexpectedly discovered a thick "Locomotive Q&A Compendium" at the next secondhand bookstore I entered without any expectations.
While pulling out the frog-mouthed purse from my trouser pocket positioned above my buttocks, I asked the shopkeeper its price, then found myself having to push it back down to the bottom again.
He said it was three yen and fifty sen.
To state this so bluntly might bring shame upon myself, but I had never before purchased a book that cost so much.
I opened the colophon and looked.

It was published in Showa 7 and priced at two yen and fifty sen. Thereupon, having gained confidence that my initial gut valuation of one yen wasn’t so unreasonable after all, I stated my offer. At this, the secondhand bookstore owner guffawed with a jaw-droppingly wide grin. “This is no joking matter, sir—spare me your teasing,” he said, now putting on an extremely stern expression. I also retorted sharply, not to be outdone: “Since a book like this won’t sell easily anyway, you’d be better off cutting your losses and letting it go!” “Not only is it difficult to sell,” remained the shopkeeper’s unwavering stance until the end, “but since it’s out of print, the price naturally remains high.” Unfortunately, I had no choice but to give up. Given my current lifestyle, I cannot afford a book costing three yen and fifty sen. If I were to say this, there might be those who tilt their heads in puzzlement. In reality, I am in the fortunate position of receiving a salary of nearly one hundred yen. As for my residence—though it may be a rented house—when it comes to family, there is only a wife and three daughters with the eldest being twenty-two. The second and third daughters are still attending girls’ school, but if this were before the Incident, we could manage splendidly. However, I cannot afford to be complacent about the recent soaring prices of general goods. If I grow even slightly complacent, [our funds] become insufficient—or rather, to be honest, it’s not uncommon for part of the tuition to fall into deficit. Yet considering the second daughter will soon graduate, I cannot mercilessly have her suspended from school. Ultimately, cutting out all expenses deemed unnecessary and enduring [the hardship] aligned with what was called national policy—there likely existed no better strategy than this.

After returning home once, I agonized extensively before going out again to purchase the Locomotive Q&A Compendium. It was frustrating that despite having gone to such lengths with my plans, I couldn’t mold Private Second Class Sagawa into an outstanding technician, and infuriating that even with a salary of nearly one hundred yen, I couldn’t afford such a meager book. The savings weren’t much, but I resolved that I would even deplete them for that purpose. However, I faced the secondhand bookstore owner again and told him I’d accept even fifty sen less if he would lower the price. The bookstore owner who saw through my intentions never once agreed until the very end. I grew even angrier, slammed down the exact listed price, and rushed out clutching the Q&A Compendium.

The next day's schedule began at dawn, but I stayed up late reading through it and verified that its contents contained no errors despite subsequent locomotive advancements.
The content was indeed so elementary.
However, when I took up a brush I hadn’t held in over a decade and inscribed my name on the blank frontispiece as a memento, Private Second Class Sagawa’s expression of joy was truly remarkable.
It might have been because the content was suitable, but it would be no exaggeration to say that mostly, my goodwill had come through.
He sat in the engineer’s seat before departure, rustling through the pages resting on his lap, and said, “It feels like I’ve gained an unexpected ally.”
Then, while stroking the closed cover once more, he added, “Though I don’t know when that might be, even if I go to the battlefield, I’ll study hard with this.”
I couldn’t help but laugh and said, “Don’t talk about long-term plans—you need the resolve to cram this into your head before departure,” whereupon he nodded obediently several times before replying, “Though it might come sooner than scheduled.”

Even I couldn't help but flinch at those words.
After all, there had already been quite a few soldiers who departed for the front ahead of schedule.
A sense of unease began growing within me.
When that happens, there's nothing to be done—knowing full well it was forbidden to ask, the words "You already know, don't you?" slipped from my lips.
He pressed his lower lip between his teeth and shook his head before replying with a quiet laugh, "How could a mere soldier know such things?"
Once conversations turned to these matters, whether in attitude or manner of speech, I found myself at a disadvantage.
That very quality must be what makes soldiers so compelling.

Private Second Class Sagawa gradually grew more earnest.
The arm gripping the regulator valve’s handle showed marked improvement, while a composed stability—unfazed by minor disturbances—became apparent in how his hips settled into the engineer’s seat.
His handling of steam had grown quite skillful, and his use of coasting became appropriately timed as he memorized the tracks.
The sole area showing no substantial progress remained his ability to gauge the speed of the train he operated.
Even when I suddenly asked from behind during operation—“How many kilometers now?”—he couldn’t readily answer.
For stretches at a time, he’d become absorbed in observing the gravel’s color along the tracks or the distant scenery’s shifting contours.
The numbers he finally managed after these vacant moments showed considerable discrepancy from the actual speed.
No matter how often we repeated this, no noticeable improvement emerged.
Perhaps frustrated himself, he’d sometimes seize gaps in my questioning to pose counter-inquiries instead.
When I told him exactly what I thought, he’d tilt his head honestly and sink into contemplation.
The estimates missed their mark.
Time and again I’d press my cheek against each task while pointing outside—“There now, twenty kilometers,” “Thirty-two,” “Still thirty-two,” “Finally thirty-five”—conducting practical instruction this way.
He kept nodding along.
Yet the results stayed unchanged.
Earnest yet visibly exasperated, he often grumbled that speed-indicating grass hues varied by location and mountain movements differed with distance, making uniformity impossible—and truth be told, he was right.
For someone like me to reach the point of roughly estimating speed under any circumstance—of adjusting it to operate sections within designated times—must’ve taken four or five years.
Mastering this in a month or two could safely be called impossible.
I knew this well, yet I repeated the same drills.
Both of us—I and he—persisted until fury overtook us.
“How many kilometers now?” “Twenty-eight.” “Wrong, wrong.” Then immediately again: “Now?”

“Twenty-five kilometers.” “Even more wrong,” I pressed. “Now?”
“Twenty-nine kilometers.” “Still wrong! Why can’t you grasp this? You need to memorize it properly! Listen—what about now?”
“Thirty-five kilometers…” “No good! Completely off! I’m not asking for guesses! Take your time and answer properly! Well? What is it now?”
But there came no reply.
I started and looked at his face.
Beneath the deeply pulled visor of his work cap, his eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the distant tracks being drawn in by the locomotive.
His oil-stained cheeks emitted an uncanny glow.
This was pure fury—though its target remained unclear.
I found myself wordless.
Or rather, I too became trapped in this invasive, repulsive irritation.
“Do you even want to learn this?” I shouted desperately.
When matters reached this point, he would simply fall silent.
Feeling further insulted, I yelled louder.
But being impatient by nature, I eventually lost track of what I myself was shouting.
This very realization enraged me to madness, until my entire body burned with it.
The oppressive sense of being cornered—coupled with the interminable, unpleasant silence awaiting us—made this entire ordeal utterly unbearable.

However, once such a day passed, strangely enough, the friendship between him and me grew even deeper than before.
The next day without fail, I would arrive at work earlier than the designated time and find myself waiting for him to appear.
Even when I finished inspecting the locomotive alone after arriving far too early, if no figure in military uniform had yet appeared on the hill beyond the water supply tank, I would deliberately walk along the tracks to check.
While telling myself there was no need for concern, in truth I couldn't help worrying.
The moment our eyes met, he would raise his palm first from across the way, and once we had exchanged our usual "Good work," I would finally feel relieved—this became our routine.
Even if this had been unavoidable in instruction, when I considered his future duties, I could only regret my own inadequacy.
Though I kept silent about it, I told myself I must never again conduct instruction in such a manner.

It was about a month later when a troublesome problem arose. To call it such might sound slightly exaggerated, but one day upon returning from a peninsula circuit run, I found coal consumption statistics individually listed on the crew room bulletin board. These figures covered the past month—nothing novel in itself—yet I was shocked to see my ranking had plummeted over ten positions. For someone who had consistently placed first or second these past few months without ever slipping to third, this constituted a grave matter indeed.

I knew full well the cause lay in Private Second Class Sagawa's inexperienced handling of the locomotive, so I deliberately withheld any overt complaints. Instead, aiming to show the two men standing shoulder-to-shoulder before the board that I remained unperturbed, I laughed offhandedly: "Better results than I expected, wouldn't you say?"

This careless remark ignited unforeseen consequences. While Sagawa likely remained oblivious, my assistant engineer seemed to interpret it as biting sarcasm. "With driving like that," he scoffed, "even the fireman can't economize on coal."

Startled twice over, I hastily interjected, "That's not what I meant!" But the damage was done. The assistant engineer's expression hardened as he jabbed a finger at my name on the chart. "I knew your numbers would drop," he said with palpable disappointment, "but this far? Never crossed my mind."

Though I understood his frustration—indeed shared it—I feared this criticism might hinder Sagawa's technical development. Adopting a chastising tone, I countered: "What harm in using a little extra? It's not intentional. He'll improve with time."

The assistant engineer clearly had more to say but swallowed his words. Turning to Sagawa—who stood with head bowed in contrition—I offered reassurance: "No need to fret over this."

Sagawa glanced fleetingly at the assistant engineer before murmuring an apology so quiet it barely carried, his face remaining lowered thereafter. A sudden heat prickled behind my eyes as fresh regret over my initial thoughtless comment surged through me—how much better had I never broached the subject at all.

For some time after that incident, things between Sagawa and the Assistant Engineer still appeared strained, yet not a single obstacle manifested in their work.
Rather, the opposite was true.
From Sagawa’s handling of steam at the engineer’s seat, there was an astonishing carefulness to be felt, and in the Assistant Engineer’s manner of tending the fire, there was a meticulous diligence I never witnessed when I operated the locomotive.
It was a clear display of cooperation.
I had no grounds for complaint, but precisely because of that, whenever I returned to the engine depot and found the section’s estimated usage amounts running high, I couldn’t rest until I had them recheck it as many times as needed to reach a satisfactory understanding.
Even after completing the preparations for entering the depot with the engine guide, I would sometimes still be on top of the tender arguing with the section staff.
No—it wasn’t an argument.
When I considered the hardships endured by the two directly involved in operation, I found myself wanting them to produce consumption figures that were as accurate as possible.
The depot chief—Old Man (a nickname everyone affectionately used for him)—smiled invitingly, perhaps aware of my recent performance record, and said, “You’ve become quite meticulous lately, but I suppose that’s just age catching up, eh?”
I too forced a bitter smile and said, “Well, I suppose I’ll start taking things seriously and become the railways’ devoted son-in-law.” Even Old Man seemed taken aback by this, simply replying, “I see.”

Performance improved day by day. Every day upon returning home, I would take out my notebook and calculate that day's coal consumption per kilometer based on the number of cars hauled. While this couldn't be stated definitively due to daily variations in weather and locomotive condition, the numbers were gradually improving—this much remained undeniable. Each time I showed these figures to the Assistant Engineer and Private Second Class Sagawa, I never failed to reassure them: "At this rate, we'll soon recover our original performance metrics." Both maintained high spirits, but nothing brought me greater satisfaction than witnessing Sagawa's quiet delight. He never resorted to exaggerated gestures or boisterous laughter. Only through subtle shifts in expression could one perceive it—the momentary unfurling of that perpetual furrow between his brows that lingered from work's commencement to its conclusion, visible on his sun-baked face like dawn breaking through storm clouds. Whenever I saw this transformation, I felt my own anxieties lift like steam dissipating from a pressure valve.

My affection for Private Second Class Sagawa had only continued to deepen in this manner—but from the instant I heard his words touching upon that same issue one day, I found myself seized by feelings that could no longer remain merely those of a technical instructor.

It happened at a small station overlooking the sea on a certain peninsula, during a long stop when we had settled into the locomotive seat to wait.
We had been talking for some time about the battlefield based on newspaper knowledge when, for some reason, the conversation extended to recent domestic price increases, leaving us in a somewhat dampened mood. Suddenly, with an air of resolve, Private Second Class Sagawa said: “Is it true that poor coal usage performance reduces bonuses?”
I casually replied, “Well, it might have some effect,” but then suddenly realizing something, I hastily denied it: “But there shouldn’t be anything like that now.”
He didn’t wait for me to finish replying. “Some say it’s quite different,” he muttered while staring at the pressure gauge before us, “but if it’s truly as you say, I can’t bear imposing on you like this indefinitely.”
I denied even more strongly.
“Some of my comrades do insist that such a fact exists, but I don’t understand it.”
However, Private Second Class Sagawa seemed to have completely accepted this as fact; with every other word, he kept saying, “I’m sorry—so sorry—for my sake.”
“I don’t know how much yours might be reduced, but if there ever comes a time I can repay it, I want to do so,” he even said.
Rather than being surprised, I found myself exasperated, my tone naturally growing harsh. “What nonsense are you spouting? Even if it were true, so be it! If you have time to dwell on such things, you’d be better off studying!”
But he stubbornly refused to yield, digging in his heels with such obstinacy that it bordered on mulishness.
“When you put it that way, it pains me all the more—please let me repay whatever amount was deducted,” he insisted.
“Don’t talk nonsense!” I snapped.
“I’m thinking about it properly too!” I shouted in the heat of the moment.
I saw the color of his lips change as they quivered in surprise.
He looked bitterly dissatisfied.
But I hadn’t meant to scold him; nor had I intended to get angry.
It was because his feelings had touched my heart too directly.
It was nothing more than a momentary fit of irritation in my heart.
Therefore, without immediately adopting an apologetic attitude, I was able to calmly say, “I will gratefully accept your feelings,” as I had initially.
Or perhaps I couldn’t truly call it calm.

My chest was filled with something suffocating. It couldn't simply be called joy, gratitude, calmness, or anger—something I wished I could rip open my chest to show just as it was. I then began babbling nonstop. I no longer remember what I spoke about, but only the memory remains that I did this to keep the other person from speaking. Gradually, I came to feel a strangely familial affection toward this silent listener who absorbed every word.

As the scheduled training period dwindled, I suddenly found myself gripped by worry.
I knew his skills were steadily improving, but I—who knew nothing of occupied railways on battlefields—could not help but doubt whether those very skills would prove useful.
Since they used tracks and rolling stock that had only received emergency repairs after being destroyed, battlefield railways must have been far more troublesome than our well-equipped ones back home.
If that were so, then unless we trained them here to be more than fully competent, they wouldn’t pass as competent right away.
Some friends argued there was no need to fret over matters like operating schedules—that such worrying was excessive—and while there was some truth to that, it didn’t tell the whole story.
Others claimed that since battlefield matters would be handled by the regiment’s instruction, we need only focus on thoroughly teaching them how to operate trains.
That might hold water, but when you’re actually responsible for instructing an individual, it’s only human to want to do everything possible for them—and naturally you’d want them to earn distinguished service.
For me—once his skills had come to be assessed as fully competent—that very concern became a daily weight.

Around that time, I was granted a single day of immense benefit.
When remains of fallen officers and soldiers from Private Second Class Sagawa’s unit were repatriated and a joint memorial service was to be held there, I attended by making use of a day off; once the ceremony ended, I asked Sagawa to help me request a meeting with the operational training instructor.
What I had absorbed from the solemn ceremony hall extended even to Private Second Class Sagawa’s military fortunes that he would now have to march toward—I found myself unable to simply return home as I was.
The instructor agreed to meet me immediately.
He was a young, vigorous officer who became thoroughly flustered when addressed with formal gratitude beforehand.
Hearing that many of those enshrined on that day’s altar had been engine crew members, I opened my eyes wide as if realizing it anew.
Those struck down by enemy attacks during train operations; those destroyed along with their locomotives by enemy landmines buried in tracks; those crushed beneath overturned engines—the scale of sacrifice far exceeded anything we had imagined.
While listening with a constricted throat, I repeatedly stole glances at Sagawa’s face as he sat rigidly beside me with knees aligned.
That he might not be spared from sharing this fate—what lay in the heart of one who seemed if anything timid—remained beyond my imagining.
Before his superior officer, his attitude could be felt as nothing but solemn.
Yet when urged by the young officer—“At least let’s serve tea to our rare guest”—he who rose with an apologetic smile saying “I’d completely forgotten” remained unmistakably the usual Private Second Class Sagawa.
The officer watching his retreating figure suddenly adopted a formal tone and peered at me: “That soldier scores well in regiment drills—how fares his actual driving?”
When I gave a brief frank assessment, he said in a tone seeking agreement: “Nothing would be better than making him fully competent—though there are pitiable aspects to his family circumstances.”
At the time I dismissed this with a perfunctory nod—yet left to my own conjectures, I began sensing something significant beneath his words.
It struck me this might come unexpectedly soon.
From what he continued sharing—the mother keeping watch in Yamanashi’s mountain depths being over sixty; Sagawa himself claiming some savings and military aid sufficed for now though hardships would surely come; having no other kin making his case most pitiable—I could roughly discern where the young officer’s considerations lay.
I impulsively asked: “Might not a soldier of such disposition grow stronger on the battlefield?”
The young officer merely gave a noncommittal nod.

After inquiring about the types of locomotives currently on the continent, the state of the tracks, and projections for future occupied railways in line with combat developments, I decided to return.
At our parting, the young officer asked me to have him practice operating heavier trains as much as possible, and even requested that I provide hands-on instruction for techniques like managing the regulator handle alone while tending the fire when circumstances required.
I left Emon Gate after vowing to implement these measures, but scenes of the battlefield from which such hopes might spring naturally began to take shape in my mind—images that would resurface unbidden even days later.
That was why my subsequent manner of instruction came to feel somewhat excessively harsh.
Even when he showed signs of fatigue from hours of continuous work, I did not take over for him.
I was especially strict in my instructions regarding the operation of heavy trains.
The same applied to the use of the brake mechanism.
Even after completing a timetable's work and returning to the depot, if there was time before returning to barracks, I would take him to the coal-shoveling practice yard behind the garage and have him practice fire-layering techniques in the model firebox.
Private Second Class Sagawa also seemed dissatisfied with this.
Those training to become locomotive engineers had expressions that seemed to say, “This fire-tending practice can’t possibly be part of our duties.”
Then I too would grip a shovel, scoop and toss an equal amount of coal, all while repeating explanations about the formation of the fire layer until satisfied.
But to my regret, as I hadn’t done it myself in a long time, I found it quite difficult to perform as intended.
While instructing that the coal must be spread thinly at the front of the firebox and gradually thickened toward the near side, in practice, it would sometimes end up with the opposite result.
Perhaps out of pity for me, he would say, “You don’t have to push yourself to show me.”
I too would become stubborn and try to play it off by saying I wasn’t pushing myself at all, but there were more than a few times when he would point at my drenched face and laugh with amusement.
At times I would become inexplicably irritated and snap, “What’s so damn funny?” with a sharpness I hadn’t anticipated in myself.
It was childish behavior, but by the time I noticed, it was already too late.
He turned deathly pale and set down the shovel he’d been holding.
While conscious of my own petulant child within that attitude, and driven by a desire to escape this awkward shame of immaturity, I said, “If you’ve got the skill to mock others’ work, then show me.”
At the same time, I grabbed the shovel and thrust it toward him.

He looked even more startled and kept his eyes fixed on my face, but eventually took the shovel while flaring his nostrils and muttered reproachfully, “It’s not like I was laughing to mock you or anything.” Having confirmed the absence of any change in my expression as I said, “There’s no place for excuses now—why don’t you act like a man?” he stood defiantly before the model firebox in an instant. His usually amiable face appeared distorted solely by an expression of anger, but strangely, I found myself able to maintain a cold demeanor. After inspecting the immobile posture before commencement, I solemnly called out the command “Prepare to shovel coal,” then inserted a stopwatch into my palm to time the shoveling speed in sync with the next command. Private Second Class Sagawa sprang into motion as though he were an entirely different person. While scooping coal, his posture when opening the firebox door, his manner of shouting target positions while throwing coal, and his dynamic handling of the shovel all appeared to me as things I had never witnessed before. I suddenly felt something welling up in my chest. Since it was work done while bent over the entire time, I couldn’t see his face, but with each repetition piled upon the last, the growing chants struck my eardrums and pierced my chest. I was watching the inside of the firebox. The rhythmic scattering continued, and though there were perhaps once or twice when coal missed its mark, the layer being formed was better than anything I could produce. Joy rose above my frustration. No—it would be better to say it was joy alone. Although it was the first time, my joy was all the greater for it. For an instant, I wanted to tell him that was enough. However, I waited for the fixed amount of coal shoveling to end while gazing at the stopwatch cradled in both hands against my chest. I had intended to grasp both his palms and express gratitude by saying how much he’d improved, but when he raised his slightly sweaty face after hundreds of shovel operations, my eyelids were completely filled with something hot.

I apologized again for my recent harsh manner of instruction.
He frantically shook his head.
He said it was precisely because I had done so that he had improved, which delighted me even more.
And needless to say, our crew life thereafter—though brief—became truly pleasant memories.

A peculiar economic surge had emerged in society, though life remained difficult for those like me. With both passenger numbers and freight volumes doubling, coupled cars multiplied until light trains disappeared entirely—we had agreed this was precisely when we should refine our skills. Yet the anticipated day arrived sooner than imagined.
Private Second Class Sagawa too would be departing.
That same day, as we hauled a lengthy freight train along the peninsula's stations with meticulous care, a deputy stationmaster at an intermediate stop informed us there'd been orders for Sagawa to return to his unit immediately.
When I—having observed Sagawa's face glowing crimson in the sunlight as he leaned from the locomotive window—inquired whether some urgent matter had arisen, the deputy stationmaster merely tilted his head and answered it had simply been a telephone notification.
Though privately convinced of his competence, I couldn't help but turn directly to Sagawa and demand, "Was there any sign of this at the regiment?"
Sagawa, complexion returning to normal, shook his head and rose from the engineer's seat declaring, "Regardless, I must request dismissal from here."
Feeling an odd chill along my spine yet clinging to decorum, I lamented, "That may be wisest—but surely we'll meet once more?" To which he responded with forced cheer, "It likely won't be so soon," adding he too wished to bid proper farewells.
After disembarking with his tools, he gazed up at me now occupying the engineer's seat and uttered, "I leave it to you," his demeanor unchanged from routine.

In the evening, I returned to the engine depot and confirmed that the suspension of training dispatches did not apply to Sagawa alone.
Among the talkative crowd, some said that given how rushed things were, they might depart as soon as tonight—but if that were the case, then so be it; such was the feeling I too harbored.

However, in the deputy stationmaster's office where I stood watch, I learned that not even a single military special (temporary military train) had run that night or the following day.
Thinking the deputy stationmaster might have concrete information, I casually inquired on my way back, but could only determine it didn't seem particularly urgent.
Even this much made me feel relieved.
It meant I could reasonably expect there would still be chances for us to meet again.

That night, images of Sagawa—busy preparing in the barracks—kept surfacing in my mind, and I could hardly sleep at all.
Something was calling out to me, but I couldn't make sense of it.
I was struck by a strangely uneasy premonition.
I was told I had uttered Sagawa’s name several times even in my sleep.
"It’s like sending your own child off to the battlefield," my wife had remarked, seemingly unable to bear watching me, but even this grated on my nerves, and I found myself frothing with anger as I roared, "What difference does it make if it’s your child or another’s when sending them to battle?"
At my vehemence, even my wife fell silent in shock, but I still had more left unspoken.
I couldn’t quite understand where the source of my agitation lay within myself.
As my wife had said, I tried imagining that this must be what it’s like when sending one’s own child off to the battlefield.
Or perhaps I even tried imagining and comparing it to how I myself might have felt upon first receiving a draft notice.
However, it seemed to me that this was different from any of those.
If it were myself or my children, I could surely have thought about the battlefield more calmly.
I could have been confident that even the fact of how precious and yet how insignificant the lives of those who fight are could be resolved within my own body.
At present, I had neither that calmness nor confidence.
What in the world could this be?
I couldn't comprehend it.
My irritation originated from there.
Far from granting me time to sleep, it only grew increasingly frenzied.
Even those who had committed not crimes but grave errors must endure it—I found myself assailed by the illusion of being tormented by a violent whip.
I became utterly tormented.
And how I must have longed for daybreak.

When day broke, I would request leave and go see him at the regiment at all costs—that was what I resolved.
For I had suddenly thought that if I did that, my mood might calm down somewhat—or rather, that some unresolved problem might be settled.

After finishing a somewhat late breakfast, I bought token sweets and visited the barracks, but unfortunately, permission for a meeting was not granted that day.
Instead, once preparations were complete, overnight leave would be permitted; therefore, I had them convey that he should contact me so we could meet using that opportunity.
Even so, I thought it couldn’t be helped, and for two or three days, I found myself idling with a body that refused to immerse itself in work, all the while anxiously waiting to see if even a postcard might arrive.
However, even after two or three days, nothing of the sort appeared.
Every day when I returned from duty, I would first spread out the training schedule I had created myself and simply stare blankly at it.

It was the evening of the fifth day.
When I went to answer the rarely heard call at the entrance, there unexpectedly appeared Private Second Class Sagawa's plump smile.
Feeling a flurry neither of surprise nor joy, I ushered him in as if grasping his palms.
Perhaps because this too had startled him, an awkward tension lingered between us even after we faced each other.
In a tone far calmer than before, he explained he should have come sooner but hadn't received permission, that his departure date had finally been set; then expressed regret at being unable to repay your long-standing kindness.
Such things meant nothing to me.
I confirmed he'd met with his mother and asked if he could stay at my house.
Since he had permission until next morning, I insisted he stay at all costs.

As night fell and we sipped modest amounts of sake, even after entering the same room, we spoke of nothing but locomotive operation.
It must have been because I steered every conversation there. Though it may have inconvenienced him, I had no interest in other topics.
I expounded on everything from locomotive history to which nations led technological progress.
What brought genuine pleasure was reminiscing about our early days working together.
When I recounted even trivial details until his face reddened, he smiled bitterly and said, "Now you've given me another thing to regret."
This too delighted me profoundly.
Not from seeing him flustered, but from knowing he understood I remembered everything.
Repeatedly I willed him to demonstrate his full capabilities.
As talk turned serious, he voiced concern: "My inexperience worries me." I cut him off: "If you commit yourself, nothing's impossible."
This sprang from my genuine conviction.
Though fully aware of his skill limits, facing him directly let me say such things without hesitation.

A few days later in the predawn hours, I went to the station to see Sagawa off. In the dimly lit bustle, I offered the kind of farewell greetings everyone gives, raised high my own scrawny arm that even I found pitiful and shouted "Banzai," but even after the train had vanished from sight, I found myself assailed by something that would not let me leave.
I could feel an indescribable impatience surging in my chest.
This might be nothing more than the workings of my own selfish emotions.
I could recall with relative calmness—though fragmentary—the sight of Sagawa’s spirited face during our brief meeting, our deliberate discussion about that day’s weather to distract from immediate realities, and his motionless figure maintaining a saluting gesture through the departing train window without even leaning out. Yet the feeling I had when he said, just before departure—“I’ll read this ‘Locomotive Q&A Manual’ on my way”—remained agonizing to revisit.
I already knew he had thoroughly mastered the contents of the Locomotive Q&A Manual.
He might have intended it merely as a way to pass time during the long train ride.
Otherwise, I thought he must have forced it into his heavy military gear as a memento of our time together.
Either way.
The shock I felt the moment I was shown that book through the window was because I had unexpectedly discovered my own figure within the Locomotive Q&A Manual.
That did not bring me the joy of him taking me along.
The opposite was true.
He might be able to maintain what he once acquired by reading the same book in certain situations, but I cannot help but feel that I am losing my place to exist there.
This may be the natural course of events, but to me, it is a lonely thing.
I recalled how I had once gone to considerable lengths to obtain that book, and adopting a casual tone, I couldn't help but say, "You should still believe in yourself after all."
Private Second Class Sagawa then answered simply, "It's all right," while wearing a smile that held a complex shadow.
At that moment, I too was filled with a sense of relief.
I didn’t particularly think my exact thoughts had been conveyed, but I felt that something hidden within would someday make him understand.

After that, my busy life on duty continued.
Since I was seated in the engineer’s seat myself, there was no anxiety about the work—that much was good—but whatever came to mind was invariably Sagawa.
Even in how he handled the regulator valve handle—the way he would pull it like this, or how no matter how much I warned him he kept kicking the branch line cock, or his habit of slightly tilting his head when gazing ahead—all of these were nothing but fond memories.
At times, since I would make him the topic of conversation all day long, the Assistant Engineer would tease me, saying it was as if I’d gotten myself a son-in-law.
I couldn’t say I didn’t feel the same way myself, but being laughed off for that alone felt galling, so I retorted that we must approach matters of the battlefield with solemnity.
When told things like “Even among soldiers, it’s rare to see someone improve so quickly,” I couldn’t help but feel unduly pleased despite knowing it was mere flattery—a reaction quite unbecoming of my age.
I finally managed to say, “It wasn’t that remarkable, but he had good potential,” yet ended up expecting even greater praise.
Whenever I met comrades who had instructed other soldiers during the same period, I developed a habit of asking about the technical proficiency they had attained, using “where do you suppose they are now?” as my opening line.
I would ask in minute detail and compare them to Sagawa.
And while I could feel reassured if Sagawa was thought superior, before long even that became common knowledge, and among comrades I was meeting for the first time too, there emerged a tendency to go out of their way to exaggeratedly praise those I had instructed.
I even went so far as to get into a brawl over it.
The engineer—who had ridden with Private Second Class Sagawa during my two or three days of sick leave—went so far in praising the soldiers he had trained that he kept shamelessly repeating unbearable remarks: how that man had no prospects whatsoever, how no amount of teaching could fix his poor instincts, how even I must have struggled with him.
I could no longer endure it and closed in on him, shouting “What the hell do you mean by that?!” before seizing his lapel and growling “Depending on your answer, this won’t end peacefully!”
The opponent did momentarily step back, but then suddenly knocked my arm aside and came forward challengingly.
Since my opponent was far younger and more robust than I, realizing I stood no chance in a fair fight, I seized an opening and lunged for his thigh.
I intended to bite right through the uniform trousers.
But the opponent moved faster—looming over me from above, he pinned my hips with both arms, and the moment he let out an unpleasant shout, he hurled me several yards forward.
I frantically scrambled to my feet, snatched up a nearby stick that had fallen to the ground, and charged forward while shouting things even I couldn’t comprehend.
The opponent also ducked under the stick and came grappling.
Though once again being toyed with, I simply kept wildly striking my opponent, the force going astray and leaving several wounds on my own face.

I was slammed down countless times.
I had lost all comprehension as I stood my ground.
If the comrades who rushed to the scene hadn't forcibly intervened at that moment, I was certain I would not have escaped unscathed.
But even after being pulled apart, I kept mouthing nothing but bravado.
"I'll always be ready to take you on—come at me anytime!" I even declared.
Though knowing myself no match for him in brute strength, whenever I considered what had sparked our clash, this very indignation reared its head all the more fiercely.
Even in defeat, I realized I could only find satisfaction through continuing to fight for Sagawa.

A month that felt as if my body had lost its center had slipped by before I knew it.

I had no idea where Private Second Class Sagawa was.
Somewhere on the continent, he must be taking up arms and assigned to operate locomotives.
I often dreamed of him standing upon a map of China, smiling at me.
Each time, I could not help but pray that he would achieve military distinction.
He didn't need to make his whereabouts known.
He didn't need to send a single letter.
As long as he remained safe and continued fighting, I thought to myself...