Pathway to Japanese Literature

Back when we were still with the unit, there was a seasoned Special Duty Lieutenant who had served five years on submarines; he would occasionally tell us stories, and among them, this one remains deeply etched in my mind. It’s a story about when they’d been submerged at the sea’s bottom for extended periods and were finally about to surface. After all, submarines—being vessels that submerge underwater—must have their air supply completely cut off. The air became filthy beyond measure—thick and sticky whether you breathed in or out, leaving everyone suffocating. Though they didn’t show it on their faces, they were all gasping for fresh air like dying goldfish—that’s how it was. So when it came time to surface, they would all wait excitedly for that moment when the hatch would open. Pushing through the seawater, it surfaced forcefully. When the hatch was suddenly flung open, fresh air laden with the scent of the tide cascaded down through the hatch. This is about that moment.

“You’d think they’d gulp it down and find it delicious beyond words.” “But no.” “The moment they suck it in, a wave of nausea surges up—greasy sweat pours out.” “That’s a violent, nasty feeling.” “Their throats outright reject the fresh air.” “That goes on for about a minute.” “Finally when their throats and lungs adjust—that’s when they truly come to realize how damn good air really tastes.” “Unless you’ve actually been through it yourself—this taste? You’d never understand.”

The Special Duty Lieutenant with the trimmed mustache looked around at our faces and concluded his story with a somewhat self-satisfied expression. This lieutenant was a relatively decent sort, and I liked him. He was a guileless man who had a child attending middle school. Someone like him was a rarity among Special Duty Officers. Usually, Navy Special Duty Officers had a perversely twisted streak about them and nursed this peculiar resentment toward us cram-course reserve officers. When you thought about it, I suppose that wasn't unreasonable. We'd had only a year or so of training and couldn't even do proper work in practice, yet carried ourselves quite like full-fledged officers. For those who'd forged themselves over ten or fifteen years in this profession, every aspect of us must have been utterly infuriating. I could understand their urge to nitpick. However, it wasn't as if I'd joined the Navy out of any particular fondness for it, and since I knew I'd end up dying as expendable material anyway, I hadn't paid it much mind. In other words, we were like brides entering households teeming with meddling in-laws. Even if they hadn't genuinely intended to bully us, they'd naturally started looking for faults. So even among us, the one with the most flaws had been treated harshly. And the one who'd been treated most harshly was a man named Futami—my fellow reserve ensign from the same cohort. I will now tell the story of this Ensign Futami.

To put it simply, Futami was a man utterly unsuited to military life. A man who lacked military qualifications to such an extent must have been rare indeed. In that regard, even among our cohort’s reserve ensigns, many had looked down on Futami. Yet—and I must state this—a man who had strived as desperately as Futami to become soldier-like must have been rarer still. For this reason, he had endured blood-seeping agony time and again. (I should clarify—this didn’t mean he wanted a military career or particularly loved the forces.) In truth, he had been their very antithesis.) And his efforts to militarize himself would, in his case, often yield decisively inverse results. It resembled a man cursed with gambling losses—the harder he struggled, the deeper he sank into defeat.

Futami was four or five years older than us. Unlike us—pulled straight into the Navy from school—Futami had been conscripted as a private and then half-forced by the naval barracks into volunteering as a reserve officer. He should have stayed a regular soldier. As a soldier you just follow orders—sure, your body takes a beating, but your mind bears less responsibility. Screw up and you get punched—end of story. But as an officer? Different matter entirely. Become an officer of the glorious Imperial Navy, make one careless mistake, and they'd come down on you hard. The Navy—for all its open-hearted appearance—was crawling with petty fault-finders. Futami had lived through this with nerves stretched taut like ice. That must have taken tremendous effort, I imagine.

Futami’s physique wasn’t particularly feeble, but it gave an impression reminiscent of physical deformity. There was something unbalanced about his proportions. His limbs felt slightly elongated, giving the impression that his joints had slipped out of place. He had sloping shoulders like a woman’s, and he thrust out his thin chest as if compensating for them. I think Futami must have been slouching when he lived back home in the countryside. I don’t know where he had worked before, but ever since joining the military, he must have endured endless complaints—that he didn’t act like a soldier, that he lacked an aggressive spirit—until he ended up forcing his chest out like that. So that posture felt unnatural. What supported that thrust-out chest wasn’t Futami’s spine—it was his strained nerves. He kept his neck straight on those sloping shoulders, pursed his lips as if biting down, and walked with eyes fixed straight ahead. His gaze remained fixed forward, but his eyes always held a frail, frightened look. As if desperately trying to protect something.

Take Futami’s way of walking, for instance. This had become the target of pitying laughter from Special Duty Officers and sometimes even soldiers—he would swing both legs out front and walk with an energetic clatter. Like a marionette, he swung both arms with perfect form as he advanced in that mechanical, clattering rhythm. Futami’s face remained utterly serious, that sense of meticulously calculated effort lending tension to his slender features. And when saluting or returning salutes, he’d snap his right palm up to his face in perfect sync with his stepping foot—the very image of a string-controlled marionette. The timing was flawless. It all felt utterly absurd.

There was such a thing. Take when you implant real hair into a mannequin or make its skin color lifelike—the more you try to approximate reality, the further it deviates from resembling an actual human being, becoming increasingly grotesque. Ensign Futami’s situation bore some resemblance to this phenomenon. If described strictly through the terminology found in military manuals, there wasn’t a single flaw to be found in Futami’s bearing and movements. His chest remained properly thrust out; his arms swung with textbook precision; his salutes matched regulation standards as perfectly as any new recruit’s—nowhere could you point to any sloppiness. Yet this very correctness made it utterly strange. It struck you viscerally. Petty officers with malicious intent would even detour out of their way just to salute him and make him return the gesture. In perfect sync with his steps, Futami would snap his palm up to return their salutes. Then, just as precisely timed with his footfalls, he’d snap it back down. All while unnaturally straining his already fragile facial expression.

Of course Futami must have been fully aware they were saluting him for that very purpose. Yet for Futami, maintaining such postures and movements consumed all his effort—he couldn’t let them slacken through habituation like other officers did. He had learned through every fiber of his being during that year-plus of military life that revealing his true nature by slackening would make him cease resembling a military man. If one needed momentum to execute a proper salute, then surely no one could manage otherwise. Even mocked, he had no choice but to persist. Whenever I contemplate how much nervous energy Futami—a man so devoid of motor skills—must have expended to maintain himself as an officer, gloom invariably descends upon me. He lived through twenty ordinary years’ worth within that single military year. Having been with him since officer training, I knew intimately how he came to be that way. Not one classmate botched things as much as he did or endured such reprimands. And no man ever strained so desperately to wrench himself into military conformity.

Yet that effort—as I had mentioned earlier—often manifested in completely opposite results for him. For instance, in his extreme nervousness, he would sometimes end up shouting “Right dress!” when he meant to say “Head right!” And he would get scolded by the Commanding Officer until his eyes nearly popped out and become the laughingstock of the petty officers and soldiers. Even in the line of duty, because he frequently made such blunders, chief petty officers would come over and snap complaints at him. Then Futami would listen to their complaints in a rigid, motionless posture. He did so with a tense expression, as if it were his solemn duty. Ensign Futami, standing before a chief petty officer. Even if soldiers had come to complain, Futami might have listened in that same rigid, motionless posture. He must have been well aware of the military’s ideology and system—that lower ranks must absolutely obey higher ranks—but he could only perceive it as something external to himself. He had been unable to correctly position himself within it. For him, the world of the military existed solely as a pressure that forced his submission. Therefore, Futami’s effort to be soldier-like differed from how ordinary people would conceive of such an endeavor. He knew he was utterly unsuited to this world and wanted to somehow paper over the humiliation arising from that deficit. That’s the kind of man Futami was. The possibility of failure—he feared it pathologically. When it came to humiliation, he had a pathological sensitivity. That could be seen even in Futami’s expression whenever he messed up.

For instance, when he botched a command, he would suddenly turn deathly pale. His face looked exactly like that of a child caught stealing food. Because he sensed the voiceless ridicule around him, he would try to laugh to hide his embarrassment, but even that he couldn’t do. His cheeks only stiffly spasmed. I still cannot forget the expression he wore in those moments. He waited, trembling violently, for the time steeped in humiliation to quickly pass away. The navy was truly a peculiar place—once one entered that world, one’s capacity to sympathize with others’ failures or defend them gradually wore thin, while the inclination to censure or mock grew ever stronger.

I was no different. In a military that so desperately required unity, what was this phenomenon? And within that environment, it goes without saying where a man like Ensign Futami stood.

Regarding Futami’s lack of motor skills—as I had mentioned earlier—the navy had something called Navy gymnastics. It was a somewhat complex exercise, but not particularly difficult. With practice, anyone could do it. This Navy gymnastics—Futami never managed to master it until the very end. The only thing he could perform was something like "undulating swings," but when given commands like "Undulating swings—swing arms forward from the front, stop at the sides, bend the body forward four times each," he would have no idea what to do. Or rather, even if he understood, his body simply wouldn’t move properly—or so it seemed. When one became an officer, there were times they had to stand on a platform and lead exercises by barking commands—but even in this unit, he ultimately persisted without ever doing this. He knew this full well. The spiteful special duty officers tried forcing Futami onto the platform though...

This unit was stationed along the coast—the mainland remained the mainland—but after Okinawa fell, Grummans began coming daily, so they carved out multiple caves in the cliff face and lived there alongside both officers and soldiers. If there were to be a mainland landing eventually, this area would likely have been the first battlefield.

However, cave life was dreary. The humidity was oppressive, and when July and August came around especially, it turned brutally muggy. We were on edge all day long, unable to settle. It felt like our heads were being pressed down with force. Even in the officers' mess—inside the cave of course—ordinary conversations grew sharp-edged, and sometimes blameless orderlies got slapped. When caught in such moods, people seemed to stop thinking beyond themselves. The bonds that connected us to others began to look like counterfeit goods.

In this unit, we lived in this manner—alternately contemplating when the enemy would land and this place become a battlefield, and trying to forget such thoughts.

However, that was a coast with strikingly beautiful sunsets, I tell you. When dinner was over, I would often go out to the coast and gaze at the sunset glow. The feast of indescribably delicate and resplendent colors that blanketed the center of the sky reflected on the sea and gradually shifted their hues. While gazing at it, I would feel as though I had slipped free from somewhere and were journeying to a faraway place. However, that time too lasted only about ten minutes. When the sunset glow sank into gray, I would feel as if a fox had bewitched me and head back toward the cave, but—

It was also on that sunset-glow coast that Futami let slip to me how he had written fairy tales as a hobby before being conscripted.

Whether Futami had come out to gaze at the sunset glow too, I didn't know. We somehow found ourselves together on the coast and stood talking while watching the sunset. Ordinarily Futami spoke little even in the officers' mess, keeping mostly silent—perhaps he'd only been moved to share such personal memories through some momentary enchantment by the sunset's magic. That day too cumulonimbus clouds swelled massively in the southern sky, dyed crimson by the sunset. In Futami's frail yet clear eyes that color was mirrored.

“When I see clouds like that, I get this urge to try writing a fairy tale again myself.”

Futami murmured this. Then, as if flustered, he averted his gaze and formed a peculiar smile. Then, as if pressing further, he muttered again. "Of course, I can’t even write anymore." "You want to go home too, don’t you." Without any particular feeling, I answered like that. Futami seemed to startle and stiffen his body. But he said nothing, immediately turning his gaze away to watch the sunset glow once more. The sunset clouds swelled roundly like some animal’s back. Futami stood at parade rest, yet even now kept both palms pressed flat against his thighs as regulations demanded. Backlit by the sunset, his figure stood out blackly—the uneven silhouette of his sloping shoulders suddenly burned itself into my eyes. It felt indescribably lonely. Maintaining that posture, Futami spoke in a low voice.

"Mr. Enemy, I wonder if you’d hurry up and come ashore. "I can’t wait any longer."

“Planning to die valiantly by the sword, are you?” “No,” Futami threw his head back and laughed wretchedly. “I thought it’d be amusing.” Having rarely seen Futami laugh before, I found it unsettling. That laugh made me acutely aware of our age difference. Though he usually seemed like a peer—all strained vigor and clumsy missteps—in that moment I sensed Futami as someone existing in an entirely alien realm. This should have been a natural perception, but military life dulls such sensitivities. When the sunset glow faded, he wiped that smile from his face, silently stepped away from me, pressed his lips tight as if biting down, and returned to the cave with his usual clattering gait. Though insignificant in itself, this evening remains etched strangely vivid in my memory. Looking back, this must have been our only conversation beyond military duties. Perhaps I’d glimpsed his true face—the raw self beneath that perpetually stiff, awkward tension. Or maybe it was just my own sentimentality under the sunset’s spell—I can’t be certain.

It was perhaps around ten days after that, I suppose.

The war ended suddenly—

The noon radio broadcast of the Emperor’s voice crackled and broke up so badly we couldn’t make it out properly, but when the communications officer brought that military telegram copy to inform us in the officers’ mess, each of us was struck by an intense impulse. Everyone present fell completely silent for a time. Encountering such a taut silence was not something one would experience often in a lifetime. Looking back now, though that impulse must have differed slightly for each person, as for me, it felt like walking against a fierce wind that suddenly ceased—leaving me staggering from the lost resistance, overwhelmed by a terrifying sense of instability. And once that moment passed, a sense of liberation—as if everything that had been constraining me had shattered into fragments—finally arose within me too. As that sensation expanded boundlessly, even while I myself swelled along with it, an uneasy feeling—as if my footing were faltering—suddenly constricted me. And the year and some months I had spent in the military came to feel like a terrifyingly long span of time. Such a silence lasted a full minute. Then came the voice of that Special Duty Lieutenant with the trimmed mustache beside me—

“So that means... we’ve lost?” “That’s right.” “This Japan of ours.” The communications officer fluttered the telegram copy with his clumsy handwriting onto the desk. Futami was leaving the officers’ mess, sliding his body along the cave wall as he passed by. It was his usual way of walking, swinging both arms correctly. However, with his lips clenched tighter than usual—giving him a somewhat contorted expression—Futami left the room in silence, the clattering sound of his footsteps lingering behind. His way of walking had only one rigid form, so it was utterly devoid of expression. So when you looked at his retreating figure, it appeared as though he was walking along completely unperturbed.

“Heh.” “Putting on such a composed face.” While watching his retreating figure, the Meteorological Chief or someone muttered as if spitting out the words. Some rose to their feet in scattered response as though prompted by it, while others stayed leaning against desks with eyes firmly shut. Those who stood likely had no clear reason for doing so, and those with closed eyes probably couldn’t grasp their own thoughts either, I imagine.

However, humans are such mercenary creatures.

Then, after just three days, with preparations underway for the unit’s disbandment, the entire force became terrifyingly animated and lively. The commanding officer here was a man with an arrogant face yet a timid disposition, who must have hastily concluded that it would be dangerous not to disband the unit quickly. By around the third day, the entire unit had loosened into disarray and buzzed with commotion. Once the Accounting Section took their allotted share, they dumped the remaining supplies all at once. All day long, shouts were relayed—"Squad leaders, come get canned goods!" or "Send reps for field shoe distribution!"—one after another. People scrambled in response, creating utter pandemonium. The cave passage doubled as the soldiers’ living quarters, and there they were stuffing distributed supplies into duffel bags and pulling them back out, trying to take as much extra as they could—some guys had even brought canvas to make new duffel bags. Daily routines and everything had vanished, and we had turned into a disorderly mob. Even the officers and petty officers had lost any means to control it, and their days too ended up being consumed solely by securing their own shares. The psychological state during such times must have been unique. Even though they didn't know how their lives would unfold from here on out, they were determined to take whatever they could get their hands on—there was even a petty officer packing up a communications generator, though God knows what he planned to use it for. Once organizations ceased to exist, everything that bound humans to one another had vanished completely. Everyone was so preoccupied with their own affairs that they seemed utterly indifferent to anything else.

As for me, I gradually regained my composure, organizing the distributed supplies, going out to the coast to gaze at the sea—spending the day idly on such things. The fact that we had lost the war still hadn’t fully settled in my mind, and the notion that I would cross to the opposite shore and return home once a ship became available held no sense of reality whatsoever. That being said, I neither disliked nor found comfort in the current chaotic state. As though something stood between me and everything else, I stayed in a daze. I suppose I too must still have been somewhat unsettled.

I think it was three days ago when Futami’s orderly came to me reporting that Ensign Futami was acting strangely. When I asked what was wrong, the orderly made a slightly uneasy face and replied that there was nothing specific, but that something just felt off. “Ensign Futami has hardly slept at all since that day.”

Both today and yesterday, Ensign Futami had spent the entire day wandering through the caves and along the coastline in his usual clattering gait. That I had seen too. His way of walking was recognizable even from a distance, so I'd naturally noticed it. Each time the thought that he must be happy too would fleetingly cross my mind, I never paid it any particular heed. After all, I was completely occupied with my own affairs, and with the organization dissolved, everyone had uniformly fallen into the same state—so there was no reason to show Futami any special attention. However, upon hearing such talk from the orderly, I immediately recalled Futami's face as he left the officers' mess on the day of our defeat. It was a contorted expression, as though he were struggling desperately to suppress something. But back then, perhaps they all wore similar expressions—though I can't be certain.

Futami’s quarters were in a place like a dead-end tunnel dug sideways into the cave. When I entered there guided by the orderly, Futami was sitting on a crude chair with his arms crossed. The area was neatly organized, with none of the disorder seen in other living quarters. What startled me was how Futami’s face had grown gaunt and haggard. Futami’s eyes looking up at me were not their usual weak and timid selves but had a burning, sharp color to them.

“I’ve figured it out. “Hey. “I’ve figured it out.” The moment he saw my face, Futami said those words. His tone showed no trace of disarray. “What have you figured out?” But Futami didn’t answer. He suddenly stood up and began pacing around the room with his chest thrust out. An eerie shadow of a smile seemed to hover on his cheeks. Without even acknowledging me, he abruptly left through the exit into the passageway. I started to pursue him but checked myself. Then I seized the young orderly—his face taut with worry—and pressed him for details about Futami’s condition.

According to him, on that night of the war’s end, Futami had sat clutching his head in a chair, paced around the room in circles, and hadn’t slept a wink. From the next day onward, whenever he seemed slightly off, he would suddenly start grinning broadly, refuse to acknowledge delivered supplies even when brought to him, and no sooner would one assume he was in his room than he’d head out into the passageway—that was the pattern. Without needing to hear the details, it was clear that a certain mental breakdown had descended upon Futami. Having said, “If anything unusual happens, come report it,” I returned to the officers’ mess. I thought it was temporary, but even so, a dark shadow pierced my heart. Even if I contacted the medical corps, in this pandemonium, they probably wouldn’t give him a proper examination. He said he’d figured it out, but what had he really understood? And even if temporary, when I considered why he had fallen into such a frenzy, that year-long span of Futami’s military life pierced through me—not as fragmented impressions, but snapped into vivid focus. Since our officer training days, we had been in the same squad and ended up here together by chance, but back then I’d merely thought it would be tough being stuck with a clumsy oaf—I’d never felt any particular closeness. The fact that he’d gone mad and thereby abruptly drawn close to me felt somehow unbearable. The fact that Futami’s deterioration still seemed unknown to the other officers was because everyone was utterly consumed with themselves—and the realization that I alone knew this began to weigh heavily upon me. I was making every effort to shake it off—and yet.

The next day too began with a tumultuous morning. Ensign Futami would leave his room early in the morning and seemed to wander about everywhere incessantly. Despite his pallid, gaunt cheeks, his stride had grown increasingly vigorous as he marched along swinging both arms in perfect rhythm, his boots clattering against the ground. Sometimes he would stop to stare intently at soldiers stuffing duffel bags, or halt them to ask questions and jot down their answers in his notebook. It seemed he had hardly slept last night either; his eyes were bloodshot, the black pupils within them glittering sharply. By now, no matter who looked at him, Futami’s condition was clearly abnormal. Even when passing others, he showed no sign of acknowledgment, emitting a chilling aura from his entire body.

“That guy’s acting a bit off.” “What’s wrong?”

That Special Duty Lieutenant said while wiping around his clipped mustache with a handkerchief and entering the officers’ room. “Ensign Futami. Has the heat gotten to him?” “Has the heat driven him mad?”

At that moment, I—who had been lost in thought in the corner of the officers’ room—suddenly grew concerned upon hearing those words and leapt into the passageway as though driven by some impulse. Searching the passageway as I went, I passed through and emerged outside. There, I suddenly came face to face with Futami. Futami had arched his chest back sharply and was walking with a rhythmic stride, swinging both arms alternately with such vigor that it appeared almost theatrical. “Futami. “What’s wrong?”

I called out to stop him. Breathing slightly hard. Futami stopped and looked at me, but he just kept staring without saying anything for a while. And he suddenly reached out his hand and grabbed my arm.

“The Red Camel.” He said this in a quiet, steady voice. His eyes had eerily dilated pupils as he stared at something past my shoulder. I shuddered and turned around. It was the time of sunset glow. A crimson sunset rose from the horizon, its reflection on the sea surface appearing to spill vermilion. Cumulonimbus clouds formed layered banks stretching southward, their expanse beautifully tinged pale crimson. His eyes were fixed on that sight. Depending on how one looked at it, those clouds were not unlike a camel’s humped back. At that moment, with a faint shudder, I remembered how Futami had once said that seeing such clouds made him want to write fairy tales.

I then pulled Futami along and took him to the medical corps. Amidst medics crunching medical supplies into duffel bags, we entered. Empty boxes and medicine bottles were scattered about, leaving no space to set foot.

However, in such a state, giving a clear diagnosis was impossible. The chief medical officer’s mind was unsettled too, seeming more preoccupied with processing medical supplies than with patients; in the end, he merely gave us some sedatives and said only that once transportation became available, it would be best to send him back to his hometown. Then when I tried to pull Futami along to take him back to his room again, he—for some reason—put up fierce resistance. However, when I managed to bring him to his room, he suddenly turned docile. And sitting down on a chair, he silently took the sedative with water brought by the orderly. As I sat on a chair too gazing at his face, he slowly stood up and blocked my way.

“You.” “You’re still hiding something.” Futami said in a low, hoarse voice. His gaze wavered as though unable to focus, but his brows were darkly shadowed. “I’m not hiding anything.” So as not to resist, I meekly answered. Then Futami nodded, went to the corner of the room, sat down on the edge of the bed, and cradled his head. After watching that for a while, I returned to my quarters.

The following dawn, I was violently shaken awake by Futami’s orderly. I jolted awake.

“I was persistently told to come ask when the sortie time would be—so—”

“Sortie?” I sensed something ominous and sat up. And hurriedly got dressed.

“Did Futami sleep last night?” “That sedative didn’t seem to have much effect.” We hurried through the dark, deserted passageway. But it was too late. Futami lay face down on the desk, everything around him drenched in blood. The dagger had fallen to the floor, its blade buried in his throat. For a moment it seemed some faint breath remained, but by the time the chief medical officer arrived, it had completely stopped.

That afternoon, Futami's corpse was buried. Except for the two or three men ordered to handle it, no one showed any warmth regarding Futami's death. The reason was that the transport ship had arrived. By the time they finished burying him, the first Daihatsu departed from the coast. We watched it from the hill where we'd buried Futami. The soldiers in the Daihatsu kept waving toward us incessantly.

That's the end of Futami's story.

They disposed of all Futami’s belongings, but I kept only his notebook. This notebook contained addresses and various writings, but as it progressed, the text became increasingly disordered and illegible. It must have been his handwriting from after his mental breakdown. Among entries that still appeared coherent, the four characters “Red Camel” were written on one page. Now that I think about it, he might have conceived the idea for such a fairy tale and jotted it down as a reminder. Whether this was before or after the war’s end remains unclear. Yet this phrase, regardless of its origin, strangely makes that sunset glow vividly resurface in my heart—and the black figure of Futami standing there, with his sloping shoulders, limbs slightly too long, joints as if unhinged—the misshapen form of a solitary man.

A tightly drawn string will snap with the slightest stimulus. It was likely that Futami’s strained nerves had snapped in much the same way. Just as submariners—their throats and lungs rejecting the long-awaited fresh air—would be violently seized by vomiting, so too had Futami’s mind been unable to endure the freedom that had suddenly descended upon him. The disparity between those two worlds—even now, when I try to imagine it—still seems to hold something that makes one shudder.

[October 1948]