Training flights are supposed to resume in mid-January, but for the time being we are completely shut out of the sky. Everything is in a slump. We enjoy an abundance of oranges (as a matter of fact, we each received ten today), but that’s only because this region produces a lot of oranges and they can’t ship them out due to reductions in carrying capacity.
Today’s lecture was on radio homing, direction-finding, and the protocols for carrier-based takeoff and landing. I’m no good at theory, and when I don’t follow the lecture, I get sleepy, and when I fall asleep, I get a chill. Anyway, what’s the use of learning how to take off and land on carriers that we no longer possess? Forty-five men from the Army Air Corps are bunking at the drill hall these days to attend the navy lectures. They even hauled in a huge navigation drawing board for the purpose. I guess the Army finally sees the need to master modern scientific methods of navigation. But I have to say, they are, as always, a few steps behind, and it is getting late in the day.
December 18
Cadet S.’s father died of a rare disease in which blood clots block up the capillaries. He traveled to Tokyo to attend the funeral and returned to base last night.
According to the information S. brought back, the damage Tokyo suffered in the raids isn’t quite as bad as we imagined. The fire brigades did a tremendous job, managing to contain most of the damage from the incendiary bombs. He could see the B-29s flying in at 8,000 meters, mere dots in the sky. And though he couldn’t make out the fighters, he knew they were there because they gleamed as they rolled over. We fire our high-angle guns relentlessly, but the enemy bombers evade them. The student service units are really pitching in, devoting themselves body and soul. Apparently, it’s the regular factory hands who generally lack discipline. As for the ordinary people: They still have the heart to browse around the Ginza, outfitted in gaiters, gas masks, and tin hats. They even staged a concert in Hibiya. Unmistakably there are fewer men around. On the other hand, the earthquake damage all along the Sea of Enshu is worse than we thought. The railroad bridge over the Oh-i River collapsed, totally disrupting transportation and distribution networks. Recovery along the Tokaido Line simply isn’t a prospect this year. It was amusing to see how curious we were to hear S.’s report. We were all ears, as if he had been to Persia or Egypt.
On Saturday morning, somewhere out behind the lavatory and the barracks, someone struck a seaman for failing to salute, and at around 11 o’clock today the culprit was ordered to reveal himself. The seaman suffered a broken cheekbone, and according to the chief surgeon’s examination, the injury might permanently impair his ability to chew. He claims a student reserve officer corrected him. Well, the incident has already surfaced, and unless the perpetrator comes forward, they say the case be referred to a court martial. So, after lunch, every student reserve who punched a seaman on Saturday went to the sick bay to meet the boy, one by one. But he didn’t finger any of us. I went, too, having corrected a petty officer for failing to salute me out by the swimming pool Saturday morning. I wasn’t in any danger, since my set-to obviously involved a different man at a different place, but the whole event set me to brooding again. Just a few days back I resolved to strike enlisted men if I thought it would help maintain discipline, but in truth, the impulse to strike doesn’t necessarily spring from high-minded deliberation. More often than not, “maintaining discipline” is just the excuse we use to blow off steam.
The seaman with the broken cheekbone will probably be sent back out into the free world. He certainly has my deepest sympathy. He returns to his parents a cripple, and not because of a battlefield injury, but because of a blow he took for failing to salute. What will the villagers say? What will his parents think of the navy? And how will he make a living for the rest of his life? I have decided not to raise my hand against anyone after all.
Fujikura saw me go off to sick bay, and when I got back, he said, “If you really think you can save Japan by dying, go ahead and die. I won’t stop you. But even you don’t really believe you can save the country by beating up a seaman, now, do you? If you engage in this sort of behavior to vent your indignation over blows you took from recon students or instructors, why don’t you strike back at them instead? Think about the feelings of those seamen recruits, men who can’t vent their anger on anybody. Maybe skipping the occasional salute is the only way they have to relieve their frustration. I don’t care if they don’t salute me. And if what you call ‘military spirit’ continues to manifest itself like this, well, I may really lose my patience with you.”
I had already thought better of my earlier resolution when Fujikura let loose on me, and his words got on my nerves. “It’s none of your business,” I retorted, “who do you think you are anyway? You flatter yourself with your great humanity and civility, but you’re nothing but an egotist.” I continued in that vein for a spell. Lately, Fujikura has drifted away from the other men in our division. I have little contact with Sakai, as he is in the bomber division, and I miss Kashima immensely, probably because we are so far apart.
But as for that injured seaman, his story gradually changed as the day wore on, and the details are now obscure. The account differs according to whom he tells it to. Now it’s not even certain that the perpetrator was a student reserve. Judging from all the information, he was likely punched either by an assistant division officer (a special services officer), or else by one of the veteran petty officers, the men seamen fear the most. But this seaman couldn’t bring himself to name the offender, and when he was questioned he laid the blame on the student reserves, the men with whom he has the least contact anyway. It was all a first-rate nuisance for us student reserves, but I felt for his situation.
As night fell, the top brass sent down a message: “If all student reserves swear they have not harmed this seaman, we accept your word and consider the case closed.” They are adopting an air of great magnanimity. It’s strange, though, that they should so easily settle a matter that might well have merited a court martial. It makes me suspicious. From the point of view of the men at the top, the perpetrator must be very inconveniently situated.
December 20
Last night there was a titanic storm. Gales gathered from the four corners of the universe to smash us, and I felt the rumbling in my gut. After that, a blizzard set in, and it has been snowing all day long. At first, the soft cottony flakes vanished when they touched the ground, precisely as if they had been sucked into it, but soon enough they started to pile up, and when the sun finally peeked out, the snow in front of the motor pool glittered. It really was lovely.
Flights are still suspended. The enemy has landed on Mindoro. Three oil tankers are said to have made port at Kure, under an imposing escort, but from the looks of it our fuel won’t arrive for a while yet. Beginning on the 26th, the carrier-based bomber group will fly Type-99s. The prospect sends them into raptures, as they are to graduate to the Type-99 before they’ve even completed the regular course in the Type-96. The Type-99, it seems, can burn alcohol fuel without much retrofitting. There was talk of our resuming flights, too, once we obtain the fuel. But our Type-97 attack bombers can’t tolerate alcohol fuel without a thorough refitting of both tank and carburetor, so the plan has been scratched.