Burial in the Clouds by Hiroyuki Agawa Page A

and I could hear water dripping off the rocks. Deutzias were flowering. We grew silent for some reason, but we were fully gratified at heart. Personally, I have never been much interested in the gardens at Dai-sen-in or at Ryoan-ji Temple, and I certainly don’t mean to compare the Fukais’ garden with those. But it has been a very long time since I knew such serenity, and in such a peaceful setting.
    As noon approached, they offered us a few tidbits. We declined, not wishing to abuse their hospitality, but they insisted. And after that, it was “Bread is better than birdsong,” as they say. (I can’t deny that we had more or less anticipated this.) Gratefully we enjoyed locally brewed sake, bonito sashimi garnished with ginger, sea urchin from Shimonoseki, and Suizenji seaweed soup, all the while telling the Fukais of our present circumstances and of our backgrounds. The Fukais have a son, a graduate of Keio University, who serves as a technical lieutenant in an army unit at Tianjin. They said fate brought us together and expressed the hope that we would visit whenever we were given an outing, treating their home as our own. We took our leave at around one thirty, in high spirits—in fact, feeling blessed.
    However, the meal the Fukais served was a bit too elegant to fill our stomachs, and when we returned to Izumi we ate a plate of fried rice with chicken, two bowls of oyako-donburi , a plate of sushi, and some scalloped noodles, and finally satisfied ourselves. As might be expected, I left more than half of my dinner at the base untouched. But I am becoming voracious again these days.
    June 15
    American troops have started landing on Saipan. I heard that the combined fleet hoisted a “Z” flag and sailed in with all its remaining vessels. They haven’t announced any military results yet.
    We had our first takeoff and landing exercises. It was a dual flight and we all scrambled to get the good voice tubes. Wind direction: North. Wind velocity: Beaufort No. 7. I flew for thirty minutes.
    The special course today was glider training. In bursts of fifty paces, done on the double, we hauled a secondary glider out to the end of the airfield. In the midst of the exercise, G.’s towline broke, injuring him slightly and snapping his watch band. The watch flew off into the air, and we searched for it after the order to cease the exercise was issued. It was a pleasure to grope about in the grass for the lost watch, teasing one another. “It’s a treasure hunt at our seaside school,” someone said. “Whoever finds the watch, he’ll get G.’s milk tomorrow.”
    The day was long, and we cast deep shadows across the grass. I found myself more curious about the lark eggs nestled out here somewhere than about G.’s watch. I lay down flat so as to spot the bird when it alighted, and then made a search. After a few tries, I found the nest: three tiny eggs, gray-colored and oval-shaped, neatly arranged. The lark chattered on anxiously from a distance. M. told me that if a person touches its eggs, a bird will refuse to sit on them, so I gave it up, leaving the nest and my heart behind.
    â€œHere it is!” someone shouted. The works of the watch were still intact and with a new glass cover it will be perfectly usable. We were all set to return to the barracks when Wakatsuki cried out abruptly, eyes skyward, “What the hell?!” We all looked up, and beheld an aircraft engaged in aerobatic exercises. A man had crawled out on its wing.
    â€œAck!” we gasped, as the body pulled away from the plane, plummeting, as if sucked down, over beyond the field headquarters, from an altitude of 800 meters. The man died instantly. It looks like a suicide. The plane went into a spin and crashed in a barley field. It wasn’t long before his identity was disclosed: Senior Aviation Petty Officer D., an instructor attached to the 7th Division. I couldn’t fathom it.