The Life and Death of Yukio Mishima (39 page)

Soon we arrived at our rendezvous point. There we would meet the Tatenokai column which had set out from the barracks before us, on foot. We were then to take over as guides, according to the exercise plan. We had some time to wait, and the sergeant, who carried a poacher's sack, took dry wood from it and busied himself with a fire. Mishima chatted to me about the nationalist leader, Masaharu Kageyama, as we warmed our backs against the fire. As I listened to the curious tale of how the supporters of this person had committed hara-kiri to the last man at the end of the Pacific War, and how Kageyama had refrained from following them, the Tatenokai came in sight, walking slowly up the road toward us. They were well equipped for their roles as guerrillas, I had to admit. Some had walkie-talkie sets, a model known as a P-6, which had a long, waving aerial. Everyone in the group, a dozen or more men, carried the 1964-type Japanese army rifle, a good weapon; and on their heads they wore American-style fiber helmets. Mishima and I swung in line in front of the Tatenokai, and the sergeant, who was the one among us who knew the ground, led the way. We began to trudge up the narrow road, straight toward Mt. Fuji. The students were at first spread out; but as the road dwindled to a narrow path and the snow got deeper, we began to plunge in up to our waists, and the students started to follow one after another in the holes made by the energetic sergeant. Even so it was slow, and it took us more than two hours to reach the forest ahead, where we stopped in the first trees, a scattering of silver birches. We were going no farther than this up Mt. Fuji.

It was time for lunch, and I noticed that an army vehicle had managed to come up behind us with supplies; there must have been an easy road. From the lorry a number of officers descended, clad in white anoraks, to distinguish them from the rest of us; they were the referees of our little war game. The officers did not join
Mishima and me at lunch, but went over to the Tatenokai, who had settled down in the woods nearby, leaving us to have an honorable picnic on our own, served by the sergeant. The latter cleared the ground and spread blankets for us on the snow. He then placed in front of us large tin trays with a great deal of food. It was a nourishing Japanese meal, mainly
sekihan
, glutinous rice with little red beans, a special dish. Bottles of soy sauce were brought out, and stuck in the snow by us, and the feast began. Mishima was a fast eater and swallowed the rice in mouthfuls at a time; it went straight down in mighty gobs. But the rice would not go down my throat; draughts of hot green tea would not send it on its way either. When Mishima finished his bowl of
sekihan
, I was still only one tenth of the way through mine: how did the design of his throat differ from mine? Swallowing more green tea brought by the sergeant, I got down about a third of the
sekihan
, but it was out of the question to do more. I got up from my blanket and, with an apology, scooped a hole in the snow and disposed of my
sekihan
, burying the feast.

Mishima glanced over his shoulder at me and said nothing, but there was no doubt, from the sour expression on his face, that I had made a blunder. There is a difference in kind between the English and the Japanese idea of a picnic, of which I had not been aware. Mishima was untypically quiet, suspending his chatter about Yōmeigaku, a neo-Confucian school of philosophy, and the sins of Professor Masao Maruyama, the political scientist, whom he had been accusing of having failed to study Yōmei. I felt like a dog who has offended his master, and who must wait mutely for pardon to be granted. The time would come when we would move away from the spot I had polluted, and in the meantime I would be made to suffer. Shortly afterward, to my relief, everyone began to move around and prepare for departure. Marching through the deep snow brought warmth back to our bodies, and Mishima seemed to regain his former good spirits. He trudged in front, visible only from the knees up, and casting his eyes about him. The weather was still perfect, the snow flat, level, and undisturbed, as if there were little animal life around us. There was an occasional rumble of artillery from the range on the other side of Mt. Fuji, and from
time to time helicopters would pass overhead on their way to one of the Japanese or American bases close to us. But for most of the time we were undisturbed, and could enjoy the walk.

Mishima looked up toward Mt. Fuji, around which one or two clouds had begun to form at a high altitude, increasing the beauty of the mountain. There was no sound but that of our feet crunching through the snow, and an occasional swoosh as someone knocked snow off the branch of a tree. We were small black and brown figures in a vast expanse of white; in this deep snow we seemed to swim and then to fall back rather than to make progress. Mishima swung his head around and began to shout across the snow at me: “It's a good excuse to walk in this beautiful snow. If you go alone, you feel crazy.” As he turned back, and bounced forward in his stride again, the earpieces of his hat spun in the air, jumping and banging against the sides of his close-shaven head. The sun caught the white fur, as if he had two great dandelion clocks dancing over his shoulders.

We were coming close to our target, the enemy camp, but the entire party seemed careless of this fact, infected by good spirits. The Tatenokai members trudged along in a line in the open; making no effort to spread out or to conceal themselves, they were in fact all bunched together close to the edge of the forest. Vague memories of the Meads at Winchester and of schoolmasters shouting “Spread out” came to my mind. Did one not spread out, in case we all were machine-gunned at once? Was this not one of the most basic rules? It occurred to me that in fact we
were
just going for a walk; it
was
“a good excuse to walk in this beautiful snow.” Even the army officers who were with us seemed to take it all in a most lighthearted way. They waded along in the snow parallel to us, in their white anoraks and dark glasses, chatting and laughing; they might have been ski instructors. I recalled the conversation I had had with Mishima that morning over coffee; he had compared the Tatenokai to the Zengakuren and had asserted that the former had more “spirit” and were closer to the “samurai spirit.” Yet it had to be admitted that the Zengakuren fought, while the Tatenokai only trained; and the standard of training, even, was low. It seemed that the Tatenokai had little to do with the traditional samurai,
except in the romantic ideals of their leader; he wanted to be a kind of Japanese Lord Byron. Indeed, that morning he had talked with envy of Byron, how the poet had been able to afford to gather three hundred men in his service and repair ships.

We had been following the lower edge of the forests for about two hours, when an order came via the army instructors that Mishima and I were to detach ourselves from the guerrilla column and make our way to the enemy camp. From there we would view the final assault by the Tatenokai on the enemy position. When we arrived at this point, well in advance of the students, we found that the army NCOs who occupied the camp had built a couple of rough igloos and a snow wall, keeping themselves warm in the process; it was a snug place. For a long time we waited; sometimes there were shouts, and we would catch sight of an army instructor. It was late afternoon when the attack finally came. Streaming down a nearby hill, the students came on at us in twos and threes, while smoke bombs fizzed in the snow. They had all been “dead men” at a range of two hundred yards, the way they had come over the skyline, but on they advanced, making no attempt to keep low, exposed to “fire” in the form of thunderflashes hurled from our igloos. When they eventually struggled through the snow, already tired, they were set upon by the NCOs, who wrestled them to the ground and ripped off their boots in a flash, trussing them up tightly, one to another. Mishima joined in the skirmish, and rolled over in the snow, shrieking with laughter as he grappled with the sergeant. It was all over in ten minutes.

After our long walk through the snow, we were ready for baths, and I returned to the inn to rest until the evening meal. I passed the time making notes and phoning Tokyo; shortly before five, I left the inn and walked up to the camp. Our meal was to be a farewell party for the senior Tatenokai members, who had completed their refresher course. At the camp gate I was directed to the NCOs' mess, where the feast was to take place. I arrived there first and found a room full of tables and chairs with places already set and food put out. There were nests of beer bottles and soft drinks and a quantity of sandwiches. In one corner of the room was a jukebox and on the wall a calendar with a picture of a buxomy
blonde. Wishing to be as inconspicuous as possible, I seated myself at a table in the corner of the room and waited for the Tatenokai to arrive. We would be a large party, fifty in all.

One by one the Tatenokai students came clattering in, and at five exactly Mishima followed them, dancing into the room in denims. The meal began, beer was passed around and chased with saké or Japanese whisky, and before long there were red faces everywhere. As the students shouted and gesticulated, the jukebox was drowned out. One after another the students rose to sing songs, all joining in the chorus. There were ballads of cherry blossoms, kamikaze pilots, gangsters, and
yamato damashii
, the spirit of old Japan. Mishima stood in the center of the room, while the others remained in their chairs. He rose and led the choruses, passing the stubs of his cigarettes to his acolytes to be put in the ashtrays. There was obviously a good deal of hero worship here. Everyone was a little tipsy; and my neighbor, an intellectual student with glasses who had arrived late, speared pink cocktail sausages with his chopsticks with vicious swipes. Song followed song, and finally at seven o'clock Mishima declared an end to the party, calling for three
banzai
for the Tatenokai. Everyone got to their feet, my neighbor and I with them, and the national anthem was sung. At the close my companion turned toward me and seized my hand, pumped it hard, and said: “I love England,” a sentence which he twice repeated.

When I woke the next day, I felt far from lively. The weather had changed again; it was a close, muggy day with clouds, a lot warmer than the day before. I had to breakfast quickly, and leave the inn before I was properly awake, to be at the barracks by 7:30. Though this was the last day at the camp, I had not thought out the questions I must put to Mishima before we parted. It was too early in the morning for that, and we still had time; Mishima and I were not to leave the camp until midday, when we would return to Tokyo by train together.

I had been summoned to the camp at this early hour to witness a Tatenokai ceremonial parade. It was to take place in a large building close to the entrance of the camp. Normally, it would have been staged on the regimental parade ground in the open air, but the snow was too slushy for that. I walked into the building
and found there a number of Tatenokai members forming up in their yellow-brown uniforms; there were also army NCOs and one or two officers. Mishima came up to me; he was also dressed in the Tatenokai uniform with its large cap and badge composed of ancient
kabuto
(samurai helmets). We discussed briefly—he was short of time—where I should stand to observe the proceedings. I favored an inconspicuous position to the side; but Mishima wanted me in the front, on the extreme left, where I would see the whole parade, the rostrum from which the colonel would speak, and also the brass band which was just then forming up. The NCOs then held a short rehearsal, with Mishima standing by; he did not give orders, it seemed, either on exercises or on parade at Camp Fuji. The twenty-five men on parade were kept at attention for only a couple of minutes, but, to my surprise, two of them keeled over, and had to be carried away. The atmosphere was too close; I felt uncomfortable myself.

At eight o'clock precisely the Tatenokai were brought to attention once more, and Colonel Fukamizu made his entrance from the far side of the hut, accompanied by officers. An order was given, and the entire parade faced in my direction. As the national anthem was played—and it seemed to last for an interminable time—twenty-five pairs of Tatenokai eyes looked through me. I realized what was going on. The students had faced toward Tokyo; that was where the Emperor lived. It was just unfortunate that I, clad in ski clothes, none the more elegant for three days of continuous wear, happened to be in the line of fire. Should I also have made a gesture, by turning in the direction of the Imperial presence? I contemplated the idea for a second, but it was too late . . . I cursed Mishima for having overlooked what would happen. At last the anthem came to an end, and the parade again faced the front. This time the colonel took the salute, and as instructed by Mishima at the outset of the proceedings, I bowed twice in his direction, wondering whether this was really necessary. The colonel then inspected the parade (what
did
he make of those uniforms?), and took his place on the rostrum, from which he gave a short speech on
riidashippu
, on leadership. A few minutes later we were all trotting out of the hut into the open.

My visit to Camp Fuji was at an end. I waited for Mishima to
tell me about our travel arrangements, watching him and the Tatenokai members in uniform line up outside the hut for the last time, to have their photographs taken. Mishima quickly arranged the men, putting the short ones in the middle, and ranging them so that the tallest students were at either end. Then he took his place in the center, and with Mt. Fuji showing through the clouds behind them, the picture was taken. Mishima was in a hurry, but we talked for a moment and he told me that there had been an incident the night before. At the end of the party they had held, a student had poured a bucket of water on the head of the sergeant. There had been tears and apologies, and the offender had been made to do fifty push-ups, with Mishima leading. It was this student and one other who had fainted that morning. Mishima then told me that he had changed the travel plans and had hired a taxi to take us back to Tokyo at midday; he would pick me up at the Fujimotoya.