story of war. But, as the author states, he hopes that his readers will not see just another adventurous war story in Burma. “If it succeeds in its goal to set you at least to thinking, then I will be happy,” he explains. This edition was prepared for the translations collection of the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) by Professor Howard Hibbett of the United States.
HARP OF BURMA
Our Japanese soldiers who came back from overseas were a pitiful sight. They looked thin, weak, and exhausted. And some of them were invalids, drained of color and borne on stretchers.
But among the returning soldiers there was one company of cheerful men. They were always singing, even difficult pieces in several parts, and sang very well. When they disembarked at Yokosuka the people who came to greet them were astonished. Everyone asked if they had received extra rations, since they seemed so happy.
These men had had no extra rations, but had practiced choral singing throughout the Burma campaign. Their captain, a young musician fresh from music school, had enthusiastically taught his soldiers how to sing. It was singing that kept up their morale through boredom or hardship, and that bound them together in friendship and discipline during the long war years. Without it, they would never have come home in remarkably high spirits.
One of these soldiers told me the following tale.
THE SINGING COMPANY
CHAPTER ONE
WE CERTAINLY did sing. Whether we were happy or miserable, we sang. Maybe it’s because we were always under the threat of battle, of dying, and felt we wanted to do at least this one thing well as long as we were still alive. Anyway, we sang with all our hearts. And we preferred serious songs, songs with depth, not the frivolous popular kind. Of course most of us had been only farmers or laborers, but we managed to learn some fine choral music. I still remember with pleasure how we sang on the shore of a certain lake.
We had been on a long march down a valley through dense forests. Suddenly a lake came into view, with white buildings dotting its shore. It was a village where an ancient Burmese king once had a summer palace. Clusters of white-walled houses on a small bay stood half submerged, meeting their reflections in the water. Exotic domes, spires, and bell towers soared into the sky—the dazzling tropical sky.
Have you ever seen an opal? Well, the Burmese sky has just that sort of white glow, tinted here and there with iridescent flecks of light. To see marble towers spiraling up against such a sky makes you feel as if you are dreaming.
During the three days we were stationed in that village we practiced singing every day. We sang hymns, nostalgic old favorites like “The Moon Over the Ruined Castle,” pleasant tunes like Sous les toits de Paris, and even difficult German and Italian songs. There beside that picturesque lake the captain waved his baton happily, while we soldiers, carried away by the sound of our own voices, sang from the very depths of our beings.
One day we ended by practicing the company song Hanyu no Yado over and over again, in four-part harmony. Hanyu no Yado—”My Home Sweet Home”—is a song of yearning, one that never fails to stir your heart. As we sang we thought of our families and wished we could show them this landscape and let them hear our song.
Afterward the captain said, “All right, men, that’s enough for today. Tomorrow at the same time we’ll try something new. Company dismissed!” Then he called to one of the soldiers. “Hey, Mizushima, have you got that our company, but he must have been born with talent since he made such rapid progress. Music was his one passion; he thought of nothing else. He built his own harp to accompany our chorus, and he played so well that he could soon work up an accompaniment to any tune.
It must seem odd that troops in a remote place like Burma would have musical instruments along. But we certainly had them—all kinds of them. If the various instruments belonging to our soldiers were gathered together you would have a really interesting collection. No matter where our troops went, as soon as there was any spare time someone would make an instrument. There were even craftsmen among us who could turn out surprisingly good ones from the most ill-assorted materials. Wind instruments ranged from a simple reed or bamboo pipe with holes bored in it, to a bugle made from parts of broken machinery. As for percussion instruments, I have seen tambourines of cat or dog hide stretched over wooden frames, and even a gasoline drum with one end covered with some kind of skin—a tiger skin, I was told. Anyway, that drum was the pride of its company, and made a tremendous vibrant boom. Some units even had violins and guitars, though it’s hard to imagine how they were made.
In our company the instrument we used most was a kind of harp, a copy of the harp that the Burmese play. Its body was made of a thick native bamboo, which was attached to another piece of bamboo, bent and strung with wires of copper, steel, and aluminum or duralumin.
Leather thongs were used for the lower notes. After a great deal of hard work we were able to produce a musical scale on this curious harp.
Corporal Mizushima was a master with this harp. He made up all sorts of pieces for it. When he played, tones halfway between a piano and a Japanese lute mingled and hung in the air. At first glance he was a comical sight: a sunburned soldier in a combat cap with his arms around this delicate instrument, playing it as if in a trance.
When Mizushima was asked about his accompaniment to Hanyu no Yado, he immediately struck it up. What he played was so elaborate and interesting that it seemed more like a solo piece. The other soldiers gathered around to listen, with arms folded and eyes closed.
The air was heavy and fragrant and very still. The music of the harp traveled out over the lake and echoed back across the water from the edge of the forest on the opposite side. It was a forest of huge teak trees. You could see monkeys frolicking there, and hear all sorts of birds chattering back and forth.
Just at that moment a peacock fluttered down from somewhere, paraded in front of us briefly, and then flapped away. Its wings beat the air noisily, and as it flew, its shadow glided across the surface of the lake.
That is a truly happy memory.
CHAPTER TWO
HOWEVER, the tide of war had begun to turn against us, and at last it was obvious to everyone that our situation was hopeless. We were reduced to fleeing from mountain to mountain through unknown territory, trying somehow to get over the eastern border range into Siam. Once we deliberately chose a steep bypath and spent hours scaling it. Another time we crossed a suspension bridge swaying in the wind over a deep gorge. One by one trucks had broken down, so that we finally had to pull our equipment along in oxcarts, or carry it on our backs. We lived by foraging everywhere we went. It was a wretched time for us, and one of great danger.
We had many harrowing experiences. There were moments when we thought we’d reached the end. But at such times, Corporal Mizushima’s harp worked miracles. One night, high in the mountains, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by the enemy. They closed in on us gradually and trapped us in a narrow ravine. We had lost our way and could see only by the starlight filtering through the trees above us. We were completely hemmed in
Enemy troops gathered along the mountain ridges on our right and left and signaled with lights as they searched for us. There was constant gunfire overhead. Shells screeched through the air with a noise like a silk cloth being ripped in two. And just as you thought it was gone, a terrifying explosion would thunder in our narrow little ravine, and rocks and earth would shower down on us.
Thinking we were sure to be wiped out, we huddled together under the trees on the dark, damp floor of the ravine. All of us were prepared to die. We sat there in breathless
