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Living Soldiers/Dying Soldiers: War and Decivilization in Ishikawa Tatsuzo's Soldiers Alive

September 28, 2005
Volume 3 | Issue 9
Article ID 1553
Living Soldiers/Dying Soldiers: War and Decivilization in Ishikawa Tatsuzo's Soldiers Alive

By David Askew

Ikiteiru heitai (Living soldiers or Soldiers alive) by Ishikawa Tatsuzo (1905-1985) is arguably the best piece of war literature to emerge from the Sino-Japanese War of 1937 to 1945. In Japan, the novella has been published and republished throughout the postwar era, most recently as a Chuko Bunko in 1999, and is now available for the first time in English [1]. Providing a strong indictment not only of the conduct of the Japanese military in China but also of war itself, Ikiteiru heitai is a powerful, deeply disturbing work

In 1937-38, when the novella was written and published, Ishikawa was a young man of 32. On 29 December 1937, he was sent by the editors of the liberal journal Chuo Koron to chronicle Japanese military exploits in China. The obvious place to go was Nanjing, the recently taken capital city of Nationalist China. Arriving in Nanjing via Shanghai on or about 8 January 1938, Ishikawa spent eight days in the city, talking to Japanese infantry soldiers rather than officers, before returning to Japan and completing the manuscript of Ikiteiru heitai in just eleven days. It was published in February, in the March edition of Chuo Koron [2].


An important question about (and an unseen side effect of) Japan’s informal military empire in China from 1937 to 1945 is the impact China and the Chinese experience had on the Japanese imagination. An examination of the wartime literature, including but not limited to “war literature” (senso bungaku), that emerged from and about China sheds light on this impact. A large number of novellas, novels, and other publications served to forge a Japanese historiography, memory, and perspective of China in general and the Sino-Japanese War in particular. The ideological significance of the Japanese presence on the continent was debated in, and an emerging consensus formed through, these writings. Although there were some exceptions, including Ishikawa’s Ikiteiru heitai, much of the literature (and especially the war literature) was triumphalist and jingoistic, characterized by earthy, cheerful, and stoic Japanese soldiers a la Ashihei; men who would have been recognized by anyone steeped in the traditions of the muscular Christian soldier [3]. Ishikawa is a major figure who broke with these conventions and, if for no other reason than the exceptional nature of his work, cannot be overlooked in any examination of the cultural production of memory that was pursued via representations of Japan in China. His most influential work in this context is Ikiteiru heitai.

Ikiteiru heitai begins with Japanese infantry in Northern China who have just been in combat and will soon march off to an unknown destination, and it ends with the infantry leaving occupied Nanjing after fierce fighting. The narrative follows the fortunes of a small group of soldiers in the “Kurata Platoon” of the “Nishizawa Regiment”, “Takashima Division”, as they are transferred from North to Central China to take part in the battle for Greater Shanghai, the push to Nanjing, and finally the fight for and capture of that city. Thus the story unfolds against a background of steady movement and almost constant battle, sandwiched between identical situations where a group of soldiers who have finished one battle are marching to the next, and depicts in detail what war does to the psyche of the individual soldier.

One of Ishikawa’s major themes is the human cost of war. The battlefield acts as a forge, turning individuals into fighting machines, and dehumanizing them in the process. A second (and related) theme is suggested by the Japanese title – life [4]. A number of aspects of the concept life are examined, including how the individual survives, and the ways in which the value of human life is undermined by, the brutal realities of battle. Ishikawa examines how the individual copes with an inhuman environment. The living and dying soldiers of the battlefield as depicted by Ishikawa have the frailties of real people: his Japanese soldiers are anything but idealized. Furthermore, the battlefield is a place where ambiguity is introduced into the stark differences between life and death. Finally, a third major theme is the collapse of the natural order. As the differences between life and death are submerged, a new order with links perhaps to the world of ghosts and the supernatural emerges. I will discuss each of these interlinked themes in greater detail.

The human cost of war is discussed in terms of death and injury, a cost paid in Ikiteiru heitai in explicit and graphic terms by both Japanese and Chinese, civilian and soldier, young and old, men and women. It is also discussed in terms of the psychological changes forced on the survivors of the battlefield.


Ikiteiru heitai does not flinch from the horrific death and injury suffered on the battlefield. Japanese and Chinese soldiers die and are injured in battle, while civilians are also caught up in the savagery. Ishikawa’s war is indiscriminate. Although some of the battle deaths, such as those of the standard-bearers, echo an earlier bombastic and bellicose literature, in general deaths are neither clean nor heroic [5]. Ishikawa also refuses to romanticize injuries. The field hospital has “air ... thick with the stifling smell of blood and of feverish breath”. Soldiers die, or are crippled for life. One soldier is patched up to be sent home. Although this soldier “did not give a thought to the decades of disability that awaited him”, Ishikawa draws his readers’ attention to the horrific costs paid by the injured [6].

Another aspect of the human cost of war is the dehumanizing process. This is discussed in terms of the changes in the psychological state of mind of several protagonists, in particular privates Kondo and Hirao and Second Lieutenant Kurata. These members of the Kurata Platoon struggle to adapt to the battlefield and, in the case of Kondo at least, to life off the battlefield afterwards. All three are members of the broadly defined intelligentsia, being educated and, one must assume, urban. Kondo was a medical school graduate, Hirao a newspaper proofreader, and Kurata an elementary schoolteacher. All three struggle to overcome the fears that prey on the minds of urban and educated individuals (the sort of people who would have constituted Ishikawa’s readers) when placed on the battlefield, and are also forced to make compromises with their consciences, as they adapt to the savage and brutal realities of their new circumstances. In comparison, a poor, uneducated, and rural soldier, Corporal Kasahara, is portrayed as the ideal soldier. This contrast echoes another one between horses.

“Japanese army horses were pitifully weak. At the barracks they had been regularly drilled and fed at set times. Under such living conditions, Japanese army horses were certainly superior beasts. However, in the violence of actual battle, with neither regular feeding nor rest possible, their health broke down and they found it difficult even to stand on their own legs. Chinese horses, on the other hand, were used to daily abuse, and proved their worth on the battlefield” [7].

Unlike Kasahara, a poor and simple farmboy, the urban, pampered and educated elites, like Japanese horses, either fall apart under stress, or adapt and survive at a cost. As demonstrated below, Ikiteiru heitai discusses both survivors and the costs of survival.

The dehumanizing process acts in two directions, as the violation of the “enemy’s” humanity leads in turn to self-negation.

“[A] soldier on the battlefield scorns his enemy’s life as so much refuse. At the same time, he also scorns his own life no less. The soldier has not made a conscious decision to force himself to accept the notion that life is as light as the proverbial feather. Rather, in despising the enemy, he has come unawares to despise himself and his own life as well. Losing sight of their own private lives, the men lost the ability to think of their lives and bodies as precious” [8].

Elsewhere, Ishikawa notes that “[t]he battlefield was a place that appeared to possess an uncanny powerful ability that, unnoticed, transformed each and every combatant into men of identical characters, who thought at the same level, and who shared the same needs” [9]. The individual disappears, to be replaced by a cog in a well-oiled fighting machine.

Fear of death and other anxieties haunt the educated survivors. Ironically, perhaps, this fear and anxiety drives them to embrace battle, death, and war. Kurata, for instance, is initially disturbed and traumatized by his survival, and finds himself increasingly drawn to battle as a means to overcome his anxieties. The psychological process is described in some detail as Kurata comes to accept the realities of the battlefield.

“Kurata now felt that he had reached a spiritual turning point. His grating anxiety had eased and the confused heart which had sought death had found peace. If one could see into the depths of his soul, what had until now been fueling his unease and impatience, together with his courage, was the instinctive terror of a life in peril. But having seen the company commander die before his eyes, that terror had passed into a separate dimension. His emotions soared – or plunged. Perhaps this was a sort of numbing of the sensibility, instinctively activated to avert a disintegration of the self. … He began to feel a great breadth of spirit, a sensation of freedom, a sense of amorality. This was the awakening of an unreflective cruelty. He was already starting to cultivate a character that would enable him to participate in the most gruesome slaughter. That is to say, he was catching up with Corporal Kasahara” [10].

Kurata eventually is turned into a soldier who is ideally suited for the battlefield. In “scorning the enemy’s life, he had unawares attained the extremely intuitive and natural mental state of scorning his own”, and had thus overcome “the impatience to die caused by an instinctive anxiety about death” [11]. The cost is a high one: the veneer of civilization which lies on a foundation of moral and ethical values is stripped away together with morality, producing a decivilized and amoral fighting brute.

The second major theme revolves around the concept of life.

On the battlefield, the value of life is constantly undermined. Thus Ishikawa explicitly acknowledges that “[a] human life could be exchanged for a lump of sugar” [12]. In one haunting scene, a baby is left crying beside his dead mother, the fate awaiting a helpless child in a land ravaged by war brutally articulated.

“The woman had rolled to the water’s edge and lay on her back, her arms and legs flung out. Next to her breast was a baby, too young even to crawl, lying face down, his nose in the dry grass, bawling with all his might. …

Kondo … gave vent to a sarcastic chuckle.

‘Hirao’, he said, ‘do that baby a favor and kill it. Just like yesterday. It’s the merciful thing to do. If you leave it as it is, by tonight or so, dogs will eat it alive’” [13].

It is important to note that Kondo is not depicted in Ikiteiru heitai as a monster. Rather, the realities of the battlefield require participants to distance themselves from the morality of “home”, and instead internalise a new weltanschauung, an amoral outlook that negates the value of life.

The split between a universal outlook in which the value of all human life is recognized and a particularistic and nationalistic outlook in which the “enemy” is treated as less than human is symbolized by the hands of the Buddhist priest, Katayama Gencho, who wades into enemy soldiers, rosary beads wrapped around his left hand, while wielding a spade with his right, with which he “smote dead one person after another” [14]. As Katayama himself recognizes, his religion, which aspires to universal values, fails to cross national borders.

The soldiers depicted in Ishikawa’s novel are “alive” in that they are not flawless heroes, but instead are ordinary human beings in abnormal circumstances. They have been brutalized by war, and so while they have strengths and frequently exhibit martial virtues such as bravery and loyalty to their comrades in arms, they also commit murder, rape, and arson as they march and loot their way to Nanjing. Indeed, one of the major characteristics that distinguishes Ishikawa’s novel from other Japanese wartime literature is its depiction of Japanese violence – of the murder, rape, arson and pillaging that was to characterize the Nanjing atrocities and become routinized in war zones throughout the country.

Ishikawa is brutally honest about the violence these soldiers experience and commit. In the opening pages of the novel, Kasahara executes a Chinese arsonist; later, a woman suspected of being a spy, another woman whose sobbing annoys soldiers trying to rest, and a Chinese cook suspected of stealing sugar, are also murdered [15]. There are several scenes where prisoners are executed [16]. The execution of an 11- or 12-year old girl who had shot a Japanese officer is mentioned [17]. Note that this suggests a deterioration of army discipline. In the opening pages of the novella, males are the targets of Japanese violence, but there is a rapid expansion of the violence to include not only combatants but also non-combatants, not men alone but women as well, not just soldiers but also prisoners, not only adults but also children.

Rape is discussed indirectly. It takes place off-stage, but readers are left in no doubt as to what is happening. For instance, the soldiers are said to be engaged in “foraging for fresh meat”, a euphemism for “looking for guniang – girls” [18]. On the way to Nanjing, the regiment stops to rest for three days at Wuxi. Ishikawa’s narrator explains:

“It was at times like these the surviving soldiers most desired women. They swaggered around the city, searching for women like dogs chasing rabbits. … The soldiers returned sporting silver rings on the little finger of their left hands.

‘Where’d you get this?’ their comrades asked, to which they replied with a laugh:

‘It’s a memento of my late wife’” [19].

Kasahara also has a ring. When Kurata asks him where it came from, Kasahara replies:

“‘A guniang gave it to me, Second Lieutenant, sir!’

The soldiers roared with laughter.

‘In exchange for a pistol bullet, right, Kasahara?’

‘That’s right!’ rejoined the corporal. ‘I turned it down, saying I don’t need it, but she begged, saying, please, Mr. Kasahara, I so much want to give it to you, so I had no choice’” [20].

The silver rings are wedding rings, and Japanese soldiers are obviously raping and then murdering the women.

In addition to rape and murder, arson is also mentioned [21], and looting features throughout. The savage behavior of the Japanese protagonists, together with the routine brutalization is articulated by Kasahara on two occasions when women are killed. “What a waste!” he says, implying that women should be raped first [22]. Here, Ishikawa portrays a breakdown in the “civilized” laws and customs of war and demonstrates how thoroughly his soldiers have been decivilized. Their loyalty to one another prevents a complete collapse into a Hobbesian state of nature, but war has exposed the ugly realities that lie underneath the thin veneer provided by civilization and culture. (Note that Ishikawa’s modernist position is that our “savage” nature is held in check by civilization, and that it takes the brutal realities of the battlefield to unleash it. Post-modernists might well argue that war itself is an essential aspect of modern “civilization” and therefore that “civilization” nurtures and promotes brutishness).

For Ishikawa’s Japanese soldiers, the dividing line between life and death is no longer stark, but ambiguous. On the night of 10 December 1937, the soldiers whom we have followed as they fight their way to Nanjing have been ordered to capture the peaks of the Purple Mountain overlooking the city. It is winter, cold everywhere, but especially cold on the heights of the mountain. While one unit remained awake: “the rest of the soldiers, embracing each other against the cold that covered the mountaintop with frost, slept soundly. They lay alongside their dead comrades, guarding the corpses as they slept. A single overcoat served to cover two men. There was neither life nor death. A dead comrade was still a comrade, and no distinctions were drawn between the living and the dead. This was not limited only to the corpses of their comrades. Since the stony ground they slept on made their heads ache, some men dragged up Chinese corpses and used their stomachs for pillows” [23].

Previously, during the march to Nanjing, Ishikawa notes that: “A certain percentage of the soldiers carried the bones of their dead comrades as they marched. None of the bones of the dead had been sent to the rear since the landing at Baimao River; all continued to advance in their comrades’ embrace. As the front moved forward, the dead multiplied, while the numbers of the living decreased. The proportion of soldiers carrying bones doubled and continued to grow. … In this way, the dead together with the surviving soldiers continued to press toward Nanjing” [24].

These two passages indicate how Ishikawa is trying to suggest a breakdown in the stark distinction between life and death. The dead sleep with the living at night, and march with them during the day. The soldiers themselves regard the bones of their dead comrades as objects that are more than dead, and themselves as less than alive.

“They did not feel any of the dread or repugnance that corpses and bones usually evoked. Rather, they felt very close to them. It was as if the bones were still alive. Or to be more exact, they perhaps felt that they were only temporarily alive and that over the course of the day they too might be transformed into bones just like these. They were perhaps merely living bones” [25].

In the world of the battle-weary soldier where the dead are more than dead and the living less than alive, there is a strange marriage between the rationalism of modernity (symbolized by the modern military structures and weapons of the Japanese army) and the mysticism of pre-modernism.

The breakdown of the natural order and hints of the supernatural are symbolized and provided by cats. First, cats (and to a certain extent dogs) serve to symbolize a breakdown in the natural hierarchy in which human beings are clearly at the top of the food chain. For instance, after the fall of Nanjing, Kasahara and Kondo walk past “a tobacco shop across whose entrance lay a corpse partly covered with a straw mat and surrounded by five cats with glittering eyes. The cats warily watched the street, their noses dyed a deep red” [26].

The cats guard the entrance of the shop, symbolically occupying a door that acts as a metaphor of movement from this world to another. They have been feasting on human flesh and drinking human blood, a theme that emerges several times in the novella. Another member of the platoon enters a different shop.

“The shop had been thoroughly looted; not a scrap of textile was left. In the shadow of the cutting table on the second floor, among the mess left by looters, lay two young women, naked and dead. The steel shutters were half-lowered, and in the dim light, their white skin was highlighted against the dark floor. The breasts of one had been gouged out, eaten by cats”.

The breast-eating cats were in fact searching for milk: the soldier who made this gruesome discovery explains that this “woman was pregnant … She smelled of milk, and that’s why the cats ate her” [27].

Cats also act as surrogates of the supernatural. After an earlier struggle to cope with life on the battlefield, Kondo in particular struggles to adapt to life away from it. In occupied Nanjing after the fighting has finished, he entertains himself with wine and women. During a drinking session with a Japanese geisha (from the context, clearly a “comfort woman”), he is unnerved by a cat that he perceives as being accompanied by a ghost. In particular, he sees in this flesh-eating cat the female “spy”, victim of his murderous brutality, and seeks to overcome the fear and anxiety that haunt him by killing another woman [28]. Kondo shoots (but does not kill) the Japanese woman, is detained as his comrades prepare to march away, and then released. The novella ends with a panicked Kondo running furiously, catching up with his comrades, and rejoining a world where he knows peace. With the stray soldier safely home, the infantry march out of Nanjing, heading to the next battlefield.

Ikiteiru heitai triggered a controversy when originally published in Chuo Koron in 1938. Despite the censorship exercised by both author and publisher that had resulted in major changes in which phrases, sentences and even entire sections were deleted, the Japanese authorities moved quickly to prohibit distribution of the original. Given the nature of this novella, this is not surprising. As Donald Keene says, “it is hard to imagine the military in any country tolerating the [wartime] publication of a book that describes soldiers of their side as murdering, raping, pillaging maniacs” [29]. Together with his editor and publisher, Ishikawa was prosecuted under the Newspaper Law (Shinbunshiho). Because of this repression, Ishikawa’s novella has an important place in discussions of wartime censorship [30].

Although an example of war literature (in that it was written during and about the war), Ikiteiru heitai has more in common with postwar Japanese literature on the war than with contemporary works. In his celebrated work The Great War and Modern Memory, Paul Fussell notes the existence of a “simultaneous and reciprocal process by which life feeds materials to literature while literature returns the favor by conferring forms upon life” [31]. In other words, while the cultural production or representation embodied in literature is based on experience, literature and other representations influence how we organize and interpret our memories of that experience. Politics also plays a role here. The state was anxious to control Japanese representations of Japanese actions in China. The refusal to allow distribution of Ishikawa’s novella was also a refusal to countenance a particular interpretation of historical experience.

As a result, Ishikawa’s novella had little impact on the wartime Japanese imagination. It was not until the war ended that Japanese atrocities came to be branded onto the Japanese memory. In the postwar era, Ikiteiru heitai played a role in creating a new awareness of Japanese actions on the continent and acted to counter wartime cultural productions of memory. With the wartime censorship lifted, Ikiteiru heitai was republished in 1945, with expurgated words and passages reinserted [32]. Ishikawa’s novella continues to provide a central plank in a realistic acknowledgement of Japanese brutality in China.

Although Ishikawa’s novella is sometimes read through the prism of the wartime censorship, and thus read as a description of the Nanjing Atrocities and Japanese wartime brutalities which was so honest the authorities were forced to ban it, it is in fact much more interested in the psychological effects of the battlefield on living human beings. As Keene notes, Ishikawa’s soldiers are not monsters; rather, “participation in the war has transformed a group of quite ordinary men and brought to the surface primitive forces that would normally never have been exposed” [33]. In this, it leads readers to reflect on the ways in which combat situations anywhere have the potential to turn ordinary men – fathers, husbands, brothers and sons – (and of course women) into killers who discard civilized norms of behavior and even the laws of war. In addition to the theme of wartime atrocities, it is thus also a powerful and deeply disturbing work on the costs of war to soldiers in combat and on the decivilizing impact of the battlefield. Ishikawa’s insights have universal significance, and his work will continue to prove of interest to modern readers.Notes
1 Ishikawa Tatsuzo, Ikiteiru heitai, Tokyo: Chuko Bunko, 1999. Ishikawa Tatsuzo, Soldiers Alive (translated by Zeljko Cipris), Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2003. In citing from Ishikawa’s novella here, I have drawn largely upon Cipris’ translation, but have at times made changes to it in consultation with the translator.
2 For the dates 29 December and 8 January, see Ishikawa Tatsuzo “Ikiteiru heitai” jiken Keishicho ikensho·choshusho (Ishikawa Tatsuzo, Living soldiers case: The Metropolitan Police Headquarters’ opinions and hearings). Unpublished manuscript, 1938, np. Note that there is some confusion about these dates.
3 Hino Ashihei was a major, if not the major, and certainly at the time most popular, author of Japanese war literature, including his celebrated soldier trilogy, and especially the first volume of the trilogy, Mugi to heitai (Wheat and soldiers). In addition to Hino’s works, see David M. Rosenfeld, Unhappy Soldier: Hino Ashihei and Japanese World War II Literature, Lanham, Boulder and Oxford: Lexington Books, 2002.
4 During his trial, Ishikawa was asked about the meaning of his title. He replied that by “ikiteiru” (living, alive) he meant soldiers who had survived in the face of death, and also meant soldiers who were true human beings. See Ishikawa Tatsuzo “Ikiteiru heitai” jiken Kohan kiroku (Ishikawa Tatsuzo, Living soldiers case: Court record). Unpublished manuscript, 1938, np.
5 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 92, 138-139. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 121, 157-158.
6 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 106, 108. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 131-133.
7 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 79. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 111-112.
8 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 108. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 133.
9 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 63-64. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 100-101.
10 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 76-77. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 109-110.
11 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 149-150. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 167.
12 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 98. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 125.
13 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 90-91. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 120.
14 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 60. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 98.
15 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 10-11, 49, 85, 97. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 59-60, 89, 116, 124.
16 See for instance Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 115-116. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 138-139.
17 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 112. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 136.
18 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 45. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 86.
19 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 93-94. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 122.
20 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 77-78. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 110-111.
21 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 100. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 126.
22 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 49, 86. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 90, 117
23 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 133-134. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 153-154.
24 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 102-103. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 127-128, 129.
25 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 103. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 129.
26 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 156. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 172.
27 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, p. 176. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, p. 189.
28 Ishikawa, Ikiteiru heitai, pp. 182-183, 185-187. Ishikawa, Soldiers Alive, pp. 193, 195-196, 197.
29 Donald Keene, Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature of the Modern Era, Fiction, vol. 3, History of Japanese Literature, New York: Columbia University Press, 1998, p. 914.
30 See, for instance, Haruko Taya Cook, “The Many Lives of Living Soldiers: Ishikawa Tatsuzo and Japan’s War in Asia”, in Marlene J. Mayo, J. Thomas Rimer and H. Eleanor Kerkham eds., War, Occupation, and Creativity: Japan and East Asia, 1920-1960, Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2001, and Haruko Taya Cook, “Reporting the ‘Fall of Nankin’ and the Suppression of a Japanese Literary ‘Memory’ of the Nature of a War”, in Fei Fei Li, Robert Sabella and David Liu eds., Nanking 1937: Memory and Healing, Armonk, New York: M. E. Sharpe, 2002.
31 Paul Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory, New York: Oxford University Press, 1975, p. ix.
32 See Ishikawa Tatsuzo, Ikiteiru heitai, Tokyo: Kawade Shobo, 1945.
33 Keene, Dawn to the West, p. 912.

David Askew teaches at Ritsumeikan Asia Pacific University, He can be reached at Recent publications include chapters in Ribatarianizumu tokuhon (The libertarian reader), Tokyo: Keiso Shobo, 2005, The Making of Anthropology in East and Southeast Asia, Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books, 2004, and Football Goes East: Culture and Business of the Global Game in China, Japan and Korea, London and New York: Routledge, 2004. He wrote this article for Japan Focus. Posted September 28, 2005.