Weight, height, and measurements were quickly taken, and with an enthusiasm he had not displayed in many a day the surgeon called to the recording sergeant:
“Ichiban” (first-class).
Already Soichi knew his fate. His university degree would take the place of the recruiting captain’s mental examination, and after that there would be only the certainty of the lots. It did not take the captain long to repeat the surgeon’s “Ichiban,” and as Soichi turned away from giving his record at the desk, he heard the recruiting officer say to the inspector major, who had just come in:
“There is one for the Guards. Just look at him.”
O-Mitsu’s judgment was confirmed, and he went home to await the notice of his selection, and to write perhaps his last letter to her. For he would not dare to write to her home when he was away, and they had no friend whom they would trust with their secret. It was a sober letter. There seemed little chance now that war would be avoided. Already men said that the throat of the Dragon had been touched, and throughout the Empire preparations were going on rapidly for the time when he should strike.
With simple directness Soichi told his news, and spoke proudly of the intimation he had had that he should go to the Guards. There would be a few weeks of drill and preliminary work, he supposed, in the barracks at division headquarters in the near-by city, and it might be that once or twice more he should have the opportunity of seeing her before he went to Tokyo to join his regiment. After that would come the war and the battlefield. She would know he did not say it to boast, but he meant to do a soldier’s duty. It would have been sweet, it there had been no war (he spoke of it as if it were already begun), to live on there with her, for in some way it would have worked out for them. But that was impossible now; a dream to be forgotten. The dearest wish of his heart was to die for the Emperor, and he prayed only that Shaka would permit him to meet his fate gloriously and with honor.
That was all. Not a word to her of the love that filled his heart. Not a message of hope or farewell, not a hint of constancy or patience. All that was behind him. His duty lay to the future and to the grim chance of war.
It was a raw, cold night, with a bitter wind searching through the bare branches of the plum tree, and Soichi shivered as he lifted the cap of the bamboo post and thrust in his letter. Then he patted the cap back into place and turned away, nor noticed that a telltale corner of the envelope projected through the joint he had not closed tightly. And of all the evenings in the year, that was the one Jukichi chose to visit the plum tree.
Next day the notification came. Soichi had been selected for immediate service and was to go to the Guards. His record in the military work at school was such that the preliminary training at adjacent division headquarters would be waived and he would report directly to his regiment. He would start the following day.
He went to the bank and finished up his work there in preparation for indefinite absence. Then he wrote a little note to O-Mitsu, telling her the orders he had received, and started home. The early winter evening had fallen before he reached the house in Timber Street, and he stopped at the bamboo post to leave his note and perhaps to find a letter from her. He lifted the cap with excited eagerness and felt in the hollow. There, sure enough, was a letter. He took it out with thumping heart and dropped in his own; then hurried around the corner home, impatient for light to read her words.