Ujie Mikito, “Historical records of crimes committed during the Edo period” (Kobunsho ni miru Edo hanzai kõ), Shõdensha, 2016. (All pages are in parenthesis after paragraphs)
 
Chapter 12   The dramatic crimes of Nezumi Kozõ (continued)
 
Apocryphal tales and legends
 
While it isn’t particularly clever, there is a certain attraction in being generous and having no attachment to money.  The ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’ spoke of Jirõkichi, who had spent half a year on pilgrimage to Kyoto to visit Konpira Shrine only to return to Edo in order to continue to pursue a life of gambling, in the following manner. 
 
“Regardless of whether he had lost or won at gambling, Jirõkichi would give money to anyone; from those who had lost every stitch of clothing to professional gamblers, and would do so without question.  Depending on the person, he might buy someone clothes or treat them to entertainment at Yoshiwara or at the Okabasho (red light districts).  The fact he would be so generous while lending money led to him being praised with comments like ‘That’s just like Jirõkichi’, and everyone from cats to ladles (a phrase basically meaning ‘all and sundry’) sang his praises, calling him ‘Taishõ, taishõ!’ (literally meaning ‘general’, but in this sense meaning ‘big man’ or ‘boss’). (242, 244) 
 
The extraordinarily generous Jirõkichi was obviously a vital acquaintance for the many poor residents of Edo.  This too was recorded in the ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’:
 
“(Jirõkichi) would lend money to whomever needed it, from the poor, to those afflicted by serious illness and in need of treatment, to those heading out on a pilgrimage to Ise shrine.” (244)
 
While the money that Jirõkichi gave away might have come from somewhat illicit sources such as burglary and gambling, one can say that Jirõkichi himself had every qualification necessary to be recognised as a true gizoku.
 
For his part, Matsuura Seizan compiled a variety of sources related to Nezumi Kozõ. They are contained within the eighty-first scroll of the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ under the heading ‘Various Stories of Nezumi Kozõ’.  I’d like to introduce a few of those to the reader. (244)
 
When he was being questioned, Jirõkichi admitted that:
 
“I tried two or three times to break into the household of the lord of Hikone province, the Ii family.  (Because they were an illustrious samurai family) both the inner and outer walls (of their household) were high, and I knew it would not be easy to either get into or to steal anything from there.” 
 
He also had the following to say about the Ginza (a place to manufacture coinage, much like a treasury or a mint):
 
“Even in the dead of night, the security (for that place) was water-tight.  In the end I wasn’t able to steal a single thing.” (245)
 
Yet the Ii household and the Ginza were the exceptions to the rule. By and large the security for samurai households was lax, and someone of the talents of Jirõkichi could easily find a way to break into them.  The ‘Various Stories of Nezumi Kozõ’ also contained the following tale:
 
“When breaking into the house of an important daimyõ family, Jirõkichi would spend around two or three days hidden in the garden of the residence.   He would watch the interaction between the daimyõ and his wife, seeing how they offered one another drinking cups and the type of names they called one another.  This way he would remember every minor detail about the couple.  Apparently the officials listening to this confession later relayed its content to the guards from the residences described by Jirõkichi, and the guards were terribly embarrassed.” (245, 246)
 
Seizan also felt affinity for the type of attitude Jirõkichi displayed during his interrogation:
 
“When he was being questioned, Jirõkichi showed no signs of fear, saying “This is divine justice.  I scaled the high walls of many samurai household and managed to break in and easily take whatever I wanted. The fact that I am now bound by ropes and been reduced to this state is humiliating.  My time has definitely come.” (246)
 
As an afterward to this paragraph, Seizan added the following “While Nezumi Kozõ was brave, the world has no use for a thief’s bravery.” 
 
Seizan also wrote about how Nezumi Kozõ made efforts to ensure that his relationships with women would not cause them difficulties.  In one of these, he wrote:
 
“(Before he was arrested) Jirõkichi sent these women ‘declarations of separation’ (to prove they were not co-habiting). To those women reduced to living in a nagaya (a boarding house, usually occupied by the poor) after leaving him, he would unfailingly show concern down to the smallest detail for their well-being, often sending gifts to their landlords or ‘pimps’ (for their rent and food etc).  He was praised for being a man unparalleled in his combination of both intelligence and sense of honour.” (247)
 
A similar story was relayed in the ‘‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’:
 
“After being captured in the house of Matsudaira Kunaishõ-yû and realizing that he was likely to be executed straight away, Jirõkichi made a request “Don’t kill me here, but take me to the town magistrate and hand me over to him.  You can execute me after I’ve explained myself.” (247)
 
But why would he do this? Jirõkichi then gave his reason. “It seems someone has already committed seppuku (ritual suicide) in order to take the blame for a burglary for which I was responsible.  A lot of money was taken so there are probably a lot of suspects. If you take me to the official’s residence I will confess everything and ensure that more people are not punished (for a crime they did not commit).” (247)
 
So Jirõkichi was duly handed over to the town magistrate, where he confessed in full to both the houses he had broken into and the money he had stolen. Of course, he did not simply confess, but went back over all of the crimes he had committed over a decade. He explained in detail everything about his robberies, from the methods he used to enter houses to the amount of money taken. 
 
This process could not have been easy. In order to jog his memory a bit, Jirõkichi looked at a copy of the Bukan (a ledger which detailed all of the insignia of the various retainer households to the Tokugawa Bakufu, along with the posts they were responsible for administering) and tried to recall in as much detail as possible what he had done in each residence. (248)
 
Knowing that he would receive the ultimate punishment and that there was no use in trying to amend his ways, and by accepting punishment in order to absolve anyone else who might be under suspicion, Jirõkichi gave us a model of what a gizoku was mean to be. Even when he was being handed over to the authorities, the ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’ tells us that he showed no signs of fear or anger, and from the saddle of the horse he was sitting in he began to intone the ‘Lotus Sutra’ (Namu Myõhõ Renge Kyo). (248)
 
‘I, Nezumi Kozõ, witnessed your performance of Nõ’…
 
An honourable thief who doesn’t kill, and a man of deep sensitivity. Optimistic, fond of women, fastidious and brave.  Nezumi Kozõ Jirõkichi was certainly a ‘rascal’ about whom there is no shortage of legends and apocryphal stories. Yet there is no more fitting tale of Nezumi Kozõ and why he became the archetype for theatrical depictions of criminals than that contained within the forty-ninth scroll of the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’, a story titled “Nezumi Kozõ watches a performance of Nõ theatre”. (249)
 
According to this story, the widow of the former lord of a subsidiary of Himeji in Harima province began talking to a young Buddhist nun one day, and that nun later went on to recall details of the conversation to Matsuura Seizan.  One of those details was as follows:
 
“A performance of Nõ theatre was to be held in the residence of a certain lord located next door to that of the lord of Himeji, Sakai Uta no Kami (obviously, because he had been the unfortunate victim of a burglary, the name of this other lord was not revealed). The owner of the theatre in which the performance was to be made(i.e., the other lord) noticed a man standing in the centre of the space used by the performers in-between acts.  The man looked to be around 18 or 19 years old, and his half-moon haircut (the haircut most common to men during the Edo period, whereby all of the hair on top of the head was shaved off, leaving just the hair around the sides and back. This apparently kept the head cooler when wearing a helmet) was long and straggly. He was wearing a somewhat audacious half-sleeve jacket, and had a short sword shoved into his waistband.  
 
The lord spoke to the retainers on either side of him, saying “An intruder! Quickly, catch him and throw him out!”.  Yet the retainers could see no sign of an intruder. The lord repeated his order, so his retainers made their way up onto the stage and searched about.  Yet again, they could find no trace of any intruder.  
 
Only the other lord had seen the man in question.  His retainers searched desperately in an attempt to find him, but to no avail.” (249, 250)
 
The forty-ninth scroll of the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ was written in Bunsei 7 (1824), when Jirõkichi was 28 years old.  The fact that the other lord said he had seen a youth of 18 or 19 suggests that Jirõkichi had a young appearance and was also somewhat short in stature.  The eighty-first scroll of the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ includes a depiction of Jirõkichi’s appearance after he had been executed and his head put on display.  “Apart from some light scarring caused by smallpox, his skin was pale, and he did not have the look of a criminal, but possessed the placid, gentle expression of an ordinary tradesman.”
 
So Jirõkichi did not look like a criminal.   But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t surprising to the other lord to see a man standing on a stage in a room within his own residence.  The fact that his retainers couldn’t also see the man probably had less to do with the man being a fabrication of the other lord’s imagination and more to do with the fact that Jirõkichi could make himself scarce very quickly.  (250)
 
The widow’s tale continued.
 
“The man may have fled into the residence next door (that belonging to the lord of Himeji). This was certainly the conclusion reached within the other lord’s household, and so word was sent to the Sakai household to be on the alert for an intruder and to catch him if they saw him.  Guards from the Sakai household were placed in the gap between both households, yet the intruder did not appear.”
 
The highlight of this tale comes next. According to the original source “Thereafter a piece of paper was discovered on the stage in the theatre. On it was written “I, Nezumi Kozõ, saw your Nõ performance”. The theatre people were unable to hide their excitement, exclaiming “Ah, that man was the famous Nezumi Kozõ!”.  It was like a scene from a period drama (in fact, this very scene may have been recreated in a movie). (251)
 
The widow who was relaying this story to the nun is believed to have been the wife of Sakai Tadasada (lord of Niita Himeji), who died in Bunka 13 (1816) at the age of 37. To what extent the above story is true we cannot tell, but the source of the story was an actual woman who lived during the time in question, and who was living in retirement in a separate abode belonging to the same household. (251)
 
So who was the other lord referred to in the story? At the time, the households that neighboured that of Sakai Uta no Kami was the castle (Edo castle) to the west, while to the north were the Hitotsubashi, one of the three main houses of the Tokugawa family. The head of that household at the time was Tokugawa Narinori. To the east lay the households of Ogasawara Daizen Daiyû Tadakata (lord of Kokura in Buzen province) and Mizuno Dewa no Kami Tadanari (lord of Numazu in Suruga province).  (252)
 
When we narrow down the candidates to the three remaining households (i.e., excluding Edo castle), we find that the reference within the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ that describes the household of this other lord uses the term ‘yagata’. It is my belief that the victim in question was none other than Tokugawa Narinori of the Hitotsubashi. 
 
As to why I think this, I can point to Jirõkichi’s own confession. The households of the other daimyõ are referred to in the confession using the term ‘yashiki’, whereas that for the three principle households of the Tokugawa family and their rulers is “O-yagata”. At the time of the incident, Tokugawa Narinori was 22 years old, whereas Ogasawara Tadakata was 55 years old and Mizuno Tadanari was 63 years old.  It seems most likely, given the manner in which Nezumi Kozõ was only seen within the blink of an eye, that the youth Narinori stood the best chance of having seen him. (252)
 
Short and handsome
 
So what did Jirõkichi look like?
 
The short-story author and playwright Hasegawa Shigure (1879 – 1941) was foremost in creating the image of Nezumi Kozõ as a man of short stature. According to Hasegawa, it was his grandmother who first described Nezumi Kozõ to him. In his ‘Old Tales of Nihonbashi’ (Kyûbun Nihonbashi), Hasegawa echoed his grandmother’s words, writing “He was short, with some slight pockmarks (on his face), quite a tiny man.” (253)
 
Hence one reason that Jirõkichi was referred to as ‘Kozõ’ (literally ‘little monk’, but also carrying the meaning of ‘shorty’ or ‘kid’) was because he was short. This becomes more obvious when one looks at the character of Heikichi, who appears in the human drama ‘Midori no Hayashi Kado no Matsutake’ (The Pine and Bamboo Gate of the Green Forest) by San’yûtei Enchõ. (253)
 
Heikichi is the boss of a gang of pickpockets, and 27 years old.  About himself, he says “While I am little, I certainly don’t starve.”  Another character who idolizes Heikichi, who goes by the name ‘Oseki’, voices his concerns about Heikichi when preparing to hand him 100 ryõ that Heikichi needs, saying “I’m worried that this (money) will make the short-statured Heikichi bigger (meaning more prominent)”. (253)
 
So Enchõ may have based his character Heikichi on the historical image of Nezumi Kozõ. But that’s not all.  At that point in time, the name ‘kozõ’ carried connotations of being either a small thief or pickpocket.  For example, the character ‘Benten Kozõ’, who first appeared in a performance at the Ichimura-za (Ichimura theatre) of Kawatake Mokuami’s ‘Aoto Zõshi Hana no Nishiki-e’ (A Portrait of Red Flowers and Blue-millstone Paper) in Bunkyû 2 (1862) is a short but handsome young man. (253)
 
The female guards attending the young princess in the story all remark on his appearance, saying that he is ‘a good looking man’ and swoon over him. For his part, the 17 year old Benten Kozõ says of himself “I have a small frame.”  (254)
 
*It also seems as though there was another person who went by the name of Nezumi Kozõ before the arrival of the historical figure best recognised for having that name.  He was neither a thief nor a pickpocket, and was in every way a ‘Nezumi’ (rodent).  He was small, sly, and wicked, and so was called that name out of spite. (254)
 
Jirõkichi – a performer right up to the very end
 
On the day of his execution, Jirõkichi appears to have discovered the ‘actor’ in him.  According to the ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’, Jirõkichi was wearing the following clothes when he was handed over to the town magistrate:
 
“He had a dark blue, rough-hewn long shirt on, underneath which he wore a white, shorter sleeved shirt.  He had an eight-layer waistband around his middle, and wore both fingerless gloves and gaiters which had been dyed white.”  While this means little to those unfamiliar with the style of Japanese dress at the time (myself included), it was apparently typical wear for someone of a short stature. After being bound and placed on a horse, Jirõkichi proceeded to close his eyes and start solemnly reciting the ‘Lotus Sutra’, as explained earlier. (254)
 
It goes without saying that crowds thronged to the roadside to see Jirõkichi pass.  Of particular interest was the comment in the ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’ which said that “People were openly weeping, and drying their eyes on their sleeves.” Jirõkichi, it must be remembered, had limited himself to breaking into the houses of wealthy samurai and hadn’t killed or injured anyone.  Any money that he took he used on gambling or entertainment, and so contributed to the economic well-being of the townspeople. So as far as they were concerned, his were victimless crimes. And so they wept as they watched him head off to his execution.  
 
Of course, they may also have been doing this because of Jirõkichi’s talents as a performer and his ability to make an audience cry.  
 
Nezumi Kozõ wasn’t the only figure from history recorded to have moved an audience to tears while facing his demise.  In the ‘Records of Interrogations by Edo Magistrates’ by Sakuma Masahiro, there lies the tale of one ‘Kawachi Mushuku Sadazõ’.   Sadazõ was a true villain, originally sentenced to exile on an island, but who escaped to continue a series of murders and armed robberies.  After being captured, he, and six of his accomplices, were sentenced to die at the Kozuka-tsubara execution ground by crucifixion.  (255)
 
On the way to the execution ground, the prisoners asked that they be provided with some food and drink.  Their overseer (the official tasked with witnessing the execution) decided to allow this to happen and paid for some refreshments using his own money. Yet Sadazõ refused to accept any of it, and rebuked his accomplices saying “It doesn’t matter how much you eat or drink, it’ll all come running out of you soon enough. It’s pathetic, so stop it.”  Sadazõ had two half coins hidden in his mouth which he then proceeded to spit at the beggars in the crowd of onlookers.  He then continued on his way to the execution ground. (256)
 
Sadazõ was tied to his crucifixion pole, and in front of him his executioners, both on the left and right, made their preparations to stab him with their spears.  I’ll let Sakuma Masahiro finish this tale in his own words:
 
“(Sadazõ) said to his executioners with a smile “make sure to stick me properly”. Even after being run through by one spear, he turned to his accomplices next to him, happily urging them to “take it like you mean it”.  In the end, all seven of them, with neither fear, nor pain, nor panic written on their faces, met their end, being stabbed a total of 12 or 13 times.” (256)
 
And so a gang of villains met a ‘befitting’ end, although this example was quite clearly a rare exception.  What Sakuma was trying to convey to the reader was that ordinarily, upon hearing their sentence of death, most prisoners would lose all of their stoicism and panic and rave. The more cowardly among them would turn a corpse-like pallid white, and would lose all the strength in their legs and collapse in a heap. (256, 257)

Ujie Mikito, “Historical records of crimes committed during the Edo period” (Kobunsho ni miru Edo hanzai kõ), Shõdensha, 2016. (All pages are in parenthesis after paragraphs)
 
Chapter 12   The dramatic crimes of Nezumi Kozõ
 
When considering the types of crimes committed during the Edo period by so-called “noble thieves” (in Japanese, gizoku, referring to thieves who, out of a sense of righteousness and obligation, gave the money they stole to people in need), the name of Nezumi Kozõ (literally ‘Rodent Boy’) immediately springs to mind. Yet in truth there were other gizoku making a name for themselves before the arrival of Nezumi Kozõ.  One of those is included in the twenty-second scroll of the “Kasshi Yawa” (Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle). (228)
 
At approximately 2pm on the 7th day of the 9th month of Bunsei 5 (1822), someone managed to sneak his way into the residence of the shõgunate retainer Yajima Genshirõ, a member of the retinue of Hikozaka Õmi no Kami and a member of one of the lesser band of principle retainers to the shõgunate known as the Kobushin.
 
This mysterious individual proceeded to help himself to some of the chests of drawers in which money, official documents and books were kept. He stole the lot – cabinet and all. (228)
 
Then at around 8pm on the 11th day, just four days later, someone heard the sound of an object hitting the house next door to Yajima’s.  When a house retainer went to investigate, he found a ball made of paper and closed with a seal into which had been placed the official documents and ledgers stolen on the 7th, as well as a letter bearing the name of the man who had presumably stolen the items in the first place - ‘Kurata Kichiemon’. The chests of drawers were also later found abandoned under the walkway leading to the “Settchin” (雪隠, an otherwise poetic name for an outhouse or WC). (228)
 
On the 15th day of the 9th month, Yajima himself took the letter that had been inside the ball in hand and went to submit an official complaint to Hikozaka Õmi no Kami. Hikozaka then took that complaint to the town magistrate where he made his own request for an investigation.  
 
So what had been stolen from Yajima’s house?
 
According to the complaint deposition, 37 ryõ (or taels) of gold were missing, along with two and a half ingots of pure silver and two of lesser grade silver, along with documents (namely debt certificates), one of which was worth 20 gold ryõ while four others were worth 15 gold ryõ.  Another document had been taken worth 10 gold ryõ, along with ledgers and other books (titles and identification papers). 
 
This thief, who went by the name of Kurata Kichiemon, had decided to take only the coinage since all of the other items were returned.  His reasons for doing this were presumably because he had either been unable to convert the other items into money, or else he was worried that if he did something foolish and was caught, then these documents would serve as evidence that he had committed the crime (or he may have simply been following a trend among thieves to return any non-monetary goods to their owners). (229)
 
The letter from Kichiemon
 
So why was Kichiemon regarded as a gizoku? Whether or not there was any truth behind such a claim is debatable, however it was referred to in Kichiemon’s own letter.  This itself was unusual - a thief writing a letter addressed to one of his victims.  
 
Moreover the letter itself is overflowing with wit. I would be overjoyed to introduce the letter to the reader in its entirety, however this would be overly arduous as the letter is quite long. So in order to expedite proceedings I have only quoted the most relevant parts, and made my own modern translation of their content.  
 
The letter is neither threatening nor insulting, and begins with an apology:
 
“I ventured to your residence upon learning that my lordship’s circumstances were indeed fortunate, and so sought to borrow some of your wealth.  However after gaining entry, I found that you were not quite as wealthy as I had first imagined, and so for this I do offer my most sincere apologies.” 
 
He then went on to explain his reasons for stealing the chests of drawers:
 
“I did not sneak into your residence for the purposes of personal gain.  I simply could no longer stand to see the long-standing suffering of so many people. And so while I myself am poor, I realized that I could alleviate this suffering by borrowing (i.e., stealing) the money kept on your estate.”  
 
Kichiemon himself confesses that his actions were for the benefit of other less fortunate people, thereby equating himself with a gizoku. Furthermore, he goes on to promise that he will eventually return the money that he had ‘borrowed’:
 
“I will return the money to you very soon, hence I ask that you be patient in the interim.” (231)
 
The above quotations cover the heart of the letter’s content, but the letter itself contains numerous long “post scripts”, where Kichiemon outlines his history as a gizoku and about his own personal circumstances:
 
“I have been taking the things of wealthy people in order to give to them to the poor for many years, but any money that I borrow (i.e., steal) is eventually returned.  I am already in my 50s, but have not given up on life yet, and continue to live without want.”  
 
In his post script, Kichiemon also offered some opinions about the locks and security of the Yajima residence (from an expert’s point of view):
 
“Your lordship’s house has excellent locks, but it seems that this has made your household complacent (i.e., they don’t seem to have noticed an intruder).” (233) 
 
Enter the Gizoku
​
The above quotes came from the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’, however we can find an alternative version of same events in the “Mikikigusa” (Tales Seen and Heard). 
 
The first deals with the intrusion of the bedchamber of Tajima and his wife.
 
The ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ simply states that Kichiemon “entered the couple’s sleeping quarters”.  However the ‘Tales Seen and Heard’ says that Kichiemon “intruded upon the bedroom of the couple, but found that they were fast asleep. They both looked content, and Kichiemon regarded them with some envy”. (233)
 
Be that as it may, what prompted Kichiemon to write his letter in the first place? Firstly, if you write a letter, you create an important piece of evidence with details of your handwriting. A letter also offers you a way to confess if you have carried out similar crimes over a long period of time.  It is, in a way, a form of self-advertising your crimes to draw attention to yourself. It also makes you a criminal with a flair for the dramatic, does it not? (234)
 
Speaking of dramatic crimes, one incident from the 1980s, the Glico-Morinaga extortion investigation, comes to mind.  In the case of that incident, a person calling themselves ‘The Monster with 21 Faces’ issued threats against companies and their employees. In the case of Kurata Kichiemon, he advertised his crimes under the banner of a gizoku.  (234) 
 
The complaint made by Yajima and a copy of Kichiemon’s letter eventually found their way into the hands of the town magistrate. Other copies were handed to Matsuura Seizan (described in an earlier chapter) and Miyazaki Seishin (both of whom were famous writers of their day), and it is entirely conceivable that more copies were distributed to other readers.  Each of those copies were then seen by unknown numbers of friends and family of the recipient, and so Kurata’s exploits as a gizoku began to be discussed and admired by a wider audience.  As word spread, the content of these letters became more and more interesting, and it seems that people had started adding their own details in order to liven the story up.  That may be the reason why details that were included in the ‘Tales Seen and Heard’ weren’t included in the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’. (235)
 
Kurata Kichiemon – the 50-something year old thief. As a result of his hurling a letter into the residence of Yajima Genjirõ, he drew attention to himself and ended up becoming the lead character in plays based on the exploits of gizoku. 
 
But what eventually became of Kichiemon himself? Sadly we have no idea.  Whether he was a true gizoku and eventually returned the money that he had ‘borrowed’ will forever remain a mystery. (235)
 
Introducing Nezumi Kozõ
 
Speaking of drama, Nezumi Kozõ Jirõkichi must be the very definition of a theatrical ‘noble thief’.  Before I explain why, I should provide some details about his life.  
 
My sources for this include both the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ (scrolls 78 to 81), a collection of stories by the bookshop owner Yamashiro Yachûbei (titled Bunbõdõ Zassan, or ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’ (Bunbõdõ being the name of the shop).  There is also the ‘A True Record of the Rodent Thief’ (Sozoku Hakujõki).  As each record differs in content, I have decided to compile them together in the explanation that follows. (235)
 
Nezumi Kozõ Jirõkichi was put to death at the age of 36 in the 8th month of Tenpõ 3 (1832).  Assuming that the record of his age at the time of his death is accurate, this would put his year of birth in or around Kansei 9 (1797).  He was born in Shin Izumi-chõ, an area that is now part of Ningyõ-chõ, 3 chõme in central Tokyo.  His father was Sadajirõ, a dekata, or theatre usher working in a Kabuki theatre (and occasionally playing minor roles such as a youth, or Kido-gashira, of the type performed by the Nakamura-za (theatre) of Sakai-chõ). Sadajirõ was apparently blind in one eye, which led to him being called ‘one-eyed Sada’ (he was also called ‘squinty’ because of his supposed short-sightedness).  He died of illness in Bunsei 12 (1829), about ‘four years’ (actually three years) before Jirõkichi was executed. (236)
 
When he was 14 years old, Jirõkichi commenced work for a cabinet maker (who built other wooden objects as well) located in Kameda Konya-chõ (modern day Chiyõda-ku Kameda Konya-chõ in Tokyo).  However he engrossed himself in bouts of gambling to which he became addicted.  He quit working at Kameda and hired himself out as a temporary assistant to another cabinet maker located beneath a watch tower along the banks of the Hettsui-gashi river (now part of Nihonbashi, Ningyõ-chõ, 2 chõme).  Yet Jirõkichi’s passion for gambling remained unquenched, and when he was 16 he moved back in with his parents. (236)
 
It was while he was living with his parents that he was hired by another cabinet maker, in whose service he came to work on the residence of a falconer for a samurai household. This falconer saw talent in the boy and so hired him as an apprentice. Yet this is no way convinced Jirõkichi to go on the straight and narrow.  His desire for money to use on entertainment and gambling was too strong to resist, and so in Bunsei 6 (1823), at the age of 26, Jirõkichi decided that he would start robbing the houses belonging to samurai (and even daimyõ) families. (237)
 
But why on earth would he choose to rob samurai households? The reason, it seems, lay in the degree of concern that samurai displayed in relation to safeguarding their wealth. Townspeople (i.e., merchants) were normally quite afraid of burglars, and so would use every means possible to ensure that their money was secure from theft.  Samurai, on the other hand, while they might have used tight security on the outside, tended to have fairly lax security once you were able to traverse the moats surrounding the house and gain entry to their inner sanctum. (237)
 
Jirõkichi had been adept at walking in high places since he was a little boy, so much so that all he needed to do was grab hold of something in order to climb it, no matter how dangerous it might be.   Furthermore, many samurai households had quarters at their centre that were for the exclusive use of the women of the household, who also oversaw their own security for those rooms. Jirõkichi figured that since no male samurai could easily enter that part of the house, he stood a much better chance of being able to rob the house without exposing himself to too much danger if he started in the women’s quarters. (237)
 
And so, from the 2nd month of Bunsei 6 through to the 1st month of Bunsei 8, Jirõkichi proceeded to rob the households of daimyõ no less than 30 times.  
 
However, luck is a fleeting thing. On the 3rd day of the 2nd month of Bunsei 8, Jirõkichi was spotted while trying to break into the household of one Tsuchiya Sagami no Kami (lord of Tsuchiura in Hitatchi province), and was later captured by a posse belonging to the local magistrate, one Tsutsui Iga no Kami (Masanori) of Minami-chõ.  Jirõkichi would not admit to having robbed anyone, and so was taken to Moto Osaka-chõ (now Nihonbashi, Ningyõ-chõ 1 chõme) on the 14th, where he was imprisoned as ‘Jirõkichi of the Senkichi-ten’ (or shop). (238)
 
It was while he was under arrest that Jirõkichi was questioned about his motives, and so gave the following statement:
 
“Since the 8th month of last year, I have been involved in gambling bouts against peasants and merchants of between 100 to 200 bun (equivalent to around 32.5 yen) at various places including Senju (part of modern Adachi-ku in Tokyo).  At these places I have indulged in games like mawari-zutsu (‘spinning the pipe’), chohan(odds and evens), and chobo-ichi (snake eyes). When I went to visit a friend of mine called Yasugorõ on the 3rd day of the 2nd month at the (Tsuchiya) household, I wasn’t able to meet him. So my wicked nature took over and I decided to rob the place”. (238)
 
Despite not actually haven taken anything from the household, a complaint was filed against Jirõkichi, and so on the 2nd day of the 5th month, he was sentenced to first be tattooed (thus marking him as a criminal) and then to be banished from Edo to a ‘middle distance’ from the city (in the case of commoners, this meant that a person could not commit a crime or enter any territory in the four directions extending ten ri (between 32 to 40 kilometres) from Edo itself).  (238)
 
Another tale also exists regarding Jirõkichi’s attempted break-in at the Tsuchiya household. According to this story, when Jirõkichi entered the quarters of the former ruler of Tsuchiura (known as an Inkyõ. In samurai households, it was not unusual for former rulers to co-habit with the current ruler in order to serve as an advisor and mentor) he was seized by one of the former ruler’s guards.  When Jirõkichi was being handed over to the town magistrate, the Inkyõ had a change of heart, and so paid the 10 ryõ bail money to let Jirõkichi go free.  But why would he do this? 
 
Apparently Jirõkichi was quite adept at lying, and had told the old man that ‘I am taking care of my sick mother, and am living in the depths of poverty’. (238-239)
 
After being banished from Edo, Jirõkichi spent some time in the Kyoto area (one source says that he spent half the year on a pilgrimage to Konpira shrine). However he soon drifted back again, and so broke the law.  He changed his name to Jirõbei, and again took up living with his parents. His tattoo mark would obviously become a problem if discovered.  So after asking a certain Kanejirõ for assistance, one of his old acquaintances from his time as a falconer in the samurai household, he managed to have the tattoo modified by disguising it under depictions of clouds and dragons, thereby keeping his criminal past a secret. (239)
 
Jirõbei (as we will now call him) then changed his living address to Yujima 6 chõme, and took up an ostensible trade selling steamed vegetables. His real profession, however, remained gambling.  Before long Jirõbei again found himself short on funds, and so reverted to the one sure-fire way to redress this problem – stealing from samurai households.  From the time he managed to break into the residence of Matsudaira Daigaku no Gashira (lord of Moriyama in Mutsu province) sometime during 7th month of Bunsei 8, until his arrest on the 4th day of the 5th month of Tenpõ 3 (1832) after attempting to rob the residence of Matsudaira Kunaishõ-yû (lord of Obata in Kõzuke province), Jirõbei conducted over 80 burglaries on various samurai households. Following his arrest, he was eventually handed to city authorities on the 19th of the 8th month of Tenpõ 3 and imprisoned. 
 
It was believed that in all, Jirõbei had carried out over 100 burglaries, with a combined loot value of over 3,100 ryõ.  (239) 
 
A talent for lying
 
Having been born on the narrow streets of Edo, filled with its theatres and tea houses, Jirõbei was almost certainly influenced by these, if not also by his theatrical father. Nezumi Kõzõ Jirõkichi (back to that name once again) was the city equivalent of Inaka (or rural) Kõzõ (another famous robber of his day), and had just enough theatrical ability to make him a star in the role of a theatrical villain. Of course, when I say theatrical ability, what I mean is that he had a particular talent for telling fibs.  The truth is that Jirõkichi was not only talented at making his way across moats and scaling walls to enter daimyõ households, he also had a distinct knack for being able to lie his way out of trouble. (240)
 
Matsuura Seizan managed to get hold of a copy of the confession Jirõkichi made to another of Matsuura’s compatriot officials, one Ueda Bõ.  He then included this in his ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ (in the eighty-first scroll containing edits), and it is from this that I will draw the following quotes.  I should also add that there are many records and tales in existence in regard to Nezumi Kozõ, and so it is particularly difficult to judge which are reliable and which are not.  Yet for all that, a deposition created by a city official based on a direct confession should probably be regarded as trustworthy. (240) 

• About ten years ago, as I was passing through the front gate of the residence belonging to Arima Genba no Kami (lord of Kurume in Chikugo province), I lied that I had some business with the falcon coop keeper, and so was allowed to enter the household grounds.  Later that night, I stole around 5 ryõ worth of gold from the room belonging to the chief retainer to the women’s quarters.  
• Around ten years ago, as I passed through the front gate of the residence of Lord Mito (one of the three great Tokugawa households), I told the guards on duty that I had business in the ‘Edo room’ and they let me in.  Later on, I stole around 70 ryõ in gold after sneaking into the room of the chief retainer of the women’s quarters.
• Four or five years ago, as I made my way through the entrance gate to the residence of Matsudaira Izumi no Kami (lord of Nishio in Mikawa province), I told the guards on duty that I was a demawari (a close retainer to the lord of the household) so they let me in. Afterwards I stole 25 ryõ in gold. 
• Seven or eight years ago, as I was making my way through the front gate of the residence of Hosokawa Etchû no Kami (lord of Kumamoto in Higo province), I told the guards on duty that I had business in the quarters of retainers to the absentee (or rusu, 留守) official (essentially a senior minister of the household and personal retainer to the household lord who acted in his lord’s stead when the lord was absent).  I was allowed to enter, and stole 2 ryõ’s worth of gold from the chief retainer to the women’s quarters. (240-242)

 
With Jirõkichi’s level of acting skills, getting past the guards out front was a piece of cake.  He approached each gate honestly and openly, saying ‘Look, I’ve got an appointment with such-and-such, so how about letting me through?’.  (242)
 
To be continued.

This translation comes by way of a compilation of various records of crimes committed during the Edo period (1615-1868), written by Ujie Mikito, a historian of early modern Japan.  Ujie’s purpose in writing the book was to introduce to a broader audience some of the more fascinating cases from Edo (Tokyo)’s history. He has done this by firstly translating most of the content of the historical records into modern Japanese, and then placing each case in his historical context, with a bit of amateur psychology thrown in for good measure.  Interestingly, Ujie has chosen to break each case down into individual chapters, which he then recommends that the reader absorb in one go before moving on to the next case/chapter. In this sense, each chapter resembles something of a bedtime story (indeed Ujie recommends reading each case at night, preferably with a drink at hand).  However as you will see, some of these cases are not for the faint at heart or weak of stomach.  As is the case with my previous translations, all page numbers are in parenthesis/brackets, just in case you want to read the original text.  I’ve also included some explanations in the text for words and concepts that some readers might not be familiar with, and which can come in useful when reading other material about this era.
 
Ujie Mikito, “Historical records of crimes committed during the Edo period” (Kobunsho ni miru Edo hanzai kõ), Shõdensha, 2016.
 
Chapter One.  The case of the ‘thousand cuts’ killer
 
When examining crimes committed during the Edo period, it is clear that the motives, methods, number of victims and scale of heinousness of those crimes greatly varied.  So where should we start our investigation? While I don’t have any particular preference for such incidents, I’ll start by looking at a crime committed by a ‘stone-cold killer’ (in Japanese, a tõrima - literally ‘a passing devil’. This term used to refer to an incident where a person armed with some form of sharp implement, such as a knife or a sword or indeed any sort of implement, suddenly and violently begins randomly stabbing and slashing people around him or her without provocation). 
 
This particular incident comes courtesy of Ishizuka Hõkaishi’s “Collection of records of street gossip” (Daidan Bunbun Shûyõ).  
 
From the end of the 1st month (January) to the 3rd month of the 3rd year of Bunka (1806), someone in the city of Edo had taken to stabbing poor and disabled people to death with a spear after the sun went down.  Why? It was clear from the victims that the motive for such crimes wasn’t money. 
 
Let’s explore this in greater detail. At around 8pm on the 1st day of the 3rd month, a 32 year old blind ‘vagrant’ was stabbed by a spear on the road just below Mizaka in the city of Edo and later died of his wounds.  Then on the 6th, at around 7pm in the evening, a 50 year old vagrant was stabbed on the road at Kõjimachi San-nõ-chõ and gravely wounded. 
 
There would be another two victims on the 6th.  At 9pm, on the road out the back of Kõjimachi Ichõme, a 45 year old blind masseuse had been stabbed and wounded. At around the same time, on the road at Asakusa Higashigachõ, a 25 year old apprentice to a local doctor was stabbed and killed. (14, 15)
 
It appeared that a serial killer was on the loose.  The killer may not have been acting alone, and we can’t rule out the possibility that some of these incidents might have been ‘copycat’ killings inspired by the original murder.  In all, 13 people were attacked with a spear between the 1st and 3rd months, and 6 died. 7 or 8 victims managed to flee from their attacker after being wounded. 
 
Luckily the culprit was finally apprehended in the 4th month, and on the 13th day of the same month was handed over to authorities for sentencing. He was executed at the prison grounds at Suzugamori on the same day and his head was put on display.  The culprit had previously served as a retainer within a samurai household, and his motive appeared to be a desire to test his spear training on a living human body. Unable to control himself, he had then repeated his crimes. (15)
 
The joy shared by the arrest of the culprit was short-lived, however.  On the very day that he was executed, another blind masseuse was stabbed at Asakusa, and four days after the retainer’s execution, on the 27th of the 4th month, 3 people were stabbed in the vicinity of Kagurazaka.  One of these was a lad aged 17.  On his way back from collecting some medicine from a local doctor to give to his mother who had suddenly fallen ill, the boy was stabbed through the chest, from the ribcage through to the spine, and died almost instantly.  The weapon this time was not a spear, but a newly forged carving knife which had been left in the body of the victim after the culprit fled. (15, 16)
 
A similar series of incidents later occurred throughout the 11th and 12th months of the same year.  Yet again, all of the victims were either itinerants or disabled.  Despite the implementation of stricter restrictions on movement by the various towns within the city of Edo, authorities were still unable to catch the culprit.  
 
As the perpetrator of the original crimes had been put to death in the 4th month, the continuation of such incidents was believed to be a result of copycat killings. (16)
 
Be that as it may, it doesn’t explain why such grotesque crimes were repeatedly happening to the infirm and those at the very bottom of society.
 
In Edo, the practice of samurai attacking passers-by in order to test the sharpness of their swords (known in Japanese as tsuji-giri) occurred from time to time. However the perpetrator of the serial crimes in the 3rd year of Bunka was no samurai.  Moreover the man executed earlier who belonged to the samurai household was believed to have been a simple town resident (or else a peasant). Hence whomever had committed the copycat crime with the carving knife was also not a member of the warrior class. (16)
 
It appeared as the the perpetrators of these incidents wanted to kill a living human being, be it with a spear or a knife.  They may have sought out the experience for the thrill and sensation that it gave them.  However such abominable motives led to miserable ends. (16, 17)
 
The work of a devil
 
The next record was written by Matsuura Seizan and titled “Kasshi Yawa” (Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle). Matsuura was a venerable elder (and former ruler) of Hirado district of Hizen province (modern Nagasaki and Saga prefectures, land that came with a stipend of 60,000 koku a year (a koku being a unit of measurement, with 1 koku being the amount of rice deemed necessary to feed one man for one year). His writing contains some important records of crimes. One of those concerned a series of murders that took place in the 5th month of the 9th year of Bunsei (1826). (17) 
 
At around 6pm on the 18th day of the 5th month of Bunsei 9, a man by the name of Kingorõ, an apprentice to a business located in Kohinata Myõgatani chõ (another part of Edo), was making his way home from the local bathhouse when he was set upon by a number of assailants. He was cut open from his left hip to his throat and quickly expired.  The culprits fled the scene, and their motive remained a mystery.  Kingorõ had been making his way to the bathhouse with barely any clothing on, hence the perpetrators cannot have been seeking to rob him of any money he might possess. It looked as though this was yet another tõrima incident. (17)   
 
At around 9pm on the same night, an official by the name of Kamekichi, working in front of the temple of Dentsûin at Ko-ishikawa, came across two men who appeared to be samurai on the path above the district of Tomisaka.  Kamekichi saw both men reach for the swords and move to strike him, whereupon Kamekichi quickly ran off and lived to tell the tale.  Then at 7pm on the 20th of the 5th month, a peasant by the name of Gonbei of Kazusa province was walking along the banks of a moat outside of the Hitotsubashi gate when somebody took a swing at him with a sword from above his straw (kasa) hat.   Gonbei chased after his assailants, all two of them, but lost sight of them in the dark.  It was after returning to his house that Gonbei first noticed that he had a 3cm gash in his forehead.  
 
The fact that Gonbei hadn’t noticed his injury because he was so surprised at having been randomly attacked in the first place bore a striking similarity to the tale of Tetsugorõ, a carpenter of the Tõkichi school at Fukugawa. At around 6pm on the 5th day of the 6th month of Bunsei 9, Tetsugorõ was set upon by an unknown number of assailants on his way back to Fukugawa from Morishita chõ. Despite being quite incapacitated by alcohol, somehow Tetsugorõ managed to get away.  He didn’t even notice that he had a cut running across his back until after he returned home and tried to have a bath.  The blood that ran from his back into the water told him all he needed to know about the attack on him. (18)
 
Were his attackers attempting to test their swords out on Tetsugorõ or was simple murder their motivation? Whatever the case may be, as far as Seizan was concerned these serial murders were ‘the work of a devil’. (18)
 
The madness of Magara Shingorõ
 
Up until now we have been dealing with the opening act, but now it is time to move on to the main event.  I should add that simply quoting from the source would be difficult for readers to understand, hence I would like to introduce the next case by offering my own interpretation of the original text. (19)
 
On the evening of the 24th day of the 8th month of Kanbun 3 (1663), in an area between a grass field and Koku-chõ - a part of the Nihonbashi district - a number of incidents occurred where people passing through that area were randomly attacked.  8 people in all were killed while another 10 were wounded.  Despite occurring in the dead of night, people were soon rushing to their local magistrates’ houses to demand something be done to put a stop to such madness. (19)
 
The identity of the culprit remained a mystery, however.  Then, at about 8 am the following day, a monk from the Kõya monastery by the name of Shinetsubõ made his way to the local magistrate’s residence at Koku-chõ and relayed the following information:
 
“Last night, a well-disposed rõnin (unemployed samurai) by the name of Magara Shingorõ came to visit me at my house. Upon arrival, he asked “I have been holed up at Atagoyama (part of Edo city) where I have been offering prayers.  However I am very tired. Might I rest here for a while?”.  He looked like a fairly stable, trustworthy sort of fellow so I let him in. Almost as soon as he had entered, he suddenly dropped down onto the floor and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
 
This morning, when I went to take breakfast to Magara in his room, where he was still asleep, I noticed that he had blood on various parts of his clothing.  Not only that, the sword that he had drawn from its scabbard and placed upright on the floor was covered in blood, right up to the hilt.  Being that he is a large man, and unsure what he might do after he wakes up, I’ve hidden both his main and short swords as a precaution”. 
 
The magistrate exclaimed “That’s him, that’s the culprit. Seize him”, and dispatched a posse of retainers off to Shinetsubõ’s house.  Upon entering the house, the posse found Magara sound asleep and easily overpowered him.  He was then taken back to the official’s residence, and gave the following response to questioning:
 
“Ordinarily I pray at Atago Shrine. Last night, while I was praying, I received a divine message which said “You should cut one thousand people starting tonight. If you do this, all of your wishes shall come true.” So I left Atagoyama and ran about cutting anybody I happened to come across, just cutting and running, cutting and running. I remember cutting around 20 or 30 people, but I have no idea whether they are still alive or dead”. 
 
Magara then made a final request, which was to “Please allow me to continue to cut a thousand people.  My wishes won’t come true if I don’t”.  So in addition to randomly attacking numerous passers-by and causing their deaths, not only was Magara barely aware of the gravity of his crimes, he had the audacity to ask the local magistrate to allow him to continue to perpetrate them. What is more, the expression on his face, with his wide-open eyes and gritted teeth, made him appear as if he was in the grips of madness. (20, 21)
 
The sword that Magara used to commit his crimes was around 3 shaku (approximately 90 cm) in length and 3.4 cm in width, forged by Kawachi no Kami Kunisuke. It appears that Magara had only to swing at each passer-by once for him to cut them down. Hence after the incident the sword was highly regarded for its cutting edge, and Kunisuke himself became renowned as a master swordsmith and a maker of superlative blades. (21)
 
‘To cut a thousand people’ 
 
The above incident (which I have taken to calling ‘the case of the thousand cuts killer’) has many things in common with modern incidents committed by tõrima. 
 
Magara prayed fervently in the hope that it would make his wishes come true.  His main wish was probably to secure a good job as an official somewhere (i.e., be re-hired). Here he was, a powerfully built individual, excelling in military arts and literate. So why was he still unemployed? His overconfidence in his own abilities and dissolution with a society that didn’t acknowledge his skills, combined with his anxiety over an uncertain future and current poverty, must have damaged his psyche. Hence his ‘auditory hallucination’ of receiving a message from the gods, which transformed him into a mass murderer. (22)
 
This conjecture might seem pretty forced, but it is entirely possible that these were the sort of thoughts going through Magara’s head before he committed his crimes. Obviously everyone’s past is different.  And it is not so easy to simply compare Magara Shingorõ with the perpetrators of modern tõrima incidents, but still…
 
Actually, there is one point where Magara’s case differs considerably to the modern day. Magara’s case occurred at a time when the smell of blood still tainted the air of the warrior class.  The fact that Magara’s sword, which would otherwise be regarded as a murder weapon, could instead be praised for its sharpness speaks volumes about the times in which the incident happened. I very much doubt in this day and age that a knife used to perpetrate a tõrima incident would later start flying off the shelves because of the maker’s claim that it ‘cuts really well’. (22, 23)
 
Nevertheless, no matter how much we put Magara’s behaviour down to his insanity, I have no words to express my horror at his request to ‘be allowed to keep on cutting a thousand people’.  It was as though he had shamelessly declared “As a warrior, I have been lenient. So please allow me kill another 900 or so people”.  No matter how heinous a crime might be committed today, I doubt the culprit would utter words so detached from reality. (23) 
 
But what exactly was this phenomenon Magara spoke of – this ritual of ‘cutting one thousand people’? (sennin-kiri, not to be confused with the modern use of this expression which refers to something ENTIRELY different) 
 
For the answer to this, I first must thank the naturalist, botanist, and cultural anthropologist Minagata Kumakuzu, a ‘giant of knowledge’.  I wonder if you are familiar with his work ‘About the cutting of a thousand people’ (Sennin-kiri no Hanashi) published in Meiji 45 (1912)? Minagata, who was in his late 50s when he wrote that essay, was a collector of the historical records and literature of this country, and not only offered up examples of the ritual of ‘one thousand cuts’, but followed the trail of clues all the way back to its origins in the Angulimala Sutra.  That tale can be summarised as follows: (23, 24)
 
“The teacher Baramon had a gifted young acolyte of whom he was jealous.  In order to try and get the young monk to ‘remove himself’ (i.e., commit suicide) he laid false accusations on him, saying ”You are an evil person”, and ordered the young monk “to kill one thousand people in order to wash away the stain of your sins”.  The young monk, with no other option, proceeded to start killing people.
 
After killing nine hundred and ninety-nine people, the young monk had one person left to fulfil his task. At that moment, his mother, worried about her son’s emaciated form, brought him a delicious meal to eat.  When the son was on the verge of killing his mother, Lord Shakyamuni (Gautama Buddha) appeared, and explained how wrong the actions of the young monk were to him. The young monk then became enlightened, and would go on to become a venerated holy man.”   
 
Whatever the origins of this story may be, the fact is that it led to a stupid belief that if you kill one thousand people your wishes will be granted.  When this was combined with the nonchalance of the warring states period (1465-1615), when killing peasants was considered no great sin, and whose ethos was carried over into the early Edo period by the warrior class, this led to the appearance of people who repeatedly committed acts of tsuji-giri. It was these individuals who then proceeded to ‘glorify’ such acts of random terror by linking sennin-kiri to the fulfilment of a religious vow. (24, 25)
 
In sum, the ‘case of the thousand cuts killer’ took place at a time when an atmosphere of naked blood lust had yet to fade into history. It was a tragic practice perpetrated by rõnin that emerged in the early Edo period following the dissolution of many daimyõ (warlord) households. (25)
 
Amok Syndrome
 
Was the above crime an anomaly caused by the mental state of the perpetrator, something that would be familiar to the modern age, or was it a crime steeped in the mores and manners of its time? The jury is out on the verdict, but when examining the origins of the crime, one further theory emerged which I find quite intriguing. It is a theory that links such acts to a phenomenon that would be familiar to inhabitants of the Malay peninsula – that of ‘Amok Syndrome’. (25)
 
In his study of sennin-kiri, Minagata Kumakuzu had the following to say about ‘Amok Syndrome’:
 
“Debts, separation from loved ones, and punishment. When a man feels that these have all piled up and that there is no fairness left in the world, he temporarily goes insane, aware neither of what led him into his current state nor what its consequences will be. Taking a knife in hand, he runs about attacking people indiscriminately, men, women, young and old, without rest.  Afterwards, despite the deaths of scores of people, the mob will seemingly praise him for his act.” (26)
 
A man whose dissatisfaction and indignation have piled up to the point that he loses control of himself is transformed into a mass murderer.  After the crimes are committed, there is a tendency for people to find worth in the grotesqueness of such acts. In this sense, such acts closely resemble that committed by Magara Shingorõ. (26)
 
Minagata also wrote the following based on notes made by Alfred Wallace in his “Record of the Malay Islands”:
 
“56 years ago (around 1856), a series of incidents took place in Makassar (located in the centre of Sulawesi Island in eastern Indonesia). These occurred at the rate of once or twice a month.  The worst of these would see 20 or so people killed or injured.” 
 
The origins of the word ‘amok’ were explained in Chapter Six of Steven Pinker’s “How the Mind Works”. According to Pinker:
 
“Amok is a Malay word for the homicidal sprees occasionally undertaken by lonely Indochinese men who have suffered a loss of love, a loss of money, or a loss of face.” 
 
Pinker also points out records of such acts being committed in Papua New Guinea. In terms of the relationship between ‘Amok Syndrome’ and indiscriminate acts of mass murder, Pinker made the following observation.  In 1986, 7 men admitted to a hospital in Papua New Guinea and suffering from ‘Amok Syndrome’ were interviewed and analysed, with the results comprising the basis for the ‘amok mindset’. These results were identical to the thoughts held by Thomas Hamilton, the perpetrator of the Dunblane Massacre. On the 13th of March 1996, Hamilton walked into a primary school in the Scottish town of Dunblane and proceeded to murder sixteen children and their teacher using various guns before killing himself. (27)
 
Pinker explained the ‘amok mindset’ thus:
 
“I am not an important or “big man”.  I possess only my personal sense of dignity. My life has been reduced to nothing but an intolerable insult.  Therefore, I have nothing left to lose except my life, which is nothing, so I trade my life for yours, as your life is favoured.  The exchange is in my favour, so I shall not only kill you, but I shall kill many of you, and at the same time rehabilitate myself in the eyes of the group of which I am a member, even though I might be killed in the process.” 
 
Even in samurai households of the Bakumatsu era….
 
One could therefore say that the ‘case of the thousand cuts killer’ that took place on the evening of the 24th of the 8th month of Kanbun 3 (1663), steeped though it was in the mores of the early Edo period, was a tragedy whose origins lay in the amok mindset of its perpetrator, a mindset whose existence transcends both time and place.  
 
Tonight’s story thus ends here. Or does it? Since we’ve come this far, I’ll relay the details of one further case that took place during the Edo period.
 
On the evening of the 10th of the 9th month of Kaei 4 (1851, during what is known in Japanese as the Bakumatsu era, when the Tokugawa shõgunate was in its twilight years yet before the emerge of Japan as a modern state), an incident took place in the residence of one of Tokugawa shõgunate’s close retainers, that of Hongõ Tango no Kami Yasukata.    One of the members of the household retinue managed to cut his way into the female quarters at the centre of the household, where he proceeded to strike five women down before killing himself. (28)
 
A doctor was called for, yet all of the women were already dead. I’m not really sure what sort of treatment they were hoping the doctor would be able to offer.  Nevertheless this incident was recorded in the ‘Naniwa Diary’ (Naniwa Nikki) written by Kawaji Toshiakira. It seems that Minagata wasn’t aware of the existence of this book, and so it wasn’t included in his study of sennin-kiri. (28)
 
But what became of Magara Shingorõ? He had gone about slicing up victims with abandon and so, no surprises here, wasn’t spared execution.  The conclusion to this case is recorded in the “Collection of Various Tales and Testimonies of Martial Houses” (Bumon Shosetsu Shûi), which said:
 
“And so Shingorõ, despite being affected by madness, was found guilty of having killed a large number of people and was cut down.”  
 
This “cut down” tells us that even seppuku (ritual suicide) was considered too good for someone of the likes of Magara. (29)

Yoshida Yutaka, “Nippon Gunpeishi – Ajia Taiheiyõ Sensõ no Genjitsu” (Soldiers of Japan – the Reality of the Asia – Pacific War), Chuõkõron, 2018 (page numbers are in parenthesis)
 
The deaths of Kamikaze pilots – Excessive expectations versus reality
 
One of the more unique forms of death in battle that occurred during the desperate final stages of the Pacific War was, of course, those of the well-known Tokkõtai (‘special attack squad or group’).  The Tokkõtai (the abbreviated version of Tokubetsu Kõgeki Tai) were primarily involved in attacks (‘special air attacks’) against ships, whereby aircraft loaded with explosives would crash into the said ships.  There were other forms of such attacks, such as the so-called ‘Unyõ’, which involved crashing a motor boat known as a ‘Marule’ into the side of ships (‘special above-water attacks’), and attacks by single-seat, modified torpedos known as ‘Kaiten’ (‘special under-water attacks’).  However it was the attacks carried out by aircraft that led to the greatest number of casualties for Japan, and so it is upon these that I will focus my attention. (52)
 
The Tokkõtai made its first appearance in October 1944 as part of the defence plan for The Philippines. Its formal name was the Shinpû Tokubetsu Kõgeki Tai (although the reading of the characters for Shinpû was later modified to the more common Kamikaze). The original purpose of the Tokkõtai was to provide support to the fleet of Admiral Kurita in its attempt to break through to Leyte Gulf. Pilots would crash their aircraft into the flight decks of the US Navy’s main aircraft carriers, thereby rendering the carriers temporarily inoperable. They were not attempting to actually sink the carriers, and so their initial mission was limited in its scope.  However as the war progressed, the role of the Tokkõtai escalated. By the start of the Okinawan campaign towards the end of March 1945, the Tokkõtai had become both the army and navy’s principle strategy for resisting the US. Yet this meant that the expectations placed upon the Tokkõtai began to grow ever more excessive. (52)
 
For example, on the 26th of January 1945, Admiral Oikawa Koshirõ, Chief of the Naval Staff, wrote in relation to the distribution of 250 ‘Õka’ (‘cherry blossom’) flying bombs:
 
“At present, there are a variety of opinions regarding the state of the war, and while I recognize that the situation is grave, I do not regard it as critical.  A large number (250) of special weapons (human piloted Õka bombs) have been gathered together, and right now we have large numbers of recruits undergoing training at Kanoya (base). (Abridged) We had planned to deploy these pilots to Hitõjima (The Philippines’ front) by November of last year, but were not able to make it in time. However if these pilots can be used in the next (engagement), our military will reverse the situation, and we will be able to recapture territory extending as far as the Marianas”. (source: Takagi Sõkichi, Diary and Papers, Vol.2). (52, 53)
 
One of the former colleagues of Chief of Navy Admiral Oikawa, Admiral Okada Keisuke, had plenty of experience listening to Admiral Oikawa’s conversations, and had the following blunt remarks to say about Admiral Oikawa’s plan:
 
“I have to say, the idea of manufacturing 200 odd such weapons a month and then using them to retake territory from Hitõjima to Saipan was something a little akin to a dream.” (source: cited above). 
 
In truth, the expectations placed on the ‘Õka’ were no more than a dream.  The ‘Õka’ was a small, glider type aircraft packed with advanced rocketry and explosives and steered by a single human pilot.  Although many resources refer to it as a ‘rocket’, it was not officially regarded as one.  It would be suspended underneath a conventional ‘mother’ Mitsubishi G4M (‘Betty’) bomber aircraft and taken up into the air.  Upon approaching an enemy ship, it would be released from the mother aircraft.  The Õka pilot, locked into his cockpit, would then steer the aircraft using the air current.  Just before making contact with the enemy ship, the pilot would ignite the rocket, boosting the speed of the aircraft which then slam into the ship.  However because the over 2-ton ‘Õka’ had to be suspended beneath the 'mother' bomber aircraft, that significantly slowed the bomber down and impeded its manoeuvrability. Many bombers were attacked by enemy aircraft before they could launch their Õka, and thereby failed to contribute in any way to boosting Japan’s wartime successes. 
 
Furthermore, the maximum weight load that Japan’s Mitsubishi G4M bombers could carry in relation to torpedos or bombs and still be manoeuvrable was 800 kg.  The 21st of March 1945 marked the start of the use of Õka bombs. On that day, all 18 G4M bombers belonging to the “Shinrai Butai” (‘Thunder God Squadron’) took off on their mission, but none returned. (54)
 
The losses attributable to air attacks by the Tokkõtai by the end of the war were as follows:
 
Main aircraft carriers = 0 sunk, 26 damaged
Light aircraft carriers (smaller carriers modified from commercial vessels) = 3 sunk, 18 damaged 
Battleships = 0 sunk, 15 damaged
Cruisers = 0 sunk, 22 damaged
Destroyers = 13 sunk, 109 damaged
Other vessels (transport ships, amphibious ships etc.) = 31 sunk, 219 damaged
 
Hence for all the air attacks on naval shipping, no more than 47 ships in total were sunk.  On the other hand, the IJN lost 2,431 personnel in Tokkõtai based attacks, while the army lost 1,417, making a total of 3,848 lives. (source: Tokkõ – War and the Japanese People). 
 
The lack of success in sinking major ships meant that most of those sunk were smaller vessels.
 
Another reason why the Tokkõtai were not able to achieve much success was because in the aftermath of the Battle for The Philippines, the US strengthened its defences against suicide attacks. The US Navy deployed a number of destroyers equipped with powerful radar in front of its task force to act as a radar picket and to provide early warning of any incoming attacks and direct any fighter aircraft in response.  The Tokkõtai were not able to so easily break through this sort of forward defence line. (54, 55)

Furthermore, many of the planes used by the Tokkõtai were older models, flying laden down with the weight of explosives and so became easy prey for American fighter aircraft. The US Navy’s success in the development of variable time fuses (which used an electromagnetic wave pulse, thereby causing ammunition to automatically explode when it came within proximity to a target) led to the development from 1943 onwards of anti-aircraft shells installed with VT fuses, which in turn led to great success in anti-aircraft defence. (55)
 
The destructive power of the Tokkõtai
 
There are already a large range of sources about the Tokkõtai, so what I would like to focus on is the issue of the destructive power that the Tokkõtai were able to wield. 
 
When an aircraft undertakes a conventional attack against a surface target, the bomb that it drops is able to increase both its destructive power and its penetrating power through additional speed created by gravity. However in an attack committed by crashing into a target, an aircraft that undertakes a sudden dive in order to crash into a target creates lift, and so the aircraft itself begins to act as an airbrake (and slows down).  Hence when compared to bombs dropped from aircraft in accordance with conventional methods of attack, the damage caused by crashing an aircraft itself into a ship is much less extensive.  This is why Tokkõtai attacks on major US Navy vessels were unable to sink them. (56)
 
One piece of evidence that illustrates the lack of destructive and attacking power created by crashing an aircraft into a target is the tale of the US Navy destroyer, the USS Laffey (DD-724).  On the 16th of April 1945, the Laffey was acting as part of an advance radar warning picket line in the seas off Okinawa.  Over the course of 80 minutes, she was attacked 22 times by Tokkõtai aircraft and suffered extensive damage after being hit six times by aircraft and four times by bombs.  She was also strafed by Japanese aircraft, leading to a casualty list of 31 sailors dead or missing and 72 wounded.  Yet the Laffey did not sink, and was towed by other destroyers and tugboats back to a safe harbour where she underwent emergency repairs.  She was later able to sail to Guam under her own power. (source: Victory in the Pacific 1945). (56)
 
This example illustrates the high level of damage control capabilities possessed by the Americans (damage control being those measures taken onboard a vessel, such as firefighting, in order to minimise the amount of damage suffered). It also shows is that despite crashing six times into the Laffey, no Tokkõ aircraft were able to sink a comparatively small warship like a destroyer. (56).  
 
Tokkõ pilots themselves were aware of the limits of the effectiveness of flying a plane into a ship with a bomb still attached.  Hashimoto Yoshio, a pilot of a Zero-class fighter aircraft, examined the most effective way of crashing a plane into an enemy’s ship with his fellow pilots.  He wrote the following about those discussions:
 
“It was about this time that we started to consider dropping your bomb immediately before you yourself collided with the target (at a low altitude), as opposed to having the bomb skip and hit the ship while you performed a sudden evasive manoeuvre, or else hitting the ship yourself or trying to launch the bomb from a higher altitude.  The origins of this line of thinking came from the fact that if you could exploit the penetrating power of a 250 kg or 500 kg bomb then you could create a much larger explosion.  This emphasised using the weight of the bomb rather than simply hitting the target with the aircraft itself to increase the penetrating power and armour-piercing capability of the attack.  It was a very logical way of thinking.” (source: Student Kamikaze – Life and Death, Memoirs of a student pilot of the IJN 14th Naval Air Corps). (57) 
 
 ‘Skip bombing’ is understood to refer to releasing a bomb first before hitting a target with an airplane.  In truth, Tokkõ pilots themselves shifted to hitting targets using just their aircraft.  
 
In May 1945, two Zero-class Tokkõ aircraft crashed into the USS Bunker Hill, an Essex-class major aircraft carrier in the seas off Okinawa. While the carrier itself didn’t sink, it suffered extensive damage including the loss of close to 400 personnel.  Both of these aircraft managed to release their bomb payload immediately before crashing into the carrier.  (source: M.T Kennedy, Tokkõ). 
 
The reason the pilots Ogawa Kiyoshi and Yasunori Morimitsu, both Kamikaze pilots, chose this form of attack was because they shared a desire with fighter pilots to inflict the greatest amount of damage on the enemy.  It was the ultimate form of silent protest at the otherwise illogical, reckless attack strategy of the Tokkõtai. (58)
 
Among the various Tokkõ aircraft, there are examples of planes that had explosives placed in the cockpit, and others which had their bombs fixed to the aircraft body so that they would be unable to drop them. (58)

Yoshida Yutaka, “Nippon Gunpeishi – Ajia Taiheiyõ Sensõ no Genjitsu” (Soldiers of Japan – the Reality of the Asia – Pacific War), Chuõkõron, 2018 (page numbers in parenthesis)
 
Chapter 2. Deaths at sea 
 
Over 250,000 deaths at sea 
 
Among the narrow definitions of casualties that occur during conflict, a number of particular manners of death stood out during the war.  One of these was the large number of deaths that occurred at sea.  
 
Attacks by aircraft belonging to allied fleets and submarines during the Asia-Pacific War resulted in a considerable number of ships being sunk, although it should be noted that deaths at sea here refers to those who died when their ships were sunk.  Detailed estimates on the number of deaths that occurred in this manner are included in my previous work “The ecology of the former Japanese Imperial Army and Navy”, so here I will only use round numbers. (42) 
 
According to the “Compendium of research on fatalities resulting from the sinking of vessels during the Pacific War”, the number of deaths at sea came to 182,000 in the case of the navy and navy-affiliated personnel, while the army and army-affiliated personnel deaths came to 176,000, making an overall total death toll of 358,000.  By way of contrast, the total number of casualties for both the Japanese navy and army during the entire Russo-Japanese War was 88,133 (source: A military historical study of the Russo-Japanese War). This reveals the scale of the loss of so many personnel.  Furthermore, the Army Medical Service for Transport Vessels, in its own report, pointed out that “Almost half of all deaths that occurred during combat aboard transport vessels should be ascribed to drowning” (source: Transport Ship Hygiene). (43)
 
The leading cause for so many deaths at sea was the great success that US Navy submarines had in sinking ships.  During the course of the Second World War, the US Navy lost 52 submarines, yet it managed to sink 1,314 vessels, making a combined commercial tonnage of 5.2 million tons. What this meant is that for every US submarine sunk, it managed to sink 25 commercial Japanese ships.  The German Kriegsmarine lost 781 U-boats during the war but sank 2,828 commercial vessels, for a combined tonnage of 15.5 million tons.  This resulted in a U-boat loss to vessel sunk ratio of 1:3.6, thereby giving the US a comfortable lead. However in the case of the Japanese Imperial Navy, it lost 127 I-class submarines but only sank 184 commercial ships, for a combined tonnage of 500,000 tons. This resulted in a loss to sunk ratio of little more than 1:1.4. (43)
 
The US Navy’s submarine campaign against Japan underwent a dramatic shift from around the middle of 1943.  The US Navy not only managed to reduce the number of defects in its torpedos, which up until this time had suffered from either premature detonation or failure to explode, it also successfully broke Japan’s commercial shipping codes.  This made it possible for US submarines to lie in wait for transport ships and ambush them (source: Research notes concerning the campaign to destroy Japan’s commercial shipping). (43)

Another reason for why so many Japanese troops died at sea was because most of the commercial vessels used to transport troops by the Imperial Japanese Army were requisitioned cargo ships. The interior compartments of these ships were narrow and cramped, despite being renovated, and hosted large numbers of troops.  As a result, when these ships began to sink, it became impossible for all of the personnel on board to escape.  In time, the loss of so many commercial vessels led to a shortage in ships, which meant that many of those ships still available were then overloaded with men and materials. This then exacerbated the amount of losses in personnel suffered when these ships were sunk. (source: Battlefields and Soldiers of the Asia-Pacific War). (44)
 
The Transport Ship Hygiene of the Army Medical Service for Transport Vessels, quoted earlier, pointed out that one of the particular characteristics of transport ships was the narrowness of the living spaces. Military transport ships had, on average, between 3 to 4 soldiers occupying a space of 1 tsubo (around 3.3 metres squared).  If 5 fully laden soldiers occupied a space of 1 tsubo, it would have been impossible for any of them to freely move about. In September 1944, Fukuoka Yoshio, a trainee medic on board a transport ship heading for The Philippines, wrote the following about his experience on the ship (44):
 
“Like slaves on board a slave ship, soldiers were crammed into the hold of transport ships over and above the prescribed number of crew.  Those who couldn’t get up on deck suffered from a debilitating fever (heatstroke) because of the dramatic increase in temperature and humidity in the hold. This led an increase in body temperature and the onset of shock. Over time, soldiers lost complete control over regulation of their central nervous system and many died.  Whenever this happened, I would accompany the body for burial at sea. I witnessed many a sad, tragic end, as the body of the soldier, with no relatives to farewell it, disappeared beneath the waves.” (source: A Doctor’s Greater East Asian War) (44)
 
According to Dr. Fukuoka, one reason that many of the younger soldiers who had just joined the army couldn’t go up on deck was because many of the veterans had parked themselves and their equipment near the exits to the deck in order to make use of the fresh air for themselves. (44)
 
“The 8-knot convoy” – Applying the spurs to a worn-out fleet of cargo ships
 
Another problem that the military faced was the lack of capability in Japan’s transport fleet.  During the Pacific War, in order to meet the military’s demand for transport vessels, a large number of ships were constructed that met wartime specifications.  Simplicity in design and construction, a shortened construction schedule, and savings on material and labour meant that speed of construction was prioritized to the detriment of the vessel’s capability. (45)
 
A variety of wartime-regulation ship types were constructed during the war. If we examine the speed at which such cargo ships travelled, a 1st generation cargo ship had a top speed, in the fastest class, of 12.3 knots, while the slowest type had a top speed of 10 knots.  A 2nd generation vessel could move, at the fastest, at 10 knots, while the slowest moved at 7 knots.  A 3rd generation vessel could move at 14 knots at the fastest, and 7.5 knots at the slowest.  A 4th generation vessel, which prioritised speed, could move at a top speed of 18 knots (source: A History of Wartime Ship Construction). (45)

Transport ships and tankers would make up part of a naval convoy where they would grouped together to protect them from attacks from submarines and aircraft.  Some ships within these convoys travelled at the comparatively low speed of 8 knots (around 15 kilometres an hour), which forced the remaining ships to modify their speed to match that of the slowest vessels.  Such convoys were referred to as “8 knot convoys”. These became the norm in time, which caused considerable problems for those vessels ordered to escort them.  (46)
 
To protect these “8 knot convoys” from submarine attack, the convoy would engage in zig-zag manoeuvres known as “noji manoeuvres” (because of the resemblance the movements had to the character no, or 之).  This often resulted in convoys having to drop their speed to 6 knots in order to successfully complete such manoeuvres (source: A Record of conversations with the Commander of the Combined Fleet).  (46)
 
Let’s have a look in more detail at what happened to transport ships after they had been attacked.  Both fatalities and injuries would result from explosions caused by either torpedos or bombs.  Within the ship this could provoke different reactions - from those who froze out of fear, to those who lost all sense of reason. Even though you might successfully escape from inside the ship, there would be a scramble to get hold of floating equipment like boats and rafts.  According to the “Military Regulations - No.49 - Lessons for use during difficulties at sea” (dated 18th January 1945) 
 
“Either seize a flotation device or get hold of one and use it exclusively. Do not worry about others but save your own life. There are many examples of sailors losing their lives trying to save both themselves and others.” (46)
 
One example of this ‘survival at all costs’ mentality was the tragedy that struck the ‘Taiseimaru’.  In April 1945, the Taiseimaru (1,948 tons) was making its way to Hakodate as part of the 3rd Amphibious Brigade. After being attacked by a submarine, she sank in the seas off Niikappu Seppuchõ in Hokkaido. (source: A History of Wartime Shipping).  One crew member of the Amphibious Brigade, Õyashiki Kiyoshi, provided an eyewitness account of what happened next:
 
“Soldiers floating around in the sea called out for help from the “Taihatsu” (an amphibious boat) and attempted to cling onto its side. I then saw an officer draw his sword and cut the arms off a number of soldiers (armless corpses later washed up on nearby beaches).” (source: Survey materials concerning records of wartime experiences and conversations, Vol.1). (47)
 
The writer Yoshimura Akira would cover this incident and use it for the basis for his story “The Sea Casket”. However he would supress the name of the ship, the unit involved, and the name of the place where the incident occurred. (47)
 
Pressure injuries and injuries from underwater explosions
 
Other forms of injury that occurred when a vessel sunk, but which were not widely recognised as war injuries, were pressure injuries and injuries that resulted from underwater explosions.  Pressure injuries usually refers to injuries that occur from the shock that the body (such as the legs) has to absorb after landing on the ground or a hard surface following a fall from a great height.   However Lieutenant Yamada Junichi, of the former Imperial Army Medical Corps, had a particular fascination with the problem of pressure injuries caused as a result of military action, and made the following observation about this phenomenon:
 
“During the recent war, ship explosions resulting from hits from individual mines (underwater mines or torpedos) created the opposite effect to what would ordinarily happen. An explosion would create such a shockwave that personnel on either the deck of a ship or in the water would be sent flying through the air. In addition to severe pressure injuries, there were other forms of injury including wounds from the explosion itself, contusions, bruising, fractures, burns, perforated eardrums, and internal injuries which ranged from simple to severe. It was common for multiple injuries to temporarily combine to form one major injury.” (source: War diary of a medical officer sent to The Philippines) (47, 48)
 
According to Yamada, among the recorded fatalities that occurred after being sunk, “44% had pressure injuries that accompanied (their other injuries).” (48)
 
But what about injuries that resulted from underwater explosions? Another medical officer who served during the Asia-Pacific War, Kunimi Hisahiko, knew of the type of wounds that could result from underwater explosions as a result of his studies at the naval medical school.   In his memoirs, he wrote:
 
“If an explosion happened to occur near someone floating in the sea, the organs of the victim would begin to rupture one after another despite the absence of any visible wounds to the outside of the body. They would suffer severe abdominal pain, which would gradually lead to emaciation and then death.  It was a horrible way to die.  At first, we didn’t know what the cause of death was, but soon learnt that it accompanied anyone who had been in the vicinity of an underwater explosion caused by a depth charge.” (source: Diary “Onkõ Chishin”) (48) 
 
Depth charges were the most common form of anti-submarine weapon. They were carried by destroyers and submarine chasers for use against enemy submarines in order to protect convoys. They would either be dropped or launched from an anti-submarine vessel and would explode underwater.  (48)
 
One record of the type of casualties that resulted from underwater explosions was documented by naval medical officer Hatano Katsumi. In January 1944, Hatano was stationed at Rabaul where he was responsible for providing medical assistance.  In his memoir of the war, he wrote:
 
“I had never treated so many suffering patients before.  Patients would complain about the terrible pains in their stomachs, which were so painful that it would make them cry.  They would be vomiting up blood.” (source: The Cave Hospital of Rabaul)
 
Hatano would later recognize what the cause of these injuries was.  In June 1942, Lieutenant Satõ Mamoru graduated from the naval medical school. In July 1944, Satõ found himself on Cerebus Island and responsible for operating on patients suffering from injuries caused by underwater explosions.   In his memoirs, he wrote:
 
“The crew of a cargo ship that had been torpedoed and sunk by an enemy submarine found themselves floating in the sea.  The shockwaves caused by depth charges dropped by friendly submarine chasers carrying out attacks on enemy submarines would cause ruptures in the intestines of these sailors. Soon there were around ten patients who had contracted peritonitis all at once.  (Abridged) When we opened their intestines up, we were astonished to find that the intestines of all of the patients had suffered ruptures in various places. There was a peculiar trait to that part of the body, (Abridged) and so from that we were able to discern that the injuries were not a result of the shockwave passing through the wall of the intestine, but rather explosive pressure had forced its way into the intestine via the anus, and damage to the intestine wall had thus occurred from within the intestine itself.” (source: Clouds over the sea) (49)
 
Hence although we might think of only one type of death at sea, in truth death came in many different forms. (49)
 
“There were a sudden series of incidents of men going mad”
 
One further issue regarding deaths at sea that can’t be ignored was the psychological trauma that accompanied any experience of being sunk.  As losses in shipping began to dramatically escalate, a sense of dread would spread among the troops onboard a transport ship making its way out of port.  From February to March 1943, a campaign was waged to increase the amount of supplies reaching New Guinea.  During the ‘81st campaign’, aerial attacks by US and Australian aircraft resulted in the loss of 8 cargo transport ships and 4 destroyers, thereby annihilating an entire convoy.  This was referred to as the ‘Battle of the Bismarck Sea’ (in English, or the ‘Dampier Strait Tragedy’ in Japanese). (50)
 
Tsuchii Zenjirõ wrote the following words in his memoir, based on his notes taken in relation to the state of the soldiers and crew scheduled for embarkation:
 
“Many of those marked for embarkation would gradually fall ‘silent’ and begin to feel ill.  In the afternoon of the day before embarkation, when tension had reached its maximum point, there were a sudden series of incidents of men going mad among the soldiers making their way into the holds of the transport ships.  This became a serious problem.  What is more, these men were so affected (by their madness) that they clearly weren’t faking it.” (source: Records of crews from sunken vessels) (50)
 
The state of mind of troops who had been rescued after their ships were sunk was also a serious issue.  In a number of military reports, personnel who had been rescued after “being in a perilous situation”:
 
 “would ordinarily display a more sensitive mental state for some time afterwards, particularly a heightened sense of fear” which, it was noted, would interfere in the performance of the soldier’s military duties (source: “Lessons for use during difficulties at sea” quoted earlier) (51)
 
There were also regiments who, along with losses in men and materials, also lost their battle flags.  Battle flags were flags presented to small infantry and cavalry units by the Emperor at the time of their formation. Along with the psychological, almost mythical, importance attached to objects received directly from the Emperor, it symbolised the unity, or the cohesiveness of the particular regiment. These were the flags that sank together with their regiments. (51) 
 
A specific example of this occurred in November 1942, when a ship carrying the 170th Infantry Regiment was torpedoed by a submarine in the seas off Palau, resulting in the loss of the regiment’s battle flag.   In April 1944, the 210th Infantry Regiment suffered the loss of its battle flag when their transport ship was sunk in the Bashi Channel. And again, in August 1944, the 13th Infantry Division suffered the loss of its battle flags when their transport ships were also sunk in the Bashi Channel by submarine-launched torpedoes. (source: Infantry and Cavalry Units and their Battle Flags). (51) 
 
One could say that this was a fitting symbol for the destruction of “the Emperor’s Army”. (51)