The World War II Chronicles

by William Craig

  The man who had insisted on qualifications lay dead on a bedroom floor in Tokyo. While his servants mourned, America went wild with joy.

  In the villages, towns and main cities, emotions spilled over into a reckless pursuit of pleasure. Times Square was choked with a surging mob of carefree human beings, who kissed and laughed, drank and made love in the midst of bright lights blazing again after a long war.

  In the nation’s capital, crowds milled around the White House and waited for Truman to appear. He did so, and made a short speech to the masses lining the railings. They cheered his every sentence, then applauded him as he moved back inside to call his mother in Independence, Missouri. The excited throngs spread to the downtown area and proceeded to lose their inhibitions. Soldiers jumped into passing cars to kiss unprotesting women. In front of the Washington Post newspaper building, a soldier and a girl got out of a taxi and started to take off their clothes, to the encouragement of an enthusiastic group of well-wishers shouting, “Take it off!” “All the way!” “’Atta girl!” The couple stripped completely, then dressed in each other’s clothes; the girl put on shorts, pants and shirt while the soldier struggled into bra, panties, slip and dress, to the applause of the bystanders. Then the two exhibitionists jumped into the cab and were swallowed up in the dusk.

  Though few cities could claim such ardent demonstrations of joy, the pattern of behavior was similar in many places. That night the G.I. was king and he knew it. The police in most places tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. Their orders were to maintain some semblance of peace but to avoid excessive controls.

  In San Francisco, more control was desperately needed. In this city surrounded by Navy installations, the news of surrender had come just before four o’clock in the afternoon. The Navy immediately took over. Sailors got drunk and civilians joined them. By evening the celebration was out of hand.

  Car after car was stolen and driven by crazed men who tore recklessly through the busy streets. Several people were struck down and killed while the motorists drove on, oblivious to the horror behind them. Young women found that being out among celebrating countrymen could be disastrous. People stood by horrified as at least six girls were forcibly thrown to the sidewalks, held down and repeatedly raped. No one moved to their aid. Policemen watching the assaults looked the other way, afraid to confront the liquor-sodden servicemen. Windows were smashed in the downtown shopping area, liquor stores were looted clean. A pedestrian walking down a side street was hit on the head by a basketful of bottles loosed from an upper-story window, and died of a fractured skull. Well into the morning hours, San Francisco continued in the grip of rioters who knew no authority. During the nightlong celebration of peace in that city, twelve people died.

  In Manila, Filipinos groped about in the ruins of their once beautiful city. Laid waste only months before by the savage block-by-block defense of the trapped Japanese, the capital of the Philippines was slowly being rebuilt by the energies of its people who, more than any other, knew the horrors of war in the Pacific. Among the shouts of joy that day were the muted sobs of those mourning their dead still beneath the ruins.

  On the outskirts of the city stood Bilibid Prison, the infamous home of countless American and Filipino captives during the Japanese occupation. The sighs of these hopeless souls still haunted its cavernous interior. So many had wasted away there in body and mind in the grim days after Bataan. So few had survived.

  Now, in August 1945, Bilibid housed as prisoners the former captors, Japanese soldiers. Little by little since February, these emaciated remnants of General Yamashita’s huge army had been flushed from hiding places in the formidable hill country; now they wandered around the courtyards and corridors of Bilibid in a continual daze. Though happy to be alive and eating sufficiently well, they felt that they could never go home again. Since capture was a disgrace, most of the prisoners thought their families and friends in Japan would treat them with contempt if ever they set foot in the Home Islands. They were the living dead.

  The surrender news came in a paper brought into the jail by a soldier. The Japanese crowded around an interpreter, who read the startling information to a growing group of prisoners. Some stared at him disbelievingly. Others broke down into loud sobbing and wandered away into the cool shadows of the yard. It was almost too much to comprehend. They could go home, but to what?

  North of the prison, in the remote fastnesses of Luzon, the American foot soldier still held his rifle ready. For months the Thirty-second Division had pursued the stubborn enemy through the jungle and mountains, trying to beat the last resistance out of him. The Thirty-second had been killing Japanese for three long years. By August of 1945, the end was in sight, but the killing went on.

  At 8:00 A.M. on the fifteenth, Truman’s surrender announcement came through to the soldiers on Luzon. The Japanese were not informed. Two hours later, they rushed the command post of Company A, 128th Infantry Regiment, and killed one more American. In the afternoon, another unit was cut off temporarily by a determined assault on its position in the hills. When the news of the surrender was passed up to them, one G.I. observed caustically, “Yeah, the war’s over. It’s all over this goddamn hill.” The sound of artillery fire punctuated his remark.

  Off the coast of Japan, the fast carriers of Bull Halsey’s fleet prepared to renew the attack on the morning of the fifteenth. The order for a temporary lull in bombing activity had expired. At 6:15 the last of 176 planes had taken off from the pitching decks for sweeps against targets in the Tokyo area.

  Just then an urgent message crackled into the radio room: CESTCPAC: SUSPEND ATTACK AIR OPERATIONS X ACKNOWLEDGE.

  Halsey ordered his signal officer to contact the departed aircraft. Seventy-three of them were raised by radio and recalled to the fleet. The other 103 planes were over the mainland, strafing, bombing and fighting off 45 Japanese planes which rose to the last challenge of the Pacific War.

  Another message arrived for Halsey on the bridge!

  CEASE OFFENSIVE OPERATIONS AGAINST JAPANESE FORCES X CONTINUE SEARCHES AND PATROLS X MAINTAIN DEFENSE AND INTERNAL SECURITY MEASURES AT HIGHEST LEVEL AND BEWARE OF TREACHERY OR LAST MOMENT ATTACKS BY ENEMY FORCES OR INDIVIDUALS.

  The thousands of men in the Third Fleet knew now that the war was truly over.

  When the pilots returned from the Tokyo raid, they were elated. On the San Jacinto, they rushed from their planes to tell how they had shot down twelve enemy fighters. Nobody paid any attention to them. Men kept saying, “Who cares?” Like children with a great story to tell, the pilots raced around from officer to officer to recite the impressive story of the dogfight over Japan. No one was impressed anymore. The war was over.

  In Tokyo, the Emperor had scheduled a meeting with his top advisers for ten o’clock in the morning, but because of the rebellion of the preceding hours, it was postponed until 11:15.

  Major Hidemasa Koga walked through the forest into the headquarters of the Guards Division, where General Mori’s body lay in state. Koga had been revolted when this gracious, fair officer was shot dead by Hatanaka. For the rest of the night, he had wandered in a daze, unnerved and disillusioned by the violence he had witnessed in the name of the Emperor. His concept of a coup did not include murdering loyal soldiers. He had been party to a terrible wrong.

  Koga gazed down at Mori lying in the wooden coffin. Kneeling at the general’s feet, he placed a pistol to his own chest, pulled the trigger, and died on the floor beside his commanding officer.

  Outside the Emperor’s palace, two men were seen distributing handbills to strolling pedestrians. One man was on a horse, the other on a motorcycle. They were Hatanaka and Shiizaki, who had emerged from the wooded area inside the compound to explain their actions to the public. They stopped people and forced leaflets on them. Then the two disappeared again into the forest of pine trees near the Double Bridge Gate.

  Shiizaki knelt down on the ground and drew out a ceremonial dagger. Facing toward the interior of th
e palace grounds, he ripped open his stomach and fell unconscious to the grass.

  Hatanaka stood a short distance away. His attempt to obstruct the peace had failed miserably. A gentle man by nature, he had resorted to extreme violence and killed a man mourned by many. Balked at every turn, he had no recourse but to follow Anami and the others in death.

  Hatanaka raised the pistol with which he had murdered Mori nine hours before. He placed it between his eyes and pulled the trigger. His fragile features dissolved in blood.

  Passers-by heard the report of the gun but passed on without stopping. The morning sun warmed the grass around the palace and glistened on the red stains spreading under the trees.

  FIFTEEN

  The Emperor Speaks

  In the morning newscast on August 15, the Japanese people were told that the Emperor himself would speak to them at noon. It was an unprecedented break with tradition. Never before had the Emperor talked personally to them. The people had never heard his voice.

  As the sun rose to the mid-point, in schools, factories, private homes and military bases, everyone gathered around radios or loudspeakers. Very few had an inkling of what they were about to hear.

  At Oppama Airfield southwest of Tokyo, air force personnel lined the runways. Standing at attention among them was Saburo Sakai, whose distinction as Japan’s greatest fighter pilot went back to the early days of the war when he and his comrades ruled the skies as far south as New Guinea. Now, across the airfield, smoke rose from a trash fire where papers were being burned to prevent their falling into the hands of the enemy.

  At Oita Airfield, Admiral Ugaki was dressing in his cave. All morning long his fellow officers had tried to dissuade him from flying the last kamikaze mission. He had said to a close friend, “This is my last chance to die like a warrior. I must be permitted that chance.” His radio too was turned on as noon approached.

  On the other side of Kyushu, in Nagasaki’s Urakami Valley, a few radios still functioned. In a schoolyard a crowd was grouped within range of one loudspeaker. Not far from them, corpses still lay about, blackened and ballooning up grotesquely in the heat. Thousands of flies feasted on the remains. The stench was intolerable. Daily more of the original survivors were dying from the invisible work of radiation.

  At one minute before twelve o’clock, radios everywhere blared the final strains of “Kimagayo,” the Japanese national anthem. Then an announcer stated that the next speaker would be the Emperor of Japan. All traffic stopped. Most subjects bowed their heads. An unnatural hush invaded the cities and villages.

  “To our good and loyal subjects,” the Emperor began. “After pondering deeply the general trends of the world, and the actual conditions obtaining in our Empire today, we have decided to effect a settlement of the present situation by resorting to an extraordinary measure.” The voice was high-pitched, thin and reedy, quavering slightly as though under strain. “We have ordered our Government to communicate to the Governments of the United States, Great Britain, China, and the Soviet Union that our Empire accepts the provisions of their Joint Declaration.”

  The language was court Japanese—a stilted, archaic form strange to many of his listeners. Comprehension of his purpose was slow in coming as he next set about exonerating his country for the debacle of the war:

  “To strive for the common prosperity and happiness of all nations as well as the security and well-being of our subjects is the solemn obligation which has been handed down by our Imperial Ancestors, and which we lay close to heart. Indeed, we declared war on America and Britain out of our sincere desire to ensure Japan’s self-preservation and the stabilization of Southeast Asia, it being far from our thought either to infringe upon the sovereignty of other nations or to embark upon territorial aggrandizement.

  “But now the war has lasted nearly four years. Despite the best that has been done by everyone—the gallant fighting of military and naval forces, the diligence and assiduity of our servants of the State, and the devoted service of our one hundred million people, [and here, in dealing with the defeat of the military, the Emperor was delicate to an extreme] the war situation has developed not necessarily to Japan’s advantage, while the general trends of the world have all turned against her interest.” With this, he moved on to another topic:

  “Moreover, the enemy has begun to employ a new and most cruel bomb, the power of which to do damage is indeed incalculable, taking the toll of many innocent lives. Should we continue to fight, it would not only result in an ultimate collapse and obliteration of the Japanese nation, but would also lead to the total extinction of human civilization. Such being the case, how are we to save the millions of our subjects, or to atone ourselves before the hallowed spirits of our Imperial Ancestors? This is the reason why we have ordered the acceptance of the provisions of the Joint Declaration of the Powers.”

  Those who had not fully understood his opening statement now heard it confirmed. Around the radios, in the streets, people wept. Sobbing, their faces in their hands, they strained to hear the words of solace that followed.

  “We cannot but express the deepest sense of regret to our Allied nations of East Asia, who have consistently cooperated with the Empire toward the emancipation of East Asia. The thought of those officers and men, as well as others who have fallen in the fields of battle, those who have died at their posts of duty, or those who have met with untimely death, and all their bereaved families, pains our heart night and day. The welfare of the wounded and the war-sufferers, and of those who have lost their homes and livelihood, are the objects of our profound solicitude. The hardships to which our nation is to be subjected hereafter will certainly be great. We are keenly aware of all ye, our subjects. However, it is according to the dictate of time and fate that we have resolved to pave the way for a grand peace for all the generations to come by enduring the unendurable and suffering what is insufferable.”

  Having first justified, then commiserated, in conclusion Hirohito warned:

  “… Beware most strictly of any outbursts of emotion which may engender needless complications, or any fraternal contention and strife which may create confusion, lead ye astray, and cause ye to lose the confidence of the world.… Unite your total strength to be devoted to the construction of the future. Cultivate the ways of rectitude; foster nobility of spirit; and work with resolution so ye may enhance the innate glory of the Imperial State and keep pace with the progress of the world.”

  With this, the voice stopped.

  The shock was felt in various degrees and various ways all over Japan. For the first time in twenty-six hundred years the Japanese people would bow to a conqueror. Some were stunned to a point of incredulity, particularly in outlying areas where there was difficult radio reception and less general ability to understand the Emperor’s unfamiliar mode of speech. In the cities too there was disbelief. In Sendai, for example, the people were so certain of continued fighting that they could not absorb the meaning of the broadcast. Two or even three days later, many there were still in doubt, and went about in a kind of dream that shielded them from the hard reality.

  Others responded with immediate grief or fear. In Osaka, Mrs. Katsuko Oiyama recalled that she was so upset that she and her daughter “went right to bed and cried all day.” A child in Kobe remembered hearing at school that the Americans “would squeeze our throats and kill us and make holes in our ears and string wires through them.” She burst into tears of fright.

  At Oppama Airfield, the solid ranks of airmen broke. Nearly all of the men were in tears.

  The sobs of the people in the schoolyard crowd in Nagasaki were mingled with the noise of the many American planes still circling the stricken valley to photograph the phenomenon below.

  In their grief and shock and fear, most civilians in Japan simply retreated into their homes to await the enemy. The military, however, were far from passive. In the hours after the Emperor’s speech, truckloads of drunken soldiers careened through the downtown section of Osaka, shout
ing that the war would go on. Bottles of liquor crashed onto the streets as they vented their frustrations at the world. Pedestrians merely watched them.

  Hundreds of subjects congregated in front of the Imperial Palace that afternoon to pray and offer continued allegiance to the Divine Ruler. It was an orderly group, filled with sorrow. Scattered through the crowd were sobbing army officers who had come there with one purpose in mind. Pistol shots rang out and uniformed men toppled to the pavement. Nobody screamed or ran. People just moved away from the corpses and left the plaza in front of the palace.

  Immediately following the Emperor’s broadcast, Suzuki’s cabinet resigned in a body. The old man had done the job he had been assigned to do. From April to August, he had ridden the mounting wave of tension that gripped Japan and had managed to maintain his balance despite several slips that had nearly ruined the precariously built foundations of peace. The venerable admiral had performed the most onerous task ever given to a Japanese, and thereby rescued his countrymen from complete annihilation. For this he had nearly died at the hands of fanatics. For this he would remain a hunted man for months, unable to sleep in his own bed, hounded from sanctuary to sanctuary, until finally, some time after the United States Army occupied his nation, the hunters tired of the chase.

  The new Premier was of royal blood, an uncle of Hirohito. Prince Higashi-Kuni, whose behavior in his youth had scandalized the court, was not an ideal choice for the position, at least not in normal times. Considered by associates an arrogant man, he possessed limited talents, less than brilliant intellectual attainments. Nevertheless, he served one very important function in August of 1945. As a member of the ruling family, he was a direct link to the throne, a rallying point for the people, a deterrent to those who would continue resisting the Emperor’s proclamation. The new Premier was the figurehead who could control the population in the crucial days ahead.