It was to ponder over Hart’s command, among other matters, that on January 31, 1942, the President set off in his special train from Washington’s University Station to spend a few days at his home in Hyde Park, north of New York.
Winston Churchill had urged him to get out of Washington whenever he could, in order to “think about” the war in quiet—Churchill often spending his weekends at Ditchley Park, an American-owned manor house outside London, where he could obtain respite from the German bombing and the cares of Parliament. Despite the inclement weather, which presaged snow, the President had finally taken Churchill’s advice. He was “in rare form, full of wisecracks” on the journey, his secretary, Bill Hassett noted in his diary, the “perfect host” to the small staff he took with him. “He seemed a trifle tired to me,” Hassett allowed, “but he was in excellent spirits.”53
In truth the President was worn out. He had even taken, briefly, to wearing “quite a snappy gray-zippered siren suit,” like Churchill’s,54 Hassett described, but seemed to enjoy the change of scenery—knowing he would have to return to Washington to face the press on February 6, and a battery of questions about his prosecution of the war.
Four inches of snow had indeed fallen by the time they arrived. The President had developed such a cold that his doctor, Ross McIntyre, had been summoned from New York. Although he seemed “in good shape and good spirits,” according to Hassett, the President appeared “reluctant to go back” to Washington.55 He therefore stayed put.
The days at his family home—so big and quiet and lonely without the presence of his mother, Sarah, who had passed away the previous fall (causing the President to wear a black armband for a full year to mark his grief)—now enabled the President to see what his own military team were missing—even those like Eisenhower and Colonel Handy, who were now urging that the Philippines be written off.56
Ike, as he was universally known in the War Department, could only scoff at MacArthur’s melodramatic cables, especially the general’s recent signal stating that “in the event of my death” he wanted his chief of staff, Richard Sutherland, to assume command in the Philippines—a man Eisenhower considered one of MacArthur’s biggest “boot lickers.”57
Only a handful of officers or men of the Army of the Philippines had seen MacArthur, their commanding general, on his one-and-only visit to the Bataan Peninsula, on January 10, 1942. They had become even less enchanted with MacArthur’s generalship when, on January 24, he had given orders reducing the limited rations on Bataan by half—while ordering a doubling of food stocks for the eleven thousand men on Corregidor, who—apart from antiaircraft and long-range artillery units—were not even fighting.58 It was this, primarily, that had led to the famous ballad, sung by the soldiers to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” deriding their commanding general as “Dugout Doug”:
Dugout Doug MacArthur lies ashaking on the Rock
Safe from all the bombers and from any sudden shock
Dugout Doug is eating of the best food on Bataan
And his troops go starving on.
Chorus
Dugout Doug, come out from hiding
Dugout Doug, come out from hiding
Send to Franklin the glad tidings
That his troops go starving on!59
Whether or not the general was “hiding out” in the Malinta Tunnel while his valiant army was continuing the Battle of Bataan, FDR understood, however, a key fact: MacArthur had gotten the Filipinos to fight the Japanese, not welcome them. This, the President recognized, represented a potentially war-changing phenomenon in terms of Japan’s moral basis for hostilities—and America’s destiny in countering the Japanese rampage. Though the American press and Republican politicians might be wildly overstating his claims to fame—mythologizing MacArthur’s prowess as a commander in the field and his fitness to be U.S. commander in chief in Washington in place of Roosevelt himself—MacArthur’s spirit, like that of Churchill’s in 1940, might turn out to be more important to American and Allied morale in prosecuting the war than all his errors as a general combined.
The parallel with Churchill fascinated the President. How alike were the two in many ways! Both men loved symbols to mark their individuality—Churchill his cigars, General MacArthur his corncob pipe and cane. Even their distinctive hats were designed to be memorable: Churchill’s bowler, MacArthur’s special “field marshal’s” cap, with its intricate, spaghetti-splash of gold braid. Both men were positively dangerous in terms of their lack of realism, their tactical missteps, their mood swings. Churchill’s performance during the fall of France—his wild orders for counterattack that bore no relation to what was possible after Guderian and Rommel’s breakthrough, and his instructions to Lord Gort to surrender the British Expeditionary Force rearguard at Dunkirk when it was not necessary—had been as pitiful as MacArthur’s defense of Lingayen and ill-provisioned retreat to Bataan. Even so, the performance of Churchill’s ally, France, had been even more deplorable! What Churchill and MacArthur both exuded, the President acknowledged, were a pluck and defiance that made others seem small and minion. MacArthur’s pie-in-the-sky calls for counteroffensive action took no account of what was actually possible in the Southwest Pacific at such an early stage in the war, and the general’s own responsibility in failing to prepare for a prolonged siege, as the War Department had instructed him. For all his faults, however, MacArthur was at least expressing the spirit of a fighters, determined to strike back at the Japanese, if possible—not run from them.
Hopkins—who remained in hospital for ten days—thus soon proved correct. When the President returned to Washington, it was, as U.S. commander in chief, to order that Admiral Hart be fired—Hart having confided to his supreme commander, General Wavell, that at age sixty-four he was simply too weary for the stress of the job, had already passed his retirement age, and could not be expected to run the Japanese blockade encircling the Philippines, where his ships would be subjected to heavy attack by hostile land-based aircraft.60 Instead, Hart had advised, they should concentrate only on trying to attack Japanese naval ships and transports as they approached the Netherlands East Indies and Java, and let MacArthur wither on his vine.
By contrast, the President remained rather proud of his Far Eastern general.
The President was aware, however, that MacArthur’s nerves were increasingly on edge—as well they might be. In his almost daily cables of woe—as well as suggestions on how to vanquish the enemy—the general was, in a sense, letting off steam, the President knew: his language reflecting the torment he was going through.
On February 4, 1942, for example, the War Department had flown up to Hyde Park a new signal from MacArthur in which the general had referred to what was, in his view, “a fatal blunder on the part of the democratic allies. The Japanese are sweeping southward in a great offensive and the allies are attempting merely to stop them by building up forces in their front. This method,” MacArthur had signaled, “as has always been the case in war, will fail. Such movements can only be negated by thrusts not at the enemy’s strength but at his weakness. The lines of weakness from time immemorial have been the lines of communication. In this case they are stretched over two thousand miles of sea, with the whole line subject to American sea thrust. This line is not defended by enemy bombers but is held by scattered naval elements. A sea threat would immediately relieve the pressure on the south and is the only way that pressure can be relieved. A great naval victory on our part is not necessary to accomplish this mission; the threat alone would go far toward the desired end. The enemy would probably not engage his entire fleet in actual combat. If he did and lost, the war would be over. If he did and won, the losses he would sustain would still cripple his advance and take from him the initiative. You must be prepared to take heavy losses,” MacArthur warned, “just as heavy losses are inflicted in return. I wish to reiterate that his bomber strength is entirely engaged on his southern front and represents no menace at all to such a naval
thrust. With only minor menace from the fleets of Germany and Italy the American and British navies can assemble without serious jeopardy the force to make this thrust. I unhesitatingly predict that if this is not done the plan upon which we are now working, based upon the building up of air supremacy in the Southwest Pacific, will fail, the war will be indefinitely prolonged and its final outcome will be jeopardized. Counsels of timidity based upon theories of safety first will not win against such an aggressive and audacious adversary as Japan. No building program no matter of what proportions will be able to overtake the initial advantages the enemy with every chance of success is trying to gain. The only way to fight him is to fight him immediately. . . . From my present point of vantage I can see the whole strategy of the Pacific perhaps clearer than anyone else. End. MacArthur.”61
It was easy enough, as Brigadier General Eisenhower did,62 to ridicule such pronunciamentos. MacArthur was correct, strategically. The problem was simply a practical one: his advice could not be followed. But at least MacArthur was thinking aggressively as a commander—in fact, he was by the very force of his personality holding together a symbolic partnership between American and Filipino forces that had incalculable importance for the Western alliance. This, the President recognized, was a pearl beyond price—something that the President’s advisers (and many later critics, also) simply failed to understand.
On New Year’s Eve, already, the President had suggested that President Quezon be rescued from the Philippines and brought to Washington to lead a government in exile, like that of the Dutch government.63 MacArthur had instinctively demurred, claiming Quezon—who was suffering from tuberculosis—would not survive the flight, and that his presence on Corregidor was vital for Filipino troops fighting alongside U.S. soldiers. Anxious lest Quezon be captured by the Japanese and made into a quisling, President Roosevelt had felt MacArthur’s intransigence to be a mistake, but had concurred, leaving the decision as to the best moment for Quezon’s evacuation up to MacArthur.
As the days had gone by, however, and it had become more and more obvious the Allies would not be able to mount a relief of the Philippines, MacArthur’s insistence on keeping Quezon at Corregidor to fire up his Filipino troops had begun to backfire. It had become obvious to Quezon that, whatever promises President Roosevelt made and MacArthur assured him of, the United States was not going to be able to save the Philippines from Japanese conquest.
Quezon had already sent the President a despairing message on January 13, 1942,64 which Roosevelt had not answered, but which had certainly disturbed him. Then on January 29, Quezon had written out a formal letter to MacArthur, intended for transmission to the President, pointing out again that the “war is not of our making. Those that dictated the policies of the United States could not have failed to see that this is the weakest point in American territory. . . . We decided to fight by your side and we have done the best we could and we are still doing as much as could be expected from us under the circumstances. But how long are we going to be left alone? I want to decide in my own mind whether there is any justification in allowing all these men to be killed, when for the final outcome of the war the shedding of their blood may be wholly unnecessary.”65
The President had relied on MacArthur to keep up the spirits of the Philippine president, but Quezon’s latest appeal he had had to answer—assuring Quezon that he recognized “the depth and sincerity of your sentiments” with respect to “your own people.” He wanted Quezon to know that he himself would be “the last to demand of you and them any sacrifice which I considered hopeless in the furtherance of the cause for which we are all striving. I want, however, to state with all possible emphasis that the magnificent resistance of the defenders of Bataan is contributing definitely toward assuring the completeness of our final victory in the Far East. While I cannot now indicate the time at which succor and assistance can reach the Philippines, I do know that every ship at our disposal is bringing to the southwest Pacific the forces that will ultimately smash the invader and free your country. . . . I have no words in which to express to you my admiration and gratitude for the complete demonstration of loyalty, courage and readiness to sacrifice that your people, under your inspired leadership, have displayed. They are upholding the most magnificent traditions of a free democracy.”66
MacArthur had been delighted by the response. As he had cabled back to General Marshall in Washington: “The President’s message to Quezon was most effective. Stop. Quezon sends following reply for President Roosevelt. Colon. Quote. Your letter has moved me deeply. Stop. I wish to assure you that we shall do our part to the end. Signed Quezon. Unquote. MacArthur.”67 Quezon had even broadcast, on Voice of Freedom radio from Corregidor, that night, urging “every Filipino to be of good cheer, to have faith in the patriotism of valor of our soldiers in the field, but above all, to trust America. The United States will win this war, America is too great and powerful to be vanquished in this conflict. I know she will not fail us.”68
What, then, went wrong? Hardly had Quezon’s cable arrived in Washington than, two days after the President’s return from Hyde Park, a new cable from Quezon arrived, with a very different message. In transmitting President Quezon’s text, General MacArthur prefaced it by saying that he himself would be sending a second part to the cable, in which he would give his own thoughts on the matter. That part, however, had not yet been deciphered.
It was the first part, however—the text from Quezon—that filled the President with trepidation as he went to sleep on February 8, 1942. As Secretary Stimson noted in his diary—having spent an hour and a half discussing the ramifications of the partial message with General Marshall that afternoon—the war in the Far East was coming to an inevitable crisis.
Quezon’s cable had been blunt. “I feel at this moment that our military resistance here can no longer hold the enemy when he sees fit to launch a serious attack,” Quezon had written. “I deem it my duty to propose my solution:
“That the United States immediately grant the Philippines complete and absolute independence;
“That the Philippines be at once neutralized;
“That all occupying troops, both American and Japanese, be withdrawn by mutual agreement with the Philippine government within a reasonable length of time;
“That neither country maintain bases in the Philippines . . .
“It is my proposal to make these suggestions publicly to you and to the Japanese authorities without delay and upon its acceptance in general principle by those two countries that an immediate armistice be entered into here pending the withdrawal of their respective garrisons.”69
Reading this, Colonel Stimson could only shake his head. It was, in short, yet “another appeal from Quezon who has evidently made up his mind to make a surrender for his people in order to avoid useless sacrifice,” as the secretary summarized in his diary. Which now raised the question “not only as to Quezon and the Philippines’ future,” he mused, “but what we should do with the devoted little garrison that has been holding out”—and “what we should do with MacArthur.”70
The President, as commander in chief, would finally have to make a decision “ghastly in its responsibility and significance”71—but first they must wait for the second part of the cable to be decoded.
Henry Stimson, aged seventy-four, had good reason to be anxious, since the crisis over the Philippines put his own post as secretary of war on the line.
The U.S. War Plans Division had already produced on January 3, 1942, a “very gloomy study,” stating “that it would be impossible for us to relieve MacArthur and we might as well make up our minds about it,” as Stimson had noted in his diary.72 Such a relief would require an unachievable task force to be assembled, overnight: not only 750 more warplanes but between six and nine more battleships or heavy cruisers, five to seven aircraft carriers, almost fifty destroyers, sixty submarines as well as their auxiliary vessels, and “several hundred thousand” troops.73 As the secretary had noted in hi
s diary two nights later, the truth was written on the wall, but no one was allowed to speak it. “Everybody knows the chances are against getting relief to him, but there is no use saying so beforehand,” Stimson had confessed—having ordered the report to be kept secret.74
The simple truth was, the Philippines was doomed. The remnants of the U.S. Pacific Fleet could not be risked, so soon after Pearl Harbor, in such a wild adventure—leaving Pearl Harbor undefended. The surviving vessels of Admiral Hart’s Far Eastern Fleet had wisely sailed south to Java. And with the U.S. Army Air Forces lacking sufficient available planes to get beyond Mindanao, the southernmost Philippine island, there was no hope of staging a relief mission—indeed, it was questionable whether the Allies could hold on to the Netherlands East Indies, with its crucial oil resources. MacArthur would have to fight it out to the bitter end, with the forces he had. “None of us is likely to make the mistake,” Stimson had admitted, “of taking too much risk.”75
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