The Most Dangerous Man in America: The Making of Douglas MacArthur

by Perry, Mark

  Thus was seeded Quezón’s disastrous visit to Washington, where, as MacArthur later phrased it, the Filipino was “practically ignored.” By now, both men were getting the message: There would be no additional monies for the archipelago’s defense and no munitions shipped to its new army. To make matters worse, Roosevelt announced that he was too busy to meet with Quezón—an astonishing (and undoubtedly purposeful) insult. Yet, as MacArthur also knew, Roosevelt’s decision was, in some sense, understandable. The president had been carefully following Quezón’s tour, including the flashbulb-popping meetings with stars and starlets. If Quezón was so anxious to defend his countrymen, Roosevelt thought, the man should have made a beeline for Washington instead of stopping in Los Angeles to meet the cast of Parnell.

  Roosevelt’s announcement that he would not meet with Quezón sent MacArthur scrambling and pleading. But Roosevelt remained indifferent, telling his aides that he would give MacArthur five minutes of his time. But when the former army chief of staff showed up at the White House for his meeting, the president beamed up at him, eyes twinkling, and the two then sat down for what turned into a five-hour meeting. It was a classic Roosevelt-MacArthur back-and-forth in which MacArthur cajoled the president into doing what the president had already decided to do: Roosevelt would meet with Quezón over lunch and hear him out, he told MacArthur, though he would never consider granting the Philippines independence in 1938. The discussion was typical for the two men; unfailingly polite, they maneuvered, parried, lunged and retreated, then lunged and retreated again, all the while testing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Their discussion was crucial for each of them, for Roosevelt was attempting to assess MacArthur’s thinking on the Pacific, while MacArthur was probing Roosevelt’s political plans.

  Roosevelt had his lunch with Quezón the following week. Waving away Quezón’s arguments for Philippine independence, Roosevelt smiled indulgently at MacArthur’s request for more arms for Manila and then affably shook hands with both men as they bid the president farewell. Quezón thought the visit to Washington was a great success, but MacArthur knew otherwise: Their effort to extract weapons from the United States failed miserably. After their meeting at the White House, the Philippine president traveled on to Mexico before departing for Manila, and MacArthur returned to New York. There, on the morning of April 30, at Manhattan’s Municipal Building, MacArthur surprised everyone by marrying Jean Faircloth in a modest civil ceremony. “It was perhaps the smartest thing I have ever done,” he later wrote.

  From the moment he returned to Manila in June 1937, America’s man in the Philippines charted an independent course for himself and Quezón’s government. In this, he played the role of an American St. Paul—he was all things to all people, showing a different face to each of his constituents. He told Philippine legislators that their nation was in grave danger; he told Quezón that he doubted the Japanese were dangerous; and he told his staff to accelerate their efforts to recruit and equip Filipinos. Meanwhile, he told Washington that he needed more money to fend off a threat that, he confidently announced to his staff, wasn’t really a threat at all. What did MacArthur really want? He had two goals: His first one was to convince Filipinos that they could create a military strong enough to deter any aggressor. Second, he wanted to convince the Japanese that the price they would pay for an invasion would prove too costly. As events would show, he failed at both.

  MacArthur’s hopes were simply hopes. The archipelago couldn’t rely on its own legislature, much less the American Congress, to provide funding for an army. “Though we worked doggedly,” Eisenhower later reflected, “ours was a hopeless venture, in a sense. The Philippine government simply could not afford to build real security from attack.” MacArthur agreed, though he continued to contend that the Philippines would be a match for any invading enemy. He told this to Quezón, to the Philippine national assembly, and to visiting dignitaries. No one believed him. One day, as Eisenhower listened in astonishment, MacArthur told a group of reporters that the Philippines could not be conquered, that any amphibious assault on it would be too risky, and that, in any event, Japan didn’t really covet the Philippines. There were seven thousand islands in the archipelago, he argued, and they could all be defended: “We’re going to make it so very expensive for any nation to attack these islands that no nation will try it.” Eisenhower was aghast. It was as if his boss hadn’t even read the newspapers. “I do not agree with those who predict an imminent war,” MacArthur told a group of visiting American dignitaries. “The complete state of preparedness of practically all nations is the surest preventive of war.”

  The claim seems odd, particularly given MacArthur’s pleas for more funds. After returning from Washington, he had trooped off to the Malacanang Palace to ask Quezón to make one last appeal to the Philippine legislature for money. Quezón resisted him because, as he said, the Philippine treasury was empty. But MacArthur pressed him—Quezón had to try. Eventually, Quezón relented and appeared before the legislators, couching his argument in typical Quezón-like legalese: “The annual appropriations will be adjusted each year to the annual revenue, so that all other authorized government services and activities may develop in harmony with the growth of the populations and the expansion of our culture.” This gibberish fell on deaf ears. Most of the legislators thought Quezón and MacArthur were simply out of touch: The best way to keep the Philippines from becoming a Japanese target was to refrain from appearing too inviting, they said—which meant that less money should be appropriated for the military, not more. Of course, the legislators should have known better. That month, July 1937, Japanese and Chinese forces clashed at the Marco Polo Bridge outside Beijing—an incident that sparked a full-scale war in China. Within months, Japanese aggression would account for tens of thousands of Chinese lives.

  Japan’s provocations in China sparked war fears in Washington, though MacArthur’s adversaries continued to pooh-pooh the threat. The now retired Frank Murphy, whose time in Manila undergirded his reputation as an expert on all things Asian, channeled the views of Manila legislators, telling the administration that MacArthur’s buildup actually endangered the Philippines. MacArthur, he told Roosevelt, was acting like a dictator. Harold Ickes chimed in, telling Roosevelt that MacArthur’s mere presence in Manila sparked Tokyo’s fears, which, instead of being confronted, should be allayed. MacArthur needed to be recalled to Washington, he said. Murphy and Ickes, a formidable pair, were joined by MacArthur’s traditional White House critics. But in this instance, at least, Murphy and Ickes were animated by more than animus toward MacArthur. Neither Murphy nor Ickes had faith in the Filipinos, and the two men believed that by declaring the Philippines neutral, the United States could remove the commonwealth as a target of Japanese aggression. Doing so, they believed, was a necessary first step in stabilizing the situation in the Far East. But new army chief of staff Malin Craig, Pershing’s acolyte, thought these views were dangerously naive. The Japanese, he told Roosevelt, should be made to fight for the Philippines, and as he surprisingly added, MacArthur was just the man to do it.

  In late July, Craig weighed in with Roosevelt over MacArthur’s future. If MacArthur were recalled or relieved, Craig warned, the American military advisor would simply retire and stay on as Quezón’s advisor. Instead, Craig argued, MacArthur should be persuaded to stay in uniform. America needed him. If Roosevelt was surprised by this suggestion, he didn’t show it. He waved Craig off: MacArthur could retire, or not; it was up to him. So in early August, Craig wrote to MacArthur, explaining what Murphy and Ickes were saying about him and warning that Roosevelt wanted him out of Manila. MacArthur might even be ordered to the United States and given command of a corps. MacArthur was shocked. “Your letter has amazed me,” he responded angrily to Craig. “The action suggested would constitute my summary relief.” When, shortly thereafter, Roosevelt heard of MacArthur’s irritation, the president wrote him a personal letter saying that MacArthur need not retire, but could instead fil
l a senior command position in the United States if he wanted. In truth, the president’s offer was less enticing than it looked: MacArthur would be serving under Malin Craig, his successor as chief of staff. In essence, Roosevelt was inviting MacArthur to retire, and MacArthur accepted the invitation, writing the president that he wanted to be placed on the retired list. Roosevelt responded in kind: “Dear Douglas: Personally, as well as officially, I want to thank you for your outstanding services to your country. Your record in war and peace is a brilliant chapter in American history.” It was all easily done and (one can’t help feeling) elegantly choreographed. And so, on December 31, 1937, the day of MacArthur’s retirement, Manuel Quezón issued an executive order extending MacArthur’s service as his military adviser and naming him field marshal in the Philippine Army.

  It is difficult to judge this part of the MacArthur-Roosevelt relationship, for neither man emerges as an insightful political or military thinker. MacArthur misjudged Japanese intentions and overestimated Filipino capabilities. The sure-handed Roosevelt, on the other hand, was strangely susceptible to the arguments of those to whom he rarely gave weight, such as Ickes and Murphy. These were not strategic thinkers with broad experience in international affairs. They had little understanding of the Far East and believed, against all evidence, that Manila might somehow escape Tokyo’s voracious maw. They either could not see what was coming or, seeing it, averted their eyes. So did Roosevelt. So too did MacArthur. Neither MacArthur nor Roosevelt believed that Japan could be appeased or easily defeated, and yet, in 1937, they acted as if the looming war lay somewhere in the far future. The navy-besotted Roosevelt never imagined that the United States might need an army to fight in the Pacific, while MacArthur thought himself somehow able to build one by simply talking it into existence. Both were blinded by what they wanted to be true.

  On New Year’s Day 1938, Douglas MacArthur took off the uniform of the U.S. Army and began to design the uniform of a field marshal in the Philippine Army. Shortly thereafter, he presented himself to Eisenhower, proudly preening in his new medal-encrusted trappings. What do you think? he asked. Eisenhower shook his head: He thought MacArthur looked ridiculous.

  The sudden change in MacArthur’s role was bound to spark difficulties. His staff members were uncertain of their status and were increasingly alarmed by MacArthur’s mercurial statements. Moreover, they faced a budget crisis exacerbated by intransigent legislatures in Washington and Manila. In the midst of these changes, in February 1938, Jean gave birth to a baby boy. MacArthur was ecstatic. Baby Arthur was immediately coddled and pampered. Although MacArthur spent more time at home, his new son could not divert the general from the crises in the Pacific, and his staff found that their respite was temporary. In early 1938, MacArthur announced that he would bring the Philippine Army’s new recruits to Manila for a national parade, a transparent attempt to convince the Philippine legislature to provide more funding. The trickery was opposed by Eisenhower, who believed the parade would cost more than it would yield. At the same time, MacArthur pressed his staff to build a Philippine navy of fifty patrol boats that, he believed, could sow havoc in Lingayen Gulf, whose beaches provided perfect disembarkation points for a potential invader. U.S. Navy Lieutenant Jerry Lee recalled approaching MacArthur about the subject: “He was still for damn patrol boats to patrol the coastline of the Philippines. . . . Of course, you didn’t get to talk much when you went to see MacArthur. He did the talking. And he called me ‘Commodore’ for some damned reason or other.”

  Eisenhower was as exasperated as Lee. MacArthur not only seemed to be getting older, but was growing old, and their relationship was suffering. Noticing that Eisenhower was growing closer to Quezón, MacArthur began to nudge the aide aside, and soon the two crossed swords. This was MacArthur at his worst: narrow-minded, paranoid, envious. MacArthur changed Eisenhower’s responsibilities to give him less access to Quezón. Then, after Jimmy Ord died in a freak air accident in January 1938, MacArthur brought in Richard Sutherland from China, ostensibly to help take on some of Eisenhower’s responsibilities. Sutherland, a vicious infighter, was soon contending with Eisenhower for MacArthur’s time. The slights left Ike simmering: “I must say it is almost incomprehensible that after 8 years of working for him, writing every word he publishes, keeping his secrets . . . he should suddenly turned on me, as he has all others who have ever been around him. He’d like to occupy a throne room surrounded by experts in flattery.”

  In the summer of 1938, Eisenhower traveled to Washington in a last-gasp effort to raise funds for the Philippine Army. He succeeded in winning approval for the shipment of guns and mortars to Manila, but the purchases were from outdated stocks kept in army warehouses. Still, his correspondence with MacArthur was upbeat; they were making progress. But when Eisenhower returned to Manila in November, he “found a vastly different situation.” There, seated in MacArthur’s outer office was the obnoxious Sutherland, MacArthur’s new eyes and ears. Sutherland was more pliant than Eisenhower and more in awe of MacArthur’s stature—and an expert flatterer. Eisenhower was now enraged. MacArthur’s purpose, he speculated, was not only to nudge him aside, but to keep him away from Quezón, with whom Ike had formed a strong friendship. Eisenhower and Quezón played bridge nearly every Saturday night, and the general apparently feared that Eisenhower might supplant MacArthur. Sutherland, on the other hand, could deal with Quezón without threatening MacArthur. “Why the man should so patently exhibit a jealousy of a subordinate is beyond me,” Eisenhower wrote in his diary.

  The final break came in September 1939, when Germany invaded Poland. Eisenhower had missed out on one war and would not miss out on another, so he asked for a transfer. He needed to get to the United States to make himself available for a combat assignment. But even then, in the midst of his escape, he remained curiously drawn to MacArthur, later waving off questions about their explosive relationship. “Hostility between us has been exaggerated,” he said. “After all, there must be a strong tie for two men to work so closely for seven years.”

  On December 12, 1939, MacArthur stood beside Eisenhower on a Manila pier, as the still-young lieutenant colonel waited to board the Cleveland, bound for San Francisco. It was an uncomfortable moment. “We talked of the gloominess of world prospects,” Eisenhower later wrote, “but our foreboding turned toward Europe—not Asia.” This was hindsight, of course, but it was an authentic reflection of the worries that consumed both men. Germany’s invasion of Poland marked the beginning of the conflagration; over the next six months, Germany would overrun Denmark and Norway, then the Low Countries, and finally France. Hitler’s armies would accomplish in a mere thirty days what the kaiser’s could not do in four years.

  As Hitler advanced, Roosevelt prepared the nation for war. Most startling about his efforts is how diligently they were opposed, as if the nation could not bring itself to believe it would be involved in yet another global conflict. Roosevelt made the threat of war a centerpiece of an increasing number of his public statements. In September 1939 he proposed suspending the Neutrality Act, so that the United States could ship arms to antifascist nations in Europe. Roosevelt pushed his plan through Congress, but he hesitated on going further when British Prime Minister Winston Churchill asked for a loan of U.S. destroyers. There was still a strong isolationist lobby in the United States, and it appealed to voters. Roosevelt needed to be careful. Ending the arms embargo was one thing, but Churchill’s request went too far: “I am not certain that it would be wise for that suggestion to be made to Congress at this moment,” Roosevelt wrote to him.

  Roosevelt’s hesitations are understandable. Ever attuned to political realities, Roosevelt carefully calculated when he could push the electorate and when he couldn’t. But even in the face of this domestic opposition, Roosevelt began to put in place a team that would prepare the nation for the coming conflict. On the day that Germany invaded Poland, George Marshall was sworn in as the new army chief of staff. It was a way to reward a brillia
nt career with a position that acknowledged him as the army’s premier strategist and organizer. Then, when France was overrun by Hitler’s tanks, Roosevelt appointed seventy-two-year-old MacArthur admirer Henry Stimson, a Republican and former governor-general of the Philippines, as secretary of war. This was the clearest possible signal that Roosevelt believed the United States would soon be engaged in the global conflict. Stimson put conditions on his appointment: He wanted to speak his mind without White House oversight, and he wanted the administration to push for universal military training. In the midst of his third campaign for the presidency, Roosevelt agreed.

  Stimson’s first challenge was to improve War Department morale, which had been sapped by ten years of Depression-induced penury. Stimson rebuilt the staff, then directed Marshall to rebuild the army. Kept apace of these developments in Manila, MacArthur couldn’t have been more pleased. While he was disquieted by the appointment of Marshall, he had a ready ally in Stimson, who admired his service record. Surprisingly, and despite his own experience with MacArthur, Marshall confirmed Stimson’s judgment: There was no other senior officer with MacArthur’s experience, nor anyone who knew the Far East better. Marshall had studied MacArthur’s farewell strategy paper and, like military theorist Liddell Hart, had been impressed with its conclusions. So when the army chief learned that Major General George Grunert, the new commander of the Philippines Department, was discussing the looming Japanese threat with Manuel Quezón, Marshall wrote to Grunert saying that the commander would find MacArthur’s views helpful. Grunert knew an order when he read one, but he lobbied Stimson and Marshall that he be appointed overall commander in the archipelago. Marshall had a better idea—he proposed to Stimson that MacArthur be returned to uniform and put in charge of the Philippines and all American forces in the Far East.