Killing the Rising Sun

by Bill O'Reilly

  A blast of humid summer heat washes over MacArthur as he steps down the ramp. Spying the photographers, he does what he always does—vamps. The general dons his aviator sunglasses, draws on his pipe, and juts his chin forward. The band begins to play. It is just as MacArthur anticipated.

  As long as there is a Japan, this moment will never be forgotten.

  * * *

  About a mile offshore, another strong American leader stands aboard the bridge of his flagship. Admiral William “Bull” Halsey and the United States Navy have beat MacArthur to Japan by three days. Halsey’s USS Missouri prowls the waters of Sagami Bay, just south of Tokyo. A typhoon has passed through, leaving the water smooth, allowing the great gun barrels of the Missouri to aim level and true at the Japanese coast.

  Halsey is sixty-two, a pugnacious career sailor whose brash tactical style is considered foolish by some but has earned him the deep respect of Douglas MacArthur. “His one thought was to close with the enemy and fight him to the death,” MacArthur will write of Halsey in his autobiography. “No name rates higher in the annals of our country’s naval history.”

  It has been a long war for Halsey, who was on board the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise at the time of the Pearl Harbor bombings. As commander of the navy’s Third Fleet, he has played a vital role in almost every major naval engagement in the Pacific. It is a source of contention for Halsey and his boss, Admiral Chester Nimitz, that MacArthur and his army get much of the credit for victory in the Pacific. The distance from San Francisco to Tokyo is eight thousand miles and spans eight time zones; American naval brass well know that winning a war contested over such a vast swath of open ocean would have been impossible without the navy.

  But finally, the navy is getting its due; President Truman has decided that the formal Japanese surrender will take place not on land but at sea. There are rumors in the fleet that the USS South Dakota has been chosen to be the site of the ceremony.

  Now, in a massive show of force, almost three hundred battleships, destroyers, cruisers, light aircraft carriers, frigates, sloops, submarines, tenders, hospital ships, and minesweepers wait their turn to sail through the minefields guarding the entrance to Tokyo Bay. In addition to the American fleet, there are ships from the navies of Britain, Australia, and New Zealand. If the people of Japan have any doubt that they are defeated, they need only stand on the black sands of Sagami Bay and stare out to sea.

  Among the many vessels, the most powerful is Halsey’s flagship, the USS Missouri. Each of her sixteen-inch guns is sixty-seven feet in length, capable of launching a 2,700-pound armor-piercing shell twenty-three miles in less than fifty seconds. In addition, the “Mighty Mo” has twenty-five-inch guns with an accurate range of ten miles. She is a monster of a ship, almost as long as a football field, with a crew of two thousand and a top speed of thirty-three knots. The Missouri’s big guns have fired on Iwo Jima, Okinawa, the Philippines, and Japan itself. Six months ago, the ship endured a direct hit by kamikaze attack. She absorbed the blow without loss of life.3

  There are also symbolic factors that add to Missouri’s stature: the slate-gray vessel is named for the home state of President Harry Truman. His daughter, Margaret, actually shattered the champagne bottle across her bow when she was just twenty and he was still vice president, officially launching Missouri from the Brooklyn Navy Yard in January 1944. The Stars and Stripes that once flew over the US Capitol in Washington is securely stored on board, waiting to be hoisted this coming Sunday.4 In addition, a second set of colors will be presented on board Missouri: the thirty-one-star American flag belonging to Commodore Matthew Perry, whose historic 1852 voyage to Japan opened Japanese ports to American trade.

  Missouri is also the last battleship that the United States of America will ever build. So it is that shortly before steaming into Tokyo Bay, USS South Dakota is passed over for the special honor of hosting the Japanese surrender ceremony. Instead, it is to be the Mighty Mo.

  Early on the morning of August 29, 1945, a Japanese harbor pilot boards the Missouri to help Halsey’s crew navigate the minefields and channels of Tokyo Bay. The pilot helps Quartermaster Third Class Ed Kalanta steer the 44,560-ton Missouri from the conning tower on the main bridge. It was Kalanta who drove Missouri through the Panama Canal a year ago, sliding her into the narrow locks with just a foot to spare on either side. Now, Admiral Halsey is one floor below the main bridge as the twenty-year-old Kalanta and his Japanese adviser masterfully guide her into Tokyo Bay, en route to her appointment with destiny.

  * * *

  Missouri drops anchor at midmorning. Rehearsals soon begin for the surrender ceremony, as the ship’s crew struggles to find space to fit the two hundred members of the press and dozens of dignitaries from around the world. History will take place on Sunday morning at 9:00 a.m. sharp. A call goes out to the crew, in search of the eight tallest sailors to serve as the greeting party when the Japanese surrender contingent comes on board. This is a subtle act of intimidation designed to remind the smaller diplomats of Japan that the power lies with America.

  Throughout the days of rehearsals, even as the long line of Allied warships continues to snake into Tokyo Bay, Missouri’s mighty guns remain trained on Tokyo.

  The war may be over, but the danger is not past.

  * * *

  General Douglas MacArthur steps past Admiral Halsey and takes his place at the microphone shortly after 9:00 a.m. on Sunday, September 2. He is dressed in a crisp khaki uniform, as are the other American admirals and generals. The eleven-member Japanese contingent is wearing military dress and even formal top hats and tails, but it is MacArthur’s rationale that “we fought them in our khaki uniforms and we’ll accept their surrender in our khaki uniforms.”5

  The two thousand members of the USS Missouri’s crew, all in their dress whites, literally hang off gun turrets and other parts of the ship to witness this moment of history. The deck is packed with media, dignitaries, and weapons of war. The sky is gray on this storm-tossed morning and the mood somber.

  “We are gathered here, representatives of the major warring powers, to conclude a solemn agreement whereby peace may be restored,” MacArthur announces over the loudspeaker. “The issues involving divergent ideals and ideologies have been determined on the battlefields of the world, and hence are not for our discussion or debate.”

  The morning begins with the playing of a recording of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The thirty-one-star Commodore Perry flag from 1852 hangs in a frame affixed to the ship’s superstructure, too flimsy to snap smartly in the wind. The same cannot be said, however, for the Stars and Stripes from the Capitol, which was run up the flagpole this morning. The Japanese contingent looks morose and seems to want to conclude the ceremony as quickly as possible. The generals among them have already suffered the disgrace of surrendering their swords, and the diplomats had the Japanese flag removed from their official cars just this morning.

  “As Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers, I announce it my firm purpose, in the tradition of the countries I represent, to proceed in the discharge of my responsibilities with justice and tolerance, while taking all necessary dispositions to insure that the terms of surrender are fully, promptly, and faithfully complied with.”

  MacArthur clutches a sheaf of notes. He stands tall as the Japanese tolerate his speech before the table on which the surrender will be signed.

  “I now invite the representatives of the Emperor of Japan and the Japanese government and the Japanese Imperial General Headquarters to sign the Instrument of Surrender at the places indicated.”

  A coffee-stained, dark green cloth covers a folding table brought up this morning from the ship’s galley when it became clear that the ceremonial mahogany table donated by the British for the surrender ceremony is too small. Two copies of the surrender agreement lie on the table, leather-bound for the Americans and canvas-coated for the Japanese. The surrender documents are printed on rare parchment that was found in a Manila basemen
t.

  The vanquished sign first, followed by the victors. Clicking camera shutters are the only sound as the crew and press eagerly capture the moment. The ceremony lasts twenty-three minutes and is broadcast around the world.

  General Douglas MacArthur takes his seat at the table in a simple wooden chair and patiently begins using a series of different fountain pens to affix his name twice. He hands one pen to Lieutenant General John “Skinny” Wainwright, his dear friend who spent the war in a Japanese POW camp after being captured during the fall of the Philippines. It is Wainwright whom MacArthur wanted denied the Medal of Honor after the fall of Corregidor, believing the Americans could have held out longer. But the sight of the skeletal Wainwright evokes the beatings, torture, and starvation to which he was subjected for three years as a prisoner of war and can leave no doubt of his courage.

  Another ceremonial pen is handed to Lieutenant General Arthur Percival, the British general who also endured the horrors of a Japanese POW camp after the fall of Singapore. Like Wainwright, Percival was moved several times by the Japanese to prevent him from falling into Allied hands. By war’s end, Percival and Wainwright were held at the same prison in Hsian, Manchuria. MacArthur has specifically asked these two bone-thin, malnourished survivors to stand immediately behind the surrender table, visible at all times to the Japanese party.6

  The ceremony concluded, MacArthur rises to his feet, stands ramrod straight, and announces to all in attendance that “these proceedings are closed.”

  As the Japanese are led back to the motor launch that will carry them to land, a massive formation of American aircraft flies overhead. Looking up, the diplomats receive a dramatic message: the Americans are now your masters.

  28

  TOKYO, JAPAN

  SEPTEMBER 11, 1945

  MORNING

  The war will never be over for Hideki Tojo.

  The diminutive sixty-year-old former Japanese prime minister hides in plain sight, waiting patiently for American soldiers to arrest him for war crimes. He could try to make a run for it, but Tojo is a careful and thoughtful tactician, despite his reputation as a madman. Unlike the visages of the German Nazis now being smuggled into South America, there to live a life of apprehensive anonymity, Tojo’s is one of the most well-known faces in the world. He is famous, he is wanted, and he is unmistakably Japanese. There is not a single place on earth he could hide.

  So Tojo remains in his farmhouse on the outskirts of Tokyo, keeping a pistol close at all times. He has even had his physician paint a small black target on his chest, just to make sure that he will not miss when the time comes to put a bullet through his heart.

  American soldiers and sailors have been pouring into Japan by the thousands, disarming the Japanese military, spiking naval guns, and removing the propellers from airplanes. Thus begins the long, slow process of healing the great divide between America and Japan. In China, forty thousand United States Marines—many of whom landed on the bloody shores of Peleliu and survived those horrendous months of battle one year ago—are en route to the north, where they will serve garrison duty and accept the surrender of Japanese units that have not yet fallen to the Russians. Many Japanese forces in China have never before suffered defeat in battle; the act of laying down their arms and burning their regimental standards will be bitter and humiliating.

  * * *

  The war may be over, but there are still scores to settle. Arguably, both Japanese and American forces committed horrendous acts in the name of winning the war. General Curtis LeMay believes that if America had lost, his decision to firebomb Tokyo would most certainly have seen him indicted for war crimes. But it is the victor who metes out the final punishment. Just as the Nazi leadership is about to go on trial in Nuremberg, so too will Japan’s generals and diplomats be held accountable for their acts of terror.

  The encrypted messages the Imperial Guard headquarters sent to field units in August ordering the burning of all documentation pertaining to the treatment of prisoners of war, comfort women, chemical and biological warfare, and the illicit drug trade did not lead to the destruction of all evidence. Foreseeing the need for war crimes documentation as far back as 1942, MacArthur ordered the US Army’s Allied Translator and Interpreter Section (ATIS) to comb captured documents for evidence of atrocities. By war’s end on September 2, ATIS is in possession of more than 350,000 such files. Just one day later, using this information, ATIS commander Colonel Sidney Mashbir was able to confront Katsuo Okazaki of Japan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs with photographic proof that Japanese soldiers were ordered to burn and maim thousands of innocent Filipinos during the fall of Manila.

  “And do you have the names of the soldiers responsible for these atrocities?” Okazaki asked, hoping to call Mashbir’s bluff.

  “You’re damn right,” the colonel replied angrily. “Depend on it: you will very shortly be called upon to turn them over to us for punishment.”

  There is no telling how many thousands of Japanese diplomats and soldiers will be forced to stand trial for war crimes ranging from murder and rape to mistreatment of prisoners of war. Strangely, however, the most heinous Japanese war criminal is completely ignored by Allied prosecutors. In fact, in the almost two weeks since the surrender was signed and the occupation began, General Hideki Tojo has yet to encounter a single American.

  Day after day passes with no visit from the military police. There have been times when it seemed the Americans might not be coming at all.

  But Tojo knows he is a special case: as the man who led Japan into war against the United States, who personally oversaw every last detail of the Pearl Harbor bombing, and who happily encouraged his commanders to murder prisoners of war, he is far too notorious to escape indictment.

  Execution will be another matter entirely, for he refuses to be taken alive.

  Tojo does not have the courage to kneel on the floor, write his final death statement, and thrust a razor-sharp knife into his abdomen.

  But a .32-caliber Colt automatic pistol is quicker and just as lethal.

  * * *

  Incredibly, if not for two brash American journalists who knocked on Tojo’s front door yesterday, the US Army might still be looking for him. To the great surprise of Murlin Spencer and Russell Brines of the Associated Press, Tojo was only too happy to grant them an exclusive interview. It was Tojo’s last chance to tell his side of the story before killing himself. He reveled in the discussion, chain-smoking as the journalists peppered him with questions. No subject, with the exception of the coming war crimes trials, was off-limits.

  “The shaven-headed one-time terror of Asia,” the Americans wrote under a shared byline, “was willing to talk of many things … the mood ranging from steely-eyed impassivity to hearty laughter.”

  As Tojo knew it would be, the interview was published in newspapers around the world. Now, looking out his farmhouse window, Tojo sees that one of the journalists has returned, bringing along a photographer. They appear to be waiting for something to happen, for neither man is making any attempt to approach the house.

  Sure enough, two American army vehicles soon come to a stop in front of the farmhouse. Tojo counts five soldiers who have come to take him away, each of them armed. One of them spots Tojo looking out the window, causing the group to move quickly toward the front door.

  Tojo slides open the window and yells to the crowd: “I am Tojo!”

  Tojo has little time. He closes the window, unbuttons his shirt, places his loaded .32-caliber Colt automatic to the black mark on his chest, and pulls the trigger.

  With a resounding bang, a bullet is launched into Tojo’s heart. Blood pours from the wound.

  Every element of Tojo’s suicide plan has been staged to absolute perfection.

  Every element except one: the bullet almost completely missed his heart.

  Hideki Tojo is not dead.

  * * *

  Lieutenant John Wilpers hears the gunshot. The twenty-five-year-old army intelligence
officer rushes up the steps and kicks open Tojo’s front door. General Douglas MacArthur personally ordered the 308th Counterintelligence Corps to arrest Tojo this morning, and Wilpers plans on carrying out that order to the best of his ability.

  To Lieutenant Wilpers, a dead Tojo just won’t do.1

  But the former prime minister certainly looks near death. He is splayed on a chair, his chest rising and falling faintly. Photographer Charlie Gorry, of the Associated Press, has followed Wilpers through the farmhouse door and begins taking pictures as Lieutenant Wilpers unholsters his sidearm and points it at Tojo, who has begun to apologize for taking so long to die. Taking possession of the dying man’s .32, Wilpers immediately begins the desperate search for a doctor.

  Orders are orders: Tojo must remain alive.

  * * *

  Six days after Tojo’s attempted suicide, on September 17, 1945, the young ensign from Brooklyn is terrified that a typhoon may sink his ship eight hundred miles southwest of Tokyo.

  The USS Oneida has just arrived in Okinawa’s Hagushi Bay after five days in Jinsen, Korea. But the approaching typhoon is chasing the ship back out to sea. There is every chance Oneida will survive the winds and rain if she remains in port here in Okinawa, but a similar storm just last week showed that it is better to be cautious.

  Typhoon Ursula, as it was known, blasted through the Sea of Japan with winds registering more than one hundred miles per hour. Aircraft transporting American prisoners of war homeward were caught in the deadly storm. Tragically, these men who had endured years of torture and starvation would never see America again; all nine hundred of them died when the storm forced thirty airplanes to crash into the Sea of Japan.2

  Ursula is still fresh in the minds of Oneida’s crew as she powers away from Hagushi Bay as quickly as possible. A second typhoon, known as Ida, is also bearing down on the busy wartime port. The fast-attack transport will stand a better chance of avoiding damage if it can outrace the storms.

  Ultimately, Ida will be even more deadly than Ursula. She is destined to slam hard into the Japanese mainland, there to be renamed Makurazaki. The city of Hiroshima, still a wasteland five weeks after the dropping of the atomic bomb, will be swamped by tidal waves and flooding. Three thousand more residents will die, six thousand more homes will be destroyed, and fifty thousand homes will be flooded. In any other time, this would be a catastrophe of global significance. But in the wake of the millions of lives lost from nations worldwide in the Pacific war and the more than a hundred thousand already dead from the atomic bombs, the typhoon damage will receive scant newspaper coverage.