by James Webb
And I finally understood what it was that had made MacArthur so certain about the imminent fall of Singapore and why Mountbatten had so adamantly wanted me to tell MacArthur that he had been forewarned.
A new certainty washed over me, and its reality suddenly scared me. MacArthur would lead the occupation. We were going to Japan. Soon.
CHAPTER 5
The next two weeks were frenetic, often chaotic. Two days after the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, the Soviets repudiated their treaties with Japan and to MacArthur’s delight invaded Manchuria. The next day, August 9, a second nuclear bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. Three days after that, President Truman suspended the bombing of Japan and instead began dropping leaflets over Tokyo, urging the Japanese to revolt, telling them that even as their people continued to die, their government was secretly offering to surrender. On August 14, with the approval of the British, Soviets, and Chinese, Truman named Douglas MacArthur supreme commander of all Allied forces in the Pacific, indicating that the General would oversee the entire Occupation of Japan once the war was over.
On August 15, as confusion and hints of revolution sundered the Japanese capital, the emperor announced Japan’s surrender, personally speaking to the Japanese people through a prerecorded radio broadcast. The emperor’s broadcast was itself stunning news, as no ordinary Japanese had ever before even heard his voice. It seemed incredible and premature, but with that news we knew that we would be landing in Japan within two weeks.
In Manila, our staff began a twenty-four-hour workday, frantically preparing for the coming trip to Japan. An advance group of a few thousand people would soon drop into the midst of a nation of eighty million, who only a few days before were vowing to die to the last person rather than surrender. Gone were the lazy days of tending to high-level egos, followed by my own somnolent, easy evenings. The General had been preparing himself for more than a year. He had already put together a seven-point plan for dramatically changing the texture of Japanese culture and society. But the nuclear bombs had taken him by surprise, just as they had the rest of us. Ever mindful of his place in history, he knew how vital the first moments of his arrival would be, not only to the future of Japan but to his personal legacy.
I had never seen the General as animated and electric, not even in the early days of the Luzon campaign. At last, here was a role equal to his talents. He had expected to command the military invasion of Japan, and he had hoped to have a role in its postwar reconstruction. But the powers that President Truman had delegated to him on August 14 were as great as those given to any proconsul in perhaps two thousand years. So long as he succeeded, his rule over the Japanese people would be absolute.
And me? I had a simpler problem, one that would never make the newsreels but at the same time threatened to overturn my own life. As the day of our departure for Japan neared, I finally garnered the courage to come to the General with it. Against such a grand historical tapestry as the ending of a war that had taken more than fifty million lives and the occupation of a strange, closed nation that had never before been conquered, I felt close to humiliation as I knocked on his office door, heard his familiar invitation to enter, and began walking toward his desk.
As was the case throughout those weeks, MacArthur’s two closest advisers were with him in the room. In a chair to his left was General Charles Willoughby. Born in Germany as Karl Weidenbach, Willoughby was a hulking, thick-accented intelligence specialist. Reticent, introspective, and deeply loyal to the General, he had been with MacArthur for more than six years, and had made it plain to all who would listen that the General’s career was his life’s work. Willoughby would listen to every word I said but would rarely comment, except to MacArthur after I left the room. To the right of MacArthur’s desk sat Brigadier General Courtney Whitney. A genial, well-spoken lawyer, Court Whitney had first met the General in prewar Manila, where he had made a fortune in business. He was coming to Japan as MacArthur’s chief political negotiator. In small meetings Whitney often acted as a provocateur on behalf of the General, drawing out visitors or staff members so that MacArthur might choose the best way to respond.
All three eyed me with familiar smiles. I was going with them to Japan as a special projects officer. I had worked with Whitney and Willoughby almost daily throughout the war, and unlike the churlish General Sutherland both had developed a liking for me. In addition to my mundane chores, because of my youth and junior rank I served the necessary function of relieving pressure on the staff. When times grew tense, I was the designated court jester, the butt of their silly jokes and recipient of their mock derision. But they, like MacArthur himself, had made it clear that with my proven loyalty to the General and my ability to speak Japanese, I would be immensely valuable to their plans once we began the occupation.
“Get in here, fat boy,” joked Court Whitney as I stepped inside the General’s office. “What do you weigh by now, anyway?”
I had put on weight. It was solid muscle, but Manila had indeed been good to me. “I guess I’m back up around two hundred, sir.”
“We need to get you off that Filipino cooking.”
“From what I hear that’s not going to be a problem, sir.”
Willoughby chuckled, for him a moment of extroversion. MacArthur leaned back in his chair. He had been watching me closely as Court Whitney teased me. A boyish smile now crept onto his face, and I knew that he was again going to ask me about Divina Clara.
“And I would imagine that your young lady is not very happy with your leaving, Jay?”
I held his gaze for a moment. Secrets passed between us through our eyes. And then I wondered, is this how it ended for him? “No, sir,” I said. “In fact I, ah, have a major crisis, here.”
Court Whitney chuckled. He had told me that he knew Divina Clara’s father from before the war. “A nuclear explosion in the Ramirez household, is that what I’m hearing?”
“Well.” I stumbled. “Not yet. But close. The end of the war came so fast that it just, sort of, took us all by surprise, sir. And then with the work schedule I haven’t been able to explain everything to her family.”
MacArthur preempted Court Whitney’s next jibe with a sharp glance, then folded his arms judiciously. “What’s the problem, Jay?”
“Her grandmother, sir.” I hedged, feeling inane discussing an old woman’s hesitations in front of three men who were preparing to pull an entire nation into a new era. “Sorry, sir. I don’t mean to take your time with it. But I feel like I’ve got to do something.”
MacArthur had regained his slow, secret smile. “She doesn’t believe you’re coming back, does she?”
I smiled back, embarrassed at how silly it all sounded once it came out of the Great Man’s mouth. “No, sir.”
“Are you?”
It hung in the air like a disbelieving dare. We both knew what MacArthur was saying, and why two simple words carried so much emotion.
“Yes, sir,” I answered. Again our eyes locked. “I’m going to marry her, General.”
MacArthur pointed toward the door. “Then don’t waste any time, Jay. Go tell her grandmother.”
As we drove from Manila toward Subic the road suddenly ended at a wide and swirling river. The bridge across the river had been blown in January by retreating Japanese soldiers, then quickly repaired by our Army corps of engineers so that General Krueger’s forces could advance from Lingayen and Subic toward Manila. But the repairs were makeshift, and in the past few days a torrential rain had washed over western Luzon, loosening the bridge’s structure until a span had dropped.
I pulled my jeep to a halt at the river’s edge, staring with frustration at the damaged bridge. Army engineers were clambering all over the structure as they again worked to repair it. Nearby, a group of Filipinos stood placidly at the muddy edges of the water, waiting and watching. I climbed out of the jeep, into the mud and jasmine morning. Cursing, I slammed my fist into a fender, then checked my watch.
“You’re always
checking your watch,” said Divina Clara. “It was the first thing you did when I asked you to take me to Pampanga the day we met. Do you remember, Jay?”
“This is going to cost us at least an hour each way,” I said. “I don’t have that kind of time.”
“We’re on Filipino time.” She laughed brightly, climbing out of the car and standing next to me. “My grandmother won’t even notice.”
“MacArthur will, if I’m late getting back and he’s left me a message.”
“Then go back to MacArthur, Jay.” She had darkened at his name, and now she was daring me with her eyes, her chin held high. “Go ahead. Turn around. Go back.”
I had tried to tell her that unlike in her life, I had no control over my time, that my time was indeed MacArthur’s, that I was lucky beyond imagination to have been given most of a day to travel with her to her grandmother’s home in the first place. I wanted to tell her to stop being resentful, that to admire MacArthur did not mean that I loved or even particularly liked him and certainly did not mean that I would willingly leave her only to follow in the wake of his glory.
But if I told her that, it would reinforce the thought that I was leaving, setting off a whole new downward spiral. In her mind it was MacArthur who was taking me away from her, rather than duty and the army and the reality of Japan’s occupation. Yes, he had ordered me to go with him. But he was the army. There was nothing I could do about that.
“He’s a five-star general, Divina Clara. I’m a very little tadpole in a very big pond.”
“He should not begrudge us this day. It won’t be long until he’ll have you all to himself in Japan.”
“He personally gave me this day off, in spite of everything that is going on. You should stop being jealous.”
She spun away from me. “That was a cruel thing to say. Why did I fall in love with you? I won’t let you treat me like that.”
“I’m sorry, Divina Clara.” I moved to her, putting my arms around her. She felt soft and warm against me. And that was another reason I was hurrying. “To be honest, I wanted to make sure we have some time together after we get back.”
“Stop that. We’ll have time.” She put her head against my chest. She would not look at me but I heard promises in her voice. “Jay, this is your only chance to see my grandmother. If you walk into her house checking your watch and talking down to her like a Subic sailor you’ll upset her. And if you upset her, it will take her years to recover. Or maybe never.”
“I won’t upset her.”
“She’s not happy with this, you know.”
“I’ll make her happy.”
She broke away from me again, turning toward the water. I followed her. I had never seen her so preoccupied. “I don’t think so. If she survives to see our grandchildren, and knows that we are still together, and sees that this wasn’t another American soldier telling another Filipina girl another lie, then you might make her happy.”
“Then I’ll make you happy.”
She suddenly took my hand and held it, staring into the river. Her eyes were far away and very sad. “I already am happy.”
We stood together like that for a while, looking out into the river. Suddenly she brightened, her mood changing like the sun reappearing from behind a cloud. She pointed toward the river. “This must be our ferry!”
In the river I could now see an American navy “Papa boat,” a small amphibious landing craft, puttering toward us from the far bank. The nearby group of Filipinos started chattering excitedly to one another, moving to the riverbank. One of them was steadying a large water buffalo, holding a rope attached to a ring through the animal’s nose.
We returned to the jeep and drove slowly down the riverbank. The Papa boat had now powered its bow onto the bank and dropped its front ramp. The motor was still running and the coxswain was steadying the boat against the river’s current. The coxswain, an American sailor, motioned at me for the jeep to board first, yelling at the others to wait. I drove forward and he used hand signals as he positioned the jeep carefully at the Papa boat’s center of balance. Then he brought on the water buffalo, signaling the boy who was pulling the huge animal to come aft and center. And after that the half-dozen other Filipinos boarded, spreading themselves along the boat’s platform to distribute the weight.
Divina Clara and I climbed out of the jeep and stood together next to it. The Papa boat backed out and then carefully powered forward, beginning its slow journey to the other side. We were very low in the water. Divina Clara clutched my hand tightly, afraid we might tip over. The water buffalo pulled his head this way and that, swaying with the boat’s movements, his eyes red and wild with fear. The young American coxswain could not keep his own wild and hungry eyes from alternating between Divina Clara’s full breasts and her firm hips. But except for him, our obvious closeness drew neither stares nor comment. And in fact our little group on the deck of the Papa boat was a collection of people who had made an immediate and unspoken pact not to judge one another.
Next to us was a small Negrito woman from the savage jungles of the nearby hills. She suckled a tiny baby, all the while holding the hand of a young boy. The boy looked curiously up at me as if I were the first white man he had ever seen. A thin grey monkey sat on the woman’s shoulder, its chest pushed into the back of her head. One of the monkey’s hands had been cut off. With its other hand and the slender stump of a wrist, the monkey was studiously picking lice out of the Negrito woman’s hair and eating the insects as if they were candy. The woman stared blankly out toward the river, consumed by secret thoughts.
On the other side of the jeep an older Filipino couple stood impassively next to a sturdy, round-faced girl who looked to be in her late teens. The girl was obviously their daughter. She was not wearing a wedding ring. She was holding a baby who was unmistakably half Japanese. She kissed the baby, nuzzling it. Her parents gazed dotingly as the baby smiled.
Divina Clara watched all of them for a full minute, as if studying each face. And then she started speaking rapidly in Tagalog. I had no idea what she was saying. At first they were serious, but in moments they all were laughing and chattering back to her. And by the time we reached the far shore it was as if she had known them and they had known her for years.
The Papa boat nudged the shoreline and the ramp fell forward. We climbed back into the jeep. As we began driving off the boat’s ramp she pulled my arm, grinning sweetly. “Wait, Jay!”
“For what?”
“We’re taking them to Subic.”
“Who?” I asked.
“All of them!”
“All of them?”
“Yes!” She laughed. “Except for the caribao and his boy. He lives just over there. So stop the jeep!”
Reluctantly, I stopped the jeep. They trundled up the steep mud bank, slipping and laughing and calling to one another as if it had all become a merry game. Then they busily packed into the backseat, stacking on top of one another, shifting babies and the monkey to make room.
I turned to her again. “How did this happen?”
“How could it not?” She continued to smile sweetly, taking the half-Japanese baby for a moment so that its young mother could squeeze into the jeep. “You see, we have room. And it’s a long way to Subic.”
“You’re right,” I said sarcastically, gaining the road. I began driving ever more carefully, lest I hit a bump and lose half of Divina Clara’s newfound friends. “It’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it?”
“Now you’re being cynical,” she teased. Behind us they were laughing and talking ecstatically, as if a jeep ride were one of life’s great thrills. “I have thought about cynicism. It is a defensive form of humor, Jay. Usually it comes from resentment, wouldn’t you say? So how can you resent filling up an empty space in your car?”
“OK, OK!” I chuckled, giving up, powerless to fight her sweetly rendered logic. We drove for a few minutes more, then I glanced over at her. “What were you saying to them on the boat? Why did everyone st
art laughing?”
She touched my face, a gesture that somehow served as a happy signal to our backseat guests. “I told them it was time that we became comfortable with ourselves, and that we should help each other after all the sorrow. I asked Maria—that is her name—if she loved the baby’s father, and she told me that she was sorry, but that she did love him, and that maybe I should be sorry, because he is now dead.”
“But everyone was laughing,” I said.
“Well, yes,” said Divina Clara. “Because then I told them I was part Spanish, in love with an American, looking at a Negrita with her monkey who was trying to ignore me, and talking to a new mother with a half-Japanese baby while an American military boat carried us across the river! But that we were all Filipinos, do you know what I mean? And that we were all in love. And they agreed, even the Negrita. Out of all the chaos, still there is love! And what is love, that God allows such things to happen? Whatever it is, and whoever God brings us to share it with, we should be glad for it, not ashamed. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And so now we are all friends.”
I touched her face in the same way she had been touching mine. She said something rapidly in Tagalog. In the backseat I could hear them softly laughing, seemingly urging me on. And then as the traffic slowed, I leaned over and kissed her on the lips.
“Be careful, you’ll have a wreck!”
“I love you, Divina Clara.”
She pushed me away, laughing. “Then be nice to my grandmother.”
Near Subic the road began to wind around high hills and lush, scrubby knolls. Monkeys lolled casually along the edges of the road, as natural to this jungle as tree squirrels were in Arkansas. The hills flattened and the road broke through to a string of small villages. Filipinos lazed underneath the thatch of their nipa shacks, watching with mild curiosity as we passed. Children waved at us and called for chocolates and gum.