The Rising Sun: The Decline and Fall of the Japanese Empire, 1936-1945 (Modern Library War)

by Toland, John

  The Japanese military leaders, intoxicated by Hitler’s easy victories, changed their minds about the war in China and adopted the slogan “Don’t miss the bus!” With France defeated and Britain fighting for survival, the time had come to strike into Southeast Asia for oil and other sorely needed resources. On the morning of June 22 the Army General Staff and the War Ministry held a joint meeting, and those who had recently advocated a withdrawal from China recommended an immediate surprise attack on Singapore. Conservatives squashed this scheme, but the spirit of chance lingered in the air and the virus of opportunism spread with each passing day. Reconciled to defeat in China a few months earlier, the Japanese were tempted by Hitler’s sudden fortune in Europe to make a bid for the resources of Southeast Asia.

  Before the end of July, Prince Konoye was persuaded to re-enter politics and form his second cabinet. Two of the key posts were filled by rising men—one a diplomat, the talkative, brilliant, quixotic Yosuke Matsuoka, who became foreign minister, and the other a soldier, Lieutenant General Hideki Tojo, who became war minister. Hard-working, hard-headed and dedicated, Tojo had already earned the nickname “the Razor.” As simple as Konoye was complicated, he enjoyed great prestige within the Army, having ably executed a number of difficult assignments, including command of the kempeitai in the Kwantung Army. He was incorruptible, a rigid disciplinarian who demanded and got absolute discipline, and he selected subordinates for their ability and experience alone. Unlike other generals who wavered during the 2/26 Incident, he had acted with dispatch proclaiming a state of emergency in Manchuria, thus crushing any sympathetic revolt. To his legalistic mind, gekokujo was “absolutely unpardonable,” not to be tolerated. This brought him respect from conservative military circles as well as from civilians who dreaded another bloody revolt, and it was undoubtedly the main reason Konoye selected him.

  Foreign Minister Matsuoka, president of the South Manchurian Railway and a close associate of Tojo’s while the general was in the Kwantung Army, was almost his opposite. He was equally strong-minded but far more flamboyant, venturesome and intuitive. Whereas Tojo was a man of few words, Matsuoka was an orator of extraordinary eloquence who deserved his nicknames “Mr. 50,000 Words” and “the Talking Machine.” He good-naturedly denied he was loquacious. “Being verbose means trying to cancel out or excuse what one has just said. I’d never do that. Therefore I’m not verbose.” “I have never known anyone talk so much to say so little,” observed Ambassador Craigie, who judged him also to be a stubborn and determined man with an acute mind.

  Matsuoka was small and swarthy, and his clipped bullethead, mustache, big tortoise-shell glasses and flare for the dramatic had brought him world attention when he precipitously stalked out of the League of Nations Assembly during the debate on Manchuria. At the age of thirteen he had gone to sea, and was dumped ashore in America by the captain, his uncle, and told to fend for himself. An American family in Portland, Oregon, gave him refuge and he spent the next formative years working diligently as a laborer, in a law office, and even as a substitute minister while getting himself an education. After graduation from the University of Oregon he worked for three more years before returning to Japan, where he rose to fame by brilliance and energy alone.

  Prince Konoye listened to practically everybody, Matsuoka to practically nobody. He was too busy expounding the ideas that kept leaping to his agile mind. His mystifying statements confused many, and some thought he was insane, but subordinates in the Foreign Ministry, like Dr. Yoshie Saito and Toshikazu Kase, felt it was merely his paradoxical nature in action. An intellectual gymnast, he would often say something contrary to what he believed and propose something he opposed in order to get his own way by default. A man of broad visions, he seldom explained these visions, or if he did, talked at such cross-purposes that it was no wonder he left a wake of confusion behind him; even those who thought him one of the most brilliant men in Japan watched anxiously as he nimbly played his dangerous diplomatic games. He assured his associates over and over again that he was pro-American, yet talked insultingly about America; he distrusted Germany, yet courted Hitler; he was against the rise of militarism, yet spouted his arguments for war.

  In his home he also played the paradox. He shouted at his seven children, and let them ride on his back; he was autocratic, yet gave unstintingly of his love and attention. Kiwamu Ogiwara, who worked for Matsuoka as shosei (a combination secretary and personal servant) became so terrified at his temper tantrums that he could never look directly at him. One day after taking a bath, Matsuoka shouted “Oi!” (Hey!) from his room, and when Ogiwara peered in, gestured impatiently at his middle. The shosei brought in an obi and this set Matsuoka off on a furious pantomime. Ogiwara had to find out from the maid that this particular gesture meant the master wanted his loincloth. On days when he was “not at home,” a visitor would sometimes insist on seeing the master and the shosei would announce him to Matsuoka. “How can a man who isn’t here see anyone!” he would yell. Almost constantly in a nervous state, Ogiwara left Matsuoka’s employ detesting him. Yet a few years later, when he wrote asking for a job on the South Manchurian Railway, Matsuoka saw to it that he got a position. Under the fierce, arrogant, impatient exterior was a different person which few ever glimpsed.

  The Cabinet was just four days old when it unanimously approved a new national policy to cope with “a great ordeal without precedence” in Japan’s past. The basic aim of this policy was world peace, and to bring it about, a “new order in Greater East Asia” would have to be established by uniting Japan with Manchukuo and China—under the leadership, of course, of Japan. The entire nation was to be mobilized, with every citizen devoting himself to the state. Planned economy would be established, the Diet reformed and the China Incident brought to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Moreover, a tripartite pact would be signed with Germany and Italy, and a nonaggression treaty arranged with the Soviet Union. Although America had placed an embargo on strategic materials to Japan, attempts would be made to placate her as long as she went along with Japan’s “just claims.” In addition, Japan would move into Indochina and perhaps farther, seizing an empire by force of arms if necessary while Europe was involved in its own war.

  This policy was the brainchild of the military leaders, but they had convinced Prime Minister Konoye and the civilians in the Cabinet that it was Japan’s last hope for survival in the chaotic modern world. What it meant was that the “Don’t miss the bus” fever had become national policy, escalating the China Incident into war and pushing Japan to further aggressions. While the supremacy of civilian leaders over the military was a fundamental aspect of American democracy, the reverse was true in Japan. The Meiji Constitution had divided the power of decision between the Cabinet and the Supreme Command, but the military leaders, who had little understanding of political and diplomatic affairs, could almost always override the civilians in the Cabinet; their resignation would bring down the government. Their influence, however, went beyond the threat of resignation. Military monopoly had become a tradition and was rarely questioned. Consequently, it was the policies of well-meaning but ill-equipped generals and admirals, based on narrow military thinking, which dominated Japan.

  The militarists who had formed this “Don’t miss the bus” policy did not want or foresee the possibility of war. With France defeated, and England battling for its own existence, Indochina with its rubber, tin, tungsten, coal and rice was to them “a treasure lying in the street just waiting to be picked up.” Within two months Japan forced the impotent Vichy government to sign a convention in Hanoi allowing Japan to set up air bases in northern Indochinaa and use that area as a jumping-off place for attacks on China.

  All this was not done without protests from Matsuoka and more thoughtful men in the Supreme Command who foresaw a collision course with the Anglo-Saxons in the making. The Army Chief of Staff, Prince Kanin, resigned in tears.

  The United States reacted violently to the Japanese move
; it meant a potential threat to the Burma Road, through which America was sending supplies into China. Prime Minister Churchill, however, felt quite sanguine about the Japanese garrisons in northern Indochina and suggested that two Indian brigades be removed from Singapore. Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden disagreed. “It seems to me difficult to maintain now that the Japanese threat to Malaya is not serious,” he wrote in a minute to the Prime Minister. “There is every indication that Germany has made some deal with Japan within these last few days, and it seems, therefore, wise to make some provision for the land defense of Singapore.”

  Eden had guessed right. The long-discussed Tripartite Pact with Germany and Italy was near conclusion even though the Navy still objected, fearing that such an agreement would require Japan’s automatic entry into war under certain circumstances. Matsuoka countered this with persuasive and interminable rebuttals. The pact, he declared, “would force the United States to act more prudently in carrying out her plans against Japan” and would prevent war between the two countries. Furthermore, if Germany did get into a fight with America, Japan would not be automatically obliged to come to her aid.

  Unable to withstand the onslaught of Matsuoka’s arguments—and, incidentally, vociferous popular support for the alliance—the dissidents were won over. Konoye gave his grudging approval because he well knew he would again be forced to resign if he opposed the Army. “My idea is to ride on the military away from war,” he told his son-in-law. Like the Navy, the Emperor opposed the pact, and before affixing the official seal, he warned Konoye that he feared it would eventually lead to war with America and Britain. “You must, therefore,” he added ominously, “share with me the joys and sorrows that will follow.” On September 27, 1940, the pact was signed in Berlin.b To British and Americans this was further evidence that Japan was no better than Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, and that the three “gangster” nations had joined forces to conquer the world. The United States retaliated immediately by adding scrap metal of every kind to the list of embargoes, such as strategic materials and aviation fuel, which had been announced in July.

  Not only the Anglo-Saxons were dismayed by the treaty. Pravda called it a “further aggravation of the war and an expansion of its realm.” German Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop assured Vyacheslav Molotov, his Russian counterpart, that it was directed exclusively against the American warmongers. “The treaty, of course, does not pursue any aggressive aims against America. Its exclusive purpose is rather to bring the elements pressing for America’s entry into the war to their senses, by conclusively demonstrating to them that if they enter the present struggle, they will automatically have to deal with the three great powers as adversaries.” Why not join the pact, he suggested, and wrote a long letter to Stalin saying that it was

  the historical mission of the four powers—the Soviet Union, Italy, Japan, and Germany—to adopt a long-range policy and to direct the future developments of their people into the right channel by delimitation of their interests on a world-wide scale.…

  Matsuoka was positive he had engineered a plan for world peace. To confused intimates who considered him friendly toward America, he said it was the best way to prevent war with the United States. “If you stand firm and start hitting back,” he told his eldest son, “the American will know he’s talking to a man, and you two can then talk man to man.” He thought he, and he alone, knew the real America. “It is my America and my American people that really exist,” he once said. “There is no other America; there are no other American people.”

  “I admit people will call all this a tricky business,” he told Dr. Saito; but he had allied with Hitler “to check the Army’s aggressive policy … and to keep American warmongers from joining the war in Europe. And after that we can shake hands with the United States. This would keep peace in the Pacific while forming a great combine of capitalistic nations around the world against Communism.”

  The Tripartite Pact was also a means of settling the China Incident, he said. “The solution of the incident should rest on mutual assistance and prosperity, not on the hope of getting outside help to threaten China. To do this we should use the good offices of a third nation. I think the United States would do admirably for this purpose. But here the question is, What concessions will Japan (or rather, the Army) make? Japan should agree to a complete withdrawal of her troops from China.”

  The devious Matsuoka concluded that his aims could best be accomplished by supporting Ribbentrop’s plan for a grand quadruple alliance uniting Germany, Italy and Japan with their common enemy, Russia, and requested permission to go to Europe so he could personally bring this to pass. After lengthy debate the military chiefs approved the trip but rejected his request to bring along a gift for Hitler—promise of a Japanese attack on Singapore.

  On March 12, 1941, a large crowd gathered at Tokyo Station to bid Matsuoka farewell. As the bell rang announcing the train’s departure, he rushed up to General Sugiyama and pestered him once more about Singapore. When was he going to take the city?

  “I cannot tell you now,” the general replied stiffly, thinking to himself, What a troublesome fellow this Matsuoka is!

  That he was became evident when, on the long trip across Siberia, he said privately to Colonel Yatsuji Nagai, sent along by the Army to see that he would make no rash promises about Singapore, “Nagai-san, you try to stir up some trouble along the border; I’m going to try to close a Japanese-Soviet neutrality pact.”

  In Berlin he first saw Hitler and even in these discussions it was Matsuoka who, as usual, dominated the conversation. In fact, Hitler rarely talked, and when he did he usually railed against England, exclaiming, “She must be beaten!”

  Both Ribbentrop and Hitler, as well as high officials of the Reich, did their best to convince Matsuoka that seizure of Singapore would be advantageous to Japan. Ribbentrop argued that it would “perhaps be most likely to keep America out of war,” because then Roosevelt couldn’t risk sending his fleet into Japanese waters, while Hitler assured him that if Japan did get into war, Germany would come to her aid and “would be more than a match for America, entirely apart from the fact that the German soldiers were, obviously, far superior to the Americans.”

  But Matsuoka became evasive at every mention of Singapore. For example, when Hermann Göring, after accepting a scroll of Mount Fuji, jokingly promised to come and see the real thing only “if Japan takes Singapore,” Matsuoka nodded toward the edgy Nagai and said, “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Matsuoka was not at all reticent about the treaty he hoped to make with Stalin and was surprised to hear Ribbentrop, who had given him the idea of a grand quadruple pact, say, “How can you conclude such a pact at this time? Just remember, the U.S.S.R. never gives anything for nothing.” Nagai took this to be a warning, but Matsuoka’s enthusiasm could not be damped even when the ambassador to Germany, General Hiroshi Oshima, told him in confidence that there was a good likelihood Germany and Russia would soon go to war.

  On April 6 the party left Berlin. At the Soviet border they learned that Germany had invaded Yugoslavia. Nagai and the other advisers were disturbed—just the previous day Russia had signed a neutrality pact with Yugoslavia—but Matsuoka himself was effervescent. “Now I have the agreement with Stalin in my pocket!” he told his private secretary, Toshikazu Kase.

  He was right. A week after arriving in Moscow, he signed a neutrality pact in the Kremlin. At the extravagant celebration party, Stalin was so obviously delighted at the turn of events that he personally brought plates of food to the Japanese, embraced them, kissed them, and danced around like a performing bear. The treaty was a coup for his diplomacy, convincing proof that he could disregard rumors about a German attack on Russia. After all, if Hitler had any such plans, would he have allowed Japan to conclude this agreement? “Banzai for His Majesty the Emperor!” was his opening toast. He averred that diplomatic pledges should never be broken, even if ideologies differed.

  Matsuoka toasted hi
m in turn and then added something no other Japanese diplomat would have said. “The treaty has been made,” he blurted out. “I do not lie. If I lie, my head shall be yours. If you lie, be sure I will come for your head.”

  “My head is important to my country,” Stalin retorted coldly. “So is yours to your country. Let’s take care to keep both our heads on our shoulders.” It was an embarrassing moment made worse when Matsuoka, in an attempt to be funny, remarked that Nagai and his naval counterpart “were always talking of how to beat the devil out of you.”

  Stalin wasn’t joking when he replied that while Japan was very strong, the Soviet Union was not the Czarist Russia of 1904. But an instant later he had regained his good humor. “You are an Asiatic,” he said. “And so am I.”

  “We’re all Asiatics. Let us drink to the Asiatics!”

  The innumerable toasts made it necessary to delay the eastbound train for an hour. At the station platform the Japanese were taken aback to see Stalin and Molotov tipsily converging on them from a side door for a final good-bye. Stalin kissed Nagai. “The reason England’s in trouble today,” he bellowed, “is because she has a low opinion of soldiers.” Beaming, Stalin then encompassed the diminutive Matsuoka in a bear hug and gave him several affectionate smacks. “There is nothing to fear in Europe,” he said, “now that there is a Japan-Soviet neutrality pact!”

  Matsuoka should have heeded Corneille’s character who said, “I embrace my rival, but only to choke him.” Instead, he blithely exclaimed, “There is nothing to fear in the whole world!” and like a conqueror, climbed aboard the train. (Stalin was already embracing another ambassador—Hitler’s envoy, Count Friedrich Werner von der Schulenburg—and telling him, “We must remain friends, and you must do everything to that end.”) As the train carrying Matsuoka traversed Siberia, he told Kase that just before leaving Moscow he had talked freely with his old friend Laurence Steinhardt, the American ambassador, and they had agreed to try to restore good relations between their two countries. “Now the stage is set,” he said. “Next I will go to Washington.”