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

by Toland, John

  Kido said that decision had been made too abruptly, without sufficient deliberation. “It must be reconsidered.”

  There was reason in this reply, but Tojo brushed it off with a “Yes, I know” and took a new tack. “How about a cabinet formed by a member of the royal family?”

  Kido said it would not do to pick Higashikuni. “The royal family should join the government only in times of peace.”

  There was also reason in this reply, but it wasn’t what Tojo wanted to hear. He paused to find a rejoinder, and finding none, reverted to the September 6 decision. It had to be carried out, he said stubbornly.

  “If we do, what will happen to Japan?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think,” said Kido, “that Japan will become a third- or fourth-class nation.”

  It was a conversation that left Tojo dejected and Kido hopeful. He sensed Tojo’s doubts and was satisfied that he could be dealt with once Konoye could be persuaded to “exert himself a little harder” in the quest for peace. By coincidence he was called to the phone; it was Konoye. “I am going to resign,” he said abruptly.

  What Kido had feared had come with unsettling suddenness, and now he faced a task made more difficult by the times. The new cabinet would be Japan’s most critical, and the burden of choice was his own. Since the death of Prince Saionji in 1940, he, as privy seal, had taken over the last genro’s major task because the vacuum had to be filled and because he was one who never shirked responsibility, nor made a show of it. The very anonymity of his personality had left this assumption of power unchallenged.

  The new cabinet would lead the nation to war or peace and it was up to him to see that it was peace. The man who would help make the choice was the one who had made it necessary. Just before dusk Prince Konoye appeared, worn by weeks of anxiety.

  “The September 6 decision should be canceled; it is a cancer,” said Kido. “It should then be reconsidered under someone who is familiar with the situation.” The new prime minister could not be an outsider. He must be someone of stature who had participated in the arguments of the past few months. This limited the choice to two men—Admiral Oikawa and Tojo. Since Tojo had precipitated the present crisis, perhaps Oikawa, who had expressed some doubts about the outcome of a war, should be chosen. But Oikawa might not be acceptable to the young officers, who actually ran the Army; they might resist or even revolt.

  The quiet, scholarly Oikawa would of course give a better impression on the international scene. “But if we appoint him,” Kido told Konoye, “the Army wouldn’t select a war minister.” Therefore Tojo was the sole choice. He could control the fiery elements in the military in case the decision was peace; he was a man of character with no political ambitions. He was too direct to scheme and had shown, since his appointment as war minister, that he would do whatever His Majesty wished.

  It was typical of Konoye that his immediate reaction was positive. Perhaps he was overreacting to his own antipathy to Tojo. They had reached the point where they could no longer meet face to face, yet Konoye began listing arguments (or were these rationalizations?) in his favor: not only could he control the Army but he had recently assumed a “rather humble” manner; he appeared to be reconciled to renewed negotiations with America. “Tojo told me the other day that since the Navy’s attitude still wasn’t clear, we should look into the matter thoroughly and reconsider the whole situation. So I don’t think he will push for war on assuming the premiership. And he will be still more cautious if he gets words of counsel from the Throne.”

  Kido assured Konoye that the Emperor would surely ask Tojo to reconsider the decision. It was a scheme that no one but a pragmatist could have devised: to select a cabinet primarily because it could control the situation, and then force it to think in terms of peace by an extraordinary act of the Emperor.

  Konoye left the Palace engrossed by the idea. But as he drove home with his son-in-law, he began to have doubts about Tojo, and did what few in the land would have dared—vocally blame the Emperor for the crisis. His Majesty had recently remarked, “How stupid the Army people are!” If he felt that way, why hadn’t he expressed his views candidly, firmly? In normal times it was proper for an emperor to remain silent, but when the question of war or peace was at stake, he should unhesitatingly point the way.

  Both Konoye and the Emperor were examples of what was most admirable in Japan, and what might lead to national disaster. Both were unselfish and without personal ambition, putting the welfare of the people ahead of everything else. Each showed he could step out of, character and act decisively, but these times were too rare. This was the tragedy of Hirohito and Konoye—and Japan. That day—October 16—a new patriotic song recently broadcast over radio station JOAK appeared in the Japan Times & Advertiser, the nation’s leading English-language newspaper:

  Siren, siren, air raid, air raid!

  What is that to us?

  Preparations are well done,

  Neighborhood associations are solid,

  Determination for defense is firm.

  Enemy planes are only mosquitoes or dragonflies.

  We will win, we must win.

  What of air raid?

  We know no defeat.

  Come to this land to be shot down.

  Eugene Dooman was still dressing the next morning when the phone rang. It was Ushiba, Konoye’s secretary, asking if he could come over right away. Ushiba arrived “nervous and excited” while Dooman was at breakfast, and said he had been up all night helping Konoye make arrangements for a new prime minister. He had a letter from the prince to Ambassador Grew expressing “regret and disappointment” over his resignation. It had been drafted by Ushiba after a full explanation from Konoye of why Tojo had to be his successor. Only he would be able to revoke the decision for war—“to let the Navy do it would be too provocative.”

  … I feel certain, however, that the cabinet which is to succeed mine will exert its utmost in continuing to a successful conclusion the conversations which we have been carrying on up till today. It is my earnest hope, therefore, that you and your Government will not be too disappointed or discouraged either by the change of cabinet or by the mere appearance or impression of the new cabinet. I assure you that I will do all in my power in assisting the new cabinet to attain the high purpose which mine has endeavored to accomplish so hard without success.…

  Shortly after one o’clock the jushin—the seven ex-premiers—met in the West Antechamber of the Palace to help select a prime minister. Kido was there, still determined to recommend Tojo; Konoye was not, since he was the outgoing premier.

  Someone suggested that they choose a prince of the blood. Kido opposed this. If war came, “the imperial family might be faced with a storm of denunciation from the people.” He suggested Tojo; he was “fully acquainted with the development of the situation” and could “effect real co-operation between the Army and the Navy.” He also understood the need of reexamining the September 6 decision.

  One Navy man, Admiral Okada—who as prime minister had so miraculously escaped assassination by the “2/26” rebels—disapproved someone like the War Minister. Hadn’t the Army hierarchy Tojo represented proved it was tough and uncompromising? “To quote the Privy Seal: ‘In the past the Army used to shoot rifles at us from the rear; I hope they don’t start using cannon.’ ”

  The man just quoted agreed that this was certainly a matter of concern; yet who but Tojo had the position, prestige and strength to control the young officers and rightists? Some Navy man?

  “In my opinion, the Navy should absolutely not step in at this time,” said Okada and recommended his liberal friend General Ugaki, who had favored a reduction of the armed forces back in the twenties.

  Resistance to Tojo continued until three-thirty. Then Yoshimichi Hara, present in his capacity as President of the Privy Council, agreed to go along, provided Tojo would follow the policy laid down by the Emperor—that is, reconsider the September 6 decision. Koki Hirota—the
civilian prime minister who had succumbed to Army pressure after the 2/26 Incident—asked if Tojo was also to retain his position as war minister.

  “Yes,” Kido replied.

  “In that case, fine.” That would give Tojo control of the Army radicals.

  The other jushin gave their consent, but Hara spoke for all of them when he remarked, “I don’t think the Privy Seal’s choice is very satisfactory, but since it’s the only specific one, we have nothing to do but give it a try.”

  Kido had got his way.

  Tojo was packing. He was concerned about a possible reprimand from the Emperor for his part in the fall of Konoye and wondered where he would be assigned. At about three-thirty the Grand Chamberlain phoned and asked him to report to the Palace at once. Tojo hastily stuffed into a briefcase some papers which might support his position.

  He had gone to the Palace to be admonished, and was confounded to hear the Emperor say, “We order you to form a cabinet. Observe the provisions of the Constitution. We believe that the nation is facing an extremely grave situation. Bear in mind that the Army and Navy should, at this time, work in even closer co-operation. We will later summon the Navy Minister to tell him the same.”

  Tojo requested time to consider and went into the waiting room. He was joined a few minutes later by Admiral Oikawa, who had just been instructed by the Emperor to work “in closer co-operation” with the Army. Kido approached them. “I assume the Emperor has just talked to you both about Army-Navy co-operation,” he said and explained what His Majesty could only imply. “With regard to the decision on our kokutai [national essence], it is the Emperor’s wish that you make an exhaustive study of domestic and foreign conditions—without regard to the decision of the September 6 imperial conference. I convey this to you as an order of the Emperor.”

  It was unprecedented in Japanese history. No Emperor had ever before rescinded a decision of the imperial conference. Tojo was ordered to “go back to blank paper,” that is, start with a clean slate and negotiate with America for peace.

  Tojo could not fully comprehend what had occurred. He managed to tell Kido that he accepted the responsibility thrust on him by the Emperor. At the Yasukuni Shrine, where the souls of Japan’s war dead were enshrined, he bowed his head in prayer. Appropriately a thousand dead warriors were just being enrolled in a mass ceremony. Tojo realized that he faced a completely new life. From now on he had to think as a civilian, not as a soldier. It was a disruptive turnabout, but he forced himself to examine the problems ahead: he must at once form a cabinet based solely on merit and experience and embracing all segments of Japanese life. His would not be a military but a national cabinet and he should, above all, scrupulously follow the wishes of the Emperor. He vowed to live by a new motto: “To Have the Emperor as the Mirror of my Judgment.” He would take every decision to the Emperor. If His Majesty’s mirror was clean, Tojo would go ahead; if it was even slightly clouded, he would reconsider. What better criterion was there? The Emperor was born to be fair, belonged to no class and reflected the interests of the people exclusively.

  He returned to find the War Ministry in ferment. Two excited generals intercepted him in the hall with their cabinet nominations. Tojo turned on his heel, muttered something about the military “meddling too much,” and strode into his office to summon Naoki Hoshino, a close civilian associate from Manchuria. He was finally located at the Kabuki Theater, and when he arrived at the ministry, Tojo was sitting on the floor surrounded by papers. “I’d like you to be my secretary-general,” said Tojo.

  Together they began picking the new cabinet. “The Army should have no part in the selection,” Tojo explained but suggested Hidehiko Ishiguro, a favorite of military men, as minister of education. Hoshino thought this might create troublesome opposition; why not keep the present minister, a professor?

  “Good idea,” said Tojo and crossed Ishiguro’s name off his list. “Which do you think would be better as finance minister, Aoki or Kaya?”

  “They’re both fine men of character and experience,” said Hoshino, but since the former was in Nanking and the latter in Tokyo, Tojo put a check opposite Okinori Kaya’s name. “What do you think of Togo for foreign minister?”

  Hoshino said he knew him well. They had worked together when buying the Chinese Eastern Railway from the Russians. “He’s quite tenacious. I think he’s a good man.” Tojo made another check mark.

  Hoshino began phoning those selected, asking for a quick decision. Seven accepted on the spot but four, including Kaya and Togo, had doubts and insisted on speaking to Tojo first. Kaya came at once. “There are many rumors of war between Japan and America,” he said. “I hear the Army is advocating this. Are you for war or not?”

  “I intend to bring a peaceful solution if possible. I have no desire for war.”

  “It’s fine that you don’t want to start war, but the Supreme Command is independent,” Kaya retorted and reminded Tojo of Manchuria and China.

  “I will never allow the Army to start war against the wishes of the Cabinet,” said Tojo.

  His candor impressed Kaya, but before accepting, he decided to phone Konoye despite the late hour. The prince advised him to accept the post and do what he could to work toward peace.

  Shigenori Togo,c who came from a samurai family but was no relation of the famous admiral, arrived soon after Kaya. He was a heavyset, thoughtful man who talked deliberately in a heavy Kyushu accent that was harsh to Tokyo ears. To Grew he was grim and “ultra-reserved.” An experienced career diplomat, he had an understanding of European ways and had scandalized his family by marrying a German. Unlike most diplomats, however, he was in the habit of saying what he meant with a bluntness that some construed as rudeness. He wanted to make sure he could negotiate in good faith. Why had Konoye failed in the negotiations with America?

  Tojo was frank. Konoye had been dismissed because the Army had insisted on stationing troops in China. The Army would have to agree “to make genuine concessions” regarding the troops in China and other problems so a settlement could be reached “on a reasonable basis.” Tojo added that he had no objection to reviewing any of the issues but insisted on an immediate answer so he could submit the list of ministers to the Emperor in the morning.

  Togo accepted.

  The next day the fifty-seven-year-old Tojo was promoted to full general, a rank commensurate with his new post. After the investiture ceremony of the Cabinet, he took the train for the Ise Shrine, the most sacred of all Shinto shrines, to pay homage, according to custom, to the Sun Goddess.

  Publicly the selection of Tojo was greeted with enthusiasm. One newspaper, the Yomiuri, declared it should inspire the nation “to rise to the occasion and administer a great shock to the anti-Axis powers.” But privately a few like Higashikuni were concerned. The prince wondered how Kido could possibly have recommended Tojo, since he was so “war-minded.” And how could the Emperor have accepted him?

  American opinion was divided as well. Otto Tolischus, the Tokyo correspondent of the New York Times, after discussing the matter with Embassy Counselor Dooman, wrote: “It would be premature to assume that the new Government will necessarily be dominated by the extremists whose belligerent pronouncements heralded the fall of Konoye. Tojo himself is a certain guarantee against this.… In some respects, the negotiations might even be facilitated by the change.… Now the United States knows that it is dealing with the Army directly.”

  But the one whose opinions would carry the most weight in the negotiations, Cordell Hull, characterized the new Prime Minister as a “typical Japanese officer, with a small-bore, straight-laced, one-track mind” who was “rather stupid.” He had expected little good from Konoye; from Tojo he expected “even less.”

  * Ushiba, who was privy to Konoye’s thoughts, comments: “A Churchill or a Kennedy might have succeeded in controlling the Army, but given the Japanese constitutional system, by which the Supreme Command was independent of the Prime Minister, and confronted with such a h
uge organization determined to control national destiny, it is doubtful if even Churchill could have succeeded. Konoye was no leader, was not a strong-man type, was not the kind of man whose outstanding feature is courage, resoluteness, dedication to a cause. He was, however, informed of what the Japanese Army was like, better perhaps than any other outsider, and concerned about taming it as much as anybody else. His philosophy was basically negative; that is, not to offend or provoke, and to defer the showdown as long as possible. If you stood in the Army’s way, it would simply remove you and proceed to find another convenient blind or cover behind which it could do whatever it wanted.”

  † About this time Konoye called Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, commander in chief of the Combined Fleet, to his private home and asked what chances there were in an attack on America. Yamamoto foresaw success for a year or so. “But after that I am not at all sure.” This confirmed Konoye’s own suspicions and his conviction that a meeting with Roosevelt was the only solution.

  ‡ It was assumed that security leaks, such as those reported by Ambassador Oshima in Berlin, had come from Cabinet civilians, and to seal these off, all liaison conferences, after July 21, were held on the Palace grounds. MAGIC, of course, continued to keep U. S. officials informed of most political decisions.

  § Chapter 7 is devoted to the detailed development of plans for these attacks.

  ǁ At one point in the message Grew either embellished Konoye’s remarks or had not clearly understood the Prime Minister via Dooman’s translation when he declared that the Japanese “conclusively and wholeheartedly agree with the four principles enunciated by the Secretary of State …” In his memoirs, Konoye recalled he had said: “Gensokuteki ni wa kekko de aru ga …”—“They are agreeable in principle.” In a recent interview Ushiba confirmed the Konoye version and explained that several times during the meeting he had to correct Dooman’s translations. Robert Butow translates the phrase “splendid as a matter of principle.” Although “splendid” is listed in dictionaries as one translation for kekko, conversationally in this context it merely means “agreement without accent”—that is, “I’ll go along with that.”