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

by Toland, John

  The battle was over. Officially it would be known as the Battle of the Philippine Sea, but to Americans who were there it would always be “the Great Marianas Turkey Shoot,” a name originated by Commander Paul Buie of Lexington. They had sunk three heavy carriers and destroyed 92 percent of Ozawa’s carrier planes and 72 percent of his float planes, as well as fifty Guam-based aircraft, a total of 475 or so—at a cost of 2 oilers and 130 planes, including eighty which had splashed near or crashed on their carriers. But the victory was marred by acrid criticism of the man who had engineered it, for not pursuing Ozawa more aggressively. Admiral J. J. (“Jocko”) Clark, commander of four carriers in the battle, charged that Raymond Spruance had missed “the chance of the century,” and Admiral A. E. Montgomery, who led four other carriers, officially reported that the results “were extremely disappointing to all hands.” At naval air headquarters in Pearl Harbor the common complaint was: “This is what comes of placing a nonaviator in command over carriers.”

  Spruance made no excuses. It would have been “much better and more satisfactory” to have gone after Ozawa’s carriers, but he had done what Nimitz wanted—protected Saipan—and in doing so forever after changed the course of war in the Pacific.†

  The night after the battle Ozawa dictated a letter of resignation to Admiral Toyoda but the commander in chief of Combined Fleet refused even to read the letter. “I am more responsible for this defeat than Admiral Ozawa,” he said, “and I will not accept his resignation.”

  Admiral Ugaki marked the occasion with another haiku:

  The battle is ended

  but the gloomy sky of the rainy season

  remains over us.

  2.

  The crushing defeat at sea doomed the defenders of Saipan. On the day Shokaku and Taiho went down, the commander of all American troops on Saipan, Marine General Holland Smith, readied his troops for a final drive up the island. His men had already suffered heavy casualties, particularly from night mortar fire. Marine Captain John A. Magruder watched medics tenderly load corpses into a truck and approached to see if there was anyone he knew. He recognized a youthful, fair-haired replacement and remembered how exuberant he had been upon arrival at the front. A yellow paperback book stuck out of his back pocket—Our Hearts Were Young and Gay.

  On June 22 two Marine divisions started the offensive to the north while the Army division, the 27th, mopped up the remaining Japanese cut off in the extreme south. The Marine lines were so extended, however, that Smith ordered the 27th Division to take over the center, and the next morning the GI’s started up the wooded valley running just east of Mount Tapotchau. It was a narrow gulch not a thousand yards wide, and the remnants of the 136th Regiment of Saito’s division looked down on them from cliffs and precipitous hills honeycombed with caves. The GI’s, commanded by Major General Ralph Smith, advanced cautiously throughout the day to the annoyance of Holland Smith—his nickname was “Howlin’ Mad.” He complained to Major General Sanderford Jarman, the senior Army officer on the island, that “if it was not an Army division, and there would be a great cry set up more or less of a political nature,” he’d relieve the other Smith on the spot. The leadership of the 27th, he was convinced, stemmed largely “from a gentlemen’s club known as the Seventh Regiment, traditionally New York’s ‘silk stocking’ outfit, and likewise a worthy unit, per se, with an impeccable reputation for annual balls, banquets and shipshape summer camps.”

  Ralph Smith acknowledged that his division “was not carrying its full share” and that he was “in no way satisfied with what his regimental commanders had done during the day.” He promised Jarman to “personally see to it that the division went forward.” Even Smith’s presence at the front the following morning did little to move the Army troops up the gorge, which was already known as “Death Valley.”

  “Howlin’ Mad” conferred with Admiral Richmond Turner (“Terrible Turner”), and the two went out to see Spruance on Indianapolis. “Ralph Smith has shown that he lacks aggressive spirit,” said Smith, “and his division is slowing down our advance. He should be relieved.” He suggested that Jarman take over the 27th until another commander was appointed, and Spruance concurred.‡

  But a change of commanders made no perceptible difference, and the progress up Death Valley remained painfully slow. The Marines on the right were also stalled, but the 2nd Marine Division on the left fought its way to the top of Mount Tapotchau where the rest of hilly Saipan stretched out to the north like some quiescent monster.

  This rugged terrain was about all that stood between the Americans and victory. By nightfall of June 25 there were less than twelve hundred able-bodied men and three tanks left of all Japanese Army front-line units, and General Igeta of the 31st Army was compelled to radio his commander in Guam that Saipan could not be held.

  THE FIGHT ON SAIPAN AS THINGS STAND NOW IS PROGRESSING ONE-SIDEDLY, SINCE ALONG WITH THE TREMENDOUS POWER OF HIS BARRAGES, THE ENEMY HOLDS CONTROL OF SEA AND AIR. IN DAYTIME EVEN THE DEPLOYMENT OF UNITS IS VERY DIFFICULT, AND AT NIGHT THE ENEMY CAN MAKE OUT OUR MOVEMENTS WITH EASE BY USING ILLUMINATION SHELLS. MOREOVER, OUR COMMUNICATIONS ARE BECOMING DISRUPTED, AND LIAISON IS BECOMING INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT. DUE TO OUR SERIOUS LACK OF WEAPONS AND EQUIPMENT, ACTIVITY AND CONTROL ARE HINDERED CONSIDERABLY. MOREOVER, WE ARE MENACED BY BRAZENLY LOW-FLYING PLANES, AND THE ENEMY BLASTS AT US FROM ALL SIDES WITH FIERCE NAVAL AND ARTILLERY CROSS FIRE. AS A RESULT, EVEN IF WE REMOVE UNITS FROM THE FRONT LINES AND SEND THEM TO THE REAR, THEIR FIGHTING STRENGTH IS CUT DOWN EVERY DAY. ALSO, THE ENEMY ATTACKS WITH FIERCE CONCENTRATION OF BOMBS AND ARTILLERY. STEP BY STEP HE COMES TOWARD US AND CONCENTRATES HIS FIRE ON US AS WE WITHDRAW, SO THAT WHEREVER WE GO WE ARE QUICKLY SURROUNDED BY FIRE.

  But there would be no surrender.

  … THE POSITIONS ARE TO BE DEFENDED TO THE BITTER END, AND UNLESS HE HAS OTHER ORDERS, EVERY SOLDIER MUST STAND HIS GROUND.

  General Saito’s report to Tokyo was more emotional:

  … PLEASE APOLOGIZE DEEPLY TO THE EMPEROR THAT WE CANNOT DO BETTER THAN WE ARE DOING.… THERE IS NO HOPE FOR VICTORY IN PLACES WHERE WE DO NOT HAVE CONTROL OF THE AIR AND WE ARE STILL HOPING HERE FOR AERIAL REINFORCEMENTS.… PRAYING FOR THE GOOD HEALTH OF THE EMPEROR, WE ALL CRY “BANZAI!”

  3.

  For Tojo the collapse of Saipan was a political as well as military reverse—a direct threat to his position as prime minister. His popularity had waned as the war situation worsened. Criticism, most of it covert, came from all sides. Prince Chichibu referred to him as “Emperor Tojo.” Signs in some Navy offices read: KILL TOJO AND SHIMADA! OUR IMPERIAL COMBINED FLEET IS NOW POWERLESS. PREPARE AT ONCE TO RE-FORM THE CABINET SO WE CAN SEEK PEACE. Among Army intellectuals he was known as “Jotohei” (“superior private,” the rank above Pfc.) and his administration was labeled “government-by-privates.”

  Substance was given to this name-calling by the findings of an investigation just concluded by the Army General Staff’s own Conduct of War Section. Its chief, Colonel Sei Matsutani, reported that after an exhaustive study by himself, Colonel Sako Tanemura and a major named Hashimoto, there was “now no hope for Japan to reverse the unfavorable war situation. The state of Germany today is about the same as Japan’s and grows gradually worse. It is time for us to end the war.”

  Matsutani took his report to two influential members on the General Staff. The first admitted the validity of the conclusions but forbade Matsutani to release them. The second, equally impressed, refused to allow the colonel to present his case to the Prime Minister. But Matsutani could not be intimidated and brought his findings to Tojo. The colonel expected Tojo to react violently, but he listened quietly, passively. His “sour” face, however, belied his polite demeanor, and within a week the outspoken Matsutani was transferred to China.§

  On Saipan General Saito, following orders from 31st Army, once more moved his headquarters, this time to a small cave a mile north of Mount Tapotchau. On June 28 all the military leaders—Nagumo, Saito and Igeta—held a
joint staff meeting. Igeta took charge. Except for the former public relations officer, Major Hirakushi, Saito’s staff had few suggestions to offer. They crouched listlessly on their haunches; one or two tried to sleep. Saito and Nagumo sat in silence as Igeta outlined a final line of resistance two thirds of the way up the island. They would dig in, from Tanapag in the west to the opposite coast.

  There was little reaction. Wearily Saito said that the proposal sounded “all right” to him, and a Navy commander, speaking for Nagumo, said, “We leave it to the Army.” The question remained as to how to do it. The troops were dispersed across the northern half of Saipan; there were few lines of communication. Able-bodied men were selected to contact all units. Major Hirakushi set out for Mount Donnay to assemble the remnants of the 136th Regiment. The only soldiers he could find in the area were at the field hospital. He called out for men of the regiment; no one came forward. He reported back to Saito that he could find no troops to build the eastern section of the final line.

  Igeta said nothing.

  Shizuko had lost all concept of time. On one of her daily visits to Lieutenant Shinoda, a comrade lying nearby began to berate her: “Why didn’t you come and see him last night? Poor Lieutenant Shinoda called for you all through the night and died just an hour ago.”

  She crouched beside Shinoda’s body. There wasn’t a maggot on his face. He looked “pale and beautiful.” She picked up the photograph of his round-faced wife.

  “Couldn’t you hear him calling you?” another soldier said in an accusing voice. She couldn’t answer. All through the night she had heard voices continuously calling “Nurse!” but it was like “hearing cicadas singing.” It was impossible to answer each call.

  Yet—she should have recognized Shinoda’s urgent voice. She reported his death to one of the medics, who said. “Poor fellow, he had so many maggots that the other patients kicked him until he found this corner off by himself.”

  Her routine had become a mélange of horrors: the crude toilet filling up with maggots; the dead bodies that rotted and gave off a ghastly phosphorescence at night; the piteous groans and cries of patients; the air raids; the shells shrieking overhead. She had to forget she was a woman in the presence of men stripped naked; she had to forget she was a human being as she amputated arms and legs with a surgical saw and then sewed up the ragged flesh. There was no more anesthesia for operations, and patients would scream until they fainted. The fortunate ones remained unconscious until the operation was over.

  In the past few months Prince Konoye had become the confederate of a score of military as well as civilian leaders—among them General Koji Sakai of the General Staff and Admiral Okada—who were disturbed by the course of the war and Tojo’s leadership. General Sakai made a clandestine visit to Konoye’s suburban home. “To be on the safe side” the general wore civilian clothes. “If Tojo learns what I am about to tell you, I’m sure he will retaliate,” he warned. He wanted to impress Konoye that the war should be ended quickly. “Germany still has defensive power, and while the enemy has to fight in both east and west we should take advantage of the situation and enter into negotiations for peace. It will not be to our advantage to wait until Germany is defeated.” Tojo could not possibly negotiate such a peace. A new cabinet must be formed.

  General Sakai was one of the few liberals in the Army, and Konoye wondered if the Army leadership “could be persuaded to follow this policy.”

  “At present they don’t speak openly but they all think as I do,” the general replied. Matsutani’s report had been circulated secretly and a number of Army leaders wanted the Throne informed of its findings.

  And after that, what? Konoye wanted to know. How should the Emperor face Tojo with the matter?

  “His Majesty should say, ‘Despite all efforts by our Army and Navy, the enemy has succeeded in landing on Saipan. What do you think of future operations, Tojo?’ He should then ask how they were to meet the requirements of the Army and Navy regarding munitions, planes, ships and oil; about protecting the population from air raids; and what should be done to repel enemy offensives.” General Sakai acknowledged that Tojo could answer these questions in several ways—but hoped they would force him “to resign at once.”

  4.

  On June 30 the GI’s finally broke through Death Valley (“No one had any tougher job to do,” observed Major General Harry Schmidt, commander of the 4th Marine Division), and the entire three-division front was at last connected.

  At the Donnay field hospital, a “dying game” order was received. Medics distributed grenades, one for each eight men. The chief surgeon—the captain—climbed up to a little rise at dusk and shouted that “by order of the high command,” the field hospital was transferred to a village on the west coast a mile and a half above Tanapag and four miles from the northern tip of Saipan. The vast arena was silent. “All ambulatory patients will accompany me. But to my great sorrow, I must abandon you comrades who cannot walk. Men, die an honorable death as Japanese soldiers.”

  Shizuko told the captain. “I’m going to stay and kill myself with my patients!”

  “You will join us,” he said. “That is an order.”

  All the soldiers wanted to say good-bye and crowded around her. Even those who couldn’t walk crawled nearer. There was no need to draw words from them. There was only one subject—home. Each man tried to tell her something about his family. She promised over and over to tell what had happened if she got back to Japan.

  One whose jaw had been shot away got her attention. Slavering, he weakly scrawled “Chiba-ken” in the dirt, and then “Takeda.” “I understand,” she said. “You come from Chiba prefecture and your name is Takeda.”

  A young officer, his uniform dyed with blood, forced out a few painful words. “You know … the song … of Kudanzaka?”

  “Yes, I like it very much.” It was a haunting song about an aged mother from the country taking her dead son’s medal to the Yasukuni Shrine in Kudanzaka. She began to sing:

  “From Ueno Station to Kudanzaka

  I get impatient, not knowing my way around.

  It has taken me all day, leaning on my cane,

  To come and see you, my son, at Kudanzaka.

  The great torii [gate] looming up in the sky

  Leads to a magnificent shrine

  That enrolls my son among the gods.

  Your unworthy mother weeps in her joy.

  I was a black hen who gave birth to a hawk.

  And such good fortune is more than I deserve.

  I wanted to show you your Order of the Golden Kite,

  And have come to see you, my son, at Kudanzaka.”

  She stopped. There was silence except for stifled sobs. “We, too, will go to Yasukuni Shrine!” the young officer exclaimed.

  Others joined in: “Let us all go to Yasukuni Shrine together!”

  The captain started to lead Shizuko away, along with three hundred patients. Voices followed them: “Thank you, nurse”; “Good-bye, nurse”; “Commander … Sergeant … nurse … thank you all for your kindness.”

  They reached the end of the field. Shizuko heard a voice cry out, “Goodbye, Mother!” There was a sharp blast—a grenade. She crouched on the ground and flinched as one grenade after another exploded in rapid succession.

  The American advance up the island, which had begun so laboriously, was now almost unopposed. It had become, as one Marine put it, a “rabbit hunt.” This constant pressure had prevented the Japanese from forming their final defensive line across the island, and by July 5 they had been herded into the northern quarter of Saipan.

  Japanese headquarters was now on a ridge facing the west coast, a few hundred yards from the new field hospital. The cave overlooked a gulch, already nicknamed “the Valley of Hell.” That afternoon Major Hirakushi left the cave to inspect the front lines. They were nonexistent. The men had already retreated on their own before the American drive. Hirakushi’s report was greeted by an incredulous silence. Finally Genera
l Igeta said, “Tomorrow morning we will begin assembling all remaining troops in the area for the final attack. Let us end this battle.”

  That evening the headquarters group ate the last of their food—a single can of crab meat and a small rice ball apiece. Hirakushi had been saving two cigarettes which Prince Kaya gave him in Japan as a memento. They were passed from man to man, smoked until they were too small to hold. Hirakushi asked if Igeta and Saito would participate in the final assault. Admiral Nagumo, who had said almost nothing during the long retreat, answered for them: “We three will commit suicide.”

  Hirakushi wanted to know what would happen to the thousands of civilians who shared the caves with the soldiers and sailors. “There is no longer any distinction between civilians and troops,” Saito replied. “It would be better for them to join in the attack with bamboo spears than be captured.ǁ Write out instructions to that effect.”

  Three hundred sets of Saito’s order were mimeographed, but before they could be distributed a messenger arrived from the naval communications cave located several miles to the north. Tokyo ordered the defenders to continue the battle “to gain time”; there was a promise of reinforcements.

  The Navy staff officers accepted the order, but the Army would not abandon the last assault. “The arrow has been shot,” said one Army man. Another accused the Navy of cowardice. The Navy said it was no time to call names; the Army was disobeying a direct order from Imperial Headquarters.