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

by Toland, John

  “Mother, you are alive!”

  “I’m dying” was the calm reply. Her mother’s legs were shattered and Ryoko ripped strips from a piece of cloth nearby to make bandages.

  “It won’t work,” Mrs. Okuyama said quietly. “I’m going to die. You can’t stop the bleeding with something like that.”

  “But the blood isn’t coming out any more!”

  “It has all run out,” Mrs. Okuyama said. She stared at the bodies of her family. “I’m glad they had a clean death.” She turned to Ryoko. “Only you are alive.”

  “Okusan, okusan [Madame]!” It was the Asahi man. His agonized voice was almost inaudible. Mother and daughter were astonished to find that someone else had survived. “Kill me. Okusan, please.”

  “I’m dying too,” Mrs. Okuyama told him. “My legs are gone. I can’t even move. I can’t help you.”

  He looked up slowly; then, writhing in agony, he slammed his head against a jagged rock. He groaned and tried again and again. Finally he was dead.

  “After I die you mustn’t stay here,” Mrs. Okuyama said to her daughter. With darkness she was to leave. “You must live long and follow the path of righteousness with a strong mind.” She had written the same words when Ryoko entered middle school.

  Mrs. Okuyama painfully unwound a furoshiki from her waist—it was filled with money—and tied it tightly around her daughter. “Soon I’ll be dead. My vision is getting blurred. I want to lie down. Will you help me?” All the while there was a soft smile on her face. For the first time Ryoko realized how gentle her mother was. How could she ever have feared her?

  “My hearing is fading now. Give me your hands.” She grasped Ryoko’s hands. “I can’t talk any more,” she said faintly.

  “Mother, don’t die!”

  Mrs. Okuyama smiled and nodded her head. Her lips moved but no sound issued. She was dead.

  Almost 22,000 Japanese civilians—two out of three—perished needlessly. And almost the entire garrison—at least 30,000—died.

  For the victors the battle was also the most costly to date in the Pacific. Of the 71,000 Americans who had landed on Saipan, 14,111 were killed, wounded or missing in action—more than double the losses at Guadalcanal—but the main bastion protecting Japan’s homeland had been seized, and the enemy’s carrier-based striking power had been crippled. Even more important, the lowlands of southern Saipan offered the Americans the first site from which massive B-29 bombing raids could be launched at the heart of the Japanese Empire, Tokyo.

  * On June 4, 1942, a Zero fighter, piloted by Petty Officer Tadayoshi Koga, came in for a forced landing on lonely Akutan Island in the Aleutians. A single enemy machine-gun bullet had severed its pressure-gauge indicator line. Its wheels caught in the tundra and the plane flipped over, breaking Koga’s neck. A month later the practically intact Zero was found, and American engineers designed a fighter to send up against it—the F6F Hellcat.

  It is interesting, and sad, to note that two years had gone by since Colonel Claire Chennault furnished the War Department with complete details of the Zero, along with suggestions for greater maneuverability of the P-40 against the swift Japanese plane—all of which was filed and forgotten. Many an American pilot’s life would surely have been saved in the intervening time, as was later indicated by the Hellcat’s superiority over the Zero.

  † When Admiral King landed at Aslito Field shortly after Saipan was secured, his first act was to assure Spruance that he had “done exactly the correct thing with the Fifth Fleet in the Battle of the Philippine Sea, no matter what anyone else might say, especially since he had to remember that the Japanese had another fleet ready in the Inland Sea to pounce upon”—the numerous transports and supply ships that were not yet unloaded.

  ‡ Even before the battle subsided, Lieutenant General Robert C. Richardson, commanding general of all Army forces in the Pacific Ocean Areas, had appointed an all-Army board to investigate the case. It concluded that Holland Smith had authority to relieve Ralph Smith but that the Marine general “was not fully informed regarding conditions in the zone of the 27th Infantry Division” and the relief of the Army Smith “was not justified by the facts.”

  In Washington, Marshall’s deputy, Major General Thomas T. Handy, while admitting that there was some justification for criticizing the GI’s for lack of aggressiveness in Death Valley, reported that “Holland Smith’s fitness for this command is open to question” because of prejudice against Army personnel and that “bad blood had developed between the Marines and the Army on Saipan” to a dangerous degree. “In my opinion, it would be desirable that both Smiths be ordered out of the Pacific Ocean Area.”

  A few days after the battle Richardson inflamed more tempers by flying to Saipan to pass out decorations to Army troops without consulting Nimitz and without approval of Holland Smith. He also reportedly told the Marine commander, “I want you to know you cannot push the Army around the way you have been doing.” This was resented not only by Holland Smith but by Spruance and Turner, who vigorously complained to Nimitz of Richardson’s “high-handed and irregular actions.”

  The feud between the two services was taken up by the press. The San Francisco Examiner, a Hearst paper, charged that Marine casualties in places like Saipan were excessive, far greater than MacArthur’s, and concluded that “the supreme command in the Pacific should, of course, be logically and efficiently entrusted” to him. Time and Life, Henry Luce’s two influential magazines, retaliated with a vigorous defense of Holland Smith, Time asserting that “when field commanders hesitate to remove subordinates for fear of interservice contention, battles and lives will be needlessly lost.”

  § In China, Matsutani replaced an even more outspoken colonel, Tsuji, who had just been shipped out to Burma. (His forthright views on Guadalcanal had undoubtedly made him persona non grata in Tokyo.) Matsutani never believed there was any connection between his audience with Tojo and his sudden transfer. He had held the China post two years previously and was well qualified for the job.

  On the other hand, Colonel Tanemura, who helped with the controversial report and replaced Matsutani as chief of the section, wrote in his “Imperial Headquarters [Army] Diary” on July 3, 1944: “The reason for his transfer is not clear. However, it is believed that his recent outside activities to bring about termination of the war have somehow reached the ears of his superiors, and roused their rage.”

  ǁ Government propaganda in Japan, portraying Americans and British as “devils,” was both widespread and effective. One observer noted in his diary: “I rode a train with a volunteer corps the other day. Their leader lectured, ‘Churchill and Roosevelt formed what they called the Atlantic Charter and agreed to kill all Japanese. They made a statement they would kill men and women. We won’t let them kill us!’ It seems the public believes that the enemy are going to remove the testicles of the Japanese so that they won’t have children, or that they will be sent to secluded islands.”

  a Twenty-five years later they still covered the ridge.

  b The term “banzai” attack was never used by the Japanese.

  c Sherrod inspected the scene a few hours later. “The whole area seemed to be a mass of dead bodies, stinking guts and brains.”

  PART SIX

  The Decisive Battle

  21

  “Let No Heart Be Faint”

  1.

  Never before had a modern Japanese leader gathered to himself so much power. To the world Tojo’s position seemed unassailable but in reality his rule was at the point of collapse. Ever since Midway, Imperial Headquarters had refused to acknowledge the growing power of America* and the diminishing power of Japan. Shipping losses continued to mount as the American submarine campaign intensified. To the north the Aleutian outposts had been abandoned; to the south, the Solomons and New Guinea had been overrun; and in the central Pacific the defense line—the Marshalls, the Gilberts and finally the Marianas—had collapsed.

  At home, production levels were st
ill maintained, but at the expense of extraordinary sacrifices by the people. Not only had many civilian enterprises been converted to war production and more women brought into industry, but teen-agers had been added to the labor force. Classroom time was reduced to a minimum and school buildings transformed into military supply depots.

  A seven-day workweek was established, with the Sundays so cherished by Japanese “abolished.” Trains had become crowded to such an extent that a number of infants were suffocated; trips of more than 100 kilometers required a police permit; diners and sleepers were discontinued. The people’s aggression turned on the trains when they were late, now a common occurrence; they stole seat covers and broke windows to get in and out. Consumer goods of every description were drastically curtailed. Food was rationed, clothing was at a premium, coffins had to be used over and over, and there was little gas or charcoal for heating homes. Newspapers were reduced in size, and publication of afternoon editions was suspended; about ten thousand amusement places—including geisha houses—were shut down. Life in Japan, in short, had become drab and onerous. “What kind of a Tokyo has this turned out to be!” lamented comedian Roppa Furukawa in his diary. “Ah, it’s no fun being alive any more!”

  These extreme austerity measures—coupled with the suspicion that the abandonment of territory, culminating with the fall of Saipan, was more serious than the official communiqués indicated—fostered unrest which centered around Tojo, the symbol of war and power.

  The most outrageous rumors were accepted and passed on: Tojo was using tobacco, whiskey and other loot from the occupied southern areas to bribe members of the Imperial Household Ministry, the board of chamberlains, the jushin and privy councilors; he had even paid off the Emperor’s brothers—Chichibu and Takamatsu—with automobiles.†

  He was ridiculed—behind his back, naturally—for allowing his wife to make public speeches and radio broadcasts and engage in other active efforts to support the war. She was nicknamed “To Bi-rei,” a play on the Japanese version of Madame Chiang Kai-shek’s name, “So Bi-rei.” Following the disaster at Saipan, Mrs. Tojo was inundated by anonymous phone calls asking if her husband had committed suicide yet.

  There were some who were not willing to leave such a final action up to the Prime Minister himself. In addition to Admiral Sokichi Takagi, whose group was planning to ambush Tojo by machine gun, rebels in the Army also sought his assassination. A major named Tsunoda, recently transferred from China to Imperial Headquarters—together with Tatsukuma Ushijima, president of the Tokyo chapter of Toa Renmei (East Asia Federation)—was planning to throw a special hydrocyanic bomb at Tojo’s car as it slowed on a curve in the Imperial Palace grounds near the Iwaida Bridge. The time was set: the third week of July. But the plot was betrayed by the Emperor’s youngest brother, Prince Mikasa, to whom a friend of the conspirators had unintentionally revealed the plan. Instead of giving it his blessing (“Such action was tantamount to rebellion against the Throne”) he informed a member of Imperial Headquarters. Ushijima and Tsunoda were arrested by the kempeitai and sentenced to death, but as had happened so often in the past, they were given a stay of execution.

  Confronted with extensive discontent, Tojo sought advice from the man who had proposed him as prime minister and given his official support through the past months of crisis—the Privy Seal. The counsel Tojo received was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Kido, finally roused to action by the fall of Saipan, was critical of the recent fusion of power: the two top positions in the Cabinet held by Tojo himself, and the dual role of Admiral Shimada (the Navy Minister-cum-Navy Chief of Staff was regarded by other Navy men as Tojo’s kaban-mochi—briefcase carrier). “Everyone is concerned about this,” said Kido, “and the Emperor himself is extremely annoyed.”

  Profoundly discomposed, Tojo withdrew without saying a word but returned later in the day. He was willing to reshuffle the Cabinet but not to surrender his own posts. Kido greeted this compromise with a coolness that seemed hostile to Tojo. He shot to his feet. “There’s no sense in talking to you today!” he exclaimed.

  He marched out of Kido’s office with a slam of the door, but by the time he reached his official residence he had sobered. He told Kenryo Sato, “If Kido has that attitude, it means the Emperor’s confidence in me is lost. Therefore I’m giving up the idea of re-forming the Cabinet; instead I will resign.”

  “It’s out of the question to resign at the most critical time of the war!” shouted Sato. All he had to do was replace Shimada with Admiral Yonai; it would appease both the Navy and liberals like Konoye.

  But Tojo found it too distasteful to dismiss Shimada, who had supported him so faithfully. Sato quoted the Chinese saying that “in order to attain true justice one should not hesitate to kill one’s parents if necessary.” “You must ‘kill’ Shimada no matter how painful it may be. Your obligation to Shimada is a personal matter. You started this war and you cannot give up in the middle of it.”

  It was what Tojo himself believed. He summoned Shimada and informed him he would have to resign as navy minister. The admiral was gracious. “I who am leaving can do so with lightened shoulders,” he said. “You who stay must continue to bear great responsibilities.” He wished Tojo a “good fight” in his coming struggle, and as they shook hands the disciplined Tojo broke down.

  The next day, July 17, Shimada submitted his resignation but contrary to Sato’s prediction, the liberals were not appeased. Neither was Kido, and after prodding from Konoye, he promised that though major political questions were outside his province, he would report to the Throne the consensus of the jushin’s recommendations in reference to Tojo.

  Exhilarated, Konoye drove to the home of Baron Hiranuma, where he found two other jushin, Admiral Okada and Baron Reijiro Wakatsuki. He told them of Kido’s surprising offer. “Now I understand what Kido has been trying to do,” Admiral Okada remarked.

  By six-thirty all the jushin had arrived. Conspiracy was in the air, and after months of ineffectual private complaints, they greeted one another with a sense of purpose. “I should like to draw your attention to the fact that even if the Tojo Cabinet is re-formed,” Wakatsuki warned, “the people will not support it.”

  Admiral Yonai revealed that he had just been “earnestly” invited to join the Cabinet as Shimada’s replacement. He had refused, but fully expected Tojo to make a personal appeal and if that failed, go to the Throne for backing. “I have already made up my mind not to accept the offer even if that last step is taken.”

  Not all the jushin wanted Tojo’s resignation. General Nobuyuki Abe charged that it was “irresponsible to talk exclusively of knocking down the Cabinet. How can we be sure of getting a better one?”

  “Whether the Cabinet is overthrown or not or whether the next one is weak or not is not the point,” Hiranuma interjected. The country had reached a crisis and a change of cabinets had to be made—and quickly.

  “If I were asked, I wouldn’t join the Cabinet,” said Hirota, the diplomat who had headed the Cabinet after the 2/26 Incident.

  They finally worked out a resolution that pleased everyone but Abe. It read:

  The minds and hearts of the people must be infused with new life if the empire is to survive the great problems facing it. All of us in the nation must co-operate and work together. A partial reorganization of the Cabinet will be useless. A powerful new cabinet must be formed that will surge forward unswervingly.

  Abe wondered if the results of their meeting shouldn’t be passed on to Tojo. The answer was unanimous—No. The resolution was hand-carried to Kido’s home. The Privy Seal promised to present it to the Emperor the next morning.

  In his office Prime Minister Tojo and Kenryo Sato were pondering Yonai’s refusal to join the Cabinet. Sato thought the fault lay with the go-between who had represented Tojo. “Your true intentions haven’t yet been gotten across to Yonai,” he said. “Let me speak for you direct.”

  Sato changed to civilian clothes and, unrecognized, slipped by news
men assigned to the admiral’s residence. He pushed his way past the maid, who said her master wasn’t in, and fell asleep in the waiting room. An hour later he woke up when Yonai returned from the jushin meeting.

  Sato tried to impress Yonai that it was essential to save the Cabinet in the middle of war; and his acceptance of a portfolio would accomplish this. Tojo’s sole desire was to change the tide of battle. “I can see why you object to his cabinet, but that is merely a personal opinion. At this most critical time I beg you to co-operate with the Tojo Cabinet to overcome our problems.”

  “I am not an expert in politics.” Yonai smiled wryly. “You can see that from my own cabinet. I’m an admiral, not a politician. And I’d like to die an admiral. If you want to use me, make me an adviser to the Navy Minister.”

  From Yonai’s tone it was clear that he could not be persuaded. Sato started back to Tojo’s office. He had tried but failed, and now his final advice would negate everything he had previously said. It was two o’clock in the morning, but Tojo was still working in his shirt sleeves, smoke from his ever-present cigarette curling up to the lampshade above his head. Tojo, looked up.

  “Please resign,” said Sato.

  Tojo let his breath out in a long sigh. “I will see the Emperor in the morning,” he said. “Would you please put in writing what led to my resignation.”

  As Sato sat down and began to write, he knew in his heart that the war was over, and tears dropped onto the paper.

  In the morning, July 18, Tojo—skin sallow, eyes lusterless—told his cabinet in a weary voice that he had decided to resign because of the loss of Saipan. He had hesitated so long only because of the “Badoglio” group in Japan.‡ The responsibility for Japan’s defeat, he added caustically, would have to be borne by the jushin and others who had forced him out of office. His shoulders sagged. It was the hottest day of the year. “I must ask you all to resign,” he said.