by Toland, John
He was interrupted by another plea to seek sanctuary. Chamberlain Yoshihiro Tokugawa importuned him to join the Imperial Household Minister in a storage room in the basement. The clatter of soldiers’ boots echoed down the corridor and Kido allowed himself to be led down a dark staircase.
Chamberlain Toda, who thought he had left Kido safely in the physician’s office, now tried to make his way on foot to the obunko to alert the court staff; all phone connections had been severed. He feared that the short cut to the obunko, a small tunnel, would be guarded, and as he started on a circuitous route, half a dozen soldiers appeared out of the darkness. Toda explained he was a chamberlain, but the commanding officer was unimpressed. Shoving a pistol in his chest, he said, “Go back; the road is blocked.”
Toda returned to the ministry. At the entrance he ran into Tokugawa, and together they started back for the obunko, this time by way of the tunnel. As expected, there were sentries guarding the other end, but there was no officer in charge. Imperiously they announced that they were chamberlains on duty, and were allowed to pass. At the obunko they roused the court ladies but instructed them not to awaken the royal family. Tokugawa, a short man, tried to pull down the iron shutters over the windows, but they were so rusty that it required several husky bodyguards to finish the job. As he and Toda started back to the Household Ministry a second lieutenant called out to halt, but they broke into a run and escaped.
The main entrance of the ministry was now guarded by a heavy-machine-gun crew and they entered separately by side doors. On the second floor Toda was apprehended by rebel soldiers with bayonets who were escorting a bound prisoner, an NHK official.
“Who are you?” one of the soldiers asked.
“I am a chamberlain,” Toda replied.
The soldier turned to his prisoner. “Did you give the records to this chamberlain?”
“No, it was a much taller man with a big nose.”
The man he had given them to was Tokugawa, who in fact was smaller. Shortly after re-entering the ministry; Tokugawa had been caught by the second lieutenant who had tried to stop him near the obunko. He ordered soldiers to take the chamberlain to the guardhouse.
But Tokugawa, whose ancestors had once ruled Japan for more than 250 years, haughtily refused to go. “If you have any business with me,” he said, “I’ll discuss it here.” Two other rebel officers were attracted by the altercation. “Cut him down!” one of them shouted. “It won’t do you any good to kill me,” said Tokugawa with dignity.
“I wouldn’t rust my sword on you,” the second lieutenant sneered, but obviously he was impressed by Tokugawa’s bearing and tried to justify the coup. It had been necessary, he said, to occupy the Palace grounds because the Emperor’s advisers had misled him. “Those men are keshikaran [outrageous]!” Tokugawa merely stared at him. Incensed, the lieutenant yelled, “Don’t you have the Japanese spirit?”
“I am a chamberlain,” Tokugawa said proudly. “You are not the ones defending the country. To defend our nation, everyone has to co-operate.”
A noncom slapped Tokugawa’s face so hard that his glasses were knocked awry and hung on one ear. Tokugawa called to a Palace policeman (the small police force had been powerless to resist the rebels openly), “Get in touch with the aides-de-camp!” The second lieutenant seized the policeman, but Tokugawa, who acted as though he were in charge, stopped him with an indignant “He’s on duty.” The policeman was released. Another rebel officer politely asked Tokugawa the way to the Privy Seal’s office.
Tokugawa gave the directions but added, “I doubt that you’ll find him there.” Then he turned and strode away. No one tried to stop him. He went into the office of the Emperor’s military aides.
“They’re like madmen,” warned Admiral Toshihisa Nakamura, the Emperor’s naval aide. “Be careful.” He wanted to know where Kido really was.
“I’m not disclosing to anyone where he is,” said Tokugawa. He could not trust any senior officer who merely secluded himself in an office during such an emergency. “Rest assured he’s safe.”
Major Hatanaka had succeeded in isolating the Emperor, but his recording could not be found. Moreover, Colonel Ida, whom he had sent on a vital mission, was back with a disconcerting report: there would be no help from the outside. “Eastern District Army won’t go along,” he said. In fact, Ida himself no longer thought the coup was feasible. “Once the men of the Konoye Division discover that their commander has been killed, they’ll refuse to continue. If you try to force this thing through, there will be chaos. There’s no other alternative: withdraw all troops before dawn.” Hatanaka tried to interrupt, but Ida held up his hand. “Face the facts; the coup has failed, but if you pull out all the troops quickly the people will never know what happened.” It would all pass like “a midsummer night’s dream.”
Hatanaka’s face sagged. “I understand,” he said.
“I’m going to report what has happened to the War Minister,” Ida went on. Would Hatanaka promise to withdraw the troops? Hatanaka nodded. But the effect of Ida’s reasoning dissipated with his departure, and Hatanaka’s spirit of revolt flared as bright as ever. He returned to the control point of the uprising, the Konoye barracks, where Colonel Haga, commander of the 2nd Regiment, was growing suspicious of Mori’s prolonged absence. Hatanaka tried to parry the colonel’s questions but Major Koga could no longer remain silent. He confessed to his superior that Mori was dead and urged him to take command of the division.
How did Mori die? demanded Colonel Haga. Neither Hatanaka nor Koga professed to know. Perturbed as he was, Colonel Haga would have continued his reluctant alliance with the dissidents but for a phone call that moment from Eastern District Army headquarters. Tanaka’s chief of staff, General Takashima, wanted to know exactly what was going on in the Palace grounds. Haga could not give specific answers and handed the phone to Hatanaka.
“This is Major Hatanaka, Your Excellency,” he said in a trembling voice. “Please understand our ardor.”
It was lucky that Takashima had reached the ringleader. He remembered Hatanaka from the War College as a bright, naïve idealist, and decided “to admonish him gently and reason with him rather than order or reprimand him.” He said he understood how the dissidents felt, but the Emperor had issued his order and Eastern Army§ was going to obey it. “Do not use any force now that there’s no prospect of success. It will only cause further needless sacrifices.… In Japan it is both pragmatic and highly moral to obey His Majesty’s order.” He paused. “Did I get through to you?”
Everything Ida had just predicted was materializing. Hatanaka’s voice broke. “I understand very well, Your Excellency. I’d like to think it over. I have one more request. Please give us ten minutes to broadcast before His Majesty goes on the air.” He wanted to tell the people why the young officers had revolted.
Takashima said that would be “irresolution,” and as many lives as possible should be saved. “We have reached the point where the final outcome cannot be changed. Hatanaka, do you understand me?” There was no answer. Then Takashima heard a faint sobbing.
Even hearing one side of the conversation confirmed Haga’s suspicions. He raged at Hatanaka and Koga for claiming support of Eastern District Army, and he too ordered them to end the rebellion at once or they would have to kill him.
As he had before when forcefully confronted, Hatanaka verbally capitulated but privately had not given up. He was all set to pursue a new tactic. He would prevent the Emperor’s broadcast at the NHK Building, which was occupied by his troops, and instead make a personal plea to the nation himself.
Colonel Takeshita found War Minister Anami at his modest residence near the Diet Building. He had come as much out of fear that his brother-in-law might take his life as to fulfill his promise on behalf of the dissidents. Anami was sitting at a table in the living room writing his will. To one side a bed of mats was laid out. Over it hung a canopy of mosquito netting. The general hastily folded the document and said somewha
t accusingly, “What do you want?”
Takeshita could see he was preparing himself for death. It was pointless to talk of the uprising, so he chatted inconsequentially with Anami for some time over sake. Finally the general said casually, “I’m thinking of killing myself tonight.”
“It may be proper for you to commit suicide,” Takeshita replied, “but it doesn’t have to be tonight, does it?”
Anami seemed relieved. “I thought you would try to talk me out of it. I’m pleased you approve.” He showed Takeshita the will, which was dated August 14. “The fourteenth is the anniversary of the death of my father and the twenty first is the date my son was killed in action. I debated which date I should pick, but the twenty first is too late. I could not bear to hear the Emperor’s broadcast tomorrow.”
They talked about personal matters until two in the morning, when a distant volley of gunfire in the direction of the Palace grounds reminded Takeshita of his promise to Hatanaka. He outlined the latest rebel plan.ǁ But Anami was preoccupied with his own death—as far as he was concerned, the coup was a foregone failure. In another attempt to delay his brother-in-law, Takeshita questioned whether he could perform the disembowelment ritual of seppuku with so much sake in him.
“I have a fifth-degree rank in kendo, so I won’t fail,” he said confidently. “Sake makes you bleed more profusely. That way you are certain of dying. Should anything go wrong, I want you to assist me.” He stripped to the waist and wrapped a band of white cotton around his belly. But the preparations for the ceremony were suspended by the arrival of Colonel Ida, who had come to inform the War Minister about Hatanaka. But he said nothing, not wishing to “upset” a man about to commit suicide.
“Come in,” said Anami. “I am getting ready to die.” Did Ida approve?
“I think it would be kekko [fine].” Ida told the War Minister, and added that not only had he himself advocated mass suicide, but Anami’s example would end all confusion in the Army and terminate any other plots. Ida bowed his head and held back his tears. “I will accompany you shortly,” he said.
Anami reached over and slapped Ida’s cheek sharply. “It’s enough with me; you must not die!” he said and enfolded him in a long embrace. Both men broke down. “Don’t die,” said Anami in little more than a whisper. “I depend on you for the future of Japan. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.” But Ida still intended to kill himself.
“Let’s have a farewell drink,” Anami suggested, suddenly cheerful. As the three men sipped sake they were again interrupted, this time by Colonel Hayashi, who appeared with the general’s jacket draped over his arm. He said brusquely, “General, you are urgently requested at the ministry. We should leave immediately.”
Annoyed, Anami turned and said, “You make too much noise. Get out!”
The three resumed their drinking. Anami showed Ida two scrolls. One was signed “War Minister Korechika Anami” and read:
Believing in the eternity of our Divine Land,
with my death I apologize to the Emperor
for the great crime.
The other was a waka, a thirty-one-syllable poem:
Having received great favors from the Emperor,
I do not have even half a word to leave
in the hour of my death.
“General, it will soon be dawn,” Takeshita reminded him.
“I will go now,” said Anami. “Farewell.”
As soon as Colonel Ida had bowed himself out of the room, Anami once more asked Takeshita to give him the coup de grâce if he failed to kill himself. He placed his uniform neatly in an alcove, embraced his brother-in-law and made a final request—that the uniform be put on his body.
There was yet another interruption, around four o’clock. Lieutenant General Sanji Okido, chief of the kempeitai, had come to see the War Minister. Anami told Takeshita to handle the matter. He moved off the straw mat to the corridor and sat cross-legged facing the Imperial Palace. According to the etiquette of seppuku, if he stained the tatami with his blood it meant that he considered himself blameless. He deliberately thrust the dagger deep into his abdomen, then slashed twice—to the right and straight up. This was kappuku, so excruciatingly painful that few could force themselves to do it. He sat erect as the blood flowed onto the floor and soaked the two scrolls at his side. He heard someone approach, and called out loudly, “Who’s that?”
It was Hayashi. Anami groaned and his secretary rushed back to the reception room to get Takeshita. “Tell my sister he’s committed hara-kiri,” said Takeshita. In the corridor he found the general leaning forward slightly, a dripping dagger in his right hand; with the left he was searching for the jugular vein. Suddenly he plunged the dagger into his throat. Curiously, almost no blood flowed from the wound and Takeshita said, “Can I assist you?”
“Muyo [No need],” Anami grunted. “Go away.”
Takeshita withdrew, but the general’s groans made him go back. “Are you in pain?” he asked. Anami was unconscious. Takeshita picked up the dagger and drove it all the way into the nape of his neck. He draped Anami’s coat, heavy with medals, over the dying man.
4.
It was now early morning, another sultry day, August 15. Troops still occupied the Palace grounds; the original orders had not yet been rescinded.
At 6:15 Chamberlain Toda once more tried to regain entrance to the obunko, but this time he was unsuccessful. A young officer had orders to let no one in, whoever he was. Toda pretended he had to escort the Emperor to safety, since the air-raid alert was still on, but to no avail. He was finally allowed to pass through on orders of an older officer who reasoned that since the rebels might have to invade the obunko en masse to search for the recording which had still not been located, what difference would it make if a single man entered now?
Inside, Toda informed Grand Chamberlain Hisanori Fujita that the insurgents might break in at any moment and that there would probably be a hand-to-hand fight. They had to awaken the Emperor. At 6:40 he appeared in his dressing gown. The events of the previous evening distressed him. “Don’t they understand my true intentions yet?” There were tears in his eyes. “Assemble all the Konoye Division officers and men and I will talk to them myself.”
A mild-mannered chamberlain, Yasuya Mitsui, was selected to go through the cordon and contact the military. He had not gone fifty yards before an elderly officer stopped him with the question, “Are you a chamberlain?”
It was General Tanaka. A man of culture and a strict disciplinarian, he had gone to Oxford and had once, like Tojo, commanded the kempeitai in the Kwantung Army. He had come in person to restore order; he had already arrested one of the majors in the conspiracy and had commanded Colonel Haga to withdraw all his men to their original stations.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said to the chamberlain. He bowed and extended a large calling card; Mitsui brought out his own. The two bowed again. “I’m sorry for causing so much trouble,” said the general. “Within the hour everything will be under control. Please don’t worry. All the troops will be withdrawn.”a The chamberlain unceremoniously sprinted back to the obunko.
Major Hatanaka had been in personal control of the NHK Building for two hours. At gunpoint he had ordered Morio Tateno, who was about to broadcast the early-morning news, to give him the microphone so he could talk to the nation. Tateno invented several excuses: an imminent air raid made it impossible to transmit without permission from Eastern District Army; in addition, it would take time to inform local stations to stand by for a national hookup.
Tateno went into the control room and asked for a line to General Tanaka’s office. The engineer understood the ruse. He began talking into a dead phone whose line had already been cut by the rebels. He pretended he couldn’t get through. Hatanaka waited, resigned, but one of his lieutenants, irritated by the continued delay, jabbed at the engineer with his pistol and threatened to shoot if he didn’t hurry. Hatanaka intervened. “I have to convey my feelings to the
people,” he told Tateno. It was more of a supplication than a demand. He held out a fistful of papers scrawled in pencil. Tateno read the first characters: “Our unit has been defending the Palace.…”
Tateno asked them to be patient. “We are doing our best to contact Eastern District Army.” The charade was cut short by the ringing of another phone in the booth. The engineer listened for a moment and looked uncertainly at Tateno. It was Eastern District Army and they wanted to talk to “the officer in the studio.”
Hatanaka took the phone and listened passively. He had gone back on his word to give up the revolt and now faced a direct order to desist. Still, he pleaded for the opportunity to make a final explanation to the public, but it was obvious to Tateno that the request was denied. Dejected, Hatanaka put down the receiver. It was all over.
At 7:21 A.M. Tateno made a special announcement to the nation: “At noon today the Emperor will broadcast his rescript. Let us all respectfully listen to the voice of the Emperor. Electric power will be transmitted to those areas not served during daylight hours. The public shall be given access to radio sets in all plants, railroad stations and government offices. The broadcast will be heard at noon today.” The circle is complete, Tateno thought. At the same microphone on the morning of December 8, 1941 he had made the first announcement that war had begun.
The organized opposition to surrender was over, but numerous intransigent individuals and groups remained ready to give up their lives to prevent it. The Palace staff still feared that there would be another attempt to destroy the Emperor’s recording. Even getting the disks from the safe on the second floor through the Household Ministry to the courtyard was risky. One set, stamped COPY, was placed in a square lacquer box bearing the imperial crest and carried ostentatiously through the dark labyrinthian corridors by a ministry official, Motohiko Kakei. The other set, stamped ORIGINAL, was put in the lunch bag of a chamberlain who slung it over his shoulder. Both messengers reached the ground floor safely. Then Kakei wrapped the lacquer box in a purple furoshiki and set out for the studio in a Palace limousine. The lunch bag was handed over to another official, who was driven off in a metropolitan police car. The copy was delivered without incident to the stand-by studio in the basement of the NHK Building. The ORIGINAL set was taken to the office of the chairman of NHK, where it was locked in a safe.