by Toland, John
Overt acts of rebellion still plagued the homeland itself. The pilots at Atsugi Air Base dropped thousands of leaflets on the Tokyo area accusing the jushin and the Suzuki government of misleading the Emperor. Their leader, Captain Kozono, remained firm even when confronted by an admiral. He charged that the Emperor must be insane to surrender; the war had to continue. But the mutiny collapsed. That night the distraught Kozono began raving about Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess, and had to be restrained. Injected with morphine, he was placed in a strait jacket and taken to a naval hospital.
The spirit of rebellion also permeated Oita Air Base, whence Admiral Ugaki had taken off on Japan’s last kamikaze mission. Ugaki’s replacement, Admiral Ryunosuke Kusaka, veteran of Pearl Harbor and Midway, summoned all senior officers; a group of younger officers crowded into the room, uninvited and belligerent. Kusaka said he knew there were some among them who, out of patriotism, thought the war should continue—but “as long as my eyes are black [i. e., as long as he lived] I will not tolerate any rash action.” Those intent on revolt would first have to “cut me to pieces.” He closed his eyes expecting to be killed. For what seemed an eternity there was silence. Then Kusaka heard sobbing and opened his eyes.
“Your speech has cooled our heads,” one of the young officers admitted. He and several others promised to control their men. Kusaka glanced around the room. “How about you older officers? Do any of you disagree with me?” No one spoke up. “If anyone changes his mind, come and see me any time. I have no guards at night. It’s very hot and I shall sleep naked [unprotected].”
That night he was awakened by a voice shouting, “Chokan! Chokan!” (Commander in chief!). It was a feverish commander with drawn pistol and sword. He had just “had a revelation”: unless Japan waged the final battle she would have no future. “According to God, you are the only one to lead us.”
Kusaka looked at him levelly. “You believe in God’s prophecy but I cannot—perhaps I haven’t had enough religious training. In any case, the Emperor himself ordered me to carry out these duties and I cannot trust in God, only myself.” He sensed that time itself would take care of the young man’s problem and suggested that he fly up to Tokyo and report this revelation to the commander of Combined Fleet, the Navy Minister and the Prime Minister.*
The new Prime Minister lay awake that night burdened by his unwanted responsibility. Prince Higashikuni recalled a long-forgotten incident twenty-five years before in France. He had told an aged fortuneteller that he was a simple painter, but she looked up from his palm and said, “It is a lie. You will become prime minister of Japan.” With a laugh he admitted that he was a prince and an officer. “In Japan, members of the royal family and Army men as a rule are not allowed to become politicians. So how can I become prime minister?”
“Japan will have a revolution or some great trouble and you will become prime minister.”
At eleven o’clock the next morning, August 17, he presented his suggestions for Cabinet ministers to the Emperor. Yonai alone retained his post. Togo had declined to stay on as foreign minister and would be succeeded by his predecessor, Mamoru Shigemitsu. Prince Konoye was to be a minister without portfolio. Those and the other choices were agreeable to His Majesty.
The new government’s first task was to send a mission to Manila to arrange with General MacArthur for the surrender of Japanese troops in the field. The man selected to lead it was Lieutenant General Torashiro Kawabe, Umezu’s deputy. Since there was still fear that rebel pilots might intercept the delegation, elaborate precautions were taken. A little after dawn on August 19 the sixteen members arrived at Haneda Airport, where they boarded several small planes. After a few minutes over Tokyo Bay they descended for a landing at Kisarazu Air Base. Here two war-weary and bullet-punctured, cigar-shaped Mitsubishi bombers—the type known as “Bettys” to the Allies—were waiting. In accordance with instructions from MacArthur they had been painted white and marked with large green crosses.
Only after the delegates were on board did the pilots open sealed orders: their destination was Ie Shima, the tiny island where Ernie Pyle had died. Together the Bettys droned south. Over Kyushu the anxious delegates watched a formation of planes heading straight for them. But they had American markings, and the passengers relaxed as two bombers and a dozen fighters surrounded them protectively. The Japanese planes radioed the password; “Bataan,” and the reassuring reply was, “We are Bataan’s watchdog. Follow us.” For an hour and a half the incongruous group continued over the South China Sea until Ie Shima’s peak heaved in sight. The first bomber landed smoothly on the Birch airstrip, but the pilot of the second forgot to lower his landing flaps. The plane flared neatly over the runway but landed jarringly on the coral. It taxied uncertainly to its parking position. As soon as the delegates appeared, hundreds of GI’s and Navy men pressed around them, snapping pictures.
The sixteen Japanese transferred to an American plane, a four-engine C-54, where they were given box lunches. Two GI’s passed out cups of orange juice. Katsuo Okazaki, the ranking Foreign Ministry representative, ordered his secretary by hand signals to tip the Americans $10 apiece.
The C-54 arrived at Nichols Field shortly before dusk. General Kawabe led the group across the ramp to the nearest American, Colonel Sidney Mashbir, chief of MacArthur’s staff of translators. As Mashbir saluted he saw Okazaki come toward him with extended hand—they were prewar acquaintances. Mashbir swung up his right fist with thumb up as an informal greeting; to avoid the onus of shaking hands with an enemy he had practiced this gesture twenty times in front of a mirror. The colonel then escorted the delegation to Major General Charles Willoughby, head of MacArthur’s Intelligence Division. Thousands of soldiers, civilians and newsmen closed in, and the clicking of cameras seemed to Okazaki “like machine guns fired at strange animals.”
Willoughby shared his car with Kawabe and on the way into Manila affably asked what language he would prefer to converse in. Kawabe suggested German—coincidentally it was Willoughby’s native language. Their rapport was immediate, and to Kawabe, unexpected.
Curious groups had gathered along the narrow streets leading to Dewey Boulevard. GI’s hollered “Banzai!” good-naturedly, but the Filipinos were hostile. There were shouts of “Baka!” Rocks were thrown; they bounced off the cars while the Japanese pointedly looked straight ahead.
As soon as they had settled in the Rosario Apartments, a two-story building near the Manila Hotel, they were served a turkey dinner, which they remembered “with relish” years later. Afterward they were shuttled to City Hall, where they were escorted to seats at a large conference table facing their American counterparts. Kawabe sat directly opposite MacArthur’s chief of staff, Sutherland, who read out General Order Number One. It enumerated the authorities to which the scattered Japanese armed forces would surrender. Those in China, Formosa and northern Indo China would capitulate to Chiang Kai-shek, while those in Manchuria, southern Sakhalin and northern Korea would surrender to the Russians. All other forces would be taken over by the British and Americans. Formal surrender would take place on an American warship in Tokyo Bay in early September. Japanese delegates were ordered to reveal the placement of all troops and ships, the location of airfields, submarine and kaiten bases, ammunition dumps and minefields.
The next morning the conference reconvened. Sutherland handed Kawabe a draft of the Instrument of Surrender to be issued by the Emperor. Kawabe dropped it on the table, then picked it up gingerly as if, an American naval officer observed, it were deadly poison. He thrust it at his aide, Second Lieutenant Sadao Otake, a graduate of New York University, where he was called Roy, and said “Yakuse!” (Translate!).
The first words—“I, Hirohito, Emperor of Japan”—made Otake turn pale. The Emperor never used the word watakushi for “I,” but one that was his alone, Chin—the royal “We.” Kawabe listened to the translation with folded arms and eyes closed tight as if in pain, and at the word owari (the end), he slapped the table and said �
�Shimai!” (Finished!).
Mashbir, an expert on Japan, realized how offensive the bald words written for the Emperor were to the Japanese—it was obvious that they were “dying right there in their chairs.” At the Rosario, while the delegates were packing for the return to Japan, he and Willoughby tried to reassure Kawabe and Okazaki. “I am sure,” Mashbir said in Japanese, “that it’s not the intention of the Supreme Commander to degrade or debase your Emperor in the eyes of your people.” He told them to disregard the wording of the declaration—he would take up the matter personally with General MacArthur. He advised them to draw it up themselves “in the normal form of an imperial rescript and ending in the approved and customary manner.” Mashbir explained to Willoughby what he had promised the Japanese. The general couldn’t understand why the Japanese were so upset.
“General Willoughby,” Okazaki said in English, “it is of the utmost importance. It is impossible for me to explain to you how important it really is!”
As the delegation was leaving the Rosario, Otake introduced himself to a Nisei standing guard. The guard, in turn, said his name was Takamura. In America, Otake had married a Nisei of the same name. “Do you have a sister named Etsuyo?” he asked. The guard nodded and Otake said, “I’m her husband.” They shook hands. “Look me up in Japan,” Otake said to his brother-in-law as the car drove off.
General Sutherland agreed that Mashbir had acted properly in permitting the Japanese to reword the document but wanted him to explain it to MacArthur. The commander in chief put his arm around the colonel’s shoulder and said, “Mashbir, you handled that exactly right. As a matter of fact, I have no desire whatever to debase him [the Emperor] in the eyes of his own people.” Orderly government could best be maintained through Hirohito. He wondered if His Majesty would call on him in Tokyo. “If he does, it will be the first time that a Japanese emperor ever called on anyone, won’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it will be, and I’m sure that he’ll do exactly that.”
At Ie Shima the delegates discovered that one of the Mitsubishis was unable to take off for Japan. Otake ridiculed the possibility of sabotage expressed by several delegates—it was the plane that had pancaked coming in. Kawabe, Okazaki and six others boarded the other bomber and settled down for the long flight home. Okazaki began dictating a memorandum to a junior official, Harumi Takeuchi (who would later become ambassador to the Philippines). But General Kawabe sat preoccupied, marveling at the respect they had been shown by the Americans. “If human beings were to sincerely exercise justice and humanity in their relations with one another,” he later wrote, “the horrors of war in all likelihood could be avoided, and even if a war unfortunately broke out, the victor would not become arrogant and the suffering of the losers would be alleviated immediately. A truly great cultural nation is the first requisite.”
In the darkness following sunset, cold air whistled in through bullet holes in the fuselage. The passengers began drinking whiskey to keep warm and eventually fell asleep. At about eleven they were wakened by the pilot. A fuel tank had sprung a leak and they were heading for the nearest land. If they didn’t make it, the bomber would float only briefly. They were to put on life jackets.
Their overriding concern was the documents—the Americans might interpret their loss as a ruse to delay the surrender formalities. The papers were entrusted to Okazaki, an athlete who had represented Japan in the 1924 Olympics in Paris.
The engines began missing and the plane descended. Through the window Takeuchi saw the sea just below shimmering in the moonlight. He tried to tie his life jacket but his fingers were too cold. Silently everyone except Okazaki put his hands against the seat in front of him and lowered his head. Okazaki was clutching the precious papers with both hands. The bomber bounced into the sea, water spraying over the windows. It skipped like a flat stone until it hit something and stopped abruptly.
Oil cans tumbled over Takeuchi and he heard someone say, “We are all right.” He felt something sticky on his face. He thought it was blood, but it was oil. The pilot unlatched a side door. Whitecaps lashed against the plane, and Takeuchi hoped he could make it out before they sank. Then he realized that, incongruously, the pilot was standing in water up to his knees.
Okazaki, dazed from a blow on his forehead, stumbled out of the aircraft on his own and waded ashore. Ahead, in the moonlight, was Mount Fuji.
3.
The United States was having more trouble with her allies than with Japan. Stalin wanted a greater share of the spoils of war. In a cable to Truman he proposed that the Japanese on the Kuriles, which had been “awarded” to the Soviets at Yalta, as well as those on the top half of Hokkaido, the northernmost home island, be surrendered to the Russian Far East commander.
… THIS LATTER PROPOSAL HAS A SPECIAL MEANING FOR THE RUSSIAN PUBLIC OPINION. AS IT IS KNOWN, THE JAPANESE IN 1919–1921 HELD UNDER OCCUPATION OF THEIR TROOPS THE WHOLE SOVIET FAR EAST. THE RUSSIAN PUBLIC OPINION WOULD BE SERIOUSLY OFFENDED IF THE RUSSIAN TROOPS WOULD NOT HAVE AN OCCUPATION REGION IN SOME PART OF THE JAPANESE PROPER TERRITORY.
GREATLY I WISH THAT MY MODEST SUGGESTIONS AS STATED ABOVE WOULD NOT MEET ANY OBJECTIONS.
Rankled, Truman replied that while he could go along with the Kurile proposal, he would like it to be understood that America wanted an air base on one of the Kurile islands. About Hokkaido, however, he was adamant; present arrangements for the surrender of the Japanese on all four of the main islands must stand.
Stalin, in turn, was indignant. Two days later, on August 22, he replied that he “did not expect such an answer” regarding Hokkaido; and nothing had been mentioned at Yalta about a permanent American air base in the Kuriles.
… DEMANDS OF SUCH A NATURE ARE USUALLY LAID BEFORE EITHER A CONQUERED STATE, OR SUCH AN ALLIED STATE WHICH IS IN NO POSITION TO DEFEND WITH ITS OWN MEANS CERTAIN PARTS OF ITS TERRITORY AND, IN VIEW OF THIS, EXPRESSES READINESS TO GRANT ITS ALLY AN APPROPRIATE BASE. I DO NOT BELIEVE THAT THE SOVIET UNION COULD BE INCLUDED AMONG SUCH STATES … AS YOUR MESSAGE DOES NOT STATE ANY MOTIVES FOR A DEMAND TO GRANT A PERMANENT BASE I HAVE TO TELL YOU FRANKLY THAT NEITHER I NOR MY COLLEAGUES UNDERSTAND WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES PROMPTED SUCH A DEMAND TO BE MADE OF THE SOVIET UNION.
Truman’s “first inclination was to let this message with its strong undercurrent of antagonism go unanswered,” but he reconsidered and terminated the altercation with the explanation that the United States merely wanted a temporary base in the Kuriles for emergency use during the occupation of Japan.
The question of China, however, was not so easily resolved. Four days before the Japanese accepted the Potsdam Proclamation, Chu Teh, commanding general of the Communist forces, announced falsely that Japan had surrendered unconditionally and ordered Red units to occupy whatever towns and cities they could. Chiang Kai-shek charged that this was “an abrupt and illegal action” and ordered Chu Teh to desist from independent movement against the Japanese. The Communist radio thereupon branded Chiang a fascist. “We want to announce to our three great allies, the people of China and the world that the Chungking High Command cannot represent the Chinese people and the Chinese troops which really oppose the Japanese. The Chinese people demand that anti-Japanese troops in liberated China under Commander in Chief Chu Teh have the right to send their representatives directly to participate in accepting a Japanese surrender by the Allies.”
Red Chinese plans for postwar domination were hobbled by their ideological comrades in Moscow. On the day before Japan’s surrender, Molotov signed accords with Nationalist China. It was an affront that would plague Soviet-Red China rapport for decades.
In the meantime Russia was intent on establishing herself on the Asian mainland in force. The Red Army had already seized much of Manchuria against almost no opposition from the weakened Kwantung Army. Each occupied city was plundered. Tons of wheat, flour, rice, kaoliang (grain sorghum) and soybeans were shipped back to the Soviet Union along with machinery, rolling stock, paper, printing machines, photographic and e
lectric equipment. Chairs, desks, telephones, typewriters were cleared from every office. Carloads of broken furniture and countless crates of broken glass were dispatched westward as if junk itself were a treasure to the Soviets.
The Japanese prisoners of war were stripped of all valuables, including the gold fillings in their teeth. Rape, pillage and murder became commonplace, but these atrocities were not inspired by hatred or vengeance. The conquerors, like their predecessors Attila and his Huns, were enjoying the booty of war.
4.
The unreasoning spirit to resist capitulation did not die with Hatanaka and Ugaki. Late in the afternoon of August 22, ten young men with white bands around their foreheads, calling themselves the Sonjo Gigun (the Righteous Group for Upholding Imperial Rule and Driving Out Foreigners), occupied Atago Hill, within sight of the American embassy. With pistols and grenades they threatened a cordon of police sent to disperse them. In the pouring rain they linked arms and sang the national anthem. Three times they shouted “Tenno Heika banzai!” And then there was a multiple roar as five grenades exploded almost simultaneously. Everyone lay dead. Their leader had left a note of farewell: “The cicada rain falls in vain on defeated hills and streams.” A few days later the wives of three of the dead rebels climbed to the top of Atago Hill and also attempted suicide. Two died. In a wave of self-destruction, eleven transport officers belonging to a Buddhist sect killed themselves in front of the Imperial Palace, and fourteen students committed hara-kiri at the Yoyogi parade grounds.
Other rebels continued sporadic attacks on communication centers. The NHK station at Kawaguchi was briefly occupied by a major and sixty-six soldiers from a communication school; some forty civilians, including ten women, seized the broadcasting station in Matsui and then attacked the post office, a power station, the local newspaper and the prefectural government office.