These stories inevitably filtered to the Bataan Relief Organization and similar Pacific and POW lobby organizations, the members of which were nauseated by the government’s handling of the situation in the Philippines. American Bataan Club president Albert C. MacArthur (no relation to General MacArthur) issued a scathing accusation after Dyess’s death. “Our thought is that Washington officials and brass hats made one big mistake at Bataan—we don’t know what—whether or not it was a failure to furnish ample equipment to the boys there, but they want to forget the whole thing, and want the nation to forget Bataan,” said MacArthur. “And we won’t do it.”
The Chicago Tribune had a sizable stake in the saga and was determined to see the Dyess story delivered to American doorsteps. So skillfully, however, had the story been concealed that the Office of Censorship was not even aware of its existence until mid-November, when a PR officer from General Surles’s staff called Jack Lockhart, a Scripps-Howard newspaperman working under the Trib’s Byron Price, and, in Lockhart’s own words, “cleared up the mystery of why the Tribune is so interested in Lieutenant Colonel William Dyess of Albany, Texas and a couple of other things.”
Christmas Eve 1943 would prove a pivotal time in the war to release the story. That morning the Chicago Tribune’s Walter Trohan paid a visit to Lockhart. Not only did Trohan clue Lockhart in on the full story of the Tribune’s relationship with Dyess, he illustrated the paper’s resolve. “If necessary,” Trohan informed Lockhart, “we will get somebody in Congress to read this series into the Congressional Record, thus providing appropriate authority.”
To OWI chief Elmer Davis, who was preparing to write a letter on December 24, the atrocities story was more than sensational—he saw it as crucial not only to his job of keeping the American public informed about the war and protecting the fundamental constitutional right of a free press, but to the war effort itself. Davis attempted to communicate those views to Fleet Admiral William Leahy, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and a trusted friend and adviser to FDR. The president, wrote Davis, had requested in his secret September memorandum that the Joint Chiefs make a recommendation when the White House should inform the nation of the mistreatment of her fighting men. “I should like to recommend to the Joint Chiefs of Staff that the time has now come to recommend to the President that he authorize publication of such information.”
In six, concise paragraphs, Davis laid out his argument. He stressed that the prevailing public opinion was that the war with Germany was nearing its end and warned against complacency on the home front. Without a compelling reason to carry the war with Japan to unconditional surrender, America’s efforts in the Pacific “could easily degenerate after a few victories … into a feeling that we had vindicated our honor and could afford to negotiate a peace short of complete victory.” Although most Americans felt that the antiwar groups—Professor George Hartmann’s Peace Now movement, for example—agitating for negotiated settlements were largely semi-traitorous fringe elements, Davis did not want these ideas gaining any traction.
“The nature of the Japanese enemy is much less widely understood than the nature of the German enemy,” Davis added, echoing the sentiments of Judge Dyess. “When the feeling is at all widespread that the enemy is ‘incomprehensible,’ it is more difficult to demand of the nation the exacting sacrifices necessary to win the kind of victory that can be expressed in comprehensible terms.” Davis also disagreed with the prevailing opinion that any revelation “would stimulate fresh atrocities.” On the contrary, now that Japan was on the defensive, the Japanese would have a pressing interest in producing evidence of “civilized conduct” in order to negotiate more advantageous peace terms.
A carbon copy of the letter to Leahy was sent to Owen Lattimore, a noted Far East specialist, former adviser to Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, and current head of OWI’s Pacific overseas office. Lattimore had been consulted on the matter by Edwin Palmer “Ep” Hoyt, publisher of the Portland Oregonian and a self-anointed “people’s advocate” serving as chief of OWI’s domestic branch. It was Lattimore, an old Asia hand and Oriental psychology expert, who had previously convinced Davis of the need to release the story of Japanese atrocities. As Newsweek would write, Lattimore “argued that exposure and warnings would impress the Japs, while continued suppression of the atrocity stories might give them a feeling of impunity.”
Gen. George Strong of the secret military Intelligence Service did not appreciate Davis’s attempt to circumnavigate the channels of command and sent a terse note telling Davis, in so many words, to mind his own business. Undeterred, Davis launched a written counterstrike on December 27 in which he called the atrocity story ban one-sided, pointing out a noticeable bias against stories taking place in the Pacific theater. As the Chicago Tribune’s crack research had indicated, for every story on the execution of the Doolittle fliers published, there had been many more stories regarding European theater–based atrocities cleared. “Your MID 912 confuses me a little,” wrote Davis, provokingly. “Does this refer to all enemy atrocities?” Nevertheless, Davis stated that he would continue to obey the presidential order, even though he believed “that the policy has outlived its usefulness.”
Strong must have thought he was listening to an echo of his own thoughts when he answered a call from General Surles just before noon on December 29.
“I just wanted to tell you that this damn Dyess story is going to be tough to hold,” warned Surles.
Surles told Strong of Trohan’s threat to have the Dyess story read into the Congressional Record, most likely by sympathetic members of the Texas delegation to the House of Representatives, and added that the Tribune could now count as allies in its cause Roy Roberts, Ep Hoyt, and soon possibly Byron Price. Surles went on to inform Strong that the Tribune had submitted the story to the Office of Censorship in order to have Price scrutinize it for anything that, in his professional opinion, might endanger national security. Price, Surles explained, was likely to clear the story, a development that could make their jobs difficult.
“Now in view of the fact that we’ve got this directive that came from the White House on that atrocity business, of course we’ve been protesting every time it comes up and Price had taken the attitude, I think, that he wasn’t consulted directly by the president, therefore he will make his own decision on the thing. We sent him a copy of our directive but he claims that he didn’t get communicated with directly so he’ll do as he sees fit on it. Now in view of that, do you want me to talk to the White House on that—or do you want me to talk to Price?”
Strong suggested an appeal to the highest authority—FDR—from Stimson to hold off what seemed to be an impending allied charge by the Chicago Tribune, OWI, and Censorship.
“What I’d do if I were you,” said Strong, “I’d draft a memo for the S/W’s [Secretary of War’s] signature and let him send it over to the President. I think that’s the only thing we can do.”
In the meantime, Strong suggested that Surles ask Price to stand pat until the memo reached the Oval Office. Later that day, the aggravated fifty-eight-year-old brigadier placed a call to Price to gauge his thoughts. Price, Surles must have been relieved to learn, seemed as though he was still trying to wrap his hands around the situation.
“What I know about [the Dyess story] is rather sketchy,” said Price. “I haven’t seen any of the manuscript but I do understand that the Tribune has signed up a contract which they say they won’t publish this unless it clears Censorship.”
“Well, as long as Dyess was alive he had to clear thru military
censorship—that was the directive Dyess had—but he’s dead now you see and that’s why they’re pushing ahead on the thing,” Surles responded.
Price reassured Surles that his office was far from making a decision, and even suggested that he would “stall it for a week or two until you find out around town here what’s going on?”
Much like Davis, the career journalist had probably realized the importa
nce of the atrocities story, what its release could conceivably mean to the American public, his profession, his job, and the war itself. And perhaps he had also realized that perhaps with time he could convince Surles to look at things from his point of view. He seemed to sense that the constant grating of all these government entities against one another, with the Chicago Tribune applying relentless pressure, was creating too much friction—friction that was keeping all of the interested parties from reaching a solution. Price probably also sensed Surles’s growing frustration with the situation and the opportunity that teamwork might present. Price then brought up the Davis letter, probably to see where Surles stood on the matter personally.
“Everything I hear about [the letter] supports the view I’ve had all the time that you can’t suppress atrocities,” Price told Surles. “The Japs will do as they damn please regardless of what we publish in this country.”
Price then summarized for Surles a conversation he had had with Ray Cronin, the AP’s recently repatriated Manila bureau chief. Cronin nullified the government’s claim that the Gripsholm’s mission was of paramount importance for the POWs. According to Cronin, Red Cross supplies rarely reached the POWs. Most of the food, medicine, cigarettes were kept by the Japanese or else later appeared on the black market. Surles sounded somewhat sympathetic.
“I hope you can give your support to loosening up this atrocity business because I don’t think it’s getting us anywhere,” Price concluded.
Nineteen forty-four was slightly less than a week old when it became apparent that the initiative of Davis and Price was beginning to pay dividends. Davis’s letter to Leahy had been circulated throughout
Washington—in the upper strata of government, at least—and he soon found that he had quite a number of supporters, including Secretary of State Cordell Hull. “The policy in regard to the publication of atrocity stories is in my opinion one of great importance in connection with the war effort,” Hull wrote Davis. “It is further my opinion that these stories should be used to further the ultimate national interest.”
The question remained whether the White House and War Department were aware of the forces arraying in favor of the story’s release. At half past noon on the 8th of January, Price called Surles with a proposition.
“Two things,” Price began. “One, Walter Trohan was in here this morning needling me up. He’s been calling every day about this Dyess. I said, ‘I’m going to New York Tuesday and will probably be gone about a week. If you want an answer one way or another by Monday, I’ll give it to you and you’ll have to take your chances on what it is. But if you’ll lay off for a couple of weeks and keep your shirt on, I think there may be some hope that this thing can be settled amicably all around.’ So he said that he liked that proposition of laying off and unless I heard from him to the contrary that they would accept a two-week’s moratorium.”
“Fine,” agreed Surles. “That’ll help a lot.”
“In the meantime, I hope that we can get some action one way or another on this.”
Surles then told Price that his recommendation—Price had composed a complement to Davis’s letter—had been submitted to the Joint Chiefs. It certainly seemed, at least to judge from the view provided by Price’s office in the Federal Trade Commission building on Seventh and Pennsylvania Avenues, that his strategy was succeeding.
“Anything you can do to expedite it will help,” said Price. “I think we ought to get [the Dyess-atrocities story] out.”
“Well, I certainly liked what you submitted,” Surles replied
“I’m afraid General Strong won’t but I don’t know what we can do about that.”
“I think what we’ve got to do is—we can’t move in with a slam and a banging of doors, etc. I think we’ve got to move in quietly and with [the Joint Chiefs’] full concurrence.”
“I’ll keep you posted about this Dyess business,” promised Price. “As I told you, we won’t take any action without consulting you further
about it.”
“Yes,” closed Surles, “because it is a pretty hot thing.”
For a number of reasons, as all of the involved parties seemed to agree—the Chicago Tribune, the Army, the Navy, the Office of Censorship, OWI, the State and War Departments, and the White House, plus others soon to be revealed—much better timing was of the utmost importance.
TUESDAY, JANUARY 18–SATURDAY, JANUARY 22, 1944
Washington, District of Columbia
The two-week moratorium was not destined to last that long. The Joint Chiefs convened on January 18 to decide whether to issue a recommendation to the president regarding the release of the atrocities stories. Official Washington waited anxiously for the decision.
With Price in New York, Jack Lockhart began making calls in an effort to glean some information. At 11 a.m., he reached George Healy, Hoyt’s successor as OWI domestic chief; Healy had heard nothing. Forty minutes later, Lockhart spoke with Stephen Early, FDR’s press secretary, who informed him that the matter would soon be brought to the president’s attention. Apparently it was, because at 3:50 that afternoon. Early telephoned Lockhart to say that he had some information on “the Dyess and related stories which he could tell me confidentially.”
Early told Lockhart that the White House no longer held out hope for future relief missions. He then went on to say that Great Britain had more POWs in Japanese hands than the United States and, in view of that, Roosevelt now felt it necessary to consult the British. The following morning, Early reported that the British had signed off, asking only that they be kept apprised of the situation and release schedule so that they could prepare a parallel release of their own. “As a result,” Lockhart would write in an office memorandum, “the President is now willing to have atrocities [story] released in an orderly fashion.”
A date was set: Monday, January 24. “That’s the way she lies,” a surprised Early told Col. Stanley Grogan, an Army PR officer under Surles, during a phone conversation that afternoon. “I thought [Roosevelt] would kick a little bit about that but nevertheless she’s going.”
A subsequent conversation between Grogan and Maj. Gen. Clayton Bissell, George Marshall’s G-2, the following morning, reveals that Secretary of War Stimson was caught off guard by the president’s apparent about-face.
“The Secretary was pretty disturbed last night,” revealed Grogan.
“Well, the Secretary didn’t have the facts presented properly to him,” said Bissell. “If I had known the Joint Chiefs of Staff had taken as firm a stand as they did I would have told him that the action was based on their recommendation.”
That firm stand should no doubt be credited to Davis and Price. They had swayed Leahy and the Joint Chiefs to the point that the latter realized that the release of the atrocities stories could conceivably be a boon to American arms. The change in policy was also a seminal victory for Davis, Price, and their staffs, not to mention the Chicago Tribune and the Fourth Estate. Yet there was hardly a hint of a congratulatory tone in the announcement Davis distributed to his staff. Time would not allow for a celebration.
Via Early, Davis had been directed by the president to coordinate with the British on the release of the atrocity announcements by both nations. The Army and Navy, meanwhile, were scrambling not only to cooperate with each other and OWI on a joint release, but had to do so without allowing their long-standing interservice rivalry to turn the event into a race for recognition. Yet perhaps in that regard, it was too late. Once the ban had been lifted, the corollary question now facing all of the involved parties was how best to facilitate the release of the individual atrocity stories in an appropriate manner. There was now the Dyess–Chicago Tribune story and also a McCoy-Mellnik story that had been prepared under the auspices of the Navy Office of Public Relations with the help of an officer named Lt. Welbourn Kelley. The existence of the latter story suggests that McCoy had been at least somewhat successful in calling the Navy’s bluff. In all likelihood, the Navy had acquiesced to
McCoy’s demands and assigned Kelley to take down his story before McCoy was transferred—tucked away, really—to a posting in the Bremerton Shipyards in Washington state.
The Army finally began reading the Dyess story on January 21—while several sets of eyes would pore over the material, General Marshall had declared that he himself would be responsible for the final edit—but the McCoy-Mellnik collaboration had not yet been sold. At this date, Collier’s reportedly held the leading bid of $20,000, but The Saturday Evening Post and Reader’s Digest, as well as Life, were still in the running.
A flurry of phone calls and messages was exchanged between the OWI Army, Navy, and the Chicago Tribune—these mainly involved Navy personnel who were trying to keep the Army and the Tribune from releasing the story in advance of McCoy and Mellnik’s piece—but the Navy was operating at a distinct disadvantage because the McCoy-Mellnik story was Navy-produced and controlled, whereas the Dyess story was controlled by a civilian entity and ostensibly outside the military’s reach. Fortunately for the Navy, other circumstances and influences, both internal and external, would buy additional time.
Bissell had told Grogan during their conversation on January 21 that he had heard that “G-1 [Personnel] and Service Commands both suggest delay in implimentation [sic] of the President’s order…. They have good reasons for suggesting delay, but they’re not questioning the ultimate decision. They think that certain things should be brought about which would bring about a rather appreciable delay if it were carried out—for certainly about three months.”
“Well, of course they may,” Grogan replied. “In the meantime the Dyess story may be broken.”
“They understand that,” replied Bissell, “but they feel that that’s one of the things you have to take a chance on.”
Grogan’s assumption, that the Chicago Tribune would likely exhaust its patience in the event of another delay, was probably correct. Elmer Davis, addressing the external factors that had recently come into play in a January 22 memorandum distributed to Surles, Healy, Lattimore, and others within OWI, warned of such a possibility:
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