Imai moved away from the hut, running in a half crouch, pausing from time to time to get his bearings. From behind him, the movie sound track carried clearly; the glow from the screen outlined nearby buildings.
Like a dog sniffing for a bone, Imai’s nose directed him to Perry’s kitchens. He found a door unlocked and sneaked inside.
On the table were rows of cooked chickens. He grabbed a couple, stuffed them in his tunic, and was reaching for another when he heard a sound. He darted outside as someone entered by another door.
Imai stealthily retraced his footsteps, stopping in the shadow of the hut near the hole in the fence to rummage through a garbage can. Tonight’s haul yielded a chunk of smoked sausage, a half-full jar of jam, and some peanuts. Wrapping his find carefully in old newspapers, Imai stuffed the package inside his tunic and trousers and moved toward the wire.
A voice stopped him. The words were in English, but there was no mistaking the accent: it was a Japanese woman’s.
Imai felt a sudden surge of excitement as from a nearby Quonset hut came the voice of Tokyo Rose, making her nightly broadcast from Japan.
His spirits raised, Imai fled into the jungle. He was eager to return to his cave to scan the American newspapers he had stolen for reports of a Japanese advance toward Tinian.
Grouped around the radio, Eatherly and his crew listened impatiently to Tokyo Rose’s diatribe. Finally, she gave them the news they were all waiting to hear.
The tactics of the raiding enemy planes have become so complicated that they cannot be anticipated from experience or common sense. The single B-29 which passed over the capital this morning was apparently using a sneak tactic aimed at confusing the minds of the people.
No further reference was made to the raid. Clearly the bomb had not hit the palace.
Disappointed, Eatherly turned away from the radio, his hopes of worldwide fame temporarily quashed.
14
At 6:00 A.M. on July 21, as he did every morning, Field Marshal Shunroku Hata awoke, bathed, dressed in a kimono, and breakfasted with his wife.
Around 7:00, he padded in his slippers to the Shinto shrine that was an integral part of his home. His prayers said, he changed into his uniform and was ready to begin the next part of his daily ritual: tending the vegetables in the garden he had planted at the rear of his home. This outdoor manual work kept him lean and fit; his appearance belied his sixty-five years.
Near 8:00, Hata went into the house. Awaiting him was an overnight situation report, prepared with the help of Lieutenant Kakuzo Oya, presently acting as Hata’s intelligence chief. This morning’s summary offered no clue as to where or when the Americans intended to invade Japan, but the field marshal was ready for the assault. Hata’s inland defenses stretched from the shores of Kyushu almost two hundred miles back as far as Hiroshima on the main island of Honshu. Designed to allow for an orderly falling back to prepared positions, the system utilized the natural terrain to the maximum: murderous arcs of cross fire, tank traps, and booby traps awaited the Americans at every turn.
Hata finished his tea. Then, at about 8:15 A.M., the most important soldier outside Tokyo left in his staff car for headquarters in Hiroshima.
Most of Hiroshima’s officers rode on horseback to work, and their equestrian parade regularly earned admiration from the milling crowds on their way to or from Hiroshima’s war factories.
The animals, like their owners, and in marked contrast to the civilians, were sleek and well-groomed.
Particular approbation was reserved for the Korean prince, Lieutenant Colonel RiGu, who was attached to Hata’s staff. His was the most superb horse in Hiroshima, a huge stallion, snow white with black fetlocks.
Sitting bolt upright on his steed, ceremonial sword at his side, the handsome young prince was a reminder of past glories, when the Imperial Japanese Army’s cavalry had swept all before them.
Mayor Awaya and his personal assistant, Kazumasa Maruyama, walked to work each morning. Today, their conversation turned to a recurring topic: what could be done for the children who still remained in Hiroshima? Many of them worked in the factories and were receiving only a token education. Teachers traveled from one war plant to another, holding short classes on the factory floors.
Awaya thought the situation appalling and wanted to enlarge the city’s industrial college. Maruyama believed all children should be evacuated.
The two men entered the Town Hall and were immediately overwhelmed by complaints about food distribution; about the lack of fuel; about shops overcharging; about Kempei Tai brutality; about the need for more large air-raid shelters. The problem of caring for the children of Hiroshima was lost in the welter of demands.
Second Lieutenant Tatsuo Yokoyama received a letter this morning from his father in Tokyo. Carefully worded and showing signs of long deliberation, the message rejected Colonel Abe’s marriage proposal.
Yokoyama’s parents’ investigation had shown that Abe’s daughter “has an unhappy disposition. Her teachers indicate she is not obedient or good at her work. In spite of his high position, we do not see from our most patient inquiries that your colonel’s antecedents are always what we would desire for uniting our two families.”
As a dutiful son, the gunnery officer knew he must accept his parents’ decision. But how would he break the news to Colonel Abe, who had been pressing for an answer for weeks? His commander, he knew, would regard the rejection of his offer as an unforgivable insult. Yokoyama might well find himself banished to a noncombat post.
Yokoyama’s reverie was disturbed by excited shouts from his gunners. It was midday, and American bombers were back over Kure to bomb and machine-gun the port. They came regularly now at noon and at midnight. From his vantage point, just seven miles away, Yokoyama could clearly see the flashes from the ground batteries.
The feeling of hopelessness he had brought back from Tokyo lifted. The capital might, indeed, be in ruins. But here, in the west of Japan, the army was fighting back as hard as ever; he desperately wanted to be part of that fight.
Suddenly Yokoyama knew what he must do about the letter: he would pretend he had never received it. He would tell Abe that his parents were still considering the matter, that it might be some months before they were able to give a decision, as their life had been disrupted by the bombing.
15
On July 20, Secretary of War Stimson was just finishing breakfast when OSS director Allen Dulles was shown into his Potsdam quarters. Dulles told Stimson of the Japanese offer relayed to him by Jacobsson five days earlier in Wiesbaden, and of his counterproposal: that America might allow Emperor Hirohito to retain his throne if he took a public stand now to end the war.
Stimson respected Dulles’s judgment. But he believed it was unlikely that peripheral peace feelers stemming from Switzerland could represent official government thinking. In addition, although Stimson himself had come to Potsdam thinking that in the final appeal to Japan to surrender, some assurance might be given for the continuance of the imperial system, he knew that such a view was unpopular back home. To many Americans, the very idea of a ruling dynasty was repugnant. To some, Hirohito was not much different from Hitler.
Stimson thanked Dulles for coming, but made it clear he had no faith in the Jacobsson connection.
On Sunday morning, July 22, Stimson called on President Truman in Potsdam. Washington had cabled that the uranium bomb would be ready for use “the first favorable opportunity in August”; if the mission was to go ahead, its complicated preparations must be set in motion no later than July 25.
Following Groves’s detailed report of the success at Alamogordo, which had arrived the previous day, the news seemed to please Truman immensely.
At 10:40 A.M., Stimson called on Churchill, who read Groves’s report in full and commented, “Stimson, what was gunpowder? Trivial. What was electricity? Meaningless. The atomic bomb is the Second Coming in wrath.”
Stimson made it clear the president intended to tell Sta
lin about the weapon, although he would “withhold all details,” merely “divulging the simple fact that the United States and Britain had the bomb.” The question of how much to tell the Russian leader was a controversial one.
The prime minister agreed; he believed the current situation should be used as “an argument in the negotiations” going on at Potsdam.
Back in his quarters, Stimson summoned General Arnold, chief of the air force, and brought him up to date.
The air chief suggested that in place of Kyoto, Nagasaki should be considered one of the potential targets—the first time the city had been earmarked for possible atomic destruction.
Arnold told Stimson that General Carl A. Spaatz, recently promoted commander of the Strategic Air Forces and about to travel to the Marianas, could make the final choice in consultation with LeMay.
While Stimson talked with Arnold, Truman met with Churchill.
To the prime minister, the weapon was “a miracle of deliverance.” It might make invasion unnecessary. It could end the war in “one or two violent shocks.” Its almost supernatural power would afford the Japanese an excuse that would save their honor and release them from the samurai obligation to fight to the death. Nor would there now be a need to beg favors of Stalin, to rely on Russian intervention to help bring Japan to her knees.
Churchill concluded that “while the final decision lay in the main” with Truman, there was no disagreement between them. As he later put it:
The historic fact remains, and it must be judged in the after time, that the decision whether or not to use the atomic bomb to compel the surrender of Japan was never an issue. There was unanimous, automatic, unquestioned agreement around the table.
But before resorting to use of the atomic weapon, the Allies would offer Japan one last chance to surrender.
16
At the foot of Mount Lasso, hemmed in by the pitch-black night, Jacob Beser was taking part in what had become a favorite Tinian pastime.
Clutching a carbine he had traded for a quart of whiskey, the skinny young officer had persuaded a marine patrol to take him with them into the jungle in search of Japanese.
The marine officer had explained the hunt rules to Beser. “First we surround the area where we think the Nip is hidden. Then we work inward, pen him into a few square yards, and illuminate the area with flashlights. Then we try to talk him into surrendering.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Wait and see.”
At nightfall, the marines, with Beser in their midst, had entered the jungle. Twice they had encircled suspicious patches but had drawn blanks. Now the patrol was moving into higher ground.
Suddenly the marines froze.
Beser could hear nothing.
The lead soldier turned and tapped his nose.
Beser sniffed. Faint but unmistakable, he detected a human odor.
The marine officer deployed his men swiftly, ordering Beser to remain stationary while the soldiers melted into the dark.
Alone, crouching with his carbine, Beser wondered what he would do if a Japanese soldier appeared before him. He had never killed a man; he prayed he would not have to do so now. He wished he had stayed in his Quonset hut playing poker.
For long minutes, nothing happened. Then Beser heard the sound of branches being moved. Beams of light probed the darkness, and an American voice called out in Japanese. “Surrender! You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”
Beser started to rise to his feet. Another American voice stopped him. “Stay down—or you’ll be shot!”
There was a grunt from the jungle, followed by a movement through the foliage.
The flashlights followed the sound.
“He’s coming out!”
Out of the undergrowth in front of Beser, a figure emerged. The lights held the Japanese soldier, blinding him, forcing him to close his eyes.
Beser joined the marines milling around their prisoner. The flashlights were lowered. The captured soldier opened his eyes and spoke in passable English. “Please. Cigarette.”
He was given one. Inhaling deeply, he stood still while a marine frisked him and fished out of a pocket a silver cigarette case. In halting English, the prisoner explained he had taken the case from a dead Australian soldier in New Guinea.
The marine officer looked at the captured man, shook his head in disgust, and turned away. Two marines fell in beside the prisoner, pinioning his arms. In silence, the patrol returned to base.
17
In his office at General Army Headquarters in Tokyo, Major General Arisue listened carefully as Lieutenant Colonel Oya described the network of defenses that radiated outward from Hiroshima.
Oya had traveled 550 miles by train to make a personal report to Arisue on Field Marshal Hata’s plans for repelling the invaders.
Arisue wished the area around Tokyo were in the same high state of readiness. By July 27, the city and its environs were devastated, its industries either obliterated by bombs or paralyzed by lack of manpower and materials. The attacks had driven millions of workers from Tokyo, reducing its population from seven million to less than four million.
Arisue and Oya were interrupted by the arrival of a messenger from the radio monitoring unit of army intelligence. Arisue took the batch of papers and realized they contained the long-expected communiqué from Potsdam. Excitedly, he studied the hurriedly prepared Japanese script, the result of transcribing and translating at high speed the words of a monitored shortwave transmission from Washington.
The Potsdam Proclamation, perhaps the most important message the Japanese received from the Allies in the entire war, reminded Japan of “the futile and senseless German resistance to the might of the aroused free peoples of the world” and spelled out the terms for ending the war. Japan must reject its militaristic leaders, submit to Allied occupation, respect fundamental democratic rights, and establish a “peacefully inclined” government. Except for war criminals, the Japanese military forces would be allowed to return home. Industry would be maintained, and eventually Japan would participate in world trade.
The proclamation concluded:
We call upon the government of Japan to proclaim now the unconditional surrender of all Japanese armed forces, and to provide proper and adequate assurances of their good faith in such action. The alternative for Japan is prompt and utter destruction.
Stimson had agreed to leave out mention of the emperor on the understanding from Truman that if the Japanese, in their reply, raised the question, it would be treated sympathetically, if not at first publicly.
But to Arisue, as well as other Japanese, the Potsdam Proclamation was a “warning of annihilation unless we give up what we hold sacred.”
Foreign Minister Shigenori Togo brought a copy of the communiqué to Emperor Hirohito in the audience hall of the imperial palace’s Gobunko, or “Library Building.”
The Gobunko, screened by trees near the north gate, was one of the few buildings within the palace grounds that was unscarred by war. On May 25, the emperor had suffered the agony of seeing many of the buildings and pavilions within the imperial compound burn to the ground. During the previous night there had been a firebomb raid; LeMay’s bombers had concentrated on the two districts adjoining the palace. Though the Americans intentionally avoided dropping incendiaries within the imperial precincts, they had converted the surrounding areas into such tornadoes of flame that the conflagration jumped the moat around the palace and set fire to dry brushwood on the far side. In minutes the flames had spread and engulfed the old wooden imperial residence built by Hirohito’s grandfather, the revered Emperor Meiji.
At dawn, Hirohito and his empress had emerged from their shelter and surveyed the destruction. The emperor had commented to a palace official, “Now the people will realize that I am sharing their ordeal with no special protection from the Gods.”
As the emperor studied the Allies’ proclamation, Togo sat bolt upright on a hard sofa. To Togo, steeped in the tra
dition of diplomatic exchanges, the manner in which the document had been sent to Japan—as the main story in a shortwave newscast emanating from Washington—was disheartening. Conveying such an important document by public broadcast “did not seem the way for government to speak to government.”
Yet, under the emperor’s questioning, Togo conceded that the communiqué did give detailed assurances of humane treatment, freedom of speech, religion, and thought. The occupation of strategic points of the home islands would end once stability was restored. And the Japanese people were to be consulted on the form of government they wished after the surrender.
The emperor dissected the proclamation clause by clause, asking questions and making points. Finally, Hirohito asked his foreign minister whether he felt the terms “were the most reasonable to be expected in the circumstances.”
Togo conceded this was the case.
“I agree. In principle they are acceptable.”
Silence enveloped the audience chamber.
Then, abruptly, Togo rose to his feet and faced the emperor. It was the traditional gesture of the imperial court to signify that a visitor had no more to say.
The emperor also stood, and, in another ritual act, he turned and left the room.
Togo bowed from the waist to the retreating emperor.
Togo had not revealed to the emperor the hardening attitude of Japan’s government and military leaders to the Potsdam Proclamation.
Prime Minister Suzuki and his colleagues were inclined to ignore the communiqué, partly on the grounds that officially they had not even received it. Further, the Cabinet still pinned its hopes on the Soviet Union’s mediating for them a “reasonable surrender.” There was total agreement that to “accept Potsdam would be to insult Russia.”
Enola Gay Page 22