MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan

by Douglas Niles

  The captain lowered his head, ashamed. “My miserable intellect is unable to perceive the general’s meaning,” he admitted abjectly. “Recorded?”

  “Yes. A record was made, with a recording machine,” the chief of staff continued impatiently. “That record is now stored in the Imperial Palace. It is to be broadcast sometime tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Ogawa struggled to keep up, and in a flash he understood. “But that cannot be allowed to happen!” he protested strongly, only after a moment adding, “Sir!”

  “No, it cannot,” Umezu agreed. His eyes narrowed as he looked first at Captain Ogawa, then at Lieutenant Watanabe. The general nodded, correctly interpreting the grim determination he perceived in these young officers.

  “It gladdens my heart to see that you understand me,” the general said. “Now, leave me in peace.” He gestured again, and this time he seemed to be very drunk, though he had imbibed nothing since Ogawa had entered the room. His eyes were dim, unfocused, as he slurred his final words. “May the gods be with you.”

  APPROACHING HITACHI, HONSHU, JAPAN, 1422 HOURS

  (OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY + 3)

  “They knew what they were doin’, sir,” reported Gunnery Sergeant Miller. He had just returned from an eighteen-hour reconnaissance, an attempt to find a way around the stubborn position that was blocking the road. “That hill over there is chock-full of caves, and each cave is chock-full of Japs. And beyond it is a ridge, and that ridge looks to be manned with the better part of a division. There’s a couple of small bridges up the valley, but they got good fields of fire on all of ’em. And one’ll get you ten that every one of the SOBs is mined.”

  Pete grimaced and nodded. Rinehart had reported back an hour earlier, with the news that the river before them grew larger and more rapid as it flowed toward the sea. His recon had taken him some ten miles, and he hadn’t encountered another intact bridge. Ironically, a few spans had existed across that water not too long ago, but they had all been destroyed by American air attacks.

  “Air power is still grounded,” Captain Allen, returning from the radio jeep, reported. “If you can even call it ‘grounded’ when you can’t take off from an aircraft carrier.”

  Pete met his eyes. “Well, looks like we do this the hard way, or we don’t do it at all. Any word on the cavalry?”

  “There’s two more companies of tanks coming down the road. The first one is maybe twenty minutes out and the second one should be here in an hour. At least when they get here we’ll give the Japs a few more targets.”

  “We’ll have to try all the bridges at once,” the marine captain reflected grimly. There was no other prospect before them. His men would try to disable the charges, of course, and some of them would get killed doing it. And they’d lose the bridge when the explosives went off. It was an ugly, painful prospect, and he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to give the order.

  “Hey, Cap’n. Take a look at this!” The normally unflappable Gunnery Sergeant Rinehart actually sounded excited, calling back from his observation post behind a Sherman tank.

  “What is it, Gunny?” Pete asked, advancing to where the sergeant was peering into the murky afternoon. Two Japanese soldiers were on the other side of the river, advancing hesitantly toward the bridge. One of them held a stick high; a dirty white cloth was draped from the end of the makeshift pole.

  “I ain’t sure, Captain Ski. But it looks a hell of a lot like a white flag.”

  Pete snorted in contempt. “You mean, like they’re surrendering? It’s gotta be a trap.”

  “You want me to shoot the fuckers, Cap’n? I can take ’em both from here.”

  The urge to say yes was almost instinctive, but something held his tongue. Pete raised his binoculars and studied the two men. They looked like officers and were apparently unarmed. That didn’t fool him—he’d seen more than one “unarmed” Jap suddenly pull out a grenade or a pistol. Still, this was strange.

  “Keep your finger on that trigger, Gunny,” he said finally. He stood up and stepped out from behind the tank. “I’ll go see what this is all about.”

  OUTSIDE THE IMPERIAL PALACE, TOKYO, JAPAN, 1800 HOURS

  Kojima Masahiro was stooped, bent, and old. But he still walked ten or twelve miles every day. Those miles kept him alive, for they gave him the means to explore the ruins of his burned, battered city. Those explorations invariably yielded him some tiny portion of food or some treasure that could be bartered for food.

  Now he poked a stick through the piles of ashes, stirring them up in hopes of finding something metal, something he could sell for food. He was hungry and his feet hurt all the time. When the hunger became intolerable, he let himself focus on the constant excruciating pain in his swollen and misshapen feet, scarred and missing toes. When the feet became intolerable, he imagined a simple meal, a bowl of rice and maybe some sweet potatoes.

  But there was nothing in the ruins of this house. On to the next he shambled, a wandering speck in the wilderness of ashes that had once been a vibrant community, hunting for metal, waiting eagerly for death to overtake him so that he might be reborn in happier times and might see his beloved Hayashi again. Here he poked through the ashes and made the effort to bend down so that he could see into the hollow space beneath a charred beam that had fallen but had not quite come to rest upon the ground.

  A spot of whiteness caught his eye, and he reached in his hand to pull out—miracle of miracles!—a bone china teacup, somehow uncracked. This was a good omen, he knew, a treasure worth more than several days’ worth of food. He cradled it to his chest, breathing hard from the exertion as he stood back up. Where to go—he had to enjoy this treasure, to take some time to reflect upon his wonderful good luck.

  He knew just the place. The area around the Imperial Palace had not been burned, and several of the great gardens surrounding the Emperor’s castle were verdant and peaceful, still beautiful even in the midst of war. Hobbling along with the teacup clutched to his chest, he made his way to the Higashi Gyoen, the East Garden. Passing beneath the willow and evergreen trees, he found a small bench beside a pool and sat down for a few minutes’ quiet meditation.

  But his wish for quiet was denied. He heard the rumble before he saw the column: war machines moving in single file along what once had been a street, a paved area between two empty lots of ash. They came into view quickly, moving unusually fast for vehicles in the city.

  First came two Black Medal reconnaissance cars, followed by two Hokoku armored cars. Two machine guns bristled from the turret of each armored car. Masahiro knew his vehicles. He had been a factory worker and had helped build many cars and trucks. Like the column of old Nissan 97 four-by-two trucks, each filled with soldiers. Masahiro might even have built part of one of them. It was the right age.

  He counted ten trucks, each carrying a platoon of twelve men plus sergeant and lieutenant. Then a staff car, an old Nissan 70 he might have helped assemble as well. Bringing up the rear were four more armored cars and another Black Medal.

  It was not unusual to see such a procession. It was unusual to see a procession heading in the direction of Chiyodaku, the central part of Tokyo. That wasn’t in the direction of the enemy. Instead, they turned to drive right through the park and over a beautiful arched wooden bridge, traveling in the direction of the Imperial Palace.

  APPROACHING HITACHI, HONSHU, JAPAN, 1842 HOURS

  (OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY + 3)

  Major Greg Yamada had been a dozen miles south of Iwaki when he got the radio call—they needed a translator at the front, ASAP. He held on for dear life as his driver raced the jeep down the highway toward Tokyo. Less than twenty minutes later they came up behind a file of Sherman tanks parked alongside the road. A big marine gunnery sergeant with a Thompson submachine gun strapped from his shoulder stepped into the road and waved him down.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked. Yamada, who was fully accustomed to the inevitable stares and frequent hostility from troops, and esp
ecially marines, wondered if the fellow had even noticed his features. The man’s expression didn’t change as the major climbed from the jeep as it rolled to a stop; this was both unusual and pleasant.

  “Yes, Gunny,” he said. “I heard you wanted a translator down here. That would be me.”

  “Right this way, sir. Captain Ski has a couple of Japs who turned themselves in. He thinks they’re trying to tell us something.”

  “Prisoners? They turned themselves in?” Yamada was already intrigued.

  “Yes, sir, it’s weird. But here they are.”

  Five minutes later Yamada was on the radio with the biggest intelligence coup he’d ever had to report. He could hardly keep his hand from shaking as he held the mike, and pressed the “Speak” button.

  SWPA FORWARD HO, HIRATSUKA, KANAGAWA PREFECTURE,

  HONSHU, JAPAN, 1830 HOURS (OPERATION CORONET,

  Y-DAY + 3)

  There were no photographers as General Douglas MacArthur waded onto the shore of Honshu, and it was a good thing, too, because a monster wave knocked him on his ass as soon as he stepped off the landing craft. Frantic sailors and GIs pulled him dripping from the surf and up onto the beach, where he shook off the assisting hands and looked around.

  “How soon until we can get trucks ashore?” he asked.

  The same major who had reported to him on the Nashville was here with an updated status report. “General, we have secured a small port just a few miles south of here, a place called Togane. It’s secure, and it has a concrete wharf and a working crane. We’re pulling some of the freighters in there now and should be offloading transport within the hour.”

  Within the hour. Why did that seem like half a lifetime from now?

  Because of George S. Patton, that’s why. The Supreme Commander stood tall and let that information sink in. “Very good. Well done, Major.”

  “Thank you, sir!” sputtered the intelligence officer, obviously surprised by the praise.

  The General turned to another officer, a one-star in charge of one of the 41st Division brigades. His men had been among the first ashore. “What is the situation vis-à-vis the enemy?”

  “Sir, that’s a little strange—but not bad news, at least so far as we can tell. They seem to have abandoned their positions along here, even the ones that weren’t flooded by the storm. I don’t know if they’re trying to lure us into a trap, but we’re following up as quickly as common sense will allow.”

  “Very good,” the Supreme Commander repeated. Indeed, it seemed that, at last, things were well in hand.

  IMPERIAL PALACE, TOKYO, JAPAN, 1900 HOURS

  The Emperor’s valet was helping him into formal robes of state when the Marquis Kido found him.

  “Emperor—” Kido began, but the Emperor raised a hand.

  “Soldiers have crossed the Nijubashi Bridge. We know. Shortly they’ll have control of the palace.”

  “It’s not too late—”

  “It is too late, my dear friend. By recording Our message of peace, We have earned the enmity of these soldiers. They will seek to impose their will on Us, to make Us change the proclamation and continue the war.”

  “That’s why you have to get away,” Kido said.

  “That’s why you have to get away. To Nikko,” the Emperor said. “Our brother Prince Chichibu is next in line for the Chrysanthemum Throne, and as he has no male issue, Our son Akihito follows him.”

  “Of course, sire.” The Emperor’s young son Akihito, twelve years old, had been sent to the town of Nikko, where the first of the Tokugawa shoguns was buried, for his safety. “I will take Prince Chichibu and we will both head for Nikko. It is the army that is in rebellion; perhaps Yamamoto will find a naval escort for the heirs. But staying here, confronting those soldiers…” His voice trailed off and he looked at his Emperor and friend with a quizzical expression.

  “We are still Emperor. We are still descended from Amaterasu Herself. They will not dare touch a hair on Our head, except”—he paused, a determined expression flitting across his face—”except by sheerest accident. But Our son could be used as a hostage against Us. Yes, Yamamoto is a good choice to protect the line of Imperial succession. He has been Our loyal subject. Let him help you discharge this responsibility.”

  There was another reason, a reason the Emperor left unspoken. Now that the Americans were here, in their anger they would seek revenge. As they were doing in Germany, they would identify “war criminals,” convict them, no doubt hang some and imprison others.

  The Son of Heaven cannot possibly become a “war criminal.” That is not merely unendurable, it is unspeakable, thought Hirohito.

  Ogawa felt almost blasphemous as he led his company into the Imperial Residence. Lieutenant Watanabe trailed immediately behind him. Both officers, with a hundred or so men accompanying them, advanced at a trot. The few remaining servants either scurried out of the way or bowed submissively. Those who bowed were taken by small detachments of soldiers and marched quickly to the holding area set up in the East Garden.

  Four Imperial Guards stood sentry flanking the double sliding doors to the Emperor’s private quarters. They wore the special Imperial Guard uniform: dark blue tunics with red breeches, red kepis, and the white chrysanthemum insignia of the Emperor. They stood at rigid attention; their rifles were at order arms.

  “Please stand aside. We wish to see His Imperial Majesty,” Ogawa said.

  “We regret to inform the captain that His Imperial Majesty cannot at this time be disturbed,” said the guard on the left.

  “I am so sorry, but I must insist,” Ogawa said.

  “It is with deep sorrow that we are unable at this time to fulfill the captain’s wishes in this matter.”

  The captain nodded. “Very well. Most honorable guards, it is regrettable that I must see the Emperor.” He gestured toward Watanabe’s men. “We will see Him. Will you move aside?”

  “We regret that the captain’s wishes cannot be fulfilled.”

  Ogawa turned to Watanabe. “We must see His Imperial Majesty. Please proceed through that door, even if regrettable actions should prove necessary.”

  “As you command, sir,” Watanabe replied. He gestured to the first rank of six men to kneel. The kneeling men and the six or eight standing behind them aimed their rifles at the guards. Ogawa stepped back next to Watanabe, both men safely outside the line of fire. The Imperial Guards raised their rifles to port arms.

  “Please withdraw and allow this meeting with His Majesty to take place,” Ogawa asked once more.

  “It is forbidden,” replied the guard on the left.

  Ogawa started to give the commands to his men. On “Take aim!” the Imperial Guards dropped to their knees, lifted their own rifles, and opened fire. Ogawa remained with his men, ordering them to “Fire!”

  Several bullets of the first volley went high, tearing through the door behind the guards, and Ogawa’s men had to fire a second time. In spite of repeated wounds, the guards continued to fight, and when the shooting stopped, six of the captain’s own men were wounded, two critically.

  “Sergeant Kawazoe, move the wounded to safety and remove the dead,” Ogawa ordered. “Sergeant Akimoto, bring the first squad of the second platoon and follow me.” Watanabe followed behind Ogawa’s men.

  Ogawa stepped forward, put his hands on the double sliding shoji doors, now rent with bullets, and pulled them open. “He?” What? Startled, he first questioned what he saw, and then, “Kuso!” Shit! “Lieutenant Watanabe! Hurry!”

  The young officer pushed his way through the enlisted men. When he reached Ogawa’s side and looked down, his eyes widened, and he whispered “kuso!” as well.

  The Showa Emperor, in formal kimono, was bleeding from multiple bullet wounds, his life quickly draining away. He had been standing directly behind the shoji doors. He looked up at Ogawa and whispered, “Now We need not endure the unendurable any longer,” and then closed his eyes.

  The captain didn’t have to take a pulse
to know that the Showa Emperor was dead.

  “We are disgraced,” Ogawa whispered. His world seemed to tilt crazily as he struggled to stand at attention, to grapple with his disbelief over what he, and the men under his command, had just done.

  Lieutenant Watanabe was pale with shock. With a moan, he sank to his knees and fell forward to brace himself upon his hands. He dropped his forehead to the ground near the Emperor’s foot, his shoulders shaking with his sobs.

  No other soldier moved.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Coast of Honshu; Tokyo

  • TUESDAY, 25 SEPTEMBER 1945 •

  HIRATSUKA, KANAGAWA PREFECTURE, HONSHU, JAPAN,

  0336 HOURS (OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY+ 4)

  The dream stubbornly refused to fade. He was being attacked from every direction, and his hands were peculiarly useless—not bound, exactly, but limp at his sides. When he tried to move them, each limb seemed to weigh upward of a ton, and he could not fend off the relentless onslaughts.

  Although his foes were legion, they were strangely lacking in shape and form. He wanted to protest, to demand an explanation, redress. But his mouth and tongue, when he tried to talk, could stammer only gibberish.

  It was the harsh beam of the flashlight shining directly into his face that finally broke through his stubborn sleep. He swatted a suddenly responsive hand at it and the light obligingly moved away. Even then, it seemed to take a long time before Douglas MacArthur could calm his breathing, bring his rampaging emotions under control, and slowly force himself to wake up.

  “What?” MacArthur demanded, when consciousness had finally returned. Another interval passed as he worked to lift his torso, to prop himself up on his elbows. And then it was like a switch had been turned on: his confusion was gone; he knew that he was in a roadside inn some eight miles inland from the coast. The place had been requisitioned as his overnight headquarters while his transport-strapped armies tried to close on the enemy capital. “Why did you wake me?”