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

by Douglas Niles

  “Tell you what,” said Ellis. “I’ve got a carton on the Valeron. I’ll leave you some before I go. Or if you’re coming with me, I’ll make sure you have all you want.” Ellis, who had smoked only two, took a sip of his long-forgotten coffee. It had gone stone-cold.

  “Thanks,” said Andy. ‘You don’t have to do that. But thanks.”

  “Least I can do for my brother’s friend.”

  Andy closed his eyes as if in pain. Then he continued talking. “Because the stitches were fresh and I was still in a lot of pain, I went to the hospital barracks. When the docs told the Japs what had happened to me, even they agreed I was entitled to a little yasume. I thought about killing myself, you know, and then I got kind of mad and decided I was going to beat these bastards at their own game and walk out of there on my own two feet. We knew the end was close. We could tell by the planes flying over how near to Japan the forward bases had to be. We didn’t recognize the planes—all the new planes, they pretty much all came into service after we were captured. But first there were long-range bombers, then mediums. Then we saw navy planes, and finally those beautiful army fighters. They were coming off land bases—couldn’t be too far away. They told us the end was coming pretty soon.

  “We didn’t expect to survive it. Most of us were sure the Japs would kill us all rather than let us go back and tell America what they’d done. If they were going to kill us anyway, we might as well go down with a fight. Some of us might make it.

  “I was still pretty blue. Then the doc said there was someone to see me. I couldn’t imagine who the hell even knew I was alive, but it was Johnny. Let me tell you, seeing an old friend at a time like that makes a hell of a difference.

  “He came in every day and sat with me. We talked about before the war, and we even talked a little bit about after. But not much. It was bad luck to talk about after. So we didn’t do it much. We talked about Dugout Doug a lot. And that fucker Sutherland.

  “Really?” Ellis wanted to hear everything he could about Johnny. But this was interesting all by itself. “Johnny knew Sutherland? Directly, I mean.”

  “Yeah. Sutherland screwed him. Screwed him personally. Because he knew the secret.”

  Ellis leaned forward. “Secret?”

  Andy’s eyes defocused again. “MacArthur’s secret. About the morning.”

  “What morning?”

  “You know. When they came.”

  “Who? You mean, the Japanese? The Philippines?”

  “That’s right. He stayed in his office for a long time and nobody saw him. Except Johnny. Oh, and Sutherland, too, but he doesn’t count.”

  “He. You’re talking about MacArthur.”

  “Yeah. Dugout Doug. Johnny was there. Mac came out of his office. He started talking about his enemies in the War Department and how he didn’t have any good choices to make. That’s why he pretended to himself that he could stop the Japanese at the beaches when he had to know he didn’t have the supplies or trained men to do it. And because he thought that, he put all the food near the front lines. That’s why we starved when we finally got to Bataan. That’s why he didn’t visit us. The bastard knew we knew. He couldn’t face us.”

  A glimpse of hatred flickered in Andy’s eyes. “And Johnny saw him. Johnny saw him when he broke down. He made Johnny get down on his knees with him and pray. Like God was going to come smite the Japs. Hell, God is a fucking Jap.”

  “Johnny was the only eyewitness, I suppose,” Ellis said.

  “The others are dead. I heard even Sutherland got killed. You know, Sutherland promised Johnny a pass off the Rock for keeping his mouth shut but fucked him over. Claimed he didn’t promise to do more than ‘try.’ Bastard. I think Mac knew about it, too.” Andy had a satisfied look when he finished.

  So that’s why Sutherland was keeping that file. And why MacArthur has always been so odd where Johnny is concerned. Ellis drew a breath. I have to investigate before jumping to conclusions.

  “Let me look into that a bit. If any of it’s true…” Ellis said. If MacArthur turned out to have any role in Johnny’s death, he’d find some way…

  “Johnny always expected he’d make it through,” Andy said. “Well, up to when we got separated. When we met again, he was different. Not that I wasn’t different, too, but Johnny was really different….”

  “When he showed up in the prison hospital—which was just another underheated barracks except there were a couple of overworked docs and a whole lot of really sick or hurt men—he was happy.

  “After a week, I was free to walk around. I didn’t move very fast, but I wasn’t doing the beriberi shuffle anymore, either. I was angry and I complained too. On Luzon, Johnny used to be like that too. Pretty much everybody was, to tell the truth. But now Johnny was about the only one who was really happy.

  “I thought maybe he’d seen God or Jesus, if either of them visited POW camps. But he didn’t pray or tell other people about how he’d ‘seen the light’ or quote Bible verses or anything.”

  Andy paused again, and Ellis couldn’t help prodding him. “So, what was it? Did you find out?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure I understand it. I asked him a couple of times and he sort of didn’t answer at all, he just looked around and smiled a lot. Honestly, it sometimes sort of pissed me off a little because the rest of us were so fucking miserable most of the time.”

  “It’s odd, though,” Ellis said. “That kind of happiness never seemed to be Johnny’s style. So, what did he say was the reason?”

  “He leaned over one day, and he whispered in my ear. He said—I’ll never forget it—I’m not really here.

  “I said, ‘Huh?’ or something clever like that.

  “He smiled again, and this is what he said. He said, ‘I’ve mastered sixth-order thought.’ Do you know what that means? I don’t have a clue what that means.”

  Ellis’s face went gray. “Oh, shit. I know what it means.”

  “What?”

  “The Outlanders. It’s from a book. He went to live in a book.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “There’s this book—actually, it’s three books. Science fiction.”

  “You mean like Buck Rogers? Ray guns and rocket belts?”

  “Well, no—Buck Rogers is shit…but…oh, never mind. The Skylark of Space. That’s what the book is called. The series, I mean. The heroes meet up with these creatures of pure mind. Johnny joined them.”

  “What?” Andy was completely confused. “Wait—are you saying there really are…”

  “No, no, no. I mean, he went there in his mind. He didn’t want to be in the camp anymore, so his mind went away. It went into the book.”

  Andy sat quietly for a minute, thinking. “Oh. Well, that sort of makes sense. Because he talked about a place called…”

  “The Green System? And bad guys called the Fenachrone? Maybe Norlamin?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. That’s right. I couldn’t keep all those weird words straight, except for the Green System. That sounded sort of normal. Yeah. He was… somewhere else.” Andy shook his head. “I know it doesn’t make much sense, but it’s what happened.”

  Ellis looked up at the ceiling. “Jeez, Johnny… Well, at least you got to go.” He turned his attention back to Andy. “So how did he die, exactly?”

  “I guess his body sort of gave out. Maybe it’s because his mind was kind of gone already. He got a cold, not too serious at first, but it got worse. He wouldn’t eat, and then even when he did eat, it didn’t seem to nourish him. He kind of wasted away, and then he died.” Andy paused again. “I was there,” he said flatly.

  “I know he appreciated it, even if his mind was elsewhere,” Ellis said, and Andy bowed his head.

  “Thank you, Andy. Thank you very much,” Ellis said. The single small window that had shed gray light into the room was now dark. A dangling electric bulb gave off sharp light and produced angular shadows. There were different dishes on the table because the efficient sergeant arrang
ed dinner—and a pack of unfiltered Camels—to be brought from the mess hall. “Jeez, look at the time,” Ellis said. “I guess I’d better turn in for the night. So, you want a lift to Tokyo? You’ve got from now to about 0900 tomorrow to let me know, if you want to think on it.”

  “I’ll think about it a bit, if that’s okay. The thought of a whole lot of people doesn’t sound real good, though.”

  “Okay. But let me know what you need or want. I owe you,” “No, you don’t,” Andy said, waving him off.

  Ellis left to arrange a bunk for tonight. Andy sat at the conference table, part of his dinner still untouched. He’d learned how little food he could eat before he threw up.

  No, you don’t owe me, Andy thought. Because I didn’t tell you what really happened when Johnny got sick.

  He wasn’t taking care of himself anymore. That’s why he got sick. We were all pretty tough, those of us who survived that long. But we were all running on empty. I tried to make him pay attention, but he was living someplace else.

  I tried to take care of him, but he wouldn’t do what the doctors said or anything else. He got sicker. Then he wouldn’t eat all his food, as little as it was. I didn’t give it back, like I should have. I ate it.

  After a while, I stopped feeding him. I ate all his food when nobody was around. He was going to die anyway, and I thought the Japs would massacre us before we could be rescued.

  He got weaker. The doctors kept trying to do something. I told them he was eating, so they brought him larger portions. I ate those, too. I watched him die.

  His mind was gone by then. It was just his body that was dying.

  Then he woke up one night. “Andy, you son of a bitch,” he said. “Why are you killing me?”

  He knew.

  I tried to get away from him but he said, “If you’re going to kill me, at least have the decency to keep me company.”

  I said, “I wouldn’t have tried to kill you if I knew you were still there.” But I wasn’t sure that was true. I sat down. I kept him company. It was only for a few more hours. I offered to get him some food, but it was too late. He died the next morning.

  I told myself I was doing this only because he was already gone. That it didn’t make any difference. But I don’t think that’s true.

  I wanted to kill him.

  He was so fucking happy.

  Andy sat in the conference room alone. The single bare bulb swayed slightly. Sharp, jagged shadows broke the room into random geometric shapes.

  Much later, Andy got up and started searching the small, spare offices. Sergeant Pickens had a sidearm, but he usually didn’t wear it. It was hanging from a coat rack in the office Pickens used.

  He stared at the pistol. Then he put the barrel in his mouth. He closed his eyes.

  The camp truck was coming in from the last ferry of the night. Ellis was walking from the mess hall to his barracks.

  Ellis heard the loud bang.

  He thought it was a truck backfire.

  So he kept walking.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Tokyo

  • THURSDAY, 27 SEPTEMBER 1945 •

  DAI ICHI BUILDING, TOKYO, JAPAN, 1819 HOURS

  The newspaper lay on MacArthur’s desk, the front page dominated by the dramatic black-and-white photo of War Minister Yamamoto handing his sword to General George S. Patton, U.S. Army. Much as he tried not to look, Douglas MacArthur’s eyes were drawn to the picture, compelled to focus there by an urge he could not overcome.

  The paper was one of several publications arrayed on the desk, some from as far away as Manila and San Francisco, but they all had one thing in common: that dramatic picture.

  “That should have been me, Charlie,” MacArthur said wistfully, gesturing with a glass that held only a small bit of the whiskey the G-2 had poured into it a minute earlier. “By all rights, it should be my picture on the front of that newspaper.”

  “Yes, sir, it should be. But the world knows the truth: you are the conqueror of Japan! This great campaign is your victory, not Patton’s. Remember, General, it is you who will accept the official surrender at the ceremony next week.”

  “Ah, yes. The ceremony. There is so much to plan, so many details requiring my attention.”

  Because Generals Eichelberger and Harmon were still commanding the forces of their two armies, which were vigorously pursuing the occupation of Japan, MacArthur was focused on planning the surrender ceremony, to take place aboard a navy battleship in Tokyo Bay early in October. From the Dai Ichi, he made his plans and followed the reports from the field.

  The capitulation was now in evidence among Japanese armed forces everywhere—even in places as far away as Borneo, China, and Malaya. Patton had retired to a field headquarters just north of the city, and MacArthur was in no great hurry to invite the man who was already being hailed as the “Conqueror of Japan” down to Dai Ichi for a formal visit.

  Tonight, Willoughby and the General were drinking. MacArthur sat in a swivel chair behind his desk—it traveled with him—leaning back with his feet up. Willoughby occupied one of the overstuffed leather chairs. He knew enough to drag the seat near enough to the desk so that he could lean forward and touch it.

  Willoughby poured two more glasses of straight whiskey from the General’s private supply and shoved the General’s scotch across the desk.

  “Here you are, General.” The word came out “Cheneral” in his German accent. Alcohol, like stress, seemed to bring the trace of Willoughby’s first language into his speech.

  MacArthur leaned forward and picked it up. “Thank you, Charlie,” He hoisted the glass. “To the last day of the last war.” He emptied about half the glass.

  MacArthur didn’t get drunk often, but when he did, you could never tell what he would do. At one ball in Hawaii before the war, Willoughby had heard, the General had played leapfrog up a flight of stairs after finishing most of a bottle of champagne.

  “Amen, sir,” Willoughby said, taking a more moderate sip. He wanted to stay alert, just in case.

  That paid off when a courier arrived with a freshly printed sheet of foolscap, an urgent message just in from XIII Headquarters. The G-2 read the note and whistled aloud.

  “What is it?” MacArthur demanded, sitting up straight in his chair. He didn’t reach for the paper, so Willoughby summarized.

  “There has been an automobile accident. General Patton’s jeep overturned. The general was thrown from his seat. It seems his neck is broken, General. I regret to inform you that he is not expected to live.”

  For a long minute MacArthur sat immobile, eyes closed, digesting the import of this news. Finally he spoke.

  “Damn him to hell!” the General said with vehemence. “This will secure his place in history. Even dying, the man’s a glory hound!”

  “History will assign the credit where it is due. It was you. It was all you,” the intelligence officer replied.

  “History, as Henry Ford said, is bunk. They’ll print the legend because it makes a better story.” MacArthur snatched the dispatch from Willoughby’s hand, read it, then crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket.

  “But MacArthur is a legend,” argued Willoughby. “This magnificent campaign, this triumphant war, will assure your unchallenged place in history!”

  “MacArthur is a legend. Is he legend enough!” the General asked rhetorically. “It’s the dying that’s such good showmanship, you know. If Georgie had lived to tell the tale, truth would necessarily have asserted itself. But when the angel of death adds her special touch to the proceedings, the ordinary becomes extraordinary, and the extraordinary becomes divine. Destiny intervenes where it will.

  “General George Patton managed to die on the last day of the last battle of the war. Or close enough not to make any difference. That was the bastard’s destiny.” The Supreme Commander lifted his glass again. “To Georgie Patton, that lousy son of a bitch.” He polished off that glass and hurled it against the wall, but it didn’t break. Willoughby
retrieved it.

  “I think another is in order, Charlie,” MacArthur said.

  “If you’re sure, General…,” Willoughby said, with a pause at the end in hopes MacArthur would reconsider.

  “I’m sure. I’m even sure you’re going to join me, Charlie.”

  “I suppose if you insist,” Willoughby said, smiling to show he meant it as a witty remark. He took another sip of his current drink, a little larger this time.

  “You’re falling behind, Charlie,” MacArthur said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more toast. Ready?” MacArthur stood, a trifle unsteadily, and Willoughby likewise hopped to his feet. “Banzai!” the Supreme Commander shouted.

  Willoughby flinched at the volume of MacArthur’s voice. “Sir?”

  “Banzai! Ten thousand years to the Emperor! Drink with me!”

  “Yes, sir. Banzai,” he said without emphasis, and drank.

  “You want to know why I’m toasting the Emperor of the enemies? Sure you do.”

  “I do, General. I’m consumed by curiosity.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you. It’s because Hirohito had the good sense to get himself killed. It saves us no end of trouble. I mean, I might have had to put him on trial and, who knows, possibly hang him. I can’t think of any better way to get the Japanese people permanently set against the United States of America. But he’s dead. His brother will turn out to be implicated in something nasty, but he’s not famous. We can get away with him on the throne. And the twelve-year-old obviously has to be innocent. That means I don’t have to dismantle the Imperial household after all. I can use it to help run this country.”

  “In that case, General, let me toast again. Banzai!” Willoughby said, a little louder this time, and finished his own drink.

  This time, when MacArthur hurled his glass against the wall, it shattered into a hundred pieces.

  EPILOGUE

  Today the guns are silent. A great tragedy has ended. A great victory has been won. The skies no longer rain death—the seas bear only commerce—men everywhere walk upright in the sunlight. The entire world is quietly at peace. And in reporting this to you, the people, I speak for the thousands of silent lips, forever stilled among the jungles and the beaches and in the deep waters of the Pacific which have marked the way.