Twilight of the Gods

by Twilight of the Gods (retail) (epub)

  The farther one traveled from the front lines, the more one found the rancor of interservice rivalries—ranging from mild raillery to noxious accusations, shouting matches, and fistfights. Bored marines trained Okinawan children to approach the army camps and declare: “General MacArthur eats shit!” (The children had been taught that this meant: “Give me a cigarette.”)89 But the Seabees, uniquely, were liked and admired by all of their sister services. Sergeant John Vollinger and another marine went into a Seabee camp on Okinawa to see if they could scrounge up a bar of soap. While there, they were surprised to find a professional shoemaker. Vollinger showed the man his boot, which had a nail protruding from the heel. “He took a look at the heel and said ‘Give me the other one.’ With that he removed both heels and put on new ones. He then asked us if we had eaten yet, and when we assured him we would survive until we got back to the battery, he said, ‘Come with me.’ He took us to the C.P.O. mess hall and we had an unbelievable meal of fried oysters which some enterprising Seabees had gathered from the reef.”90

  No matter how one measured it, Okinawa had been a singularly harrowing battle. American casualties (including naval, air, and ground) were the highest for any amphibious fight in the Pacific—49,151, including 12,520 killed or missing and 36,361 wounded. The Tenth Army had 7,613 killed and about 31,000 wounded. Among the dead was General Buckner, killed by an artillery strike on June 18, the highest-ranking U.S. military officer lost to enemy fire in World War II. An additional 26,000 troops were cited as “nonbattle” casualties, a category that included those who fell ill as a result of diseases, but also those who were pulled off the line as a result of “combat neurosis” or “fatigue.”91 As one American military analyst has observed, “The Okinawa battle was unusual in that it exhibited the stasis and lethality of World War I fronts even though it employed the full range of mobile World War II weapons: tanks, aircraft, radios, and trucks.”92 The American tanks had vitiated some of the advantages conferred by the Japanese cave defenses. But no progress could be made against the toughest fortifications on the Shuri line except by the valor, initiative, and perseverance of individual infantry squads, who were willing to advance into heavy fire and engage their enemies at hand-to-hand range.

  The navy had suffered its worst beating of the Pacific War, with 368 ships damaged and thirty-six sunk, including fifteen amphibious ships and twelve destroyers. The navy had lost 4,907 officers and sailors killed in action, most in kamikaze attacks. The number of naval personnel killed during the Okinawa campaign exceeded the figures for either the army or the marines—although the combined losses in the ground campaign were higher.

  The Japanese army had been outnumbered by two to one on the ground, and had been heavily overmatched in the categories of artillery firepower, naval firepower, and airpower. But General Ushijima’s forces had held out for nearly twelve weeks, inflicting heavy casualties on their enemies. Despite steady pressure from Tokyo and Formosa to launch tactically foolish counterattacks, the army had largely stuck to its original plan of a stubborn yard-by-yard terrain defense. In the end, as intended, nearly the entire army was lost, amounting to nearly 90,000 combatant and service troops killed, and 11,000 captured.

  Caught in the gears of the grinding battle, Okinawa’s civilians had suffered almost unimaginably. They had been killed in the crossfire, killed by bombing and artillery, accidentally or deliberately; they had starved, or died of diseases. As on Saipan almost a year before, Japanese propaganda had warned that a fate worse than death awaited any civilian captured by American forces—and as on Saipan, many terrified civilians took their lives and those of their loved ones. Since many were entombed in caves, and their bodies never counted, the precise number of civilian casualties can only be estimated. According to the Okinawan prefectural government, 94,000 Okinawan civilians died during the battle; and of these, 59,939 perished in June 1945, after the Japanese army’s retreat from Shuri.93

  For the victors, possession of the island conferred tremendous strategic advantages. The island provided a staging area and springboard for the prospective invasion of Japan, less than 400 miles from the targeted invasion beaches in southern Kyushu. It provided airbases within easy range of Japan for American bombers and fighters, and protected anchorages for the fleet and amphibious forces. Admiral Spruance had foreseen all of these advantages a year earlier, when he had argued in favor of capturing Okinawa. For the Japanese, the loss of Okinawa only confirmed what their leaders already knew—that the war was lost, and that their enemy possessed the means and the will to invade and conquer their homeland.

  Chapter Fifteen

  IN THE EARLY WEEKS OF TRUMAN’S PRESIDENCY, A REMARK WAS OFTEN heard repeated in the White House press room: “Franklin D. Roosevelt was for the people. Harry S. Truman is of the people.” Even on his feet, the spare midwesterner seemed smaller than his wheelchair-bound predecessor. He appeared awkward and self-conscious in his new role. When a band played “Hail to the Chief,” Truman did not know the protocol, and could not decide what to do with his hands. Salute? Stand at attention with hands at his side? Shake hands with visitors? The first time it happened, he tried to do all three. A reporter assigned to write a “color story” about the new president told his editor: “This man’s color lies in his utter lack of color. He’s Mr. Average. You see him on your bus or streetcar. He sits next to you at the drugstore soda fountain. There must be millions like him.”1

  The morning after Truman was sworn in, he arrived early at the White House. He had expected a morning briefing with his senior military aides. But a message had evidently miscarried, for they had not received the word and were nowhere to be found. For more than an hour the new president waited, “somewhat impatiently,” until a flustered secretary tracked down Admiral Leahy, the White House chief of staff, and Vice Admiral Wilson Brown, the senior White House naval aide. They collected their briefing papers and hurried to the Oval Office, where they found the new president seated behind FDR’s mahogany desk, still covered with his predecessor’s collection of sundry trinkets and gadgets.

  The two admirals, standing to attention, began summarizing the latest issues before the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Truman interrupted: “For God’s sake, sit down! You make me nervous! Come around here in the light where I can get a good look at you.” Leahy and Brown pulled up chairs. Truman studied their faces, Brown recalled, “without the least trace of self-consciousness about the fact that we were also examining him.”2

  In the course of their discussion, and in a larger meeting with the Joint Chiefs at eleven o’clock, it became painfully clear that Truman was not up to speed. He had not been adequately briefed on the state of the war, either in Europe or the Pacific, and he knew little about the latest moves in the global geostrategic chess match that was being played against the Soviet Union. The new president possessed a commendable work ethic, and he read top-secret reports and memoranda until his eyes smarted from the strain. In his diary, he wrote of long “hectic days” in the “Great White Jail,” his nickname for the White House.3 At times he seemed defensive about the gaps in his knowledge, even in private meetings with his inner circle of advisers and military chiefs. Some noted Truman’s reluctance to ask questions, for fear of appearing ignorant, even when he plainly needed more information. When a course of action was proposed, Truman often replied that he had already been thinking along the same lines, as if trying to avoid the impression that he was merely doing as he was told.

  Historians have concluded that Truman grew into the role of commander in chief, and eventually proved more than equal to the job. But in the spring and summer of 1945, the growing pains were evident—and the decisions he must confront during those early weeks were among the most important of his presidency.

  In his diary, Bill Leahy expressed concern about the “staggering burdens of war and peace that [Truman] must carry.” Privately, according to Leahy’s son, the admiral regarded his new boss as a “bush-leaguer.” He had been accustomed to speak
ing his mind to Roosevelt, knowing that the late president was “captain of the team” and might accept or reject his advice according to his own judgment. But Truman did not yet possess the confidence or independence to buck his advisers. Truman was in their hands, Leahy told another aide, which meant that everyone who advised the president bore heavy responsibility, and must be absolutely sure they were right.4

  In his diary and his subsequent memoir, Leahy betrayed no sense of responsibility or culpability for the new president’s relative ignorance. One is struck by this lack of self-awareness in a Washington statesman otherwise respected for his wisdom and good judgment. Whatever he knew or did not know about the state of FDR’s declining health, Leahy had been at the late president’s elbow for most of the last year of his life. He certainly knew enough to anticipate that Truman might be thrust into the role of commander in chief at any moment. Leahy was the White House chief of staff and the chairman of the JCS. What steps did he take to ensure that the vice president was properly briefed? Who else had that duty, if not himself? No adequate explanation has ever been provided for this breakdown in the basic procedures of sound constitutional government.

  Leahy had been personally close to FDR, he told Truman, and was “distressed” by his death. He was inclined to retire from the navy and from his position as White House chief of staff. But Truman needed him for the sake of continuity, if nothing else, and asked him to stay on the job to help him “pick up the strands of the business of the war.” After Truman gave assurances that he would adhere to the same decision-making procedures used by FDR, Leahy agreed to remain on the job for at least a few more months.5 It turned out that he served another four years, to the end of Truman’s first term in office.

  Even now, at this late stage of the campaign, basic questions of military strategy and foreign policy in the Pacific remained unresolved. Would an invasion of Japan be necessary, or would the intensifying blockade and bombing campaign be enough to force surrender? Should the Allies land on the coast of China? Did they still need or want Russia in the war? How strong was the “peace party” in the Japanese ruling circle, and could it be strengthened? Must the late FDR’s doctrine of unconditional surrender be unbendingly applied? Did Hirohito wield the power and influence to put an end to the war—and if so, should the Allies signal that he could keep his throne? These were immensely complex questions, without obvious answers. The ordinary mechanisms of military planning were blended with high considerations of international politics. Defeating Japan was only the most immediate problem. Looming ahead was the creation of a new postwar order in Asia, with its implications for the territorial ambitions of Stalin, the red menace in China, and the status of former British, French, and Dutch colonies.

  At a State-War-Navy meeting on May 1, Jim Forrestal told his two colleagues that it was time to “make a thorough study of our political objectives in the Far East.” Given Stalin’s recent backsliding on the political independence of Eastern Europe, they should be wary of Soviet ambitions in the Far East. Forrestal asked: “Do we desire a counterweight to that influence? And should it be China or should it be Japan?” If the latter, the United States must have a plan to rebuild Japan’s economic power and regional standing. In subsequent meetings, the cabinet considered the future status of Korea, Hong Kong, Indochina (Vietnam), and Manchuria. Entries in Forrestal’s diary leave the impression that these questions were being confronted for the first time. At another State-War-Navy meeting on May 29, the three secretaries considered whether Truman should release a statement clarifying the meaning of unconditional surrender, and perhaps addressing the postwar status of Japan’s imperial dynasty. The question was tabled by unanimous agreement, because “the time was not appropriate for [the president] to make such a pronouncement.”6

  Leading figures in the navy and the Army Air Forces roughly agreed on one point: that an invasion of Japan was unnecessary and should be avoided. They stressed the cumulative effect of the air-sea blockade, which promised to cut off virtually all remaining maritime traffic into Japan. Without this last dribble of imported oil, raw materials, and food, the Japanese economy would seize up and its people would starve. Concurrently, the destructive intensity of the aerial bombing campaign would surge to new heights. Hundreds of newly commissioned B-29 Superfortresses were flying into the theater from the United States, and thousands of bombers, and fighters of the Eighth Air Force were redeploying from Europe. The Third Fleet was preparing a six-week rampage in enemy waters, which promised the largest carrier airstrikes in history against Japanese cities, seaports, and the road and rail network.

  While these punishing blows took effect, some argued in favor of landing troops on the Asian mainland. Lieutenant General Albert C. Wedemeyer, U.S. Army commander in China, wrote that “establishment of a lodgment on the coast would of course electrify the Chinese and cause them to redouble their efforts to gain land contact and thus open communications.”7 Admirals Nimitz and Spruance advocated seizing the Chusan Islands group, southeast of Shanghai, and the nearby Ningpo peninsula, on the southern side of the Yangtze river estuary. Their objective was to establish a bridgehead into China, throw a lifeline to Chiang Kai-shek, and provide more time (said one of Nimitz’s top planners) to “build more airfields and just bomb Japan to its knees.”8 This prospective “Operation LONGTOM” won the provisional backing of the JCS, and was assigned a tentative launch date of August 1945.

  MacArthur argued for a direct invasion of Japan at the earliest possible date. Pecking away at the coast of China, he said, would only waste time, lives, and treasure. The Japanese could not be defeated by blockade and bombing alone, he said—and he pointed to the example of their German allies, who had refused to surrender even after their cities had been reduced to rubble. “The strongest military element of Japan is the Army which must be defeated before our success is assured. This can only be done by the use of large ground forces. . . . Just as is the case with Germany, we must defeat Japan’s Army and for that purpose our strategy must devise ways and means to bring our ground forces into contact with his at decisive points.”9 From his headquarters in Manila, MacArthur told Marshall that he could take Kyushu with forces already in the Pacific. If it became necessary to invade Honshu and capture Tokyo, he would require reinforcements from Europe and the United States.10

  Operation DOWNFALL, as it was codenamed, aimed at conquering and pacifying Japan within eighteen months of the final defeat of Germany. An early version of the plan, developed by the JCS planning staff in Washington, was presented to FDR and Churchill in February 1945 at the Argonaut Conference on Malta. downfall consisted of two phases: an invasion of southern Kyushu in late 1945 (olympic), to be followed by an invasion of Honshu in the spring of 1946 (coronet). Each of these great amphibious assaults, especially coronet, would dwarf the previous year’s invasion of Normandy. downfall would require the combined strength of all branches of the military services and all forces within both MacArthur’s and Nimitz’s theaters, with a supporting role by British and other Allied forces. The assault on Kyushu would be handled by the veteran Sixth Army under General Krueger, veteran of the Philippines campaign. His forces would include two reinforced army corps plus a third comprised of three marine divisions; they would land simultaneously at Miyazaki on the east coast, Ariake Bay to the south, and Kushikino on the west coast. The decisive second-phase coronet would be aimed at the heavily populated and industrialized region of the Kanto Plain. It would be spearheaded by the Eighth Army under General Eichelberger, whose forces would land on beaches at the north end of Sagami Bay. The coronet assault would involve no fewer than twenty-five divisions, with additional reinforcements to be brought into action as needed. If an overpowering pincer attack on Tokyo did not force a surrender, Allied forces would occupy the capital—and then fan out from that hub, attacking in every direction, wiping out organized resistance in one province after another, until the entire nation lay prostrate and subjugated.

  The initial timetable
, fixed by the JCS in late March 1945, envisioned an OLYMPIC landing on December 1, 1945, followed by a coronet landing on March 1, 1946. On Nimitz’s recommendation, considering the risks to the fleet posed by winter storms, the target date for olympic was moved forward to November 1, 1945.11

  For the moment, the JCS left the perennially quarrelsome issue of command unity unresolved. Like all amphibious invasions, DOWNFALL would require sustained and intricate cooperation between the air, ground, and naval forces. But in the spring of 1945, the various internecine frictions and rivalries in the Pacific were growing worse, not better. Personal communications between the two theater commanders were frosty on a good day. In April, each man invited the other to visit his respective headquarters in Manila and Guam; both invitations were regretfully declined.12 General Richardson, the senior army officer in Nimitz’s theater, asked to travel to the Philippines to confer with MacArthur. Nimitz withheld permission, explaining that he wanted first to settle the ongoing negotiations.13 A week later, Nimitz swallowed his pride and flew to Manila, where he was briefed on MacArthur’s draft plan for DOWNFALL. The SWPA commander proposed to take command of Okinawa and other islands in the Ryukyus, and all land-based air forces in the Pacific. Nimitz balked. He flew back to Guam and put his staff to work on an independent navy plan for the amphibious phase of DOWNFALL, intending only to “consult” with MacArthur as necessary.14