War Minister Anami slept for several hours after the meeting with the Emperor. He was exhausted by the strain of the past few days. At fifty-seven, Anami was in excellent health but his eyes were baggy from lack of rest and his body was leaden with fatigue. Yet at nine o’clock, he was in his office in the Ichigaya Heights War Ministry building, where the senior officers were assembled for a meeting.
Anami knew the temper of his men and spoke prudently: “I do not know what excuse to make to you, but since it is the Emperor’s decision, it cannot be helped.” There was no sound from the assembled officers. Anami continued: “The important thing is that the Army shall act in an organized manner. Individual feelings must be disregarded. Those among you who are dissatisfied and wish to stave it off will have to do it over Anami’s body.” Some officers broke out into protest at the remark. Anami waved them quiet. “This decision, however, was made on the condition that the upholding of our national polity [way of life] be guaranteed. Consequently, it does not mean that the war has ended. The Army must be prepared for either war or peace.” Grumbling erupted from the close-packed body of men. Anami dismissed them, and they turned back to their own sections to argue the situation.
Rebellion became a common topic in the corridors of the War Ministry. Anami had his hand on the pulse of the officer corps and realized that he was dealing with volatile men, who, if provoked, could overthrow the best-laid plans of the Government. The atomic bomb did not matter to these zealots, who still believed surrender a worse fate than death.
One of the plotters in the War Ministry was Colonel Masao Inaba. Sincerely convinced that it was important to maintain the spirits of the soldiers until such time as a surrender was actually consummated, Inaba composed a speech for broadcast to the troops overseas. His message urged continued vigilance and sustained opposition to the enemy.
Though he got approval for it from various senior officers, he could not reach General Anami, then engaged in discussions with cabinet officials. While Inaba waited for Anami to initial the document, two other officers came to his office and demanded that it be released in time for the evening radio news program. They found a copy of the speech in a wastebasket and began to rework it into still harsher terms. Inaba finally gave in to their urging and permitted them to take the strong declaration without Anami’s approval.
The War Minister was immediately placed in a most embarrassing position, for at this time he himself was helping to draft a statement of a different kind, intended for the civilian population. Hiroshi Shimomura, Chief of the Cabinet Information Board, had wanted to advise the masses that something was in the wind. Without actually telling them that surrender was being discussed, he wished to warn them of crucial developments to be announced soon. Anami was in agreement with this plan and helped to write the declaration.
Later, when Shimomura learned of the existence of the dangerous Army proclamation, he called Anami to ask just what he was trying to accomplish by attempting to broadcast an inflammatory message to the armed forces. When the War Minister was at a loss to explain, Shimomura immediately sensed that the general had been duped by his own men. Realizing that Anami might be killed if his subordinates were thwarted, he allowed the broadcast to be carried to the outermost areas of the Empire.
Throughout the Pacific, soldiers of the Japanese Imperial Army heard their leader exhort them to “crush the enemy.” In Japan itself, civilians were exposed both to that and to Shimomura’s message about ominous developments in the near future. The contradictory statements only served to confuse the issue for the populace.
The civilian population of Japan was dying in ever-increasing numbers. Curtis Lemay had sent hundreds of B-29’s up the long path from far to the south to lend authenticity to the Allied message. High above darkened cities bomb bay doors opened and thousands of incendiaries cascaded down onto wooden homes and steel factories. Hundreds died in bed, in makeshift shelters all over Japan.
Though unaware of events unfolding in the Imperial Palace, the Japanese civilians had already had more than enough. In five short months the Twenty-first Bomber Command had changed day-to-day living in Japan to a bitter struggle for survival. In the same five months, the B-29’s had effectively paralyzed sixty-six metropolitan centers in the Home Islands. Tokyo, Osaka, Kobe—the names included the vital centers of Japanese war industry.
Air strikes had repeatedly concentrated on workers’ houses, where much of the decentralized war production system was based. Eight million people were homeless. Many workers had simply left their jobs and taken their families into the country to escape the bombers. Others crowded in with relatives or friends. Five or six families frequently shared three rooms. Hunger was a constant torture. The rice ration had been cut to almost a quarter of its prewar subsistence level, and fish, a staple, had become a luxury because boats could not venture far enough or often enough into the enemy-dominated waters. Clothing materials were almost unavailable and the average citizen patched and repatched what remained of his wardrobe.
Social deterioration kept pace with economic decay. The foundations of the traditionally strong family unit were eroded as parents abandoned children to the public care. Because use of the cherished public baths was sharply curtailed, owing to air raids and fuel rationing, for the first time in their lives the normally fastidious Japanese stank.
Even the rites for burial were affected. Almost no lumber was available for coffins used to transport the dead to crematoriums.
Overriding all these concerns was fear. The B-29’s and the planes from the carriers dominated the people’s every movement. The civilian in Japan was on the edge of desperation.
Lieutenant Marcus McDilda had become a Very Important Person to the Japanese Secret Police. After nearly twenty-four hours of questioning, he had been taken to a plane and flown with another American prisoner to Tokyo. On the morning of August 10, McDilda was ushered into a room at Kempei Tai headquarters. Seated at a desk was a Japanese civilian, wearing a pin-stripe shirt and sipping tea. He was very cordial to the American pilot and served some tea to him. “I am a graduate of CCNY College,” he told McDilda, “and most interested in your story about the atomic bomb.” McDilda repeated his lie.
After several minutes, the Japanese official knew that Marcus McDilda had committed a hoax, that he knew nothing at all about nuclear fission. When McDilda said that he had been trying to tell that to his interrogators in Osaka, the Japanese laughed. After more friendly conversation, McDilda was taken to a cell and given some food. The beatings ceased.
NINE
August 11—The Conspiracy Begins
While statesmen in Tokyo waited impatiently for the Allied answer, a small group of Army officers on Ichigaya Hill, the nerve center of the Army, were plotting a revolution. For more than two weeks, ever since the Potsdam declaration had been issued, these men had been preparing for the day when they might have to act against the Government. Loose plans were formulated. Tactics were analyzed. Slowly, the officers evolved a design for action.
The inflammatory Army proclamation of August 10 had been only one of their many maneuvers. Now, on August 11, fifteen officers met in an air-raid shelter under the War Ministry Building to discuss implementing their strategy.
Colonel Masahiko Takeshita presided. As a brother-in-law of General Anami, he was in a singularly favorable position. He had learned the decisions of the Big Six and knew approximately how much time was left to alter the course of events.
The emotional, intense colonel found willing accomplices in men serving in staff positions at the Ministry. Some were sober, intelligent professional officers such as Colonel Masao Inaba and Colonel Masataka Ida; others were volatile, impressionable young men like Majors Jiro Shiizaki and Kenji Hatanaka. The pale, soft-featured Hatanaka, a “pet” of General Anami, was a man who could not imagine Japan in defeat. He was growing increasingly reckless as the men at Ichigaya went over the situation carefully.
While cigarette smoke filled the air, the
conspirators sketched out a rough strategy. Their ultimate aim was to reject the peace terms. To attain that goal, they would have to seize the palace and dispose of the appeasers, Suzuki, Togo and Kido. As an afterthought, they added Baron Hiranuma to the list of victims.
They realized they needed support from four generals. Anami was the key man. Takeshita was sure of his brother-in-law: “I can guarantee that the general will join with us.”
General Umezu would naturally follow along if Anami agreed. Like dominoes, General Seiichi Tanaka, commander of the Eastern District Army, and General Takeshi Mori, of the Imperial Guards at the palace, would fall into line when they realized the revolt had the blessing of the highest officers in Tokyo.
Takeshita brought up the question of timing. Aware that the Allied answer was expected within hours, the rebels agreed that they must move no later than midnight on the thirteenth.
Major Kenji Hatanaka was detailed to contact General Mori and his regimental commanders to ascertain their feelings. If, despite their hopes, Mori proved recalcitrant, the men under the general were to be weaned away from their loyalty to him.
The approach to Anami would be a joint effort. Led by Takeshita, the group would confront him within twenty-four hours and solicit a quick answer.
As the last cigarette was stubbed out, optimism ran high in the conference room. Hatanaka was visibly excited. The others, though more restrained, spoke enthusiastically of the coming adventure. They separated outside the room and disappeared into the maze of corridors.
Once again in a time of crisis, the young officers of the Japanese Army had decided to take matters into their own hands. When they did so, blood always flowed in the streets and peaceful men died brutally.
The last great orgy of killing had taken place little more than nine years before, on February 26, 1936. It had been brought about by increased unrest in the Army over the direction of Japan’s future and was triggered by an order posting the Tokyo-based First Guards Division to Manchuria. The officers of the unit felt that opposing factions within the Army had taken this means to eliminate the division from any influence on events in Japan itself. A coup d’état was immediately decided upon.
Over fifteen hundred men went out into the streets of the capital that night to hunt down statesmen and generals known to be in opposition to Army plans. Finance Minister Takahashi was shot to death. General Jotaro Watanabe’s throat was cut as he lay in bed. Count Makino was assaulted, but survived. Baron Suzuki was shot in his bedroom and only saved by his wife’s presence of mind. As an army officer bent over his crumpled body to slash his throat, she rushed forward and said, “Please let me do it if it must be done.” The unnerved officer left without delivering the coup de grâce. Viscount Makoto Saito was also assaulted in his bedroom, but his wife’s efforts could not save him. He was found cradled in her arms on the floor, with a total of forty-seven bullets in his dead body.
Several of the victims of the coup had dined that evening at the American Embassy as guests of Ambassador Joseph Grew. Suzuki had been among them, as had Saito. The occasion had been pleasant and relaxed. It had included the showing of a Hollywood movie, Naughty Marietta, and a generous amount of wine and whiskey.
Another of Grew’s guests, the then Premier of Japan, Keisuke Okada, was also marked for death by the Army rebels. Like the others, he had been driven home through the beginnings of a snowfall late that night and had gone to bed. Because he had drunk too much, Okada slept like a drugged man. When the soldiers came for him in the predawn, he was still drowsy and unable to comprehend the danger. The officers had surrounded the house, broken in, and were flooding into the various rooms.
Okada’s brother-in-law, Matsuo, and two bodyguards managed to get the Premier up from his bed and lead him toward an emergency exit at the back of the house. Seeing men milling about in the rear yard, one of the bodyguards pushed Okada and Matsuo into the bathroom, where they cowered behind a screen. In the corridor outside, several guns were fired simultaneously and one of the guards died instantly. The other guard grappled with the advancing soldiers but fell to the floor mortally wounded by sword cuts.
As Okada and Matsuo waited for their own deaths, the bathroom door opened. A soldier stepped in and gazed quickly around. Then the trapped men heard the door close and footsteps retreat down the corridor.
Matsuo wasted no more time. Warning Okada to be quiet, he calmly walked out of the refuge to his own doom.
As Okada paced the floor, he heard the weak voice of the surviving bodyguard lying in the hall outside: “Please stay where you are.” The man repeated it twice more, then died.
Matsuo had left Okada for only one reason. He bore a superficial resemblance to his brother-in-law, and he hoped that the soldiers would mistake him for the Prime Minister and deal with him alone. He would gamble on trading his life for Okada’s freedom. Within minutes the soldiers caught Matsuo as he scampered through the rooms of the house. An officer ordered his men to fire, but at first they did not. When he repeated the instructions, twenty bullets ripped into Matsuo’s body.
The rebels carried his lifeless form into a bedroom and compared his face with a picture hanging on the wall. One officer said, “Yes, that’s Okada, all right.” Within a few minutes, the band of insurrectionists departed, leaving behind three dead men and one live Prime Minister, who now scurried into a maid’s room and squatted down in a closet. For the next forty-eight hours, while the Army rebellion rocked Tokyo, Okada hid in the darkness. He escaped from his refuge by mingling with mourners following Matsuo’s corpse as it was taken from the residence. With them, he calmly walked past rebel soldiers still patrolling the streets. He survived to attend his own funeral, which was staged in the belief that Matsuo’s body was truly that of the Prime Minister.
Though the rebellion of February 1936 ultimately failed to bring down the Government, it was symptomatic of increasing Army interference in national affairs. Year by year the military assumed more control of policy-making apparatus. Month by month the civilian government danced to the Army’s tune. Ahead lay the road to Pearl Harbor.
But even in the face of certain defeat in the summer of 1945, Army confidence remained high. Defeat was not real to the men still alive and healthy at the War Ministry in Tokyo. Takeshita, Hatanaka, Shiizaki, the names were different but the breed was the same as in the thirties. In both decades Army schemes were hatched in the name of the Emperor. In each case the victims were chosen from the same class: statesmen who blocked the Army plans. By 1945 nothing had changed the Army mentality despite the fact that it had led Japan to destruction. The night of the assassin was about to be repeated.
In the midst of the confused drift to violence, a man named Makoto Tsukamoto appeared at the War Ministry in Tokyo. He was a colonel in the Kempei Tai, the Japanese secret police, and had recently been transferred from Formosa. He had spent years before that as an undercover agent in China where he had witnessed the depredations carried out on both sides of the fighting lines during the Sino-Japanese conflict. Though he had lived on the edge of death, he was an intellectual, a sophisticated soldier who abhorred the brutality many of his fellow officers practiced. In the frenzy of total war, he maintained his own code of conduct and upheld his reputation as an honorable man.
On the twenty-seventh of July, Tsukamoto had received orders in Formosa to leave for Tokyo at once. He was mystified. There was no apparent reason for his transfer.
He left that same day by way of Shanghai. Because of faulty airplane maintenance and the increased bombings, his arrival in Tokyo was delayed until the sixth of August. Tsukamoto was stunned at the wreckage in the capital. When he had last been there in January, before General Lemay had sent the fire bombs down from five thousand feet, Tokyo had hardly been touched by the B-29’s. Now a wasteland lay before him. He hurried from the plane to the headquarters of the secret police and his new assignment.
At headquarters his arrival was a total surprise. No one had ordered his return, no o
ne expected him, no assignment awaited him. Both Tsukamoto and his commanding officer were baffled, and neither could discover any clue to the origin of the mysterious summons to Tokyo.
Later the Kempei colonel went to the office of General Okido, commandant of the secret police, and reported the strange circumstances. Okido too was confused by the peculiar situation, but offered him a temporary assignment. He had been talking with General Anami, who was concerned about the unrest in the officer corps. Okido explained: “I have been instructed by the general to look into the talk of a coup. He wants me to watch over these people and report on their plans.” Tsukamoto accepted the job of surveillance and decided to go to the War Ministry where he had many friends among the staff.
On August 11, Colonel Tsukamoto drove up the winding road to the massive cement building at the top of Ichigaya. As he entered the office area, Colonel Masataka Ida saw him and rushed up. “Tsukamoto, where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you.”
The pieces fell quickly into place. It was Colonel Ida who had sent for him. The two had been friends for years, and since 1944 Tsukamoto had felt he owed the officer his life. At that time, when he was assigned to the jungles of Burma, a special order from Ida had brought him out before the Allies overran the Japanese defenses. Now his old friend needed him. As a participant in the officers’ conspiracy at Ichigaya, he wanted Tsukamoto to help in the coup. Because of his prominence in the secret police, the colonel would be an invaluable ally when trouble began.
Tsukamoto asked the obvious question: “What is this talk of a coup?”
Ida explained the situation at the Ministry in detail. The men were unhappy with the talk of surrender and might do something about it. “Suzuki is a Badoglio (traitor). He and others have surrounded the Emperor and have talked him into surrendering. We intend to take him away from them. Will you join us?”
The World War II Chronicles Page 15
