Haga was stunned at the news. “Who killed him? Why? I’m sure you know the story.”
Koga proceeded to tell him everything.
By four o’clock Hatanaka was losing his grip on his men. His soldiers were bedeviled in their search by the protracted shutdown of electricity in the Imperial Household Agency. Flashlights illuminated very little in the cluttered rooms of the huge building. Soldiers repeatedly passed by the door leading to the small group of men huddled in the cellar. In that refuge, Kido and the others spoke in whispers as the noise of rebellion ebbed and flowed around the corridors. They were soaked with perspiration and parched by thirst. But at least they were alive.
Few of the sleeping citizens of Tokyo were aware of the palace crisis, though the stillness was occasionally broken by gunfire. In his bedroom General Anami could hear firing from the direction of the palace, and said to his brother-in-law Takeshita, “For that also, I will offer my life.” He had sat for the last three hours talking and drinking. Takeshita mentioned that the general was possibly drinking too much to perform the traditional suicide with a knife. Anami reassured him that he would have a steady hand. “The wine will make my veins dilate better and the blood will flow more freely. There is nothing to worry about,” he said. Anami continued talking about his family.
Across from the palace, about a quarter mile away, Kempei Tai headquarters too was well aware of the situation at the palace. Makoto Tsukamoto, the colonel who had been recalled from Formosa only a short time before, was sleeping when gunfire sounded. Kempei officers wanted to call out their own troops to march against the rebels but Tsukamoto feared such action would only cause further bloodshed. If the military police tried to disarm a hot-headed, fully armed force, the greatest slaughter might occur.
Because of his visit to the War Ministry on the eleventh, Tsukamoto knew that Colonel Ida must be involved in the violent demonstration. He resolved on two courses of action. First, the Kempei soldiers would be maintained in a state of readiness to prevent a spread of the revolt beyond the Imperial compound. Second, he could send for Colonel Ida’s father to speak with his son and talk him out of the coup. A messenger was dispatched to the countryside while Tsukamoto held on in Tokyo, awaiting the arrival of the mediator.
By this time, Ida himself had become a mediator. Rebuffed by General Tanaka, he had already told Hatanaka to disband his men by dawn. At 4:00 A.M. he arrived at the single-story bungalow of the War Minister to speak to Anami about the situation at the palace.
He found Anami and Takeshita in the bedroom and immediately guessed what was about to happen. Anami had wrapped a white cloth about his abdomen and put on a white shirt given to him by the Emperor. Ida burst into tears and cried, “Let me die with you.” Anami walked over to him and slapped his face hard, then slapped him again several times. The two fell into each other’s arms and wept. Straightening up, Anami gazed at his young protégé. “Live on after me and serve your country.” He patted the colonel’s shoulder and asked him to sit and drink some wine.
Together with Colonel Takeshita, the men toasted each other and talked quietly for half an hour. At four thirty, Takeshita was called out to speak with a messenger who had arrived at the front door. Ida got up and said goodbye to his commanding officer who smiled sadly at him. Filled with grief, Ida went outside the house and waited for a car to pick him up.
Inside, Anami moved quickly. He had wanted to die outdoors on the ground in the manner of repentant sinners. But, since too many people were around, he chose the only other alternative. He walked out into the corridor, knelt down, and cut open his stomach from left to right.
Takeshita found him a few seconds later. The general was still conscious and in terrible pain. Yet he was able to plunge the dagger into his neck just below the right ear. He remained kneeling in a spreading pool of blood.
For a moment Takeshita’s instinct for the rebellion revived and he forgot his brother-in-law’s agony. Running out onto the lawn, he found Ida and said, “Anami has committed seppuku. I can get his seals to use in the coup.”
Ida was shocked. In disgust, he snorted, “Don’t be silly,” and Takeshita dropped the issue.
Behind them on the blood-soaked floor, General Anami writhed in pain. When some of his men approached him, Anami summoned his voice and croaked, “Get out of here. Get out.” Within minutes the stricken general fell across the threshold of his bedroom and lay on his face.
Ida went on to the War Ministry while Takeshita went back to the room.
He was joined by Colonel Hayashi, Anami’s secretary, and for a time the two watched the great body in its death throes. Then a phone rang. While Hayashi went to answer it, Takeshita rushed to Anami, picked up the dagger, and pushed it back into the neck wound. Still Anami did not die. Takeshita took the general’s jacket, spread it over the huddled form on the floor, and then stepped back to watch in silence. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the unconscious War Minister. Minutes passed and the tableau remained frozen. Anami was dying hard.
While Anami bled, violence was being done elsewhere in the name of the Emperor. As in 1936, when soldiers hunted down men who opposed their plans, squads of fanatical men had gone out into the warm summer night to track down and slay men they thought were betraying Japan. There was no concerted plan. Hatanaka and his men at the palace had been in contact with various officers around Tokyo, and a loose scheme had been discussed. But the soldiers who walked the streets of the capital this night struck out at the officials of the Government in haphazard fashion. At widely separated points in the city, they moved in to kill.
The primary target was Premier Suzuki, the man held most responsible for the surrender. The first warning of danger came to Secretary Sakomizu as he lay in bed at the official residence of the Premier. He was exhausted after the ordeal of the Emperor’s conference and the late-night wrangling over the wording of the surrender message to the Americans. At 11:30 P.M., he had gone to his room. Thirty minutes later, the Palace called to say that the Emperor had made the recording to be broadcast later that day. The last job was done.
Sakomizu’s rest was interrupted once again by the arrival of another member of the Foreign Ministry, who discussed with him various problems associated with the text of the communiqué to the Allies. When that was done, Sakomizu went to sleep.
At 4:00 A.M. the chatter of a machine gun brought him to a puzzled alertness. The gunfire was outside the building and was accompanied by raucous shouting. The rebels thought they would find Suzuki inside, but earlier that night the old man had gone to his suburban home to get some well-earned rest. Sakomizu thought immediately of Suzuki and told an aide to call him. Fortunately, just two days before, a telephone had been installed in the Premier’s private home.
The aide waited breathlessly as it rang several times. When the sleepy voice of the Premier answered, he blurted rapidly, “Your Excellency, soldiers are now attacking the Ministry. When they don’t find you here, they’ll come after you at your home. You must get away.”
The cold chill of remembered nightmares seized the aged Premier. Only nine years before, his sleep had been rudely shattered by another band of fanatics such as these, and he had lived in dread since. As he thanked the man for calling, Suzuki wondered what he would do. He put down the telephone and stood listening. Then he ran to his bedroom and woke his wife, who followed him out the back door. The old warrior slipped out and ran hurriedly down an alley toward his chauffered automobile.
Within fifteen minutes, soldiers entered the house and confronted a terrified maid, who told them that the Prime Minister was not home. The soldiers searched the rooms and then poured gasoline around the kitchen. A match was dropped onto the floor and a rush of flame leaped high. When the maid tried to pour water on the blaze, an officer pushed her aside and threatened to kill her. She retreated from the house as it burned brightly in the darkness.
Premier Suzuki rode in the dilapidated car through the quiet streets of Tokyo with his aged w
ife and two servants. Looking back, he could not see any pursuers nor could he see flames. After about an hour he reached his sister’s home and collapsed, exhausted, into a chair. Assassins had missed him again.
They had also just missed Baron Hiranuma. At that moment the aged statesman lay cowering behind furniture in a building near his blazing home. Outside, soldiers stood around the inferno, laughing in the belief that their quarry had just been consumed in the fire.
Back at the palace, the rebellion foundered. The phonograph record still remained in its hiding place. Chamberlain Tokugawa, righteously incensed at this invasion of Imperial property, was finally seized by some of Hatanaka’s men at about 4:30 A.M. The Chamberlain was so angry at the effrontery of the rebels that he shouted, “Your actions tonight are deplorable.” For this remark, a soldier punched him in the face.
Tokugawa was questioned for thirty minutes on the whereabouts of Marquis Kido and the precious recording. Beneath his feet the Marquis paced the floor of the vault and wondered how long he could remain free. Tokugawa told the officers nothing, denying any knowledge of the record’s hiding-place in a loud voice so that his own people would understand what to say to the searchers. At 5:00 A.M. he was set free. From watching the troops running around the rooms and listening to their conversation, Tokugawa got the impression that they were losing heart, that the spirit of the revolt was fading. He guessed correctly.
Hatanaka’s authority had collapsed. Only shortly before, Colonel Haga, the man who was supposed to take control of the Guards Division, lost his temper with the ringleaders. Heartsick at the news that General Mori had been shot down, Haga realized that he had been duped, and screamed, “Get out of here.” Koga, Ishihara, Shiizaki and Hatanaka got out. Koga and Ishihara were disconsolate. Both of them had been appalled when Mori died, and since then nothing had gone right. Ishihara, in particular, had become almost hysterical as the night wore on, and was of little help.
Hatanaka had one last card to play. He took several men with him and raced to the broadcasting studios of NHK, the government radio station. There he went to Studio Twelve and pointed his gun at Morio Tateno, a radio announcer on duty.
“Let me speak on the radio at the five A.M. news hour.”
Tateno refused, saying, “You have to get the permission of the Eastern Army Headquarters.” Because of the air-raid alert, the Army automatically took control of radio broadcasts.
The furious Hatanaka berated Tateno, who could do nothing but repeat the statement. No one could go on the air without sanction from General Tanaka.
As the two stood there arguing, the telephone rang. Hatanaka picked it up. General Tanaka’s office had traced him to the radio station. Hatanaka identified himself and listened quietly as the voice on the other end urged him to give up the rebellion. The disheveled ringleader stood with the receiver in his left hand, the revolver in his right. Finally he broke in: “I want only five minutes. We want to let the nation know what the young officers think.” When the voice on the phone refused his request, Hatanaka hung up.
He was defeated. There was nothing else he could do to stop the surrender. As he stood in the studio, the Japanese reply was on its way to Switzerland. Harry Truman was sitting in his office at the White House waiting patiently for some word. General Anami, Hatanaka’s beloved leader, lay on the floor of his bedroom bleeding to death. The Emperor slept on, undisturbed by the frenzied search for his recording. Hatanaka fought alone.
He wiped tears from his eyes and walked out the door of the studio, muttering to his aides, “We did our best. Let’s go back to the palace.”
Hatanaka’s forces had broken up while he was away. General Seiichi Tanaka, commander of the Eastern District Army, had come to settle the crisis. After hearing reports from his officers, he had decided to make a personal appearance on the palace grounds to persuade the troops to disband. On the way there, Tanaka sat back in his seat, his eyes closed, his mind burning with indignation at the young officers who had perpetrated the incident. As the car sped around to the main gate, Tanaka wondered where to begin his delicate job of diplomacy. He finally settled on the First Guards Regiment as a likely trouble spot.
His choice was fortunate, for that large unit was just about to join with Hatanaka. Troops were marching out the gate in full battle dress as Tanaka’s automobile pulled up.
The general leaned out of the window and shouted, “Oh, it’s you, Watanabe,” to the regimental commander, who was fastening his helmet as he walked down the steps of his headquarters. “I’m lucky to be on time. Your orders are false. Call back the troops.”
Whether or not Watanabe knew the truth, he immediately obeyed the general’s command. His soldiers returned to quarters and the very last reinforcements for the rebels put down their guns and were dispersed to barracks.
Tanaka went on to stamp out the fire. He found one of the hapless conspirators, Major Ishihara, and put him under arrest. “You fellows have really done it,” he shouted. He heaped invective on the distraught officer, who cringed, wild-eyed, under the attack. Colonel Fuwa, Tanaka’s assistant, sat on Ishihara’s left and watched him closely because he feared that violence might erupt at any minute. The rebel was trembling, hysterical, capable of striking at his tormentors. As Ishihara was led off to jail, Tanaka turned away from him in disgust.
The general walked on through the wooded grounds and spoke to knots of soldiers, urging them to break up the gathering and go back to their barracks. He cajoled, threatened, prodded and ordered. The troops were sullen, tired and frustrated. But they listened and the momentum swung to Tanaka’s side. As the first streaks of morning appeared in the sky, the rebellion petered out. The coup was dead.
In the bedroom of the War Minister, Anami’s life flickered. He had been unconscious for over two hours, yet his breathing continued in an irregular, noisy manner. His body moved about on the floor, thrashing, writhing in the welter of blood from his wounds. Men came and went. They stared at the figure in silence. Some cried. All were transfixed as they saw a proud man attempting to die.
As Anami’s life ebbed, another military man made a decision. Far to the southwest of Tokyo, at Oita Airbase, the duty officer, Lieutenant Tanaka, made a telephone call to Captain Takashi Miyazaki, aide-de-camp to Fleet Commander Admiral Ugaki. He informed the sleepy officer that Ugaki planned to take his own life by flying a suicide mission against the American ships off Okinawa. As commander of the Kyushu kamikaze forces, the admiral felt it proper to follow the example of his own men and dive into an enemy vessel. With the war ending, he had no desire to live on.
Miyazaki dressed hurriedly and raced across the runway as sunlight broke through the darkness. He arrived at the admiral’s quarters in a hillside cave. The fortunes of war had driven him into this primitive lair, which served as both office and bedroom.
Ugaki lay fully dressed on a cot. Miyazaki stood before him and collected his breath before speaking. “The duty officer tells me you have ordered a sortie of carrier bombers. May I ask your plans, sir?”
The admiral smiled up at him, knowing full well that Miyazaki already knew what he intended that day. He said nothing, just continued to smile.
In Tokyo, Hirohito woke up at twenty minutes before seven. Only then was he informed of the drastic developments of the long night. He asked that General Tanaka be brought in to report on the coup. That redoubtable warrior was supervising the last stages of the withdrawal of dissident elements from the compound. At 7:00 A.M. he met a member of the Household staff on the palace grounds; he presented him with his calling card, and inquired as to the Emperor’s health. Assured that he was well, Tanaka offered, “The rebellion is over.”
And it was. Peace came once more to the spacious acreage in the center of Tokyo. Early risers going to work on the fateful morning of August 15 could not possibly imagine the drama that had gripped the sacred ground in the past hours. On the surface everything looked normal. But in the forests lurked three men who would have turned the city
into a battleground had they succeeded in their plan. Hatanaka, Shiizaki and Koga had so far eluded arrest but they knew their hours of freedom were numbered. Tanaka let them stay out of sight, assuming that they would probably commit suicide.
At the War Minister’s home, nothing had changed. Anami still clung to life. He had been unconscious for nearly three hours. When Colonel Shinaji Kobayashi, from the staff of General Sugiyama, came to see the dying man, he was sickened at the prolonged struggle he witnessed. Though others had wanted to speed Anami’s death, none actually dared interfere. Kobayashi acted immediately. He ordered everyone from the room except one military physician, to whom he gave explicit instructions. The doctor agreed and opened his medical kit. From it he drew a hypodermic needle. He approached the thrashing form, bent down, and inserted the syringe in an arm. General Korechika Anami died in seconds.
When assistants cleansed the body, bloodstained papers that had lain under Anami for hours were revealed. One read:
Believing firmly that our sacred land shall never perish, I—with my death—humbly apologize to the Emperor for the great crime.
Anami had offered himself in payment for the mistakes of the Army.
FOURTEEN
Peace on Earth
As General Anami’s men prepared his body for cremation, half a world away the President of the United States was standing in the Oval Room of the White House. The office was a bedlam as photographers snapped pictures of the group centered around Truman’s desk. Generals, admirals, statesmen, all listened as the Chief Executive, cool-looking in a summer suit, read from a paper.
“I have just received a note from the Japanese Government in reply to the message forwarded to that Government by the Secretary of State on August 11. I deem this reply a full acceptance of the Potsdam Declaration which specifies the unconditional surrender of Japan. In the reply there is no qualification.…”
The World War II Chronicles Page 21
