There, the Imperial Palace Hotel, famous for surviving the earthquake of 1923, became their base of operations. In its way, it was as isolated from the world as the Emperor’s palace beyond the moat across the street. Damaged in the bombings, it nevertheless still functioned in an “elegant” manner. Americans recognized waiters and bellboys, barbers and maîtres d’hôtel, from the past. The hotel was an oasis in a wilderness of ruins. It retained an unhurried pace which denied that a war had ever occurred, and operated as though Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima were merely figments of the imagination.
Several reporters proceeded to toast each other into a stupor there, and then wander out through the streets, which were otherwise largely deserted.
At the Ministry of the Interior in downtown Tokyo, Japanese officials heard an uproar outside as a car sped up the street and screeched to a halt in front of the building. An American war correspondent stood up in the seat and fired his revolver into the air twice.
The Japanese cringed as they listened to the gunfire. One muttered, “Oh God, is this the way the Occupation is going to begin?” A young aide rushed down the steps to the reporter and asked if he could help.
“I want to see the Minister,” the newsman shouted drunkenly. The official assured him that the Minister was not around and the correspondent listened to him, undecided what to do next. Then he lurched back into the jeep and drove off down the street. The aide took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead as he mounted the steps back into the building.
Another Japanese official in Tokyo had a visit that day from American army officers. Kantaro Uemura, of the Metropolitan Police, received several counterintelligence men from the United States Army. They asked only two questions. The first was: “Where do the following live?” They named Government officials and military men who might possibly be held for war crimes trials. Uemura supplied the addresses. The other, more basic, question was of immediate importance: “Where is the red light district in Tokyo?” It was important to find out before the bulk of the American Army came into the city. The Intelligence people wanted to put it off limits right away.
The Yoshiwari district, world-famous prostitute quarter, had been burned down by fire raids, but the Government had quickly built a new one to buoy up the morale of thousands of Japanese men. When Uemura defined the section of the capital that now served as a brothel area, the Intelligence men departed with the vital information.
As the Occupation began, the citizens of the Tokyo area were trapped in a classic situation. A conquering army was beginning to walk in the streets, and incidents between soldiers and civilians were bound to occur. Almost immediately, reports of looting and robbery on the streets of Yokohama and Yokosuka flooded in to alarmed Japanese and American officials. When, within the first forty-eight hours several instances of rape occurred, Japanese liaison committee members hastened to Allied Headquarters with the news. In one case in Yokosuka, three Americans had invaded the home of a man named Koizumi and assaulted his wife and daughter.
Supreme Headquarters ordered an immediate investigation of all such allegations. MacArthur reaffirmed the death penalty for convicted rapists. Senior American Army and Navy officers were warned to maintain discipline among their forces.
As a result, acts of extreme violence diminished markedly in the days that followed.
On August 30, at the Tokyo waterfront, prisoners from Camp Omori ran out to the shoreline to greet members of the Fourth Marine Regiment. As landing barges moved toward shore, battle-hardened Marines saw emaciated Americans wading out into the surf, crying hysterically, sobbing out inarticulate greetings. As they approached closer, the men in the boats wept, too.
Commander Harold Stassen walked up to the gates of Omori. He was stopped by the Japanese commandant, who blustered, “I have no authority to turn these men over to you.” When the Japanese continued to fume Stassen kicked him squarely in the backside, then looked coldly at the officer and said, “You have no authority, period.”
Among the prisoners freed that day at Omori was Lieutenant Marcus McDilda, the pilot who spread the rumor that Tokyo would be atom-bombed. Taken from Tokyo Kempei Tai headquarters to the camp just before the surrender on August 15, he joined men like Pappy Boyington, the Marine ace of South Pacific air combat fame, in watching the United States establish a beachhead on Tokyo Bay. McDilda’s lie had actually saved his life. Because it caused him to be flown to Tokyo, he was spared the fate of other American prisoners detained at the Osaka secret police headquarters. Shortly after the Emperor broadcast the news of defeat, over fifty airmen there were beheaded by vengeful Japanese soldiers. McDilda’s tale of nuclear bombs had won him a reprieve from that slaughter.
In early evening of August 31, Jonathan Wainwright came in from China to see his old boss.
MacArthur was at dinner when an aide announced Wainwright’s presence in the hotel. The Supreme Commander jumped up and said, “Show him right in.”
Suddenly the door opened and a spectral figure stood there leaning on his cane. MacArthur stared intently at the man who had taken his place on Corregidor and now bore the burden of having surrendered to the enemy. He noticed his sunken eyes and pitted cheeks; he was shocked by his snow-white hair and skin “like old shoe leather.”
The two generals embraced. MacArthur held the bony man in his arms and called huskily, “Jim, Jim.”
Wainwright could only cry, “General,” before his voice broke.
In Nagasaki, at the site of the POW camp, Lt. Jacob Vink, a Dutch medical officer, was still caring for Allied casualties from the Fat Man. Four Dutch prisoners had died instantly on August 9. Three Dutchmen and one Englishman had succumbed to injuries in the days that followed. Thirty-eight other POW’s were being treated for aftereffects. Vink hoped they would survive.
TWENTY-ONE
“These Proceedings Are Closed”
September 2, the day of retribution, dawned surprisingly cool. Under leaden skies, four black limousines drove at full speed down the shoreline of Tokyo Bay toward Yokohama. In the first car, General Yoshijiro Umezu sat back and reflected on his role this day. Against his wishes, he had been ordered by the Emperor to represent the armed forces of Japan on the battleship Missouri. Umezu was despondent. Though outwardly he mirrored the image of a samurai warrior, he was a bitter, chagrined man.
Beside him in the car was a frail, bespectacled veteran of the foreign service, Mamoru Shigemitsu. As the delegate of the Gaimusho, the Foreign Office, he too would sign the surrender document.
Shigemitsu shifted uncomfortably as the speeding limousine bounced over holes in the road. In 1932, his left leg had been blown off in China by a terrorist bomb. Because his wooden stump was both clumsy and ill-fitting, the statesman had since lived in constant pain.
The two men wore contrasting uniforms. Umezu was dressed in the olive garb of a general officer. Shiny cavalry boots and a dangling sword added to his military bearing. Shigemitsu was tailored in London style, with top hat, cutaway coat and striped trousers. Like a statesman going to court, he drove through the ruins of his country to meet the enemy.
Past the leveled dock area of Yokohama into the gutted heart of the seaport, the cars sped. At the Prefectural Office, Shigemitsu, Umezu and the nine other members of the delegation got out and stood mutely, waiting to be taken to a ship.
The Americans had provided one for them. Only the night before, Admiral Katsuhei Nakamura, charged with shepherding the Japanese to the ceremony, discovered that not one Japanese vessel in the vicinity was seaworthy. Not even a tugboat was available. His worries were relieved when the Lansdowne was designated as the official ship for the party. Three other destroyers were tied up at the pier to transport press, Allied representatives and MacArthur’s group.
At 7:30 A.M., the Japanese boarded the destroyer, which headed out into the enormous bay for the sixteen-mile run to the Missouri. On every side they could see the truly awesome might of the American Navy, which had converged from all parts of th
e Pacific and now crowded Tokyo Bay.
Attention centered on Admiral William Halsey’s flagship. The choice of the Missouri as the surrender site had its origins in Washington and reflected the intense rivalry between Army and Navy. Though James Forrestal had wanted Nimitz to conduct the ceremony, MacArthur as Supreme Commander got that assignment. The Navy Secretary then badgered James Byrnes into at least making a naval ship the setting for the drama. As an added lure, he suggested the one named for President Truman’s home state. Thanks to this political horse trade back in America, Bull Halsey was to be host to the ceremony. Whatever the reason, no more fitting choice could have been made.
Halsey had fought the war from the first day. His task force had delivered the last fighters to Midway just before Pearl Harbor. In the dark days in the South Pacific, he had been a ferocious adversary, a combative leader whose profane, salty manner had endeared him to sailors and airmen. Though not a brilliant strategist, Halsey was a tactician of the highest order. In many ways he was the Patton of the Pacific, except that he was far more popular with the G.I.’s, who delighted in telling stories of the admiral’s hatred of the Japanese.
Even after the cease-fire, Halsey was an implacable foe. When the Missouri had first entered Tokyo Bay on August 29, he stood on the bridge with his officers, one of whom pointed at the shore and a huge hospital festooned with red crosses. Halsey peered at it closely and snorted, “Hospital, that’s no hospital. It’s probably one of their biggest goddamn ammunition dumps.” He added, “We ought to string ’em all up.”
On September 2, Halsey was joined by old comrades and allies on the deck of his flagship. Admiral John McCain came aboard. Another man in the Halsey mold, McCain had fought beside Halsey from the beginning. His battered features had won him the nickname “Popeye,” and his service during the war had added luster to his reputation. In the hours before the ceremony, he had a warm reunion with his friends. More relaxed than he had been in years, McCain went around buttonholing old classmates and acquaintances. His cup was full. Ten days later, Admiral John McCain was dead from a heart attack.
A boat came alongside the Missouri that morning carrying Jonathan Wainwright. As the gaunt man stood under the ladder, Halsey reached down and said, “Hi, Skinny.” The general tried to reach up to shake hands. Their fingers touched and tears came to both men’s eyes.
Halsey was enjoying himself tremendously as he presided over the festivities. His flagship was the center of world attention and he had embellished it with an appropriate historical symbol. In full view of the international audience was a faded American flag, vintage 1853, which had been flown by Matthew Perry when he entered Tokyo Bay ninety-two years earlier. It was now too brittle to be hoisted and was instead mounted on a bulkhead over the heads of the participants.
Getting it to Japan had not been easy. Only five days before, Halsey had wired the Naval Academy Museum at Annapolis, requesting immediate delivery of this relic. The young lieutenant who received Halsey’s message saw his opportunity to witness a momentous event and arranged a Number One Priority to deliver the flag in person. From Washington to San Francisco to Pearl Harbor to Kwajalein to Guam to Iwo Jima, Lieutenant John Breymer never let Matthew Perry’s flag out of his sight. Finally he arrived by sea plane at Sagami Bay, and from there carried the precious cloth to the Missouri. He was on hand to watch when the first Japanese pulled himself over the side at 8:55 A.M. on September 2.
That man was Mamoru Shigemitsu. Climbing the swaying rope ladder, behind Colonel Sidney Mashbir, his escort, he had to put unusual pressure on the painful stump of his amputated leg. As his countrymen watched Shigemitsu’s agonizing ascent, several were struck with the similarity between this man’s plight and the condition of their nation. Both were badly crippled, unable to stand.
Umezu followed, and then the others, and finally eleven Japanese were standing on the deck. They arranged themselves in three rows facing the table covered with a green cloth. Across it stood military men from nations still at war with Japan. Toshikazu Kase, Shigemitsu’s aide in the Foreign Office, looked at the many representatives of the awesome coalition and wondered how Japan could ever have conceived of victory. Such madness was almost grimly humorous.
As movie cameras whirred and shutters clicked, the men tensed, waiting for the ceremony to begin. The American uniform of the day was suntans, no tie. They looked oddly casual in such a formal setting. The Japanese seemed stiff and uncomfortable in their ill-fitting, close-necked uniforms and diplomatic attire. Umezu and Shigemitsu stood in the front row of their country’s delegation, staring straight ahead. Colonel Munson’s old friend Ichiji Sugita, in the back row, glanced around and was amazed to see sailors perched precariously on the barrels of sixteen-inch guns to get a better view. Such informality would never be allowed in the Japanese Navy.
The British delegation were dressed in shorts and white knee stockings. The Russians were resplendent in red-epauletted uniforms. The elaborate outfits of the Chinese, French and Canadians contrasted sharply with the American suntans.
At exactly nine o’clock a small door swung open and General Douglas MacArthur, followed by Nimitz and Halsey, strode briskly to the table facing the Japanese. Almost immediately he began to read from the small white paper he carried:
“We are gathered here, representatives of the major warring powers, to conclude a solemn agreement whereby peace may be restored. The issues, involving divergent ideals and ideologies, have been determined on the battlefields of the world and hence are not for our discussion or debate.…”
Another of the Japanese representatives, Admiral Tomioka, glimpsed a familiar face behind MacArthur. For several years the admiral had kept a picture of that man in his office in Tokyo. Daily he had studied it, trying to fathom its owner’s thinking. Regularly he had failed. Now, in September 1945, Tomioka, a naval strategist, stood on the deck of the Missouri and stared intently at Chester Nimitz, his enemy, his rival, his personal antagonist.
Across the deck, General Willoughby, MacArthur’s intelligence chief, was annoyed. Anxious to be in a prominent place on this historic occasion, he had tried to stand as close as possible to his commanding officer. Now a huge Australian general blocked his view and kept him out of any photographs of the scene.
As the general read on, Colonel Sugita’s eyes focused on General Sutherland, who stood behind MacArthur. Chief of Staff Sutherland was leaning over to whisper to British General Percival. Percival turned his head to stare at Sugita. They had met once before. Sugita had been on hand when the Japanese dictated surrender terms to Percival at Singapore in 1942. Both men remembered, and today their eyes met for a long moment.
MacArthur’s hands trembled as he continued: “… The terms and conditions upon which the surrender of the Japanese Imperial Forces is here to be given and accepted are contained in the instrument of surrender now before you.
“As Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers, it is my firm purpose, in the tradition of the countries I represent, to proceed in the discharge of my responsibilities with justice and tolerance, while taking all necessary dispositions to insure that the terms of the surrender are fully, promptly, and faithfully complied with.”
The general stepped back and motioned for the Japanese to sign. There was almost total silence on the great ship as Mamoru Shigemitsu clumped forward to the table. The wind whipped his hair over his forehead as he slowly eased himself into the chair. Placing his silk hat down, he nervously stripped off his yellow gloves and laid them on it. Kase, his aide, hovered at his left shoulder.
Shigemitsu took out a pen and gazed at the document. He seemed puzzled.
MacArthur spoke sharply: “Sutherland. Show him where to sign.” The Chief of Staff went to the table and pointed to the correct line. The embarrassed Foreign Minister flushed, then bent his head as he scrawled his signature. It was 9:04 A.M.
Umezu, Japan’s other signatory, came to the table. Without reading any part of the document, he quickly slashed his
name under that of Shigemitsu. Then, his face impassive, he turned away without looking right or left and marched back to his group. Some of the officers in his delegation had tears on their cheeks.
MacArthur then sat down to sign. As he wrote his name in fragments, the first pen went to Wainwright. Percival got the next one. Another was for West Point, then one for the Archives. The fifth was for his aide, Gen. Courtney Whitney. The last was a red-barreled one and it was for his wife, Jean, and his son Arthur, back in Manila. He finished with a flourish, put the red pen in his shirt pocket, and rose.
Admiral Chester Nimitz sat down and signed for the Navy. The other nations followed. When the last signature was inscribed, MacArthur stepped forward and solemnly declared: “Let us pray that peace be now restored to the world and that God will preserve it always. These proceedings are closed.”
When the Japanese delegates went to pick up their copy of the surrender document, a problem arose. The Canadian representative had inadvertently signed on the wrong line. General Sutherland promptly sat down and made appropriate corrections on the paper. The Japanese headed back toward the gangway. As they passed through a cordon of Allied officers, they received very proper salutes. Umezu stared stonily ahead but returned the gesture. His aides gratefully followed suit.
The Japanese filed down the ladder and entered the small boat for the trip back to Tokyo. They were generally pleased at the tone of MacArthur’s remarks. Foreign Office representative Kase scribbled down his impressions to repeat to Hirohito while others questioned him closely about the exact meaning of the message from the Supreme Commander.
Overhead, a massed flight of B-29’s and carrier planes paraded in a final exhibition of the strength that brought an end to an empire, while the sun shone for the first time that day.
Later that day, soldiers of the First Cavalry Division came ashore from transports and formed up on the docks at Yokohama. The Eleventh Airborne Division Band, which had already been in Japan for three days, serenaded the new arrivals with “The Old Gray Mare, She Ain’t What She Used to Be.”
The World War II Chronicles Page 31
