Twenty-four hours before the ceremony on the Missouri ended, far south of Tokyo Bay, a heavy-set man had walked about on a mountainside and brooded about his future. He was not optimistic. Wearily he gazed around his campsite where emaciated men cooked rats over fires and shivered in the summer heat from malaria.
The figure moved toward the center of the clearing. His wrinkled uniform was that of a Japanese general. Tomoyuki Yamashita surveyed the remnants of his army and sighed softly. Three years ago he had commanded a victorious drive that astounded the world. Now he commanded only a dismal retreat. His army was a rabble, existing on vermin while rotting away in the jungles.
The mountain he stood on was called Prog and it rose in the north central highlands of Luzon in the Philippines. There Yamashita had managed to hold off several American divisions closing in on him.
His ordeal had begun the previous October when MacArthur landed at Leyte. At that time Yamashita was brought to the Philippines to stem the irresistible flow of the enemy toward Japan. Though the Japanese had an impressive army in the area, they were woefully deficient in airpower and practically impotent on the sea. Yamashita brought with him an unquestioned talent as a military leader and a fierce determination to bring about a miracle.
His history was impressive. Like many Japanese officers, he was an ardent student of the German military system. In 1940, as head of a military mission, he had gone to Germany to observe at close range the methods employed in Hitler’s lightning conquest of the continent. In 1941 and 1942 he adapted some of these practices to inflict the most stunning defeat the British Empire suffered in the entire war. Miracles were not strange to him; he accomplished one in the jungles of Malaya.
When hostilities began in December 1941, the Japanese war machine needed the resources of the Dutch East Indies in order to survive. The naval bastion of Singapore, at the tip of the Malay peninsula, was a strategic Allied strongpoint that denied access to that area. Yamashita was told to conquer it.
The Japanese who landed on the torturous trails of the Malay peninsula brought a secret weapon with them: the bicycle. Columns of soldiers sped down the trails on wheels while tanks followed and lent their firepower at critical moments. Allied defenders were completely demoralized by the unorthodox tactics.
Yamashita also instituted the first large-scale usage of amphibious landings behind enemy lines. Time after time he cut off enemy divisions holding tenaciously to the narrow peninsula. Repeatedly the defenders were dislodged by such maneuvers.
Inside the British lines, a weary and discouraged General Percival made a fatal mistake. He badly overestimated Yamashita’s strength. Because his own forces had been driven into a disastrous retreat, he could only conclude that the Japanese maintained tremendous reserves of manpower and supplies. Nothing else seemed to account for the pathetic state of his army.
Percival was wrong. At the gates of Singapore, the Japanese halted, concealing a glaring weakness. The British forces actually outnumbered the Japanese by three to one. Yamashita had only thirty thousand men and was almost out of ammunition and food. His supply lines were badly clogged and stretched back hundreds of miles. Japanese troops, already living on two bowls of rice a day, faced starvation unless the fortress surrendered promptly.
Yamashita prepared for one all-out attack. He was convinced that further delay would allow the British time to receive reinforcements by sea and eventually drive back the Japanese.
The first assault troops came across the straits separating Malaya from the island of Singapore, and managed to secure a foothold against a raw and disorganized Australian division. With this beachhead established, the outcome was assured. The British began blowing up their tremendous oil tanks while the Japanese pressed the attack.
On the fourteenth of February, three English officers approached the Japanese lines carrying white flags. The opposing generals met at 7:00 P.M. at the Ford factory on the outskirts of the city. Percival was nervous, shaking and rather pitiable. Yamashita was relaxed, almost serene. His only problem at the moment was his interpreter, who could not seem to translate the technical aspects of the surrender terms. Yamashita finally asked for a yes-or-no answer. Correspondents and soldiers alike assumed he was being belligerent in his statement. Such was not the case. He actually felt sorry for the British general and even wanted to say something consoling to him in his moment of shame. However, he thought better of it and left. When the Japanese Army marched into the city the next day, General Yamashita became a household word in Japan.
His success was short-lived. Apparently afraid of the publicity his subordinate was getting, General Tojo transferred him quickly to the Manchurian border. The Tiger of Malaya disappeared into that quiet backwater of war, watching the Siberian hills and plains for any sign of Russian hostility. His name disappeared from the newspapers in Japan and his image among the people dimmed.
For over two years the uncomplaining soldier remained in oblivion while the war went badly. After Tojo fell from power in 1944, he emerged once more. In Tokyo military strategists correctly foresaw a huge American thrust against the Philippines and chose Yamashita to blunt the attack. In September of 1944 he left Japan for the last time.
His instincts warned his that the decisive battle would be fought on Luzon, the largest island in the Philippines. He planned to concentrate his troops there and wage a stubborn defensive action which would tie up the Americans for many months. His strategy was almost immediately overruled by superiors in Tokyo, who insisted on sending reinforcements to Leyte where Douglas MacArthur had returned to the scene of the greatest disaster in his career.
On October 20, the Americans came in on the beaches of Leyte and MacArthur sat under a palm tree and talked with correspondents about the long road back from Australia. Thirty-one months before he had furtively stolen away from a dock at Corregidor. Behind him he had left the “battling bastards of Bataan.” Since MacArthur had never known defeat in his life, the bitter memory of the debacle on Luzon rankled in him for over two years. On the beach at Leyte, he partially fulfilled his debt to return. The final payment would come later on Luzon.
Disillusioned at the stupid waste of manpower dictated by higher authorities in Japan, Yamashita continued to funnel troops into the maelstrom at Leyte and, in doing so, played right into the hands of the Americans. One infantry general likened the island to a butcher’s market, where the Americans set up shop and waited for the enemy to come in to get killed. Many of the reserves Yamashita had counted on for the ultimate fight on Luzon were lost to him forever.
On January 9, when the Sixth United States Army waded ashore at Lingayen Gulf on Luzon, the last struggle for the Philippines began. Once the massive strength of the Americans was unloaded, the outcome was never in doubt. It was only a question of time. Yamashita withdrew, stopped and fought, retreated, turned and attacked. Slowly the Americans forced him into the mountains. The city of Manila lay open. Yamashita was content to go into the hills, for there he planned to hold out for a long time. He had no intention of fighting for the capital and, though he did not declare it an open city, he took his men away from it and retreated skillfully.
MacArthur himself expected that Manila would be left untouched. He reasoned that it would be too much of an effort for the enemy to maintain an adequate defense within the limits of the city. One million Filipino civilians would act as a dead weight on Japanese supply channels. They had enough trouble feeding themselves without being concerned about the fate of the natives. MacArthur thought the enemy would leave a small rear guard to destroy military objectives such as harbor facilities. Then they would retreat to the south and east and set up another defense line.
His estimate of the situation coincided with Yamashita’s. The Japanese general’s orders were explicit. The installations would be blown up, all supplies removed or destroyed, and a new line established outside the city.
When MacArthur’s troops arrived on the outskirts, it appeared that the Japanese had trul
y withdrawn. A communiqué was sent out to the world announcing the capture of the city. A triumphal parade was planned. The First Cavalry Division was accorded the honor of leading the procession into the capital. Uniforms were pressed. Speeches were prepared.
Then observation planes flying over the peaceful streets noted large fires burning in the center of the city. Manila was in flames. The Japanese were staying to fight.
American officers were appalled at the news. No one wanted to see the beautiful city become a battlefield. Many of the men around MacArthur had spent years in the Far East and looked upon Manila as one would a home town. To some it was a romantic mistress, to others an adventurous oasis from a former life. The Sixth Army went into battle with heavy hearts.
Up in the mountains, Yamashita assumed that his soldiers had left the capital. Cut off from the rest of his army, he could not know that a naval landing force had entrenched itself inside the walls and erected barricades on the streets in defiance of expressed orders. As usual in Japanese military circles, the Army and Navy seldom agreed on anything. Admiral Okochi, in charge of naval personnel, decided that Manila should be defended and sent Rear Admiral Iwabuchi into the still unmarked city with a vague plan to delay the Americans as long as possible. Iwabuchi and his desperate rear guard did a formidable job.
For nearly one month, into late February, Manila was a slaughterhouse, the scene of multiple atrocities, as Japanese marines fought insanely to defend the strategically unimportant city. In the hills of Luzon, Yamashita could know nothing of the extent of the carnage, but he was advised of the ridiculous rear guard action and ordered the Navy to leave. He even sent an Army relief column to help Iwabuchi’s forces to withdraw. It failed to make contact, but the situation could hardly have been altered anyway.
Meanwhile, harried by advancing American troops, the general strove only to keep his army together. His troops were scattered, but still potent. They occupied the attention of three American divisions which painfully flushed out the survivors in the tangled undergrowth. Yamashita had done an excellent job in tying down the enemy and giving his homeland time to prepare for the inevitable invasion. He could do nothing more. For six more months, Yamashita held out.
On August 13, the shortwave radio from Tokyo carried the controversial Army speech urging Japanese soldiers to “crush the enemy.” Yamashita grimaced as he heard it; his men were dying of starvation before his eyes.
When the radio brought the word of the Emperor’s decision to surrender, the tired general retired to his hut and stared at the ceiling. Akira Muto, his chief of staff, watched him carefully to make sure that he would not commit suicide. Yamashita quickly allayed his fears by telling him that it was his duty to return all the soldiers in the Philippines to their homes in Japan. Then he went to bed.
On the second day of September, in bright, warm sunlight, a column of men walked away from the last headquarters of the Japanese Army in the Philippines. Yamashita was going to meet the enemy and he had no illusions about his future. His nation had lost a war and the conqueror would exact tribute. Behind him, Muto was filled with fear. He sensed that the Americans would hold Yamashita responsible for what had happened in Manila months before. Muto urged the general not to go into the enemy camp but to retreat further into the mountains and live as a guerrilla chieftain. Yamashita brushed his fears aside.
The procession continued down slopes wild with the beautiful lushness of a tropical summer. A tall, heavy-set man, Yamashita wore riding pants below his jacket. Puttees were wrapped about his legs. His clothes were badly wrinkled and sagged on his thin frame. On his head he wore a standard garrison cap. The general’s eyes were badly pouched, and he carried a heavy cane to support himself on the long walk. The column stopped frequently to eat and rest. Only the birds sounded above them in the stillness. For a brief time the awful war receded.
At Kiangan, several miles away from his final command post, Yamashita stopped in front of Item Company, Thirty-second United States Infantry Division, and entered into captivity. Within hours, he and his party were taken to Baguio and their first ordeal before the victors.
There, on September 3, in the former home of the High Commissioner to the Philippines, a long table was the focal point of a ceremony. In an ornate room, in finely carved chairs, American officers sat waiting. Across from them, Yamashita, Muto and Admiral Okochi stood stiffly for ten long minutes. Then the door opened and the Japanese watched as several more men entered the room. Yamashita’s right eyebrow rose perceptibly as he suddenly recognized a ghost from the past. It was General Percival, just flown in from Tokyo to witness the signing. Yamashita quickly recovered his composure and never again looked at the emaciated British officer. With Percival was Jonathan Wainwright, who watched closely as General William Styer accepted Yamashita’s capitulation in a formal manner.
Then the American general spoke sharply: “General Yamashita, Vice Admiral Okochi and the others shall be held as prisoners of war.”
A burly American MP poked a finger in Yamashita’s shoulder and pointed to the door. As the general turned to leave, Wainwright noticed tears in his eyes. Then the Japanese went through the door and into bondage.
After the ceremony, Wainwright went up to General Styer and asked that Yamashita be treated fairly. Styer looked at him and muttered: “He’ll be given everything he’s entitled to under the Geneva Convention. We don’t want to be accused of doing to him what they did to you.” Wainwright thanked him and walked away.
Yamashita was driven that day to the outskirts of Manila and the New Bilibid Prison. Within days he would be charged with 123 separate counts of war crimes and put on trial for his life. General Muto’s prediction had been correct.
Yamashita, the loser, was the first man to go on trial before his accusers. Some Americans later described his judges as a lynch mob seeking vengeance. Behind the walls of Bilidid, Yamashita, dressed in G.I. fatigues, sat down to prepare his defense. It was hopeless.
On the eighth of September, the First Cavalry Division led the way into Tokyo. Japanese General Gen Sugiyama had skillfully withdrawn all Japanese troops north of the capital in compliance with Eichelberger’s orders. Now MacArthur was on his way to the American Embassy to raise the flag over the heart of the Japanese Empire.
Admiral Bull Halsey was with him. He was not riding the Emperor’s white horse as he had threatened to do, but he was present in the procession, beside the Supreme Commander.
General William Chase rode at the head of his division, which had fought the Japanese for three years through jungles into the scorched and broken city of Manila. At the sign marking the city limits of Tokyo, Chase ordered his car stopped. He stepped down, walked across the line into the capital, then returned to his jeep for the uneventful trip to the ceremony at the Embassy.
His men were impeccably clad, their boots shining, their helmets gleaming. Mile after mile of trucks, guns and men moved into the center of Tokyo, into the last bastion of the Land of the Rising Sun. The Emperor’s own palace was virtually surrounded by legions of a foreign power.
In the grass courtyard of the white-walled Embassy, MacArthur enjoyed another dramatic moment in his illustrious career. Standing with Eichelberger and Halsey in front of a drained lily pond, he listened as “The Star-Spangled Banner” resounded off the walls of the compound. Fully conscious of the importance and irony of the moment, MacArthur turned to Eichelberger and said firmly: “Let our country’s flag be unfurled, and in Tokyo’s sun let it wave in its full glory as a symbol of hope for the oppressed and as a harbinger of victory for the right.”
Old Glory rose above the rubble of Tokyo.
TWENTY-TWO
The Last Recourse
Tokyo was occupied. Only thirty days after the bomb fell on Nagasaki, troopers of the First Cavalry Division patrolled the streets of the capital. The folly begun in Manchuria and compounded at Pearl Harbor had come to its inevitable end.
For the Japanese survivors the situation was des
perate. Soldiers of the Imperial Army had no jobs and faced a purge by the Occupation authorities. Sailors had no navy and little hope. The thoughts in many minds centered around the possibility of suicide.
Already General Anami had offered his life to atone for the crimes perpetrated by the military. Admiral Onishi had died in expiation for defeat. Tanaka had done the same.
In the suburb of Setagaya, the most famous general of all pondered a difficult choice. Hideki Tojo, the “architect” of the Pacific War, had lived in relative seclusion for over a year. Deposed in July of 1944, he had retired to an unfamiliar role as adviser to the Throne. Younger men acceded to his authority while he watched the war go even more badly for his nation. When the surrender came, the sixty-three-year-old former Premier felt that he would be held responsible for the war and made his plans accordingly.
It was expected by every Japanese that he would kill himself. As a mastermind in the planning for the war, he would have to atone for the unfortunate state of affairs at the end of hostilities. As Japan’s situation had worsened, so had Tojo’s public reputation. Even his family received telephone calls urging that he commit hara-kiri. Tojo was torn between the traditional way out and another obligation. He wanted to accept full blame for the war and divert any possible onus of responsibility from the Imperial House. If he lived, he could testify to his own role in the planning of strategy. If he died, he would be taking the easiest way out.
He compromised. Just before the surrender, he went to his doctor and had him mark on his chest the exact location of his heart in case he decided to shoot himself. As an alternative, he also prepared his kimono and knives for a possible hara-kiri ceremony. In his study he arranged these implements and wrote several last statements, one of which absolved the Emperor of any guilt for the war.
The World War II Chronicles Page 32
