The Jersey Brothers

by Sally Mott Freeman

  The two commanders had progressed across their respective Pacific battlegrounds, however, and were both now on the doorstep of enemy home territory. The time for the separate command axes to converge had come. Critical decisions were now at hand, including where and when that convergence should occur, and which commander would lead the combined final thrust against mainland Japan.

  The core conflicts had not changed. By pay grade measurement, MacArthur was the more senior in rank of the two flag officers and would not report to someone junior to him, but the Pacific was a naval theater by its very nature, and placing an army officer in overall command of an ocean battlefield was still just as unacceptable to the navy.

  Not inconsequential to the unique Pearl Harbor summit was that 1944 was an election year, and Roosevelt had just accepted the Democratic Party nomination for a fourth presidential term. At the same time, MacArthur was enjoying broad media speculation as a possible Republican presidential contender. Summoning MacArthur to Hawaii—over his strenuous objections to “leaving his command,” especially for the Nimitz stronghold of Oahu—served the additional purpose of cementing FDR’s credentials as MacArthur’s boss.

  MacArthur agreed to attend the conference only when directly ordered by General Marshall. He still managed to convey his displeasure by rolling up late to Admiral Nimitz’s dockside ceremony greeting FDR’s ship—in a flag-wielding, open-air touring car, flanked by a deafening escort of motorcycles and wearing a bomber jacket with his corncob pipe between his teeth. Reporters crowded around him nonetheless, their cameras flashing, as MacArthur knew they would.

  Despite that inauspicious beginning, the July 27 summit proceeded amicably in a luxurious villa at the Pearl Harbor Officers Club. Inside a map-hung room with balconies offering sweeping views of Waikiki, the parties discussed the various topics and even agreed on some of them. There was consensus that Japan could not continue to aggressively wage war without continuing to draw food, oil, and raw materials from its southern supply sources in the Dutch East Indies and Malaysia. How best to accomplish the crucial goal of cutting Japan’s access to those supplies was disputed vigorously.

  In a plan known in senior navy circles as “Admiral King’s baby,” Admiral Nimitz proposed bypassing the Philippines entirely—inspiring clenched jaws in the MacArthur delegation—and seizing the more proximate Formosa (present-day Taiwan). Nimitz argued that, with Formosa in Allied hands, a fail-safe blockade could be imposed that would decisively sever Japan from its supply sources. Simple geography. Nimitz also favored Formosa over the Philippines as the logical forward base for subsequent attacks on mainland Japan. It was closer to China, from which Allied bombers could easily reach Japan’s home islands, and was ideally suited as a rendezvous point from which to invade mainland Japan—if and when that time came.

  By seizing Formosa, Nimitz added tactfully, the Allies could end the war more quickly and with significantly fewer Filipino casualties—certainly fewer than would occur during a complex and lengthy invasion of the seven-thousand-island atoll of the Philippines. Chafed by his exclusion from the meeting, Admiral King had vigorously urged Nimitz to make another point in his absence: that war progress should not be slowed, nor excessive blood shed, for the purpose of servicing MacArthur’s sentimentality or restoring his reputation. The more genteel Admiral Nimitz declined to make that point.

  General MacArthur countered with commanding eloquence for the retaking of the Philippines. He presented strongly and without notes, fully aware that his reputation and military legacy depended on it. He reminded the group that the Philippines was an American commonwealth, and the United States had a constitutional responsibility to liberate her people. Taking the Philippines first would also enable the Allies to sever Japan from its supply sources. He reiterated his “personal guarantee”—previously circulated in Hawaii and Washington by General Sutherland—that the Philippines campaign could be accomplished in thirty days to six weeks, with “inconsequential” losses.

  “The eyes of all Asia will be watching,” he then admonished Roosevelt, warning that America’s postwar image in that part of the world would be tarnished forever if the Philippines were bypassed. Nor did he miss the opportunity to salt the old wound of “America’s failure” to send ships and reinforcements to beleaguered Bataan and Corregidor in their hour of need, abandoning not only an alleged promise to do so, but also loyal Filipinos and tens of thousands of Americans as well.

  Any plan to bypass the Philippines, MacArthur declared, was “utterly unsound.” With signature theatrics and sweeping hand gestures, he stood before the map and patiently explained his long-planned amphibian invasion—beginning at Mindanao and thrusting northward up the island chain to Leyte, and then Luzon. He emphasized the flow of intelligence from Filipino guerrillas since the enemy occupation, maintained at great risk to those involved. It was unconscionable, he concluded, that the United States even consider not honoring MacArthur’s much-publicized promise to return.

  “Give me an aspirin,” ordered the president after enduring three hours of General MacArthur’s oratory. “In fact, give me another aspirin to take in the morning. In all my life, nobody has ever talked to me the way MacArthur did.”

  Roosevelt would need that second aspirin. On the following day, MacArthur took advantage of a private moment with the president to press one last point. “I daresay [if the Philippines were bypassed], the American people would be so aroused that they would register the most complete resentment against you at the polls this fall.” To Candidate Roosevelt, this was heard as a threat—exactly as MacArthur had intended it.

  WHAT THE SUMMIT PARTICIPANTS did not yet know was that the US Submarine Service had already imposed a virtual supply blockade of Japan. From recently won bases at Saipan and Guam, bands of roving submarine “wolf packs,” as they were known, were sending one merchant vessel after another—carrying hundreds of tons of oil, iron ore, coal, bauxite, rubber, aluminum, arms, ammunition, aircraft, and enemy troops—to the ocean floor. By the end of Operation Forager, few enemy merchant vessels entering or departing Japanese-controlled ports were spared by Allied submarines. In fact, what they had already accomplished would come to be known as the most effective undersea war in the history of human conflict.

  The submarine force had grown in size, agility, and effectiveness since December 7, 1941, when the United States ordered unrestricted submarine warfare—that is, submarine attacks on merchant vessels without warning—voiding its international treaty to the contrary. Under the gutsy guidance of Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood—“Uncle Charlie” to his devoted men—these wolf packs swaggered along the Pacific’s undersea lanes like vigilante posses: mission driven, armed to the teeth, and bristling for kills.

  They went by such names as Ben’s Busters, Ed’s Eradicators, Clyde’s Cannibals, and Whittaker’s Wolves, and the enormity of destruction they conferred on the enemy vied with that of Allied surface fleets many times their size. Just like their warships and aircraft, Japanese merchant ships transporting military personnel and cargo (including food) had to be destroyed in order to prevent them from aiding Japan’s war effort or inflicting future harm.

  The submariners possessed another deadly weapon: code breakers. By 1944, their cryptanalysts were reading Japanese transmissions with relative ease, providing the undersea combatants with exact sailing dates and times and course, speed, and composition of formations and convoys—though much less precise data on their cargo. This made it possible to triangulate convoy positions, allowing the wolf packs to lie in wait and then fire torpedoes deep into the unsuspecting ships’ hulls. The nimble subs would then dive hundreds of feet to evade depth charges dropped by the enemy ships. Barton Cross would have swelled with pride at the war performance of the submarines that had once been under his care. But he might also have been justifiably nervous, given the dramatic rise in 1944 of Allied prisoners traveling between enemy ports in unmarked Japanese merchant ships.

  WHILE NO FINAL AGREEMENT was
reached at the Pearl Harbor conference, it was clear that MacArthur’s emotional arguments and political intimations made their mark on Roosevelt. MacArthur’s enduring—if self-propagated—status as American Hero, his broad conservative newspaper following, and his “strongest nonconcurrence” for any plan that omitted the Philippines would ultimately force the hand of a campaign-minded president.

  The final decision was handed down six weeks later, on September 8, 1944: the next military objective in the Pacific would be the Philippines. MacArthur would land at Mindanao in October and progress to Leyte Island by December 20, 1944. In the meantime, the Joint Chiefs directed Admiral Nimitz to prepare for the subsequent invasions of Iwo Jima and Okinawa. An invasion of Formosa was tabled, much to Admiral King’s disappointment.

  But just four days after these decisions were handed down, Admiral Halsey—whose aggressive Third Fleet had been clearing Japanese shipping in the southern Philippines—reported minimal enemy resistance around Mindanao. In fact, said Halsey, “there was no shipping left to sink.”

  He followed with a bold three-part suggestion to Admiral Nimitz: that (1) Mindanao be bypassed entirely, (2) the invasion of the Philippines instead begin at Leyte, and (3) the Leyte invasion date be set for October 20.

  Nimitz and the Joint Chiefs agreed, believing that Halsey’s proposal could shorten the Pacific War. The Philippines invasion plan was thus revised accordingly. But there was a crucial omission in this grand revisiting of Pacific strategy in the summer and autumn of 1944. Both President Roosevelt and his Joint Chiefs had dodged their last, best chance to put the Pacific theater under a single, unified command. Interservice rivalries and political considerations had teamed to prevent that logical course of action—even as the mammoth forces of the US Army and Navy were about to converge.

  In the upcoming Philippine invasion, therefore, the navy’s Seventh Fleet, with its home port in Australia and under MacArthur’s purview, would continue to report to Brisbane GHQ. Admiral Halsey’s Third Fleet would operate under navy command. These two fleets, consisting of many hundreds of ships of every description, were about to converge in enemy-infested waters without so much as a common radio frequency.

  This flawed command structure was in stark contrast to the one in place throughout the island-by-island sweep across the Central Pacific. In that sequence of campaigns, Admiral Spruance oversaw all aspects of each invasion, from shore bombardment, to air cover, to fire support, to troop landings, to operations ashore. A unified command structure had made crucial split-second decision-making possible—especially at the Battle of Saipan.

  At Saipan, Admiral Spruance directed Kelly Turner to land tens of thousands of troops under heavy enemy resistance while Navajo code talkers communicated minute-by-minute enemy positions to marines ashore and to ships offshore. Spruance simultaneously ordered his fast carrier task force to sortie from Saipan and attack the Japanese Fleet in the Philippine Sea and another contingent of ships to remain and protect the Saipan landings. The continuous and coordinated flow of intelligence and communications to and among these disparate units and attack forces—under rapidly shifting battle conditions—saved lives and ultimately determined the battle’s positive outcome. Conversely, army and navy forces merging off the Philippines would answer to two separate maestros—each with vastly different training and each free to indulge his respective interpretation of risk and success. This arrangement would prove particularly detrimental to urgent communications in the heat of battle.

  Thanks to MacArthur’s insistence on complete control of communications within his command area, the Seventh and Third Fleets would not be permitted to communicate directly with each other. Astoundingly, they instead had to relay their messages through an intermediary army radio station. The messages would be rebroadcast to the intended recipients only after army receipt and evaluation. It was a prescription for mortal trouble, as already evidenced by the preventable sinking of the Shinyo Maru. It could take hours for a dispatch to get from one fleet to the other, and they could easily arrive out of sequence—or too late.

  WHILE DELIBERATIONS OVER FUTURE Pacific strategy coursed their way to this imperfect solution, Bill Mott’s condition improved. By early September, he was declared healed and itching to get back to Admiral Turner and the Iwo Jima and Okinawa invasion planning. Negotiating his way out of Aiea Heights, however, was proving difficult.

  Orders for his release had stalled somewhere in the bureaucracy, with few explanations forthcoming. Finally, Bill discovered the problem, and it was serious: diligent Dr. Delbridge had recommended, due to the severity of Bill’s initial diagnosis—bleeding, potentially perforated stomach ulcers, with possibility of relapse—that he not return to sea duty. Bill was stunned and furious in equal parts. To come this far and then be sidelined not by his eyes but his stomach?

  From his hospital cot, Bill began working the navy’s front and back channels, a skill long in the honing. And he wasn’t above charming Aiea’s nursing staff to his cause. But his real weapon was feisty Admiral Turner, who, on hearing Delbridge’s recommendation, charged up Aiea Heights’s macadam drive and asserted himself on Bill Mott’s behalf.

  “You listen to me, goddammit!” Turner growled at Dr. Delbridge, within an inch or two of his nose. “You show me Mott’s most recent tests supporting your goddamn order. If you can find me a goddamn ulcer, you win. If you can’t find me an ulcer, I want him released to my command. Period!”

  Delbridge replied evenly that it wasn’t a matter of the most recent tests, which did indeed indicate that Bill Mott was healed; the problem was with Bill’s initial diagnosis, given shipboard before his air evacuation from the Marianas. That diagnosis had indicated a very serious condition, one with the potential—if not the likelihood—for relapse.

  When Turner demanded verification, a baffled Dr. Delbridge came up empty-handed. It seemed the paperwork detailing the original diagnosis had gone missing—it couldn’t be found anywhere in the hospital.

  Bill Mott sat quietly and listened to the two men. Piping up might lead to questions he didn’t wish to answer. Fortunately, it never came to that. Turner pressed his position and won the point, if not a friend in Dr. Delbridge. Bill Mott was thus cleared for discharge.

  Just as he was preparing to return to Rocky Mount, however, another setback almost knocked him back to his hospital cot. The news came in a reluctant call from Benny. At Aiea, Bill had enjoyed weeks of barely concealed optimism about Rosenquist’s rescue mission, in which he had placed soaring hope. That dream came to an abrupt end with Benny’s call.

  If that had been the worst news—that the prisoners had been removed from Davao before Rosenquist could act—it would have been bad enough; but Benny’s additional revelation was beyond his imagining. A US Navy submarine had torpedoed the Japanese merchant ship carrying the Davao prisoners in its hull? Instead of being rescued by a navy submarine—an image that had animated the sweetest of Bill’s dreams—Barton had possibly been torpedoed by one?

  And their mother knew! Benny delivered this final blow with the greatest reluctance, knowing it would be a dagger to Bill’s heart. “My God,” was all he could manage. Of all the problems he had anticipated, this was not among them.

  Benny assured Bill that he was working tirelessly in Washington to corner the details. He was already in contact with two different branches at the Pentagon to learn all he could. It was not clear that Barton had been among the approximately 680 prisoners killed—it wasn’t even certain that he was on that ship. In any case, there were some survivors, he said, and eventually they would be sent to Washington for a thorough debriefing. Maybe he could learn more then.

  Meanwhile, Benny had requested the fated ship’s roster and a list of the dead from the Captured Personnel and Casualty Branches. He made inquiries with the judge advocate generals’ and army provost marshal offices, the International Red Cross, and the State Department, all of which had a keen interest in the circumstances surrounding the Shinyo Maru sinkin
g and its survivors. Benny had gone to great lengths to penetrate the bureaucracy and get the facts, but so far he had little to show for it. It was a situation Bill understood all too well.

  Benny tried to offer hope, but for Bill there was no solace. The very term “surviving prisoners” brought on waves of nausea. But it was the thought of his mother receiving such news that laid him the lowest. Bill felt sure she would see only this: for all his efforts, he had failed her spectacularly. Again.

  34

  THROUGH A PRISM: MACARTHUR’S RETURN

  I.

  THE PRISONERS AT CABANATUAN knew in their bones that the Americans were closing in. It was just a matter of time. But would that seminal moment come in time to save them? The men alternately rejoiced and lamented as reports of Allied gains vied with rumors of accelerating prisoner shipments to Japan. Camp morale swung from high to low with each version of “the news.”

  The Davao prisoners had dreaded returning to Cabanatuan, perhaps Charles Armour most of all. His invective-laced complaints filled the scalding boxcar on their train ride north. No doubt Barton shared in the grumbling, but he was emphatically not unhappy at this juncture, still buoyed by the single, cherished letter he received before leaving Davao and by the positive war news at Cebu. He returned to Cabanatuan’s rice fields without complaint.

  Unlike many of the prisoners, his mind, spirit—even his body, though reduced—were sound. Not only had his center held these three long years, but his trials had undraped a character of steel and an expansive soul. The ragged shrapnel wound from December 1941, which had marked the beginning of his journey to manhood, was now a pigment-free scar in the shape of a lightning bolt. Like a birthmark, it was a constant reminder of where it had all started. Barton’s peers revered him for his optimism, selflessness, humor, and—no minor attribute among deprived and desperate men—an innate sense of fairness. If only he could make it home to live out these good lessons. By mid-1944, Barton’s prayers had distilled to a single incantation: that they be rescued before it was too late.