An Inoffensive Rearmament

by Frank Kowalski

  Returning to the Imperial Rescript, courage was the third virtue. In enunciating this concept, Emperor Meiji was uniquely prophetic: “The soldier and sailor should esteem valor. But there is true valor and false. To incite to mere impetuosity, to violent action cannot be called true valor. If you affect valor and act with violence, the world will in the end detest you and look upon you as wild beasts. Of this you must take heed.” As victors in a savage, fanatical war, we could strike a righteous attitude and accuse, “You should have heeded your emperor.”

  It was in the name of valor, nonetheless, that the Japanese men reached their apex of self-sacrifice. The story of the “Three Human Bombs” is a classic of human valor.

  During the fighting in China in the early 1930s, a Japanese attack was brought to a halt before strongly fortified Chinese emplacements. Three soldiers were selected from a large number of volunteers to breach the position. To ensure that the breach was properly placed, three men carried a “bangalore torpedo” (a long tube loaded with explosives), carefully placed it in the assigned location, and exploded the device, blowing themselves to bits. Their act immortalized them. They went to their ancestors in the spirit of the samurai who while dying raises himself and with his last breath shouts, “Tennō Heika, Banzai!”

  In the last two virtues, the Imperial Rescript enjoined the soldiers and sailors to value faithfulness and righteousness and to live a simple life: “Faithfulness implies keeping one’s work and righteousness the fulfillment of one’s duty. . . . The soldier and sailor should make simplicity their aim. If you do not make simplicity your aim, you will become effeminate and frivolous and acquire fondness for luxurious and extravagant ways. . . . We hereby reiterate our warning. Never do you soldiers and sailors make light of this injunction.”

  In Japan, bursting with people, limited in material resources, lacking food for its masses, and possessing only the bare necessities of life, this last virtue was the easiest for the military and the populace to achieve. It was also a very practical injunction, warning the subjects to be content with their lot.

  This then was the Imperial Rescript of Emperor Meiji. Its spiritual force had its roots in bushidō. Each day this force was rekindled in the young heitai by the officers and noncommissioned officers of the Imperial Japanese Army and Navy. It put “spirit in their eyes” and valor in their hearts. It gave the Japanese heitai a spiritual reason for being. It inspired them to emulate the samurai and the nation to endure heroic sacrifices.

  The delicate problem that the new leaders of Japan faced in building their defense force was to balance and integrate their ancient bushidō ethics with the new, still unfamiliar precepts of democracy. It is interesting to note that seven months after the establishment of the NPR, General Hayashi was trying to accomplish this intricate balance. In addressing one of his regiments in the field, he said, “The fundamental spirit of the NPR I firmly hold to be patriotism and love of our race. We love our parents, our brothers with whom we are one blood, and our wives and children. By extending this love, we love the Japanese people; we love the land of Japan. We love our fatherland which we were entrusted by our forefathers to turn over to our posterity. This is a traditional sincere feeling deep-rooted in the life of the Japanese people.”

  He was stressing patriotism, love of race, love of country, and obligation to ancestors and posterity. He had not as yet mentioned the emperor, but this omission was to be short-lived. A few months later, on the auspicious occasion of the emperor’s fiftieth birthday on April 29, 1951, in a speech to his forces, General Hayashi found it appropriate to deplore the lack of respect for the Imperial family. On this occasion he said, “This source of our (national) distress, however, is found less in the material damage to our country than in the lack of goodwill towards one another, in the lack of patriotism, and in the lack of respect and affection for our Imperial family—a central symbol of our national unity.”

  Finally in a stirring speech to his soldiers, he made a gallant effort to link the new military organization with the Japanese people. In this speech titled “Let us be the peoples’ defense force,” he bridges an ancient gap: “Needless to say, if this organization [Japanese defense force] is to play its rightful role in the new Japan, it must be ‘an organization of the people.’ This must be the fundamental principle upon which this defense force should be established.”

  On that note, I take hope that the American occupation brought a new dimension and that the new democratic military forces of Japan may yet demonstrate that “storms make oaks take deeper root.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  YOBITAI

  The National Police Reserve, having been organized in pseudo-secrecy, suffered some real and imaginary crises, but one of the most vexing minor problems was to find a suitable name for the recruits, the privates of the organization. Always conscious of the troublesome fact that the NPR officially was a police force, we scrupulously avoided using any words or showing any signs that might suggest that it was an army. General Shepard, I recall on one occasion, seriously considered relieving an American lieutenant colonel because on welcoming new recruits to his camp the officer had referred to them as soldiers.

  Heitai, the Imperial equivalent for “American GI,” was taboo for the Japanese. Various American and Japanese word combinations were tried. Keisa, the Japanese word for “patrolman,” was used occasionally. However, keisatsu neither appealed to the Americans nor was it popular with the Japanese. At times, when we called them “patrolmen,” all of us experienced a mental revolution that only a soldier can feel in thinking of another soldier as a police officer. In some units, the Japanese used the words ippan taiin for GI. This translated into “common member of a unit,” leaving much to be desired in a name for a nation’s warrior. Shihotō, a kind of abbreviation for “sergeant-patrolman,” gained some popularity among the Japanese people. The name that finally won out because it appeared most logical and least objectionable to both Americans and Japanese was yobitai, meaning “reservist.” Taken from the name of the force, it referred to the police nature of the organization. At the same time implying a supporting element of an army, it became an acceptable substitute for heitai. The children and the farm folk, however, not comprehending the delicate difference between the NPR and an army, innocently continued to call the members of the NPR heitai-san.

  Yet in the eyes of the nation, there was a great difference between heitai and yobitai. At best in the early days of the NPR and the National Safety Force into which it developed, the yobitai was regarded as a hired employee of the government, whereas the heitai had for generations been an honored son of the people. The yobitai had the earmarks of a mercenary, the heitai, even in the defeat, was the hero-warrior. This difference was deeply rooted in the traditional glorification of the Japanese Imperial soldier.

  The Imperial Army had been bound by strong ties of heritage to the Japanese people. Gathering sons and husbands from the remotest villages of the country, there was hardly a thatched roof or crowded city shack that did not house a family who had a close personal association with the Imperial Army or Navy. The Japanese people had great confidence in their army because it was a fluid organization, a representative cross section of the nation. The bulk of the officers came from the lower classes, mainly from the families of small landowners, store owners, and small-shop operators. The military leaders, recognizing the political importance of identifying the army with the people, played on every human heartstring to mirror the heitai as the soul of the nation.

  On the day of his induction into the service, the heitai became a local hero. Dressed in the best kimono the family could afford, the heitai was accompanied to camp by relatives, friends, and special delegations from the community. On these occasions, the army opened its camps to the public. It was a day of rejoicing and festivities. The new recruits and those who came to camp with them were assembled by the military to hear the most stirring patriotic speeches. The new heitai were portrayed as young heroes, who in se
rving the emperor brought honor to their families and communities. Everything was done to tie the people to the soldiers and the Imperial Army.

  In contrast, the NPR, having gone through an unfortunate secret formative period, was unable to identify with the people. Everyone was aware that the basic plan for the force had been developed by the occupation forces, that General MacArthur’s directive to the Japanese government initiated the organization, and that it had been trained and deployed under active American leadership. At the time the force was recruited, only a minimum of information was disclosed to the public, and the average Japanese knew little about the nature and the purpose of the NPR. Even some of the senior officers who joined the organization initially volunteered under the misapprehension that they were being recruited into a national police establishment.

  In the early formative days, the public was prohibited from visiting NPR camps, and strict orders were given to keep civilians, except those on business, out of the camps. The Communists, Socialists, and other opposition groups made the most of this difficult situation, fanning the fears and natural distrust of the people. Later when political objections to the new force were aired in the Diet and in the press, many of the students and working men and women were turned against the organization. Under these circumstances it is little wonder that the yobitai had difficulty in capturing the hearts of the people.

  About a year and a half after the NPR had been organized, I visited several camps in the northern areas of Japan. On this visit, I took every opportunity to talk to the soldiers, trying to get some feeling of what they thought of their organization and how they viewed themselves. I talked to them in small groups, four or five yobitai in a group. Usually after we broke the traditional icy reserve and tendency to behave “in a military manner,” we had some very interesting conversations. I am sure the answers were staged somewhat, but I found that these answers were generally corroborated by other observers, including news reporters.

  The yobitai told me that in the early months of the NPR, they were reluctant to visit home because the older men laughed at them, calling them “toy soldiers.” Even now, after a year and a half, the yobitai didn’t like to wear their uniforms in town. The people stared at them, they said, and not in a friendly manner. They thought the children and the old ladies liked them, but the young girls were not impressed with the yobitai. Most of them agreed that the farmers were much friendlier than the people in the large cities. The farmers called them heitai-san and that made the people appreciate the yobitai.

  Well in my case my home is in Tōkyō. They sent me up here to Hokkaidō. I’m like a fish out of water. At first, no one came to visit me here in camp. When I went to town, people would turn cold eyes at me. My friends in the NPR and I had nothing to do so we would go to town to have a drink of saké. The people called us drunks. We didn’t like being talked down like that. One Sunday, there was a fire in town. We rushed to the scene, helped put out a fire, and saved some furniture and other property. After that the people looked at us with changed eyes.

  Two newspaper articles that were translated for me show the interest of the Japanese press in the yobitai. The first was titled “Earth and Soldiers.” I have reproduced both of them here as they were translated for me. Both articles, one favorable and one critical, appeared the same week.

  The story begins with a young farmer who had some four acres of farmland to be tilled by him and his ailing mother-in-law, who needed his care. The cultivation of four acres, plus the care of his ailing mother, had been too heavy a burden to be borne by him. As providence would have it, however, one day last May, a ministering angel appeared before him in the uniform of the NPR. Patrolman 2nd class Kamata Take, 23, assigned to Camp Utsunomiya in Tochigi Prefecture, while walking along a field lane around the barrack, happened to meet this young farmer who was working in the field. A casual exchange of greetings made them friends. Told of the young farmer’s hard luck, he was moved to sympathy. So he made up his mind to help the poor farmer and took the trouble to have his farm clothes sent from his home. Then, he made a point of visiting the young farmer whenever he had leave, to help him in his farming; at the outset, however, the young farmer hesitated to accept his kind offer, but eventually he did. In this way, two young men were seen working together in the field. This cooperation continued even during the scorching days of summer until their concerted efforts were rewarded with rich crops in autumn. Now Takashima Yoshio, 22, the young farmer, is happy because his mother, Nayo-san, 68, has recovered and got well again. Nayo-san, too, is happy because she not only recovered her health but also discovered what the NPR really is through Patrolman 2nd class Kamata. This story was shared throughout the village and its vicinity, which deeply moved the villagers.

  The second article was critical. It was titled “Bad Manners of NPR Personnel.” According to it,

  A camp for the personnel of the NPR has recently been built at Kitamachi, Nerime Ward, Tōkyō, and the members have moved into the building. However, there are no accommodations for baths and they use the local bathhouse. We are very much surprised at their bad manners in the bathhouse. They fling their shoes everywhere and while bathing they sing songs which are obscene and can be heard by the children. Such disturbances take place for about one hour every day. Of course we do not agree with the unreasonable regulations that restrained of the army of bygone days, however, we hope that they become members of the community with better social manners and common sense.

  I found that the yobitai blamed their uniforms for the lack of acceptance of the NPR by the people. Most of them liked the uniform personally, but they thought that the people didn’t like it. One of the yobitai, however, was very specific in his criticism: “I don’t like to wear my uniform. The people stare at us whenever we travel in uniform. It lacks Japanese style. It is foreign design.”

  I had to smile when I thought of the long, drawn-out discussions we had with Mr. Masuhara about the uniforms. When General Shepard asked him one day about a design and color for the uniform, the director general didn’t hesitate a moment, declaring himself immediately for an American-type uniform, except that he wanted an Eisenhower jacket that by 1950 the United States Army had discarded. General Shepard, on the other hand, was eager to have the Japanese adopt a green uniform somewhat like the one the Germans wore during World War II. He also wanted a loose, field-type jacket, which he considered much more serviceable than the Eisenhower jacket. However, Masuhara was a determined man, and he refused to give in. No color would do except olive drab, and he insisted on an Eisenhower jacket. General Shepard finally suggested that he would provide a sample jacket slightly different from the Eisenhower type. Masuhara agreed to consider it.

  When the director general left, Shepard turned to me and said, “We can’t have that stupid Eisenhower jacket. It will make them look like little bellhops. You get me an Australian jacket; it’s loose, serviceable, and practical. But for God sakes, don’t tell the Australians that we’re going to use it as a model for the Japanese army. The Aussies would go nuts.”

  It required considerable maneuvering among my Australian friends to secure one of their jackets. Before we showed it to Mr. Masuhara, we removed all insignia and markings. When he saw it, his eyed brightened. Two weeks later, he returned the Australian jacket and brought in the first NPR uniform. Its color approximated our American olive drab, but the design was a compromise between the Eisenhower and Australian jackets. If the yobitai considered his uniform modeled on a foreign design, they were correct, but I assure them and the Japanese people reading this that the Americans had little influence in its selection.

  The decision on the field cap was an ordeal. We had no difficulty with the so-called dress cap. Mr. Masuhara and his advisers adopted a dress cap similar to the one we wore. A dress cap, however, has a stiff visor, is expensive, and is limited in its utility. Accordingly, in the past two wars, Americans have worn what has come to be known as an overseas cap. It is cheap, flexible, and easily stu
ffed into a back pocket or shoulder strap when not on the head. We thought the NPR should have them. But there was nothing we could do or say to convince the director general to accept our overseas cap. He was determined to dress the yobitai in the Imperial Japanese field cap.

  This was a cloth cap somewhat peaked and with a soft brim over the eyes. It had been worn by the Japanese heitai and officers for several generations. It was also cheap, flexible, and very serviceable. But it had become identified in the Western world with the Japanese invasion and conquest of Manchuria and China. It represented colonialism and imperialist Japan in the eyes of the Allies. We were, therefore, very much concerned that the NPR, decked out in the hated Japanese Imperial field cap, would bring the wrath of the British, French, Australian, and even American people down upon us. We hesitated, dragging our feet, holding off a decision on this part of the uniform.

  Finally General Shepard, in exasperation, turned the field cap project over to me. I was to continue to try to sell Mr. Masuhara. One evening I dropped in on the director general at his home. I had my overseas cap with me. “Masuhara-san,” I began, “try my cap on. You see how light and soft it is. It’s inexpensive and very practical. Put it on, you’ll like it.”