While the press debated the propriety in a democracy of politically motivated strikes, and some of the labor leaders urged legislative action in the Diet rather than demonstrations in the streets, most of the labor movement fermented violently. Yoshida’s “reverse course” threatened their newly born political power. The extremists hardened their position against the government, and the ranks of the unions closed. Focusing their opposition on the Subversive Acts Prevention Bill, they called for massive demonstrations on April 12. The effort, however, fizzled when at the eleventh hour, Tanrō, the nickname for the Nihon Tankō Rōdō Kumiai, or the National Federation of Coal Miners Unions, gave lukewarm support. When the conservative leadership of Tanrō was replaced by leftist leaders, it became evident that sparks would fly on May Day, the fourth day of Japan’s new independence.
With the ratification of the peace treaty, the Japan Communist Party, which at the time had twenty-two elected representatives in the Diet, made a determined effort to seize the nation in the streets. I lived only a few blocks from the national headquarters of the party. Every day on my way to work, I could see their tattered flag flying over their headquarters building. On April 29, the first day of independence, I was amused to see not one but a flock of red flags, all flying at half-staff, symbolizing a day of humiliation. On May Day, however, the flags had all been pushed to the tops of their poles. I drove to my office apprehensive of coming events.
Early in the afternoon on May Day, NPR Headquarters advised me that more than 400,000 working men and women and students had gathered in a massive rally in the Meiji Outer Gardens. There had been violent scuffles throughout the rally, and now there were reports of serious trouble expected at the Imperial Palace Plaza. Requests had been made to use the NPR to keep the peace. Headquarters had dispatched a reconnaissance unit to keep the director general informed. I was disturbed, not so much by the May Day gathering, which was expected to be troublesome, or even the clash that might result in Tōkyō, but by the eagerness with which the employment of the NPR against the workers was sought. Counseling caution, I urged the NPR to leave the situation to the Tōkyō Metropolitan Police and the National Rural Police. I reminded the officials that the NPR was an army, not a police force, and that its premature commitment against the Japanese people would give the organization a black eye and would aggravate the opposition. Determining to take a personal look at the situation, I jumped into a jeep and took off for the Imperial Palace Plaza.
Pushing through a mass of humanity, I worked my way into the Dai Ichi Building and climbed to its roof. From there, I could see thousands milling around, some trying to force their way onto the Imperial Palace Plaza and other groups pushing their way along Hibiya Park. The people were swarming. There was a profusion of signs and banners, with many in the crowd carrying bamboo sticks. Small, detached groups were throwing rocks and smashing windows in American cars parked near the Dai Ichi Building. In a sudden rush, the rioters seized American cars parked near the curb and turned them over. An enterprising rioter struck a match, and the cars burst into flames. The pattern was repeated over and over until the police, arriving in force, finally stopped the destruction. The situation was terrible, and one could be critical of the police for permitting the action to get out of hand, but the police were reinforced rapidly and the rioters were brought under control. I ran down from the roof to make my report to headquarters; again, I urged caution. I saw no reason to commit the NPR.
Later, I learned that ten thousand May Day demonstrators led by Japanese and Korean communists broke from the main rally and, defying the police, engaged in citywide rioting. The major attack was launched on and near the Imperial Palace Plaza. Early estimates reported more than four hundred persons injured, including several Americans. About twenty American automobiles had been overturned and set afire. Many more American and Western automobiles had been stoned. Several American soldiers had been mauled.
The Japanese press uniformly deplored the violence and apologized for what appeared to be an anti-American complexion in the riots. I personally considered the attack on the American automobiles to be a matter of chance. The mob, milling near the Dai Ichi Building and Hibiya Park, attacked the cars as targets of opportunity. It is true that some Americans were mauled, but hundreds of Americans who found themselves in the melee were unmolested. I was especially unhappy about a Scripps-Howard report that was critical of the government for not using the NPR. The reporter urged that the next time the force should “move more effectively to smash future attempts to undermine Japan’s internal security.”
After the confusion of the riots cleared, I had a long talk with General Hayashi. On a visit to my office, he informed me that he was deeply worried about the attitude of the government. Prime Minister Yoshida was very short-tempered, he said, and it required all the force of argument that Mr. Masuhara and he could muster to prevent the commitment of the NPR during the riot.
I showed General Hayashi a newspaper article in which State Minister Ōhashi, who at the time had cabinet responsibility of the NPR, was quoted as saying, “But in the future, NPR will go into action in case of such riots or in case of danger of outbreak of such riots, after receiving the Prime Minister’s permission, even if no demand for NPR action is made by those in charge of the Metropolitan or the Rural Police.”
“That’s what I mean,” answered General Hayashi. “That’s our problem.”
He went on to say that the prime minister wanted to alert the NPR for the emperor’s appearance in public on May 3. I could see that the chief of the General Group was deeply disturbed.
General Hayashi said he thoroughly agreed with me and asked me to explain in detail under what circumstances federal troops were employed to quell civil disturbances in the United States. I outlined for him our statutes, procedures, and restrictions on the use of the National Guard and the regular army. We spent several hours discussing American relations with local police, state responsibility, and federal authority and obligations. Then we explored how these concepts could be applied in the Japanese environment.
I was delighted with General Hayashi’s attitude and thinking. He was sincerely concerned about the rights of the people and was determined to seek procedures and statutes that would ensure those rights without jeopardizing law and order. He assured me that the view we discussed would become Japanese law.
In the ordinance that changed the NPR into the National Safety Agency (in October 1952) and the statute that later converted the NSA into the Japan Defense Agency, the views of General Hayashi prevailed, for the rules, which were adopted for the employment of the Self-Defense Forces of Japan, incorporated the essential elements we discussed during the days that followed the May Day riots. I often wondered what those rules might have become had the chief of the Central Group been someone other than the intelligent, thoughtful, and sensitive General Hayashi.
The immediate impact of the May Day riots was political. The Japanese, traditionally a disciplined, law-abiding people, were shocked at the senseless violence and bloodshed. The newspapers, crying for law and order, fanned the fires, attacking not only the radicals and communists, but the labor unions and students for permitting themselves to be used by the lawless. The primary beneficiaries of the riots were the conservative groups, which accused the Socialists and trade union leadership of irresponsibility and cited the riots as precisely the kind of disorders and lawlessness their legislation was designed to prevent. As a result, the Subversive Acts Prevention Bill and other “reverse course” legislation became law. In the fall elections that year, the Communist Party, which went into the elections with twenty-two members in the lower house of the Diet, was unable to elect a single member. The left Socialists and the right Socialists, running on anti-American platforms, opposing rearmament, and urging independence and neutrality, gained a total of sixty-five members in the Diet and became a solid core of opposition to the conservative bloc, which was formed essentially of liberals and progressives.
; The historic first week of Japan’s independence, packed so full of tragic and dramatic events, closed on Saturday, May 3, in quiet ceremonies commemorating throughout the land the fifth Constitution Day. The emperor and empress led the national celebration in a ceremony attended by 30,000 people assembled on the Imperial Palace Plaza, where the police two days previously had met communist-led rioters in a bloody clash. I was in the crowd because the NPR was there in formation to add color to the ceremony and to prevent any disorders that might break out.
When the emperor and empress stepped upon the temporary platform, the people in the assembly grew deadly quiet. This was the emperor’s first appearance at a public gathering since the war. More significant, the day marked a unique and historic change in Japan. The people standing in the warm sun, for the first time in the nation’s history, could actually see and look upon His Majesty. Up until this day, the Japanese had not dared to look directly at the descendant of the longest unbroken line of rulers in the world. Even when the emperor passed in a train, the Japanese people bowed and averted their eyes from his august presence. Now, some in the silent assemblage cautiously looked up, then directly, at the emperor and empress. I sensed the people liked the unassuming couple that stood so quietly and solemnly on the platform.
Prime Minister Yoshida spoke, as did the chief justice of the Supreme Court, the speaker of the House of Representatives, the president of the House of Councillors, and the governor of Tōkyō, but the eyes of the people were on the emperor.
Finally, His Majesty stepped forward and began to read in a quiet, subdued voice, unrolling the scroll to pace his address. I wanted to know what he was saying, but I never would have dared to talk or listen to my interpreter on that occasion. When the emperor finished his address, there was some muffled applause. Then the emperor and empress raised their arms, leading the people in the traditional banzai cheers. Still the audience seemed politely unresponsive.
As the emperor stepped back to leave the platform, the crowd stood quiet, unmoving. Then as he took another step backward, the emperor in a very human gesture twirled his hat lightly over his head. The crowd burst into a cheer. The emperor, seeing that he had struck a chord of empathy with his people, gave his hat a second and a third twirl. The gathering went wild. Surging forward, an excited mass of humanity crowded round the emperor’s automobile. I was afraid for a moment he would be mobbed from sheer enthusiasm, but the automobile moved on, with the people not only looking at His and Her Majesty but enjoying them.
The NPR, having turned out with carbines by order of the prime minister to protect the emperor and empress on this day, looked sheepish in their ranks, watching the people joyfully running after the emperor’s automobile. A new day and a new era had dawned in democratic Japan.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CONCLUSION: A CRITIQUE
Having brought the Japanese rearmament program up to the uncertain present, I think it is desirable for us to review the achievements and mistakes that were made in the evolution of Japan’s military establishment.
In making our judgments, one must never forget that during the critical period of the establishment and development of the NPR, Japan was an occupied country. Though the United States was tolerant and perhaps even benevolent, we nevertheless were in every sense the conquering power. Into 1952, not only did American troops occupy Japan, but the supreme commander’s staff in Tōkyō continued to control the Japanese government. Civil affairs (CA) teams and counterintelligence corps (CIC) operators continued to observe and report on local Japanese institutions and governmental entities. In every aspect, Japanese sovereignty was delimited by American military power and surveillance.
Today, we can argue the legality of Japanese rearmament, but in July 1950 the need for a Japanese defense force was so urgent that neither the Japanese government nor the United States could allow any obstacles to stand in the way of organizing such a force. On the Japanese side, the government was not so much concerned with launching a rearmament program as in organizing a force that was immediately needed to defend the government and its institutions. For the United States, the NPR, though limited in its initial capabilities, provided sufficient protection for our dependents, and air, naval, and logistical bases in Japan permitted us to deploy all our ground forces to Korea. In brief, Japan needed the NPR to defend the nation against insurrection and foreign attack, while the United States needed the NPR to protect our bases. Whether the NPR was adequate for the task is immaterial now, since it was never put to the test. The first achievement, then, was that the NPR filled a very vital need for Japan and the United States.
Whether it was so intended or not, the NPR became the first step in the rearmament of Japan. In this light, it is highly important that we examine any mistakes that may have been made in establishing the organization and evaluate contributions the NPR may have made to the future military forces of Japan.
In my opinion, which I held at the time the NPR was established and which today is reinforced by history, the constitutional question of rearmament was badly handled by the United States, the Japanese government, and the opposition parties in Japan. All three violated important moral principles for exigencies of the moment. All three are plagued today by the consequences of their shortsightedness. The successive conservative governments of Japan, by trampling upon their constitution, created for themselves difficult constitutional obstacles that have forced the development of a military establishment that exists in the twilight zone of legality, hobbled and weakened by that constitution and by the hostility of the people. The United States has become a foreign culprit, allying itself with the conservatives to circumvent the law. The opposition parties, especially the Socialists, in their pseudo-purity, have failed to face up to reality and, by leaning as partisans upon the constitution, have confused and soured the electorate.
To begin with, the United States was wrong to order the Japanese government to organize an army in violation of a constitution that our own commander dictated and that we all interpreted at the time as prohibiting the maintenance of an army, navy, or air force. Recent interpretations may or may not justify the view that the constitution permits self-defense forces or that neither General MacArthur nor the United States forced the no-war, no-arms provision in the constitution on the Japanese. The fact is that in 1950 in Japan, neither General MacArthur nor any official of the United States even hinted that Article 9 of the constitution meant anything other than a prohibition against war, war potential, and military forces. Moreover, no one at that time in Japan suggested that Article 9 had not been proposed to the Japanese by the supreme commander. It was not until three years later, when in November 1953, Vice President Richard M. Nixon, visiting Tōkyō, raised the question of American involvement in the disarmament of Japan. At that time, he said that “the United States did make a mistake [in disarming Japan] in 1946.”
There was no question in the minds of the American echelon that was organizing the NPR that we were building an army, yet we were required to camouflage the new force as a police organization. Officers in the NPR were denied military recognition and were designated inspectors, superintendents, and other silly ranks, while the soldiers were called patrolmen. It was a serious offense for an American officer to refer to the NPR as an army or to address Japanese officers as captain, major, or general. When we distributed American tanks to the NPR, the Japanese were admonished never to refer to these weapons as tanks but to call them special vehicles. This, as previously pointed out, caused ridiculous difficulties for those who had to prepare Japanese training manuals. The American advisers and the Japanese leaders were thus required to talk out both sides of their mouths.
Similarly, the prime minister and all the officers and officials of the NPR were seized with a sudden stupidity that was shameful for otherwise honorable, intelligent Japanese leaders. Time and again, top Japanese officials were compelled to deny in public, to their own people, that they were building an army, when the prime minister
and the senior officials in the NPR knew without qualification that the force being developed was an army. At one point, the Japanese government contended that the constitution was not violated because the NPR was a self-defense force and not an army. This argument, too, was difficult for some people to swallow when the facts were that in 1946, while the constitution was being debated in the Diet, Prime Minister Yoshida himself, in response to questions in the Diet, clearly stated that the official position of the Japanese government at that time was that rearmament—even for self-defense—was prohibited by Article 9. Anyway, though the Japanese Defense Agency may be defended today as not violating the constitution because it is held to be a self-defense establishment, in 1950 the Yoshida government argued that the NPR was legal because it was not an army.1 Neither machine guns, mortars, rockets, tanks, artillery, nor aircraft made any difference in the arguments of the government when they were issued to the NPR. Amazingly, as I pointed out in a previous chapter, opinion polls showed that a large percentage of the Japanese people, especially women, believed—or at least said they believed—the prime minister when he declared that the NPR was not an army.
At the same time, the opposition parties in the Diet played a deplorable game of politics by refusing to acknowledge reality. The reality, apparent to the Socialists, as well as to the conservative parties, was that after American ground forces were deployed to Korea, Japan was a gaping power vacuum. The government, whether it was to be Conservative or Socialist, could not exist without some kind of a force to protect it against insurrection, if not attack from abroad. Moreover, since it became evident early that despite the constitution and despite the most determined opposition, nothing would stop the Yoshida government from organizing a military force, the Socialists were in an untenable political position. After recognizing that they could not prevent the formation of the NPR, they should have accepted the situation and devoted their energies to controlling the way the NPR was organized. Had the Socialists, for example, agreed to a minor revision in the constitution in 1950 or 1951, they would have received the support of SCAP in any efforts that they might have made to limit the revisions. At the time the NPR was being established, the occupation forces were still in control of Japan, and it is inconceivable that at that time the United States would have permitted the conservative parties to amend drastically the American-inspired constitution. From a practical political point of view, the Socialists had little to lose and much to gain by supporting a reasonable revision of the constitution. By opposing revision of Article 9, they assumed a rigid political stance, confused the people, and sacrificed for years any chance to head a government in Japan.
An Inoffensive Rearmament Page 24
