Killing the Rising Sun

by Bill O'Reilly

  A car waits for the Truman family. The driver watches as their luggage is loaded. The potential vice president is glad to finally be back in Kansas City; since Truman was first elected to the Senate, in 1934, his family has divided their time between Washington and his home state of Missouri. This is where his political career began more than twenty years ago, so it is fitting that his campaign should end here. There will be one final speech tomorrow evening here in town, and then Truman can do little but wait for Election Day, when he may be elected vice president of the United States, replacing Henry Wallace.1

  Truman is confident of victory—Franklin Roosevelt’s overwhelming popularity and steely leadership during the Second World War has seen him elected a record three times. Now, with the war in Europe seemingly won and the battles in the Pacific slowly turning against the Japanese, the public continues in its support of the patrician Democrat. FDR’s opponent in the election of 1944 is the Republican Thomas Dewey, the diminutive governor of New York with the Fuller Brush mustache. Dewey likes to attack Roosevelt as a Communist with unsound domestic policies. Although simplistic, Dewey’s assertions elicit resounding ovations wherever he campaigns.

  In truth, America loves Franklin Roosevelt like a trusted rich uncle. Dewey and his running mate, Ohio governor John W. Bricker, have campaigned with an underdog’s zeal, but they have no chance at victory2—support for Roosevelt is just too strong.

  The same cannot be said of Harry Truman. America knows nothing about him. The Republicans have made his anonymity a campaign issue, warning that the untested Truman would lead the nation if Roosevelt were to die. Even the media agree. “The hind half of the ticket is a storm center, exciting almost as much debate as the standard bearer himself,” wrote the New York Times in early October. “The competence of Mr. Roosevelt’s current running mate is the nearest thing this country has to a burning issue.”

  The Chicago Tribune is just as direct, stating that “Senator Truman … is a newcomer. We ought to know more about him, and the best way to learn is from his own lips.” But Harry S. Truman3 is nothing if not discreet. Stoicism in the face of controversy requires the same chin-up attitude that made him successful as an artillery officer in France during World War I and allowed him to rise through the political ranks. The polio that has put the president in a wheelchair, combined with his passion for gin and cigarettes, is hardening his arteries and dulling his thoughts. But Harry Truman does not know FDR well enough to comment on the president’s condition.

  Presidential politics are a ruthless business. So Truman volunteers little about himself during his four-week train campaign from Atlantic to Pacific and back again. Even an oversight can be blown up by the media. Three weeks ago at a speech at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles, Truman unknowingly endorsed a former member of the Ku Klux Klan for Congress. Republicans immediately pounced. Rumors arose that Truman himself was a member of the white supremacist group. “Of course I’m not a member of the Klan,” Truman barked when a Chicago reporter questioned him two weeks later. And still the innuendo would not disappear: on October 30, one night before Truman greeted a crowd of twenty thousand at New York’s Madison Square Garden, fabled actress Gloria Swanson spoke on the radio in an address paid for by the Republican National Committee, making accusations about “Mr. Truman’s membership in the Ku Klux Klan.”

  Although he was furious, Harry Truman offered no response.

  It was not until leading members of the black community stated, “Mr. Truman is a friend of the Negro people … a true progressive,” that the baseless rumors slowly abated.4

  * * *

  Harry Truman’s driver drops the Truman family at the Muehlebach Hotel at the intersection of Twelfth and Baltimore. Ernest Hemingway once stayed here; so did Bob Hope, Babe Ruth, and Helen Keller. In time, the Beatles will party in its corridors. At this point in his life, Harry S. Truman knows no such celebrity.

  Bellmen scramble for the Trumans’ luggage. Unlike General Douglas MacArthur, who hasn’t opened a door for himself or carried his own suitcase for years, the ever-practical Truman is self-sufficient. During his train ride around America, he washed his socks between stops and hung them outside the window to dry. Stepping into the lobby of the Muehlebach, he is quick to thank the doorman.

  Now, Bess and Margaret at his side, Harry Truman can finally rest.

  Or so he thinks.

  4

  UMURBROGOL POCKET

  PELELIU, CAROLINE ISLANDS

  NOVEMBER 24, 1944

  1100 HOURS

  Colonel Kunio Nakagawa kneels in the cave that has served as his command post for more than two months. The short, razor-sharp blade of a tantō is clutched in his right fist. Nakagawa has inflicted more than ten thousand casualties on the Americans, more than any other Japanese officer in the war. His strategy of retreating into an underground fortress to fight a defensive battle has terrified the Americans. Unable to dig deep foxholes in the coral that covers so much of the island, the marines lie exposed, easy targets for sniper fire or nighttime stealth attacks. Often, Nakagawa’s men will quietly leave their cave networks to kill any American who makes the cardinal error of falling asleep while on watch. Nakagawa’s soldiers can often smell their victims before actually laying eyes on them: the Americans are unable to bury their excrement or take a simple shower, resulting in a stench of human waste and tang of sweat-soaked uniforms that has only been intensified by the searing island heat. Even more aromatic is the smell of Japanese and American corpses left to rot in the sun, the bloated skin of the dead men covered in giant blowflies.

  All of this is the handiwork of Colonel Nakagawa. Almost all of his soldiers are dead now; the Americans have pressed their attack despite the enormous loss of life. They have aimed flamethrowers into the caves to burn men alive and exploded the caves with artillery and hand grenades, entombing Nakagawa’s warriors forever. Once upon a time, Nakagawa commanded the entire island. Now his redoubt is just a few hundred meters wide. The time has come to do what he needs to do so as not to disgrace himself. Already, Nakagawa has set fire to his regimental colors so that they will never fall into American hands. He has proclaimed to his remaining fifty-six emaciated soldiers that “our sword is broken and we have run out of spears” as he divided them into small groups. He then ordered the men to fan out deep in the caves and attack the Americans—fighting to the very end.1

  If necessary, Nakagawa was prepared to act as kaishakunin for his superior officer, Major General Kenjiro Murai. Unknown to the US Marines, Murai has been on Peleliu throughout the invasion. His job has been “to make sure Nakagawa does not make any mistakes,” as one Japanese soldier will admit to the Americans when he is taken prisoner. Nakagawa has now seen the tables turn. Where he was once watched over by Murai, now it has been his job to make sure that Murai did not lose heart when the moment to commit ritual suicide was upon him. As Murai’s kaishakunin—or “second”—it would be Nakagawa’s role to stand by and help Murai with his sword, prepared to assist in the general’s death should Murai no longer be able to control the knife with which he is committing seppuku.

  But Murai has completed the task. He lies dead, intestines spilling from his body onto the command post’s coral floor.

  Nakagawa watched as the general knelt, then plunged the tantō into the left side of his abdomen. Murai then wrenched the blade sharply to the right, slicing through the soft belly skin. Blood and internal organs spilled from the gash in a torrent. Murai writhed in agony as he fell forward. Death came for him in less than thirty seconds.

  The forty-six-year-old Colonel Nakagawa now kneels down beside his dead commander, praying for the same courage to end his life with honor.

  * * *

  The marines have fought gallantly on Peleliu for two months, displaying the depth of their training and their commitment to one another.

  Corporal Lewis Bausell was the first to give his life for his brother marines. Seven others will be awarded the Medal of Honor for consp
icuous courage under fire, four of whom also threw themselves on live grenades to save the lives of their brothers.2

  On September 18, the same day that saw the death of Corporal Bausell, Private First Class Arthur J. Jackson of Cleveland, Ohio, single-handedly attacks a thick cement pillbox containing thirty-five Japanese soldiers. Even as he takes heavy fire, Jackson pokes the barrel of his M1 into a narrow gun opening and squeezes off a round. He then hurls white phosphorus grenades inside the bunker, killing everyone inside.

  Spotting two similar pillboxes nearby, Jackson storms them alone, with the same unlikely result.

  But PFC Jackson is not finished. Identifying each and every one of the hidden Japanese machine-gun nests, the square-jawed nineteen-year-old dashes from emplacement to emplacement, killing each and every soldier who is shooting at him. “He stormed one gun position after another, dealing death and destruction to the savagely fighting enemy in his inexorable drive against the remaining defenses, and succeeded in wiping out a total of 12 pillboxes and 50 Japanese soldiers,” Jackson’s Medal of Honor citation will read.

  When his one-man offensive comes to an end, the nineteen-year-old marine collapses from heat exhaustion. It is a moment Jackson will long remember: “I felt like I was a ballplayer that had just made the winning touchdown.”3

  * * *

  One day later, it is Captain Everett P. Pope who demonstrates the Corps’s grit. Captain of the tennis team while at Bowdoin College, where he was elected to Phi Beta Kappa and graduated magna cum laude, the twenty-five-year-old Bostonian is also a fluent speaker of French, a loving husband, and the father of two young sons.

  But that was before the war, in another life. Since first seeing action at Guadalcanal in June 1942, Pope has become a trained killer and leader of men. During the New Britain campaign earlier this year, he led a fourteen-man squad into thick jungle in search of Japanese positions. Not only did his men kill twenty of the enemy, but Pope performed the almost impossible feat of bringing back seven Japanese prisoners for interrogation.

  Now, with Peleliu’s airfield in American hands, the marines face the daunting task of moving inland to flush the enemy from their caves in the Umurbrogol ridges. Company commander Pope is ordered to take Hill 154, a sheer coral outcrop on a slope known as Suicide Ridge.

  Pope and his men are already exhausted. Since landing on Peleliu four days ago, his company has suffered 30 percent casualties; the loss of trained riflemen has forced Pope to utilize “cooks and bakers and company clerks” on the line. It is dawn as they prepare to attack, but few have slept, as the Japanese sent soldiers out in the night to infiltrate the American lines. They are thirsty, for the equatorial heat is relentless, never dipping below 100 degrees, even at night. Coral tears their clothing, cuts through their boots, and is heated by the sun, burning their skin on contact. The three-pound steel helmets protecting their heads from shrapnel also serve as pillow, cook pot, and latrine. Many choose not to wear underwear or a T-shirt due to the heat, and are not likely to change their socks for days at a time—if at all. The water with which they fill their canteens is rust-colored and tastes like gasoline because the navy has stored the water in fifty-five-gallon drums that once stored fuel. The marines desperately need to drink, but the water makes them nauseated.

  And yet they must attack.

  Pope gives the order to advance. The company approaches Hill 154 through a swamp, supported by mortar rounds and machine-gun fire. In addition to the packs on their backs, each man carries a rifle, pistol, canteen, and ammunition. Immediately, the Japanese pop up out of the ground to let loose a stream of bullets before disappearing into their caves once again. Many of the shots are fired at point-blank range from the other side of the swamp.

  Pope and his marine assault unit fall back.

  But Hill 154 must be taken.

  Hours later, the afternoon sun beating down on them, Pope’s company attacks once more. His marines are again overwhelmed by precise enemy fire and suffer horrific casualties. Pope’s company numbered almost 235 men four days ago. By 1800 hours, as dusk falls on Hill 154, just 14 remain.

  But those fourteen control the hill.

  Pope must now hold this position at all costs. Those are his orders. But he immediately recognizes that his position is tenuous: Hill 154 is barren and exposed on three sides, leaving Pope and his men open to enemy fire. His only option is to spread the two officers and eleven enlisted men in strategic positions across the top of the hill. The weapons at their disposal are few: tommy guns, rifles, a light machine gun, and a small number of hand grenades. Pope’s men are from Pennsylvania, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Texas, Maine, Michigan, Kansas, California, and New York City. Now, as the sun sets and the utter blackness of the island night is upon them, fate has brought them all to the peak of Hill 154, the place where they all might die.

  A crescent moon rises, a mere sliver in the sky. Pope and his soldiers cannot see the faces of the Japanese who now creep forward to kill them, many clad in black pajama-like uniforms. Nor can the Americans hear their enemy, for the Japanese wear split-toed shoes with a rubber sole that allow them to walk without a sound. At first the Japanese are bold, attacking in ones and twos. But Pope’s men’s senses are heightened by the knowledge that any mistake will be their last. The Americans easily fend off the first teams of Japanese killers.

  Toward midnight, the strategy shifts. Twenty-five enemy soldiers at a time creep in toward the American positions. One of them comes close enough to bayonet Second Lieutenant Francis T. Burke in the leg. Unable to reach his gun, Burke beats his assailant to a pulp with his fists and then throws the Japanese soldier off the side of a cliff.

  As the battle stretches into the early morning hours, many of Pope’s men are wounded, but they still hold Hill 154. The Japanese begin shooting flares into the sky to light the American position, then let loose salvoes of small-arms fire. The Americans respond with precise grenade throws that keep the enemy at bay. When the grenade supply runs low, they substitute rocks. “The Japs didn’t know which were which,” one marine will later recall. “We would throw three or four rocks, then a grenade.”

  When the Japanese respond by hurling grenades of their own, the Americans pick them up and throw them right back.

  With morning still hours away, the Americans run out of bullets and grenades. But they refuse to surrender. With no conventional weapons at their disposal, they fling empty ammunition boxes at the enemy. When the ammunition boxes are gone, the marines use their bare fists.

  As sunrise limns the horizon, Pope is down to just nine able-bodied marines. Yet Hill 154 is still in American hands.

  Dawn offers Captain Pope and his men the hope that reinforcements will soon strengthen their tenuous position. Japanese dead lie everywhere around them, many just a few feet from the American positions. Pope’s group has exhibited outstanding bravery.

  But it is all for naught. In the light of day, the Japanese are astonished to see just a handful of Americans, without guns or grenades, holding Hill 154. Within minutes they assemble to descend en masse upon the marines.

  “We could clearly see the Japanese forming up for a very heavy attack, fifty or a hundred men,” Pope will later remember. “At that point we were ordered to withdraw. So we came tumbling down the hill.”

  Captain Everett Pope will tell that story until the day he dies—sixty-five years later, at the age of ninety. He and his men retreated to safety after that perilous night, then waited in frustration for the moment when American forces would once again attempt to capture Hill 154. For Captain Pope, the return was more personal than tactical.

  “The hill was not taken again for ten or eleven or twelve days,” Pope will add as he tells of that horrific night. “And it took that long for my dead on that hill to be buried. A lot of brave Marines died on that hill. I can never forget it.”

  * * *

  The battle for Hill 154 sets the tone for the next month of combat—the Americans attack, and the Japanese fi
ght back from hidden fortifications. As Colonel Nakagawa envisioned when he oversaw the building of the Japanese cave network so many months ago, his strong defensive positions are almost impervious to the steady American assaults. After three weeks of battle, the Americans have seized almost all of Peleliu, including the all-important airfield, yet they still don’t control Nakagawa’s stronghold in the Umurbrogol Pocket. And until it is taken, the Japanese can launch artillery fire at any American position on the island.

  Though just a quarter mile wide and three-quarters of a mile long, the mountain ridges of the Umurbrogol Pocket are a killing zone like no other. Marine casualties run as high as 60 percent. Names like Five Sisters, Dead Man’s Curve, and Bloody Nose Ridge join Suicide Ridge in marine lore, never to be forgotten for the toll exacted by Nakagawa’s soldiers. Death becomes so common that men have become calloused to the sight. “We passed several stacks of dead Marines,” one American will later recall. “They were piled five one way and five the other way. The stacks were about five feet high.”

  American F4U Corsair fighter-bombers take off regularly from the nearby airfield to bomb the Umurbrogol Pocket with napalm, a liquid petroleum designed to burn the Japanese out of their caves. Its gelling agent sticks to the skin, making the fiery death it causes all the more painful. Once the pilots drop their payload, they return and strafe the ridgeline, their bullets igniting the napalm. The time from takeoff to when the Corsairs make their two passes and return to the airfield is just five minutes—so short that most pilots don’t even retract their landing gear.

  But the enemy remains defiant. “The Japs weren’t on the island, they were in the island,” one marine will marvel years later. “One cave was big enough to house about fifteen hundred Jap soldiers. This big cave started on one side of a ridge, went all the way under, and came out the other side. They had a dispensary set up there, a hospital. All kinds of stuff.”