The Emperor's General

by James Webb

  “He doesn’t like General Yamashita,” I muttered weakly. “Personally, I mean.”

  “It’s fair to say that he’s pathological on the subject.” Genius glanced at his two assistants, sharing a private laugh. Then he looked back at me. His face was lit with the same challenge that I had seen in MacArthur’s office at the end of his first briefing. “But I have what we might call a—broader theory on the whole matter.”

  I thought for a moment. “The emperor,” I said.

  “Intuitive, but not so fast,” answered Genius. “Your boss hates Yamashita. He’s obsessed with the rape of Manila. But I’ll tell you what he really despises—the very thought of going after the rape of Nanking. It repels him. It makes him want to barf. Why? First, he doesn’t believe it’s his problem, since it happened before we came into the war. Second, he looks at it as two Asian cultures kind of, settling scores.”

  “The chicken and the monkey,” I said helpfully.

  “Right,” said Genius. “You ought to be fully sympathetic with the monkey thing. And third, there’s a blood trail in it that just might point toward the imperial family.”

  “He hates that,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Genius. “He hates that. And fourth—I’m almost done—he’s getting yelled at by the press and our allies to do something about war crimes, when we’re not going to have the international tribunal up and running here in Tokyo until next spring. So what does he do?” Genius pointed at the folder on my lap. “He throws them some raw meat. And in his view it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  I held the folder gingerly, flipping through the pages without reading them. Finally I looked up at Sam Genius. “So why are you telling me?”

  “Because it seems to me that MacArthur listens to you, or he wouldn’t have made you a spy. Maybe you can let him know that I’m on to this.”

  “He doesn’t listen to me. I listen for him. There’s a difference, Colonel. And it wouldn’t do any good, anyway. You think he’s afraid of you?”

  Genius watched me for a moment, then nodded his agreement. “OK, you’re right. I’m a peon. So what is he afraid of, Captain?”

  I thought about that. Douglas MacArthur, afraid? “I don’t think he’s afraid of anything.”

  “The emperor,” said Genius flatly.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think so. I mean, he might want to use the emperor. He might even want the emperor for his friend. But not afraid.” I thought about it some more. “What’s he afraid of? Failure, maybe.”

  “I still say the emperor,” said Genius. “They’re meeting in less than an hour.”

  I checked my watch. “You’re right. I have to go.”

  Genius teased me one last time as I left his office. “I changed my mind, Marsh. You’re not a spy. You’re just a moderately low-class whore.”

  Just as he did every morning, MacArthur had commuted to work in his highly polished black 1941 Cadillac, recently shipped to him by an old and very rich friend in Manila who had heard of the comical, Chaplinesque convoy from Atsugi to Yokohama. His morning ritual had already become famous in downtown Tokyo. Two white-hatted MPs on motorcycles drove slowly in front of the General’s limousine, which bore five-star fender flags and license plates. As the limousine approached the bottom of Renanzaka Hill, Japanese policemen immediately halted all other traffic along the short route to the Dai Ichi offices. Usually the General would reverse the route in the early afternoon, going home to the embassy for lunch and a siesta, and then return to the Dai Ichi in midafternoon, working late into the night. But on this day, the General returned from the Dai Ichi building after only two hours.

  I and a dozen other staff members were waiting for him on the driveway near the embassy’s front entranceway when he returned. The Cadillac halted just inside the gate. He stepped out from the right rear door and slammed it behind him. He was electric, visibly eager, ramrod-straight as he walked briskly away from the Cadillac. When MacArthur was energized he seemed taller, more physically powerful, even young. Hardly looking at us, he began striding toward the steps that led up to the embassy’s front doorway.

  We saluted him as he neared us. “We’ll have a half hour, Jay,” he suddenly called to me, all business as he returned my salute. “One official photograph, at the end of the session. You’ll be in with me. Keep everyone else out of the meeting.”

  He had taken me by surprise. “In with you, General?”

  “Colonel Mashbir has strep throat. You’re my only interpreter today.”

  As was his practice in Japan, MacArthur was wearing only a starched working khaki uniform, devoid of military decorations. I began to panic, realizing that I myself was wearing only working khakis, and did not have time to return to my hotel if the General wanted me to change into a more formal uniform.

  I called after him. “General, excuse me! What’s the uniform, sir?”

  “You’re wearing it.”

  “You’re not going to change, sir?”

  “Which are you questioning? My word, or my judgment, Captain?”

  I flinched, embarrassed, as the other officers began to laugh. “Neither, sir. Working khakis.”

  “Working khakis.” MacArthur now jogged up the steps and went into the embassy.

  General Court Whitney laughed loudly after the supreme commander disappeared inside. “What backwoods Arkansas swamp did you say you crawled out of, Jay?”

  “He changes uniforms three times a day!” I protested. “For all I know he could come out in dress whites.”

  “Read my lips,” said General Whitney. “He’s wearing working khakis for a reason.”

  I nodded, suddenly appreciating the innate shrewdity in MacArthur’s decision. Working khakis, to meet the emperor. It told me that MacArthur knew what he wanted, both from the meeting and from the all-important photograph that would follow. I sensed that, not unlike my initial conversation with Lord Privy Seal Kido in the restaurant, the supreme commander and the emperor would be engaging in their own belly talking before getting down to any serious discussions. And I knew that MacArthur would order that the photograph be displayed in every newspaper in Japan. Dressed as he was it would show MacArthur raw and simple, without adornment, emphasizing his forbidding presence and imperious personality. Stripping away his soldierly embellishments would make clear that his present powers did not emanate merely from military accomplishments or accoutrements but from the force of his personal wisdom and intellect.

  Thinking of this, I recalled Divina Clara’s grandmother joking slyly about MacArthur in his gaudy uniform when he was serving field marshal of the Philippines, a mess of black pants and white tunic, with splashy medals and gold cord draping his chest, even a gold braid on his officer’s cap. Then, many in the war-frightened Philippines had delighted in MacArthur the flamboyant warrior-soldier. Today, with equally meticulous thought and attention, he would stand serenely before the emperor and the world, all-powerful in a simple khaki shirt.

  A new role had been born: MacArthur, like Mao Tse-tung and Ho Chi Minh, the all-wise, quasi-pajamaed, hybrid-Confucian leader.

  I eyed Whitney. “I’m the only one in there with him, sir?”

  “You heard him. No witnesses. We each get one interpreter, Captain Marsh. That’s it.”

  I found myself chuckling. “The lord privy seal is going to have a heart attack over that.”

  “Excellent,” jibed Colonel Sam Genius from just behind Whitney. “Then we won’t have to put him on trial.”

  “The Boss wants this to be absolutely private,” emphasized Whitney, giving me a warning look. “The more people in the room, the more pressure on the emperor. The more pressure, the greater the chance of some kind of diplomatic foul-up.” He shrugged. “The meeting is the message, anyway.”

  “ ‘The meeting is the message!’ ” panned the grinning Colonel Genius. “Well said, General Whitney! Have you considered a career in politics?”

  Whitney smiled thinly, not to be outdone. “How do you thin
k I’ve spent the last three years?”

  Genius rubbed a bulbous, bright red nose, feigning confusion. “For the rest of us, I seem to recall there was a war in there somewhere.”

  It was one minute after ten o’clock. A young sergeant ran outside from the embassy’s main door and called to General Whitney. “General, we just got a phone message from headquarters. The emperor’s motorcade has crossed the palace moat at the Sakurada Bridge! They’re heading toward the embassy.”

  Whistles began to shriek not far away. The Japanese police were halting traffic at the bottom of Renanzaka Hill, just below the embassy. Now we heard car engines snorting and gears downshifting as a small convoy made its way up the steep hill on the other side of the compound’s high white masonry walls. And then the embassy’s gates cranked slowly open, revealing a line of old plum-colored Daimlers.

  The World War One-vintage German autos chugged and jerked their way inside the embassy grounds. Surprisingly, the emperor was in the first car, sitting stoically in the backseat next to the ever-stunned and wildly staring Lord Privy Seal Kido. His car and the four others that trailed it moved slowly along the driveway as if in formation, then seemed to halt all at the same time. Immediately a swarm of chamberlains, bodyguards, and household staff poured from the other cars. They raced with an almost comical adoration to the emperor’s limousine, forming two quick welcoming lines. The doors were opened for him and then for Kido. The imperial household staff members bowed deeply, looking to the dirt as the emperor slowly emerged from the car and walked between their two rows.

  In contrast to his commanding and quietly powerful performance before the diet three weeks before, the emperor now seemed smaller, shyer, and somewhat dazed. He stood for a long moment between the two rows of bowing subalterns, staring blankly at the embassy building as if lost and unsure of what to do next. Appearing at the same time cowed and agitated, the emperor’s very demeanor seemed to me a conscious taking of what the Japanese termed the “low position” that was customarily used in order to gain an adversary’s sympathy. He had worn a simple but elegantly tailored naval uniform to speak before the diet, but now he was dressed in baggy prewar morning clothes that seemed more appropriate for one of his lowly chamberlains. He carried a silk top hat and wore a shabby claw-hammer coat over an old pair of striped trousers.

  Kido and an interpreter joined him where he stood. The lord privy seal whispered into his ear, taking an elbow and pointing toward the embassy. Finally the emperor nodded and moved forward, shuffling toward the embassy’s entrance. He seemed to tremble as he walked. At the bottom of the embassy steps Brigadier General Bonnie Fellers, one of MacArthur’s chief assistants, stood waiting. Reaching Fellers, the emperor surprised him with a self-conscious Western-style handshake.

  The handshake seemed to break the ice. Members of our staff began approaching the emperor and his household staff. Handshakes and nervous bows mixed together, as did smiles and guttural laughs. Few knew the relative ranks of the people they were greeting, or even what the other side was saying, but everyone understood that history was being made in the privacy of this small courtyard.

  I rushed quickly forward, reaching the lord privy seal, who was standing near the emperor. Kido was smiling with the satisfied look of a parent watching his only child graduate from school. He gave me the slightest of bows.

  “Captain Jay Marsh! Good morning!”

  “Lord Privy Seal, I need to talk to you. I’m very sorry, but the meeting will be closed, except for—”

  “Yes, I know,” said Kido, cutting me off with an unconcerned wave of his hand. “It was the emperor’s wish. A sound decision. We discussed this for many hours yesterday!”

  His answer surprised me. We had been told that the emperor never spoke directly for himself during open-ended policy deliberations, preferring only to weigh in at the end of a meeting with his imperial judgment. I had believed he would want the lord privy seal in the meeting as a foil, to explain his views during preliminary questions, and to insulate him from having to answer any serious questions that might lead to confrontation.

  “You don’t wish to be with the emperor?”

  “He is well rehearsed,” said Kido. He gave me a careful look. “There will be no surprises?”

  “I will be the only other person in the meeting,” I said.

  “Excellent!” said the lord privy seal, beaming warmly. I could see that once again he was congratulating himself on his judgment as he continued to misread the strength of my relationship with the supreme commander.

  The emperor began slowly walking up the steps. Kido took me by an elbow as we walked, speaking furtively in low, hushed tones. “We decided that if it were a large meeting, unnecessary policy matters might be discussed. And many people would report, perhaps incorrectly, on the details of the conversation! It was too great a risk. It is better that the two rulers meet alone.”

  The two rulers. Something in the way Kido said it irritated me, as if I were automatically expected to agree with its inference of equality.

  Knowing I was needed to help interpret, I broke away and moved toward the front of the entourage. Kido called softly after me. “You are enjoying Yoshiko?” His eyes were leeringly round, and his face carried a conspiratorial grin.

  His question startled and embarrassed me. There was an implied ownership in it, an assumed fealty, that left me feeling soiled and angry. I raced away from him, not answering.

  The emperor had reached the top of the steps. I joined him and introduced myself to his interpreter, a short, bull-necked young man about my age. The interpreter gave me a snaggletoothed smile, and announced in practiced English that he had studied at UCLA.

  “You played football for Southern Cal.” He grinned. “Our old crosstown rivals! Yes, I remember you! Jay Marsh, tailback! You had a Nisei girlfriend. Very daring! We used to talk about it. You were very famous among the Japanese students!”

  “Then I’m surprised I never met any of them,” I answered.

  “Perhaps we were too shy,” he said, smiling again.

  I smiled back, uncertain of his true educational origins, thinking again of Marquis Kido’s comments about my supposed Osaka accent during our dinner. Maybe this was all innocent coincidence. Or maybe they did indeed have a file on me. Maybe it did not matter. And then again, maybe it mattered a lot.

  Our two delegations shuffled about in the embassy’s foyer for a few minutes, making small conversation. And then General Whitney nudged me, nodding toward the doorway that led into the embassy’s reception room.

  “The supreme commander,” announced Whitney, speaking with a loud, formal officiousness that I knew was meant for the emperor’s ears.

  Everyone fell silent. As if on cue MacArthur suddenly appeared in the doorway, halting for a moment to gaze with a deliberately noble pose into the foyer. As promised, he was dressed in his working khakis. The emperor seemed overpowered. He stared humbly at MacArthur, then moved slowly toward him. Hirohito hesitated again, appearing confused. Fumbling, he turned back and gave Kido his top hat. And finally he walked forward, until he stood small and mute before the supreme commander.

  It was a vintage MacArthur moment. The supreme commander smiled grandly, savoring it. Few Americans would understand, but I knew exactly what the supreme commander was thinking, for with this simple imperial gesture, history had thrice been made. The emperor had been the first to request a meeting. The emperor had brought his entourage to the seat of MacArthur’s throne. And now the emperor had made the first move to greet the supreme commander.

  “Your Majesty!” said MacArthur in his best and warmest baritone. There was a victorious gladness in his voice, but the General emanated a deep and sincere respect as he took the emperor’s hand and gestured toward the drawing room. And I saw that the emperor had immediately relaxed.

  Hirohito’s interpreter and I fell in behind the two leaders, following them into the large, high-ceilinged drawing room. It was cool and dank inside and eeri
ly quiet. Tall pillars seemed built into the walls. Dark red, heavy curtains hung over the high arched windows and covered one entire wall. A huge glass chandelier dangled overhead. A half-dozen potted plants that reminded me of bamboo lined the room’s outer edges.

  MacArthur’s leather heels echoed off the parquet floor as he led the emperor toward a stiff-looking, cloth colonial couch in the center of the drawing room. I heard the doors click as the staff closed them behind us, locking us in. MacArthur gestured toward the couch, easing into one corner of it. The emperor joined him, sitting at the other end of the couch. I and the emperor’s interpreter took wooden colonial chairs, each at the elbow of our respective rulers.

  The supreme commander offered the emperor an American cigarette, then held a lighter for him as the emperor put it to his lips. Hirohito’s fingers were trembling as he lit the cigarette. Puffing tentatively on it, he did not appear to be a regular smoker. He sat stiffly on the couch, smoking the cigarette and attentively watching MacArthur, who now leaned back casually, smiling at the emperor with an almost fatherly indulgence. And then for what I was later informed was exactly thirty-eight minutes they talked, as I and the emperor’s young interpreter translated for them.

  “I had the great pleasure of meeting your grandfather in 1905,” began MacArthur. “It was just after the Russo-Japanese War, and I was privileged to be touring the Far East as my father’s temporary military aide. He was a most impressive man, Emperor Meiji. I’m sorry I did not meet you then. But that was long ago. You were a very small boy!”

  “Yes,” said the emperor, smiling with appreciation at the mention of his revered grandfather. “A long time ago. But even then we knew of the great warrior family of MacArthurs.”

  And I knew that the belly talk had begun.

  “Thank you,” answered MacArthur, not concealing his own pleasure at the emperor’s compliment. “My father was indeed a great warrior and a great man. And with Your Majesty’s indulgence, it is true that we are the only father-and-son Medal of Honor recipients in our nation’s history. I learned so very much from him! But we can make no pretense of having held the long and age-old responsibilities of your own grand imperial family.”