by James Webb
Despite myself and my reservations about Yamashita, I found that I was tingling with an odd satisfaction. I admired Douglas MacArthur immensely, but after nearly three years I was perhaps too aware of his obsessive need to be worshiped. And although I had often heard petty bickering, no officer had ever spoken so bluntly about him to my face.
“All right, Captain,” I said, smiling ironically. “I’ll leave out the ‘asshole’ part, but I’ll tell him that. Anything else?”
Rather than slowing Witherspoon down, I seemed to have encouraged him. “Oh, leave it in. And there’s a lot more. Tell him I’ve represented criminal defendants for nearly ten years and what he’s doing is a sham. We’re Americans, Captain. We’re supposedly bringing an accused man into the American system of justice. This is a capital case. Yamashita’s life is at stake. I know a lot of people died in this war, and life was cheap, but the war is over. Tell MacArthur if he wants to kill Yamashita, why hide behind us? Why doesn’t he just come down here and shoot him in the fucking head?”
From the trial’s convening order I had some idea of what Witherspoon was talking about, but still I did not comprehend the depth of his fury. I felt myself shrugging again. “He’s getting a trial. Everything I’ve heard about you indicates that you’re as good a defense lawyer as General Yamashita could ever hope to find. I’m sorry. I’m not a lawyer. I don’t understand.”
“That’s exactly the fucking point.” Witherspoon began pacing. “You’re not a lawyer, MacArthur’s not a lawyer, and this isn’t a court! He’s convened a military commission! It’s not—a—court. It’s his own little creation. A commission composed of five generals, less than a month after this war is over. Do you think any of them want the papers back home to say they were softies when it came to facing down a Nip general? And none of them are lawyers, either! I don’t even have a military judge to object to on points of law, like I would in a regular court-martial, for Christ’s sake! Do you think any of them are even going to understand the rules of evidence? Admissibility? Relevance? Probity? And MacArthur is the sole reviewing authority for their actions! Do you think they want to ruin their careers by pissing off their supreme commander? He’s waived traditional rules of evidence. He’s sent the prosecution team all over the countryside for months, gathering information about every Japanese atrocity that was committed during the war. He didn’t appoint the defense counsel until three days ago, and then they dropped sixty-four sets of charges on Yamashita and expect us to be ready to go to trial within a few weeks! There’s no way I’ll ever be able to interview witnesses, break down the specifics of the charges, and connect them with the actions of my client. What do you call that? Tell me! What do you call it?”
Witherspoon stopped pacing. He was facing away from me now, looking up toward Jesus on the cross. He was breathing rapidly, genuinely upset. This was not the posturing of some high-priced defense counsel but rather the struggling of a man obviously torn. And yet I was torn, too.
“Did you see Manila, Captain?”
“Yeah, I saw Manila,” he said. “But who did it?”
Witherspoon turned back around to face me. “These are complicated charges! They’re not accusing him of pulling the trigger, you know. They’re charging him with failing to discharge his duty as the commander of the Japanese army, that his actions were tantamount to permitting his soldiers to commit the atrocities. These are extremely intricate issues involving the laws of war. We’re into areas that have no precedent. To what extent is a commander responsible for the acts of others?”
“I know something about the Japanese culture, Captain.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, still pacing agitatedly. “I hear you’re quite the little linguist.”
“I ought to kick your ass for that.”
“Go ahead,” he dared. “MacArthur will get you off.”
“MacArthur would love it.”
“Exactly my point.”
“I know this,” I said, deciding to ignore his sarcasm. “I know that Manila was at some level a payback, ordered from above. Japanese soldiers would not have gone on such a rampage unless they had at least the go-ahead from their superiors.”
“Maybe,” said Witherspoon, looking at me with a victorious sneer. “But who said these were Yamashita’s soldiers?”
His comment caught me completely by surprise, as he had known it would. He pointed to a chapel window. On the other side, in the gathering darkness, we could see the sparse barracks of the Bilibid. “Yamashita had already pulled his soldiers out of Manila. He had declared it an open city and declined to fight there. He’d issued written orders to his soldiers against any form of atrocity. Written orders! When all this happened, he was hauling his ass through the mountains of central Luzon, fighting off twelve American divisions.”
“There were soldiers in Manila, Captain. I was there. We killed a lot of them. I saw their bodies.”
“I know you consider yourself an expert on the Japanese, Captain, but I’m telling you that you did not see Yamashita’s soldiers. You saw sailors, and marines, and a few soldiers from local commands. None of them were under Yamashita’s command. None of them, not one! They were under some admiral named Iwabuchi. Iwabuchi got a different set of orders from naval headquarters in Tokyo to destroy the port facilities, so they stayed in Manila. When Yamashita heard they’d stayed back in Manila he radioed them, ordering them a second time to get out of the goddamned city! Iwabuchi ignored him, because he had orders from Tokyo. So Yamashita’s going to get fried for the acts of soldiers under his command, but the acts were committed by Iwabuchi’s fucking degenerates. But Iwabuchi’s already dead, so that doesn’t satisfy your General’s needs, does it?”
I found myself wondering whether Witherspoon had developed a quick case of “clientitis,” as happens so often with well-meaning defense lawyers. I watched him with mild cynicism. “You’ve learned a lot in the past four days.”
“Well, that’s another thing.” I had fired him up again. “The prosecution has been talking to Yamashita for nearly a month, without a defense lawyer present. Yamashita’s got a staff member over in the barracks, a guy named Hamamoto, who speaks perfect English. It seems he graduated from Harvard in the class of twenty-nine, a few years ahead of me, then came back to Japan and worked for General Electric before the war. The prosecution has every single fact in this case. And even they don’t dispute what I just said! They know as well as I do that it’s not going to matter! Do you realize what this trial—if you can call it a trial—this illegal, judgeless commission is going to look like? It’s going to be nothing but a public circus!”
Witherspoon had now stunned me into silence. I was not conversant in the finer points of the law, but still I felt somehow soiled by both his anger and his recitation of the facts. I spoke quietly. “I’ll tell MacArthur.”
“That’ll do a lot of good,” said Witherspoon, giving off a cynical, barking laugh. “He’s the Svengali of this whole preposterous charade. But you do that. And when you’re done, let me know what he said.”
There was nothing else left to say. “I’m under orders to visit General Yamashita.”
“He’s expecting you.” Witherspoon pointed out the window toward Yamashita’s barracks. “The guard will bring you inside.”
He stopped me as I began walking away. “One more thing.”
I turned to him. “Yes?”
“A prediction.”
Witherspoon’s face held a grim look of prophecy. “Sooner or later, some American soldier in Tokyo is going to have too much to drink. And he’s going to go out in the town like some big-time conquering hero, and he’s going to rape a Japanese woman. Somebody might try to stop him, and maybe he’ll fight that guy off and end up killing him. If that happens, the precedent your General wants to set in this case means that he should hang for it. MacArthur, not just the soldier who does it! Oh, yeah, he can say that he issued all the appropriate instructions against it, but if we’re going to hold commanders accountable for
all the acts of those under their general jurisdiction, MacArthur’s a criminal every time one of his soldiers is! What are we doing here, Captain? Of all the bloodsucking criminals who did grotesque things in this war, why are we wasting our credibility as the United States of America on this man? And in God’s name, what is the hurry?”
I looked at him for a moment. In truth I knew the answer, but as Court Whitney might have put it, I was on the inside of the tent, pissing out. Clueing in Witherspoon would be to put my own head on the chopping block.
“Ask Sam Genius,” I finally said.
“What good would that do?”
“Probably none.”
“What are you going to do with Yamashita?” There was a protective tone in Witherspoon’s question.
“MacArthur wanted me to pass on his regards.”
“Then he is indeed an ass, isn’t he?”
“He’s my boss, Captain.” Addled, my briefcase in tow, I headed out of the chapel toward the gloomy, silent barracks.
An odd mix of aromas that reminded me of battle seemed to surround General Tomoyuki Yamashita as I entered his room. Not cordite, not gunpowder, but the heavy, soldier’s mix of sunbaked canvas, bad tobacco, and a nervous perspiration that inundated clothes and cots and the very grains of the barracks’ wooden walls.
The prison guard who escorted me to the barracks told me that in Yamashita’s first moments in the Philippines the previous October an American aircraft had strafed the general near Clark Field’s runway, causing him to seek refuge in an open ditch that turned out to be a sewer, and that Yamashita had taken command while still wearing the same stench-filled uniform. The guard had told me the story as a jokeful boast of American military superiority, but I thought of that moment in a different way as I watched Yamashita rise from a small field desk and walk across the room to greet me.
The story seemed in perfect character with the demeanor of the man who was walking toward me. General Yamashita emanated calmness, an inner peace that would not be shaken by such externalities as physical discomfort or the judgments of others. His uniform had been filthy but he had proceeded to his command before tending to himself. General MacArthur, ever paranoid despite his brilliance, always concerned about his impact on the judgment of others, would surely have washed off and changed even if a battle were raging, not simply from hygienic concerns but because he would never have allowed himself to be photographed or seen by junior officers in such embarrassing garb.
As with the first time I had spoken with him, Yamashita emanated an unflappable serenity when he greeted me. He bowed slightly, then gestured toward the field desk, offering me his only chair. As I sat, he gave me a teasing smile.
“So, Captain Marsh, we meet again. Perhaps General MacArthur remains disappointed that I’m still alive?”
The general sat on the edge of his army cot, watching me expectantly. With one quick greeting he had again penetrated any facade that I might have brought to our meeting. Rather than setting me back, his unflappable sense of humor had quickly relaxed me, as if he were my host. Indeed, why posture? What would have been the point of double-talk and innuendo, anyway?
“He has accepted that reality, General.” I looked around the room, and then back at him. “You’re looking well.”
He shrugged. “I am being treated with great courtesy, considering the circumstances. Although I must tell you, I am terribly disturbed by the circumstances.”
“Captain Witherspoon told me about the charges.”
“They are outrageous.” His eyes locked into mine. His whole body seemed to twitch with a vast, unconquerable annoyance. “I had no knowledge of these events. I issued orders, you know.”
“There will be a trial. You will have the chance to say that.”
“Captain Witherspoon has been clear on that,” he answered, regaining his full composure. “Although he is not optimistic.”
I grew serious. “General MacArthur wants to make sure you understand the seriousness of the charges that have been brought against you. He also wants you to know that you can have other legal advice if you wish. You can even ask for a Japanese lawyer. We could bring you one from Tokyo.”
An ironic gleam filled Yamashita’s eyes, and he smiled again. “Captain Marsh, I am very fortunate to be represented by Captain Witherspoon. And you can imagine how well your military court would react to a lawyer we flew in from Tokyo?”
The ludicrous vision filled my mind. I pictured the absurdity of some bowing but argumentative Tokyo lawyer in his ill-fitting Western suit trying to argue through translators with five American generals about the rampant slaughter of Manila in the aftermath of this brutal war as the whole nation of Japan knelt with its nose on the ground to General Douglas MacArthur. We suddenly found ourselves laughing together at the very thought. And I could not help but like this unpretentious man.
And then Yamashita himself became solemn. “But the charges, I do not understand. I have asked to hear more specifics. Captain Witherspoon has made a petition. I am being charged with failing to perform my duties as a military commander. I have asked them to tell me when? And where? I have never failed to perform my duties. You should please check the records. After the fall of Singapore I made certain that General Percival’s soldiers who surrendered received good treatment. The policy changed when I was transferred back to Manchuria. But it was my policy. I was even reported to the imperial court with disfavor on these issues.”
“For what?” I asked, my senses suddenly awakening with interest.
“For disciplining officers in my command who permitted battlefield atrocities,” answered Yamashita. “Colonel Masanobu Tsuji, who ran a special operations unit in my command, was very close to the imperial family. He once tutored the emperor’s youngest brother, Prince Mikasa. He lodged a formal protest against me to the imperial government. Many officials, including Prime Minister Tojo, claimed that I was betraying my own officers. But I have trained with the European armies, Captain, and I understand the Western view on these issues. You should please ask the American prisoners of war and internees who were held under my authority near Baguio. They will tell you. Last December I expended precious gasoline to take them all out of the area where I planned to make my final stand, so that they would not be killed in the fighting.”
A memory lit my brain, from my sake-filled evening with Lord Privy Seal Kido. I could not restrain my curiosity. “Did you really propose an invasion of Australia?”
The general’s ugly, furrowed face broke out into a nostalgic smile. Watching me with fresh respect, he took out a cigarette and lit it, tossing the match into an ashtray made from the casing of an old American tank round. “And may I ask, who told you this?”
“Koichi Kido.”
“You’ve met the lord privy seal?”
“Many times,” I answered.
Yamashita grunted cynically. “How is the old bastard?”
“Cunning,” I said. We both laughed. It was clear to me that now we did have something in common. “For some reason he seems afraid of you.”
“I would never embarrass the emperor,” said Yamashita carefully. “But there are many who gave him bad advice.”
We fell silent. He dragged slowly on his cigarette. His gaze was far away, lost in old memories. I could not restrain my curiosity. “Do you really think you could have taken Australia?”
The Tiger’s eyes lit up. I could tell that in his mind he was not at that moment in an odorous, sweltering jail cell at Muntinglupa but instead was in Singapore at the moment of his greatest victory, the victory that forever reversed the notion that the Western fighting man could not be out-thought in a major battle. He peered at me with a quiet certainty.
“You should understand first that in July 1941 I returned from seven months in Germany and advised a two-year moratorium on any war plans. I had watched the European war. It was clear to me that our army was seriously deficient if Japan began a long campaign against Western forces. We had no paratroops, no
good tanks, no long-range bombers, no radar. But I was told that an immediate war was inevitable. Many of our planners argued persuasively that the Americans and British empire forces were very weak in Asia and that Asia was not important to the Western powers. When the emperor made his decision, I carried out my orders. That was my duty, as a soldier. And I did not look back.”
He hesitated, a careful, scrutinizing smile growing on his face. “Why did Kido mention Australia to you?”
“He said you were too independent,” I answered. “Dangerous. And I think he believes it makes Tojo seem reasonable for not having done it.”
The general chuckled ironically, obviously not one of Tojo’s admirers. “And was it reasonable to send whole armies of Japanese soldiers out into the island jungles to die of disease and starvation while waiting to be either attacked or bypassed? We are a hygienic people, you know. We do not fare well in jungles.”
He ground out his cigarette inside the tank casing, then shrugged. “After Singapore it was possible to take Australia. We had taken Bali and Timor. Our navy was perched on the northern coast of Australia. In February 1942 they had raided Darwin with impunity, sinking ten ships in the harbor and destroying nearly two dozen Allied aircraft. Only seven thousand regular Australian soldiers remained in the entire country. The rest were off fighting for the British empire in Europe, Africa, India, or in prisoner of war camps. The Americans had not yet arrived. Later that month I volunteered to lead an invasion. It was not an idle plan. We could have quickly landed a large force at Darwin, then used railroad and highway links to press all the way to Adelaide and Melbourne. Very soon thereafter, we could have landed a second force on the eastern coast and linked up in Sydney. Admiral Yamamoto agreed with this approach. Either we would have won quickly, forcing a settlement of the war, or we would have lost far fewer soldiers than we did in the island jungles later on. Tojo and his elders did not like this idea. So I was posted directly to Manchuria, without home leave in Tokyo. I remained there until they sent me here to the Philippines.”
