by Toland, John
Iwakuro’s missionary zeal may have caused his banishment but he was not alone in his views, and they brought about a dramatic policy reversal. The military leaders had finally agreed, after long arguments, to avoid war with the United States even at the cost of major concessions. On the day of Iwakuro’s departure—it was August 28—two messages were on their way to Franklin Roosevelt. One was a letter from Konoye again requesting a meeting, and the other an official proposal to withdraw all Japanese troops from Indochina once the China Incident was settled or a “just peace” was established in East Asia. Japan further promised to make no military advances into neighboring countries and to take no military action against the Soviet Union as long as Russia remained “faithful to the Soviet-Japanese neutrality treaty” and did not “menace Japan or Manchu-kuo.” Far more important, the Japanese consented to abide by Hull’s basic four principles—which had by now arrived in an official U. S. missive.
… Regarding the principles and directives set forth in detail by the American Government and envisaged in the informal conversations as constituting a program for the Pacific area, the Japanese Government wishes to state that it considers that these principles and the practical application thereof, in the friendliest manner possible, are the prime requisites of a true peace and should be applied not only in the Pacific area but throughout the world.…
The proposal was a negation of policies championed for months—and, though limited, gave promise of more concessions to come. Roosevelt’s first reaction to it was one of optimism and he made tentative plans to spend three days or so with Konoye. But Dr. Stanley Hornbeck didn’t believe the offer was sincere and when Hull read MAGIC intercepts of a military buildup in Southeast Asia, it was not surprising that he, too, became suspicious of the Japanese. Nor was it any wonder that Roosevelt, who still “relished a meeting with Konoye,” was easily persuaded that it should not be held “without first arriving at a satisfactory agreement.” In other words, the Americans, who didn’t believe what they were offered in the first place, would not bargain unless they were previously assured that their own conditions would be generally met.
In Tokyo, Grew and his staff were more than willing to take the new proposal at face value and were convinced that Konoye would agree “to the eventual withdrawal of Japanese forces from all of Indochina and from all of China with the face-saving expedient of being permitted to retain a limited number of troops in North China and Inner Mongolia temporarily.” Accordingly, Grew pleaded that the Konoye-Roosevelt meeting be approved before time ran out. For months he had warned Washington that the Japanese Army was “capable of sudden and surprise action” and that traditionally in Japan “a national psychology of desperation develops into a determination to risk all.”
This psychology of desperation overshadowed the session of the liaison conference which started at eleven o’clock on September 3, next door to the Palace in the Imperial Household Ministry.‡ As yet no official word had come from Roosevelt, and the members were filled with misgivings. Had it been a mistake to make such a conciliatory offer? Were the Americans simply playing for time?
“With each day we will get weaker and weaker, until finally we won’t be able to stand on our feet,” said Navy Chief of Staff Nagano. “Although I feel sure that we have a chance to win a war right now, I’m afraid this chance will vanish with the passage of time.” There was no way to “checkmate the enemy’s king”—industrial potential—and a decisive initial victory was essential. “Thus our only recourse is to forge ahead!”
These words brought the Army to the point of panic, and Chief of Staff Gen Sugiyama introduced a new element—a deadline. “We must try to achieve our diplomatic objectives by October 10,” he said. “If this fails we must dash forward. Things cannot be allowed to drag out.”
It was a perilous suggestion and might mean war. Yet the two who wanted peace the most, Prince Konoye and Foreign Minister Toyoda, raised no objections. Perhaps they secretly felt that the negotiations would be successfully concluded within the five weeks of grace, and the only substantial argument was over phraseology. After seven hours they all finally fixed the following policy: “For the self-defense and self-preservation of our empire, we will complete preparations for war, with the first ten days of October as a tentative deadline, determined, if necessary, to wage war against the United States, Great Britain and the Netherlands.” Concurrently they would negotiate in a sincere attempt to attain minimum objectives, but if it appeared that these were not met by October 10—war.
The operational plans for war had already been completed. Assaults by the Navy and Army would be launched simultaneously at Pearl Harbor, Hong Kong, Malaya and the Philippines.§ The Army General Staff had learned about Pearl Harbor only a few days before. Several in the War Ministry also knew but, curiously, Tojo was not one of them.
The slim hope that this hastily conceived deadline would be reconsidered by the Cabinet before presentation to the Throne disappeared with the arrival, a few hours later, of a reply from Roosevelt to Japan’s conciliatory proposal. It was in two parts: one was a polite refusal of Konoye’s reiterated invitation to meet until they first came to agreement on the “fundamental and essential questions”; the other, an Oral Statement, was as vague and more disappointing. It was the kind of clever riposte so many diplomats seemed to delight in: it politely avoided promising anything of import while side-stepping the main issues. It noted “with satisfaction” Japan’s willingness to abide by Hull’s four principles but seemed to ask the question, “Do you really mean it?” and never mentioned Japan’s offer to withdraw all troops from Indochina.
Since it seemed to be a deliberate rebuff (which it was not), as well as a belittling of concessions made by the Army at agonizing cost (which it was), the Cabinet approved the deadline policy without argument. On September 5 Konoye went to the Palace to request an imperial conference to make the policy official. First he stopped off at the office of the Privy Seal.
“How can you suddenly present such a proposal to the Emperor!” Marquis Kido exclaimed. It sounded to him like out-and-out preparations for war. “He won’t even have time to consider it.” Konoye’s excuse was weak.
“Couldn’t you make it vague?” Kido asked. “It’s too dangerous to set the limit at mid-October.”
Konoye shifted uncomfortably. “You must do something!” Kido persisted. Konoye muttered that the matter had been decided at the liaison conference, and what could he do now?
At four-thirty a chamberlain announced that the Emperor was ready to see the Prime Minister. His Majesty looked up from the proposed policy. “I notice you first speak of war and then of diplomacy. I must question the Chiefs of the General Staff about this tomorrow at the conference.”
“The order in which the items are listed doesn’t necessarily indicate importance,” Konoye replied with embarrassment. He suggested that the Chiefs of Staff come at once and give a fuller explanation of the Supreme Command’s position, and at six o’clock he returned with General Sugiyama and Admiral Nagano.
The Emperor asked if the operations in the south would succeed as planned and was given a detailed presentation of the operational plans for the Malay and Philippine campaigns. But these details didn’t relieve his concern. “Is there a possibility that the operations will not proceed on schedule? You say five months, but isn’t it possible it won’t work out that way?”
“The Army and Navy have studied the whole matter a number of times,” Sugiyama explained. “Therefore, I imagine we’ll be able to carry out the operations as planned.”
“Do you think the landing operations can be carried out so easily?”
“I do not believe it will be easy, but since both the Army and the Navy are constantly training, I feel confident we’ll be able to do it successfully.”
“In the landing maneuvers on Kyushu a considerable number of ships were ‘sunk.’ What would you do if the same thing happened in reality?”
Sugiyama was disconcerted.
“That was because the convoy had started cruising before enemy planes were shot down. I don’t believe that will happen.”
“Are you sure it will work out as planned?” the Emperor persisted. “When you were War Minister you said Chiang Kai-shek would be defeated quickly, but you still haven’t been able to do it.”
“The interior of China is so vast,” said the chagrined Sugiyama.
“I know, but the South Seas are much wider.” The Emperor was agitated and showed it. “How can you possibly say you can end the war in five months?”
Sugiyama tried to answer. He said Japan’s strength was gradually diminishing and that it was necessary to strengthen national prosperity while the empire still had its resiliency.
This was no answer and the Emperor interrupted him. “Can we absolutely win?”
“I couldn’t say ‘absolutely.’ However, I will say that we can probably win; I don’t dare say we can absolutely win. It won’t help Japan to gain peace for half a year or a year if this were followed by a national crisis. I believe we should seek peace that will last twenty years or fifty years.”
“Ah so, I understand!” the Emperor exclaimed in an unnaturally loud voice.
Sugiyama saw that he was still troubled. “We’d rather not fight at all. We think we should try our best to negotiate, and only when we’re pushed to the edge shall we fight.”
Nagano immediately came to his colleague’s assistance. “It is, I think, like a critically ill patient awaiting a surgical operation.” The decision to operate had to be made quickly. No operation meant the gradual decline of the patient. Operation, though an extreme measure, might save his life. But a quick decision was essential. “The Supreme Command hopes for successful negotiations, but if they fail, an operation is necessary.” He quickly added that diplomacy was, of course, of “primary importance.”
“Am I to understand that the Supreme Command now gives first preference to diplomacy?” Both Chiefs said yes and the Emperor seemed to be reassured.
But the next morning at nine-forty—it was September 6—he sent for Kido, just before the imperial conference was to start. Could Japan win a war against America? he asked. What about the negotiations in Washington?
Kido advised the Emperor to remain silent at first and leave the questions to Privy Council President Hara; he had already instructed Hara what these should be. But once the discussion was over, the Emperor should break precedence. He should cease to reign, that is, and momentarily rule: “Instruct the Chiefs of Staff to co-operate with the government in making the negotiations successful.” Only through such a dramatic break in tradition could the disastrous deadline policy be reversed.
As members filed into the conference room, Konoye took aside General Teiichi Suzuki, who had been brought in as an expert on resources, and showed him the new policy. A glance convinced Suzuki that it should not be presented to the Emperor. Konoye was in accord but said that the Supreme Command, and Tojo in particular, insisted on speed, and if the imperial conference was put off even for twenty-four hours, the Cabinet would probably have to resign. “Whether we go to war or not will be decided later. This is merely a decision to prepare for battle while negotiating. Therefore I’m going to let this go through.”
Promptly at ten o’clock the crucial meeting opened. “With your permission, I will take the chair so we may proceed,” Konoye began, and reviewed the tense international situation. Everyone sat stiffly, hands on knees, as Navy Chief of Staff Nagano urged that every effort be made to negotiate. But if Japan’s minimum demands were not met, the problem could only be solved by “aggressive military operations,” despite America’s “unassailable position, her vaster industrial power and her abundant resources.”
The Army Chief of Staff reiterated the same hope for successful negotiations, and General Suzuki spoke about the grim state of national resources. Even with strict wartime control, the liquid-fuel stockpile would be exhausted in ten months. “If the negotiations in Washington succeed, fine; but if not and we wait too long, it would be disastrous.” There were three alternatives: start war preparations at once; continue the negotiations; or just sit and starve. “The third is unthinkable. Therefore we must choose between the first two.”
The practical Hara stood up. The time had passed for conventional diplomacy, he said, and praised Konoye for his resolution to meet Roosevelt and come to some agreement. He held aloft a draft of the new policy. “This draft seems to imply that war comes first and diplomacy second, but can’t I interpret this to mean that we’ll do our utmost in diplomacy and go to war only when there is no other recourse?”
“President Hara’s interpretation and my intentions when I composed the draft are exactly the same,” said Navy Minister Oikawa.
But the more the military explained, the more it bothered Hara. “This draft still gives me the impression that we will turn to belligerency rather than diplomacy. Or are you actually going to place emphasis on diplomacy? I should like to have the views of the government as well as of the Supreme Command.”
In the embarrassing silence the Emperor stared at the conferees, then did the unheard-of. He said in his loud, high-pitched voice, “Why don’t you answer?”
Not since the 2/26 Incident had he abandoned his role as passive emperor. His listeners were stunned at the sound of his voice and it was a long moment before a member of the Cabinet finally rose. It was Navy Minister Oikawa. “We will start war preparations but, of course, we’ll also exert every effort to negotiate.”
There was another pause as the others waited for one of the Chiefs of Staff to speak. But both Nagano and Sugiyama sat paralyzed.
“I am sorry the Supreme Command has nothing to say,” the Emperor remarked. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and began reading a poem written by his grandfather, Emperor Meiji:
“All the seas, everywhere,
are brothers one to another
Why then do the winds and waves of strife
rage so violently through the world?”
The listeners sat awed by the Emperor’s censure. There wasn’t a sound or movement until the Emperor spoke again. “I make it a rule to read this poem from time to time to remind me of Emperor Meiji’s love of peace. How do you feel about all this?”
Finally Nagano forced himself to stand up. “Representing the Supreme Command,” he said humbly, head bowed, “I express our deep regret for not replying to His Majesty’s request but—” He floundered in apology. “I think exactly the same as President Hara. I made two mentions on this point in the text. Since President Hara said he understood my intentions, I didn’t feel there was any need to re-emphasize the point.”
Sugiyama got to his feet. “It was exactly the same with me. I was about to rise from my seat to answer President Hara’s question when Navy Minister Oikawa answered it for me.” This made it unnecessary for the two Chiefs of Staff to speak. “However, I am overawed to hear His Majesty tell us directly that His Majesty regrets our silence. Allow me to assume that His Majesty feels we should make every effort to accomplish our goals by diplomatic means. I also gather His Majesty suspects that the Supreme Command may be giving first consideration to war, not to diplomacy.” He assured the Emperor that this was not true.
2.
The decision to start war preparations at once while attempting to negotiate was much more than that. It meant, in fact, that hostilities would commence unless the negotiations were successfully concluded by October 10. The decision was made and approved with the Emperor’s seal, but His Majesty’s displeasure left a sense of doubt even among the military. He had put the accent on diplomacy, and Prime Minister Konoye realized that this gave him a last chance to achieve peace. The problem was not so much the Tojo group as the public. The controlled press had led the people to believe that the Anglo-Saxons were intent on reducing Japan to a third-rate nation, and out of all this came a rash of indignation meetings calling for action. The situation was so ominous that Ambassador Grew took to wearing a pist
ol, although it made him feel silly and “wild west.”
The danger was real: two secret organizations, which had learned of the proposed Konoye-Roosevelt meeting, were plotting to murder the Prime Minister. One had decided to make a daring, gangland-style assault in Tokyo; the other, to emulate the bombing of Marshal Chang. The latter plan was devised by a lieutenant colonel named Masanobu Tsuji, already an idol of the most radical young officers. A chauvinist of the first water, he was determined to thwart a summit meeting that was destined to end in a disgraceful peace.
As his instrument of murder he chose a civilian who had already spent two terms in prison: once for something he had done—handing the Emperor a rightist petition demanding relief for the unemployed, and once for something he had not done—throwing a stick of dynamite into the Finance Minister’s home. Yoshio Kodama, leader of the most active nationalist society, shared Tsuji’s convictions and approved his plan. Konoye would have to go to the meeting by ship, and since there wasn’t a good highway to the naval base at Yokosuka, would travel by train. As it passed over the Rokugo Bridge outside the capital, Kodama would set off an explosion.
Several hours after the imperial conference, Konoye called his mistress at the hairdresser’s. There was a note of urgency in his voice as he told her to get ready at once; a car would call for her. A few minutes later she was driven to the home of Count Bunkichi Ito, son of Prince Hirobumi Ito, one of the four great men of the Meiji Restoration. There wasn’t a servant in the house.
Two other cars arrived, one with Konoye and his private secretary, Tomohiko Ushiba; the other, diplomatic tags removed, carried Ambassador Grew and Embassy Counselor Eugene H. Dooman. Never before had either diplomat been invited to such a meeting. Traditionally, prime ministers had no social or official contact with foreign envoys except on state occasions.
