The Rising Sun: The Decline and Fall of the Japanese Empire, 1936-1945 (Modern Library War)

by Toland, John

  It was not until October 2 that Hull finally gave some definite answers to the questions the Japanese had long been awaiting. He “welcomed” a summit meeting and found Konoye’s acceptance of the four principles “gratifying,” but the proposals themselves were unacceptable, particularly those on China—all Japanese troops had to be withdrawn without delay. Therefore the meeting would have to be postponed until there was “a meeting of minds on essential points.”

  “We have no desire whatever to cause any delay,” he hastened to assure Nomura. It was a deception that must have been repugnant to such an honorable man; surely Hull had not forgotten the reiterated pleas of General George C. Marshall, the Army Chief of Staff, and Admiral Harold R. Stark, Chief of Naval Operations, for more time to reinforce the Pacific. Ironically, it was giving them less by accelerating Japan’s necessity to make a decision for war. At eleven o’clock on October 5, the Army division and bureau chiefs met in Tojo’s office and concluded: “There is no possibility to settle the matter by diplomatic negotiations. We must therefore petition the Emperor to hold an imperial conference and decide upon war.”

  Konoye returned from his holiday more discouraged than ever. His associates were just as disheartened. Marquis Kido alone had not given up hope for peace. “Judging the situation both at home and abroad, it is difficult to predict the outcome of a war between Japan and America,” he told the prince. “We should, therefore, re-examine the situation. Instead of making an immediate decision to declare war on the United States, the government should make clear that its first consideration is to bring the China Incident to a successful conclusion. The people should be told flatly that we now face ten to fifteen years of gashin-shotan.”a

  It was a disagreeable solution, but realistic, and Konoye decided to pursue it. On the morning of October 12 he summoned the War, Navy and Foreign ministers and General Suzuki of the Cabinet Planning Board to his villa in Ogikubo. It was a fine Sunday, his fiftieth birthday.

  Konoye’s private home was a comfortable but far from ostentatious Japanese structure located on spacious grounds at the edge of the suburb. Just before the conference was to start, Chief Cabinet Secretary Kanji Tomita arrived with a note for Konoye from the chief of the Naval Affairs Bureau, Admiral Takasumi Oka: “The Navy does not want the Japanese-American negotiations stopped and wishes to avoid war if at all possible. But we cannot see our way to expressing this openly at the meeting.”

  Tojo somehow learned of the note and by the time he reached Ogikubo he had resolved to make Navy Minister Oikawa speak out plainly. It was cowardly of the Navy to sekinin o nasuri-tsukeru (“transfer their responsibility”). Tojo was so nettled that he was scarcely civil to Oikawa as they sat down at a table to begin the conference. Then he blurted out impetuously, “There is no point in continuing the talks in Washington.” His adamant stand forced the Navy to do what Oka had written they could not do: speak with candor. “We are now at the crossroads—war or peace,” said Oikawa. “If we are to continue with diplomacy, we must give up war preparations and go in completely for talks—to negotiate for months and then suddenly change our tack won’t do.… The Navy is willing to leave the decision entirely up to the Prime Minister …”

  Whatever the choice, it had to be made at once, said Konoye. “It’s risky either way. The question is, Which is riskier? If we have to make a decision here and now, I will be in favor of negotiations.”

  Tojo turned to Admiral Toyoda. “Mr. Foreign Minister, have you any confidence in negotiations?” he asked with more than a touch of sarcasm. “I’m afraid you can’t persuade the Army General Staff, judging from what you’ve already said. I would like to hear if you have any confidence.”

  “Weighing both sides,” Konoye replied in his stead, “I still choose negotiations.”

  “That’s only from your own subjective point of view,” said Tojo sharply. “You can’t prevail on the Army General Staff.” Oikawa said he concurred, but this only irked Tojo. He asked Konoye not to reach a hasty conclusion. “I want to hear the opinion of the Foreign Minister.”

  “That depends on the conditions,” said Toyoda. “I think the thorniest issue today is the presence of troops in China, and if the Army won’t concede a thing to the United States, then there’s no point in continuing the talks. But if the Army can see its way clear to making some slight compromise, it may not be impossible.”

  “The stationing of troops is a matter of life and death to the Army!” Tojo burst out. “No concession in that direction!” Japan had already agreed in principle to the withdrawal of all troops from China, he continued. That, in itself, was a tremendous concession. Now it was obvious that America was demanding that Japan withdraw all troops at once. This was impossible. A million Japanese were still locked in battle in China. Japan could not withdraw completely until order was restored in China. The interior was a hotbed of Communists and bandits, and only the presence of Japanese troops in certain areas could guarantee law and order and the successful economic growth of that whole part of the continent. Total withdrawal before the aims of war had been accomplished “would not be in keeping with the dignity of the Army,” and the entire General Staff “as well as the troops abroad” agreed with him.

  “Don’t you think now is the time to forget glory and reap the fruits?” Konoye remarked. Why not give in to America in form? That is, agree in principle to withdraw all troops, yet make an arrangement with China to retain some troops in unstable areas?

  Unthinkable, said Tojo. If they made a pledge they would have to honor it scrupulously; and once they bowed to the American demand, the Chinese would show contempt. They were always most to be feared when contemptuous; withdrawal would lead to a complete loss of face and the rise of Communism. It would be like a run on the bank, and Korea as well as North China would be lost.

  It was Tojo against the other four, but he stuck obstinately to his opinion. “The Army has no intention of changing the decision of the imperial conference which was held the other day [September 6]. If there is hope of success in negotiation before the deadline set by the Supreme Command, then the talks should continue. The Navy Minister said the decision for war or peace rests with the Prime Minister. I don’t agree at all. The decision for war should be made jointly by the government and the Supreme Command. And I don’t think there is any possible way to settle the problem by diplomacy at this stage.”

  “I’m not confident of victory in war,” Konoye retorted. “I think there is no way to overcome the present difficulties except by diplomatic negotiations. As for war, I will leave that to a person who is confident of victory.” He turned to Tojo. “If you keep insisting on war, I cannot hold myself responsible for that.”

  “Haven’t we decided to go to war if diplomacy fails?” Tojo was exasperated. “Of course, you were present at that conference. I don’t see why you can’t assume responsibility for that.”

  “That decision was really nai-nai,” said Konoye, meaning “only among ourselves”—that is, it was a secret decision and, with the Emperor’s approval, could be reconsidered. Tojo took this literally to mean “of an unofficial nature”—an insult to the Emperor—and he was so visibly agitated that Konoye tried to elaborate. “Since I have greater confidence in negotiations, why should I hold myself responsible? That’s all I meant. We must consider the decision for war as final only when there is no prospect of carrying on negotiations. And there is still a chance for success.”

  “Just suppose we do abandon war preparations,” said Suzuki, envisaging another 2/26 Incident, “how can we control the Army?”

  “If that is the case,” said Tojo, “controlling the Army won’t be difficult.”

  The argument continued through the afternoon, and finally ended in compromise: they would continue negotiations until October 15, or later if Imperial Headquarters approved it, but concede nothing on the stationing of troops in China to fight Communism.

  Compromise or not, the meeting did have one good effect. Tojo had argued stu
bbornly, but on the way back to Tokyo he began to realize that the September 6 decision had been too hasty, since the Navy seemed to lack confidence. War under such circumstances could be a great mistake. Once back at the War Ministry, he summoned Kenryo Sato, who was now chief of the Military Affairs Section, and told him the Navy still seemed to be wavering.

  “Mr. Minister,” said Colonel Sato, “I will arrange a conference for you with the Navy Minister and the two Chiefs of Staff. Why don’t you make it a private meeting over sake at a machiai [restaurant where geisha girls entertain]? You can say, ‘Is the Navy confident or not about this war? The main role in such a war would be played by the Navy. If you men really don’t believe in it, we must not fight this war. In that case, I promise never to say we’re not fighting because the Navy lacks confidence. Instead I will take full responsibility and say, “I, the War Minister, will not fight.” ’ ”

  Tojo’s face flushed and he began to sputter. “Do you mean to tell me that responsible men like the Navy Minister and the Chiefs of Staff would say at a machiai what they won’t talk about at an imperial conference?” He refused to be party to such shameful subterfuge.

  Out of the inconclusive meeting at Ogikubo came rumors of a Cabinet crisis and a possible declaration of war. Konoye was already regretting the compromise. With no further concessions on China, it would be impossible to conclude a settlement with America. He wondered what he could possibly do before time ran out, then decided to speak to Tojo informally. He phoned the War Minister early in the morning of October 14 and arranged to see him just before the ten o’clock Cabinet meeting.

  “I can go along with you except for your stand on our troops in China,” Konoye said and suggested they withdraw all troops at once “for formality’s sake.”

  Tojo bristled; Konoye was already going back on his word. “If once we give in, the United States will assume a high-handed attitude and keep on acting that way. Your solution is really not a solution. War will crop up again in a few years. I respect you, Mr. Prime Minister, but your view is too pessimistic. You know our weak points too well … America has her weaknesses too.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.” Konoye reminded him that on February 4, 1904, Emperor Meiji summoned Prince Ito and asked if Japan could defeat Russia. Ito replied that the enemy could be checked at the Korean border for a year. In the meantime America would be asked to mediate a peace. Relieved, Emperor Meiji had sanctioned a declaration of war. In the present case, however, there was no third party to mediate. Therefore, they must proceed with great caution, particularly since America had such tremendous superiority in material resources.

  Tojo stiffened at the word “caution.” “There are times when we must have the courage to do extraordinary things—like jumping, with eyes closed, off the veranda of the Kiyomizu Temple!”b

  Konoye said that was possible only for a private individual. “People in responsible positions should not think that way.”

  Tojo looked at him with scorn and said, “All this is a matter of difference in our personalities, isn’t it?” He thought, This man is too weak to be prime minister at such a critical time; he can’t even keep a promise.

  Tojo went into the Cabinet meeting determined to repudiate his own promise, and take such a strong stand that Konoye would be forced to resign. By the time the meeting started he had purposely worked himself into a state of excitement. Flicking a piece of paper, he said, “The Army will continue its preparations. I don’t mean this will necessarily interfere with the negotiations, but I will not consider another day’s delay!” He swung on Foreign Minister Toyoda and asked if he thought the talks with America would be successful.

  “The point of dispute,” reiterated the admiral, “is the withdrawal of troops. The United States is not satisfied with Japan’s reply. If we are to answer again on this matter, we must do so in a straightforward manner.… America is becoming more and more suspicious of our attitude, so we can’t satisfy them unless we give them facts. They cannot understand Japan’s way of carrying on peace talks while preparing for war.”

  “I make no concessions regarding withdrawal!” shouted Tojo as if he had lost his temper—and perhaps by now he had. “It means defeat of Japan by the United States—a stain on the history of the Japanese Empire! The way of diplomacy isn’t always a matter of concession; sometimes it is oppression. If we concede, Manchuria and Korea will be lost.” He repeated all his old arguments, but this time with a fervor that moved the listeners. Then he turned his wrath on the Navy, and Oikawa in particular, for failing to declare openly and frankly if they could beat America. Konoye and the Cabinet sat in silence, petrified by Tojo’s “bomb speech.”

  Tojo’s outburst did what he had hoped. Several hours after the meeting, General Suzuki came to his office to say that he was acting as Konoye’s go-between: he could not continue as prime minister since the War Minister had publicly expressed such a forceful opinion.

  Tojo refused to retract his statement and said Konoye could only continue in office if he was willing to go along. But others in the Army were alarmed at the thought of a Konoye resignation. General Muto conceded to Suzuki that although the Prime Minister was a coward, he alone could maintain the unity of the nation. “If he resigns, Japan cannot fight a war.” Muto paced around and half jokingly said, “How about carrying out a big maneuver in Manchuria so the troops can let off steam?”

  Later that afternoon Muto called on Konoye’s cabinet secretary, Kanji Tomita, and said, “Somehow or other it seems that the reason the Prime Minister can’t make up his mind is because the Navy can’t make up its mind.” The Army would have to reconsider the entire matter if it was sure the Navy really didn’t want war. “But the Navy just says it will ‘leave the decision entirely up to the Prime Minister.’ Saying that isn’t enough to control the inner circle of the Army. That can only be done if the Navy openly states, ‘We don’t wish war.’ I wonder if you can arrange it so that the Navy says something along that line.”

  But the Navy still refused to make an official statement. “The most we can do,” Admiral Oka told Tomita, “is ask the Prime Minister to deal with the matter at his own discretion.”

  All that day Suzuki, Tomita, Oka and Muto shuttled from office to office. Use of such go-betweens was common in critical times, since telephones might be tapped; moreover, ideas could be expressed through a middleman which would have been difficult to bring up face to face; and if things didn’t go well, the go-between could simply be repudiated.

  That night Suzuki returned to the War Ministry. He blamed the Navy for the impasse, then asked Tojo who should be the next prime minister. “I’d say it can be nobody but Prince Higashikuni,” Tojo replied. “Even Konoye could not solve this problem, so we must call upon a member of the royal family.” If the decision was for peace, the uncle-in-law of the Emperor was one of the few Japanese who could bring it about without a revolt within the Army. He could summon both Chiefs of Staff and tell them he’d decided against war. The Emperor could not do this—it was against custom and Constitution. But a prince of the royal family could, and his wishes would have to be followed by the military. Thus peace could come without civil disorder. Before they parted, Tojo said he didn’t think he ought to meet again with Konoye or he might lose his temper.

  Suzuki went directly to Konoye’s villa in the suburbs and told him about Higashikuni as the War Minister’s choice. Konoye was in accord. “Prince Higashikuni is a very good man. I know him well. He is against war. I will tell this to the Emperor when I see him tomorrow.”

  The next day was October 15, the deadline for peace, and Suzuki was busier than usual. In the morning he told Marquis Kido about the recommendation of Higashikuni for prime minister, but the Privy Seal showed no enthusiasm. The prince was “talented” but lacked political experience and training. More important, a member of the imperial family should not bear the responsibility in case war broke out.

  At noon Suzuki heard from Konoye. He’d spoken to the Empe
ror, who, unlike Kido, considered Higashikuni a suitable candidate for prime minister. Konoye asked Suzuki to sound out the prince himself for his reaction.

  “We in the Army are not all for war,” Suzuki told Higashikuni. “I too believe you can control the situation.” He added that Tojo himself felt Higashikuni alone could go directly to the Emperor and find out exactly what he wanted, and then control the Army, whatever the decision—war or peace.

  “This is a very grave matter,” said the prince. “I want some time to think it over. I’d like to talk with the War and Navy ministers before making up my mind.”

  That evening Konoye phoned Kido for advice. Should he talk to Prince Higashikuni informally? Too soon, said Kido. “But as long as the government takes the responsibility, I have no objection.” Despite this lukewarm endorsement, Konoye secretly went at once to Higashikuni and said the negotiations could not succeed unless the Army agreed to withdraw all troops from China, and only a new cabinet led by the prince could resolve the matter and unite the Army and the Navy.

  “This is too sudden and too difficult a question to decide on the spur of the moment,” said the prince. “I’m against a prime minister from the royal family, but in case you organize a new cabinet and still can’t come to an agreement with the Army, I might take office as a last resort, even at the risk of my life.” He was far more enthusiastic about Konoye as prime minister and suggested that he form the new cabinet with a war minister who would be more open to peace than Tojo. He promised to use his considerable influence to bring this about. Konoye left the man he had come to proselyte, determined to succeed himself as prime minister.

  His chief antagonist, Tojo, had also made a resolution. He was impatient for action; the deadline had come and none was being taken. Though torn by doubts, he made up his mind to force the issue by placing the question before the Emperor, and the following afternoon went to the man who could arrange an interview, Privy Seal Kido. “The time has come to act upon the decision of September 6,” he demanded.