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

by Toland, John

  Togo returned to his own office more depressed than angry. He told Matsumoto that he might have to resign. The Vice Minister begged him to do nothing hastily. “Although a formal reply from the Allies is expected at any moment,” he suggested, “why don’t we pretend it didn’t arrive until tomorrow morning.ǁ Tonight, please go home and rest.” Scarcely listening, Togo nodded consent and dejectedly started for his car. He had to inform Marquis Kido of Suzuki’s “betrayal.”

  The Privy Seal phoned Suzuki’s office and requested his presence. He was informed that the Prime Minister was not available but would report to the Imperial Household Ministry as soon as he was free. An hour passed, two, and Kido’s anxiety grew. Finally, at 9:30 P.M., Suzuki arrived, grumbling about the “Hiranuma crowd” who were setting themselves up as guardians of kokutai.

  “I don’t intend belittling the argument of those who are anxious to jealously guard the national essence,” said Kido, “but on the basis of careful study, the Foreign Minister assures us that there is nothing objectionable in the paragraph in question.… Should we turn down the Potsdam Proclamation at this stage and should the war be continued, a million innocent Japanese would die from bombings and starvation.” Suzuki’s defensive posture relaxed, and Kido continued, “If we bring about peace now, four or five of us may be assassinated but it would be worth it. Without wavering or hesitation, let us carry out the policy to accept the Potsdam Proclamation!”

  “Let us do it!” Suzuki suddenly exclaimed.

  In the Cabinet meeting General Anami had been unequivocally opposed to acceptance of the Allied proposal but privately he was beset by doubt. How could he go against the will of the Emperor? Like the dissidents who had accosted him that afternoon, he believed the honorable course for Japan was to continue the war, but with His Majesty’s permission. Perhaps he could persuade Prince Mikasa to help change his brother’s mind. With his secretary, Colonel Hayashi, he drove to the shelter that had become the prince’s home after his palace was destroyed.

  Anami was disconcerted by Mikasa’s hostile reception. He was aware there had been an imperial family meeting that afternoon but not that Mikasa, as well as all the other princes of the blood, had pledged their support to the Emperor in his decision. Hastily Anami added that he was anxious to forestall headstrong younger officers who opposed surrender.

  “Since the Manchurian Incident the Army has at times acted not quite in accordance with the imperial wish,” said the prince. “It is most improper that you should still want to continue the war when things have reached this stage.” Chastened, Anami departed, leaving Mikasa wondering how such a responsible officer could ignore His Majesty’s instructions. Was this feeling prevalent at Army Headquarters? Later several Army staff officers called on Prince Mikasa. One happened to be an old schoolmate, and they talked in the garden outside the shelter. When Mikasa told his friend about Anami’s request, he asked why the prince didn’t speak to the Emperor. His booming voice and argumentative manner gave Mikasa the impression that he was being threatened. Their raised voices alarmed the princess, who was in the shelter, and made her fear for her husband’s safety.

  Shaken by Mikasa’s reaction, the staff officer tried to placate the prince: Anami could control the unrully officers; moreover, the Army would remain a disciplined force under the War Minister’s leadership. “There is no need to be concerned about a rebellion.”

  Anami could not fall asleep. Long after midnight he awakened his secretary and sent him to his staunchest ally, the Army Chief of Staff, with a suggestion that General Umezu ask Field Marshal Shunroku Hata to intercede with the Emperor on behalf of the Army’s senior officers. “You must forgive me,” Umezu told Hayashi as he paced the floor, “but I now favor acceptance of the Potsdam Proclamation.”

  Even after Umezu’s dramatic change of heart, Anami made yet another private attempt to sway the Emperor. Early in the morning—it was August 13—he unceremoniously interrupted the Privy Seal’s breakfast, literally “bounding” into the room. Kido had never seen him so distraught. Words poured out of him. The Allied terms would destroy the soul of Japan. There should be a final Decisive Battle. “Couldn’t you just once more request the Emperor to reconsider acceptance of the note?”

  “I cannot do that,” Kido replied. He disputed Anami’s charge that leaving the choice of government up to the people would mark the end of the national essence. He went further. “Supposing the Emperor does change his mind, rescind the peace proposal of the tenth, and issue a proclamation for a final Decisive Battle?” The Allied powers would undoubtedly regard His Majesty as a fool or a lunatic. “It would be unbearable to subject him to such insults.”

  Anami got control of himself. “I understand how you feel,” he said. “In your position, you must protect the Emperor.”

  “The Army is very powerful,” said Kido with sympathy, “and you will have a difficult job to keep it under control.”

  Anami forced a smile. “You have no idea what it’s like in the War Ministry.” They shook hands.

  At 9 A.M. the Big Six continued the debate which the Cabinet had been unable to resolve the previous day. The session was still deadlocked when a phone call from the obunko interrupted proceedings. The Emperor had been informed of Anami’s emotional visit to Kido and now he wanted to see the two Chiefs of Staff, Umezu and Toyoda.

  Negotiations were under way to end the war, the Emperor told them, and in his oblique manner implied that he wanted as little bloodshed as possible until a decision was made. He asked what air operations would be conducted during the negotiations. Umezu replied they would only fire when fired upon. The Emperor nodded approval.

  The two officers bowed themselves out and returned to the Big Six conference. If the Emperor had summoned them for the dual purpose of saving lives and influencing the debate, it had no immediate effect on the deliberations of the Big Six. However, that afternoon at the Cabinet meeting the majority of members now favored acceptance of the Allied demands; moreover, the leader of the opposition, General Anami, purposefully let it be known privately, in a typically Japanese roundabout way, that he was not as adamant as he appeared.

  He pushed away from the conference table and signaled Sakomizu to follow him into the next room, where he phoned the chief of the Military Affairs Bureau, the short-tempered General Masao Yoshizumi. “I’m at the Cabinet meeting,” said Anami, “and every one of the ministers is being brought over to your views. So all of you people stay where you are until I get back.” Sakomizu was mystified. The situation was just the opposite. Anami winked. “I am right here with the Cabinet Secretary,” Anami continued, “and if you want you can speak to him directly about how things are going in the meeting.” Suddenly Sakomizu understood. Anami was playing haragei to quiet his rebellious insubordinates at Army Headquarters.

  But Anami’s words, which were intended to forestall the dissidents, had the opposite effect. The Cabinet meeting was dramatically disrupted at 3:45 P.M. A messenger brought in a copy of an Army communiqué which would be released by newspapers and radio stations in fifteen minutes: “The Army, upon receipt of a newly issued imperial command, has renewed offensive action against the United States, the United Kingdom, the Soviet Union and China.”

  “I don’t know anything about this!” Anami exclaimed. He immediately phoned Umezu, who had left earlier to return to Army Headquarters. The Chief of Staff was as outraged as Anami. An imperial command needed approval of both the War Ministry and the General Staff, and neither he nor Anami had given it. It must have been approved by his deputy and Anami’s deputy despite the War Minister’s specific instructions by phone to General Yoshizumi to do nothing. Umezu issued an order to quash the communiqué and it was stopped minutes before it was to be broadcast.

  The meeting resumed, but Anami had momentarily lost interest in the proceedings. Even as the two civilians who also opposed immediate surrender—the Interior and Justice ministers—almost alone persisted in demands for better terms, the War Mini
ster seemed perturbed and lost in reverie.

  “Byrnes’s reply,” Togo insisted, “unquestionably represents the least common denominator of the terms of the several Allies, and it is imperative that we accept them as they now stand, if we are to bring about peace for the sake of the reconstruction of Japan and the welfare of the human race.”

  Another quibble over semantics resulted. Exasperated, Suzuki broke in. “Are the military leaders intent on upsetting our efforts to terminate the war by deliberately grumbling over Byrnes’s reply? Why can’t we interpret it as we see fit?” They must make a final decision. A number of ministers had refrained from expressing their opinions and now he wanted each one to speak out clearly. He pointed at the Justice Minister. He, of course, agreed with Anami and Toyoda, as did the Interior Minister. Several were reluctant to take a positive position—as Suzuki himself had been—but he questioned them testily until all but one approved surrender. Now Suzuki too had to declare himself.

  “I have made up my mind,” he said, “to end the war at this critical moment in compliance with the wishes of the Emperor. On examining the Allied reply, I found some points that seemed unacceptable but when I carefully perused them I discovered that the United States had no ill will toward us in laying out these conditions, and I feel they have no intention of changing the status of the Emperor. I believe I must end the war as desired by His Majesty, so I will fully report to the Throne what we have discussed here, and ask for his final decision.”

  There was no question what the decision would be. But Anami, whose position made him personally responsible for the outcome of the war, was torn by conflicting loyalties and unable to accept the inevitable. After the Cabinet was dismissed he followed Suzuki to his office, where a naval doctor was waiting to see the Prime Minister. “Won’t you please give me two more days before calling another imperial conference?” Anami asked.

  “I’m sorry,” replied Suzuki. “This is our golden opportunity and we must seize it at once.” After Anami left, the Prime Minister turned to the doctor. “If we delay,” he said, “the Russians may occupy Hokkaido as well as Manchuria, Korea and Sakhalin Island. That would deal this country a fatal blow. We must act now while the negotiations are confined primarily to the United States.”

  “But General Anami might kill himself.”

  “I know,” said Suzuki. “I am sorry.”

  The emerging leader of the conspirators was not Anami’s brother-in-law, Colonel Takeshita, but an officer he outranked, Major Kenji Hatanaka. Hatanaka outwardly appeared to be the antithesis of a revolutionary. He was quiet, studious and modest, but his unshakable dedication to kokutai and his unwillingness to compromise gave him unchallenged authority. Anami’s support remained the key to success, since every level of command would trust him, and that evening the conspirators had been invited to meet with him at his residence. Twice before, Hatanaka had arranged go-betweens to enlist Anami in the conspiracy. First he thought he had persuaded Takeshita to intercede with his brother-in-law, but the colonel’s reluctance to use his privileged position proved too strong. Next he asked Professor Hiraizumi, whose philosophy of national honor permeated Army Headquarters, to speak to the War Minister, although Hiraizumi had written him a letter requesting that he and the other rebels “refrain from acting rashly at their own discretion” and be guided instead by Anami. Hatanaka, always an optimist, hoped that the professor would advise Anami to join the plot but, in fact Hiraizumi was going to urge him to obey the Emperor implicitly. Hatanaka personally escorted Hiraizumi to the anteroom of the War Minister, but the professor never got to see him. After a long wait he was informed that Anami was in conference at the Palace and would not be back for some time.

  At 8 P.M.—the August night was still and muggy—the inner circle of conspirators crowded into Anami’s modest one-story wooden house, now serving as official residence after the fire bombings. Hatanaka first wanted to alienate the general from those advocating surrender and reported the rumor that the “Badoglios” were planning to assassinate him. Anami, amused, smiled tolerantly. Nor did the plan for the coup itself seem to impress him: Kido, Suzuki, Togo and Yonai were to be imprisoned, martial law proclaimed and the Palace isolated. To accomplish all this, four generals—Anami, Umezu, Tanaka and Mori—would have to co-operate. Anami ignored the treasonous nature of the plan but faulted the staff work. For instance, how were they going to handle communications?

  Takeshita persisted. “We must carry out the plan!” he exclaimed. Besides, it had to be before the imperial conference formally agreed to accept the Byrnes note. Anami’s noncommittal manner left the conspirators unsure of his intentions. Colonel Okikatsu Arao was discouraged, but Takeshita would not give up.

  In order not to antagonize the group, Anami promised to use his influence “first thing in the morning” with Umezu—who he knew had already resolved to support the Emperor. But the young officers wanted more immediate action. This time Anami put them off by agreeing to see one of their number, Colonel Arao, at midnight when, he implied, he might give the coup fuller consideration. As he accompanied them to the porch, he called out solicitously, “Be careful! You may be under surveillance. You had better return in separate groups instead of all together.”

  Takeshita waited with his brother-in-law until the others had left. Was Anami going to join them? asked the colonel, presuming on their relationship. “One cannot reveal one’s true thoughts in the presence of such a large group,” answered the general. He said no more, but Takeshita departed with renewed optimism.

  The Army and Navy Chiefs of Staff—Umezu and Toyoda—had not felt direct pressure from the conspirators but were unable to repress resurgent qualms about accepting unconditional surrender. They called Foreign Minister Togo from a dinner party for a private meeting in the underground conference room of the Prime Minister’s official residence. But Togo remained unwilling to consider any last-minute stipulations. He repeated time and again, “Impossible!” There was a hubbub outside and Sakomizu, who had arranged the meeting, apologetically ushered in Admiral Onishi, organizer of the kamikaze corps. He approached Admiral Toyoda and in a choking voice confessed that he had just begged Prince Takamatsu to ask his brother to continue the war. But he had of course been no more successful than Anami had been with Prince Mikasa. Instead Takamatsu said, “You military people have already lost the Emperor’s confidence!” Onishi’s eyes brimmed with tears. “We must submit a plan to gain victory to His Majesty and ask him to reconsider his decision. We must throw ourselves headlong into the plan and make it come true. If we are prepared to sacrifice twenty million Japanese lives in a ‘special attack’ effort, victory will be ours!” His impassioned appeal brought no response and he turned, desperate, to Togo.

  “If we had any realistic hope of victory no one would for a moment think of accepting the Potsdam Proclamation,” said the Foreign Minister. “But winning one battle will not win the war for us.”

  Air-raid sirens began screeching. It was an excuse for Togo to adjourn the meeting. As he drove home through the blacked-out streets he ruminated on what Onishi had said about sacrificing twenty million lives. The final decision for peace had to be reached the next day. “We could bear anything,” he later wrote, “if it promised a return; the arrows and bamboo spears of which the military men were prattling promised none.”

  * In his talk with Grand Chamberlain Fujita in January 1946, the Emperor pointed out the difference between the decisions to start the war and end it, and how it affected his role as emperor. “At the time of surrender, there was no prospect of agreement no matter how many discussions they [the Big Six] had. In addition to the intense bombings, we had suffered atomic bombs, and the ravages of war were suddenly accelerated. Lastly, when Suzuki asked me, at the imperial conference, which of the two views should be taken, I was given the opportunity to express my own free will for the first time without violating anybody else’s authority or responsibilities.…”

  † The wording in English w
as imprecise. Later Shunichi Matsumoto, Vice Minister to Togo, called it misleading. It should have read: “We accept the Potsdam Proclamation. We understand that this acceptance does not affect the position of the Imperial Household.”

  ‡ The name was inspired by a line from a poem written by a Chinese patriot just before his execution by Mongol raiders: “Evergreens in the snow are even greener.” That is, the man under fire who remains “green” is truly pure.

  § There was a persistent rumor abroad in Tokyo that the capital was going to be hit by an atom bomb on August 13.

  ǁ The message from Washington, routed through Berne, arrived at the Foreign Ministry moments later, at 6:40 P.M., but the Telegraph Section chief, following Matsumoto’s instructions, postdated it 7:40 A.M., August 13, and kept it in his basket.

  36

  The Palace Revolt

  1.

  As the sky east of Tokyo began to lighten on August 14 a lone B-29, high overhead, droned toward the center of the city disgorging a trail of missiles. One by one they burst, releasing clouds of fluttering pamphlets. The text had been hastily drafted in Washington by the Office of War Information, translated into Japanese characters and radiophotoed to Saipan.