Supreme Commander

by Seymour Morris, Jr.

  He got the food. Within weeks American planes, followed by ships, arrived with thousands of tons of flour, rolled oats, canned goods, rice, blankets, even medical supplies. Commented Maj. Gen. William Marquat, later the head of SCAP’s Economic and Scientific Section: “The Japanese are prisoners of war, and we don’t let our prisoners starve, do we?” Nor would the soldiers have to consume precious local food supplies. To ensure that Americans wouldn’t have to use the local food markets, the U.S. Army constructed a large hydroponics farm for growing produce.

  MacArthur had already had a fight with one of his military officers over food. It started when he heard a complaint from a delegation of Japanese fishermen that they were no longer being allowed to fish. Apparently a SCAP officer had gotten suspicious that the fishermen were planting mines in Tokyo Bay. How paranoid do military people have to get? MacArthur canceled the regulation on the spot. Overnight he became the god of the fishermen, the Poseidon of Japan.

  The sight of people scrounging for food was heartrending, a shortage so bad that one woman was seen using a pair of tweezers to pick up seeds spilled on the street. Tokyo’s Ueno train station was crawling with orphans collecting cigarette butts to sell. Japan was reduced to an “onion-skin economy” in which people peeled off more and more layers of their remaining family belongings and took them out to the countryside to sell to farmers for scraps of food to survive. More than 10 percent of the people in Japan were homeless. Nagasaki lost 74 percent of its buildings; Hiroshima lost 59 percent, Tokyo, 65, Osaka, 57. Observed one journalist: “This city now is a world of scarcity in which every nail, every rag, and even a tangerine peel has a market value. A cupful of rice, three cigarettes, or four matches are all a day’s ration. Men pick up every grain of rice out of their tin lunch boxes; there are too few to be wasted. . . . On the Ginza, once the show street of Tokyo . . . hungry kids and young women beg for gum and chocolate and peanuts from soldiers.”

  But to think of Japan as an utterly beaten nation—an easy conclusion to draw from the pictures of the devastation of its major cities—is an oversimplification. Horrendous damage notwithstanding, Japan was still an industrial power compared with other nations in Asia. Railways were largely intact, the electric power system remained, and hydroelectric plants outside cities were still functioning. Even in Hiroshima, within forty-eight hours of the atomic bomb, trains were running through the city. The government was still in place and operating.

  An expression emerged that was to be used frequently during the occupation: “Dempsey damage.” It referred to the famous 1926 heavyweight championship match in which Jack Dempsey knocked down Gene Tunney, yet thanks to “the long count,” Tunney was able to get up and go on to win the fight. Tunney later described himself as being “down but not out.” So, no matter how devastated Japan looked, the country was not out. Everyone in the major cities was busy cleaning the streets, looking for salvageable items, and rebuilding their burned-down houses.

  MacArthur had his game plan in mind. He would assign his men to go after the militarists and make a show of their criminality; he would remain above the fray and address the people of a defeated, bewildered nation sorely in need of hope and idealism. America’s mission was not to keep Japan down, but to get it on its feet again.

  IT HAD BEEN a long day, this September 2, and MacArthur was beat and emotionally exhausted. He was not about to rest on his laurels, however; he had work to do.

  If Mamoru Shigemitsu, who must have had an even more emotionally draining day on top of all his physical difficulties, thought he might have a peaceful afternoon, he was sorely mistaken. Late that afternoon, when he might otherwise be having his cup of tea, he was summoned to a meeting at MacArthur’s temporary office and informed by one of MacArthur’s aides that the general was about to issue three directives, the most important of which was the first, announcing that Japan was now under military government. The directives would go into effect within twenty-four hours.

  Shigemitsu was stunned. This was not the deal as he understood it from the Potsdam Declaration, promising a Japan based on the free will of the people. If Japan had surrendered, why did it need a new form of government?

  He requested a meeting to discuss the situation before any directives went into effect. To his surprise and relief, he was granted one for 10:30 the next day, and it would be with the supreme commander himself. One imagines Shigemitsu must have had a sleepless night thinking how to present his case. It would be the most important meeting of his entire life. As foreign minister he knew what the United States was doing in Germany under the Morgenthau Plan: Germany was being partitioned and all its heavy industry destroyed. Assuming the powerful U.S. secretary of the treasury had developed a similar plan for Japan, it was only reasonable to assume MacArthur intended to follow it to the fullest. Might he be planning to put Japan back into the Stone Age?

  There was no one in the State Department he could talk to. The supreme commander had total and complete power: He was President Truman’s sole delegate, a secretary of war and secretary of state rolled into one—with an occupying army at his fingertips. For the past two days American planes had been landing every five minutes, disgorging troops at the rate of 10,000 a day. The total humiliation of Japan, the full invasion, was now a fact.

  At 10:30 a very nervous Shigemitsu was ushered into a temporary conference room in the New Grand Hotel in Yokohama. Upon meeting the supreme commander he was “joyfully surprised” by MacArthur’s “graciousness.” For more than an hour they talked, and it became apparent that their differences were more of perception than of content. Issuing a directive “to the People of Japan,” argued Shigemitsu, would undermine people’s confidence in the Japanese government and lead to domestic disorder. No one was questioning the ultimate authority of the conquering power, and it was the government’s full intention to follow SCAP’s wishes, but to do so and be abjectly humiliated was neither reasonable nor acceptable.

  Basically what Shigemitsu was pleading for was that the Japanese government be given a chance to prove its worth as an obedient supplicant. “Should the government fail to fulfill its duties, or should the occupation authorities feel the government’s policies are unsatisfactory,” he promised MacArthur, “then direct orders could be issued by occupation officials.” MacArthur responded by assuring the Japanese foreign minister that he had no intention of “destroying the nation or making slaves of the Japanese people.” The purpose of the occupation was “to assist Japan in surmounting its difficulties, and if the government showed ‘good faith,’ problems could be solved easily.”

  In the room with the two men and an interpreter was MacArthur’s chief of staff. MacArthur turned to his aide and ordered the three directives to be scrapped.

  UPON ARRIVING AT the American Embassy in Tokyo five days later, MacArthur ordered the American colors to be raised. “General Eichelberger, have our country’s flag unfurled, and in Tokyo’s sun let it wave in its full glory as a symbol of hope for the oppressed and as a harbinger of victory for the right.” Standing rigidly at attention in front of the flagpole were two men. As the flag reached the top, they saluted, tears coming to their eyes, so powerful was the moment.

  “Well, Bill . . . ,” said MacArthur.

  “We really did it,” said Admiral Halsey.

  Going inside the building for the first time, MacArthur saw a big portrait of George Washington on the wall: “We are home now,” he said. Seeing the portrait of the great American general, he reflected later, “moved me more than I can say.”

  It was now time to let the Japanese—especially the emperor—know he had arrived. He assembled a huge motorcade of trucks and jeeps for the ten-minute drive from the embassy past the Imperial Palace to the Dai Ichi Insurance Building, where he would have his office. Under cover of fighters and bombers he proceeded in a thundering display of strength to his office. Observed one of the American officers: “I’ll never forget the experience till the day I die. Even today, it sets the hairs
rising on my back thinking about it. You see, there wasn’t a single person in the streets to see all this—but we knew they were all watching.”

  While in Tokyo, Admiral Halsey had a mission to perform. Having heard weeks earlier that the emperor owned a magnificent white horse, Halsey made it known to several reporters that he wanted to borrow it and take it for a ride. One of his aides went to MacArthur and told him Halsey wanted the horse—the emperor’s white horse.

  “No!” shouted MacArthur. He couldn’t believe it. Not even he, the king of vanity, the ultimate narcissist, would dream of asking for such a thing. “Never underestimate a man just because he overestimates himself,” Time magazine once said of MacArthur. He, Douglas MacArthur, who had won more medals than any other general or admiral,* never wore his medals in public. The only indication when a visitor met him was a small circle of five stars on his shirt collar. Such modesty, he mused with delight, would surely befuddle his enemies (of which he had many).

  Halsey’s aides came to the rescue. One of the perks of being a fleet admiral is having a lot of aides eager to accommodate the boss’ whims. The aides scurried around Tokyo to find a substitute, and got their hands on an old gray mare that had obviously seen better days. They fed the animal a lot of hay and oats, then informed the admiral they had a “white” horse. Fine, said the admiral; he’d take whatever they had. At the appointed hour Halsey came out for a formal inspection of the troops, then eagerly mounted the horse while a bevy of American reporters clicked their cameras. The horse looked very white indeed, a perfect photo-op, white enough to fool some of the reporters. What happened? “Oh,” said one of the naval aides, “we washed her up with G.I. soap and water and then covered her with white foot powder from the hospital.”

  Halsey was a man who liked to have a good time. What greater fun than pretending he was emperor? One night he and his men had a huge celebratory meal at their Tokyo hotel, and when the check came, Halsey signed it, “Hirohito.”

  MacArthur and Halsey started talking about the Japanese soldiers. The supreme commander had just issued an order forbidding confiscation of Japanese officers’ ceremonial swords. Halsey considered this a mistake. He told MacArthur: Look at Germany, where people proudly kept in their home a bust of some general, with a sword reverently hung above it. Such displays kept the Prussian militarist sprit alive.

  “But I was thinking of Appomattox, when Grant allowed Lee’s troops to keep their side arms,” replied MacArthur.

  “Grant was dealing with an honorable foe. We are not.”

  The supreme commander mulled that one over for a moment, then nodded, told Halsey he was absolutely right, and countermanded the samurai directive. Coming right after his meeting with Shigemitsu, this was the second time in several days he had shown a flexibility unusual for a man widely reputed to be arrogant and cocksure.

  The following week, in the private upstairs dining room of the American Embassy, MacArthur had dinner with his two intelligence advisors, General Fellers and Colonel Mashbir. He told them, referring to the former ambassador to Japan: “Grew sat in this identical chair for ten years living in regal splendor. What did he or the whole diplomatic corps do in those ten years to prevent this war?”

  And what had Grew done to prevent the use of the atom bomb? Like MacArthur, Grew had felt FDR’s “unconditional surrender” to be shortsighted: It stiffened Japanese resolve not to surrender and lengthened the war unnecessarily—requiring the use of the atom bomb. At a meeting of the so-called Committee of Three (Secretary of War Stimson and Secretary of the Navy James Forrestal, and Grew as acting secretary of state), he had suggested that a provision be inserted stating, “We do not exclude a constitutional monarchy under her present dynasty.” Doing so, he said, would “substantially add to the chances of acceptance.” When President Truman subsequently removed this sentence, the Japanese government had no assurance as to the emperor’s fate and dismissed the Potsdam Declaration as just a hollow promise.

  The State Department had wanted to bring Grew back to Japan, but he couldn’t come back as ambassador because MacArthur as supreme commander already held that rank. Might he come back as an advisor? Grew, who had served for one week as U.S. secretary of state back in June-July and then retired, indignantly refused to consider such a status, and went on to complain that MacArthur “would not want much advice.” That’s right, thought MacArthur, he most definitely would not. Unlike the diplomats in their fancy striped trousers and cutaways, MacArthur was a general, confident he knew what he was doing and determined to do it, not just talk about it.

  The commonly accepted way to run an occupation is to impose a strict regime. MacArthur had other ideas. In March, while in Manila, he had received a visit from the renowned playwright Robert Sherwood, President Roosevelt’s emissary, to discuss his ideas for Japan. If the United States treated the Japanese fairly and liberally, and weren’t overly restrictive, he told Sherwood, “We shall have the friendship and cooperation of the Asian people far off into the future.”

  Having Colonel Mashbir at the table made MacArthur grateful to have a loyal subordinate who kept him abreast of enemies in Washington. Back in 1942 after MacArthur had arrived in Australia, Mashbir had informed him about the Baldwin incident. Apparently a U.S. intelligence officer and military attaché in Australia, Col. Karl Baldwin, had received a directive from Washington “to report at once what decorations are being worn by General MacArthur.” Baldwin was trapped, because any telegram would have to be sent through General MacArthur’s headquarters. Baldwin also knew that people in Washington would be after him if he failed to deliver. Yet MacArthur was his boss. What to do? Looking for a way to protect MacArthur without appearing to do so, Baldwin cabled back: “Those authorized by Army Regulations.”

  MacArthur must never forget, he had enemies, people watching his every move, ready to pounce at the slightest misstep. To heck with people like Grew who claimed, “The best we can hope for in Japan is the development of a constitutional monarchy, experience having shown that democracy would never work.” That was the problem with people who had lots of experience: They could always come up with a dozen reasons why something wouldn’t work. Sometimes it takes someone who doesn’t know what he doesn’t know, to make things happen.

  MacArthur hadn’t risked his life and fought a war to preserve the old Japan; his job was to change it. He had plans—big plans—full of surprises for the folks back in Washington. They saw the devastation of Japan and the need to play it safe, he saw potential and opportunity. He would seek nothing less than remaking the entire political, social, cultural, and economic fabric of a defeated nation.

  At his age, what did he have to lose?

  6

  Harry Truman Throws a Fit

  WAIT A MINUTE, w-a-i-t a minute.”

  So said President Harry Truman about firing MacArthur after just three weeks on the job in Japan. Truman, despite the drama that was to end their relationship five and a half years later,* was not a man given to impulsively losing his temper or firing people. In fact, despite his fondness for barroom language, he was actually quite temperate when he was angry.

  So it was on September 18, 1945. He had always imagined he might have a problem with this bunco man too brilliant for his own good, but never that it would happen so soon. Eighteen days! That must set some kind of a record. It really would have been laughable had it not been so serious. Nonetheless, he could manage. In the meantime Undersecretary of State Dean Acheson was fuming. The day before, MacArthur—10,000 miles away in Tokyo—had announced that the smooth progress of the occupation in Japan enabled a drastic cut in the number of troops from 500,000 to 200,000 in six months. For a man on the job for such a short time to be able to make such a pronouncement was remarkable. Did he have a crystal ball? More amazing was for a mere general to utter a statement out of the clear blue that would have major repercussions on the eight cosigning nations of the Missouri surrender pact, let alone the major signatory, the United States. Alr
eady the cable lines were sizzling with urgent messages of consternation from the governments of the United Kingdom and New Zealand seeking clarification. Editorial writers were in a frenzy trying to read the tea leaves of American Far Eastern foreign policy. Some writers went so far as to predict that MacArthur was secretly laying the groundwork for a 1948 presidential run at a time when “bring the boys home” would be a sure vote getter.

  Acheson issued a statement—a shot across MacArthur’s bow—saying that nobody could foresee the number of troops needed in Japan and that “the occupation forces are the instruments of policy and not the determinants of policy.” Such a public rebuke would surely put MacArthur in his place. As for the man whose opinion counted—the president—budget director Harold Smith spoke with Truman and found that he viewed MacArthur’s issuance as “a political statement.” The White House press secretary reported the president as vowing “to do something about that fellow.”

  At a press conference on the eighteenth President Truman kept his cool and passed off MacArthur’s statement as no big deal. “I’m glad the general won’t need as many as he thought. He said first 500,000, later 400,000, and now 200,000. It helps to get as many more men out of the Army as possible.” The president was absolutely right: Everyone in America wanted the boys home. The following day Truman announced that more than two million men would be discharged by Christmas, and several days later he released to the press the government’s planning document titled United States Initial Post-Surrender Policy for Japan (an advance copy of which had been cabled to MacArthur before he arrived at Atsugi).