MacArthur's Spies

by Peter Eisner

  Beyond the walls of Fort Santiago, Nagahama appeared to be an urbane, deliberative man who believed that conquest of the Philippines and the broadening Japanese empire had to be sensitive and pragmatic. He took the position that the Japanese occupation had to adapt to reality, accommodate the new members of the Japanese empire, put forward a friendly, forgiving face. Early on he spoke of leniency and persuasion instead of brutality. He quoted a Chinese proverb for penal reform as his method for dealing with criminals: “Arrest seven times, reform them, release seven times.”

  Not everyone within his organization agreed with the policy of a gentle hand. Nagahama himself did not operate on the street very often, nor did the prisoners at Fort Santiago usually see him. He relied on his subordinates to carry out their duties while he directed affairs from his office at Fort Santiago. Discipline often eroded in proportion to the distance Kempeitai officers strayed from the occupation offices at Fort Santiago.

  It is questionable whether even Nagahama himself believed what he said publicly. By the time of Nagahama’s arrival in Manila, rumors circulated widely about torture, rape, and murder at the hands of Kempeitai officers, and there was no sign that things had changed. Mention of the name “Nagahama” and “Fort Santiago” was enough to halt conversations and bring a chill.

  Colonel Dionisio Banting Jr. survived as a witness and victim. Banting, a Filipino guerrilla officer in the mountains of Luzon, was held for almost five months. He admitted that he was a guerrilla, but that did not save him from torture. He was beaten, starved, left hanging in his cell, submitted to water-boarding, and forced to squat the rest of his time in a squalid cell. He had seen Nagahama in the hallways when being led around the building. The cries of the tortured could be heard. Nagahama “must have heard screams of people being beaten.”

  From Nagahama’s point of view, he himself was a victim of excessive zeal by other officers and bureaucratic problems beyond his control. He did not have a large Kempeitai contingent in the Philippines, about five hundred men for the entire country, about a third of them in Manila. Another was that he desperately needed to show Tokyo that resistance to the occupation had been eliminated. No one else had been able to accomplish that. The Kempeitai commander insisted that gentle persuasion had its place. He knew, for example, that face slapping had become a major topic of conversation in occupied Manila. Slapping was commonplace for the Japanese; not so for the Filipinos nor for the Americans. A random slap in the face was a sign of subjugation and powerlessness. Nagahama said he wanted his men to be sensitized to the fact. “To govern alien nationalities, it is absolutely essential to know something of their national traits and idiosyncrasies. . . . Slapping a Filipino on the face [is] an unbearable insult. . . . It is often more effective to appeal to his sense of duty rather than to try using a third degree method to get truth out of a Filipino.” That sounded logical, but Nagahama seemed to be unable or unwilling to stop face slapping or more brutal techniques practiced by his subordinates.

  • • •

  There were others in the Japanese occupation force who sought to play up cooperation with the Filipinos, now “liberated” from American rule. Military propagandists played the incessant “Asia for the Asians” card—Japan had liberated the Philippines from colonial rule, went the argument, and now as brother Asians the Japanese would protect Philippine sovereignty. Only a minority, however, bought that line.

  The Japanese occupiers produced films and books to promote and glorify the goals of the empire. One film debuted in December 1942 to commemorate the first anniversary of the war. The film, Glory of the Orient, argued that the American president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, was a warmonger who had challenged the peaceful aspirations of the Japanese people. A narrator intoned: “We endured in the Hope that Our Government might retrieve the situation in peace, but our adversaries showing not the least spirit of conciliation, have unduly delayed a settlement; and, in the meantime they have intensified the economic and political pressure to compel hereby Our Empire to submission.”

  Marcial Lichauco attended a showing of the film. “The last few scenes were offensive,” he said. “While the commentator kept up a running statement to the effect that the present war had been initiated by Roosevelt, a large American flag lying on a piece of muddy ground appeared on the screen. Over this flag marched hundreds of Japanese soldiers. Little by little, it shriveled until, finally, the Stars and Stripes completely disappeared in the mud over which the men were tramping.”

  If the Kempeitai propaganda department thought they were winning over converts, Lichauco said, the film was greeted “in complete silence. . . . The Propaganda Bureau may be working hard but they are just wasting a lot of film.”

  The propaganda department kept churning out material, always focused on the glory of the Asian “race.” A few months later the bureau published The Flowering of Racial Spirit, extolling the glories of victory over the Americans in the form of a diary by a soldier. Clearly, the author said, the Japanese, though physically smaller than the repugnant Americans, were superior in every way. “Only one Japanese soldier guards 200 or 300 American soldiers. In some cases, only one soldier leads as many as five hundred American surrenderors. The height of the Japanese soldier reaches only up to the shoulders of the American soldiers. . . . These American soldiers are citizens of the haughty country which in the past attempted to heap outrageous insults upon our fatherland. Observing these crowds of a tremendous number of surrenderors, I felt as if they were foul water flowing down from the sewerage of a country that has been formed upon impure foundations and have thus lost their racial pride.”

  In the Japanese telling of it, the Americans themselves even perceived the superiority of the advancing army of the Rising Sun: “When we entered into the town of Mariveles, a group of fifteen or sixteen officers came to our quarters. They were Americans and there were a colonel and a lieutenant colonel among them. And that colonel requested us to teach him the Japanese language. We wondered what words he wanted to learn and found out that he wanted to learn words in Japanese for ‘Give me water,’ and ‘Give me food.’ I felt a desire to spit at him seeing such a shameless attitude.”

  • • •

  Propaganda notwithstanding, military police units, plainclothes Kempeitai officers, and their informants circulated around Manila and other cities gathering information on resistance and opponents of the occupation. They were very willing to use brutality and murder to extract information.

  Nagahama was under new orders to eliminate all such opposition, which Tokyo considered an embarrassment. Prime Minister Hideki Tojo dangled the possibility to the Philippines government under Jorge B. Vargas—propped up but not always loyal—that success in efforts to quell opponents would lead to Philippine independence for the first time in history.

  Tojo declared, “Substantial progress is being made in the degree of cooperation rendered to the Japanese Empire by the people of the Philippines as well as in the restoration of internal peace and security.” But more needed to be done. “On condition that future tangible evidences of cooperation are actively demonstrated, it is contemplated to put into effect the statement previously on the question of Philippine independence in the shortest possible time.”

  No promise of independence could fool the Filipinos—the Japanese would remain in control. The Philippines would never be free as long as Filipinos were subjects of the Japanese empire.

  The Japanese forced the Filipinos and all others subject to the Rising Sun to honor Emperor Hirohito’s birthday on April 29 with all due reverence. Along with more pledges of friendship and solidarity, Japan sent in a special commemorative newspaper along with a rare photograph of the emperor. An accompanying caption warned that readers must not wrap food inside the newspaper photograph of the emperor or desecrate the picture in any way. Many Filipinos, who might have had another idea or two of what to do with the picture of Hirohito, decided to burn it in eff
igy and eliminate the problem.

  Japanese military intelligence was only beginning to understand the depth of resistance and recognize that it extended beyond urban opponents. The American and Filipino soldiers who had evaded the surrender were now forming troublesome guerrilla bands on every major island in the country. Nagahama applied pressure on his agents. He might have spoken of leniency with a velvet glove, but the plan, at least for the American guerrillas, was to kill them all.

  Killing General Roxas

  Mindanao, June 1942

  GENERAL MANUEL ROXAS had the distinction of having been twice declared dead. For a long while Filipinos thought that Roxas, one of the country’s most admired leaders, had been either executed or killed in combat. His brother, Judge Roxas—Claire’s friend, relative by marriage, and guarantor before the Japanese—and the rest of the family were in mourning. However, it was not true; the general had been taken captive early in the Japanese invasion. The military occupiers had been engaged in a debate about exactly whom among the Philippine leadership they could trust. The answer was probably very few, but they also knew that Roxas and other popular Filipino leaders were pragmatic and could be useful in maintaining a semblance of pan-Asian solidarity and friendship. For that reason Colonel Nobuhiko Jimbo was deeply concerned on June 22, 1942, when he received a directive at his outpost in Mindanao from General Homma’s office in Manila: “This is to order you to execute Manuel A. Roxas secretly and immediately. As soon as the execution is completed, a written report should be made.”

  Colonel Jimbo was appalled. He considered himself a good soldier and loyal subject of the emperor. However, he was convinced that executing General Roxas, one of the most respected Philippine officials in the country, would backfire. He thought that killing Roxas would also establish him as a martyr to the cause of rebellion. In any case, Jimbo also liked Roxas and was willing to do everything possible to protect him.

  Despite the possible consequences—Jimbo’s own imprisonment or death—he brought his objection to his commanding officer, Major General Torao Ikuta. Roxas, he argued, would be an important figure in future relations between Japan and the Philippines. “We can’t carry out a wise occupation policy by oppression only,” he told Ikuta. “Roxas is loved by the Filipinos.”

  “I know,” Ikuta said. He also admired Roxas and agreed completely with Jimbo. Then, he added, kill him anyway. It was an order. “You have to do it.”

  Jimbo saluted, turned on his heel, and gathered up Roxas and another condemned man, Teofisto Guingona Sr., the governor-general of Mindanao. He assembled a three-car convoy, one vehicle in front, one in the rear. Jimbo and the two condemned men rode in the center car toward a designated execution grounds five miles away. Jimbo wore a khaki uniform with shorts and regulation Japanese riding boots. Roxas was also in khaki; Guingona wore a white suit.

  Guingona began to whimper and cry. “Please help me!” he told Jimbo. “I am an administrator, not a soldier! I’ll cooperate with the Japanese army. Help me!”

  Jimbo said nothing, and Roxas was impassive for a while before turning to the Mindanao politician and saying: “Don’t cry. Don’t worry. What a beautiful day! Look! Sampaguita blossoms at the foot of Mount Alpo. Did you ever see them more lovely?” Roxas’s attitude in the face of impending death pushed Jimbo over the edge.

  “There will be no execution,” he told the soldiers accompanying him when they arrived at the planned execution site. “Take these two prisoners to the Piso farm by boat. They may be useful later.”

  Back in Manila, Jimbo’s commanders assumed that he had carried out the execution and that General Roxas was dead. Jimbo was not surprised when he was summoned to occupation headquarters in Manila several days later. He expected to be hanged. His only course of action was to reason directly with General Homma and describe the value Roxas could hold for the Japanese occupation government. Arriving at military headquarters, he presented himself to the general’s chief staff officer.

  “I respectfully request permission to speak to General Homma,” he said.

  The staff officer refused. “He is very busy, you know.” Homma was in the process of upbraiding his entire staff for having issued the order in his name to execute Roxas. How could it have happened? Who had ordered this? Why did the staff think General Homma would want Roxas dead? Roxas was beloved by his people; Roxas was a man of honor and a pragmatic one. “Roxas could have been useful to us.” Jimbo’s own sense of relief must have been close to what Roxas and Guingona, the Mindanao governor-general, had felt when he stopped their execution. Jimbo would not die, and neither would Roxas.

  Roxas was not dead, Jimbo told Homma’s chief of staff. “I have him alive on the Piso farm near Davao.” When Jimbo returned to Mindanao, he found that Roxas had been rearrested by others and was being interrogated and tortured. He rescued the general a second time and made sure Roxas was safe until he could be brought back to Manila. Roxas soon agreed to enter the puppet government and, after his rescue by Jimbo, walked the walk of a man who saluted the Rising Sun. Privately he hated the flag and the military behind it. That was likely no surprise to the Japanese. No matter, as long as he could be kept in line.

  Banzai!

  Manila, November 1942

  WHERE ELSE WOULD a Japanese Army Air Force pilot relax and celebrate his time off? Tsubaki Club was perfect. Claire welcomed them all and gave personal attention to the high-profile guests among them. Claire took one officer to his seat on this night, Friday, November 20, 1942. She had been thinking that evening about the home front, about her family back in Portland, and planned to write a letter after work. (The Philippine post office remained open during the occupation, though with universal censorship and numerous delays; Claire could also try to send mail through the Red Cross or much later in the war with her couriers to Bataan and then on to Australia.) For the moment she had to focus on the business at hand. The pilot she had just shepherded to a table was important enough for special treatment. Out of respect and for the sake of business, Madame Tsubaki herself had to entertain and sit with him. Drinks and more drinks, tips for the hostesses, and then the floor show. Claire sang one of her standards; some nights it was the Ink Spots, or perhaps “Some of These Days,” a popular tune back in the States. “My rendition did not equal that of the inimitable Sophie Tucker,” she said, “but it served its purpose.” Ironically, the Japanese officers loved the American standards. Mamerto’s drinks, plus more rapid-fire entertainment, had the desired effect.

  Soon enough the pilot had drunk too much and began to brag in broken English about how many American planes he had shot down. The Americans didn’t have a chance. As the night went on, more and more Americans were going to die, accompanied by more and more cheers.

  “Banzai!” Claire and the officer drank to his success. Dozens of Americans.

  “Banzai!” the pilot shouted and raised his glass. Claire toasted and took another drink. Hundreds of Americans.

  All the officers raised a glass to that.

  And here’s to killing many more Americans in the future. “Banzai!” Claire raised her glass once more. “Had to drink to the death of more and smile,” she confided to her diary that night. “Not easy.” Oftentimes during such displays by the Japanese, she would excuse herself for a moment, walk away to the toilets, throw up, and then return, smiling once more. Perhaps she kept her food down this evening. As curfew approached, she raced home “to send letter to mother and family. May take 3 or 4 months to reach her.”

  Mamerto, David, and the others who worked for Claire watched with amazement how she and Fely sweet-talked the Japanese officers. She knew it. The “employees think I’m crazy. Don’t understand when I drink to downfall of England and America with finger crossed. Hard to do but must do.” While she toasted with the pilot, she gathered tidbits about him, his plane, and his unit that could add up to intelligence on the Japanese war machine. Dutifully she sent messages wi
th her couriers up to the guerrillas in the hills.

  Claire said that she and the hostesses went about getting information methodically. She and Fely took the lead: “If they were army men, we led them on to tell about troop movements, and the conditions of roads and bridges. If naval officers, we lured them into talking about their ships. We pumped many newly arrived businessmen about the locations and nature of their establishments. Boone, for one, was certain that much of the new Japanese materiel was now being manufactured in Manila.”

  • • •

  When they weren’t serving lunch to American prisoners on work detail, the club hostesses had begun teaching dancing to Japanese soldiers. The Japanese command had decreed that dancing was not proper for the war effort—but far from the front the soldiers did it anyway. Claire would watch the men rehearse their steps—they were probably more interested in being close to the women than in dancing themselves. At the same time she could gaze beyond the ballroom to the windows, where one saw the contrast with the life they were living. Prisoners frequently marched by to and from maintenance tasks around town. The contrast was madness.

  If Japanese officers might otherwise feel guilty for dancing in violation of orders, Fely was the one hostess most likely to persuade them to break ranks. Fely’s main job at the club was as a singer in the floor show; when she sang Japanese folk songs in her sweet soprano, Japanese officers swooned. After the floor show, she circulated in the room, hauling in an average of ten or twenty dollars a week, a decent sum on top of the few pesos a week that Claire paid her and the 50 percent commission for every drink the officers bought her. Sometimes they asked her out; sometimes Fely posed for photographs with her admirers. She did what she had to do to maintain her allure. If there was anything more to tell, she was not telling.