MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan

by Douglas Niles

  How exactly to go about winning that war was the question at the root of this current trip. Image counted. There were a number of ways FDR could have reached Hawaii. He chose a cross-country train trip and spent the time talking with the officials and heavy political hitters of the states through which he passed. He was already running for 1944.

  Once in San Diego, he was taking delivery of the new Hornet, replacing the one sunk at Midway, and planned to present it personally to CINCPAC when he got to Pearl Harbor. The Secret Service was happy that the entire Hornet task group and a full complement of aircraft were going with the President.

  A lot of time at the White House was spent reacting to events around the world. Whatever plans Frank made could be tossed out the window in a minute. As the immediate go-between for both the senior presidential staff and the senior navy brass, he was thrown at problems that were not quite important enough to involve POTUS, the navy secretary, and the CNO personally but still had far-reaching effects. The decisions had to hew pretty closely to those FDR, Frank Knox, and Admiral Ernest King would have made. Frank’s nominal boss at the White House, Fleet Admiral William Leahy, a longtime friend of the President’s, was another power center. On this trip, Leahy, who was chief of staff to the commander in chief, stayed at home. But his wishes still mattered.

  Fleetingly, Frank wished he had one of those mind-reading rays from the sort of magazines his brothers-in-law Johnny and Ellis Halverson used to read all the time.

  After washing his face and hands, rubbing Vitalis into his hair, and putting on his dress whites, he drank two cups of coffee—black, two sugars—and smoked his first Chesterfield of the day. He was beginning to feel halfway human. The train ride was gentle enough that he didn’t worry about the coffee spilling: its speed was restricted to no more than thirty-five miles an hour for the sake of the President’s constitution. He brushed his teeth and lit up another Chesterfield. Life was good—or at least tolerable.

  The berth in which he traveled was no great hardship, but the lack of an office was. Over the six-and-a-half-day trip, Frank had gotten into the habit of commandeering a table in the dining room for workspace. He wasn’t alone; the waiter had to shoo the poachers out at every mealtime. Breakfast was still a good three hours away; Frank would have time to get a lot of work done. A radio played behind the bar, and he found himself whistling to Tommy Dorsey’s band playing “In the Blue of the Evening.”

  He sat down, pulled out his fountain pen, and took the first file folder in his satchel. It contained a thick report. He began reading and taking notes, boiling down the entire case to something small enough to command the President’s brief attention.

  The satchel was filled with file after file of mimeographed reports on various aspects of the torpedo problem. The technical issues fascinated Frank—he could understand how, at least initially, the effect of Earth’s magnetic field on torpedo detonators could have been missed. Furthermore, the weapons had been designed with faulty impact detonators. But that was the nature of the development process. The inadequate testing was more of a problem; testing was meant to find mistakes like these before production began. The part that made Frank furious was the subsequent cover-up and concomitant refusal to correct the problem when real sailors were being endangered. The bureaucrats had merely claimed that sub commanders were too timid! If it were up to Frank, he’d have made everyone involved serve on submarines equipped with the faulty torpedoes.

  Delivering justice, however, wasn’t his job. Protecting the navy and the President was—which meant he collaborated in, even led, the cover-up he so despised. The big threat that concerned him didn’t come from the Japanese but rather from General Douglas MacArthur. Through his shrewd exploitation of navy failures and shortcomings, the General drained Pacific Ocean Areas of ships and marines. His planned advances came off on schedule and worked, not least because he had the resources.

  Mistakes gave MacArthur something to attack. Frank knew the cycle well. MacArthur attacks the mistake and uses it to pry loose navy ships and men, then waits for his next opportunity. Because the navy has fewer ships and men, it conducts fewer operations with higher risks. Higher risks lead to more mistakes, and mistakes give MacArthur another opportunity to attack. Around and around we go…. Keeping this mistake out of MacArthur’s hands was critical, Frank knew.

  Not that the army—MacArthur’s army in particular—was free of flaws or foul-ups. But somehow the navy had more trouble pinning the responsibility on MacArthur than vice versa.

  Right now, MacArthur was winning the interservice war as well as the one with the Japanese. That made a showdown between MacArthur and the chief of naval operations inevitable. POTUS was traveling to Hawaii to preside over the fight for the heavyweight championship of the Pacific.

  President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was showing signs of strain. The job was aging him, but his boundless will and his sharp intelligence made him as formidable as ever. A year from now—well, Frank was glad this conference hadn’t been postponed for some unknown time in the future.

  His fountain pen continued to scratch notes.

  “Burning a little midnight oil, Frank?” It was Stephen Early, the press secretary. He was rocking back and forth with the gentle motion of the train.

  Frank looked up with a start. It was nearly five o’clock in the morning. He’d been up two and a half hours. Suddenly his eyelids sagged. The clackety-clack of the train created an insidiously soothing rhythm. “Couldn’t sleep.” Frank yawned. “So I decided I’d better work.”

  “Good man,” replied Early. “A better man than I am, Gunga Din. I’m up this early only because I’ve got to be ready by the time we pull into San Diego.” He held up a stack of mimeographed sheets produced by a small and overtaxed secretarial office in the President’s car. “Press releases.”

  Frank took a press release and skimmed it quickly. He chuckled. “Early, you’ve damn near written their story for them.”

  “I hope so, I devoutly hope so,” said Early, rolling his eyes upward for effect. “It would save everyone a whole lot of trouble.” He looked over Frank’s shoulder. “So, what are you working on in the wee hours? Oh—the torpedo matter.” He chuckled.

  Frank was shocked. “You know about it? Does the President?” This could be very bad news indeed.

  The press secretary noticed the expression on Frank’s face, and laughed. “The President knows everything. Count on it. Relax. You’re doing fine. Sometimes the President’s right ear doesn’t know what his left ear is hearing.”

  Early paused. “I don’t think MacArthur will be dumb enough to attack the navy on the torpedo problem,” he continued. “He doesn’t need to. He’s doing well enough on his own.”

  “What if he doesn’t see it that way?” asked Frank.

  “He’ll make too many powerful enemies. Even for him. No, count on it. MacArthur will have something up his sleeve, but it’s not the torpedo issue. You can get that situation squared away both technically and politically.”

  Frank nodded in agreement. Then he started thinking. What could MacArthur have up his sleeve?

  • WEDNESDAY, 24 NOVEMBER 1943 •

  B-17 BATAAN, EN ROUTE FROM BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA,

  TO HAWAII, 1741 HOURS

  General Richard Sutherland, MacArthur’s chief of staff, had abandoned his seat, the normal bombardier’s position, for a bit of floor behind the copilot’s seat. The B-17 was not well configured for transporting passengers. The seats were cramped, headroom was restricted, and clambering about the aircraft was dangerous as well as difficult. Crew and passengers mostly sat, the light chop bouncing the plane around enough to make it feel like riding a horse, with a similar soreness at the end of a long day. Sutherland found his ad hoc seat no more uncomfortable than the official one. At least it was a change of position.

  He wished he were a bit higher, so he could get a view of the escorts. They were past fighter cover, but the Japanese were not a threat any longer, not in this p
art of the Pacific.

  Two other B-17s flew escort, and a C-54 Skymaster cargo plane—the same aircraft type as the President’s own Sacred Cow—carried everything else the General’s party needed, including secretaries and code clerks. The General planned to remain firmly in command no matter where he personally happened to be. If only MacArthur had been willing to accept the more civilized comfort of the C-54 for this long flight! But no, the General desired the martial aura of this heavy bomber.

  With a frown, Sutherland noticed that one of the escort bombers was named the Skylark II. That was flown by Johnny Halverson’s brother, the arrogant pilot. Dammit, why did the Halverson matter keep coming up?

  Sutherland was confident he hadn’t done anything wrong. Protecting the General was his duty, and letting some pissant army captain go around spreading rumors that the great man had come unglued the day the Japanese invaded the Philippines was unacceptable. What made some junior supply officer think he could blackmail Sutherland into special privileges, taking him away from the Rock just so he could spread rumors and lies about the General? Men were going into Japanese captivity, thousands of them, most of them more valuable as soldiers than Johnny Halverson.

  Neither Sutherland nor the General had ever brought up that morning when the Japanese invaded, but both men remembered, he was sure of it. The General felt a moment’s weakness toward Halverson just because he happened to be in the room at the wrong time. That meant it was up to Sutherland to do what had to be done. Now the General was sentimental about the younger Halverson boy, especially because this Halverson was one of Kenney’s favorites.

  Now the General pretends that it’s all my fault, all my doing, thought Sutherland with frustration and annoyance. MacArthur acted as if everything was Sutherland’s fault. Sutherland did that on his own initiative. Not me. Not the great General.

  Sutherland’s predecessor as MacArthur’s chief of staff, Colonel Dwight Eisenhower, decided he’d had enough when MacArthur ordered an expensive parade of the Filipino army over Eisenhower’s objections, then blamed Eisenhower for the mess when Philippine President Quezon complained. Eisenhower never forgave MacArthur. That made it easier for Sutherland to get rid of his rival and take over as chief of staff. Some days I know just how Eisenhower felt, Sutherland thought. But I’ll stay loyal to the end—no matter what it takes.

  Sutherland knew he should just ignore the Halverson brother, pay no attention to him. Ellis Halverson knew nothing. He couldn’t possibly know anything. If Sutherland stayed hostile, he might provoke Halverson into sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

  Even if Johnny Halverson survived Japanese captivity, Sutherland wasn’t worried. He would be able to argue that the boy’s mind had been affected, that he imagined the whole thing. No matter what happened, Sutherland had the situation well in hand. The General is safe. That’s all that matters.

  “How much longer?” MacArthur shouted over the roar of the large Wright Cyclone engines. He was sitting, as normal, in the copilot’s seat and had the view.

  General George Kenney, commanding general of the Fifth Air Force, piloting the Bataan, looked at his gauges. “If this tailwind keeps up, we should land around 0300 hours tomorrow,” he shouted back.

  “Not good. Not good at all,” responded MacArthur. “I don’t want to land in the darkness. I want good light. Do you hear me? MacArthur must be seen when he sets foot on Hawaiian soil.”

  Sutherland, crouched on the floor behind his boss, shouted, “What if we could get lights? Big spotlights?”

  MacArthur thought for a moment. “No,” he said definitely. “We’d still be waking up the press corps early in the morning. Hauling a reporter out of bed is no way to get good news coverage. Always pamper the press, Sutherland. Always pamper the press. That’s the way to get good coverage.”

  “You’re right, sir,” Sutherland shouted back. “Then that means we need to land somewhere and wait a few hours.”

  MacArthur looked at Sutherland and an annoyed look crossed his face. “MacArthur was just about to suggest that a surprise inspection tour of our base in Samoa would be in order.”

  “We could make Samoa by 1800,” shouted Kenney. “Depending on what time you want to arrive at Hickam, we could leave as late as 0400 and arrive in time for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Hmm. Too late for an inspection, but a rest and refueling stop wouldn’t be out of order. I could shower and shave,” MacArthur said.

  “Shall I radio Samoa and arrange the stop?” Sutherland asked.

  “Yes, do that, Sutherland. MacArthur does not intend to play into the hands of this ‘Mister Big’—as if I don’t know who is summoning me to Hawaii!”

  MacArthur had railed about the command to go to Hawaii ever since he had received the coded message in Brisbane. He flat-out refused to come and reluctantly let himself be forced into the trip. But Sutherland was used to MacArthur’s tirades. It was part of what the great man needed to get his work done. He listened as if he was hearing it now for the very first time.

  “It is bad enough MacArthur has been forced to leave his command at this very critical moment,” MacArthur went on. “But not to be told officially with whom I am to meet?” He shook his head. “Of course, it’s the President. But Ernie King is behind this—you mark my words! One would think the navy would figure out that we are all on the same side, but this petty interservice rivalry is costing men’s lives. If the shoe were on the other foot, MacArthur would gladly subordinate his needs for the good of the service.”

  “Of course you would, sir,” replied Sutherland soothingly. “Of course you would.”

  “They don’t appreciate me, Sutherland. They have never appreciated me. They will never appreciate me.” MacArthur twisted around in the copilot’s chair to face Sutherland directly. “It’s not as if I have ever had ambitions for myself. I only serve my country, my comrades, and my conscience.” He paused, savoring the phrase. “My country, my comrades, and my conscience.

  “But no! The navy will not have it so. They insist on attempting to thwart MacArthur at every turn. They have even turned the President against me. He used to be assistant secretary of the navy, you know. He is prejudiced in their favor. Admiral King has his ear, and George Marshall, who should be my champion, is part of the Pershing clique that has persecuted me for my entire military career.”

  He paused and then turned back to stare into the depths of the blue Pacific below. Sutherland waited. After a minute, MacArthur turned back to him. “They think they’d be better off without me, that’s what they think,” he said, biting off each consonant in a low, taut voice. Then his eyes looked to the side, over the ocean, and he said more softly, “Maybe I should give them what they want. Roman generals and Japanese nobles took their lives as a way to protest ill treatment and disrespect. I would only be following tradition, you know. Then let them see how much they like being without me. But it would be too late.” His jaw jutted strongly, defiantly. “Too late.”

  MacArthur occasionally threatened to take his own life when he felt he was not being given his due by the “powers in Washington.” Sutherland was confident the General didn’t mean it. He hoped the General didn’t mean it.

  “General, I think they’re bringing you to Hawaii to recognize you as you deserve. You’ll have a chance to present the case for how the war is progressing before a lot more of the stay-at-home press.”

  MacArthur smiled wanly. “The stay-at-home reporters have never liked me as well as do those reporters who travel into danger in the company of MacArthur.”

  “You’ll win them over, sir. You’ve done it before.”

  “I have, I know. But I have so many more important things to do. There has been such progress—from the capture of the Solomons to our triumphant isolation and destruction of Rabaul as an effective enemy base.”

  Sutherland knew this well but listened carefully. The General was seldom off the mark in any detail about his battle triumphs and tended to rehearse out loud. Su
therland was one of the principal audiences for that purpose.

  In addition, Sutherland and his staff had prepared extensive briefing materials—on board, taking up a full shipping trunk. Whatever the topic might be, the General would have charts, photographs, and documentation whenever he needed them. The actions had been numerous: the successful Guadalcanal resupply; the conquests of New Georgia, Munda, and other northern Solomon islands all the way to Bougainville, then on to New Britain and the major Japanese navy base at Rabaul. Lae and the rest of Eastern New Guinea were all firmly in Allied hands—MacArthur’s hands.

  The neutralization of Rabaul had been a stroke of MacArthur genius, Sutherland thought. The General understood that it was the fighting capacity of the Japanese base, not the soldiers and sailors themselves, that had to be destroyed. Airplanes and ships were the targets, and MacArthur was prepared to ignore the place now that Rabaul’s offensive capabilities had been eliminated. “The Japs won’t surrender,” MacArthur said. “Killing them all will be a bloodbath for our boys as well. Now that they’re helpless to do anything other than defend, they’re unimportant. Let’s move on.” The Japanese navy, steadily eroding as one ship after another fell to skip bombs, unable to replace its losses from the Battle of the Northern Solomons, was no longer in shape to force passage to Rabaul.

  “Our friends in the navy would have starved us of ships and aircraft so they could rush off into the Gilbert Island group. Tarawa! Bloody Tarawa!” MacArthur occasionally used Britishisms as a link to his World War I days in Europe. “What good would there be in invading Tarawa? It would have not brought us one step closer to the Philippines! No, Sutherland, the Gilbert Islands were an unnecessary and potentially expensive target. It is well that we never attacked there! Our sole aim, our compass point, must rest on Manila, and the liberation of our comrades-in-arms who have suffered so cruelly waiting for MacArthur to redeem his promise. I shall return, Sutherland. I shall.”