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

by Douglas Niles

  “The U.S. Navy can whip any power on Earth, General,” replied Fletcher.

  Spruance spoke up. “That is, however, an irrelevancy at the present time. It is the cost of victory, especially the human cost, that concerns me. These Japanese reinforcement figures translate directly into increased casualties unless this conference plans for the worst case. Hope, General MacArthur, does not constitute a strategy.”

  Frank could see Mac’s eyes narrow. Work stopped at Frank’s table as everyone else gave up the pretense that they weren’t eavesdropping. Score one for Spruance, Frank thought.

  Sutherland was not about to let the challenge pass. “The General’s record on that score needs no defense, Admiral,” he replied. He leaned forward, planting both fists on the table.

  But the Supreme Commander waved him back with a big easy smile that dismissed the whole matter. “But neither do I believe that it is in the interests of the great nation we both serve that our brave prisoners wait one moment longer in cruel captivity than they must, that the nations held captive under Japan’s brutal fist continue to suffer, or that the mothers of America continue to be separated from their sons. Due diligence is meet and proper. Excessive and unwarranted timidity is not.”

  The General smiled tightly, an expression without amusement. Sutherland, once again, took up the baton. “There is no time to waste, Admiral! Ultimate victory stands within our grasp, and these petty political arguments do no one any service.”

  Spruance ignored Sutherland and spoke directly to MacArthur. “It is, of course, the Supreme Commander’s prerogative to select the battle plan of his choice. However, the current plan fails to take into account the Japanese buildup. It will, in all probability, result in casualties far in excess of forecast.”

  Sutherland was about to jump in again, but MacArthur injected himself smoothly into the middle. “Admiral, your objection is duly noted,” said MacArthur. Sutherland visibly relaxed at the General’s soothing tone. “We must, however, stay the course,” he continued.

  MacArthur’s eyes fell upon Curtis LeMay, and once again they glinted with that hint of humor. “Or perhaps we should do as General LeMay urges. Simply discontinue land and sea operations, and wait for the enemy to decide that bombardment from the air has become too much of a nuisance to be endured.”

  LeMay flushed, clenched his jaw. But he didn’t back down. “General MacArthur, sir. I have simply suggested that we change our bombardment tactics. German cities were made of stone and masonry, and we smashed them with high explosives. But Japanese cities are made of wood and, literally, paper! If we drop enough incendiaries on them, we’ll burn each one to the ground! With respect, General, we can torch the whole damn country!”

  Nobody said a word. Every eye was focused upon El Supremo. Chadwick found that he wasn’t even breathing, until he saw MacArthur nod once, the emperor giving acknowledgment to a courtier’s beseeching.

  “You know, Curtis, I have been giving the matter some thought. This is not the place to discuss it, of course, but I think I will have you go ahead and try this new tactic of yours. I’ll want details, of course, and I don’t expect it will win the war. But it might be worth trying. Now…” His attention returned to the plotting table. “Where were we?”

  Spruance was looking thoughtfully at the main map. He said, “We were discussing estimates of enemy strength.”

  “Not quite,” replied MacArthur. “If I recall correctly, we had just finished discussing estimates of enemy strength and had decided to move on.”

  Fletcher looked at Spruance as if wishing he could make his subordinate shut up.

  Spruance was not giving up. “Very well, General,” Spruance replied. “Let me make a final observation. If the Japanese empire were poised to invade California, I would expect to prepare numerous surprises to make their attack more difficult and more expensive.”

  “Then it is a good thing, Admiral, that the Japanese don’t have you on their side,” said MacArthur with a gracious smile. “We are immeasurably greater for your talents.”

  Frank couldn’t stand the sneaky SOB, but he had to admire his skill.

  The veranda became the arena for a lot of minidebates during the next break. Overall sentiment was breaking MacArthur’s way, though the navy was showing an attempt to be loyal to Spruance.

  “It’s their home, like Spruance said,” an admiral from Task Force 71 argued. “We’ve got to go in prepared for the Japs to try things they’ve never tried before.”

  A general from XI Corps replied, “The Japs are like wasps. In Okinawa, if we’d gone south and tried to push the Japs out of the rest of the island, I bet we would have been in for a hell of a fight. But we didn’t, because we didn’t have to. The same thing’s going to be true this time. We’re not trying to take over Kyushu. All we want is enough territory for air bases and a defense perimeter. It’s not like we’re planning to go cave to cave and roust the yellow bastards out.”

  Spruance did carry the day on one point, and Frank had the idea it might have been what the admiral had been up to all along. The order of battle on the American side got beefed up even more.

  MacArthur was right. In the Philippines and on Okinawa, the Japanese had not shown the stomach for a serious fight. Once their navy had been destroyed, a lot of the fight had gone out of them. That’s what logic said.

  But Frank looked at the intel reports on the Japanese buildup in Kyushu himself. They were up to something. This might be the occasion where the Japs surprised everybody. Maybe Spruance was right.

  In any fight with MacArthur, he sure hoped so.

  CAMP SHINJUKU, TOKYO, JAPAN, 0600 HOURS

  “Kyo-o-o-o-tsu-ke!”

  The camp commandant, Captain Ogawa Taiki, drew out the “o” sound clearly and sharply. In the chilly, dim light of early morning, the prisoners shuffled into formation and came to attention. None of them moved quickly. Many moved like old men—the “beriberi shuffle,” it was called. Andy glanced right and left quickly, then stepped back about six inches. He didn’t want to be caught out of line again. The penalty for that ranged from a public slapping to a personal encounter with “Jap vitamin sticks” wielded by some of the more brutal guards.

  “Kyoshu naga!” Andy locked his eyes on the Japanese captain in unison with the other prisoners. The captain saluted and slowly pivoted on toe and heel while holding the salute until he had turned from the right flank all the way to the left flank. He kept perfect posture throughout. This was notable because the captain had a limp, brought on by his wound. The prisoners had agreed that was the reason why the captain was a camp commandant rather than in a combat unit. He had been one mean SOB at Cabanatuan, and the trip to Japan had done nothing to improve his temperament.

  Andy heard a thud behind him followed by a choked-off moan. Someone in the second rank had been sloppy and earned a little love tap from one of the guards. Andy could feel the presence of the guards behind him and his skin crawled. He could almost feel a club hitting him in the kidneys and he had to stop himself from cringing reflexively. That would surely get him beaten.

  “Nori!” Eyes front again.

  “Yasume!” At ease.

  “Bango!” Count off!

  The prisoners began counting off in Japanese. “Ichi! Ni! San! Shi! Go! Roku! Shichi!” The prisoners called the drill “Bango” and had no idea what the Japanese called it. “Yasume” had become a generic term for resting or time off.

  Andy needed a little yasume. Last night was bad again—nightmares. Nightmares came often now. He had many different nightmares related to the sinking of the Arisan Maru.

  Last night, he had been trapped in the hold of the Arisan Maru again. He had a different nightmare for each of the moments when he might have died. For instance, right when he was sure he was going to drown, the burning deck collapsed into the hold below, freeing those who could not escape through the tiny hatch. Several prisoners died in the wreckage. A blazing deck plank had crushed the skull of a man not three feet a
way. The horrific image had imprinted itself like a photograph on Andy’s mind. In his dreams he was often that victim. Sometimes, the victim came back as a monster, like in the movies, to stalk him.

  Then there were nightmares about the inferno of the burning deck itself, the terrifying free-fall into the black, turbulent ocean, and the desperate hope he wouldn’t land on some piece of flotsam in the dark waters below.

  One of the worst was the moment when, clinging to a floating door, he saw a gray fin crest the water. Sharks. And there was the nightmare that he was really marooned in mid-ocean, rather than within a mile of the Formosa coast, as the wonderful dawn revealed.

  Andy and the other officers cultivated a small vegetable garden to keep boredom at bay. They were exempt from the slave labor performed by the enlisted men. Most of what the officers grew was given to the guards, but a few leftover roots, leaves, and less appetizing specimens supplemented the meager prisoner diet. Andy didn’t mind gardening, even though it sometimes brought back memories of the Farm, at Cabanatuan.

  Today, however, one of the Jap guards was wandering around in the compound, smacking his billy club into his hand, over and over. Andy began to shake uncontrollably. The guards terrified him. They beat people sometimes for no reason. If they had a reason, the beating was more savage.

  Now the Jap was standing right behind him. His shadow fell across the dirt Andy was laboriously breaking up with a stick. Andy’s trembles worsened.

  “Isogaseru!” The Japanese guard shouted at Andy to work harder. He emphasized his order with a kick to Andy’s ribs.

  “Ossu!” Yes, sir!

  But he couldn’t. His hands were lifeless around the stick. He stabbed futilely at the dirt, trying to break up a big clump, but nothing happened.

  Another kick. “Isogaseru!”

  “Ossu! Ossu!” He started to cry.

  At that, the Japanese guard grabbed Andy’s hair, pulled his head back to see the tears. Disgusted, he spat in Andy’s face. “Gesuonna,” he said contemptuously. Andy had heard the term before. The guard was calling him a woman, and a useless, low woman at that. The guard kicked him a few more times for good measure, then strode away.

  Andy lay facedown in the dirt, sobbing.

  When Andy was adrift amid the wreckage of the Arisan Maru, he had killed a Japanese. He was terrified that somehow, some way, the Japs would find out, and they would torture him to death. Every time he saw a Jap look at him, he couldn’t help trembling.

  It had been surprisingly easy to kill the Jap. He had a broken arm and was clearly exhausted. He babbled words Andy couldn’t understand, but his meaning was clear: Help me onto your raft. Andy looked around and saw a jagged piece of wood floating within an arm’s reach. He picked it up and held it out toward the Jap, making an arm signal: Swim closer. Grab the wood and I’ll pull you in.

  When the Jap reached the edge of the floating door and grabbed on with his one functioning hand, Andy took the wood and clubbed the Jap in the broken arm. He screamed something in Japanese. Andy panicked. What if someone heard? He brought the wood down on the Jap’s head over and over until he slipped beneath the waves.

  Andy’s constant fear was that the Jap had somehow survived and would somehow turn up here, recognize him, and turn him in. Every Jap face now made him cower.

  He didn’t dream about Mark, who did join him on the makeshift raft, and poor Steve, who did as well. Together, they made shore, only to run into a Japanese patrol. It was poor Steve who became the punishment target for the vengeful guards, who were angry so many of their own had died, while worthless holio—flower sniffers—survived.

  Steve died under that beating.

  Any moment, Andy expected the same thing to happen to him.

  • TUESDAY, 27 FEBRUARY 1945 •

  HIROSHIMA, 1549 HOURS

  The knock at the door was not unexpected: Ogawa Michiyo and her mother had been receiving a regular stream of visitors for the past fifteen days. The ritual would continue for another twenty, and only then would the urn containing her father’s ashes be interred in the nearby Buddhist cemetery. Mama was dozing on her futon, so Michiyo rose at the sound of the knock. She made sure that a fresh stick of incense was burning and went to greet the new visitor with her face composed, her movements and bearing serene and graceful.

  When she recognized Naguro Yoshi, however, the dam of emotions broke and she burst into tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Michiyo,” he whispered into her hair, pulling her close, holding her in arms that felt very strong.

  She hadn’t seen the young officer in more than a year, but she had cherished his many letters. Now he had come here when she so desperately needed him. Almost as soon as it had erupted her grief receded enough for Michiyo to regain her self-control. She lifted her face, sniffling embarrassedly, and stepped back from the soldier to bow demurely.

  “Please, Yoshi-san, won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you.” He bowed with equal formality and entered.

  “Mama, here is Naguro Yoshi,” Michiyo said as the older woman looked up questioningly.

  “Oh, Taiki?” Mama said hopefully as she took in the sight of the dapper first lieutenant’s uniform.

  Yoshi blinked in surprise, but Michiyo replied for him. “No, Mama—it’s Taiki’s friend Yoshi. He’s come to visit, to pay his respects to Papa.”

  “Yes, there he is,” Mama said, waving vaguely to the simple urn.

  Yoshi nodded and pulled a stick of incense from his pocket as he went to the urn on the mantel. Bowing his head, he touched a match to the fragrant twig and remained lost in his own thoughts as a smoky tendril drifted toward the ceiling, the woody, spicy scent intermingling with the cloud that would hover in the little house throughout the period of mourning.

  Michiyo waited patiently as Yoshi completed his prayers. He seemed so serious and dignified. But there remained a youthful, even boyish, character to his appearance. Even before the war, Taiki had looked older than that, though the two men were almost the same age.

  After he finished his prayers, Yoshi turned and knelt next to Michiyo’s mother. “I am so sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. “But I know Ogawa-san now does his ancestors—and you—credit.”

  “Yes…yes, I suppose he does,” Mama said sadly.

  Yoshi and Michiyo sat on the floor beside the low table. She was eager to hear his stories—she knew from his letters that he had returned from the Philippines to duty in the Home Islands and was commanding a company of soldiers now—but instead he looked at her so intently, so seriously that she felt like she was undergoing some kind of inspection.

  “You look so thin!” he exclaimed softly. “Are you eating well?”

  “As well as anyone,” she replied with a shrug. “No one eats well, not in the winter.”

  “No, I suppose you’re right,” he said sadly. “But we used to.” He shook his head, and it was as if a cloud of melancholy slipped away and he was bright and smiling once again. “Tell me, Michiyo—will you go for a walk with me?”

  She had hoped he would ask. Throwing on a cloak—threadbare now, as she had been wearing it since before the war—the young woman joined the soldier in a quiet stroll along the mostly empty streets. Shortages of food, fuel, and raw materials had curtailed much of the city’s bustle, but for now Michiyo felt warm and happy.

  Yoshi told her that he had obtained several days’ leave and had come to Hiroshima on the train. She told him about her work at the hospital, trying not to complain about the shortages in basic medicines, gauze, and other supplies. They did not mention the war. Instead, he offered her his arm, and she took it shyly, holding onto him for warmth and support when a February gust of wind swept past.

  They made their way past the department store, toward the River Ota, and soon were crossing the Aioi Bridge—the span she had come to think of as their bridge, though this was only the second time they had walked across it. The winter afternoon was cool but not bitingly cold. Leaden clouds masked th
e sun, which was nearing the western horizon, broadening the chill. Looking down, Michiyo saw that the water, which surged so vibrantly in spring, was now a sluggish trickle.

  “It looks like such a small river,” she commented. “So sad and weak, now.”

  “It is a small river,” Yoshi replied with startling vehemence. “Because it flows from such a small country. Japan is too small to have a Yangtze, or an Amazon, or a Mississippi, or a Nile.”

  “I never thought of that,” Michiyo admitted. “But in spring, the Ota rages and roars!”

  “But it doesn’t last, does it?” the young officer replied bitterly. He turned his face away, but she sensed that he was clenching his jaw.

  “Yoshi!” Michiyo implored. “What’s wrong?”

  “I—I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s so sad, about your father. I remember seeing him the last time I visited. How strong he was!”

  “Not for a while,” she corrected gently. “He had been failing for more than a year. When Taiki came to Japan—but still would not come home to see him—I think maybe his heart broke.”

  “Taiki feels a lot of shame,” Yoshi said with surprising bluntness. “I think he could not face your father.” He smashed the bridge railing with his fist. “This damned war! It comes closer all the time, and yet I have never fired a shot at the enemy, never even commanded my company in combat! I have been a lieutenant for three years, but I might as well be a garbageman!”

  “Don’t talk like that!” she said, mustering a sternness of her own. “You will have a great part to play, I am certain.”

  He was looking south, toward the mouth of the Ota and the sea beyond. “The Americans have taken Okinawa away from us. Do you know how close that is?”