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

by Douglas Niles

  Kawazoe wasn’t ready to give up. “In what possible circumstance would an order to surrender make sense?”

  Watanabe looked blank. Saruwatari shrugged. Ogawa leaned forward. “It is enough for you to know that such an order will not come unless there is reason. In the meantime, it’s your duty to obey. Obey no matter what. Wakarimasu?” He growled the last word to signal that this discussion was over.

  “Yes, I understand,” Kawazoe replied. He knew he was pushing the limits of his captain. “Yes. Of course. Yes.” He bowed several times.

  It was time for Ogawa to change the subject. “As for tomorrow…” Ogawa started to speak, stopped as he heard a sound.

  Air raid sirens.

  “Shall we seek shelter?” Saruwatari asked.

  “No,” replied Ogawa. “I’ll be damned if I hide from anything American.”

  Watanabe sat placidly, a meditative expression on his face. Saruwatari and Kawazoe looked at each other. Perhaps they would have preferred shelter. Let them worry, Ogawa thought with a silent sneer. It was not as if the Americans were coming to bomb a prison camp!

  Another sound challenged the air raid sirens. It sounded first like angry bees, then grew louder. “Aircraft,” Ogawa said. “Sounds like B-san engines.” B-san was a Japanese nickname for the B-29. He got to his feet laboriously. “Let us go look,” he said.

  He led his four officers outside. A growing number of enlisted men were gathering in the circle around the flagpole, along with the civilian translator, Kazuma Inoue. The sound was growing still louder. “A large raid,” observed one of the sergeants, Ishikawa Matsuo. He, like Ogawa, had fought at Guadalcanal and had been evacuated with serious wounds. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard so many at one time.”

  The droning was constant, but distant, swelling in the south and veering to the southeast. Clearly, Tokyo was the target. Already searchlight beams came into view, playing upward from beyond the ridge, sweeping back and forth through the sky.

  “They’re coming in low,” Ogawa observed. “Usually they are as high as the clouds—but look, you can see them flash silver in the spotlights!”

  Indeed, this massive stream of bombers flew only a mile or two above the ground, instead of the five or six miles that had been the norm. Whereas the big, four-engined B-29s were usually just specks, visible only by daylight, these bombers stood out in clear relief whenever one of them was caught in the intense beam of light. Antiaircraft fire began to pop off, sounding like hundreds of distant firecrackers. One bomber burst into flames and plunged out of the formation; Ogawa nodded in silent satisfaction.

  “Why do we not hear the bombs?” asked Kawazoe. They others listened for several moments, surprised. Tokyo had been the target of many air raids, but usually they could hear the thudding of the powerful explosives all the way to Camp Shinjuku. Now, there was only the sputter of the aircraft and the droning of that long river of silver bombers.

  “Perhaps their target is farther away—Yokohama, maybe?” speculated Saruwatari.

  “No. Why would they fly over all the guns of Tokyo on their way to a coastal base?” countered Ogawa. But he remained mystified—if the Americans were dropping high explosive bombs, they should at least sense the concussion here.

  In the distance, a cherry glow, like an early hint of dawn, began to rise along the darkened horizon. The bombers continued to pass, and now they could even make out some of the planes in the eerie glimmer radiating up from the ground. Plumes of light like glowing flowers shot high into the air, fantastically beautiful as they swelled upward from the far side of the ridge before collapsing out of sight. Those plumes were the final proof to the captain.

  “They are not dropping high explosives but incendiaries,” Ogawa said. “They are burning the city.”

  All the men around him fell silent. Every Japanese dreaded fire. Fire was a terrible disaster in a crowded Japanese city, where the houses were built of wood, straw, bamboo, and paper. Tokyo had been the scene of many scourging deadly fires—sometimes whole neighborhoods would be destroyed. But this… this seemed like an eerie predecessor of the end of the world.

  The deadly blooms continued to decorate the sky as B-san after B-san dropped its cargo of incendiaries on the paper city below. The air raid sirens and roar of bomber engines grew so loud that the sound enveloped them like a blanket. Slowly the red glow expanded to run the whole length of the horizon, like a magical dome of huge proportions. As the light grew brighter, the dome became merely part of a blood-red sky, an evil pseudodaylight. The captain could imagine the civilians running before the firestorm, burning, dying.

  “How many of you have family in Tokyo?” Ogawa asked. Five hands went up. Four were enlisted men, including Sergeant Ishikawa. The fifth was Lieutenant Saruwatari, whose burn scar seemed to glow in the light of the fire. “Go and do what you can, but listen closely: your lives are not your own. They belong to the Emperor. If your families are in areas where the fire has not spread, or is just beginning, get them and bring them here. If your families are in areas where the fire has taken control, return here. Understand? This is a direct order.”

  “Hai, taii-san,” the five men said in unison. They bowed and then began running for the row of bicycles parked outside the barracks. There was no fuel to spare for vehicles.

  The air raid sirens stopped, either because they, too, were burning, or because they had become pointless in the face of the raging devastation. Then Ogawa heard another noise: cheers, shouts of delight and approval, even applause. The sounds came from the prisoner compound, raucous, loud, and obscene.

  “The Americans,” he snarled. “Cowards on the ground and cowards in the air. Why can’t they face us like men?”

  “Let’s teach them a lesson!” said Kawazoe, grinning in anticipation. Several enlisted men began to grumble.

  Ogawa thought for a minute, then decided. “Yes. Honor demands it. These prisoners are guest of the emperor, and their behavior shows an intolerable lack of manners. Punishment—severe punishment—is in order.”

  The mob around the flagpole—it had grown to about twenty, now, even with the departure of those with relatives in Tokyo—started moving in the direction of the prisoners’ compound. Ogawa strode into the officer barracks, slid back the shoji screen, and took his katana from its stand on top of his chest. He had a momentary flash of shame for losing the sword of his ancestors on Guadalcanal. The honor of his family, generations of ancestors, had been invested in that shining steel blade. This katana was a fine sword even though it was not the ancestral blade of his fathers. Let me start a new tradition by blooding this weapon, he thought. He buckled it on, then hurried out to lead his troops.

  The sergeant of the guard was arguing with the mob when Ogawa reached his men. “I can’t let you in without orders, so sorry,” he said, shrugging helplessly.

  “That is correct, gunso,” Ogawa said, pushing his way through the middle of the crowd. “But I issue the orders.”

  “Hai, taii-san” said the sergeant, bowing. The gates were two large wooden frames covered with barbed wire. When both were open, there was room to drive a truck into the compound. When the sergeant opened them, the mob flowed through.

  Most of the prisoners were out of their barracks, still cheering and yelling. Above their heads, a B-san waggled its wings, showing that it knew the location of these prisoners. It also showed how close the Americans were to the homeland, Ogawa thought. The fires of Tokyo were in the distance facing away from the gates, so the prisoners had their backs toward the angry guards. But when Ogawa shouted “Banzai!” and his men charged, the prisoners turned around in a hurry.

  It felt so good to take revenge for the horrible, cruel, sadistic firebombing. Ogawa watched with approval as two guards clubbed and kicked a prisoner who had fallen. The prisoner lifted his arm weakly, then collapsed and lay unmoving under the continued blows. He was certainly unconscious, if not yet dead.

  Ogawa wanted blood. He could taste blood. There was a pris
oner running for the shelter of the barracks. Letting out a scream, Ogawa drew his katana and ran after him, getting in striking distance just a little bit before the man reached the entrance. His blade sliced into the prisoner’s neck but struck bone. Ogawa had to step on him to pull the blade out. The dying prisoner flopped around like a fish for a minute, then stopped moving altogether as the blood pooled around him, jet-black in the red light.

  He looked around for another target. There—there was another running prisoner. This time his blow struck true, and the prisoner’s head separated neatly from his body. Blood spurted from the neck, spattering Ogawa’s uniform.

  A number of bodies—at least ten; Ogawa didn’t take time to count—were lying on the ground. Targets were few. The prisoners who had stayed in their barracks and not cheered the fire were not fit targets for his sword.

  But there, in the shadows, he saw a cowering man, desperately trying to hide. Ogawa approached him. It was the gesuonna, the woman-man, the disgusting weakling. Ogawa lifted his katana. “No,” he said. “You’re not worthy of this blade. You’re not a man. You’re beneath contempt.” Two enlisted men, also out of targets, had come over and were standing behind Ogawa.

  Then Ogawa had an inspiration. “Call the prisoners out of the barracks. Make them line up.”

  Shortly, two ranks of terrified prisoners stood at attention amid the carnage. Speaking through his translator, Kazuma, he said, “Your nation has committed a cowardly and desperate attack against the women and children of Japan. You are animals, not worthy of being part of the civilized world. Those of you who had the poor manners to applaud this uncivilized act have received proper punishment.” He looked at the gesuonna. “With one exception.”

  Kazuma, speaking English, called out the name of the prisoner: “Andrew Sarnuss.” Two guards grabbed the man and pulled him forward, then pushed him onto his knees in front of Ogawa.

  The English words were strange and ugly. A fitting name for this contemptible thing. “Of all the holio, this man is the most cowardly. He is the most pathetic excuse for a man I have ever seen. He is so cowardly I think he would not have the courage to kill one of us if we were utterly helpless. And so I will not put him to death.”

  The prisoner began kowtowing with relief. Ogawa grinned. “But he is not a man. Therefore, he has no need for a man’s equipment.”

  The gesuonna began to struggle, his eyes wide. Strange babbling noises—begging for mercy, Ogawa supposed, but he did not ask for a translation—came out of his mouth. The prisoner’s pants were ragged as well as too large for his gaunt, bony form. The captain pulled them down easily and pulled out a small dagger.

  He sliced. The gesuonna’s scream was quite satisfactory, as was the look of shocked horror on the faces of the assembled prisoners.

  “Back to your barracks,” Ogawa ordered. “And take this scum with you.”

  The two POW medical officers came forward. Ogawa thought for a moment about shoving them away, but it was a better lesson for this eunuch to remain alive. Let them cheer again, he thought with savage satisfaction.

  But one prisoner, instead of shuffling back to the barracks meekly with the others, was scuffing his foot in the dirt. He was a tall man with a bushy black beard. What was he doing? Two guards headed toward the prisoner to make him join the others, but Ogawa ordered them to wait. He was curious.

  Ah, the man was tracing a circle—a sumo ring. He was challenging Ogawa to a sumo match! How very clever, Ogawa thought. But it was beneath his dignity to wrestle with this man.

  “Let me, Captain! Let me wrestle him!” said Lieutenant Kawazoe eagerly.

  “Very well,” replied Ogawa, smiling. “I’m glad to see there’s a flicker of manhood left among these weaklings.”

  Kawazoe took off his gun belt, stripped off his shirt and boots, and strode over to the circle. Ogawa had seen Kawazoe in the intracamp matches. He was good. The American, from his stance, had little or no idea how sumo wrestling was supposed to work.

  Ogawa didn’t want to go back to fetch an actual gunbai, so he waited for both fighters to get into position and simply called, “Gunbai wo kaesu!” to start the match. Kawazoe and the bearded man charged at each other. Kawazoe’s form was good, the bearded man’s was terrible.

  But instead of grappling as was proper in sumo, the bearded man brought his fist up and punched Kawazoe in the jaw, hard enough to rock him backward. The prisoner then kneed Kawazoe in the testicles before picking him up bodily and throwing him out of the ring. He turned to Ogawa and bowed insolently.

  Ogawa was enraged at the prisoner’s outrageous conduct. He put his hand on his sword, but before he could act, a shot rang out. Kawazoe had removed his pistol from the holster and shot his opponent in the chest. The prisoner kept his eyes on Ogawa for a few more seconds, then collapsed like a doll made of rags in the middle of the sumo ring. His blood flowed into the small trench that formed the circle’s boundary.

  “What have you done?” Ogawa shouted at the young lieutenant.

  “He cheated! Did you see the way he behaved? I couldn’t let him get away with that!” replied Kawazoe indignantly.

  “You have disgraced us all with your shameful act,” Ogawa said, with increasing anger. It was not proper for Kawazoe to take matters into his own hands like that. It smacked of poor sportsmanship. It was dishonorable. Instead, it was up to Ogawa as referee to take proper action.

  The prisoner had stood up like a man. He deserved a man’s death, not to be shot down by an angry opponent.

  Kawazoe was still arguing. “But he cheated! You saw! He cheated!”

  “Get out of my sight! Out! Out! Everyone out of the compound!” yelled Ogawa. Kawazoe’s eyes were wide as he gathered his clothes in his arms and sprinted away.

  Ogawa turned to Kazuma. “Tell the prisoners that as long as they are quiet, no further harm will befall them this evening.” Not waiting for a reply, he spun sharply on his heel and marched out. The tall barbed-wire gates closed behind him.

  • THURSDAY, 22 MARCH 1945 •

  BATAAN HOUSE, SWPA FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, OKINAWA,

  1030 HOURS (OPERATION OLYMPIC, X-DAY+ 04)

  The first thing Major Gregory Yamada noticed when he climbed the stairs to the second-floor conference room was the amazing view of Haguchi Bay, a blue expanse stretching out before him through the windows that made up the top half of the wall. He would have a hard time getting any work done with a view like that to distract him.

  The second thing Yamada noticed was how much conflict was going on just beneath the surface.

  Yamada unzipped the artist’s portfolio he was carrying and took out the posters he would use for the briefing. The warrant officers who actually ran the establishment had provided an easel and a chalkboard. There was a podium as well, although Yamada would not use it—he never did. Yamada checked the order of the posters and reviewed his notes. He had the whole thing down to a little over ten minutes. He hoped that wouldn’t be too long. With generals, you never could tell.

  Yamada’s nominal boss was Major General Charles Willoughby, MacArthur’s G-2 (Intelligence). Willoughby was German by birth, a graduate of the University of Heidelberg, and spoke with a noticeable German accent.

  Willoughby was first to arrive. He came over to shake Yamada’s hand. “Good work out there. Very good work,” he said. The word came out sounding a little like “verk.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “All is in order for today, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My advice to you is brief the high points and give the rest in a report.” Willoughby was the fourth person to tell him that so far today. Yamada resisted the urge to point out that he had briefed general officers before.

  The other officers with “need to know” trickled in. The second to last to arrive was Major General Richard Kerens Sutherland, MacArthur’s chief of staff, who glared at Willoughby. Willoughby, in turn, sat down placidly and waited for the briefing to begin. Yamada interpre
ted that as saying Willoughby’s stock was on the rise and Sutherland’s in decline. Sutherland had a thin, triangular face, thin lips, and a sharp manner.

  “Attention!” the chief of staff said, and all rose for the entrance of Douglas MacArthur. This was the first time Yamada had seen the General in person. MacArthur looked both thinner and older than he’d imagined. He held his corncob pipe in one hand, but it was unlit. Without his famous cap, it was obvious the General’s hair was thinning out rapidly.

  MacArthur’s eyes focused on Willoughby and he nodded toward his G-2. However, he kept his back toward Sutherland as much as possible and when he had to face him, his eyes never made contact. Yamada interpreted that as confirmation of his earlier observation.

  When everyone was seated, MacArthur nodded at Yamada as his cue to begin.

  “Thank you, General MacArthur, sirs. I am Major Gregory Yamada, Army Intelligence. I interrogated the first captured suicide pilot, and I’m here to brief you on what I learned.” He stepped over to the posters, took off the blank to reveal the first one with information, and started to talk.

  The first interruption came before he could even begin his briefing. “How did you get him to talk?” MacArthur asked in what was apparently genuine curiosity.

  “Sir, the Japanese are nonsignatories to the Geneva Convention. They aren’t bound by ‘name, rank, and serial number.’ As you know, they generally don’t even think of surrendering. Most of our captives, like this pilot, have been taken while incapacitated by wounds or combat. This fellow, for example, was thrown from his cockpit when his plane hit the water. He was trying to swim under the water, drown himself, when the navy fished him out with a bosun’s hook. After that, he was so ashamed that he simply collapsed.”

  “Until you arrived to talk to him?” the General pressed.

  “It took some patience, sir. But he opened up, which is typical. Once the prisoner figures out that we aren’t going to torture or kill him, he’ll usually talk quite freely.”