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

by Douglas Niles

  But the rest of the time, they were clearly moving against an enemy that had not been prepared for attack here, now. All day they had skirted the main heart of the metropolis, which was under attack by other marines and army troops, and by the end of the day found themselves on the south side of Iwaki, in undisputed possession of the intersection that had been the tank company’s objective.

  “This is the last crossroads south of town,” Captain Allen remarked, as the two officers stood under a tall willow tree. The skies were cloudy, with the promise of rain—it seemed like the distant typhoon was at least going to baptize them before it withered and died.

  “This is a good highway,” Pete noted, gesturing to the smooth pavement extending into the farm country to the south. “Where did you say it goes again?”

  Allen unfolded a map on the hood of his jeep. There was enough light to see the long, broad stripe extending from Iwaki, almost a straight as an arrow’s flight, south and west.

  The arrow came to rest in the target labeled “Tokyo.”

  IMPERIAL ARMY HEADQUARTERS, TOKYO, JAPAN, 2025

  HOURS (OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY+01)

  Anami stood quietly at the podium on the large auditorium’s stage as his officers started shouting at each other and at him. “We’ll carry this shame forever!” was one of the milder epithets.

  Perhaps that was true, he thought. Nevertheless, the Emperor had spoken, and no matter what the army minister’s personal feelings, the Emperor’s will was more important.

  As the room became more chaotic, other senior officers tried to bring order back to the proceedings. Anami, numb, walked to the edge of the stage and down the steps. With one last glance at the fractious rabble that he had once been proud to call his officer corps, he left the auditorium. He returned to his office, sat down at his desk, and called his aide. “Please inform me when the officers have chosen what they will do,” he said, then folded his hands on his desk and sat quietly.

  His kyudo bow was hung on the wall. He thought about the hassetsu of his own life and career. Kai, the completion of the draw, was the moment when Ketsu-Go began. The battle itself was the hanare, the release. His destiny and his nation’s destiny had been set at the moment of kai and revealed only in the release.

  Now he was completing the zanshin of his life, the sending forth of his spirit for victory. All that was left was yudaoshi, the final lowering of the bow. He would wait upon the decision of his officers.

  He did not have to wait long. Ten minutes after he closed the door there came a diffident knock. Anami’s summons brought his aide into the room. The man looked serious, and a little shaken.

  Minister,” he said after an unusually deep bow, “could you come into the auditorium, please?”

  Exactly nine minutes later, there was nothing left to be decided and only one thing left to say. The army minister stood ramrod straight at the podium. He allowed his glare to pass slowly across all the assembled officers in the large room. Very many met his stare sullenly or with visible anger. A few showed signs of weeping.

  Anami drew a deep breath.

  “If you have decided not to obey the Emperor’s will, you are no longer soldiers of the Emperor, nor soldiers of mine,” Anami declared. He turned his back on the rogue officers and walked back to his office. He touched the buzzer on his desk. “Will you ask my senior aide to enter, please?”

  He opened a cabinet of black lacquered wood and took out a teak box with elaborate carvings on the top. Opening the box, he removed a paper-wrapped knife from it.

  The aide entered. Anami bowed. “Will you do me the honor of being my second?” he asked. “My soldiers have shamed me by defying the Emperor’s will, and my country is disgraced by my Emperor’s decision. It is time for me to die.”

  The aide, a major, stared at him in shock, but he remained loyal. “Are you sure, Minister?”

  “I’m sure. Take a sword from that cabinet.” The cabinet contained a fine collection of traditional weapons. The chief of staff took out a katana and tested its edge against a piece of paper.

  “Will you reconsider?” the chief asked again as Anami knelt, knees folded underneath him.

  “I cannot. Death will be a blessed release. Please do not strike unless you see I am about to lose control and shame myself.”

  “Very well.” The chief of staff took up a position behind the army minister and swung the sharp sword backward and up over his shoulder. “I am ready.”

  Anami was quiet for a moment, composing a death haiku, then spoke.

  “Arrows spin. Wind blows./Control? Illusion. Except/In yudaoshi.”

  The chief of staff thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very true, Minister. Beautifully phrased. Thank you for the privilege of seconding you.”

  Both men were still as statues, yet the tension grew until Anami suddenly drove the knife into his abdomen with all the strength his two hands could muster, then sliced right and up. He gasped as the blade penetrated, but the pain was less than he expected. Shock, probably, he thought.

  The pain began and then rose faster and faster. As it threatened to overwhelm him, he said, “Now,” through gritted teeth.

  The sword slashed.

  Darkness.

  SEPTEMBER 1945

  Endure the Unendurable

  If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information nor take part in any action that might be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way.

  —Code of Conduct for American Prisoners of War

  The soldier, above all other people, prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars.

  —General Douglas MacArthur

  TWENTY-THREE

  Honshu, Japan; Tokyo

  • SUNDAY, 23 SEPTEMBER 1945 •

  APPROACHING HITACHI, HONSHU, JAPAN, 1853 HOURS

  (OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY + 2)

  Pete Rachwalski glowered at the bridge and the two hills looming beyond the concrete span as if his disappointment would translate into a weapon of war. “This son of a bitch is going to be one tough nut to crack,” he growled.

  Then he ducked as another barrage of enemy artillery shells smashed onto the roadway ahead of him. A shower of dirt blasted upward, and he pressed his face into the wet ground as the debris rattled down, spattering across his back and rattling on his helmet.

  He, both his gunnery sergeants, and Captain Allen of the 117th Armored lay in a muddy ditch in the drizzling rain, watching three of Allen’s Sherman tanks burn. Most of the crew had made it out of the last one, but the first two had gone up within a few seconds of each other, victims of a well-positioned Japanese antitank battery. The tanks had started to burn like Roman candles, and the couple of men who made it out of one had been machine-gunned to death almost as soon as their feet had touched the ground.

  “I shoulda known it was too good to be true,” Allen declared, shaking his head in disgust. “A paved road all the way to Tokyo with nothing more than an occasional machine gun nest. Yep. Too good to be true.”

  “Well, we made it halfway before they slowed us up,” Pete replied. “We just have to figure out a way around this position.”

  “Easier said than done,” the army captain replied.

  He was right, of course. Pete’s men had deployed for a quarter mile on either side of the road and brought back enough information for the two officers to realize that they had come up against a very well-prepared position. It was structured around the good concrete bridge that carried this highway across a rain-swollen river and was backed up by the first significant heights they had encountered in twenty miles. The road threaded a nasty gauntlet between those two hills, and the enemy had patiently waited to strike.

  When the American column had approached, the Japs let the first three tanks across the bridge. Then they opened up with at least two concealed antita
nk guns, hitting two of the Sherman M4s almost simultaneously. The third had been knocked out as it tried to back across the bridge to safety. The three wrecked tanks not only reduced the company’s strength but also formed an impromptu roadblock, preventing easy egress even if they could advance across the bridge.

  Then the Japanese artillery had come down, medium-caliber shells that had scattered perfectly among the marines and the rest of the tanks. The men took shelter in these muddy ditches, and the tanks pulled off the road. The Americans had wanted to return fire, but none of the enemy guns was visible. Making matters worse, a thin drizzle of rain had been falling, soaking through everything. It was shaping up to be a lousy day.

  Pete turned to his sergeants. “Miller, find out if there’s any chance of getting air support. Rinehart, I want to know if the bridge is mined.” Both the sergeants and Pete were pretty sure the answers were no and yes, respectively, but Pete had to be sure.

  The Japs had created a real hornets’ nest for any attacking troops. They had plenty of high ground for spotting, guns positioned for indirect fire, and a number of well-entrenched machine gun nests. Even if Pete’s men could get across the bridge and past the three tanks, there were no guarantees they would be able to accomplish anything more than getting killed.

  Miller was first back, duck-walking up the trench. “As far as air support goes, Captain, not only no, but hell, no. Not unless it clears up.”

  “About what I expected,” Pete said.

  A few minutes later, Sergeant Rinehart came crawling through the brush to the right of the road. He dashed over a clear space at the edge of the ditch and rolled down next to the two officers. His words did nothing to improve Pete’s outlook. “They’ve got the bridge mined, Captain,” he reported. “I can see the charges, but there’s no way to get close without taking a lot of machine gun fire. We’ll lose men if we even try to take them out.”

  “All right. Then we’ll have to send patrols around to the left and right, looking for a way around.” He turned to Sergeant Miller. “You two feel up to a moonlight stroll?”

  “Shit, Captain Ski,” said Rinehart. “Can’t see no moon in this weather.”

  “Yeah,” Miller agreed. “But I always was a sucker for a walk in the rain.”

  • MONDAY, 24 SEPTEMBER 1945 •

  NASHVILLE, OFFSHORE AT HIRATSUKA, KANAGAWA

  PREFECTURE, HONSHU, JAPAN, 1230 HOURS

  (OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY + 3)

  “I don’t want to hear about the damned surf conditions!” the Supreme Commander snapped at the major. The G-2 of 1/41, First Brigade, 41st Division, had just been transported at some difficulty through the rough waters around the flagship to make his report in person. “I want to hear how quickly and efficiently the landing force is assembling and preparing to move out!”

  “Begging the General’s pardon.” The major took a breath but didn’t show any sign of backing down before the display of imperial temper. MacArthur was too distressed even to take note of the man’s courage. “We have five LCVs that broached—that is, came in sideways—”

  “I know what broached means!”

  “Sorry, General. And we lost their trucks. If we try bringing any of the larger ships in to the beaches, the hulls will smash—they might be broken apart, General. We can get some men ashore.” He didn’t mention that those men were soaking wet and exhausted from fighting the surf, or that several had already drowned in the dangerous beach conditions. “But if you order them to push inland, their only option right now is to walk to Tokyo.”

  “Then, Major, I hope they brought some good, sturdy footwear!” snapped MacArthur.

  “Of course, General.” The major stood at parade rest, his expression implacable.

  The Supreme Commander took a deep breath. The delays were not this major’s fault, he knew, nor were they the fault of any human. The typhoon was a wild card, utterly unpredictable, and now incredibly frustrating. It tossed them about like playthings, wreaked havoc with schedules, plans, organization.

  “What about the enemy’s resistance?” he pressed. “We didn’t have the ships to do as heavy a bombardment as I would have liked. Most of the big guns are up with Patton! Did the Japanese lay down a barrage when you came ashore?”

  “No barrage, sir. That’s a case—Jap resistance, I mean—where the typhoon might have actually helped us out. They had some really big waves on those beaches just a day ago, General. We’ve come upon a lot of prepared positions that were simply washed out—machine gun nests filled with sand, revetments knocked over or eroded away. We found a whole battery of 105s that look like they were tossed around like kids’ toys—lying on their sides, barrels filled up with sand. No sign of the gun crews anywhere. The deepest entrenchments are all filled with water. As a result, our prelanding bombardment killed a lot more of the enemy because the high water drove them out into the open.”

  “That, I suppose, is something. But I need to get my men ashore! And my trucks and guns and equipment!”

  “I understand, sir. We’re taking risks, sir, in the interest of speed.”

  MacArthur’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. Proceed with all possible haste. I will be coming ashore myself, in a matter of hours—perhaps that will give the men some added inspiration.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure that it will, General.”

  MacArthur inspected the major’s face for any hint of sarcasm in his last comment. Seeing none, the Supreme Commander made a dismissal gesture with his pipe. After the major left, MacArthur looked through the rain-soaked porthole at the gray sea. Whitecaps were everywhere. He could well imagine the difficulties in maneuvering small boats through that kind of surf. But dammit, he had to get ashore!

  This was the residue of that damned typhoon. It was as if the Almighty were personally mocking MacArthur. Why now? Why here? Why not with Patton? With all his “no publicity” prattle, MacArthur was aware of how many journalists wanted to be with that foul-mouthed show-off, and he was sure—absolutely sure—some of them had wangled their way into his entourage. Probably with his knowledge and help, MacArthur thought.

  The great storm still lurked out there, though it had weakened steadily. The meteorologists were telling him that it had shifted back to a northwesterly course, that it would wander off toward Siberia and leave northern Honshu unscathed.

  And as for Patton and his diversion? There had been no real word, only the puffed-up coded reports that provided some exaggerated idea of where the man’s armored spearheads were. If he were to believe the reports, the vanguard of XIII Corps was halfway to Tokyo, having covered more than fifty miles! That broadcasting was for the enemy’s benefit, of course. It was intended to distract and confuse.

  But—goddamn it!—MacArthur needed to be ashore.

  IMPERIAL ARMY HEADQUARTERS, TOKYO, JAPAN,

  1314 HOURS

  Captain Ogawa Taiki, with Lieutenant Watanabe at his side, marched into the office of General Umezu, the army chief of staff. He saluted stiffly, bowed, and came to attention. “Captain Ogawa reporting as ordered, sir. The general suggested I bring along a man I could trust. Lieutenant Watanabe is a fine young officer. We both served at Camp Shinjuku until it became clear that we were needed here.”

  “Yes, good men, both of you.” Umezu waved at them with a distracted air, and they both relaxed enough to stand at ease.

  Ogawa, scrutinizing the great general, was surprised by the change in the army chief of staff. Umezu had been angry, furious almost beyond the point of control, when they had listened to him in the auditorium the previous day. Now, that anger was gone, replaced with what looked like fatigue.

  Or—and this was confirmed by a whiff of sweet fermentation, coming from the other side of the general’s desk—he was drunk.

  Probably he was exhausted and drunk, the captain decided. And with some good reason. The disgrace that had been ordered upon the Imperial Japanese Army was unprecedented, even beyond comprehension. Surrender. It was not a word that Ogawa had ever
expected to hear, not when it was included in the phrasing of one of his own orders. Yet hear it he had.

  Every unit of the Imperial Japanese Army that still maintained a communications link with Tokyo had received the order only a few short hours ago. The troops of Nippon were to capitulate, to lay down their weapons and to turn themselves over to the Americans. With that unspeakable order had come the news that General Anami had committed seppuku. The implication was that any officer whose honor required it was permitted, even encouraged, to take the same step.

  “Captain Ogawa…and Lieutenant Yoshi,” Umezu said, his words slow and slurred, “I am an old man and have played my role. If it has not turned out necessarily to my expectations, that is karma. Now I must complete my destiny, and my life can reach its close. You also have your own responsibilities—for there are acts for old men and acts for young men.”

  “Yes, General. We are unworthy to know your wishes but would be honored for any insights you would wish to share with us,” Ogawa promised sincerely.

  “You know about the shameful order issued to all units of the army, of course. But did you know, the same order—purportedly in the Emperor’s own voice, his own words—is to be broadcast to the people over the radio?”

  “Sir!” Ogawa declared, shocked. “The Emperor has never stooped to the indignity of speaking directly to his subjects!”

  “Of course not. I believe, myself, that this is some cruel hoax. However that may be, the speech has already been recorded.” Umezu looked at Ogawa sharply.