Yamamoto had known that the army would come. First he heard the rumble of truck motors, and soon a convoy of vehicles raced around the corner and came to a halt before the unwavering line of SNLF troops. A light tank rumbled at the rear of the column, its tiny gun swiveling toward the building as more than a hundred soldiers spilled out of the trucks to form a menacing skirmish line facing Yamamoto and the radio building.
An officer got out of the cab of the lead truck and Yamamoto recognized General Umezu.
“Stand aside, War Minister!” demanded the army chief of staff. “I have business in this building.”
“I am so sorry, Army Chief of Staff, but how can I permit the assassin of the Showa Emperor to enter the presence of the Son of Heaven?” asked Yamamoto calmly. He could see the looks of consternation on the soldiers accompanying Umezu. Apparently word of the previous night’s events had not yet disseminated through the ranks. One young soldier, especially, grew pale and looked askance at the army chief of staff, and then at Yamamoto. Clearly he was wondering whom to believe.
“Those who led the Son of Heaven astray are the ones guilty of the Emperor’s sad and unfortunate passing,” retorted the general, taking a step forward, halting only as several of Yamamoto’s marines loudly cocked their weapons.
“Is that so, General? Is the Emperor baka, then? You were there when he ordered the Supreme Council on the Direction of the War to accept the declaration of the Allied nations.” More shocked reactions from soldiers and Japanese marines alike. Using the word “stupid” to describe the Emperor was an unheard-of blasphemy.
“Of course the Emperor isn’t baka! He was misled!”
“Misled? And as a result, Army Chief of Staff, you sent armed troops into the Imperial Palace to assassinate the Son of Heaven. The gods look down on you in shame and disgust, Umezu. You are a nonperson. You are lower than burakumin!’
Umezu screamed, “Lies! I did not order his murder! It was an accident!”
The SNLF troops standing to each side of Yamamoto raised their machine pistols to firing position, training the weapons on the infuriated general. More soldiers gaped in disbelief at Umezu. Many of their guns wavered as they were reluctant to train them upon the highly esteemed admiral.
“Lay down your weapons,” Yamamoto called out to the soldiers. “I speak in the Emperor’s name, not for the Emperor’s assassin.”
“I am not the Emperor’s assassin! It was an accident!” Umezu shrieked, his face contorted with fury.
“Accidents happen,” Yamamoto agreed, still in that conversational tone. He gestured at the men of the Naval Landing Force and shrugged.
“But you should understand that if these men are forced to shoot, they will kill you very much on purpose.”
Before the general could articulate a reply, static sputtered in the external speakers. The station was beginning to broadcast.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over.
The late Emperor had spoken from the grave. His voice, strange and high-pitched and in an ancient court dialect some of his people could barely understand, emerged with remarkable fidelity from the phonograph record. The radio signal was broadcast to the whole country and was played via loudspeakers mounted on the front of the radio installation. The army and navy troops alike stood at attention and listened.
“We, the people of Japan, have endured many terrible attacks and much overwhelming sadness,” the Showa Emperor said. “Our cities have been burned, our soldiers and sailors slaughtered in their devotion to Our throne. Much has developed during this war that has not proceeded necessarily to our advantage. In these last days, even the Divine Wind has turned against us.”
The voice of the Showa Emperor continued, declaring that the Japanese would accept the terms of the Allies’ Potsdam Declaration.
Then the new Emperor, the former Prince Chichibu, came on live to say, “We endorse the policies and decisions of Our brother the Showa Emperor with respect to this message and request all citizens of Our empire, military and civilian alike, to follow these decisions likewise.”
Then came the young Akihito, whose reign name, Heisei, had been chosen by his father long ago. He repeated what his uncle the Emperor had said in a confident tone that belied his years.
Even before the young heir had finished speaking, Umezu had climbed back into his truck and gone, accompanied by a few—a very small number—of his most loyal troops. As for the rest of the soldiers, hearing the voices of three gods had turned the day. They laid down their arms and told Yamamoto that they would obey the wishes of the Emperor.
TOKYO SUBURBS, JAPAN, 0902 HOURS (OPERATION
CORONET, Y-DAY + 4)
The great column of olive-drab vehicles, with George Patton’s jeep still in the lead, roared down the paved highway leading to the capital. Major Greg Yamada sat in the backseat, holding on for dear life. The other Americans in their tanks, jeeps, and half-tracks warily regarded the Japanese civilians who emerged from their towns and villages to watch the column pass.
The citizens came to stand beside the road, lining up like it was a parade route. Their expressions ranged from curious to apprehensive, but Yamada was surprised to see no evidence of resentment or hostility. The Japanese invariably bowed as the Americans rolled by. Nevertheless, that sign of respect—or submission—didn’t keep the soldiers and marines from having fingers ready on their triggers. Once again the discipline held, however, and the conqueror’s column rolled on with no shooting on either side.
As word of the surrender and of the American column’s approach spread, more and more Japanese came out to watch the Americans driving toward Tokyo. By the time the column, with Patton’s jeep still in the lead, entered the city proper the streets were so tightly lined with people on both sides that it was as if they were driving between walls of humanity.
There was no sign of resistance, no attempt made to obstruct them in any way. By all appearances, the opposition had vanished altogether. Here and there through the crowd Yamada noticed a soldier. At first he feared sniper attacks, then relaxed as he noticed that the soldiers were invariably unarmed. The military men, he noticed, bowed even more deeply than did many of the civilians.
The streets through the city had been cleared of debris, but the neighborhoods to either side were blackened ruins, charred beyond recognition. From his seat in the back of the general’s jeep, the Nisei major looked across a landscape of almost unimaginable ruin. He saw chimneys standing with no houses around them, stilted frameworks of beams here and there, the occasional stone wall that had resisted the infernal heat of the firebombing raids. Yamada had heard about LeMay’s tactic, knew it had been effective, even necessary, but the proof before his eyes was simply appalling.
We did this, he thought. My God.
“That’s where we’re going,” Patton said, touching his driver on the shoulder and pointing.
The sun was well up by now, and they could see their destination looming like some medieval fantasy castle over the rest of the city. The Imperial Palace rose above the devastation, the ornate pagoda roofs gleaming in the morning sun, the wide parks around the place incongruously lush and green. Lofty walls circled the compound of spectacular buildings, and the sprawling grounds of ornate gardens and sculptured parks was almost heartbreakingly beautiful. Against the blackened ruin that was most of the city, it was a surreal image of timeless serenity.
Still racing, the column began to climb the gentle elevation leading to the palace. There were army troops here, but they were not carrying weapons, and they stood aside to let Patton’s column pass. In moments the jeep was proceeding along a wide roadway, with the castle looming massively to their left. A rolling green landscape dotted with groves of trees and ceremonial gardens surrounded the palace like a vast, verdant skirt.
“There!” General Patton barked and pointed across the lawn toward the looming main gate. Immediately the driver turned off the road, bumping roughly over the curb, lurching onto the grass. Chunks of turf f
lew as the tires spun, then dug in with traction, propelling the little vehicle onward.
The general’s jeep rolled right up toward the wall, cutting across the green lawn. The tanks deployed behind him, spreading out to both sides, main guns upraised while soldiers and marines dismounted to sprint toward the looming fortress wall and the open gate. They came over a low rise toward an elegant bridge spanning a moat. Abruptly, the driver hit the brakes, bringing the little vehicle to a skidding stop.
Yamada saw why: a man stood in the open gateway of the palace, atop the arching bridge. He was bald and bareheaded, wearing the dress white uniform of an admiral of the Imperial Japanese Navy. He wore a long sword at his belt, and one hand was missing two fingers. With a blink and a double take, the major recognized him as Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto.
Patton was already scrambling out of the jeep, standing upright to his full, impressive height. He gestured to Yamada, and the translator jumped out, straightening his dirty field jacket and following the general as his long strides carried him up to the Japanese admiral. Marines advanced to both sides, carbines and Tommy guns at the ready, but they stood down at a curt word from Patton.
The Japanese admiral saluted, then bowed deeply as the American general approached.
“Admiral Yamamoto,” Patton said in his high, singsong voice, returning the salute as he stopped a few long strides from the war minister. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”
“The honor is mine, General Patton,” said the Japanese commander in perfect English. “Your reputation as a warrior has preceded you around the world.”
“From one warrior to another, I take that as the highest compliment,” Patton replied with sincerity.
Yamamoto drew the sword—slowly, as they were all aware of the nervous marines and their array of ready firepower—and extended it, hilt forward, to the American general. A photographer had come from somewhere in the column and knelt in the rosebushes beside the bridge, snapping his shutter and deftly advancing his film, working his way through a series of shots.
“It is my grave duty as war minister to offer the surrender of the Empire of Japan and all of her armed forces,” Yamamoto said solemnly. “I regret to inform you that the Emperor himself is dead.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Patton replied solemnly. Looking every inch the very model of a modern battlefield commander, the general took the long, gracefully curved weapon, reversed it, and handed it back to the admiral.
“You are a man of honor, sir, and your word is enough,” he declared. “I see no need for a symbolic transfer of your weapon.”
Yamamoto blinked and bowed again—very deeply, for a man of his rank. His face was composed, but Yamada could see the anguish lurking in the admiral’s martial soul. Still, he was the picture of dignity and grace as he gestured toward the open gates behind him.
“Perhaps you will come inside, General?” he said. “There are many details we will need to discuss.”
MACHIDA, TOKYO PREFECTURE, HONSHU, JAPAN,
1200 HOURS
“I’m sorry, General,” explained a very unhappy colonel of engineers. “The flooding from the typhoon has caved in the whole side of the valley. The road is blocked by ten feet of mud and debris.”
“How long until you can get it clear?” MacArthur asked, his face composed and almost devoid of emotion.
“We have a transporter bringing up a Cat, sir. It should be here in a little more than an hour.”
“Is there another way to Tokyo?” the General asked. Willoughby, sitting beside him in the back of the staff car, looked up from the road map he had been frantically studying.
“Well, General,” he said, pronouncing the phrase “Vell, Cheneral” in his exasperation. “We can go back a dozen miles and take this road, toward Yokohama and Kawasaki. “But it will probably take us two hours out of our way.”
MacArthur was pondering the options, his face still implacable, when the sputtering growl of a motorcycle engine snarled through the sounds of the idling column of cars, trucks, and tanks. The General looked back to see a courier working his way along the side of the road, goggles and leather jacket spattered with enough mud to indicate a fairly reckless ride. The man pulled up next to MacArthur’s car, shut off his engine, and saluted.
“General MacArthur, sir. An urgent cable from General Patton.” He unzipped the jacket, reached into a weatherproof pouch, and pulled out a clean sheet of paper with a few lines typed upon it.
MacArthur merely glanced at the words:
ACCEPTED SURRENDER OF WAR MINISTER
YAMAMOTO AT IMPERIAL PALACE. RESISTANCE
NONEXISTENT. RECEIVING FULL COOPERATION AT
ALL LEVELS. AWAITING ORDERS. SIGNED: GEORGE
S. PATTON, GENERAL, UNITED STATES ARMY
“That’s it, then,” MacArthur said with a very small sigh. He let the piece of paper fall from his hand, and it quickly became saturated with muddy water. “It’s all over, now.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Northern Japan
• MONDAY, 24 SEPTEMBER 1945 •
CAMP NOMACHI (TOKYO CAMP 21-D), TOYAMA
PREFECTURE, JAPAN, 1019 HOURS
Ellis nosed the Skylark of Valeron downward and lined up for his final approach. Even though the B-24 was loaded to the gills with medical supplies, it handled well—medical supplies weigh less than bombs.
The runway at Takaoka was short, but he’d landed on shorter. He aimed for the beginning of the smooth tarmac and hit the mark, easing down his main gear then back off the throttle so that the nose wheel touched down with nary a bump. Braking gradually, he slowed to an easy taxi and still had a hundred yards available when he turned right to get off the active runway.
He came to a stop in front of the lone hangar where a U.S. Army sergeant, a squarely built man with no neck, was waiting for him. Next to the sergeant was a rickety-looking Japanese prewar equivalent of a three-quarter-ton truck. Beside the truck stood four Japanese workers in civilian clothes.
When Ellis disembarked, the sergeant saluted. “Welcome to Takaoka, Colonel.”
“Glad to be here, Sergeant…Pickens,” he said, taking a quick peek at the sergeant’s name badge. “But I bet the medical supplies are more welcome than I am.”
“Well, sir,” the sergeant said, grinning, “let’s say you’re both welcome and leave it at that.”
Ellis laughed. “Which way’s the camp?”
“It’s across the bay. We’ll be taking the ferry.”
“Well, Sergeant, I’m in a bit of a hurry, but if that’s the only way, it’s the only way. Let’s get this plane unloaded.”
Ellis wasn’t too fond of letting strangers—especially recent enemies—inside his airplane, so they formed a line: Ellis and his copilot Grisham inside the Valeron, handing boxes to the sergeant, who in turn passed them down a line of three Japanese to the fourth man on the truck.
The job took about fifteen minutes. “It’s been a while since I worked for a living,” Ellis said as he dropped out through the bomb bay doors and mopped sweat off his forehead.
Ellis and Sergeant Pickens crowded into the cab with the Japanese driver. The others rode in back with the supplies. Grisham stayed with the plane. It took a couple of tries for the engine to crank. Finally, with a loud bang and a cloud of smelly black smoke, the antique truck rattled off toward the dock.
“The transportation system in this country’s all fucked up, pardon my French, sir,” Sergeant Pickens shouted over the truck’s engine. “Of course, considering that we did most of the fucking, I guess that’s okay, but right now we need all the capacity we can get. These POWs need food and medicine, and they need it fast!”
“Happy to help, Sergeant,” Ellis said. “It was nice to carry something other than bombs for a change.”
“You got that right, Colonel,” the sergeant replied. “Fucking-A right. Pardon my French.”
The ancient paddlewheel ferry had room for only ten cars and maybe fifty people. Theirs was the only v
ehicle, and the passenger load was light as well, ten people including them. As the ferry pulled away from the wooden dock, the industrial smell of the town gave way to cleaner air, polluted only somewhat by the smells from the chugging, smoking engines. Ellis watched Takaoka recede in the distance, forcing himself to be patient.
The end of the war had come so suddenly that everyone had been taken by surprise. Ellis, knee-deep in planning for new tactical raids, suddenly found all his work OBE—overtaken by events. He wasn’t out of a job quite yet, though. There was paperwork involved in ending a war. The army being the army, a lot of paperwork.
That’s why he had been so surprised to receive a call from the General’s office asking him to report in person to MacArthur. The Supreme Commander was setting up his permanent headquarters in a downtown Tokyo insurance building that had somehow escaped the bombing damage. The place had been claimed as the temporary HQ by the XIII Corps after Patton’s arrival, but the SWPA staff had begun moving in as soon as they arrived in the great capital city. It was already becoming known as the Dai Ichi, or Number One.
MacArthur, of course, was on the very top floor. His secretary checked and rechecked the appointment log, suspicious that a mere colonel could possibly have any business with the General. His name, however, had been duly recorded, so with a sniff of disapproval, he let him through.
The Supreme Commander’s desk was uncharacteristically covered with paper. Apparently even the General was having some difficulty keeping up with the sudden end of the war. MacArthur looked at Ellis as if he couldn’t remember who this visitor was or why he had come. Ellis, in turn, looked at MacArthur. The Supreme Commander was showing his age. His skin was pale, almost like parchment. There were brown spots showing on the backs of his hands. His hair was thinning.
The General’s confusion was only momentary. The famous MacArthur smile spread itself over the General’s face and all was right with the world. “Ellis, how good of you to come. I found something you might want. Now, where is it?” He flipped through one large pile of manila folders, selected one, and handed it to Ellis. The name on the tab read, JOHN HALVERSON, CPT, USA (RESERVE).
MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan Page 54
