August 12—Day of Crisis
Just before 1:00 A.M. on the twelfth, the answer from America arrived by shortwave radio from San Francisco. It had been eagerly awaited by both peace and war factions in Tokyo. At the Foreign Office, men worked furiously at translating the Byrnes message, while in another building on top of Ichigaya Hill, Army officers who listened to the English broadcast raged helplessly at their inability to decipher it. Since the Imperial Army had very few men capable of speaking the enemy’s language, it was forced to proceed very slowly in translating the text into Japanese. The diplomats at the Foreign Office had much less trouble.
Premier Suzuki’s secretary, Sakomizu, read the first rough draft handed to him. The message made these points:
… from the moment of surrender the authority of the Emperor and the Japanese Government to rule the state shall be subject to the Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers who will take such steps as he deems proper to effectuate the surrender terms.
The Emperor will be required to authorize and ensure the signature by the Government of Japan and the Japanese Imperial General Headquarters of the surrender terms necessary to carry out the provisions of the Potsdam Declaration.…
The ultimate form of government of Japan shall, in accordance with the Potsdam Declaration, be established by the freely expressed will of the Japanese people. The armed forces of the Allied Powers will remain in Japan until the purposes set forth in the Potsdam Declaration are achieved.
Sakomizu was crushed by the apparent severity of the language. He quickly called his friend, Shunichi Matsumoto, Foreign Minister Togo’s aide, and the two men sat down in the pre-dawn darkness to interpret James Byrnes’ words.
To the two statesmen, the American reply was discouraging and inconclusive. It neither promised the Emperor’s sovereignty nor explicitly denied it. It merely stated that he would be subject to the Supreme Commander, “who will take such steps as he deems proper to effectuate the surrender terms.” Sakomizu and Matsumoto were confused by this clause but alarmed by another: “The ultimate form of government of Japan shall, in accordance with the Potsdam Declaration, be established by the freely expressed will of the Japanese people.” In this sentence, the Foreign Office spokesmen could see justification for continued warfare by the military, who would interpret it as certain indication that the Allies meant to remove the Emperor from office.
Over breakfast, the discouraged Foreign Office aides discussed what to do. Matsumoto saw only one choice: “Let’s push it through in its present form.”
Sakomizu nodded. “Maybe it will work.”
As another hot day broke in Tokyo, the two men rode quickly to talk with their superiors. Sakomizu confronted a sleepy Suzuki and convinced him quickly that the Byrnes note was acceptable. Without bothering to read the rough translation, the aged Premier assured his brilliant secretary that he would recommend its approval by the cabinet.
Matsumoto had little trouble with Togo. The frustrated Foreign Minister, depressed at the continued arguments about surrender, realized the pitfalls inherent in the Byrnes note, but agreed with his assistant that there was no other option left. It had to be forced through.
Sakomizu and Matsumoto returned to their offices somewhat relieved. It appeared that they had stolen a lead on the war party by coordinating policy and tactics for the next crucial debate.
They were wrong. While they went back to work, other men plotted to undo their actions.
On the same morning, young officers at the War Ministry were in the office of General Umezu demanding that he denounce the American proposal. At Naval Headquarters, Admiral Toyoda was besieged by impassioned men who urged that he publicly reject the contents of the note. The senior officers were in an impossible situation. Each had been willing to continue the war until urged by the Emperor to negotiate Japan’s surrender. Now their subordinates were insisting that they back away from positions assumed under the Imperial mandate. To make matters worse, General Anami, the man who could calm troubled aides with a word, was nowhere to be found. His office reported that he was out on an unspecified mission. Admiral Toyoda and General Umezu tried to ride out the storm of protest until the War Minister returned.
Korechika Anami had not gone directly to his office that morning. Instead, he went to the official residence of Premier Suzuki. Accompanying him was an unlikely compatriot, Baron Hiranuma, whose sympathies toward the peace faction had nearly disappeared as he worried about the fate of the Emperor. Byrnes’ note convinced the baron that Hirohito was in grave danger, and as a result, he had joined hands with his former foe, General Anami, in order to block unconditional surrender. The two men had embraced each other in a last-minute effort to thwart the Foreign Office. In Premier Suzuki, they felt they had the weak man in the enemy camp. Shortly after Secretary Sakomizu had convinced the Premier to agree to the American demands, Hiranuma and Anami cornered him. Isolated from his advisers, the tired Suzuki was no match for the marshaled arguments of men determined to upset the drift to peace.
Reverting to the terms he had originally supported, Anami immediately demanded, “The provisions referring to troop disarmament and occupation zones must be included in any agreement with the Allies.”
Hiranuma repeated an urgent warning: “The Emperor may suffer greatly if the terms are not drastically revised.”
On this point, Suzuki was vulnerable, for like all Japanese, he revered the Throne and would gladly die for it. When his visitors stressed again and again the importance of Hirohito’s position, the Premier’s mind reeled with the implications of being party to the dissolution of the Imperial House. As Anami and Hiranuma left, Suzuki promised them that he would not give ground on the question of the Emperor.
General Anami went immediately to another appointment. He met with Mikasa, the Emperor’s youngest brother, the so-called Red Prince. Mikasa was a nonconformist, whose family never got accustomed to his “socialist” outlook, his concern for the rights of the masses. To court advisers, Mikasa was a rebel.
Anami hoped to convince the Prince to intercede with his brother and block the surrender. He miscalculated badly. Mikasa listened politely to the War Minister and then turned on him brutally. “Since the Manchurian Incident, the Army has not once acted in accordance with the Imperial wish. It is most improper that you should still want to continue the war when things have come to this stage.”
Scolded like a child, Anami bowed out of the room. He was crushed beyond comment. Mikasa’s words had cut deeply and would stay in his mind. Riding back to his office with his aide, Colonel Hayashi, the general kept repeating the Prince’s words in disbelief. They marked the second personal attack on him in the last three days. Earlier, in front of several officers, his brother-in-law Takeshita angrily had told him to commit suicide if he agreed to surrender. At that time, Anami confided to his secretary: “Takeshita said such cruel things to me. Since I am nearly sixty years old, I do not think it would be difficult for me to die. Perhaps it would be difficult for a young man like you but …” The general’s voice broke and he could not go on. Now, Mikasa’s rebuke only added to his inner turmoil as he rode back to the seething corridors at Ichigaya.
There, the young officers had already forced General Umezu to go to the Emperor. Accompanied by Admiral Toyoda, the general stood before the ruler of the Japanese people and lodged a protest. Obviously under a great strain, the two senior officers urged prompt and unequivocal rejection of the American terms. Hirohito watched them closely and felt that they were mouthing the words, as though directed by an unseen force. He thanked them for their concern and dismissed them.
Within minutes, the Emperor summoned his adviser, Marquis Kido, to help him analyze the dismaying trend developing at military headquarters. If Umezu and Toyoda were under such apparent pressure, unrest among Army and Navy personnel must be intense and dangerous. Hirohito’s suspicions were well founded. At noontime, the conspirators at Ichigaya surfaced to prepare for a rebellion.
They came to General Anami in his office where the War Minister had just returned from his shattering experience with Prince Mikasa. Takeshita, Hatanaka, Inaba and other men crowded into his presence to talk of the coup d’état. Colonel Sato, one of Anami’s aides, immediately sensed their intent and spoke sharply to Major Hatanaka: “Don’t be so hasty about a coup.” Hatanaka lost his temper and screamed, “Badoglio! You’re nothing but a duplicate of that traitor!” Sato rushed at the raging Hatanaka but Anami quickly intervened. He jumped between the antagonists and put out his hands. “Come now,” he said, “military men must trust each other.”
A heavy silence followed, until Anami gently suggested, “Takeshita, come to my home later. I will be happy to talk to you about it then.” With that remark, the War Minister walked out of the room to a cabinet meeting. He had forestalled a discussion and avoided a lengthy confrontation, but he knew that sooner or later he would have to meet this band of unhappy men and talk of their plans for a coup d’état.
Anami was in an acutely difficult position. The men under him demanded that he defend what was left of the nation. Those above him accused him of trying to destroy any chance for peace and a future for the nation. He could not please both sides in the struggle. Though Anami was against unconditional peace, he was also against insurrection. Knowing that his army might erupt under him at any moment, he was trying to lull the junior officers into inaction while he worked out the best possible peace terms. In that way he could prevent his impetuous aides from disrupting negotiations. Anami hoped that his course of action would avoid bloodshed in the next hours and days.
The full cabinet met at 3:00 P.M. Anami and his new ally, Baron Hiranuma, listened intently as the text of the San Francisco broadcast of the Byrnes note was read. Premier Suzuki cautioned everyone that it was an “unofficial” version and that mistakes could have been made in translation. Then he asked for opinions. Anami and Hiranuma picked up where they had left off that morning with Suzuki. They reiterated their fears for the Emperor. Anami repeated his demands for additional conditions.
Foreign Minister Togo, edgy after days of tension, lost his temper. He snapped caustically, “To add issues at this moment would make the Allies wonder at the integrity of the Japanese Government and at its sincerity in negotiating at all.”
His rage mounting, Togo rose from his chair and walked to the door. “Acting like this is contrary to reason,” he shouted. Then, nearly at the end of his endurance, he slammed the conference room door behind him.
Trembling with anger, Togo picked up the phone in the next room and called his assistant, Matsumoto, who quickly sensed a crisis and warned him to adjourn the meeting before a vote could be taken. For want of a better solution, Togo agreed and went back through the oaken door to join his colleagues. He was just in time to receive a final blow.
Anami and Hiranuma had done their work well that morning. By concentrating their attack on Premier Suzuki, they had hammered at the weakest spot in the opposition’s armor. The aged man had been shaken by the possibility that the Emperor would meet disaster if the Allies’ terms were accepted.
When Togo walked back into the room, he heard Suzuki reciting the arguments of the war party. The Premier was backing away from surrender. Appalled at the change in Suzuki’s position, Togo rushed to intervene before irrevocable damage was done. Controlling his voice, he interrupted: “Your words are worthy of careful consideration, but at the same time, Japan should not continue the war irresponsibly without paying any attention to its outcome.”
Togo kept on talking to avoid losing the initiative. “Unless there is some prospect of victory, Japan should negotiate for peace. I therefore propose that the meeting be adjourned and that the question be reopened after the official communication from the Allies has been received.”
There was an awkward silence. Someone in the room agreed and men started getting up to leave. Togo’s tactic had won Japan a temporary reprieve. Anami and his followers had suffered another defeat.
Foreign Minister Togo could not calm down. Incensed at Suzuki, he went looking for him and found him in an anteroom. The Premier stood helplessly as the bespectacled Togo shouted scorn at him. Too tired to argue, confused by the factional disputes erupting on all sides, he offered no defense for his actions. Togo stormed out of the room determined to resign and let others fight for peace. Disgusted with Suzuki, frustrated by the pigheadedness of Anami and Hiranuma, he was quite at a loss as to what to do next.
In late afternoon, he stopped first at the Foreign Office where aides implored him to go home and sleep on the question of resignation. Then he went to see Marquis Kido at the palace. After explaining the disastrous series of events at the cabinet meeting, Togo warned Kido that he must deal with the vacillating Suzuki before the peace coalition fell apart.
Meanwhile at the Foreign Office, Shunichi Matsumoto’s long day had not ended. Busy since before dawn, when he and Sakomizu had first translated the radio message from San Francisco, he had manned the Foreign Office all day while his superior, Togo, fought with friend and foe at the cabinet meeting. Now, in the twilight of August 12, he sat behind a desk thinking of a way in which to give the diplomats more time to patch up their defenses.
Matsumoto reached for the phone, dialed the Telegraph Section of the Ministry, and spoke to the duty officer. He was explicit in his directions: “Watch for any Allied messages that come in this evening. If they do, stamp them received as of tomorrow morning. Above all, keep them secret.” The duty officer agreed. Matsumoto hung up and sank back into his chair, hoping that his little scheme would give Togo and the other statesmen enough time to reorganize. In this fabricated limbo, the architects of peace might gain the upper hand. Matsumoto went home elated at his deception.
At 6:40 P.M., James Byrnes’ note to the Japanese Government was received in the Telegraph Section by the duty officer. He promptly marked it received as of 7:40 A.M. the following day and filed it away.
Another message which came in shortly afterward further justified Matsumoto’s concern over the state of affairs. The telegram was from Suemasa Okamoto, Japanese Ambassador to Sweden, who for two days had been trying to gauge Allied reactions to the impending surrender. Okamoto was desperately anxious to alert his countrymen to a grave peril.
THE AMERICANS ABE HAVING A HARD TIME HARMONIZING THE OPINIONS OF THE ALLIES—RUSSIA AND CHINA WANT THE EMPEROR OUT—GREAT BRITAIN ADVOCATES TEMPORARY RECOGNITION OF THE EMPEROR—THE LONDON TIMES IS AGAINST THE EMPEROR SYSTEM.
Okamoto added the obvious warning. Unless Japan accepted the original offer, President Truman might be weaned away from his position. The deadlock in Tokyo must be broken and quickly.
At 9:30 P.M. the Premier of Japan entered Kido’s office in answer to an urgent summons. Suzuki listened as the Marquis lectured him on the day’s misadventures. Kido minced no words: “If we do not accept the Allied position now, we will be sacrificing hundreds of thousands of innocent people to the continued ravages of war.… Furthermore it is His Majesty’s wish that we advance on the basis of the views held by his Foreign Minister.” Knowing his man well, Kido concentrated on Suzuki’s overriding concern about the Emperor. By allaying the Premier’s fears about delivering Hirohito to the enemy, he hoped to dissipate any lingering doubts in Suzuki’s mind.
Once again the old admiral promised to stand fast against the opposition, to push through the surrender. Kido saw him to the door and returned to his room convinced that the peace faction was intact for the next crucial hours.
While diplomats and generals haggled over the issue of war and peace, Japanese civilians continued to die in clusters. Fires still raged in Nagasaki. On the twelfth, disaster teams were still threading through the wreckage looking for survivors. On all sides they found the dead.
Three sailors who entered the city as part of a search team saw buildings along the road smoldering, though not in actual flames. Just over a mile from Ground Zero, many dead lay beside the road. The bodies showed evidence of multiple burns and wounds about the head and extremities. From this distance inward toward the blast center, the number of cadavers increased markedly. These bodies were roasted black. Some of them seemed still alive. Others had swollen grossly, causing their stomachs to rupture onto the ground. There was no foliage anywhere. Everything was covered with a deep brown coating. A putrid, decaying smell clogged the nostrils and made rescuers gag and retch.
Survivors were being sent to surrounding towns for treatment. Hundreds of them had been brought to Omura Naval Hospital. The appearance of the patients was horrifying. Their hair was burned, their clothing torn to pieces and stained by blood, and the naked parts of their bodies were all burned and inflamed. Many had jagged pieces of glass and wood driven into their bodies. Few resembled human beings.
A strange thing began happening to survivors by the third day after the bomb: they started to die in increasing numbers. After being treated for burns and wounds, the people should have been able to pick up their lives and continue with the task of rebuilding. But instead they wasted away and became part of the mounting death statistics.
Doctors were at a loss to understand the mystery. Both in Nagasaki and Hiroshima, now nearly a week into the atomic age, patients walked into hospitals and died before the disbelieving eyes of physicians and nurses. One officer exclaimed to a companion: “These cases are entirely different from the injuries which have so far been seen. The patients you treated yesterday have died one after another.”
The other man was outraged: “That’s nonsense!” But it was not. The patients were not victims of ordinary bombs. They were dosed with gamma rays, which were destroying their insides and, like a time bomb, preparing to claim them after several days had passed.
They exhibited distressing symptoms of diarrhea and vomiting, lack of appetite and anemia. Their blood streams were being ravaged by radiation. As the days went on, more and more “survivors” fell down and died. The two cities faced a new unseen enemy.
While the small fires continued to burn day and night as families disposed of their relatives, the insidious Genshibakudansho, the “atomic bomb sickness,” added fresh corpses to the unending rows about the wastelands. And still the leaders talked on in Tokyo about continuing the war.
On the night of the twelfth, in Peiping, China, a small group of soldiers tried to make themselves comfortable in the top floor apartment of a private home. Earlier that day, they had jumped from a plane into a field and then come by truck and train into the walled city on a delicate assignment.
Ripping off stolen enemy uniforms, the men quickly mounted a radio aerial on the roof and began sending a coded message back to OSS headquarters at Hsian.
Major Jim Kellis, leader of the team, reported that he and his men were now based in the home of General Mung, commander of Chinese mercenaries working for the Japanese Army. Mung had agreed to collaborate with the Americans and had smuggled the OSS agents into the heart of Japanese territory in order that they might be in position to act quickly in case Japan surrendered. Jim Kellis was actually living next door to a building that housed a section of the Japanese General Staff in North China.
After the message was sent, Kellis ordered the aerial struck. Then he and his men settled down to wait for some word of peace in the Far East.