An Order From MacArthur
At dawn on August 19, Kawabe’s Manila delegation assembled at the Navy Department building in Tokyo.
The small group drove out to Haneda Airport past vast acres of flattened city blocks. The morning was beautiful. A bright sunshine filled the skies and caused someone in the group to remark, “Perfect shooting weather.” The kamikazes were never far from their thoughts.
Though Kosono himself was no longer a problem, there were other fanatics at Atsugi still capable of launching an attack. There were also other airbases in Japan with kamikazes less flamboyant, perhaps, than Kosono, but as disinclined to accept surrender as he. An elaborate secret plan had therefore been concocted for the flight. From Haneda, the mission would fly to Kisarazu Airbase, across Tokyo Bay on the Bose Peninsula. There they would change planes and go south approximately one hundred miles over the ocean before swinging west toward the Ryukyus. En route they would be met by a convoy of American fighters and bombers which would guide them from the southern tip of Kyushu to the American base at Ie Shima off Okinawa. From there they would fly on to Manila. The roundabout course cut the risk of kamikaze interception from the Home Islands. As an added precaution, at the time of mission takeoff, decoy bombers would head out from Tokyo in another direction.
At 6:00 A.M. the men took off across Tokyo Bay. They landed fourteen minutes later. Kisarazu was the main base of the Third Air Fleet under the command of Admiral Teraoka, the same man who had tried to reason with Kosono at Atsugi three days before. He greeted the delegates and invited them to join him in a meal. It had been prepared by cooks specially selected for the occasion, for Teraoka too feared mission sabotage, by poison.
When the time came to board the two planes lined up on the runway, Teraoka had wreaths of flowers brought out. He asked Kawabe to drop them over Okinawa to honor the memories of the more than 100,000 Japanese servicemen who had died there. Then the delegation filed in two sections into the waiting bombers. These were of the slow two-engined type known as “Bettys” by American pilots. On MacArthur’s orders, both had been painted white and had a large green cross on each side of the fuselage. Each plane received eight members of the mission. As the officials settled into their places, the pilots opened their secret orders. Only then did they see the chart showing the route.
The Bettys roared down the runway and up into the brilliant light. In their rear seats the delegates were uncomfortable and tense. On Kawabe’s plane, it was easy to look out at the sky because the sides were stitched with bullet holes from some previous encounter with American fighters. But Kawabe closed his eyes to everything around him and appeared to sleep. No one else slept, but none bothered to speak either.
One hundred miles out, the two planes turned and flew west, approximately parallel to the long southern perimeter of Japan. The men in the planes stayed relatively quiet. Kawabe still appeared to doze. Others followed his example.
At eleven o’clock, the mountains of southern Kyushu appeared on the right side. On this island the warrior race of Japan, the samurai, had emerged centuries before. On this same island today, descendants of the samurai, kamikazes, waited for the enemy occupation forces. There was no reason to believe they would wait peacefully. But then, those who could see out through the bullet holes in the lead plane’s fuselage saw to their relief that heavy cumulus clouds had appeared. Interception by fighter planes would be most difficult.
At 11:15 A.M. the bombers were suddenly surrounded by fourteen planes coming up alongside to inspect them. Alarmed at first, the occupants of the Bettys soon saw that the strangers were two B-24’s and twelve P-38’s of the American Air Force. The two bombers were slightly ahead, the twelve fighters around, above and below. They performed acrobatics, diving past the white Bettys which lumbered along in the middle of this concentration of protective power. The threat from the kamikazes was over.
One hour and fifteen minutes later, the island of Ie Shima appeared dead ahead. A huge white cross marked the runway. The Bettys circled over the base and proceeded into the landing pattern. American aircraft were massed below, and for a brief moment, Captain Ohmae, in the lead plane, wondered if perhaps his pilot would forget himself and dive straight into them. But his fears were allayed as he heard the pilot’s radio request for landing instructions. The pilot used the call sign “Bataan.” MacArthur had thought of everything.
When the planes taxied up to the designated area, the delegates saw a large number of soldiers standing in a huge circle around the apron. A Nisei officer came to the door of the first plane and told them to move to a C-54 transport for the last leg of the journey to Manila. The sixteen men filed down the ramps into a blistering heat which seared their eyes. Kawabe looked particularly uncomfortable. Though American soldiers came close to snap pictures, no one spoke to the Japanese. There was complete silence as the forlorn group walked up to the huge four-engined plane.
They boarded the transport and sat down in far more comfortable circumstances than they had expected. They began to relax as they realized that the Americans meant them no harm. Some had thought they might be killed. Now all but Kawabe began to chat and laugh. Sour and gloomy, he sat looking out a window while the rest pulled their boots off and settled down. Out the windows they saw G.I.’s wandering around the Bettys and staring at the Japanese crewmen who stood sweating in their heavy flying suits.
At one thirty, the C-54 rose into the air. Its pilot, Colonel Earl T. Ricks, took it over the length of Okinawa to the south east, flying low to show the Japanese the vast strength concentrated on the island. Looking down from twelve hundred feet, the delegation was astounded at the arsenal displayed below. As the plane neared the southern tip of the island, a door was opened and Admiral Teraoka’s bouquets of roses were tossed into the slipstream. They tumbled down over the last fortifications manned by Japanese soldiers in the war. Inside the planes sixteen men bowed their heads and offered silent prayers.
Lunch was served as the plane headed out over the water. A stewardess who moved among the Japanese caught their attention because of her blond hair which they found fascinating. The meal she and the stewards gave them consisted of bully beef sandwiches, cheese, hardboiled eggs, peanut butter, bread, cake, pickles and pineapple juice. Even the moody Kawabe ate.
The weather worsened while the plane was still quite a way from the Philippines. It pitched and rolled in the turbulence but moved steadily southward. The Japanese nodded and dozed.
Four and a half hours after taking off, the C-54 circled over the landing strip at Nichols Field southwest of Manila. Down below, an enormous sea of khaki stared up at the special plane as it swept down and onto the runway.
Kawabe led the way down the ramp from the transport. It was six o’clock in the evening of a humid day in Manila, and the sun still shone in the west. At the bottom of the steps, he halted before an American officer. Behind Kawabe other members of the delegation stopped abruptly on the steps. They noticed the quiet crowd of servicemen surrounding the plane in a vast semicircle. All the Japanese were uneasy. One of the Foreign Office representatives, Katsuo Okazaki, was particularly discomfited by the hundreds of cameras clicking, going off like machine guns. The Air Force representative, Colonel Masao Matsuda, stood stiff as a pole, staring straight ahead. Mindful of the thousands of eyes upon him, he rose to his full height and gazed over their heads at nothing.
At the bottom of the steps Kawabe stood, a short, rumpled figure, uncomfortable in his woolen uniform and his high collar. His sword dangled almost to the ground at his side. The spurs on his cavalry boots shone in the twilight.
The American who greeted him was no stranger to Japan and its people. He was Colonel Sidney Mashbir, the friend of Captain Zacharias and the author of those broadcasts to his friends in Japan in July. Looking casual in suntans and no tie, Mashbir said in fluent Japanese, “I have come to meet you.” Kawabe saluted and Mashbir returned it. Then the Japanese put out his hand to Mashbir, who instinctively brought his own forward. At the last second, he realized that such a greeting was inappropriate, and jerked his hand back as though it were burned. His thumb swept over his right shoulder and pointed toward a line of waiting cars. Immediately understanding Mashbir’s predicament, Kawabe withdrew his hand and walked stiffly on. The other fifteen delegates filed across the concrete as cameras clicked and whirred.
Bedraggled from the long flight, dressed in ill-fitting makeshift uniforms, the Japanese hardly looked like worthwhile foes. G.I.’s in the crowd wondered openly at the size and appearance of the enemy. Most of the opinions were good-natured. The procession was so forlorn that few servicemen could remember past bitternesses.
Behind Mashbir, another group of officers waited for the Japanese. In the center stood the very tall, brilliant General Charles Willoughby, head of General MacArthur’s Intelligence Division. Willoughby was one of the inner circle, part of the small band of devoted men who formed a powerful buffer between MacArthur and the world outside. With the others, he had helped to foster the legendary aura that surrounded the pipe-smoking hero of many wars.
Kawabe walked into the first car and Willoughby stepped in behind him. Mashbir went around the car and got in beside the driver. Willoughby was friendly and asked the Japanese in what language he wished to converse. Kawabe replied, “German,” which happened to be Willoughby’s native tongue; he had lived in Germany until the age of twelve. Warmed by the American’s pleasant manner, Kawabe felt the melancholia that had gripped him since morning begin to slip away.
Several cars were filled, and slowly left Nichols Field, heading toward downtown Manila. In one of them, a startled Japanese officer tried to think of something to say to an American Nisei interpreter, who barely let him get comfortable before asking: “When the Japanese attacked Hawaii, why didn’t they land?” Still wary of Americans, the officer just stared back at him and kept silent all the way to the city.
The trip through the center of Manila was not pleasant for the Japanese. If the group was apprehensive about meeting the Americans, it had all the more reason to fear the Filipinos. Only six months before, Manila, “Jewel of the Orient,” had been systematically burned to the ground by the desperate marines and sailors of the Japanese Navy, acting under orders to deny the capital of the Philippines to the enemy. During MacArthur’s three-week siege in February 1945, Filipinos had died by the thousands as Japanese troops, inflamed by desperation and reckless abandon, had used them mercilessly. Mass rapes, multiple assaults on young women and little girls, had been perpetrated in streets and hallways. Columns of men and women had been doused with gasoline and set ablaze. Others had been tied together and bayoneted to death. In hospitals, nuns, nurses and patients had been stripped, raped and killed. Mutilated corpses had lain everywhere among the ruins. Manila had paid a terrible price for its freedom.
Now, as the delegation sped through the streets, Filipinos lined the route to stare at them. Stones flew out of the crowd. The air was filled with screams of “Bacayaro!”—“Stupid boy!”—to the Japanese, a vile epithet. Kawabe and the others looked neither right nor left as the citizens raged. Within minutes they arrived at the Rosario Apartments near the harbor.
The accommodations were surprisingly pleasant. Two men were assigned to each of the rooms, which were clean and adequate. Some had windows overlooking the magnificent bay, now crowded with ships against a setting sun.
Dinner was served in the dining room, where American officers sat and pointedly ignored the Japanese. The two factions ate in relative silence, separated by a few yards and a hundred battlegrounds.
When the time came to go to the meeting with the American instruction committee, the first trouble developed. Told that officers could no longer carry their swords with them, Kawabe and the others objected strenuously, saying that they should be allowed to wear them at least into the building where the meeting would be held. After consulting, the Americans agreed.
The Kawabe group was taken in the darkness to the City Hall, where the American delegation waited. Giving up their swords at the door to a second-floor conference room, they entered and sat down across from their conquerors.
The American leader was General Riley Sutherland, Mac-Arthur’s Chief of Staff. Sutherland—tall, thin, austerely handsome—was to speak for the Supreme Commander, who had no intention of sitting down with the enemy. The two men had been associated since the late thirties, when Sutherland had been assigned to the Philippines as a staff officer. One of his fellow aides had been Dwight Eisenhower, with whom Sutherland reputedly clashed several times. When the unhappy Eisenhower went home in 1938, Sutherland became Mac-Arthur’s right-hand man, protecting his privacy, detouring people and problems away from his door. He was a perfect second-in-command, serving his general well, acquiring a reputation for ruthless efficiency. He had been heard to say, “Somebody’s got to be the bastard around here.”
After introductions were made on both sides, the meeting began. Everyone was stiffly formal, conscious of the historical import of the moment. For the first time in its history, the sovereign nation of Japan was handing over its vital secrets, betraying its soul to an enemy. From this moment on it would cease to be independent.
Sutherland’s voice was strong, his tone stern. He directed the Japanese to read the documents put before them, the instructions relating to the occupation and surrender. Soon a serious difference of opinion arose.
The issue in question was the American plan to land at Atsugi Airbase on August 23, in four short days. Kawabe was horrified at the proposal since he knew that conditions in Japan were still tense and that his people needed time to dismantle the still potent war machine. He objected strenuously, saying to Sutherland, “The Japanese side would sincerely advise you not to land so quickly. At least ten days are needed to prepare.” As Sutherland listened impassively, he added, “Maybe you should know that we are having trouble at home with some of the kamikaze units. They delayed our trip, in fact.” General Sutherland did not bother to answer. Instead he began to discuss the harbor facilities at Yokosuka, just inside the entrance to Tokyo Bay.
The original American plan called for small units of the Army and Navy to land on the twenty-third at Atsugi and in Sagami Bay southwest of Tokyo. On the twenty-fifth, the Navy would enter Tokyo Bay itself. MacArthur would land at Atsugi on the twenty-sixth as the Marines took over the Yokosuka naval base. The surrender would be formally signed on the twenty-eighth in Tokyo Bay.
Fearing a clash between still-armed Japanese soldiers and combat-hardened American troops, Kawabe’s group continued to protest the speed with which the Americans intended to move. But Sutherland remained impervious, and next requested that the delegation break up into small sections to discuss various military questions. The Japanese were divided up into units according to their branch of service and the American officials proceeded to elicit information.
One by one, the vital secrets of the Japanese Empire were exposed to the enemy. Sutherland wanted to know how many divisions were emplaced around Tokyo. When told, he wanted to know how many marching days it would take them to reach the capital. He was told.
The number of planes available to the Japanese were listed. Airbases, gun emplacements, ammunition dumps, minefields, the basic components of warfare were spotted on maps of Japan.
The Americans wanted the exact location of all submarines, especially those carrying the deadly kaiten, the human torpedo, underwater counterpart to the kamikaze. Japanese naval personnel marked their positions at various bases on the coast of the Home Islands. Sutherland wanted assurance that none were presently on the high seas. He got it.
Every Japanese army division was pinpointed on large-scale maps. Every naval ship was marked for the enemy to locate.
As the hours went by, some stiffness went out of the meeting. Coca-Cola was served and cigarettes were passed out to the grateful Japanese. Smiles became more frequent as the American officers guided the emissaries from Tokyo through the emotion-ridden task of betraying their country’s defenses. Admiral Forrest Sherman was particularly kind to his guests, who relaxed under his pleasant manner.
By four o’clock in the morning, it was done. The Japanese had handed over all their precious data to the foe.
General Sutherland made a concluding statement: “The Japanese side has furnished all the necessary information on the occupation. It is very eager to have peaceful occupation without any trouble. The United States side has the same desire but wants an early accomplishment of the occupation in agreement with the terms of the Potsdam Declaration. We do not want any wasted time. Therefore, we will make the landing date August twenty-eighth.” Sutherland had conceded five days of grace to the Japanese to let them get things under control.
Kawabe was still not satisfied: “It is impossible to prepare within that time. At least ten days will be necessary. We do not want any trouble in the occupation.” When Sutherland was adamant, Kawabe realized the futility of his own position. He offered one last comment: “You are the winners and so your decision is almighty, but to our way of thinking, there remains some uneasiness.” The meeting ended on that note.
In the predawn darkness, the Japanese were whisked back to the Rosario Apartments where they had a prolonged discussion of the American demands. One thing was apparent. Someone should fly back to Tokyo immediately and alert authorities to the fact that Americans would be landing much sooner than expected. It was decided first to send a telegram to the Foreign Office and ask its advice.
While the wire was being sent to Tokyo, various documents presented by the Americans were examined. One of them was rather unusual and sent the blood pressures of the delegation soaring. It was a directive spelling out privileges to be accorded Occupation officers. Listed very carefully was the number of maids to be allotted to various ranks. Generals got three, colonels, majors, captains and commanders two, and the lowly lieutenant only one. In the midst of discussions about Japanese armaments, installations and other vital defense questions, the maid issue sparked a spontaneous protest in the delegation. Tempers flared as the tired, nervous Japanese raged at the offensive request. On the alert for some sign of American haughtiness, they found it in the maid issue.
Curiously, when the delegation left for Japan later that day, the maid-quota document was not in their baggage. It had been removed from the list of instructions they carried. Possibly the Americans had somehow learned of the objections Kawabe’s group voiced in their private discussions.
After four hours of sleep, the Japanese were ushered to a breakfast of bacon and eggs and then taken to the City Hall for a last briefing. The August 28 deadline stayed as it was. Kawabe did not bother to argue any more.
Just before adjournment, General Sutherland handed Kawabe the draft of a surrender proclamation to be issued in the name of the Emperor. Prepared in Washington, it was now read aloud by an interpreter. Almost immediately members of the Japanese delegation tensed visibly. Kawabe’s chin even began to quiver.
To some Americans in the room who were familiar with the Japanese language, the reason was obvious. In the Proclamation, pronouns normally used in connection with the Emperor’s name had been omitted in favor of more common, less dignified terms. To the Kawabe group, the document was an insult to the Throne and the personage of Hirohito.
When the reading was over, Kawabe expressed his anxiety by slamming his hand down on the table. The meeting ended on this somber note.
Before boarding the plane for the return trip, Kawabe and Foreign Office official Okazaki accepted an invitation to a brief rendezvous with General Willoughby at the Rosario Apartments. There the Americans retrieved an awkward situation.
Aware that the original surrender proclamation contained serious errors, the Allied Translator and Interpreter Section in Manila had hurriedly drafted a new version containing appropriate Imperial references. This document was handed to Kawabe by Colonel Sidney Mashbir, who apologized on behalf of General Willoughby and told the Japanese to disregard the proclamation first given them at City Hall.
The Japanese were astounded and delighted at the switch in documents. On the way to the airport, they expressed their gratitude repeatedly. In this atmosphere of good will, goodbyes and salutes were exchanged at Nichols Field. At 1:00 P.M. the transport rose into a rain-filled sky and headed north to Ie.
Within nineteen hours the emissaries of two warring powers had met and discussed the pending occupation of a sovereign nation. The conqueror had been courteous, the losers on the whole impressed with the forebearance and general behavior of the victors. A good beginning had been made.
The flight to Ie was over four hours long. When the Japanese landed this time, there was no crowd to gaze at them. The two Japanese Bettys were there waiting for the delegation. However, one of them was found to have mechanical trouble, necessitating an overnight stay for eight members of the mission. Kawabe and seven others quickly took off in the other plane for the last leg of their arduous trip.
The eight delegates left on Ie prepared to spend a night in the enemy camp. They went to chow, and G.I.’s standing in line smiled at them and generally made them feel comfortable. Off in the distance, Colonel Matsuda noticed a battlefield graveyard, where Americans walked through rows of white crosses stretching for acres. Some knelt at markers and bowed their heads. The Japanese officer watched and was watched in turn as he stared at the field of dead men.
To the northeast, near the Japanese shore, the bomber carrying Kawabe to Tokyo labored on into the night. When the pilot looked at his instrument panel, he was shocked to discover the gas gauge was nearly empty. Checking it out, he found that a fuel line had sprung a serious leak. He confided his news to two naval officers, Captains Terai and Ohmae, who chose not to alarm Kawabe. As the eight men sat in the rear of the aircraft the pilot changed course to bring the ship closer to the coastline of Japan in case the fuel supply dwindled too quickly and necessitated a forced landing.
At eleven o’clock, the pilot told Kawabe that the fuel leak would force him to make an emergency landing somewhere on the coastline of Honshu several hundred miles from Tokyo. Though there was bright moonlight, the ocean below was dark and forbidding. The prospect of ditching was not pleasant.
The delegation’s chief concern, however, was for the surrender documents. Kawabe wondered what the Americans might think if they were lost or destroyed. After consultation, the only possible expedient was suggested.
“Okazaki, are you still a good swimmer?” Katsuo Okazaki, the Foreign Office delegate, had been a champion swimmer, competing in 1924 in the Olympics in Paris. Now in his forties, he was being asked to guard the papers with his skill and his life. Recovering from his surprise at the question, he took them and tucked them inside his shirt.
As the plane bored in toward the coast, the pilot saw the outlines of a beach. He brought the Betty down low over the water till it was just skimming the waves. When it touched the crests, the passengers were tossed wildly about. The pilot gunned the engines and lifted the bomber slightly. It went a short distance, then settled in the water just a few yards from a smooth beach.
The top turret was flung open and the delegation tumbled out into knee-deep water. Only one man was hurt. It was Okazaki, the swimmer. He had smashed his head against the fuselage as the plane hit the surf, and lay dazed and bleeding until the others pulled him to safety.
The survivors assembled on the white beach under the brilliant summer moon. Off to the northeast, the sacred mountain Fuji stood out clearly. Stunned, soaking wet, and unable to determine their exact location, the delegates stayed on the beach forty-five minutes waiting for help to find them. Finally they moved on. A few people they saw in the vicinity only fled when hailed. Finally two fishermen stopped to listen, and guided them down a road toward a village. Police were called and a truck came to pick them up. The tired travelers were taken to an airbase where they slept fitfully for a few hours, then took off early in the morning in another antiquated plane.
In Tokyo the entire cabinet of Premier Higashi-Kuni waited in a state of extreme agitation. Knowing nothing of the forced landing, they had no idea of Kawabe’s fate. When the general appeared, Higashi-Kuni embraced him and offered him the thanks of the country. Kawabe was too exhausted to appreciate the honor. He only knew that his distasteful job was finished.