As the sun rose into a cloudless sky over Tokyo Bay on that historic day–Aug. 30, 1945– American troops came in gleaming planes to begin the occupation of Japan.
The four-engined C-54s advanced in single file to Atsugi airfield 30 miles west of Tokyo. Every three minutes a plane landed with 40 paratroops aboard. The men carried light machine guns, automatic rifles and small mortars. Their uniforms were spotless, their boots glistened. They were ready to fight, or to parade.
The first planes brought much-decorated veterans of a company badly battered in the Philippines–38 of 156 had been killed. With them came Butch, a Boston terrier limping from a Japanese sniper’s bullet.
Forty-seven war correspondents–American, British, Australian and one Chinese, many newly arrived from Europe and out of jobs there since V-E day–were allocated two seats on every fifth plane. In a lottery, an Australian and I drew an early plane.
As civilians, although uniformed, we could not be armed, but a general slipped me a .45 revolver.
My plane touched down without a bump and rolled to the end of the runway. The doors opened. We leapt out and formed a thin khaki line at the end of the runway.
A high, strong fence surrounded the airfield. In the most remote corner Japanese soldiers stood outside a gate, their arms ready. Inside the gate but a little distance away were about 30 battered American sedans. Nearby were men in civilian clothes, obviously drivers. The Aussie and I strolled to the gate. The drivers seemed friendly. One spoke English.
“Call me Mac,” he said.
American prisoners and internees were much on my mind.
Before coming to Japan, the press had been briefed about the occupation’s immediate tasks–to find, recover and treat American prisoners and internees, thought to number about 30,000, and to gather information that might lead to American-conducted trials for war crimes.
Two days earlier, scouting atom-bombed Nagasaki from a friendly B-25 bomber, I had noted “PW” in large yellow letters on the roof of a warehouse. Americans ran out, waved and, with bits of paper and cloth, spelled out the word “NEWS.” We dropped them cigarettes.
I asked “Mac” if any camps were nearby. One driver said a camp was “over there,” vaguely waving a hand. I asked Mac to take us there. I climbed into the front seat, the Aussie in the rear.
The Japanese countryside was beautiful, tended as carefully as a fine garden. Trees stood in straight rows. Not a weed in sight, nor any person, nor any vehicle. No building seemed damaged.
Soon we were in suburban Yokohama.
Mac confessed that his colleagues must have erred about a camp being hereabouts.
“OK,” I said. “Where is Tokyo?”
Tokyo: The forbidden city
Mac headed north. Abruptly we were in the fire-bombed area.
Tokyo, a city of wood, challenged the eye. Here and there men and women sifted through the ashes.
We came to a large railroad station. Soldiers by the battalion waited for occasional trains still operating. Everywhere, people walked briskly. We stopped the car and, with Mac, walked along the street. I was a 6-foot-2 American in uniform but no one turned to look at us.
The Aussie and I recovered the car and Mac drove us back to Atsugi. The perimeter was completed, but, as far as I could learn, no one had left the airfield. I found my portable typewriter that had come in on a later plane and bashed out my report. As a war correspondent I had been amused by the little game correspondents played declaring oneself to be the first to enter a liberated town. I did not mention that I probably was the first American in Tokyo. I gave my piece to a temporary censor and cautioned him not to tell others. Then the Aussie and I had Mac take us again into Tokyo.
Our goals this time were the central business district, the Emperor’s palace and the Imperial Hotel.
The city had come alive. Streetcars and suburban trains were packed. Pedestrians thronged the streets. Every other person seemed to be a soldier. I saw no cars. Troops stood firmly at the entrance to every important building, and many unimportant ones.
Mac persuaded a guard to let us enter the Imperial Hotel. The only person in sight was a man in European formal dress suit at the reception desk. He spoke perfect English, befitting the hotel’s reputation as one of the world’s best.
We said we would like a room. He said none was available and, as foreigners, we would need a permit from the foreign office.
With Mac as our protecting shepherd, we gaped at the modern buildings in the central business district erected in the ’20s and ’30s. Most department stores had lost their top floors to fires. Bits of clothing and knickknacks were neatly placed on tables. Nothing could be bought without a ration coupon. Again, as foreigners, we would need a special permit from the foreign office.
With permits in hand, we returned to the hotel. The reception man said we were most welcome, that the Imperial was indeed honored to have us. The dining room would open at 7. One hundred thirty-seven rooms had not been damaged. Which would we prefer? We chose adjoining rooms on the ground floor.
Before noon, Robert Cromie, who had been reporting the war in Europe for the Chicago Tribune, checked in and set off to find Tokyo Rose, the famous–or infamous–broadcaster who had been popular with America’s servicemen. In the afternoon, Don Starr, another Tribune man, came into town, alone, on a commuter train.
No laughter, no children
At dusk, a few lights came on. Streets became even more packed, but still there were no cars. We saw no restaurants. Mac said nightlife had disappeared long ago. I asked him what people did in the evenings.
“Get ready for the air raids,” he said, with no sign of emotion.
He said Tokyo lacked two things that make a city livable: laughter and children. No one in Tokyo laughed, and children had been evacuated years ago.
With night, the crunch of marching soldiers became louder. I hoped the soldiers were returning to barracks. But I slept with my revolver on my pillow.
The next day a repatriation officer told me about an allied prisoner work camp at a steel mill a couple of hours from Yokohama. He was going there in the morning. Would I like to go with him?
We were a day late. The 200 men had been moved to a Japanese naval base. The guard officers told us, with straight faces, that the men had been given three good meals a day, that each had his own bunk, none was sick a single day, and that the men enjoyed the 2 1/2 years in the camp.
One day later, the press scrambled for places on the Battleship Missouri for the signing of the document ending the war. MacArthur presided, wearing the gold-braided cap he had worn at Corregidor. Gen. Wainwright, who had remained behind and was captured, was there, thin as a stick. I watched from the top of a gun turret directly over the signers. Cromie, Starr and I divided the coverage.
Two days later, the Emperor rode in a maroon sedan to open parliament. All upper floor windows along the route were tightly curtained. No one could look down on the Emperor. Only he and his courtiers used the Diet’s marbled, red-carpeted front portal. The lawmakers had side entrances. The press and other visitors were directed to a basement rear door. From the press gallery, I heard the Emperor, seated on a blue and gold throne, read quickly, in Japanese, his declaration of peace: “It is our desire that our people will surmount the manifold hardships and trials attending the termination of the war and make manifest the innate glory of Japan’s national policy, to win the confidence of the world, establish firmly a peaceful state and contribute to the progress of mankind. In consummation of the great task, we would observe faithfully commitments of the empire and foster concord and amity with all nations and, internally, devote our efforts to reconstruction in every field. “
Playing tourist
Another day, Nixon Denton, a Ohio sports editor turned war correspondent after his son was killed in Europe, and I scrounged a Cavalry jeep and set out for Fujiyama, the 12,000-foot cone two hours from Yokohama. We apparently were the first tourists. Frightened children ran. Parents slammed doors. In lovely parkland we came upon a luxurious prewar resort hotel with two golf courses, a lake for bass fishing, swimming and cruising, a waterfall that cascaded into a vast sauna and a well-stocked bar.
Someone whispered “geishas,” and pointed two troopers and me to the Wisteria Dragon, a delicate Oriental structure. Curious and adventurous, we entered. A lady in a kimono asked, “Yes?” If she was surprised, she did not show it. We asked what entertainment she offered. She replaced our boots with sandals and led us to a large room, elegantly simple, the black floor mirror-bright. Three geishas–tiny, their faces painted doll-like, their silk kimonos each a garden of flowers, a magnificent comb rising from pyramids of black hair–brought warm sake in tiny cups. They sat Japanese fashion and patted the floor. We sat cross-legged. Talk flowed as fast as the sake. They spoke Japanese, we English. We got along just fine.
They slipped kimonos over our uniforms. Strange foods were made edible by the geishas’ nimble use of chopsticks as they fed us bite by bite. A barefoot geisha danced. We all joined. We were a bit noisy.
The lady who had greeted us at the door asked for our kimonos and delivered us to a large pool. A man undressed us, washed our uniforms and redressed us. The lady returned our shoes, said $20 would be welcome and showed us to the door.
