An Inoffensive Rearmament (12 page)

Even more important is Article 76. This article is interpreted to mean that the Japanese military establishment cannot have a court-martial system. At the time we organized the NPR and up to the present, armed forces personnel were subject only to civil courts. In the days of the NPR, the most serious action that could be taken against a man for a military offense was to give him administrative discharge. Yet I was amazed to find the NPR soldiers, in the performance of the most demanding tasks, to be efficient, effective, and as disciplined as any
troops I served with. Nevertheless, the Japanese army, navy, and air force, today known as the Ground Self-Defense Force, Maritime Self-Defense Force, and Air Self-Defense Force respectively, are the only military forces that I know of in the world to exist without court-martial authority. It is inconceivable that this situation would be tolerated in the event of a national emergency.

Why then wasn't something done during all these years to amend the constitution? The answer is simple arithmetic. The successive governments of Japan have not had the votes in the Diet to change the constitution.

To amend the constitution of Japan requires, as a first step, a two-thirds vote in both houses of the Diet. The revision must then face a referendum. In 1950, and since that time, the government party on various occasions has had sufficient strength in the House of Representatives to muster a two-thirds vote. In the House of Councillors, however, the Socialist Party, together with various splinter parties, have maintained enough strength to block any government effort to change the constitution. And so, in recent years, a balance has been struck in the Diet that permits the nation to maintain military forces despite constitutional obstacles while the opposition prevents all attempts to correct the conditions that engender the obstacles.

Human behavior, however, adjusts rapidly to strange twists and turns. Initially, when we began equipping the NPR in 1950, everyone cautiously tried to limit the nature and caliber of weapons, anxious to avoid accusations of rearmament. Today, the Japanese forces are equipped with the most modern conventional weapons and munitions available in a bristling world. In the future, unless the people, fearing retaliation, object at the ballot boxes, the government can be expected to accept American nuclear and even biological weapons. Article 9 has been so completely disregarded that the Japanese governments have behaved as though the no-war, no-arms clause never existed.

On the other hand, Articles 18 and 76, which have had a most critical impact on the composition and discipline of the military forces, are obeyed as though they were hewed in stone. And so while Article 9 was relegated to the ash can, the other two articles have remained sacrosanct from the time the NPR was organized.

The three articles examined above have had a traumatic impact on Japan, its people, and the military forces we initiated with the establishment of the NPR. Article 9 stifled our initial organization and training efforts, while Articles 18 and 76 have warped and crippled these military forces in their development. But who
knows how damaging has been the hurt to the inner soul of a people who have been forced to trample upon national idealism, grinding their constitution underfoot? And who knows how severely justice has been twisted by a nation's judges floundering to find a way to give their army, navy, and air force constitutional validity?

Japan has moved through history in strange and erratic ways. It may again in time find its rightful place in the sun. In the recent past, it has gone through critical extremes. Rising from an idyllic slumber in the middle of the nineteenth century, it burst upon the world three decades ago in full-blown militarism. Defeated in the Pacific War, the people accepted, indifferently at first, then with conviction, an idealistic constitution, dedicated to world peace, forsaking war and renouncing armed forces and military potential forever. Then, once again under our prodding, the nation turned its back on its noble aspirations, marching over its constitution into an uncertain and confused future. In retrospect one wonders, why did we have to play God with these people?

CHAPTER FIVE

YOSHIDA'S VIEWS

After the cabinet order establishing the NPR had been duly promulgated, Major General Shepard and the key members of our staff were invited to a dinner given by Prime Minister Yoshida at his official residence in Tōkyō.

As I rode in the Army sedan that afternoon with the general, I was acutely conscious of the historical significance of the occasion. Japan was being rearmed. We were to be artisans, or, more correctly, the midwives at the birth of a new military force in the world. The prime minister of a great nation had invited us to meet him and get acquainted with the top leaders of his government. As the men of two nations whom fate had selected to build the new military forces of Japan, we would be looking each other over very carefully. The talk would be subdued, but what was said then by the Japanese I knew would become the fundamental policy of Japan on rearmament. I wondered what Yoshida would have to say.

The descendants of the immortal
tennō
were helplessly caught in the furious crosscurrents of history. After a tragic and catastrophic war, Japan was being reshaped politically, socially, and economically by a foreign power. And now, with the eruption in Korea, destiny dictated that Japan should once again have a military force. As though playing a huge joke, though, destiny arranged that this force was to be organized, trained, and deployed by a Yankee general, a colonel whose parents had been born in Poland, an operations officer of Italian blood, a comptroller of German ancestry, and others who only a few days before had seen Japan for the first time. The samurai in their ancient graves must be whirling, I thought, at this turn of events.

The prime minister and the leaders of this proud and dignified people could only hope that these conquerors possessed the ability and the skill to build something worthwhile. If we did not, then the Japanese people could only pray that the holy spirit of sun goddess Amaterasu visited upon the ancestors of these sacred islands could not be destroyed. After we had left, the future leaders of Japan could correct everything else if American military tutelage did not corrupt the flame of patriotism and devotion to country that burned in the hearts of the people of Japan.

For my part, I was a little sad that Japan was to be rearmed. Whatever were the forces that motivated America to write a Japanese constitution banning war forever, I viewed the effort as a noble human goal. A nation of 90 million people had renounced war and all war potential. Humanity, or at least a considerable segment of it, seemed to have taken a crucial turn away from violence as a way of settling international controversy. Man, here in the East, appeared to be genuinely trying to fashion himself in the Christian image of God. Now that noble human aspiration was to be crushed. A “Great Lie” was unfolding in which America would join and in which I would personally join. A “Great Lie” that would declare to the world that the Japanese constitution did not mean what it said. A “Great Lie” that soldiers, guns, tanks, cannon, rockets, and airplanes were not war potential. The written constitution of a nation, perhaps the greatest political achievement of mankind, was to be dishonored and trampled upon by the United States and Japan. For the constitution of Japan, which America inspired, clearly prohibits a military establishment and outlaws war and all war potential forever.

As I rode along that day, I wondered what might have been the situation in the world if the North Koreans had not marched south, if Japan had remained, say for a decade, a living nation without a military force. Could it have remained without armaments for as long as ten years? I don't know. Who can tell what might have happened had America accepted General MacArthur's recommendation in 1946 to place Japan under a United Nations mandate?

As the situation developed in 1950, with the United States committed to a ground war on the Asian mainland, national self-interest necessitated the rearmament of Japan and excused, in our minds at least, any violence that we contemplated to the constitution of another nation.

The die is cast, I said to myself. If Japan was destined to be rearmed, it was perhaps best that we should be the ones to control the rearmament. If we tried
hard enough, we might at least be able to build a democratic military force, dedicated to the people and subject to the control of the representatives of the people. One thing was certain: it was important that we carefully tend this new military sprout to make sure that the roots got a good start. Someone once said, “As the twig is planted, so grows the tree.”

“I wonder,” I said aloud to myself.

“What did you say?” asked General Shepard, roused from his own inner thoughts.

“Nothing, General. I was just wondering what kind of an army we're going to build.”

“That's a good question,” he answered.

We had arrived at the prime minister's residence, and I followed General Shepard into the reception room. Prime Minister Yoshida, his round little body clad in a black kimono and his feet relaxing in white
tabi
, came forward a few steps to greet us with a warm, gracious smile.
¹
I studied Yoshida for a moment. I found that I liked him. Even in his quaint traditional Japanese attire, he seemed to be a regular fellow. As I bent forward in the low bow, I noted that he had a pleasant, roundish face and that his eyes twinkled with a friendly alertness. I had the feeling that I was seeing a man poured in a dual mold—a jolly little Japanese Santa Claus, sans whiskers, and a stubborn, efficient business executive. I muttered something about being honored to meet him, and his eyes gave me their full air of attention for a moment. He clasped my hand in his and turned to meet Colonel Albergotti, who was following me. I moved on to be introduced to four members of Yoshida's cabinet, each minister dressed in a dark, Western-style business suit and each looking efficiently pleasant.

Presently, I found myself with an interpreter and the minister of justice, Takeo Ōhashi, in the prime minister's beautiful little garden. As I openly admired the inspiring handiwork of the skillful Japanese partnership with nature, Mr. Ōhashi was telling the exciting story of the historic assassination of a previous prime minister in this quiet garden.
²
I knew that tragic story of how the militarist cut down a prime minister for the glory of Japan, but hearing it from the justice minister here in the cool shadows of the prime minister's garden, I fully expected at any moment to see the historic characters once again live through their roles.

Then, for some stupid reason, probably self-conscious of my Army uniform, I laughed and nervously blurted out, “Well, anyway, Yoshida-san has nothing to fear from us; we're not Japanese militarists.”

Mr. Ōhashi looked at me quite awkwardly, and I didn't blame him. I heard the interpreter translating. “No, that's right, but there are still many militarists in Japan,” replied the justice minister, and he appeared deeply concerned.

Shortly we sat down to an excellent American-style dinner, reinforced with some fine wine. I was seated across and one chair over from the prime minister. Although it's always difficult to talk through an interpreter, conversation in two languages at the dinner table, by its very nature, makes one feel especially inadequate and uncomfortable at times. As I talked to the prime minister, for example, he nonchalantly carried on with his soup. When I finished my comments, I would turn to my soup. Then, while the interpreter translated in my place, Mr. Yoshida, the other guests, and I would continue with our meals. Finally, the prime minister would say, “Ah, so,” and he would look up to smile at me. If he was more inclined to talk than to suck at his soup, he would push his bowl aside and deliver himself of his views. At such time, I didn't see how I could stroke soup while the prime minister talked, so I would courteously and attentively sit at ease. When the prime minister stopped talking and the interpreter took over, I felt that I could return to my meal. Maybe I was wrong. As the maneuvers went on, I had an opportunity to look around the table. I noted that Major General Shepard and our staff members would stop all operations while the prime minister talked. This slowed the dinner considerably and was especially difficult for the interpreter. By the time the main course arrived, the comments by all were short and punctuated with long intervals of silence. Blessed by this learning process, the dinner went much faster.