The Most Dangerous Man in America: The Making of Douglas MacArthur (15 page)

Wainwright planned his retreat carefully. With his front lines behind Lingayen’s beaches thinly manned, he mounted his initial defense along the Agno River, sixteen miles further south. Wainwright commanded four barely trained Philippine infantry divisions and one Philippine cavalry regiment. His strongest unit was a regiment of Philippine Scouts. The American Philippine Division was in his rear, hurriedly constructing a series of defensive positions across the base of the Bataan Peninsula. Wainwright wanted the division released, to help him in the fight for Luzon, but MacArthur told him that it could only be used as a last
resort. MacArthur’s plan was to bleed Homma, denying him a quick end to the campaign and allowing the Americans to complete their Bataan defenses. Wainwright did the best he could, while realizing that the arrows and lines on his plotting board designated phantom units. Back at his headquarters, MacArthur tried not to be disheartened, though an aide later commented that the commander reminded him of an “old-time fighter recalled from retirement and suddenly thrust into the ring against a young and hard hitting opponent whose lightning reflexes left him dazzled.” The description was accurate: MacArthur struggled to match Homma’s battle tempo. “I intend to hold,” MacArthur cabled Marshall on December 22. That now seemed a fantasy as Wainwright staggered south, ordering his men into a series of retreats to designated defensive lines he had sketched out on his headquarters’ map—D-1, D-2, D-3, and so on.

Despite the inadequate defensive forces, there was reason for hope. When Homma’s Lamon Bay detachment came ashore in southeastern Luzon two days after his landings at Lingayen, the detachment was met by George Parker’s 1st (Philippine) Regular Division, which fought hand-to-hand before giving ground. The Filipinos fought well, taking up positions along a line of low hills facing east and taunting the Japanese into a frontal assault. But when the division’s First Regiment was forced to retreat, American General Albert Jones (who had taken command when MacArthur decided that Parker should be given the responsibility for building Bataan’s defenses) berated them. “Why do you allow these Goddamned bastards to overrun your country?” he asked a group of retreating Filipino soldiers. Jones forced the division’s First Regiment into a counterattack, which worked, if only for a time: The Japanese at Limon, tough veterans of the China conflict, inevitably slapped aside the scrappy Philippine force and moved northwest toward Manila.

MacArthur never had any illusions about the odds. His decision to put Philippine Army units in the defenses facing Homma reflected a compelling, if cruel, logic. Pushing poorly armed Filipinos into Homma’s maw wouldn’t stop the Japanese juggernaut, but it would slow it enough to give him time to organize a defense on Bataan, where better-trained American units could stop the onslaught. His was a cold and calculating nod to the battlefield’s arithmetic: MacArthur decided
he would trade blood for time, sacrificing poorly trained Filipinos in the hope that by the time the Japanese reached Bataan, they would be too exhausted to storm his redoubt. Two decades later, MacArthur summarized his thinking in his
Reminiscences
: “General Wainwright quickly developed a pattern of defense to cause the maximum delay to the enemy. He would hold long enough to force the Japanese to take time to deploy full force, when he would slowly give way, leaving the engineers under General [Pat] Casey to dynamite bridges and construct roadblocks to bar the way. Again and again, these tactics would be repeated. Stand and fight, slip back and dynamite. It was savage and bloody, but it won time.” And so the Philippine Army stood and fought, expended lives and ran, then stood and fought again, trailing rows of corpses down the full length of Luzon.

By December 24, Wainwright’s North Luzon Force was in position behind the Agno River, but was pressed hard by Homma’s tank regiments. Wainwright had learned to rely on the elite Philippine Scouts to plug holes in his seeping line, but they had been in close combat with the Japanese for nearly seventy-two hours and were exhausted. The scouts had fought a series of engagements at Damortis, Rosario, and Binalonan, and despite the imbalance of the foes, the contests had sapped Japanese strength. But the Japanese kept coming, routing the Philippine 26th Cavalry Regiment at Carmen and breaching Wainwright’s Agno River line. Wainwright, bleary-eyed and coated in mud, returned to his headquarters on the twenty-fourth and was reminded by his staff that it was Christmas Eve. An aide presented him with a bottle of Scotch, but the dinner that followed was the same given to the men on the firing line: canned corned beef, asparagus tips, hardtack, and coffee.

On the morning of December 27, Wainwright established a new defensive line (D-3) further south, midway between Lingayen Gulf and Manila. But the line was only temporary; Wainwright intended to pull his troops back even further, to his D-4 defenses, which provided interlocking fields of fire and were studded with tank traps to provide his tattered troops with a respite from expert Japanese gunners. Even so, Wainwright was worried. No matter how well constructed his defenses were, he feared that if pushed too hard, his troops would break. If that happened, MacArthur’s defensive strategy would unravel and
Jones’s South Luzon Force, some twelve thousand soldiers, would be cut off south of the capital. To Wainwright’s surprise, however, Homma decided to rest his troops, using all of December 27 to bring up supplies. The decision provided Wainwright with desperately needed time to pull together his far-flung units. Wainwright pulled his troops into his D-4 line and organized them for what he hoped would be a successful holding action. Homma’s move, the first in a series of inexplicable mistakes by the Japanese commander, was a godsend. Wainwright issued new orders. “D-4 will be held at all costs until ordered withdrawn,” he told his commanders on the twenty-seventh. “Maximum delay will be effected on each position.”

T
he day that Homma’s army came ashore in northern Luzon, Winston Churchill arrived in Washington. Roosevelt was at the airport to meet him, and the two chatted amicably on their drive to the White House. The president enjoyed playing host, particularly during his end-of-day ritual of drink mixing (which Churchill appreciated) and after more courtesies, the two had dinner. Initially, Churchill worried that the Pearl Harbor debacle would divert American attention from defeating Germany, but within hours of the prime minister’s arrival in Washington, Roosevelt reassured him that Germany’s defeat remained America’s first priority. The policy was memorialized several days later in a strategy paper by the Combined Chiefs of Staff (a committee of the senior UK and American military leadership): “Our view remains that Germany is still the prime enemy and her defeat is the key to victory. Once Germany is defeated, the collapse of Italy and the defeat of Japan must follow.”

In spite of the Germany-first statement, George Marshall continued to focus on MacArthur. The army chief appointed airman George Brett commander of U.S. Forces in Australia, allotted millions of dollars to the purchase of supplies from Australian sources, and urged his staff to find ships to break the Japanese blockade of Luzon. Marshall also ordered that a shipment of B-24 heavy bombers be diverted to Borneo for shipment to MacArthur and directed that the dispatch of 120 pursuit planes be expedited for Australia. In a more general vein, he loosened American purse strings by promising that anything the American command
in Australia needed it would get. But Marshall was also realistic. Despite his hope that the flow of matériel coupled with MacArthur’s tenacity might spell the difference between a quick collapse of Philippine defenses and a protracted fight, Marshall knew that—given the odds—the fall of MacArthur’s garrison was not only likely, but certain.

After receiving reports that the Japanese had landed on northern Luzon, MacArthur cabled Marshall and laid out his strategy for fighting them, pointing out that the modest size of his force would “compel” him to mount a defense “on successive lines through Central Luzon plain to final defensive position on Bataan to cover Corregidor. When forced to do so I shall release Manila and the metropolitan area by suitable proclamation in order to save civilian population.” Marshall read through the cable and approved the strategy, passed it on to Roosevelt, then composed a response detailing the steps he had taken to ship reinforcements to help him. “We are doing our utmost to organize in Australia to rush air support to you,” he cabled MacArthur. “The Brisbane convoy arrived there last night and 70 planes aboard. . . . Three B-24 planes departed yesterday via Brazil-Africa route and 3 B-17 and B-24 alternate each day thereafter to total 80 heavy bombers. Fifty-five pursuit planes 4 days at sea and 55 more sail in 3 days. . . . President has seen all your messages and directs Navy to give you every possible support in your splendid fight.” But while Marshall gave the Philippines a large portion of his time, the actual implementation of his policies was left to Eisenhower.

The first in a series of reassuring cables written by Eisenhower arrived at MacArthur’s headquarters on December 23, just as Wainwright was ushering his men into his D-4 defenses:

    
It is expected that the fighter and dive bomber planes now in Australia will quickly determine feasibility of route from Darwin to Luzon for transmitting smaller planes. These planes are now being rushed to that base by fast ships. Navy sea train which is particularly suited for the transport of planes is being obtained from the Navy for additional shipment. The heavy bombers beginning to flow from this country via Africa to your theater should be able to support you materially even if compelled initially to operate from distant bases.

Eisenhower, it seems, had learned a thing or two from Marshall. The messages, shorn of conditionals and containing what Eisenhower hoped were solid reassurances (planes were being “rushed,” supplies were aboard “fast” ships), were composed primarily to signal constant concern—as if MacArthur’s command were the only thing on the minds of Washington’s war planners. What Eisenhower couldn’t say was that while men and matériel were on their way to Australia, no one had yet figured out how to get them from there to Luzon.

Roosevelt endorsed Marshall’s plan for building up a base in Australia, but he took a longer view. While the army chief focused on helping MacArthur and building an army, Roosevelt focused on his favorite service, deftly maneuvering a decisive change in the top leadership of his beloved navy. As always, Roosevelt was willing to make painful choices, sliding positions and personalities into different roles without hurting feelings or ruffling feathers. But his first decision was made with something close to a shout. He called Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox to the Oval Office and announced that he wanted Chester Nimitz as the navy’s top commander in Hawaii. The selection wasn’t open to debate: the president knew that Nimitz would fight. “Tell Nimitz to get the hell out to Pearl and stay there till the war is over,” he told Knox. But the key for Roosevelt was Ernest King, whom he named to a new position as commander in chief of the U.S. Fleet, effectively shoving aside Chief of Naval Operations Harold Stark.

Lanky and chiseled, Ernie King was a womanizer and drinker, a reputation that followed him through his career. His arguments with his wife of three decades were shockingly public and even noted in his fitness reports. “You must get yourself under control,” Harold Stark had once told him, “or at least pretend to.” If it wasn’t for his reputation as one of the navy’s finest strategists, King would have been unceremoniously drummed out of the service; he was imperious, opinionated, argumentative, and self-centered. A stickler for punctuality, King believed that fleets could be coordinated over massive stretches of ocean. On the high seas, he looked at his watch as his aides grumbled. “You can be sure that if this was a real war, with lives at stake,” he said, “you wouldn’t complain.”

King’s reputation as a premier strategist began during Fleet Problem XX, a 1939 naval exercise pitting a friendly naval force (blue) against
an enemy (orange). As the orange enemy, King was required to obey the rules of the fleet problem: He was supposed to lose. Such conceits were lost on King, who, with Roosevelt watching, maneuvered his aircraft carriers as a single unit—a move that had never been done before. He then ignored the premises of the war game and mounted a daylight surprise attack on the blue aircraft carriers as they sat in dock. His target was the USS
Enterprise
, commanded by Admiral William Halsey. King caught the
Enterprise
unprepared and at anchor and (as the fleet umpire determined) sunk the ship. Halsey was outraged, Roosevelt was amused, and King was ecstatic. The strategist was convinced that Roosevelt would pick him as the new chief of naval operations, the highest slot in the navy. In fact, King really never had a chance. Roosevelt had already decided that Harold Stark would be the new chief. “Stark is a good man,” a disappointed King said. “He will do a good job. At least Roosevelt didn’t appoint Nimitz.”

Nimitz was Admiral Chester Nimitz, who was modest, soft-spoken, and a dedicated family man. He also had an uncanny talent for winning at horseshoes. “He could beat me with either hand,” Ray Spruance, later one of Nimitz’s fleet commanders, noted. An accomplished engineer, Nimitz had attended the Naval War College at Newport, Rhode Island, with a large number of classmates, including Halsey. After graduating first in his class, Nimitz asked for an overseas assignment and, after serving at the sprawling naval dry dock in San Diego, was assigned to Japan, where he took a home in the small mountain town of Unzen. His wife, Catherine, was overjoyed with her husband’s new assignment. She nurtured an orchard, built a tea house, and stocked a pond with orange shimmering carp. From the porch of their home, they peered down onto Japan’s naval base, which was set out panoramically below, in the harbor at Nagasaki.

King’s dislike of Nimitz—the two had clashed throughout their careers—didn’t bother Roosevelt, who believed personal disagreements fueled policy debates, which he relished. Then too, Roosevelt was drawn to King for precisely the same reasons that others found him repellent. King’s daughter once described her father as one of the most even-tempered men she had met, because (as she said) he was “always in a rage.” Roosevelt poked King about his temperament, knowing it didn’t
take much to get a rise out of him. “I understand that you shave with a blowtorch,” Roosevelt had once written him. Even so, when given the job of heading up the navy’s war effort, King hesitated, telling Roosevelt that he wanted to change his official title from CINCUS (commander in chief, U.S. Fleet, which sounded like “sink us”) to COMINCH (commander in chief). King also wanted his duties clearly defined (and didn’t want to wrestle Stark for control) and requested full control over all of the navy’s powerful bureaus. Moreover, King demanded a flagship as his residence (there was no question that he would live with his wife), the use of a private airplane (one was found for him), and a Cadillac.