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Authors: Jr. Seymour Morris
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evidence lay strewn throughout Tokyo. They would have been even more depressed if they had spoken to the guards and learned that each of the guns weighed a massive 230,000 pounds, and that despite carrying the weight of nine of these guns, the Missouri had engines so powerful it could travel forty miles an hourâand twenty miles an hour backward: In other words this monster could move backward faster than most Japanese ships could move forward.
Even more awesome than this ship were the many hundreds of sailors and soldiers packed on board, pointing and staring down at them as if they were an exotic species from a zoo.
From where they stood the eleven men had an excellent view of the American battleship Iowa and the British battleship King George V , each a mere 45,000 tons (like the Missouri ), poignant reminders of the fate of the even mightier 70,000-ton Yamato and its sister ship Musashi , both now resting on the bottom of the sea.
As instructed, the Japanese made their way up the gangway and proceeded to their assigned positions on the deck, where they saw mounted on the bulkhead, under glass, the thirty-one-star American flag used by Matthew Perry when he entered Tokyo Bay in 1853. The walk was very slow and difficult for them, led by Foreign Minister Shigemitsu with his prosthetic leg. Some fifteen years earlier his left leg had been blown off in a terrorist attack in Shanghai. Fortunately there happened to be a Canadian doctor available at the time, one whose quick work had saved Shigemitsuâs life. The manâs name was Moore Cosgrave.
Facing the Japanese delegation were the representatives of nine Allied nations and the Supreme Command. Shigemitsu stared ahead, then saw a man he thought he recognized, smiling at him. Shigemitsu blinked with disbelief. His heart leaped with joy.
It was Moore Cosgrave, now the signatory for Canada.
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FOR THE JAPANESE there was nothing to do but stand and wait, as one of them later put it, âlike penitent boys awaiting the dreaded schoolmaster . . . subjected to the torture of the pillory. A million eyes seemed to beat on us with the million shafts of a rattling storm of arrows barbed with fire. . . . Never had I realized that staring eyes could hurt so much.â Observed one of the American officers on the ship: âThe whole scene was as if a huge lion had cornered a tiny, helpless-looking mouse in a cage. If there ever was a scene that brought home to me how sad a defeated nation can beâthis scene was it.â For Kase, what was to come was as much of a surprise as what had just happened to Shigemitsu. Kase, who had studied for six years in the United States, undoubtedly knew of the Gettysburg Address. Had he been a student of history, he might well have wondered what it must have been like in 1863 to hear Lincoln utter his memorable words.
What he didnât know was that inside the ship was a very serious student of history, Gen. Douglas MacArthur, getting ready to give his speech. As an expert on America, Kase certainly knew who Arthur Vandenberg was: the powerful Michigan senator and member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee who had urged a conciliatory attitude toward Japan in the late 1930s, only to be rebuffed by President Roosevelt and Secretary of State Cordell Hull.
Vandenberg, after hearing what Kase was now about to hear in person, would call MacArthurâs speech the greatest American speech since the Gettysburg Address.
It was now nine oâclock. The door of the bulkhead opened, and out emerged Admiral Halsey, Admiral Nimitz, and General MacArthur. They had rehearsed this event at least a dozen times, scheduling the next twenty minutes with military precision, even to the point of using a stopwatch. Halsey and Nimitz took their assigned places. MacArthur stepped up to the microphone near the table and began to speak.
We are gathered here, representative of the major warring powers, to conclude a solemn
Even more awesome than this ship were the many hundreds of sailors and soldiers packed on board, pointing and staring down at them as if they were an exotic species from a zoo.
From where they stood the eleven men had an excellent view of the American battleship Iowa and the British battleship King George V , each a mere 45,000 tons (like the Missouri ), poignant reminders of the fate of the even mightier 70,000-ton Yamato and its sister ship Musashi , both now resting on the bottom of the sea.
As instructed, the Japanese made their way up the gangway and proceeded to their assigned positions on the deck, where they saw mounted on the bulkhead, under glass, the thirty-one-star American flag used by Matthew Perry when he entered Tokyo Bay in 1853. The walk was very slow and difficult for them, led by Foreign Minister Shigemitsu with his prosthetic leg. Some fifteen years earlier his left leg had been blown off in a terrorist attack in Shanghai. Fortunately there happened to be a Canadian doctor available at the time, one whose quick work had saved Shigemitsuâs life. The manâs name was Moore Cosgrave.
Facing the Japanese delegation were the representatives of nine Allied nations and the Supreme Command. Shigemitsu stared ahead, then saw a man he thought he recognized, smiling at him. Shigemitsu blinked with disbelief. His heart leaped with joy.
It was Moore Cosgrave, now the signatory for Canada.
Â
FOR THE JAPANESE there was nothing to do but stand and wait, as one of them later put it, âlike penitent boys awaiting the dreaded schoolmaster . . . subjected to the torture of the pillory. A million eyes seemed to beat on us with the million shafts of a rattling storm of arrows barbed with fire. . . . Never had I realized that staring eyes could hurt so much.â Observed one of the American officers on the ship: âThe whole scene was as if a huge lion had cornered a tiny, helpless-looking mouse in a cage. If there ever was a scene that brought home to me how sad a defeated nation can beâthis scene was it.â For Kase, what was to come was as much of a surprise as what had just happened to Shigemitsu. Kase, who had studied for six years in the United States, undoubtedly knew of the Gettysburg Address. Had he been a student of history, he might well have wondered what it must have been like in 1863 to hear Lincoln utter his memorable words.
What he didnât know was that inside the ship was a very serious student of history, Gen. Douglas MacArthur, getting ready to give his speech. As an expert on America, Kase certainly knew who Arthur Vandenberg was: the powerful Michigan senator and member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee who had urged a conciliatory attitude toward Japan in the late 1930s, only to be rebuffed by President Roosevelt and Secretary of State Cordell Hull.
Vandenberg, after hearing what Kase was now about to hear in person, would call MacArthurâs speech the greatest American speech since the Gettysburg Address.
It was now nine oâclock. The door of the bulkhead opened, and out emerged Admiral Halsey, Admiral Nimitz, and General MacArthur. They had rehearsed this event at least a dozen times, scheduling the next twenty minutes with military precision, even to the point of using a stopwatch. Halsey and Nimitz took their assigned places. MacArthur stepped up to the microphone near the table and began to speak.
We are gathered here, representative of the major warring powers, to conclude a solemn
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