The Most Dangerous Man in America: The Making of Douglas MacArthur (18 page)

The regiment held, but not everywhere. One company of Americans panicked and ran to the rear, seeking the protection of the American artillery. By sunset, Selleck knew he was in trouble. The army’s official history summarizes the situation: “His overextended line had been partially penetrated, his reserves had been committed, and his artillery was practically out of action.” Early on the morning of the seventh, Selleck ordered his flanks back into Bataan, and then, a short time later, he told the 31st to withdraw from its position in the center.

The last Japanese attack came just before dawn, but by then it was too late: the 31st had slipped inside Parker’s Bataan perimeter. The stand of the 31st bought twenty-four hours for MacArthur to further strengthen his Bataan defenses. It also provided the Americans with a lesson in Japanese tactics. Although the Japanese were disciplined and fanatical, they could be defeated.

As the 31st was moving into Bataan, Manuel Quezón, after talking it over with his cabinet, issued Executive Order 1, awarding MacArthur
$500,000. Richard Sutherland received $75,000, Richard Marshall $40,000, and Sid Huff $20,000. While the payment was legal (Roosevelt supported MacArthur in 1935, when the general sought a War Department waiver of a rule barring payments from foreign governments to active-duty U.S. officers), it became one of MacArthur’s most controversial actions. A similar reward that Quezón offered Dwight Eisenhower was rejected. “I explained that while I understood this to be unquestionably legal,” Eisenhower said, “the danger of misapprehension or misunderstanding on the part of some individuals might operate to destroy whatever usefulness I might have to the allied cause in the present war.” That was MacArthur’s fear also, which is assuredly why he (and his staff) kept the payment secret. We will never know why MacArthur accepted the payment (and it remains a puzzling and unnecessary stain on his career), though we certainly know why Quezón offered it: MacArthur had given his word that he would liberate the Philippines should they fall into Japanese hands. But even this pledge was apparently not enough for Quezón, who wanted MacArthur in his debt. And now the Philippine president had him.

T
he Battle of Luzon had been costly. Wainwright’s 28,000-man North Luzon Force entered the entrenchments of Bataan with just 16,000 men. Of those left behind, hundreds were dead and thousands wounded. Four thousand others had been cut off by the Japanese during the retreat and would be annihilated by Homma’s infantry. A large number of the rest deserted. Jones’s South Luzon Force had done much better, with 14,000 of his original 15,000 men making it into Bataan. The Japanese suffered 2,000 dead and wounded and now controlled all of Luzon excepting Bataan and Corregidor.

But the numbers of dead and wounded (a modest price, considering that nearly the same number were dying every minute in Russia) don’t tell the whole story. While the Japanese celebrated their victory in Manila (gloating that they had MacArthur, as one Japanese soldier bragged, “like a cat in a bag”), MacArthur’s forces were entrenching on a line across Bataan. The line stretched from Mauban on the west to Abucay on the east. Behind this was a defensive line stretching from Bagac to Orion—a line stronger than any that Homma had faced in his sprint
across Luzon. The peninsula of Bataan was all jungle—twenty-five miles long and twenty miles across at its base. It was cut through with deep ravines, dominated by two extinct volcanoes separated by a mountainous spine that bisected the peninsula. Bataan was perfect for defense. “The general feeling seemed to be ‘we have run far enough, we’ll stand now and take ’em on,’” an American soldier reported.

But not all was well inside Bataan’s defenses. When the Filipino soldiers of Wainwright’s North Luzon Force filed into the trenches, they flashed smiles at their American counterparts and held up the V for Victory sign. The American scoffed and passed the word: V was for “vacate,” which is exactly what the Philippine Army had done. And the supply situation was dire; the original War Plan Orange called for stockpiling enough food and ammunition in Corregidor and Bataan to keep 43,000 soldiers alive for six months. MacArthur’s orders to Wainwright to contest the Japanese advance through Luzon had negated this plan, as MacArthur had ordered his quartermaster corps to spend days shuttling supplies north instead of stocking the peninsula. Even worse, there weren’t 43,000 soldiers in Bataan, but 80,000 soldiers, along with 26,000 civilians. A quick supply survey provided little confidence: “750,000 pounds of canned milk, 20,000 pounds of vegetables, 40,000 gallons of gasoline and 60,000 gallons of lubricating oils and greases.” Not only was this not enough for the future, but the food situation was already critical. It was, Wainwright said, “hardly enough to hold body and soul together.” Moreover, the same challenges that faced Wainwright and Jones in Luzon were now present at Bataan: There weren’t enough rifles to go around or soldiers who knew how to shoot them.

As all was not well in Bataan, so too was all not well in Washington. George Marshall’s staff had run out of ideas on how to resupply MacArthur’s besieged forces. Strangely, Marshall did little to dissuade MacArthur from believing that help was on the way, aside from issuing a stream of “buck ’em up” cables. In the midst of the first meeting of the British and American chiefs of staff in Washington (the Arcadia Conference), Marshall cabled MacArthur: “The President and Prime Minister, Colonel Stimson and Colonel Knox, the British Chiefs of Staff and our corresponding officials have been surveying every possibility looking
toward the quick development of strength in the Far East so as to break the enemy’s hold on the Philippines.” Marshall didn’t explicitly say what he knew—that after “surveying every possibility” for MacArthur’s relief, Washington and London had decided that nothing could be done. Rather, the combined chiefs sketched out a new plan. The Allies would go on the defensive, holding a line from just south of the Malay Peninsula through Java to Australia. This was MacArthur’s plan for Wainwright writ large—the Americans would fight a holding action in the Philippines, trading lives for time, while a defensive line was built in the south. That decision was supplemented by the opinion of Marshall’s War Plans Division, which, during the first week of January, determined not only that the forces needed to relieve MacArthur were unavailable, but also that shipping anything at all for his relief would require “an entirely unjustifiable diversion of forces from the principle theater—the Atlantic.”

“Our great hope,” Marshall told MacArthur, “is that the rapid development of an overwhelming air power on the Malay Barrier will cut the Japanese communications south of Borneo and permit an assault on the southern Philippines.” MacArthur should have read between the lines, but he didn’t. Rather, he viewed Marshall’s message optimistically, believing that somewhere over the horizon, the Americans were gathering overpowering forces for his relief. He responded with his own plan: Blockade runners should shuttle guns into the southern Philippines, and special U.S. combat teams should establish airbases on Mindanao. What’s more, a carrier strike against the Japanese homeland could weaken the Japanese government. “Enemy appears to have tendency to become overconfident and time is ripe for brilliant thrust of air carriers,” he cabled Marshall.

But the two were talking past each other. Marshall didn’t want MacArthur to give up hope, while MacArthur was looking for a reason to have some. So although MacArthur later complained that Washington did little to help him, his information on Japanese advances in the Southwest Pacific was the same as Marshall’s. If MacArthur didn’t know that the situation was dire, it was only because he wasn’t paying attention. The Japanese had begun the conquest of Mindanao, and Hong Kong had fallen to Japan’s Twenty-Third Army on Christmas Day.
Meanwhile, Japan’s Twenty-Fifth Army was descending on Singapore, and several armies were poised for a quick strike on the Netherlands East Indies. Moreover, Thailand was overrun, Burma had been attacked, and the Japanese South Seas Detachment was headed toward Rabaul, an island fortress that could control the entire South Pacific. MacArthur knew all this and so warned Marshall—if the Japanese extended their lines past the Dutch East Indies, the Americans would be forced to mount a counteroffensive from Australia, and the relief of the Philippines would take not months, but years.

As these coded messages flew back and forth, MacArthur and his subordinates put up a brave front. While Wainwright was maneuvering his troops over Luzon’s bloodied ground, MacArthur and High Commissioner Sayre planned for the inauguration of Manuel Quezón, who had been elected commonwealth president just weeks before Homma’s invasion. The two Americans attempted to make the celebration impressive, erecting risers outside Malinta, mimeographing programs for the ceremony, then watching as the ailing president gave a solemn speech, followed by MacArthur’s low-tone congratulations: “Never in all history has there been a more solemn and significant inauguration,” he said. “An act, symbolic of democratic processes is placed against the background of a sudden merciless war. The thunder of death and destruction, dropping from the skies, can be heard in the distance. Our ears can almost catch the roar of battle as our soldiers close on the firing line. The air reverberates to the dull roar of exploding bombs. Such is the bed of birth of this new government, of this new nation.”

There were other diversions, though of less import. Jean MacArthur and the high commissioner’s wife, Elizabeth Sayre, organized a birthday party for Arthur, complete with a small “cake” (made from canned ingredients and a bit of flour), and provided him with presents, including a toy motorcycle retrieved from a pile of discarded materials brought from the mainland. Arthur’s father, meanwhile, remained as concerned with his own appearance as he had been during his days in his penthouse, rising early to make certain his khakis were pressed and his shoes shined. While Quezón had given up his ubiquitous cigars (he could be heard coughing nightly, keeping everyone awake), MacArthur continued his habit of pacing endlessly outside his cottage. From time to time,
he visited the increasingly crowded laterals where wounded soldiers were brought. He could be found kneeling on one knee to speak to them or standing in a “doorway” conferring with the nurses. But most of his days were spent planning the defense of Bataan.

With Wainwright and Jones now safe inside the Bataan perimeter, MacArthur divided the peninsula in two. In the western part (what he designated as I Corps), he put three Philippine divisions (the 1st, 31st, and 91st) under the command of Wainwright. The east (the II Corps) received the balance of his forces—some four Philippine divisions (the 11th, 21st, 41st, and 51st)—under the command of George Parker. Between the two was Mount Silanganan, a rugged volcanic eminence 3,620 feet high. The defense was organized “in depth,” with the 31st Regiment and the Philippine Scouts behind Silanganan and in the center. Parker’s II Corps area was particularly vulnerable, as the sloping beaches and rice paddies on his right provided potential landing areas for the Japanese, who were now crowding in on his lines. As soon as Wainwright acclimated himself to his new surroundings, he put his men on half rations, though (as he later commented) these were “Filipino rations” of rice and canned fish. As the food was consumed, the Filipinos began to slaughter carabao, a subspecies of water buffalo; Wainwright put a veterinarian in charge of doling out the meat, which had to be soaked in salt water to soften it for chewing. “Young carabao meat is not so bad,” Wainwright later said, “particularly if you have some kind of seasoning handy.”

On the morning of January 10, MacArthur visited the front lines to confer with Wainwright and Parker. The commander began by inspecting Parker’s command, striding through the emplacements with a walking stick, his now recognizable command hat placed firmly across his head, his khakis neatly pressed. The battle for Bataan began during his visit, with the Japanese opening a barrage on Wainwright’s line. Their fire could be heard coming like distant thunder through the jungle as MacArthur strode through Bataan’s defenses. A message from Homma accompanied the barrage, demanding an American surrender and repeating the age-old formula of a victorious commander: “Your prestige and honor have been upheld. However, to avoid needless bloodshed. . . .” MacArthur did not respond, though Parker ordered an increase in American fire.

After inspecting II Corps, MacArthur drove west along the Pilar-Bagac road to Wainwright’s position. This was a strange experience for MacArthur; he was driving along a defensive position first identified by his father nearly forty years before. “He drove up the east side of Bataan, inspected General Parker’s II Corps senior officers briefly,” Wainwright later recalled, “and then came westward over to our side of the peninsula. I had my generals lined up for him as he drove up in his Ford.” When MacArthur saw Wainwright, the commander stepped out of his car to greet him. “Jonathan,” MacArthur said, “I’m glad to see you back from the north. The execution of your withdrawal and of your mission in covering the withdrawal of the South Luzon force were as fine as anything in history.” Wainwright beamed. “Douglas was a little expansive on some occasions,” he later acknowledged. MacArthur continued: “And for that, I’m going to see that you are made a permanent major general of the Regular Army.” MacArthur inspected Wainwright’s line and suggested some changes. Wainwright said that he wanted MacArthur to view his artillery positions, but MacArthur waved him off: “I don’t want to see them,” he said. “I want to hear them.”

Late that afternoon, MacArthur returned to Corregidor. That night, the Japanese escalated their attacks. Seated in his new headquarters in Manila, Homma was pleased. MacArthur was weak, Luzon was conquered, Manila was his. He had even agreed to transfer his veteran 48th Division south, for the invasion of Java; replacing it was the much smaller 65th Brigade from Formosa. By the end of January, he assured Tokyo, Bataan and Corregidor would be his.

B
y January 9, when the Battle of Bataan began, Philippine President Quezón had concluded that despite the commitments made by Franklin Roosevelt, there was little possibility that his island country would be rescued. In this, he viewed himself as more realistic than Douglas MacArthur, who seemed certain that unseen forces would come to the rescue. Quezón had no such delusion. For Quezón, America’s Germany-first strategy was not a strategy but a choice—proof that the liberation of Westerners came first. Quezón’s views were reinforced when Japan promised that when MacArthur surrendered, the Philippines would be granted independence, a transparent (if effective)
appeal to Quezón’s nationalism. He felt betrayed. “We must try to save ourselves,” Quezón said from his office in the Malinta Tunnel, “and to hell with the Americans.”