Routledge Contemporary Japan Series

71 Rethinking Japanese Studies

Eurocentrism and the Asia-­Pacific Region
Edited by Kaori Okano and Yoshio Sugimoto

72 Japan’s Quest for Stability in Southeast Asia

Navigating the Turning Points in Postwar Asia
Taizo Miyagi

73 Gender and the Koeski in Contemporary Japan

Surname, Power, and Privilege
Linda White

74 Being Young in Super-­Aging Japan

Formative Events and Cultural Reactions
Edited by Patrick Heinrich and Christian Galan

75 The Japanese Communist Party

Permanent Opposition, but Moral Compass
Peter Berton with Sam Atherton

76 Japan’s Colonial Moment in Southeast Asia 1942–1945

The Occupiers’ Experience
Nakano Satoshi

77 Animism in Contemporary Japan

Voices for the Anthropocene from Post-­Fukushima Japan
Shoko Yoneyama

78 Political Sociology of Japanese Pacifism

Yukiko Nishikawa

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Routledge-­Contemporary-Japan-­Series/book-­series/SE0002
Japan’s Colonial Moment in
Southeast Asia 1942–1945
The Occupiers’ Experience

Nakano Satoshi
First published 2019
by Routledge
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and by Routledge
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Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
TONAN AJIA SENRYO TO NIHONJIN: TEIKOKU NIHON NO
KAITAI
by Nakano Satoshi
© 2012 by Nakano Satoshi
Originally published in 2012 by Iwanami Shoten, Publishers, Tokyo.
This English edition published in 2019 by Routledge
by arrangement with Iwanami Shoten, Publishers, Tokyo
The right of Nakano Satoshi to be identified as authors of this work has
been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in
any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or
registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation
without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-­in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-Publication Data
Names: Nakano, Satoshi, 1959– author. | Translation of: Nakano, Satoshi,
1959– Tåonan Ajia senryåo to Nihonjin.
Title: Japan’s colonial moment in Southeast Asia, 1942–1945 :
the occupiers’ experience / Satoshi Nakano.
Other titles: Tåonan Ajia senryåo to Nihonjin. English
Description: New York : Routledge, 2019. | Series: Routledge
contemporary Japan series ; 76 | Includes bibliographical references and
index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018026197| ISBN 9781138541283 (hardback) |
ISBN 9781351011495 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: World War, 1939-1945–Southeast Asia. | World War,
1939-1945–Occupied territories. | Japan–Foreign relations–Southeast Asia.
| Southeast Asia–Foreign relations–Japan. | Japan–History–20th century. |
Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere.
Classification: LCC D767.2 .N323513 2019 | DDC 327.52059/0904–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018026197

ISBN: 978-1-138-54128-3 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-351-01149-5 (ebk)
Typeset in Galliard
by Wearset Ltd, Boldon, Tyne and Wear
Contents

Acknowledgments vii
List of policy documents ix

Introduction: the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia as

a historical experience 1

Conscripting the Southern Army’s civilian corps  1

The soldier’s experience  5
Deployment and the opening of hostilities  7
A brief outline of the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia  13
The occupation of Southeast Asia as a key moment in dismantling the
Japanese Empire  17
The narrators of the history: a note on methodology  20

1 The “Southern question” and the Imperial General

Headquarters Army General Staff 26

1  The South as an exit from the war in China  26

2  “Seize the moment” vs “circumspect” views of Japan’s advance into
Southeast Asia  30
3  The Imperial General Headquarters plan for the occupation of
Southeast Asia  40

2 The occupation of Southeast Asia: assertions and the real

world 56

1  The Southern Campaign  56

2  The start of Southern military administration: appeasement and
coercion  74
vi   Contents
3 The Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere: ambition and
reality 108

1  The limits of military colonialism  108

2  The limits to oppression: Hitomi Junsuke’s Philippine
experience  132
3  An opportunity for soul searching  149

4 “Independence” under Japan 158

1  The conflict over “independence”  158

2  The rising voices of the occupied  180

5 Southeast Asia and the collapse of the empire of Japan 206

1  Nationalism in Asia as the war draws to an end  206

2  The occupation of Southeast Asia as a “learning experience”  234

Glossary 256
References 258
Index 268
Acknowledgments

20 April 1992. At a conference room in Kyoto University Hall, Yoshida Kawara

Machi, Sakyō-ku, Kyoto City, I had been conducting an interview with Mr.
Hitomi Junsuke, joined by Professor Terada Takefumi and Mr. Morita Ryōji as
co-­interviewers, for more than five hours. Mr. Terada was just about to leave in
order to catch a Hikari super-­express bound for Tokyo as Mr. Hitomi fumbled
in his bag for something and took out a sheaf of manuscript, which would later
be published as The 14th Army Propaganda Details Documentary Sources of
Propaganda Operations [Watari Shūdan Hōdōbu, ed. 1996]. The audio tape
of the interview recorded a buzz of amazement among us, the scholars in front
of unknown “treasures.”
When I ask myself why I wrote this treatise as an attempt to reconstruct Japa-
nese historical experiences in Southeast Asia during World War II by weaving
myriad of “narratives” left by Japanese sent there as the occupiers, the memory
of this interview comes back to me as the starting point. At that time, under
“the command” of Professor Ikehata Setsuho, the pioneer Japanese scholar of
Philippine history, a batallion of scholars including Terada Takefumi, Nagano
Yoshiko, Hayase Shinzō and Kawashima Midori among others, were fighting a
battle against time, searching historical sources and conducting interviews at
home and abroad. It was a part of a large-­scale grants-­in-aid project for histor-
ical studies on the Japanese occupation period in Southeast Asia, sponsored by
Toyota Foundation since the late 1980s.
I started as a scholar of U.S. history, having taught students U.S. history in
Japanese universities up to now. It would have never occurred to me to write a
book on the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia had I not been invited to
join the project. I was invited simply because I had studied Philippine-­U.S.
colonial relations. Considering this, my gratitude goes to Professor Ikehata
Setsuho and colleagues of the project, interviewees, donors of historical mater-
ials and the Toyota Foundation, which made such a productive joint research
project possible. I am also grateful for those scholars of contemporary history of
Japan who made me “learn by ear” from the fruite conversation I was able to
have with them on such occasions as the Summer Seminar of Contemporary
History and Rekishigaku Kenkyukai (Historical Science Society of Japan), some-
times while drinking!
viii   Acknowledgments
I am not very confident about the achievement, while I tried my best to
present the picture of Japanese occupation not only of the Philippines but of
Southeast Asia as a whole, focusing on individuals’ historical experiences. It
would exceed my hopes if the readers of this book were interested in “the
ground” of encounters between Japan and Southeast Asia at one of the most
serious moment of history and wonder if there would be any “narratives” left to
be found around them/us. We still have time.
To our surprise, Mr. Hitomi, then 76 years old, came to Kyoto University
Hall from his home in Fushimi-­ku riding on the 750cc motorcycle, showing us
that he is a veteran of multiple wars. I could send the draft of this book for Mr.
Hitomi to check. Whether or not this book meets the desire for peace of Mr.
Hitomi who has asked “what that war was” throughout his postwar years to this
date, it was my pleasure that to be able to send him a copy of this book in good
spirits.
For the Japanese version of this book, my gratitude goes to Mr. Yoshida
Koichi, who made it possible for me to complete the book project. For the
English version, it would never have been possible for me to finish the project
without the indispensable support of Mr. Jon Wisnom, my longtime collabora-
tor for publication in English. Last but not least, let me express my gratitude for
Routledge and its staff, for their effort in making more academic achievements,
including my small contribution, available to a global audience, thereby pro-
moting further dialogue between peoples who otherwise would not reach each
other.
List of policy documents

Date Title (English) Title (Japanese) JACAR ID1/pages

1940/10/22 Draft of a Policy Agenda Shina Jihen Shori Yōkōan C14120667900

Dealing with the China 支那事変処理要綱案 30–1
Incident
1940/11/13 Policy Agenda Dealing Shina Jihen Shori Yōkō C12120237400
with the China Incident 支那事変処理要綱 32
1941/01/30 Policy Agenda Towards Tai Futsuin Tai Shisaku C12120201200
French Indochina and Yōkō 対仏印泰施策要綱 38
Thailand
1941/03/31 Draft of a Policy Agenda Nanpō Sakusen ni okeru C14060703800
for Governing Territory Senryōchi Tōchi Yōkōan 42–4
Occupied During 南方作戦に於ける占領
Southern Operations 地統治要綱案
1941/03/31 Proposed Measures for Tai Bei Sakusen ni C14060704300
Dealing with the Tomonau Hitō Shori 44–5
Philippines While at War Hōsakuan 対米作戦に伴
with the United States う比島処理方策案
1941/03/31 Guide to Proposed Tai Bei Sakusen ni C14060704400
Measures for Dealing Tomonau Hitō Shori 47–8
with the Philippines Hōsakuan Setsumeisho
While at War with the 対米作戦に伴う比島処
United States 理方策案説明書
1941/06/06 Policy Agenda for the Tai Nanpō Shisaku Yōkō C12120207100
South 対南方施策要綱 33–8
1941/06/25 The Matters Pertaining Nanpō Shisaku Sokushin C12120207200
to Pursuing a Southern ni kansuru Ken 南方施策 38
Policy 促進に関する件
1941/07/02 Imperial National Policy Jōsei no Sui’i ni tomonau C12120183800
Agenda in the Light of Teikoku Kokusaku Yōkō 38
Recent Development 情勢の推移に伴う帝国
国策要綱

continued
x   List of policy documents

Date Title (English) Title (Japanese) JACAR ID1/pages

1941/11/05 Guidelines for Teikoku Kokusaku Suikō C12120186200

Implementing Imperial Yōryō 帝国国策遂行要領 2, 42
National Policy
1941/11/11 Framework of a Pretext Tai Ei Bei Kaisen B02032965200
for Opening Hostilities Meimoku Kosshi 対英米 42
with Britain and the 開戦名目骨子
United States
1941/11/15 Idea Concerning How Tai Bei Ei Ran Shō Sensō C12120204100
to Facilitate the Shūmatsu Sokushin ni 84–5
Termination of Kansuru Fukuan 対米英
Hostilities with the 蘭蒋戦争終末促進に関
United States, Great する腹案
Britain, the Netherlands
and Chiang Kai-shek
1941/11/20 Guidelines for Nanpō Senryōchi Gyōsei C12120152100
Implementing Military Jisshi Yōryō 南方占領地 48–50
Administration in 行政実施要領
Southern Occupied
Territories
1941/12/n.d. Minami Agency Burma Minami Kikan Biruma C01000661500
Maneuver Plan Kōsaku Keikaku 南機関 171
緬甸工作計画
1941/12/08 Imperial Prescript on Sensen no Shōchoku 宣 B02032434800
Declaration of War 戦の詔勅 42
1941/12/12 Economic Policy Agenda Nanpō Keizai Taisaku C14060761500
for the South Yōkō 南方経済対策要綱 51

1942/n.d. Guidelines for Kakyō Kōsaku Jisshi C14060608800

Implementing Maneuver Yōryō 華僑工作実施要領 98–9
on Huaqiao
1942/n.d. Matters pertaining to Sōri Daijin Shisei Enzetsu B02032971000
Foreign Policy in the Chū Taigai Shori Hōshin 164
Prime Minister’s Address no Ken 総理大臣施政演
at Diet 説中対外処理方針ノ件
1942/01/12 Concerning the Use of Hakujin no Jiku Shiyō ni A05032053600
the Phrase “White Man” Kansuru Ken 75
1942/02/14 Policy Agenda Kakyō Taisaku Yōkō 華僑 B02032971500
Regarding Huaqiao 対策要綱 98
1942/03/11 How Actual Initial Shoki Sakusen no Jisseki C12120213200
Operations Performance wa Yotei Keikaku ni 83
Compares with Planning Taihishi Gunjiteki Seijiteki
Expectations in Military, Keizaiteki ni Ikanaru Sa’i
Political and Economic Arishiya 初期作戦の実績
Aspects は予定計画に対比し軍事
的政治的経済的に如何な
る差異ありしや
 List of policy documents   xi

Date Title (English) Title (Japanese) JACAR ID1/pages

1942/11/07 World Situation Sekai Jōsei Handan 世界 C12120216300

Assessment 情勢判断 181
1942/12/21 Basic Policy Direction Dai Tōa Sensō Kansui no B02030534100
in Dealing with China Tameno Tai Shi Shori 159
for the Purpose of Konpon Hōshin 大東亜
Successfully Completing 戦争完遂の為の対支処
the Greater East Asia 理根本方針
War
1943/01/14 Matters Concerning Dai Tōa Sensō Kansui no B02032943700
Burmese Independence Tameno Biruma 160
Policy for the Purpose of Dokuritsu Shisaku ni
Successfully Completing Kansuru Ken 大東亜戦争
the Greater East Asia 完遂の為の緬甸独立施
War 策に関する件
1943/01/14 Plan for the Future Title Senryōchi Kizoku Fukuan C12120153600
to the Occupied 占領地帰属腹案 160
Territories
1943/02/27 World Situation Sekai Jōsei Handan 世界 C12120219100
Assessment 情勢判断 181
1943/05/31 Outline of Political Dai Tōa Seiryaku Shidō B02032973300
Strategy Planning and Taikō 大東亜政略指導大 186–7
Management in Greater 綱
East Asia
1943/09/30 World Situation Sekai Jōsei Handan 世界 C12120196000
Assessment 情勢判断 194–5
1944/08/19 Outline for the Direction Kongo Torubeki Sensō C12120198500
of the War to be Taken Shidō no Taikō 今後採る 211–12, 222
べき戦争指導の大綱
1944/08/19 World Situation Sekai Jōsei Handan 世界 C12120198300
Assessment 情勢判断 206
1945/02/15 World Situation Sekai Jōsei Handan 世界 C12120332800
Assessment 情勢判断 231
1945/06/08 World Situation Sekai Jōsei Handan 世界 C12120236400
Assessment 情勢判断 234–5
1945/07/17 Matters Pertaining Higashi Indo Dokuritsu C12120338200
Recognizing East Indies Shochi ni Kansuru Ken 235
Independence 東印度独立措置に関す
る件

Note
1 The government and military sources of Imperial Japan cited in this book have increasingly become
available at the open access cloud archives created by Japan Center for Asian Historical Records.
Each document can be retrieved by identifying its reference code, which will hereinafter be cited as
“JACAR: reference code” in this book. https://www.jacar.archives.go.jp/aj/meta/reference-en.
Introduction
The Japanese occupation of Southeast
Asia as a historical experience

Conscripting the Southern Army’s civilian corps

On Saturday, 15 November 1941.1 Kon Hidemi (b. 1903) was having one of
those days. The author and a Meiji University professor were still tired after his
lecture tour in Kyūshū, and the popular drama festival he had agreed to help
judge at the Tokyo Takarazuka Theater hadn’t been worth the bother. Kon had
snuck out of the theater and went straight home, instead of stopping off for a
drink on the way as was his regular custom. When he arrived, his wife, Keiko,
was waiting for him at the door.
Visibly upset by the thought of his name no doubt being echoed around the
theater after his absence, his wife asked him to calm down and take a look at
what had just arrived, a postmarked white envelope lying on the dining room
table.

Rushing to open it, I found a white induction notice. After reading it

several times over, it was clear that I had been drafted, but there was not a
hint of for what purpose or in what capacity I was supposed to serve the
country.

These words of confusion and doubt upon receiving notification of his induc-
tion (chōyō) into the civilian corps come from Kon’s Embedded with the Army in
the Philippines (Hitō Jūgun) published in 1944.
Such bewilderment was only natural, for until now Kon had led a life far
removed from anything that could be called “military.” After graduating from
the Tokyo Imperial University Department of French Literature and spending
the rest of his twenties totally immersed in the study of stage drama, motion
pictures, art and literature, he was now enjoying a secure, middle-­class life as a
lecturer in the literary arts department at the polytechnic college affiliated with
Meiji University. Born in 1903, year before the outbreak of the Russo-­Japanese
War, he belonged to a generation which had not been exposed to the kind of
military training that had been made compulsory for middle-­school students in
1925; most of them didn’t even know how to salute. Kon’s first impression of
his induction was that since he could read, write and converse a little in French,
2   Introduction
he was probably needed at the Ministry of War Bureau of Information as a lan-
guage specialist, until his wife conjectured, “I wonder if a war isn’t coming
soon” [Kon 1944: 7–8].
Similar conjecture was raised by Takami Jun (b. 1907), a writer, who received
his induction notice around the same time. Reflecting upon his arrest and
imprisonment in 1933 for leftist proletarian activities in breach of the peace,
which he had since “converted (tenkō),” Takami half-­jokingly suggested to his
family that he would probably be “assigned to hard labor in the coal mines”
[Takami 1972: 389]. Businessman Ono Toyoaki (b. 1912), who was working at
Ōji Paper Co., recalls that he at first mistook the induction order for a notice
from the Tax Revenue Bureau or some such office [Ono 1994: 571].
Unbeknownst to all three men, the ball had begun rolling ten days earlier on
5 November 1941 at the highest level, a Gozen Kaigi (Imperial Council). This
was a conference specially convened in the presence of the emperor, where
leading state policy makers (cabinet ministers, Army chiefs of staff and elder
statesmen) gathered to discuss and decide matters of utmost importance.
“Guidelines for Implementing Imperial National Policy” approved by that
meeting concerned what was to be done in the event that negotiations with the
United States had not come to fruition by midnight, 1 December. “To over-
come the present crisis, ensure self-­existence and self-­defense and build a new
order in Greater East Asia, it is hereby decided, in that event, to take up arms
against the United States, Britain and the Netherlands” [Sanbōhonbu, ed.
1967, Volume I: 417–18; JACAR: C12120186200].
On that same day, the Navy issued Imperial General Headquarters
(Daihon’ei, hereafter IGHQ) Navy Order (Daikairei) No. 1 to Admiral
Yamamoto Isoroku, Commander in Chief of the Combined Fleet, “The Empire
has decided to complete all preparations for operations … in early December”
[Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 37; JACAR: C16120691800]. The following day,
the Army issued the order of battle (the formation of armies for a campaign)
and began to prepare its Southern Invasion Operation (Nanpō Kōryaku
Sakusen). To summarize, the armed forces would be organized into the
Southern Army under the command of General Terauchi Hisaichi and the
South Seas Detachment under the direct control of the IGHQ Army Depart-
ment. The former would consist of the existing Twenty-­Fifth Army (expedition-
ary forces deployed to Malaya, whose code name was “Tomi Group,” under the
command of Lt. General Yamashita Tomoyuki), in addition to the newly formed
Fourteenth Army (expeditionary forces dispatched to the Philippines, code-­
named “Watari Group,” under the command of Lt. General Honma Masaharu),
the Fifteenth Army (expeditionary forces deployed to Thailand, later Burma,
code-­named “Hayashi Group,” under the command of Iida Shōjirō) and the
Sixteenth Army (expeditionary forces deployed to Java, code-­named
“Osamu Group,” under the command of Lt. General Imamura Hitoshi). It was
in this manner that the largest scale and most rapid mobilization of troops in
Japanese military history unfolded under a veil of complete secrecy [JACAR:
C14060906600].
 Introduction   3
Regarding the experiences of those Japanese people who participated in this
secret mobilization, there exists a gigantic body of narrative (stories, memoirs,
etc.) written not only by military combatants, but also by civilians, mainly
professional writers and other intellectuals, who went to work en masse for the
Army and Navy under the National Mobilization Act (enacted in 1938) and the
Civilian Conscription Ordinance (enacted in 1939). These civilian (non-­
uniformed) employees were called “gunzoku,”2 whose terms of service usually
lasted for one year.
On Monday, 17 November 1941, Kon Hidemi appeared at Tokyo’s Hongo
Ward Office (present-­day Yushima, Bunkyo Ward, Tokyo) as indicated on his
induction order. To his surprise, there he found the likes of novelist Ibuse
Masuji, whom he had just met during his visit to Kyūshū, as well as several of
his old literary acquaintances, including best-­selling author Ozaki Shirō, who
was in the midst of writing a fiction series on the exploits of Meiji Restoration
hero Takasugi Shinsaku for the Asahi Shimbun daily news, Abe Tomoji, a
former classmate from Tokyo Imperial University, novelist and student of
English literature, the above mentioned Takami Jun, and Takeda Rintarō,
another “Converted” proletarian writer, whose literary style can be described as
working class realism. Otherwise, the hall was filled with all kinds of people “I
didn’t know from Adam.”
Ozaki was the first of Kon’s acquaintances to go through the physical
examination, returning with a piece of paper that read, “To be assigned public
relations and information-­related duties in country or overseas.” The document
was stamped (in Chinese characters) with either Kō, Otsu, Hei or Tei (hereafter
A, B, C, D). Kon and his friends also read with interest the instructions con-
cerning reporting for duty, the items regarding personal belongings —“Summer
wear (national civilian uniforms highly recommended); one or two summer
shirts”—sufficient forewarning for the group that “we were probably heading to
some tropical climate, like the South (Nanpō)” [Kon 1944: 12–13]. Inciden-
tally, among those who did appear at the Hongo Ward Office, some like authors
Dazai Osamu and Shimaki Kensaku did not pass the physical examination due
to past treatment for tuberculosis [Takami 1972: 391–2].
The A-­B-C-­D designations would eventually turn out to be the four details
into which the inductees were divided. A detail, including Kon, Ozaki and
Ishizaka Yōjirō, best known for his romantic novel A Young Man (Wakai Hito),
was assigned to the Propaganda Detail (Senden-­Han)3 attached to the Watari
Group, or the Fourteenth Army, bound for the Philippines; B Detail, including
Takami, to the Hayashi Group, or Fifteenth Army, bound for Thailand; C
Detail, including Abe, Takeda and journalist Ōya Sōichi, to the Osamu Group,
or Sixteenth Army, bound for Indonesia; and D Detail, including Ibuse and
novelist Kai’onji Chōgorō to Tomi Group, or the Twenty Fifth Army, bound
for Malaya and Singapore. Of course, none of this was revealed to the inductees
yet. It is known that at least thirty of Japan’s professional literary figures were
“inducted to deploy South” in this manner before the start of the war, the
number increasing to over seventy by 1944, to serve as information specialists in
4   Introduction
the military’s Propaganda Detail, later renamed to Information Department
(Hōdō-Bu) active throughout occupied Southeast Asia [Kamiya and Kimura
1996: 7–10].
The enlistment of Ono Toyoaki was not conducted at the Ward Office, but
rather in an interview scheduled for him in the offices of the Morinaga Confec-
tionery Building at Hongo Sanchome just up the hill from the Ward Office,
where he was politely requested by an army major “to help us out in the South
(Nanpō).” The fact that the major was accompanied by Roman Catholic Fr.
Tsukamoto Shōji and a theology student suggested to Ono that his mission
would be “related to some religious matter.” Indeed, the planners of the
upcoming war took seriously the need for winning the hearts and minds of the
people not only by “propaganda,” but also by “religious conciliation,” i.e.,
appeasing the religious leaders as well as the locals through the mediation of the
conscripted members of all faiths active in Japan for the successful occupation of
the religiously diverse region of Southeast Asia. Ono, who had joined the Cath-
olic Church during his student days at Tokyo Imperial University, would
become one of twenty-­six civilians inducted into the Watari Group Religious
Conciliation Detail (Shūkyō Senbu’han) deployed to the Philippines [Ono
1994: 571–5].
On the afternoon of that same 15 November 1941, on the floor of the
House of Representatives (Shūgi’in) of the Imperial Diet, newly appointed
Prime Minister Tōjō Hideki stood on the central podium “animated with gyrat-
ing body and hand gestures, in his unique high-­pitched tone of voice, lamenting
the lack of progress in Japan-­US negotiations, repeating the government’s
resolve to overcome this country’s problems through national unity and consen-
sus.” This description of the prime minister would be written by Matsumoto
Naoji (b. 1912), social affairs reporter for the Tokyo Shimbun daily news, who
while watching Tōjō’s performance from the public gallery of the House of
Representatives, was tapped on the shoulder by an assistant and handed a
message from the newspaper’s main office. “Your induction notice finally
arrived.” Having already been judged at an induction center as “class C,” being
unfit for active combat duty, and never dreaming a “red” notice would come to
him, Matsumoto rolled his eyes in disbelief, muttering, “Get off it!” Returning
to the offices as ordered, however, his boss informed him, “It’s a ‘white’ mobil-
ization … We’ll have a farewell … oh, no, a send-­off party” [Matsumoto 1993:
7–9]. Matsumoto would soon be earmarked to cover the invasion of the Malay
Peninsula and Singapore as an IGHQ-­embedded reporter.
It was in this fashion that in over a two-­week period in mid-­November 1941,
a variety of civilians with occupations and skills that included writers and artists,
like Kon Hidemi, cartoonists, filmmakers, dramatists, newspaper members of
the Press, like Matsumoto Naoji, broadcasting and printing technicians, as well
as “men of the cloth,” were called to duty en masse by mail or at their places of
work via civilian corps “white” notices (as opposed to “red” ones for active
military duty inductees) to serve in locations yet unknown with no regard to
personal preference, as part of the rank and file in Japan’s coming occupation of
 Introduction   5
Southeast Asia. Owing to the initial need at the beginning for the invasion to
accompany the troops into battle, the civilian corps was dominated by public
relations and news reporting experts, while later on, as each region was captured
and occupied by Japanese forces, its ranks expanded to include bureaucrats and
businessmen.

The soldier’s experience

Turning to the officers and enlisted men mobilized for active military duty, from
the time of the announcement of the order of battle on 6 November 1941,
operations proceeded in secrecy to mobilize and organize a fighting force on a
regiment-­by-regiment basis. However, concerning those who would staff the
command headquarters of each expeditionary force and military administration
department, personnel decisions were made case-­by-case from among a selec-
tion of skilled and able people employed throughout Japan’s vast military
complex. In this sense, sudden changes of duty and station were met by indi-
vidual soldiers with the same surprise and confusion experienced by their civilian
corps counterparts. Even at the highest levels of command, for example, Lt.
General Imamura Hitoshi (b. 1886), appointed Commander in Chief of the
Osamu Group (Sixteenth Army), which would turn out to be the Java expedi-
tionary forces, had been given no idea of why such an army was being assem-
bled until he arrived at his first briefing in Tokyo [Imamura 1960: 73].
In the case of First Lieutenant Hitomi Junsuke (b. 1916) of the Manchurian
Independent Garrison Unit, news of the decision to transfer him to the Watari
Group (Fourteenth Army) Propaganda Detail and orders to report to Taiwan
Army Headquarters were received from his superior commander in the middle
of a freezing winter’s night on 6 November 1941 by telephone at a northeast-
ern China battle command post in the counterinsurgency campaign against
“Communist outlaws” in the region. Hitomi, who at the age of twenty had quit
his job teaching at primary and youth vocational school in Miyazu, Kyoto Pre-
fecture, to enlist in the armed services, had since 1938 been an intelligence
officer in charge of the “punitive campaign” against the Northeastern Anti-­
Japanese Coalition partisans in the wilds of Manchuria. For Hitomi, raised as a
farm boy who thought of himself as “just another warrior/soldier,” admired the
rural folks of Manchuria and was content to die for them, a transfer out of the
region was quite unsettling.
However, upon expressing how disappointed he was about his transfer,
Hitomi was assured by his commanding officer Colonel Shimada Keinosuke
that he was “the man for the job.” This was no empty compliment, for
Shimada had already told his superiors how impressed he had been by the
reports Hitomi had filed expressing the opinion that the best way to deal with
the aggressive anti-­Japanese propaganda and popular agitation activities of the
Northeastern Anti-­Japanese Coalition partisans was not the “exclusive exercise
of military force,” but rather conducting a counterinsurgency that “raised our
voices” in expounding inter-­ethnic ideals of the harmony among Japanese, Han
6   Introduction
Chinese, Korean, Manchu and Mongol (gozoku kyōwa) and peace and prosper-
ity under enlightened imperial leadership (ōdō rakudo) in an effort to win the
understanding of the people. “So, it must have been those damn reports that
got me transferred,” rued Hitomi. In reality, day after day fighting in the Man-
churian outback had left Hitomi out of touch with the present international
situation, himself initially interpreting the transfer as the result of some new
battlefront forming further south on the Chinese mainland [Hitomi 1980:
65–6; Hitomi 1994: 482–7].
The same was true of Maj. Saitō Shizuo (b. 1914), who had been “red
noticed” from the younger ranks of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs diplomatic
corps and was serving as an artillery platoon leader in the Sendai regimental dis-
trict infantry in Miyagi Prefecture. Saitō was summoned by his superior officer
in the middle of a beachhead exercise off Matsushima wharf and told that he
had been attached to the Sixteenth Army’s military administration staff, and to
go straight home and prepare to report to Konoye Division General Head-
quarters in Tokyo. He recalled the whole affair as “absolutely making no sense
in every aspect.”
Hurrying off to Tokyo without even time to say farewell to his troops, he
was finally informed upon arrival that the Osamu Group (Sixteenth Army)
under the command of Lt. General Imamura was in the process of being organ-
ized into two divisions totaling 55,000 enlisted men and officers bound for Java.
Saitō proceeded as ordered directly to the “Military Administration Department
Organizing Office,” to join its staff in drafting the “Java Military Administration
Implementation Guidelines” based on such documents as the “Guidelines for
Implementing Military Administration in Southern Occupied Territories.” Saitō
recalled that while they had “a vague sense” of what the southern advance
policy was, they “never conceived” of occupying the whole Indonesian archi-
pelago. So, they started “discussing what to do in the case of an occupation, in
abstract theoretical terms” [Saitō 1977: 10–13; Saitō 1991: 171–2].
The Southern Army’s General Staff in charge of directing and coordinating
the operations of all four expeditionary forces was to be set up in the French
Indochina city of Saigon, where Japanese troops had been stationed since July
1941 (it was moved to Singapore in July 1942, then to Manila in June 1944,
and finally back to Saigon in November of that year). One officer assigned to
the General Headquarters staff was Maj. Sakakibara Masaharu (b. 1911), a
member of Japan’s peerage with the title of viscount by virtue of his heritage as
the sixteenth lord of the former Takada feudal domain of Echigo Province (by
1871 all the fiefdoms had been abolished and replaced by prefectures governed
by the national government). After graduating from Tokyo Imperial University
Faculty of Law in 1937, Sakakibara joined Taiwan Development (Taiwan
Takushoku) Co., Ltd., a colonial investment monopoly, as secretary to the presi-
dent, before being inducted during August 1938 into the 1st Field Artillery
Division as a buck private. During his first year of duty, “I spent two or three
months washing horses’ hooves and hauling rags, slapped around by non-­
commissioned officers and first-­class specialists for no apparent reason,
 Introduction   7
wondering if this is what the army of the Empire is really about.” Nevertheless,
in retrospect, army life for this spoiled young aristocrat was, according to the 15
August 1942 entry in his diary, “a fine, precious experience … I am now confi-
dent of capturing the style and manner of a soldier more than anyone else”
[Sakakibara 1998: 7].4 It was in 1940 that Sakakibara was promoted to major in
the Eastern 13th Division stationed in Setagaya, Tokyo; and his transfer to the
staff of the Southern Army’s General Staff seemed a godsend for someone who
had staked his career in a southward advance enterprise before his induction. “It
is only natural,” wrote an elated Sakakibara on 18 November, “that someone
who has dedicated his life to Japan’s advance south up till now, continue to
strive for that goal in the future. This is a great opportunity. I’m off on an excit-
ing quest!”

Deployment and the opening of hostilities

Saturday, 22 November 1941. On a hand numbing, sleet driven day after four
days of busy preparation, bidding farewell, ordering tropical wear and being
measure for national civilian uniforms, it came time for the “white notice”
inductees of the southern civilian corps to deploy to their respective duty sta-
tions. That particular day left deep impressions on a great many people and
marked an important moment in the lead-­up to the start of the war.
On the morning of that day, the A (Philippine bound) and C (Java bound)
Details of civilian corpsmen were required to report as ordered to the Eastern
District Army Command at Takebashi, Tokyo. Kon Hidemi, who had not had
time to have a national civilian uniform made, left his house wearing an ordinary
suit jacket as instructed, and shyly bowing to an intimidating group of women
gathered at the entrance to his house, donning white sashes to send the depart-
ing hero off in auspicious fashion, before boarding the automobile that would
take him to Takebashi. Although sending the troops off at Army Command was
prohibited, a fairly large crowd of well-­wishers had appeared just the same.
From there the new civilian recruits were transported en masse in the beds of
delivery trucks to the grounds of Zōjōji Temple in Shiba. Not a word  was
uttered during the bone jarring ride on the way to the temple [Kon 1944:
17–19].
Sakakibara Masaharu was also at Zōjōji that day. Interred in the temple’s
graveyard were such figures as the second Edo Bakufu shogun Tokugawa Hide-
tada, whom his ancestors had served. He described the scene of the civilian
corps trucks rolling onto the temple grounds in the following light-­hearted
manner.

As there were no sergeants, commissioned officers had to perform the cleri-

cal duties for processing the new recruits. These are certainly extraordinary
times. Novelists Ozaki Shirō and Abe Tomoji, artists, newspaper reporters
and language interpreters. Top corporate managers among the same ranks.
What an interesting turn of events. Being able to get such a mix of people
8   Introduction
to live the life of new recruits is indeed a sign of the times. Urgent times
that transcend individual personalities. And I found them very serious and
devoted.
(22 November 1941)

Although there are no exact figures on just how many men were assembled on
the temple grounds that day, Ono Toyoaki remembers over 400 present.
Despite Sakakibara’s impressions from afar, other accounts suggest the scene at
Zōjōji was fairly chaotic. Noon passed and the roll call list had still not been
squared with those actually present, and the nervous composure that had ini-
tially gripped the recruits had all but vanished. “Some were getting fed up, there
was undisciplined laughter, some had grown sullen over one bothersome matter
or another … things were getting out of hand.” Then came the orders. It was
permitted to phone family members and have them bring forgotten belongings,
but “you cannot divulge your destination, time of departure, or anything else
about the mission.” Then it was ordered that C Detail’s departure would be
delayed until the next day and that it would bivouac at the Army War College
(Rikugun Daigaku) in Aoyama; since A detail would depart that evening from
Tokyo Railway Station, it would be temporarily dismissed and re-­assemble at
the Station. After the order to dismiss had been given, most of A Group joyfully
left the grounds, leaving only a disheveled group of literary figures behind
[Kon 1944: 21–9]. Ono Toyoaki ran to a nearby restaurant he frequented and
called his home. His wife went to see him off at Tokyo Station, despite being
harassed by the Military Police about who had divulged such secret information
[about the evening departure]. “In fact, there were a lot of people who showed
up. Everyone must have called home!” joked Ono in an interview [Ono
1994: 572].
It was in this way that one contingent of civilian corps recruits departed
Tokyo Station late that evening behind the blinds pulled down on their third-­
class coach, conversing over endless topics, no one able to sleep, everyone intent
on relating “his own surprise and reactions the moment he saw his ‘white
notice,’ recounting the busy days that followed and the excitement they were
experiencing amidst a kind of looming anxiety.” Kon interprets this outpour of
conversation as less a desire to engage in friendly dialogue than the act of regur-
gitating “this once in a lifetime experience … in order to embed it as a perma-
nent part of each one’s memory” [Kon 1944: 32–3]. Ono Toyoaki was busy
looking for Ozaki Shirō on the train. He had been approached by a middle-­
aged woman at the station entrance who handed him a 1.8-liter bottle of sake,
requesting, “Would you be so kind as to give this to Ozaki Shirō?” After
receiving the bottle, Ozaki took a sip and told Ono and the others how his
serial feature, Takasugi Shinsaku, now on hold due to his induction, would turn
out [Ono 1994: 572].
The officers of the Southern Army General Staff departed from Tokyo Station
on the following evening of 23 November, including Sakakibara Masaharu, who
got on the third-­class carriage in front of a big sending-­off by members of the
 Introduction   9
Tokugawa and Sakakibara noble families, as well as his colleagues of the 1st
Artillery Division. Later they joined the A Detail of civilian inductees at the
overseas deployment depot located in Hiroshima’s port city of Ujina, where
they boarded the Suwa Maru, a special freighter commandeered by the Navy,
stopping at Shimonoseki (Yamaguchi Prefecture) before setting sail for Taiwan,
the staging ground for the “Southern Invasion Operations.” After reaching the
northern Taiwanese port of Keelung on 30 November, Sakakibara and the rest
of the Southern Army General Staff remained on board for the trip to Saigon,
arriving in the waters off Cape Saint Jacques (present-­day Thành phố Vũng Tàu)
on 6 December. They would hear of the start of the hostilities while they were
waiting for approval to enter the Port of Saigon.
Kon Hidemi and his A Detail colleagues proceeded from Keelung to Taipei,
where the Watari Group (Fourteenth Army) forces were being formed. It was
on the playground of the primary school run by Taipei Normal Academy that
they were to first meet their Propaganda Detail commanding officers, including
its leader Lt. Colonel Katsuya Fukushige and 1st Lieutenant Hitomi Junsuke,
just transferred from Manchuria. During the roll call of this rag-­tag group of
conscripted civilians, Hitomi recalls his “utter surprise” at the names of the
celebrity authors he was calling out [Hitomi 1994: 485]. From Taipei, the
detail relocated to Kaohsiung in the south, where they spent several days await-
ing the arrival of the Teikai Maru, the flagship of the Fourteenth Army General
Staff, which joined the large fleet carrying the landing forces to the waters off
Penghu Island.
Upon reaching the upper deck on the morning of 8 December, Kon was sur-
prised to find the fleet which had surrounded the Teikai Maru just the day
before nowhere in sight. Then while everyone was wondering why they were
served with sweet bean gelatin, an unusual dish for breakfast, the breaking news
that the war had begun reached them. Just past noon, as reports of the bom-
bardment of Hong Kong and the Hawaiian Islands began coming in, everyone
crowded into the mess hall to get all the news from the “crackling wireless.”
Then that evening, the civilian corpsmen again assembled in the dining hall to
take the “oath of office, which officially made us members of the armed forces,”
solemnly “handed to each man for his signature and seal” [Kon 1944: 75–9].
On 22 November, while the A and C Details were mustering at Zōjōji,
Takami Jun’s B Detail (bound for Burma) and Ibuse Masuji and Matsumoto
Naoji’s D Detail (bound for Malaya/Singapore) were ordered to assemble at
the Central District Army headquarters located near the old Tenshukaku bastion
of Ōsaka Castle. They were housed in regimental barracks on a day-­by-day basis
for a period totaling ten days. This uneventful period of boredom is described in
detail by the first volume of Diary of Takami Jun (Takami Jun Nikki) [Takami
1965] and Ibuse’s “South Voyage Digest (Nankō Taigaiki)” published in 1943
[Ibuse 1997b], which the latter claims he wrote “being aware of possible army
censorship … and during the War published an unabridged version in paper-
back” [Ibuse 2005: 20]. Those days were spent in perfunctory military training
exercises, followed by daily excursions shopping, sightseeing, meeting with
10   Introduction
family, buying books on Southeast Asia and attending lectures by people with
experience in the region’s countries. (For example, Takami himself gave a talk
on the three-­month trip to Indonesia he had made during January–March
1941). Takami and his cohorts were given ample opportunity to guess their
destination, since they found among the inductees Thai and Burmese interpret-
ers, prompting Takami to purchase books on local conditions in the south,
including one on Burma.
Finally, on 2 December 1941, both B and D Details boarded the freighter
Afurika Maru moored in the port of Ōsaka and headed south, hearing of the
first strikes at 6 a.m. on the 8th while in the waters off Hong Kong. A bow of
allegiance to the emperor ceremony (kyūjō yōhai) was held on deck before lis-
tening to the declaration of war edict read over the wireless, to which “all
shouted ‘Banzai!’ ” The next day’s mimeographed daily, Southern Voyage News
(Nankō Nyūsu), carried a feature entitled “Individual Impressions upon Hearing
the News of Engaging the Americans and British” [Ibuse 1997b: 463–4]. The
facsimile of Southern Voyage News distributed on that day appears in the first
volume of Takami’s Diary. Everyone seemed of the opinion that “the inevitable
had finally arrived”; however, compared to strait-­laced comments of the combat
troops and crew aboard, like “Let’s dedicate ourselves to the glory of the
Emperor in the spirit of camaraderie,” some of the literary writers were not as
enthusiastic or sympathetic, with remarks like “I knew it would happen this way.
We should have deployed earlier. I was down with a cold at the time and wasn’t
in any condition to feel anything, much less shock or surprise” [Ibuse] and “I
have long trained myself not to think about things not worth thinking about.
It’s the end of the year, let someone else do the thinking” [Kai’onji]. Takami
Jun can be counted among the gung-­ho contingent, writing, “The inevitable
has come to test our luck.” Another “converted” writer, Satomura Kinzō, who
had already served at the China front remarked, “The inevitable has come.
Nothing more needs to be said. It’s the same as when we received our draft
notices” [Takami 1965: 257]. In his postwar memoirs, which are for the most
part colored with a bit more pessimism, Takami wrote, “Of course I wasn’t
exactly jumping for joy, but there was definitely a refreshing feeling of relief ”
[Takami 1972: 396]. On 18 December, the Afurika Maru arrived in Saigon,
where Takami and his B Detail disembarked and “left for who knows where”
[Ibuse 1997b: 470]. The civilian inductees thus continued not to be informed
of their destinations and marched blindly as ordered.
Abe Tomoji, Takeda Rintarō and Ōya Sōichi of C Detail (bound for Java)
were still in training at the Eastern Division’s 8th Regiment (former Third
Infantry Regiment barracks, today the site of the National Art Center) in
Aoyama, Tokyo, when they heard the news of the first strikes. Their Osamu
Group (Sixteenth Army) invasion of the Dutch East Indies had been scheduled
to take place after those attacks. Machida Keiji (b. 1896), the commanding
officer of the Propaganda Detail attached to the group, at the beginning of the
war, recalled in his postwar memoir that, after the outbreak of the war, the unit
set about the work of “making posters, writing radio broadcasting scripts and
 Introduction   11
collecting phonograph records to entertain and inspire the people.” Of special
note, was the recording on Columbia Records of “Indonesia Raya” (Great
Indonesia; W.R. Spratman, 1928) under the direction of world renowned classi-
cal composer Yamada Kosaku (Kôsçak Yamada), featuring a choir of students
from Indonesia and Ichiki Tatsuo (b. 1906), a resident of Indonesia for over
twenty years who would remain after the Japanese evacuation to fight and die in
the Indonesian Revolution [Machida 1967: 13–18]. The C Detail and Java
military administration staff members, including Saitō Shizuo, would depart
from Tokyo the following year on 2 January. Almost a month after the outbreak
of the war, their ranks would swell with such contingents as a group of petro-
leum engineers, including Tamaki Akiyoshi (b. 1908) of the Mitsubishi Oil
Corporation’s Kawasaki Refinery, who had received his “white slip” after the
opening of hostilities, and Taniguchi Gorō (b. 1902), former president of the
East Indies Nippō News Agency, branch manager class employees of the Mitsui,
Mitsubishi and Nomura groups with work experience in Java, mid-­level minis-
terial bureaucrats assigned to the military administration’s core posts, and
graduates of the “Southern Development Seminar (Takunanjuku),” a technical
college set up by the government in 1940 to prepare students embracing the
“dream of spreading their wings over the South Seas” for the push into South-
east Asia. This latter group of civilian corpsmen set sail from the port of Ōsaka
the following day (3 January 1942) aboard the freighter Manira Maru [Saitō
1977: 14–16].
It was on 8 December 1941 while aboard the Toa Kai’un Line’s passenger/
freighter Kōtai Maru sailing up the Yangtze River from Nanjing to Hankou that
Murata Shōzō (b. 1878) was informed that the war had begun. Since having
joined the Ōsaka Shōsen Co. in 1900, Murata had long been engaged in devel-
oping the shipping business between China and Japan, and had taken ocean
voyages to Europe and the United States. He became the president of the
company in 1934, becoming the leading figure representing the maritime indus-
try in Japan. In 1939, Murata was appointed to a seat in the Imperial Diet’s
Upper House of Peers, and the following year began a stint as Minister of
Transportation and Communications (later concurrently appointed to Railway
Minister) in the second and third Konoye Fumimaro cabinets. When on 18
October 1941 the Konoye cabinet resigned en masse, Murata, “relieved of my
duties for the first time in a long while,” decided to find out for himself what
was going on around China in the midst of the Second Sino-­Japanese War and
thus set out on a tour of the country accompanied only by a personal secretary.
It was an emotional journey for Murata, finding the “antiquated Elysian atmo-
sphere” he had experienced as a young commercial shipping clerk in the city of
Suzhou (Jiangsu Province) “now choked with artillery smoke,” gasping at “the
raw smell of a fresh battlefield” at Nanjing’s Kwanhua Gate “which the van-
guard Wakizaka Regiment had overrun.”
The Kōtai Maru had barely reached Jiujiang when “the radio began squawk-
ing about ‘Honolulu’ ‘Pearl Harbor’ or something … fellow passengers lending
all ears to the news, sensing ‘something terrible has happened.’ ” Realizing from
12   Introduction
the commotion that the fighting had begun, Murata thought, “It’s now or
never. Now that we’ve gone and attacked the Americans and British and started
a war, we must win … and I’ve got to help in some way.” Murata immediately
decided to cancel the trip and returned to Tokyo, meeting upon arrival with the
Prime Minister, Tōjō Hideki, his colleague (as War Minister) in the Konoye
Cabinet, who personally requested him to act as the Supreme Advisor for the
Expeditionary Forces to the Philippines. At that time, Tōjō “humbly” asked
Murata to accept the post, saying “in order to avoid repeating the mistakes”
committed during the Manchurian Incident “due to purely military-­minded
decision-­making,” he was requesting the top senior advisor to help keep the
Commander in Chief away from arbitrary decision-­making as an official person-
ally appointed by the emperor (shin’nin-kan). Murata immediately accepted the
offer and would assume his duties in Manila during February 1942 [Ōsaka
Shōsen Co. 1959: 278–314].
While the mobilization for the southern advance continued to expand as the
war wore on, Philosopher Miki Kiyoshi (b. 1897) wrote in a letter to his friend
Sakata Norio dated 22 December 1941,

The present situation is growing serious, a time of severe trials has arrived,
and the field of philosophy also will, in my opinion, be facing important
challenges. I am determined to meet the challenge coolly and calmly, not
being deterred and confused by the vagaries of the times and turned into a
laughing stock for the next generation. It is time to make an accounting of
myself and make a new start in the coming year.

It was shortly after he wrote the above letter that he received a totally unex-
pected “white induction notice” and found himself among the second group of
civilian inductees assigned to the Philippines. In January 1942, Miki wrote in an
apology for having to cancel a previously scheduled lecture, “We could be
deploying any day now to begin serving the cause … I’ll probably be gone for
about a year,” closing with the line,

No matter where they send me, I’ll always be eager to learn something.
[Miki 1968, Vol. 19: 418–19]

It was on Saturday, 28 March 1942, nearly three weeks after the Hayashi Group
(Fifteenth Army) took Rangoon, the capital of British colonial Burma (8
March), that Kuwano Fukuji (b. 1901), head of the Artificial Silk Section of
Mitsui & Co.’s Textile Department, received his “white induction notice,” after
taking the rest of the day off work to play with his children. Contrary to the
initial projections, the Southern invasion had unexpectedly penetrated all of
Burma, making the establishment of a Japanese occupation administration there
an imminent possibility, an operation that called for personnel like Kuwano,
who had experience working in the region. Although he had to “forget all the
plans” he had made regarding his work and his family, Kuwano, managed to
 Introduction   13
reply to a sympathetic army major at the civilian personnel affairs office apolo-
gizing for the inconvenience caused by his absence from home, “I’ll go knowing
that if it’s a matter of national importance, there won’t be any complications.”
To this thought, which he recorded in his postwar memoirs (1988), Kuwano
added a note to his readers,

This had to be the thinking of almost the whole nation at that time. After
all, I wasn’t the only totalitarian or right-­winger around. As a result of the
one-­sided information and distorted indoctrination we had been exposed
to, the entire nation was walking the path of loyalty and patriotism.
[Kuwano 1988: 14–15]

When woven together, the above odds and ends taken from the experiences of
the civilians and soldiers who were mobilized for the invasion and occupation of
Southeast Asia produce a kind of festive atmosphere, beginning with the confu-
sion and tension of suddenly being inducted or transferred into some unknown
but great endeavor, giving rise to both anxiety and expectation about its
outcome, leading to the kind of excitement caused by sudden disruptions in the
flow of daily life. These experiential bits and pieces from the “narrative,” which
these participants have left us, form a fairly consistent, uniform landscape of
imagery. Both the available published literary works and personal memos alike
tell us that for many people in Japan, the news of the outbreak of war on 8
December 1941 was a source of elation and liberation from the stagnated atmo-
sphere of the quagmire of Second Sino-­Japanese War and deadlocked negoti-
ations with the United States. Those in the process of mobilization before the
war experienced a hint of such joy and freedom ahead of the rest of the nation,
as we have briefly seen.
Here we encounter the figure of a people groping amidst “a new war” for
the escape route they had been desperately looking for. What did they find upon
emerging from that escape tunnel and what were they able to learn there? In the
chapters that follow, the meaning of Japan’s occupation of Southeast Asia will
be examined as a historical experience geared toward postwar Japan and its
people via an analysis of the “narrative” that has been presented for the most
part by the Japanese participants directly involved in that occupation.

A brief outline of the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia

In order to chronologically frame the historical experience of that occupation,
let us first review the actual events in succession from beginning to end. At
dawn on 8 December 1941 (1:30 a.m. Japan time), Japan began its “Southern
invasion operation,” instigating the Asia-­Pacific War, with an amphibious assault
by the Tomi Group’s (Twenty Fifth Army) Eighteenth Division capturing the
beachhead at Kota Bahru on the northwestern shoreline of the Malay Peninsula.
Then about two hours later, the Japanese Combined Fleet launched an attack
on United States territory at Pearl Harbor on the Island of Oahu, Hawaii.
14   Introduction
Almost simultaneously, the Hayashi Group (Fifteenth Army) began “stationing”
troops in Thailand prior to the troop transit agreement signed with the Thai
government in the afternoon of the 8th. The last of the initial strikes took the
form of a Japanese naval air bombardment in the waters off the Malay Peninsula,
which sank the HMS Repulse and HMS Prince of Wales, two state-­of-the-­art
British battleships, and established the maritime supremacy necessary for the
Southern invasion.
These initial victories were followed by a series of military successes, which
included the occupation of the British colony of Hong Kong (25 December
1941), the city of Manila in the US autonomous colony of the Philippine
Islands (2 January 1942), Singapore, British Malaya (15 February) and
Rangoon, British Burma (8 March), as well as the unconditional surrender by
the Netherlands of the Dutch East Indies (9 March). It was on 7 May that the
especially difficult invasion of the Philippines was brought to a conclusion with
the surrender of US forces on the island of Corregidor, followed by the declara-
tion by Japan of the successful conclusion of its Southern Campaign on 18 May
with “the suppression” of all military resistance in Burma. It was only three
weeks later, however, that the direction of the war would begin to turn with the
defeat suffered by the Japanese Navy fleet in the battle of Midway (4 to 7 June).
In geographical terms, what was meant at that time by “the South” (Nanpō)
was the entire region into which Japanese troops advanced on the newly opened
Asia-­Pacific War front and managed to occupy and govern. Japan’s southern-
most advance extended into the central Pacific (Micronesia, Melanesia) and
onto the island of New Guinea, where between 1942 and 1944, the heaviest
encounters between the Allied (US and Australian) forces and the Japanese
Army took place. On the other hand, the almost entire region of Southeast Asia
consisting of today’s ten ASEAN countries, continental and insular, was placed
under Japanese military rule.
Japan, however, did not directly occupy the entire region we know today as
Southeast Asia. In French Indochina under the governance of Vichy France, in
East Timor, a colony of neutral Portugal, and in the sovereign state of Thailand,
Japan was technically not an occupier but an entity whose military presence was
allowed by the sovereigns of each country. The rest of the region was placed at
least temporarily under direct military occupation to be governed by various
units of the Japanese Army and Navy. In specific terms, the “main areas put
under the jurisdiction” of the army were the US autonomous colony of the
Philippines, British Burma, Malaya (present-­day (West) Malaysia), Hong Kong
and the Dutch East Indies islands of Java and Sumatra, while the Navy assumed
jurisdiction over the US territory of Guam, Dutch Borneo (present-­day Kali-
mantan, Indonesia), the Celebes/Moluccas and Lesser Sunda Islands (the island
chain from Bali to Timor), Dutch and Australian New Guinea and the Austral-
ian administered Bismarck Archipelago [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 96–8]. The
army referred to its governing duties as “Southern military administration”
(Nanpō gunsei), while the portion of insular Southeast Asia occupied by the
Navy was governed as “civilian administration” (minsei) in deference to the
 Introduction   15
possibility that the region would be annexed into Japan proper [Koike
1995: 163].
The differences in style and internal squabbles that afflicted the relationship
between the Imperial Japanese Army and Navy is a well-­known and well-­
researched topic that need not be reexamined here. While the previous sections
dealt exclusively with civilian conscription activities within the army, it should
be mentioned that the Navy had a similar program, recruiting, for example,
Akutagawa Prize-­winning novelist Ishikawa Tatsuzō together with Un’no Jūzō,
Japan’s first science fiction author, to staff its public relations units. The area
placed under the Navy, however, was far more often the scene of maritime
battles than actual territorial occupation, while the territory placed under army
governance was overwhelmingly larger in size and population, and far more
important both politically and economically. In this respect, the emphasis placed
on the army in the following chapters better represents the “boots on the
ground” experience of the Japanese troops and civilians who were involved in
the occupation.
It was in the above manner that Japan’s occupation of Southeast Asia con-
tinued over the next three to three-­and-a-­half-year period, depending on the
area in question. On the Burmese and Philippine fronts, the initial military
administrations were replaced with “independent” governments on 1 August
and 14 October 1943, respectively, while they continued to be under de facto
Japanese military occupation, very much the same as other occupied territories
in Southeast Asia. It was also in the Philippines and Burma that the Allies would
stage their counter-­offensive and destroy Japan’s military control over the two
countries, leading to its eventual defeat. Entering the second half of 1944, the
Allied counterattack from the central Pacific and New Guinea threatened to ruin
the whole Southern Occupation. In the Philippines, which had in July 1944
been designated the area of “Sho/victory mission No. 1” by Japan, assault land-
ings were successfully staged by US forces on Leyte on 20 October 1944 and
on Luzon on 9 January 1945, leading to the month-­long bloody Battle of
Manila, the loss of which on 3 March effectively ended Japanese control of the
Islands. In Burma as well, where Japanese and Allied ground forces were
engaged from the beginning of the war, the failure of the overambitious
“Imphal Operation” (March–July 1944), aiming at the invasion of neighboring
British India, invited the launch of an Allied counter-­offensive, which fomented
an anti-­Japanese mutiny by the Burmese National Army (BNA) in March 1945
and led to the fall of Rangoon on 2 May.
Meanwhile, in the other occupied areas of Southeast Asia, although Japanese
control remained largely intact, the last days of the war would be marked by
budding, but significant, political change. In Thailand, the government led by
Phibun (Plaek Phibunsongkhram), which after several hours of fighting on 8
December 1941 chose to cooperate with Japan and its 150,000-troop garrison,
was forced out of office on 1 August 1944 and replaced by a civilian govern-
ment in secret communication with the clandestine pro-­Allied Free Thai Move-
ment (Seri Thai). In French Indochina, amidst the Allied liberation of France
16   Introduction
and the fall of the Vichy France government in August 1944, the Japanese Army
implemented an order on 9 March 1945 to disarm the region’s French colonial
troops, while Japan proclaimed “independence” for the polities of the Annam
Empire (Vietnam), Kingdom of Cambodia and Kingdom of Luang Prabam
(Laos). Despite these efforts, the guerilla activities of the Viê.t Minh national
independence movement continued to escalate. In Indonesia, whose territory
had been divided into several Army and Navy jurisdictions, the final months of
the war saw heightening movements for national independence throughout the
former Dutch East Indies. It was under such conditions that Japan finally
accepted defeat on 15 August 1945.
According to the Potsdam Declaration, from that day on in the regions still
occupied by Japan, Japanese troops were ordered to keep law and order under
Allied direction until the areas could be re-­occupied by Allied forces. On 17
August, however, Indonesia’s national liberation leader Sukarno (b. 1910) pro-
claimed the country’s independence, and during the month of September in
Vietnam, after a series of protest demonstrations, the Viê.t Minh wrested power
from the Annam Empire (August Revolution). Both countries were then
plunged into wars for independence with their former suzerains, the Nether-
lands and France, attempting re-­colonization.
The number of Japanese involved in the unfolding of their country’s occupa-
tion of Southeast Asia has been estimated at over 2 million, if we include
combat troops, conscripted civilian corps personnel, employees of enterprises
commissioned by the military and nationals residing in the region. For lack of
more accurate data, this figure is based on the number of people who were
evacuated from the region at the end of the war and the number of those killed
or missing in action, and does not include those who withdrew during the war
(due to regimental redeployment, dismissed civilian corpsmen and nationals
fleeing their war-­ravaged homes). The Japan Ministry of Health and Welfare has
estimated that the total number of evacuees and war dead over all of the
“southern” regions came to 2.33 million (1.31 million killed in action) and sets
the number from “occupied” Southeast Asia (i.e., excluding New Guinea and
the central Pacific Islands) at 1.65 million (including 760,000 killed in action)
[Kōseishō 1997: 118]. The total population of the region encompassed by
Japan’s Southern invasion operations (excluding India) around the year 1940
comes to 140 million people, who suffered casualties of mass proportions during
Japan’s military presence in their countries. In the Philippines alone, the postwar
official estimate claimed that over 1.1 million people lost their lives during the
war [Hartendorp 1958: 164], while as much as a million and a half Bengalis and
over 1 million Vietnamese allegedly died as the result of the rice famines of
1943 and 1944–5, respectively; and between 3 and 4 million Indonesians were
said to have succumbed to forced labor and starvation [Dower 1986: 296].
Attempting to weave together all of the innumerable and diverse life and
death experiences that occurred during the Southern Occupation would be an
endless task. This book is merely one way of piecing together what happened,
with the specific purpose of making sense out of Japan’s occupation of Southeast
 Introduction   17
Asia as a historical experience that unfolded for postwar Japan and its people.
The key phase “experience that unfolded after the war” is related to the histor-
ical impact that the occupation of Southeast Asia had on Japan and its people.

The occupation of Southeast Asia as a key moment in

dismantling the Japanese Empire
Both within the historical research to date on Japan’s occupation of Southeast
Asia and within the historical perceptions about the Asia-­Pacific War, the discus-
sion has been focused on the war’s relation to the “decolonization” (meaning
political independence from Western colonial rule) of the region. That is to say,
attention has been drawn to the historical impact of the Japanese occupation on
Southeast Asia.
With the exception of the constitutional monarchy of Thailand, all of the
region of Southeast Asia occupied by Japan consisted at that time of colonies,
territories and mandates of Western powers, although the Philippines was ear-
marked by a 1934 act of the US Congress for national independence in 1946.
Following Japan’s defeat and withdrawal, the region was plunged into turbulent
times marked by political movements and military action aimed at independence
from its colonial suzerains, resulting in gradual withdrawal of European empires
from the region, beginning with the Dutch and French by the late 1950s, fol-
lowed by Britain by the end of the 1960s. Even if it does not deserve to be
described in terms of “liberation,” it cannot be denied on any objective grounds
that the Japanese occupation was one of several important moments in the
decolonization of Southeast Asia.
In reviewing the research on the occupation done to date, we find that the
lead was first taken by Western based historians up through the 1970s [Benda
1958; Silverstein, ed. 1966; McCoy, ed. 1980]. Attention at that time was
focused on discovering the meaning of the Occupation in terms of the region’s
historical development and evaluating what had survived from the prewar into
the postwar era and what had not (continuity vs. discontinuity), all reflecting
the impact exerted by the loss of Southeast Asian colonies on their former Euro-
pean suzerains. In Japan by contrast, that same period was characterized by the
important historiographical accumulation of the “narrative” presented by the
occupation history makers [Yomiuri Shimbunsha 1967–76; Tokyo Daigaku, ed.
1980], while on the research front, the first full-­blown studies [Nishijima and
Kishi 1959; Ōta 1967; Kobayashi 1975] were mixed in with the publication of
fragmentary treatises [Gotō 1989; Yamamoto and Morita 1999].
It would not be until the beginning of the 1980s that in-­depth study of the
occupation would get underway in Japan, with the pioneering work of Iwatake
Teruhiko [1981, 1989], himself a former staff member of the Southern Army
military administration department, and a joint study of the relationship
between Japanese military administration and Asian nationalist movements
[Tanaka, ed. 1983] as well as interest in comparative occupation history on the
place to be awarded on the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia [Sodei, ed.
18   Introduction
1985]. This time was also marked by the Japan Defense Agency’s Institute of
Defense Studies publication of primary sources on the military administration of
Southeast Asia in 1985 [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985]. Then during the latter half
of the decade, the level of research was given a tremendous boost with the start
of the Toyota Foundation-­funded joint projects on the occupation in each
country and region of Southeast Asia, which began to publish their findings
during the 1990s in the form of both individual research and collections of
papers, many of which have become available in English translation. The dis-
covery of important primary sources and the publication of interview data also
continued [Gotō 1989; Kurasawa 1992; Ikehata, ed. 1996; Ikehata and Jose,
eds. 1999; Kurasawa, ed. 1997; Akashi, ed. 2001; Gotō 2003; Frei 2004;
Akashi and Yoshimura, eds. 2007; Nemoto, ed. 2007].
Those who assumed the lead in the research up through the 1990s in Japan
were historians of Southeast Asia who tended to adopt the problematic raised
by Western scholars centered on the meaning of Japan’s occupation within
Southeast Asian history. However, their contribution did not stop there; for as
Japanese scholars, they took full advantage of their familiarity with and proxim-
ity to both primary Japanese written sources and interviews given by surviving
Japanese informants to fill in both the historiographical and linguistic unknowns
theretofore existing in the research being done outside of Japan, thus providing
the field for the first time with first-­person portrayals of “Japan and the Japanese
as occupiers.” Moreover, during the latter part of the 1990s, stimulated by new
developments in source material availability and the boom happening in the
publication of records and memoirs from the pens and voices of actual war parti-
cipants, historians specializing in contemporary Japan began joining in with new
approaches to the events surrounding the occupation of Southeast Asia, broad-
ening perspectives in subjects ranging from politico-­diplomatic and economic to
cultural and intellectual, thus marking the opening of discourse on the meaning
of the Southern Occupation and its Japanese experience from the viewpoint of
the history of Japan [Hatano 1996; Adachi 2002; Takeshima 2003; Kawanishi
2005; 2012]. Scholarship on the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia outside
of Japan during the turn of the twenty-­first century has also produced a rich
body of literature and given new insights with more attention paid to socio-­
economic and cultural perspectives as well as imperial history [Goodman, ed.
1991; Reynolds 1994; Kratoska, ed. 1995; Duus, Myers, and Peattie, ed. 1996;
Kratoska 1997; Kratoska, ed. 1998; Ooi 2001; Kratoska, ed. 2002; Narangoa
and Robert, eds. 2003; Kratoska, ed. 2006; Mark 2014].
What has been emerging from all of these recent research trends is an image
of a Japanese Empire and its people as fighting a world war and engaging “the
Other” in the occupation of Southeast Asia, finding themselves in dire need of
transformation, encountering all kinds of unexpected contradictions and dead
ends, giving rise to new inquiries concerning that experience. As a matter of
fact, of the colonial empires that occupied the Asia-­Pacific region throughout its
history, the first one to completely collapse was the Japanese Empire, the newest
comer to the lot. By accepting the Potsdam Declaration, Japan agreed that its
 Introduction   19
“sovereignty shall be limited to the islands of Honshū, Hōkkaidō, Kyūshū,
Shikoku and such minor islands as we [the Allies] determine.” This act, by liber-
ating occupied territory from Japanese rule, ended once and for all that nation’s
experiment with both colonialism and imperialism. That being said, the ques-
tion remains whether or not the sole cause of the breakup and collapse of the
Japanese Empire was merely the military defeat suffered in an unwise, poorly
planned war of aggression in the Pacific. Is it not possible to consider that the
Japanese invasion and occupation of Southeast Asia was itself another important
historical shock shaking the foundations of the Japanese Empire?
In this sense, one of the problems to be taken up in the following chapters is
the clash over the real objectives of the war, between arguments based on the
need to procure military resources and those based on the idea of “a holy war of
liberation.” On the one hand, the Southern Campaign was certainly a military
strategy formed by opportunism and the material forces of a world at war, as an
expedition south in search of new sources of military material, the existing
stockpiles of which were dwindling due to such conditions as worsening rela-
tions with the United States. On the other hand, once full-­scale hostilities had
broken out, there arose among the Japanese prosecuting the war and conduct-
ing the occupation, a “groundswell” of enthusiasm that their efforts constituted
a holy war, imagined as a racial war, for the liberation of the peoples of Asia.
Regarding this latter assessment, IGHQ and the Southern Army General Staff,
both of whom gave the highest priority to acquiring war resources, in fact feared
inciting ideas and movements in the region’s colonies directed at national inde-
pendence, and took proactive measures to suppress the sudden upsurge of “holy
war” rhetoric, thus inadvertently creating a great source of friction between
IGHQ in Tokyo, the Southern Command in Saigon and its forces on the
ground.
The focus on the emerging contradictions and dead ends encountered by the
Japanese Empire is also concerned with weighing the “myth” and the “reality”
of the so-­called “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere.” It might be generally
assumed that, contrary to the “myth” of the slogan “co-­prosperity” promising
reciprocal wealth sharing and political equality, the “reality” of Japan’s military
occupation of Southeast Asia was nothing but oppression and that national
“independence” conferred on Burma and the Philippines under Japanese occu-
pation was only cosmetic and hollow. On the other hand, it is necessary to ask
whether Japan was even able to achieve the “reality” of actually occupying the
region. In other words, couldn’t it be said that the “reality” of the Japanese
Empire’s inability to form a stable social and political order in the region had
weakened that Empire at the pinnacle of its expansion and even influenced
power relations connected with the ideals of co-­prosperity, national independ-
ence and the like? It is from such a viewpoint that the “narrative” presented by
those Japanese who were involved in the occupation of Southeast Asia will be
taken up in an attempt to draw the reader’s interest to the historical shock
inflicted by Japan’s Southern Occupation, as an important moment in the weak-
ening and ultimate collapse of the whole Japanese Empire.
20   Introduction
Narita Ryūichi has raised the point that since the Japanese narrative of “war
experience” has been dominated by combatants engaging the enemy on the
battlefield, reflections concerning the Japanese “colonial experience” as “a place
of encounter with the Other” have “yet to mature” [Narita 2010: 20]. The Jap-
anese “war experience” certainly seems to have been dominated by a domestic
narrative in which Japanese lived, fought and died together either on the battle-
front or home front; however, Narita’s “colonial experience” is by no means
missing from the existing narrative. It has only been overlooked. By taking
notice of the Japanese “colonial experience,” especially as it regards the occupa-
tion of Southeast Asia and its failure, what emerges is the experience of discov-
ering the fact that the ways in which the Japanese Empire dealt with “the
Other” known as Southeast Asia just didn’t work and thus exposing the real
meaning of the historical shock inflicted by that experience on Japanese particip-
ants. It is from such a viewpoint, that the chapters that follow will try to show
how the experiences of the Japanese as occupiers of Southeast Asia could
become historical experience unfolding for postwar Japan and its people.

The narrators of the history: a note on methodology

With the above objectives in mind, the following chapters will unfold focusing
on a small group of selected participants in Japan’s Southern Occupation among
a cast of millions in featured roles of narrators/informants, while paying par-
ticular attention to the styles in which they have related their experiences during
wartime and in what ways those experiences have been chewed, regurgitated
and mulled over since the end of the war.
Let us now introduce our cast of characters beginning at the top of the
military command in Tokyo, among the staff officers at IGHQ and the members
of the Liaison Conferences between IGHQ and the Government. The words
and deeds of these high-­ranking military and civilian figures may be found in
their personal records, many of which have been published, such as the Sugi-
yama Memo [Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967], Records of Defeat (Haisen no Kiroku)
[Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1979]; Classified Journal of the War (Kimitsu Sensō Nisshi)
[Gunjishi Gakkai, ed. 1998], Documentary Sources of the Southern Military
Administration (Shiryōshu Nanpō no Gunsei) [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985], The
Secret Records of Prime Minister Tōjō (Tōjō Naikaku Sōri Daijin Kimitsu
Kiroku) [Itō et al., ed. 1990] and the Shigemitsu Mamoru Manuscripts (Shige-
mitsu Mamoru Shuki) [Shigemitsu 1986]. There are also the National Archives
of Japan’s open access cloud archives, the Japan Center for Asian Historical
Records (www.jacar.go.jp/), which has increasingly made the military and gov-
ernment sources of Imperial Japan available to the public including many of the
above as well as those of the National Institute for Defense Studies (Bōei
Kenkyūjo) Archives. Serious researchers, however, should still visit and consult
its collection for unpublished “narrative” sources not yet available on the Asian
Historical Records database, including the collection of memoirs written by
former Army Chief of Staff officer and war architect Col. Ishii Akiho5 and other
 Introduction   21
unpublished and personal “narrative” sources donated to the National Institute
for Defense Studies. These documents showing the actual day-­to-day process by
which these leaders directed the war offer scholars rather exceptional opportun-
ities to reconstruct the past in detail, while other topics and periods of Japanese
modern and contemporary history suffer from a serious lack of unclassified
sources. In this volume, we will investigate how this group of leaders, ensconced
in their secret headquarters far removed from Southeast Asia, conceptualized
their army’s occupation of the region.
Next, we have the officers and enlisted troops serving in the expeditionary
forces to Southeast Asia, the men in uniform who left a huge amount of nar-
rative. Focusing mainly on bloody and violent experiences from the battlefield,
these first-­hand accounts and memoirs are in a certain sense extremely important
as historical experience forming postwar consciousness in Japan; however, given
the concern of the present work with the “colonial experience,” light will be
shed mainly on the experiences of those at the hub of the expeditionary forces
charged with military administration and occupation policy-­making, acting as
intermediaries between the war leaders in Tokyo and the people of the occupied
territories and their political leaders.
For example, the candid remarks of Iida Shōjirō, Commander in Chief of the
Hayashi Group (Burma) [Iida 1962; Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985] and the memoirs
of Imamura Hitoshi [1960], the Osamu Group (Java) Commander, attest to
the friction that existed between the troops in the field and both IGHQ and the
Southern Army General Staff. Attention will be drawn to military administration
described in such sources as the memoirs of Utsunomiya Naokata [1981], head
of the General Affairs Department of the Military Administration in the Philip-
pines, and the primary sources collected by Watanabe Wataru, who held the
same post in Malaya [Akashi, ed. 1998]. We will also hear from the younger,
lower-­ranking officers who served as military administrative staff in the region,
such as Saitō Shizuo [1977] in Indonesia, Sakakibara Masaharu [1998; Akashi,
ed. 2004] at Southern Army Staff Headquarters, and their counterparts in the
Philippines, Malaya and Singapore, whose stories appear in the available pub-
lished interview data. There are the memoirs of agents involved in special polit-
ical operations or “scheme” (bōryaku, see Ch.4) in Burma (the Minami Agency),
India (the Fujiwara Agency) and the Philippines (operatives working under Gen.
Artemio Ricarte).
While accounts of the occupation on the local level are few and far between,
the reports filed by Hitomi Junsuke regarding “good will mission” operations
throughout the Philippines have survived and been published [Watari Shūdan
Hōdōbu, ed.]. Through such published materials, we will investigate the atti-
tudes and actions of Japanese men in uniform directed at the indigenous peoples
of the occupied territories and their political leaders.
The Southern Army’s utilization of a large contingent of civilians, non-­
uniform employees and commissioned corporate personnel in its invasion and
occupation of Southeast Asia has to be one of the most striking characteristics
of the Asia-­Pacific War. Although the amount of narrative produced by this
22   Introduction
sector of the war effort pales in comparison to the body of literature generated
by uniformed combatants, it has particular importance in informing us of histor-
ical aspects of the Southern Occupation that tend to be missing in the battle-
field narratives.
It should not be surprising that the most prolific and enlightening parts of the
civilian corps narrative come to us via the pens of intellectuals, in particular literary
figures, who have left a substantial collection of accounts and memoirs dating
from the time of their initial involvement to the end of the war, and even after.
That being said, within the total number of civilians mobilized by the
Southern Army, those who can be called “intellectuals” comprised an excep-
tionally tiny group. Within the total number of the estimated 20,000 “gunzoku”
employees of the Army and Navy, the area groups conscripted 7,652 govern-
ment bureaucrats and corporate personnel to serve as “administrative directors”
and “administrative staff ” [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 198], while the Army and
Navy supplemented their uniformed troops with 13,695 “gunzoku” employees
specializing in such fields as linguistics and communications technology [ibid.:
199]. Besides personnel with “gunzoku” classification, a large contingent of
civilians, including women, were hired and transferred south to serve as typists,
telephone operators, and vehicle drivers, etc., while a huge part of the Japanese
business sector advanced south along with the occupation to take over factories,
mines and oil fields seized from the enemy, some in the form of military-­
commissioned enterprises. Members of the workforce dispatched from the
private sector were classified as “industrial development and trade staff (sangyō
kaihatsu kōeki yōin).” As of June 1943, the number of Japanese nationals resid-
ing in occupied Southeast Asia (i.e., army administered territory), including visi-
tors, exceeded 40,000 [ibid.: 183–4].
Another interesting genre in the civilian narrative regarding the Southern
Occupation was written by the contingent known as “keizaijin (literally
meaning homo economicus),” a moniker that cropped up in prewar journalism
around 1930 referring to the leaders of Japan’s business community
(keizaikai)—corporate executive officers, board directors and the like—and then
came to prominence after total war had broken out in China in 1937, reflecting
the atmosphere of the business community which felt it their patriotic role to
contribute all they could to the success of the Empire’s war effort. As soon as
the southern operation stabilized to a certain degree, large groups of Japanese
began to be dispatched to the region in the capacity of military administration
staff members and participating enterprise employees. For their contribution to
the Empire as the builders of its “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere,”
these keizaijin were lauded as business and industrial “warriors,” but through
their experiences as such they developed their own sense of self-­awareness,
significantly different from that of the men in uniform.
Murata Shōzō, Supreme Advisor to the Military Administration in the Philip-
pines (later plenipotentiary ambassador to the Philippines) clearly outlines the
keizaijin experience in his diary, while the journal kept by Sakakibara Masaharu,
published after the war “in unexpurgated form” [Sakakibara 1998: 377],
 Introduction   23
although written as a staff officer at Southern Army General Headquarters, con-
tains entries that seem to express the keizaijin point of view. The central gov-
ernment bureaucrats who were mustered into the Southern Army’s military
administration, beginning with Iwatake Teruhiko, who later became a serious
scholar of that military regime, stand before us as valuable witnesses for piecing
together a total picture of the Southern Occupation; and the accounts and
memoirs that have remained regarding the “oilmen brigade,” which took charge
of the oil fields at Palembang, Sumatra, are especially informative concerning
the war and military occupation experiences of the keizaijin contingent. Along
this same vein, we have the diary of Kuwano Fukuji, a trading company
employee dispatched to Burma, where he had worked before the war, a record
filled with interesting, personal insights of “one individual citizen,” published in
1988 “for the information of younger generations” [Kuwano 1988: 14]. This
kind of narrative accumulated from such a diverse mix of civilians telling of their
experiences in encountering “the Other” will be referred to as showing views of
keizaijin as homo economicus, which are different from those of professional
writers and intellectuals.
Last but not least, are the experiences of Japanese nationals who had been
residing in Southeast Asia before the war, called “zairyu hōjin” or resident Japa-
nese. Suddenly caught in “enemy territory” following the first strikes and decla-
ration of war, many had been taken prisoner or evicted from their homes, and
consequently welcomed the Japanese Army’s takeover and occupation; but as
the war dragged on, they would see their former livelihoods ruined and be
eventually “evacuated” altogether to Japan. By means of interview data and the
memoirs of such “zairyu hōjin” as Ōsawa Kiyoshi [1978], who miraculously
survived the cruel and bloody Battle of Manila with the help of Filipino friends,
we will encounter how these displaced Japanese ruminated over their unique
experiences in postwar times.
Here mention should be made concerning all the “storytellers” who will not
appear in the following chapters, in order to re-­confirm the purpose of this
study. As exemplified by those who appeared at the beginning of this chapter,
those whose accounts and memoirs have been chosen for study here are, with
very few exceptions, “postwar Japanese,” who survived wartime to tell their
tales. As mentioned above, the survival rate among all Japanese who were dis-
patched south during the war comes to 44 percent all told, and 54 percent
when limited to Southeast Asia proper, figures which best show how skewed
our selection of “storytellers” is. On the other hand, since the main objective of
this study is to understand Japan’s Southeast Asian occupation in terms of the
historical experience that gave birth to the “postwar Japanese,” we would rather
limit ourselves to the kind of narrative left by those who survived the war and
were able to chew, regurgitate and mull over their experiences after the conflict.
One more important constraint placed on the subject matter at hand is the
exclusion of the people of Taiwan and the Korean peninsula from the members
of the Empire’s “Japanese nation” whose narratives are to be analyzed. The
total number of people of Taiwanese and Korean descent who were conscripted
24   Introduction
and militarily embedded during the war is estimated by the Japanese govern-
ment to have reached 451,000 [Kōseishō 1997: 23], and many of them were
deployed as both combat troops and “gunzoku” with the Southern Army. This
is one statistical reason why excluding colonial subjects from our pool of “Japa-
nese” would appear at first sight to leave us with a biased sample. However, our
focus on “postwar Japanese” demands that they be excluded. For example,
Yoshizawa Minami, a pioneer in the pursuit of the historical experience of Japa-
nese deployed to French Indochina, including that of Lin Wenzhuang, a colo-
nial subject of Taiwanese descent who remained in Vietnam after Japan’s defeat
and escaped the country as a refugee in 1979 [Yoshizawa 1986: 122–4],
described his first reaction to Lin as “a forgotten experience unimaginable”
[ibid.: 120–1] for any “postwar Japanese” living in the late 1970s. It is in this
way that the experiences of the Japanese colonies and the people of Taiwan and
Korea, who just before the end of the war were not only subjected to the
military draft, but also scheduled to be included in the electorate for the House
of Representatives of the Imperial Diet, were completely wiped from the
“postwar Japanese” memory, and thus have by definition little to say about that
particular historical experience.
This brings us to the difficult problem of putting into focus those who have
not yet told their stories, the Empire’s subalterns. For example, there is the so-­
called “military embedded comfort women,” whose “existence” has been
repeatedly described in postwar literature, but who were for almost four decades
after the war hardly perceived in terms of sex slavery, in particular, or Japanese
colonialism, in general. If we assume the ignoring or forgetting of the view-
points of colonial subjects and sex slaves to be problems missing from the master
narrative in the “postwar Japanese” world, such a phenomenon must in some
way be related to the present state of the historical experience concerning the
occupation of Southeast Asia. While following mainly the warp and weft of the
“master narrative” woven by the existing sources, it is also necessary to adopt a
method of reading from those sources not only what they contain, but also the
subaltern elements conspicuously missing from them.

Notes
1 All dates appearing in the text have been confirmed by comparison with the available
sources. According to the research done by Kawanishi Masaaki, the envelope contain-
ing the induction notice delivered to Abe Tomoji was a special delivery letter received
by the Tokyo Central Post Office in the morning of 15 November 1941. If so, there is
a distinct possibility that the induction notices were all sent at the same time as the
issuance of IGHQ Army Department Order (Dai Riku Mei) No. 564 ordering the
Southern invasion [Kawanishi 2001: 161].
2 According to the 1875 “General Outline of Military Institutions” compiled by the
Ministry of War,
The term gunzoku will designate public servants (bureaucrats) in the civilian gov-
ernment sector in the employ of (dispatched to) the army, and other personnel in
the capacity of supervisors, procurers-­suppliers, and non-­combat and transport,
laborers, et al., all providing their services to army-­owned production facilities.
 Introduction   25
The ranks of “gunzoku” were divided into government civil servants (bunkan), tempo-
rary administrative staff (koin) and private contract laborers (yōnin), et al.
3 The Japanese military, at least in the Philippines, called its Senden-­Han psych-­op
detachments the “Propaganda Detail” and also “PK Units” emulating the German
Propaganda Kompanie Einheiten. After the name was ridiculed by Filipino Anglo-
phones as nothing but “army units spreading lies and deceit,” the name was changed
to Hōdōbu (Department of Information) in July 1942. The change was also imple-
mented by the other area groups in the Southern Army under similar circumstances
[Hitomi 1994: 31–2].
4 Whenever dates are mentioned in Sakakibara (1998), the reference citations will there-
after be omitted.
5 Ishii Akiho’s “Diary of Southern Military Administration (Nanpō Gunsei Nikki),”
which appears as a “selection” in several volumes of a number of War History Series
(Senshi Sōshō) compiled by the War History Office of the National Defense Institute
of  Japan, as well as Documentary Sources of the Southern Military Administration
(Shiryōshu Nanpō no Gunsei) [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985], suffers from both textual
inaccuracies and deliberate abridgement, which forces the serious researcher to refer to
the original, held in the archives of the National Institute for Defense Studies. This is
also true for many of the other sources “selected” by the editors of war history com-
pendia. Most of the Ishii Akiho quotations appearing here have been taken from the
published literature, with the exception of cases in which fear of possible contradictions
force citation of the original.
1 The “Southern question”
and the Imperial General
Headquarters Army General
Staff

1  The South as an exit from the war in China

War planning and management detail’s Classified War Journal

Saturday, 1 June 1940. It was on this day, a year and half prior to the start of
the Asia-­Pacific War that Tanemura Suketaka (b. 1904), a member of IGHQ
Army General Staff (Rikugun Sanbōbu) Operations Section War Planning and
Management Detail (Sensō Shidōhan), sat down and wrote on page one of a
blank journal, “From this day forward … a daily account of our work will be
recorded here.” This marked the beginning of the detail’s Classified Journal
(Kimitsu Sensō Nisshi; hereinafter Classified War Journal), which would be con-
tinued by a string of the detail members until August 1945 [Gunjishi Gakkai,
ed. 1998, Vol. I: 7; JACAR: C12120316400].1 Encouraged by escalation of the
war in Europe, the breaking of the strange silence that had enveloped the region
since the German invasion of Poland, which marked the beginning of World
War II on 1 September 1939, that is, the recent German invasion of Belgium
and the Netherlands (10 May 1940), the battle of Dunkirk followed by the
retreat of British troops from the continent (4 June) and the German occupa-
tion of Paris (14 June), the Army General Staff had suddenly begun entertaining
the possibility of Japan’s own military advance to “the South.”
In the introduction to the full text of the detail’s Classified War Journal,
edited and published by the Gunjishi Gakkai in 1998, the editors inform readers
that in 1936 at the suggestion of Col. Ishihara Kanji, the War Planning and
Management Section, originally set up under the Army General Staff, as “an
organization for national defense policy planning from a long run perspective,”
was the following year demoted to the organizational status of “detail” (han) as
Ishihara left the Army General Staff; and from that time on the weakened organ-
ization with no more than five staff members at any one time was in no position
to assume the responsibility of planning a war. Nevertheless, the detail was able
to represent the Army General Staff in the Ministries of War and the Navy, as
well as the Navy General Staff, in its duties of management for the Liaison Con-
ferences between IGHQ and the government (Daihon’ei Seifu Renraku Kaigi;
hereinafter IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference).2 The Introduction goes
 The “Southern question”   27
on to explain the reasons why the Classified War Journal’s publication had been
delayed, citing “the character of the text itself … which is rife with the personal
opinions and emotional outbursts of its authors” [ibid., Vol. 1: viii–ix]. In sum,
this is a record left by a group of officers, albeit peripheral to policy-­making per
se, in a position to see the full picture; and by the very fact of their “emotional
outbursts” that appear from time to time, constitutes a very interesting “nar-
rative” depicting the ideas and perceptions of the army’s elite on both the tem-
peramental and day-­to-day work environment levels.
Tanemura Suketaka, who remained in the War Planning and Management
Detail the longest of anyone, from December 1939 to August 1945, repro-
duced parts of the journal sprinkled with his personal recollections and com-
mentary as Daihon’ei Kimitsu Nisshi (Classified Journal of IGHQ) published in
1952 [Tanemura 1952]. The book, which was written upon his repatriation
from Siberia where he had been detained as a POW since he surrendered to the
USSR as a member of the Korean Army General Staff, to which he was assigned
on 1 August 1945, departs considerably from the text of the original journal,
containing both remorseful misgivings and self-­serving justifications from a
postwar perspective as commonly found in postwar memoirs written by other
military figures and politicians. Now that the complete original has been pub-
lished, the way in which it was first re-­narrated by Tanemura and his comrades
makes for even more interesting reading.
In his introductory remarks to his book, Tanemura emphasizes the fact that
as of the end of March 1940, the proposal for a step-­by-step withdrawal of Japa-
nese forces from China beginning the following year was formally accepted by
both the Ministry of War and the Army General Staff. In contrast, the interest
shown at that time by the Army General Staff toward the South is described as
limited to proposals concerning a landing operation on Luzon in the case of war
with the United States; otherwise, there was “a complete lack of interest” as far
as the other regions of the South were concerned. What would cause a complete
turnaround in such an attitude was the seemingly unstoppable offensive
launched by the German forces and the defeat of France. It was then that a pos-
sible Southern Campaign “first officially became a topic of study at Army
General Staff ” [ibid.: 12–15].
Tanemura here failed to mention the fact that the main purpose of “troop
reductions in China” lay in the reorganization of Japan’s national defense system
and buildup of military preparedness at home in anticipation of a possible war
with the Soviet Union [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1973, Vol. 1: 210],
giving the impression of the kind of abridgment to be expected from a recent
returnee from POW detention camps in Siberia. Nevertheless, Tanemura seems
spot on about Japan’s military attention being spun around in the other direc-
tion by what was deemed an “excellent opportunity” offered by the sudden turn
of events on the European war front. In fact, the term “Nanpō (the South)”
first appears in the original Classified War Journal on 19 June 1940, immedi-
ately after the German occupation of Paris. Just prior to this entry, on 11 June,
the journal records “Lecture on the South Seas” (Nanyō Kōwa) was delivered at
28   The “Southern question”
the Office of Army General Staff by Ōtani Kōzui (b. 1876), a world traveler and
the twenty-­second abbot of the Honganji Faction of the Jōdo Shinshū pure
land sect of Buddhism, which had been involved in plantation management in
such places as Java since 1917. It was around that time, according to the Classi-
fied War Journal, that an exchange of ideas had begun among the department
heads and section leaders at the Ministry of War and the Office of Army General
Staff, producing a “ministerial level decision on various policy measures
regarding the South,” followed during August by proposals concerning
“Southern operations general planning” (from 15 August), initial “study” of a
proposal for “Southern War Planning and Management” (from 19 August) and
an “exhibit of clothing best suited to a Southern campaign” (13 August).

The issue of Japanese military presence in northern Indochina

Upon reflection, one cannot help being astounded by the fact that the Japanese
Imperial Army, which would play the starring role in Japan’s historic encounter
with Southeast Asia during the war, became interested in the region on the
General Staff level only a year and a half prior to launching an invasion. Then
how was the South perceived within the consciousness of the General Staff
during that year and a half? What can be ascertained is that the major issue con-
cerning the South in the eyes of the Army General Staff as of mid-­1940 focused
on French Indochina, specifically problems surrounding the stationing of Japa-
nese troops in its northern region, which was thought to be one possible
strategy for Japan’s exit from the war in China.
Three years had elapsed since the full-­scale outbreak of war in China; and
Japan was now losing hope of either destroying or forcing the surrender of the
Republic of China’s Nationalist Government, known as the “Chungking
(Chiang Kai-­shek) Government.” While a game of wits was being played at the
peace table, including the “Kiri Deal’s” secret negotiations of 1939, the bom-
bardment of Chunking by mainly Japanese Naval Air Service planes, which had
continued since 1938 and was being condemned by the international com-
munity as indiscriminate bombing, had been escalated between May and July.
Finally, at the end of September 1939 the various efforts at peace, which had
generated some glimmer of hope, were deemed “virtually hopeless,” as Japan
abandoned its plans for a short conclusion to the war with China and prepared
for the long haul.
Meanwhile, what was occupying the minds at Army General Staff Head-
quarters was France’s surrender to Germany in June and the strong possibility
of an English defeat in the aerial Battle of Britain, which had begun in July. In
sync with such an assessment of the European situation was the sudden emer-
gence of discussions regarding military action against French Indochina and
Hong Kong as one means of putting pressure on the Chiang Kai-­shek regime.
On 23 July 1940, the Southern China Area Army was placed under the direct
command of IGHQ and one contingent was ordered to advance to the French
Indochina border region in preparation for an invasion. The main objective of
 The “Southern question”   29
the maneuver was to cut off one route in the “Chiang lifeline,” a network of
military supply routes to the Chungking Government maintained by the US and
Britain connecting Southeast Asia and southern China via an “Indochinese” and
“Burmese” route.
However, caution was the keyword even within the Ministry of War, let alone
government circles as a whole, concerning the stationing of troops in northern
Indochina by the use of armed force against the Vichy France regime, which had
formally proclaimed neutrality in the war, despite its formation under German
occupation. The Navy also strongly opposed armed intrusion and threatened to
interfere with any attempts by the Southern China Area Army to cross the border
on its own volition. In spite of the fact that from early on it had shown far more
interest than the army in advancing south, the Navy, still not fully prepared for
war at this stage, feared more than anything else arousing the ire of Great Britain
and the United States by the “southward advance by force.”
Then on 22 September, on the eve of an impending armed incursion across
the border, Brigadier General Nishihara Issaku, Japan’s man on the ground as
the head of its French Indochina Observer Mission, was successful in signing an
agreement with the French General of the Army Maurice-­Pierre Auguste
Martin, that would permit the “peaceful stationing” of Japanese troops within
colonial territory. However, one portion of the Japanese Army unaware of the
agreement did attempt an armed intrusion, engaging French troops in battle
and causing loss of life. Snafus in Army and Navy communications and coordin-
ation caused three battalions of the Nishimura Brigade who had staged a beach-
head at Haiphong to be abandoned by their naval escort, which retreated to the
base on Hainan Island, and led to the “accidental bombing” of Haiphong by
the Army Air Service. As expressed in Nishihara’s scathing telegram to IGHQ, it
was a situation of “disorganization at the supreme command losing credibility
both within and without” [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1973, Vol. 2: 143].
As a result, by the end of the first week of October, the Army Chief of Staff, the
heads of his Military Operations Section and detail, the commander of the
Southern China Area Army, along with Maj. Gen. Nishihara Issaku, had all been
replaced. Tanemura Suketaka later described this incident as “the worst storm
to hit General Staff Headquarters during my [six-­year] term of duty there”
[Tanemura 1952: 33].
The stationing of Japanese troops in northern Indochina, which involved
armed aggression caused by “disorganization at the top command,” was widely
and loudly reported in the United States as a Japanese invasion of the colony.3
The US reaction to the incident went beyond Japan’s worst fears, as the Frank-
lin D. Roosevelt administration immediately announced on 25 September the
extension of credit to China (the Chiang Kai-­shek regime) and on the following
day an embargo of scrap iron exports to Japan, measures that had already been
earmarked for implementation. Meanwhile, immediately following the station-
ing of troops in northern Indochina, on 27 September, Japan officially joined
the Axis Alliance with Germany and Italy under the direction of Minister of
Foreign Affairs Matsuoka Yōsuke (b. 1880). While the Army General Staff
30   The “Southern question”
preoccupied itself with the problems surrounding the Indochina troop deploy-
ment, the Classified War Journal treats the “Axis issue” as if it were somebody
else’s business, writing on 15 September, “the Cabinet has made all the prepara-
tions and it is no great concern of ours.” However, in the international com-
munity, the Japanese military presence in northern Indochina and the
conclusion of the Axis Alliance were both seen as part of the same course of
action, in which Japan had placed itself in the irreversible role of antagonist vis-­
à-vis the United States and Great Britain. French Indochina, which had started
out as the army’s anticipated exit from the war in China, had now become the
entrance for Japan’s entanglement in the affairs of Southeast Asia and the
World War.

2  “Seize the moment” vs “circumspect” views of Japan’s

advance into Southeast Asia

“Draft of a Policy Agenda Dealing with the China Incident”

With the passage of such events as the abandonment of efforts to establish peace
with the Chungking (Chiang Kai-­shek) Nationalist Chinese regime, the deploy-
ment of troops to northern French Indochina, membership of the Axis Alliance,
not to mention the personnel shakeup at Army General Staff Headquarters,
October 1940 was ushered in with the beginning of “discussions at the top
ministerial and General Staff levels” concerning “Draft of a Policy Agenda
Dealing with the China Incident.” The Classified War Journal’s 20 October
1940 entry reads, “Arguing that seizing a golden opportunity and taking
military action to solve the Southern Question would solve the China Incident
was an extraordinary position fraught with difficult problems.” The idea
expressed here of plunging Japan into a world war in the search for a conclusion
to its war in China foreshadows the actual conditions under which Japan would
consequently drive itself into a corner.
The central figure in the drafting of the army’s proposal for the China exit
strategy, as the head of the China Detail of the Ministry of War’s Military Affairs
Bureau Military Affairs Section, was Lt. Colonel Ishii Akiho (b. 1900), who
would direct the startup of military administration in Japanese occupied South-
east Asia. Author Hosaka Masayasu, who conducted an extended interview with
Ishii, has stated, “He was a cut above the other former military figures I had
met up to that time,” describing Ishii as “an intelligent, dispassionately reasoned
soldier” [Hosaka 2004: 68–9]. After the war, Ishii would decline careers in
either the Self-­Defense Forces, politics or business, preferring to retire to his
home prefecture of Yamaguchi, living a secluded life “digging the soil in good
weather, reading books in bad,” from where he continued to act as an important
source of information on the history of the war.
In 1960 Ishii stated that the army’s “Draft for a Policy Agenda for Dealing
with the China Incident,” which he drafted on 22 October 1940, was based on
the general assumption that the conflict would turn into a “tremendous battle
 The “Southern question”   31
of endurance” [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1973, Vol. 3: 70]. In sum, it
was time to give up trying to bend the Chiang Kai-­shek regime to Japan’s will
and recognize the Nanking Nationalist Government set up by Wang Zhaoming
(Jingwei) with Japan’s support, then reorganize the war front to put more
military pressure on the Chiang Regime to join the Nanking Government.
What is noteworthy for our purpose here is that Ishii’s draft marks the first
time that any Japanese policy statement referred to the “southward advance by
force.”

In order to cut the Chiang’s lifeline, conduct a great long-­term war of

endurance and complete the preparations for a self-­sustaining and inde-
pendent defense of the Empire, it is necessary to solve our Southern prob-
lems as soon as possible. For that purpose, we must seize the opportunity
and take military action.
[Ibid.: 74; JACAR: C14120667900]

What this document implies here is the objective of solving the army’s perceived
“Southern problems” as a part of “dealing with the China Incident” does not
stop at cutting of the lifeline routes from Southeast Asia to Chungking, but
goes on to securing “a self-­sustaining, independent defense of the Empire”
making possible “a great long-­term war of endurance” in China, meaning secur-
ing military material resources from the South. The great majority of the neces-
sary resources, like petroleum, iron and rare metals, for Japan to maintain
modern military forces depended on imports from the United States and the
US-­European colonies in the South, i.e., Southeast Asia. Phrases like “complete
preparation” for “a self-­sustaining and independent defense” replete with hopes
of freeing Japan at the earliest possible moment from its dependency for such
resources on the West and its colonies.
On the other hand, since such dependence was indeed the present reality,
IGHQ and the government had wanted to (and thought they could) avoid
unnecessarily angering the US and Great Britain, even in the military occupa-
tion of northern Indochina, by explaining it as an operation solely aimed at
cutting the Chungking lifeline, while withholding such internal proposals as
obtaining rubber and rice taking advantage of the occupation. Despite such pre-
cautions, the US reaction to the incident was far stronger than expected, raising
fears of Japan-­US relations deteriorating beyond repair, in general, and of oil
shortages, in particular. Along with such fears, two ways of thinking began to
develop: one perceiving there was no way but to form strategies around a south-
ward advance by force aimed specifically at obtaining military material (called
here “the circumspect southward advance view”); the other perceiving that the
“golden opportunity” provided by the successes of Germany on the European
front now made it possible for Japan to advance into Southeast Asia (here “the
seize the moment views of southward advance”). Ishii’s draft proposal reflects
both “views,” which up until the start of the actual invasion would become
inconspicuously confused and intertwined.
32   The “Southern question”
While also deeply interested in a southward advance, the Japanese Navy,
unable to separate any military advance into the region from aggressive action
against the US and Britain, meaning the outbreak of war, strongly opposed the
army’s original proposal calling for “an armed southward advance seizing the
golden opportunity set before us.” A southward advance must not become
national policy until naval preparations for war with the US, including battleship
construction, were sufficiently completed; what was needed now, argued the
Navy, was preparation (meaning budget allocations). The army took the official
position that, to the contrary, unless national policy decisions were made, it
would not be able to proceed with the large-­scale reorganization of the army
which thus far had dealt with the war in China and the possible threat imposed
to national defense from the North (Soviet Union). Finally, when it became
known in September 1940 that Britain had successfully defended itself in the
aerial war with Germany and that Germany had postponed its plans to invade
the British Isles, the Japanese Army’s “golden opportunity” proponents were
considerably silenced, as the final draft of the “Policy Agenda Dealing with the
China Incident” accepted at the Gozen Kaigi (Imperial Council) of 13 Novem-
ber contained not even a single reference to the “Southern Question.” And so,
the possibilities and conditions for an armed southward advance became a
research topic in Army and Navy circles to be investigated separately from the
issues surrounding the Second Sino-­Japanese War [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu,
ed. 1973, Vol. 3: 76–81; JACAR: C12120237400].
Although the idea of a Southern advance was shelved in terms of national
policy during late 1940, wheels had now definitely been set in motion within
the huge organizations of both the Japanese Army and naval forces regarding a
Southern Campaign. Between October and the end of December 1940, the
army began forming an “Anticipated Southern Campaign Force,” which
involved the mechanization of horse-­drawn transport, training for “operations
in tropical regions, especially landing missions,” the creation of paratrooper
units for attacking and occupying Indonesian oil fields, and a buildup of
weapons, ammunition and fuel, including 10,000 land vehicles and 600 small
and large landing craft, in Taiwan, which was to serve as the base of logistics
supplying a Southern Campaign. Then in late March–early April 1941, a simu-
lated invasion of Singapore was conducted through a “large scale assault landing
military exercise,” in which the Southern China Area Army crossed the East
China Sea, landing in Kyushu and staging the capture of Fort Sasebo. Mean-
while, as early as August 1940, after Japanese troops were stationed in northern
French Indochina, the Navy begun building up its military preparedness in
anticipation of the possible opening of hostilities, announcing that by December
it would be “ready to respond to any situation” other than directly targeting the
United States.” In order to complete preparation for directly targeting the US,
the Navy continued the requisition of heavy vessels and during April 1941
announced that as the result of the construction of battle cruisers, etc., it was
“75% battle ready for war with the United States”; and from September moved
into battle formation, as all the ships of the Combined Fleet returned to their
 The “Southern question”   33
home ports and stood ready for action [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1973,
Vol. 3.: 286–92; 299–304].
“Scheme (Bōryaku)” or “Unconventional warfare” missions also got
underway in earnest. The first among them was a mission in Burma led by
Army  Colonel Suzuki Keiji (b. 1897). During March 1940, Suzuki, who had
developed his intelligence operations skills in the Philippines and Dutch East
Indies during the 1930s, was put in charge of the intelligence activities at Army
General Staff Headquarters and ordered to conduct a study that would lead to a
plan for cutting off the Burma route in the “Chiang (Kai-­shek) Lifeline.” In his
research, Suzuki focused his attention on the anti-­British pro-­national independ-
ence group, the Dobama Asiayone (hereafter, the Thakins). Posing as one
“Minami Masuyo,” General-­Secretary of the Japan-­Burma Association and
reporter for Yomiuri Shimbun news, Suzuki secretly entered Burma and made
contact with the leaders of the Thakins, promising them, without authorization,
that Japan would support their national independence movement. Aung San (b.
1915), who was the de facto supreme leader of the Thakins, had fled Burma to
avoid capture by the British authorities and gone to Amon in the hope of
making contact with the Chinese Communist Party. Suzuki had the Kempeitai
(Japanese Military Police) there arrest Aung San and escort him to Japan. After
meeting Aung San at Tokyo’s Haneda Airport, Suzuki persuaded him to
cooperate in the Japanese military’s plan to aid Burma’s national independence.
According to historian Nemoto Kei, Aung San, despite his serious reservation
about such Japanese attitude exhibited by Suzuki as unabashed bigotry toward
Koreans and offering him (Aung San) a prostitute, and Japan’s invasion of
China, he accepted Suzuki’s proposal based on the judgment that at that point
in time joining forces with Japan was the best realistic alternative for achieving
Burmese independence [Nemoto 1996: 94–104]. In December of that year, the
then Minister of War Tōjō Hideki and Army Chief of Staff Sugiyama Hajime
approved the recommendation for the “scheme (bōryaku)” mission in Burma,
and in February 1941 the Minami Agency was set up as a special operations
organization to support the Burmese national independence movement. By
August, the Minami Agency, which set up headquarters in Bangkok, managed
to help thirty members of the Thakins escape from Burma and provided them
with military training on the island of Hainan in the South China Sea [Bōei
Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1973: Vol. 3: 292–8; Takeshima 2003: 201–19].

Abandonment of the “seize the moment view” of a Southern advance

While the gears of preparation for a Southern advance were beginning to rev up,
the Army General Staff officers of the IGHQ continued to brood like Hamlet
over whether an invasion of Southeast Asia was to be or not to be. Within that
anguishing process, between December 1940 and April 1941, the army in par-
ticular spurred on research that in the middle of April produced a proposal, enti-
tled “Policy Agenda for the South (Tai Nanpō Shisaku Yōkō)” (approved 6 June
1941 by the IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference). Since the War Planning
34   The “Southern question”
and Management Detail occupied the central role in shaping the proposal for
the army, the Classified War Journal provides a detailed account of the long and
winding route it took to reach its destination.
The final version of the “Policy Agenda,” which required nearly six months
to complete, called for a national policy that would aim at fully providing for
“the Empire’s self-­existence and self-­defense” (in other words, securing military
resources) by forming “close, inseparable bonds” with Thailand and French
Indochina along military, political and economic lines, firmly establishing “close
economic ties” with the Dutch East Indies and “maintaining normal trade rela-
tions with all the other countries of the South.” Since these suggested measures
were in principle to be achieved exclusively through diplomatic channels, it
seems that all of a sudden the army had closed the book on its enthusiasm
widely shared within the army that the time was right to move south and instead
took a big step toward the circumspect attitude adopted by the Navy; that is,
military force will be used only in the event that the United States “threatens
Japan militarily (by imposing a total embargo)” (Classified War Journal 20
March 1941). In sum, no armed force would be used, even under such ineluct-
able conditions as the fall of Britain; rather, the fundamental policy direction
would aim toward ensuring resources (in particular, East Indian Dutch and
American oil) through diplomacy (point no. 4); the conditions for the use of
military force (point no. 3) would be limited exclusively to the absence of any
alternative to dealing with (a) “the Empire’s self-­existence being threatened” by
import embargoes imposed by such countries as the United States, Britain and
the Netherlands and/or (b) the “inability to no longer tolerate in terms of the
Empire’s defense” against the further development of “a system designed to
surround the Empire” coordinated by Britain, the Netherlands and China
[Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 1: 217–18; JACAR: C12120207100].
From the pages in the Classified War Journal related to the “Policy Agenda,”
we discover one decisive factor in the War Planning Detail’s move toward the
Navy’s point of view was the findings of a study entitled “Analysis of National Phys-
ical Capability (Butteki Kokuryoku Handan)” done by the Ministry of War Military
Affairs Bureau War Preparation Section, which was conducted while waiting for the
belated reply by the Navy to the army’s proposed initiative. This study, which was
headed by Captain Shibafu Hideo, was a simulation of levels of “National physical
capability” up through 1946, given two different scenarios: (1) launching a military
campaign in Southeast Asia on 1 April 1941, resulting in the opening of hostilities
with the US and Britain; and (2) taking no such military action.
The study came to the following conclusions. First, in the event of the war
with the US and Britain, excluding “the destruction of the homeland” caused
by enemy air raids, etc., material supply capability would be reduced over the
long run and there would occur a serious shortage of nonferrous and rare
metals, due to the paralysis of foreign trade, pressure on maritime transporta-
tion, and the depletion of raw materials for light industry. Moreover, in the
occupied areas of the South, it would be impossible to avoid the occurrence of
“one-­directional foreign trade” between those regions and Japan (outflow of
 The “Southern question”   35
military resources from the South to Japan), a state of affairs that would “make
life unbearable in those regions and give rise to exploitative economic conditions,
and thus cause all kinds of difficulty in governing the occupied territories.” On
the other hand, if the cessation of economic relations with the US and Britain
could be avoided by taking no military action, “Japan’s physical capacity would
still decrease over the first two years, but after that time would gradually recover
year-­by-year.” However, if economic relations with those two countries are cut
off, “our national physical capacity will be drastically reduced, making recovery an
extremely difficult task.” Based on this analysis, the study recommended:

Together with making steady progress in firmly establishing an East Asian

supply network by immediately encouraging diplomacy with the Dutch
East Indies, it was crucial for the Empire to avoid uselessly provoking the
US and Britain, while developing its national strength with resources from
the US-­British bloc to the very end, and make preparations that will enable
it to rise to any occasions.
[Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1973, Vol. 3: 329–33]

This study was clearly in favor of taking no military action in Southeast Asia.
Moreover, in hindsight, its predictions concerning the consequences of the Jap-
anese military occupation of Southeast Asia were spot on, including the dead
end that would be forced upon the occupier by the people for whom it made
life unbearable.
The Classified Journal tells us that upon receiving Shibafu’s “Analysis,” the
atmosphere of indecisiveness seemed to clear, as evidenced by the words,
“Actions such as using military force in the South should be termed inconceiv-
able” and “We should be making steady progress in handling the China Inci-
dent” (22 March 1941). Then on 23 March, the detail made its own “Analysis,”
concluding, “The use of military force will not be seizing any golden oppor-
tunity,” sealing its decision with the words, “After long and arduous delibera-
tion … we of the 20th Detail (also known as War Planning and Management
Detail) are in unshakable agreement on this point.” The realistic perception that
taking military action in Southeast Asia was for Japan an extremely risky busi-
ness had, for the time being, triumphed over blatant military adventurism.

The rekindling of the “seize the moment” view and the Japanese
military advance into southern French Indochina
However, this triumph of a truly realistic perception would be short-­lived.
Between April and June 1941, the War Planning Detail did everything it could to
promote its opinion concerning the “Policy Agenda for the South” at all levels of
the army, which was widely convinced that they had been presented with a golden
opportunity to militarily intervene in Southeast Asia. Other than the collection of
memoranda issued by Chief of Staff Sugiyama and recorded by the War Planning
Detail describing the “Policy Agenda” as having been “approved by the
36   The “Southern question”
IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference,” there is no record of the Conference’s
deliberations on the matter [Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 1: 217–18]. In fact, the
“Policy Agenda,” which can be described as dovish on the important point of
avoiding the outbreak of a world war, came up against ferocious opposition from
both elements within the War and Navy Ministries and IGHQ and was for all
practical purposes thrown in the wastebasket and replaced with a sudden upsurge
of support for stationing troops in southern French Indochina.
At this particular moment, the government and IGHQ had before them a
signed copy of the Soviet-­Japanese Neutrality Pact (13 April 1941) and the
“Draft of Memorandum of Understanding” (17 April) regarding the ongoing
negotiations with the United States. While the match of wits was proceeding in
the negotiation and wording of the “Draft of Understanding” both with the US
government and within the halls of government and policy-­making, reports of
imminent war between Germany and the USSR were coming in from both the
US and German Embassies, as policy suggestions, speculation and hardline
opinions ranging from firmly maintaining/tightly keeping a triple Axis Alliance
to a complete diplomatic turnabout toward cooperation with the United States
flew back and forth, resulting in “a situation both complicated and bizarre”
(Classified War Journal, 21 April) and “the situation was changing like a verit-
able kaleidoscope” (ibid., 13 May). Consequently, with a sudden upsurge of
enthusiasm to review “the Imperial National Policy” in terms of the news about
impending war between Germany and the Soviets, the golden opportunity for a
Southern advance argument was rekindled. The breakdown of the Japan–Dutch
East Indies Talks, negotiations with the Allied-­protected colonial government
of the Dutch East Indies, in which Japan presented demands for guarantees of
oil and mineral resources and opening of Japanese business ventures to further
develop Indonesia’s important natural resources [Adachi 2002: 142–86], was
also very influential. There was a sudden wave of opinion among the IGHQ
Staff with respect to the humiliation stemming from “even the Dutch blatantly
refusing to cooperate with the demands of the Empire” in anticipation of
receiving the kind of aid the US and Britain were providing to Chiang Kai-­shek.
Therefore, before a reduction in the Empire’s military capabilities prevents
“retaliation against the US-­British threat,” it was necessary to “secure a preemp-
tive military foothold” throughout Indochina and Thailand by stationing troops
in southern French Indochina; after all, armed force could be used in the South
if there was no need to worry about a threat from the North in the event of war
between Germany and the Soviet Union. This new way of thinking was none
other than a synthesis between “circumspect” and the “seize the moment” view
of a Japanese Southern advance, which had been at odds only a month or so
before [Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 1: 231–2].
At the beginning of June 1941, our Classified Journal of War tells us with all
the lurid details how the War Planning Detail was caught in the firestorm
rekindled by the Ministry of War and General Staff ’s renewed fervor over the
golden military opportunity now before their eyes begging for a Southern
advance. On 6 June, the Ministry of War Military Affairs Section Chief Satō
 The “Southern question”   37
Kenryō and Army Affairs Section Chief Sanada Jōichirō requested a meeting
with the General Staff, at which they argued “the necessity of the decisive use of
armed force in the South,” to which the Army General Staff Military Operations
and Unconventional Warfare Sections agreed, thus immediately isolating the
War Planning Detail. The Classified Journal entry (written by Col. Arisue
Yadoru) for the 7th, while referring to the “best and brightest” in the Military
Operations and American-­European [Intelligence] Sections on the promotion
fast-­track and calling himself “a dummy,” continues, 

even though we may be heckled for being dummies, we cannot but become
more realistic about our national capability and admit we are currently not
winning in handling the China Incident … unable to take the self-­assertive
alternative and having to settle for the meek one is the way not only for this
Detail, but for the entire nation, as well. 

Self-­deprecation and irony aside, this entry clearly indicates that the War Plan-
ning Detail’s refuting “seize the moment” view merely was based on an
objective evaluation of present insufficient national capability for invading and
occupying Southeast Asia.
Nevertheless, once more on 9 June at a conference of General Headquarters,
department chiefs gathered around Chief of Staff Sugiyama Hajime. The golden
opportunity view once more captured the majority of the “ayes.” On top of
that, Department Chief of Operations Tanaka Shin’ichi, a hardliner on war with
the Soviet Union, went so far as to argue that in both the North and the South
“we should be using armed force bolstered by creating our own opportunities,”
and became embroiled in a heated argument with Arisue, a cautious diplomacy
advocate. “[Tanaka] became so incensed that he even went to resort to blows
… forcing me to agree with him.” The entry ends with the sneering comment,
“It’s not right for someone in such an important position as Department Chief
of Operations to discuss an important national question using his rank, fists and
violence.” Then came another unexpected disappointment for the War Planning
Detail on 21 June, when the Navy, fearing that the circumspect view behind the
“Policy Agenda for the South” might lead to the total abandonment of discus-
sion concerning a Southern advance (in other words, cuts to the Navy’s war
budget), jumped on the army’s roaring golden opportunity bandwagon, stating
that it would launch an invasion of Singapore in the event of “the fall of the
British Isles.” The War Planning Detail could only angrily lament in its journal
entry for that date, “Do they (the Navy) want to throw out our findings that
took a half-­year of blood, sweat and tears to reach?”
The issue of stationing troops in southern French Indochina, which Foreign
Affairs Minister Matsuoka Yōsuke strongly opposed, fearing decisive retaliation
from the US and Britain, created for a time a “political situation so confused
that nobody knows what’s happening” (16 June 1941). Finally, the “golden
opportunity” presented by the outbreak of war between Germany and the
USSR (22 June) became the deciding factor in a policy direction to carry on
38   The “Southern question”
diplomatic efforts, while stationing troops in southern Indochina using force if
necessary. Another policy memorandum overwriting “Policy Agenda for the
South,” titled “The Matters Pertaining to Pursuing a Southern Policy,” was
passed by the IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference and submitted to the
emperor for approval (reported and accepted 25 June); then with the approval
of a Gozen Kaigi of “Imperial National Policy Agenda in the Light of
Recent Development,” the following policy to advance South with determina-
tion that “the Empire would not refrain from war with the US and Britain”
was decided.

The Empire will continue necessary diplomatic efforts towards the areas of
the South crucial to its self-­existence and self-­defense, while promoting
policy implementation concerning all other aspects. For this reason, prepa-
rations will begin in anticipation of war with the United States and Britain,
beginning with the implementation of measures regarding French Indo-
china and Thailand outlined in “Policy Agenda Towards French Indochina
and Thailand” and “The Matters Pertaining to Pursuing a Southern
Policy.” In order to achieve these aims, the Empire would not refrain from
war with the United States and Britain.
[Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 1: 260; JACAR: C12120183800]

There is a variety of “narrative” concerning the intent of the “historic phrase”

that “the Empire would not refrain from war with the United States and
Britain.” In the war history published by the Defense Agency, the compilers
state, “Throughout both the Army and Navy, there was hardly anyone with
such determination as the phrase literally stated” [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu,
ed. 1974, Vol. 4: 203]. Nevertheless, there was no mistake that Japan had
switched course from the dovish view expressed in “Policy Agenda for the
South,” to the hawkish golden opportunity way of thinking. That being said,
IQHQ Staff officers, including the War Planning Detail, had no idea that sta-
tioning of troops in French Indochina through diplomatic means would be
linked to war with the US and Britain. The document attached to “The Matters
Pertaining to Pursuing a Southern Policy” prepared by both army and naval
personnel at IGHQ for the presentation in front of the emperor for his approval
paints a rosy picture in which the stationing of troops, if done preemptively, will
persuade the US and Britain that adopting “anti-­Japanese resistance measures
would be futile,” thus making troop deployment to French Indochina “our best
alternative for victory without going to war” [ibid.: 231–2].
However, the reality was much different, as expressed by Foreign Affairs
Minister Matsuoka at the IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference (now Collo-
quium) on 30 June 1941, which was the final showdown before the Gozen
Kaigi with the Emperor. Calling for a postponement in troop deployment, Mat-
suoka stated, “If we make a move for the South, I predict that there will be
serious consequences to pay” [ibid.: 249]. In response to Japan’s announce-
ment on “The Joint Defense of French Indochina” (25 July), the United States
 The “Southern question”   39
froze all Japanese assets in the US (Great Britain, Australia, and others following
suit by abrogating the Japan-­Britain Treaty of Commerce and Navigation) and
with respect to the stationing of troops in the region, took the step Japan most
feared by imposing a full embargo on exports of US oil to Japan (1 August).
Then on 14 August, a summit meeting was held between US President Roo-
sevelt and British Prime Minister Churchill, which resulted in the release of the
“Atlantic Charter,” a statement of goals shared by the two allies in building a
post-­World War II global order. At the same time, Britain imposed its own full
embargo on Japan.

The aporetic aspects of Japan’s Southern advance

It wasn’t long before the Japanese government and armed forces, who had
indulgently miscalculated how the US would respond, felt the tremendous
shock of a full embargo on imported oil. It was at that moment that the “seize
the moment” view of a Southern advance, which sought a solution to the
Southern Question while at the same time avoiding war with the US and
Britain, fell completely apart. On the other hand, even among the Army and
Navy advocates for the circumspect view of a Southern advance, it was a no-­
brainer that an oil embargo would necessitate the use of armed force to invade
the South. That consequence being then a reality, a time-­bomb was set to go
off as soon as military resources dependent on the US and Britain were depleted.
The Classified War Journal describes how the War Planning Detail, which was
then still cautious concerning world war, reacted to the shock of the US retali-
ation measures, anguishing over “should we decide to fight or concede to the
US and Britain?” Army Major Tanemura argued Japan should take the position
of substantially abrogating the Axis Alliance by attempting to make headway in
diplomatic negotiations with the US (8 August 1941), lamenting, “One day of
waiting, one more drop of oil consumed. One day of waiting, one more drop of
blood lost. And that we want to avoid a hundred-­year war with the Americans”
(10, 11 August).
Throughout August 1941, what became certain among the members of the
Army General Staff, including the War Planning Detail, was the direction in
which they would urge the government and IGHQ top leaders to decide on an
armed Southern invasion and war with the US and Britain. However, for those
who knew full well that “the nation’s physical capabilities” were insufficient, a
decision to declare war on the United State was indeed serious. At the begin-
ning of August, the War Preparation Section was ordered to conduct a re-­
simulation of the “Analysis of National Physical Capabilities” under four
different scenarios: (1) an armed invasion of the North; (2) an armed invasion
of the South; (3) a siege of Chungking; (4) continuation of present conditions.
Although the original manuscript of the “Analysis” has yet to be found, for the
army, Scenario 4 was no longer to be a viable alternative. The remaining
documents/narratives suggest that the report recommended (earmarked) Scen-
ario 2 as its priority choice among the three remaining alternative involving
40   The “Southern question”
armed invasions. Upon hearing the report, Ishii Akiho (then staff member of
the Ministry of War Military Affairs Bureau), recalled, 

The research compared possible five-­year scenarios between the poorhouse

and the war … I felt at that time, “Fighting a war now isn’t out of the
question.” Of course, I knew that it was going to be a hard row to hoe. So
did everybody else. On August 4th, [reporter Capt.] Shibafu’s [Hideo]
cheeks were sunken.
[Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1974, Vol. 4: 475–80]

What happened from this moment until the first strikes on 8 December
1941, how the high command and the emperor decided between war and
peace, has already been described in an immense body of historical literature,
and in fact is not of much interest regarding the aims of the present study. What
is pertinent, though, is that what Japanese leaders were to face for the remaining
several months leading up to the opening of hostilities would be the exactly
same aporia, the same unsolvable conundrum, that we have seen puzzling and
worrying the staff of IGHQ beginning with the War Planning and Management
Detail.4 For a group of people faced with a decision based solely on the premise
that the Japanese Empire was relentlessly in pursuit of its own survival, it was
only natural that they would be in constant doubt over which way to proceed
over such an unsolvable circumstance, wavering between whether to advocate
war or to avoid war, whether to fight for survival or negotiate for it. Even if the
decision to go to war aimed at overcoming inefficiencies in national capability
and military resources for the sake of maintaining the Japanese Empire, the
aporia arises from the fact that the national capability and military resources
necessary for prosecuting such a war were nowhere to be found within the
boundaries of that Empire. What is to be done about that is the resulting
conundrum. In spite of the fact that the conundrum would be forgotten for a
time in the midst of the fervor, excitement and relief that accompanied the first
strikes, over the long haul, the Japanese Empire would never be able to solve it
and thus be eventually dismantled. And so, in hindsight, the very existence of
Southeast Asia as both a way out of the conflict dragging on in China and a
means to fulfilling the Japanese Empire’s dream of “self-­existence and self-­
defense,” free from dependency on the US and Britain, and the resulting allure-
ment to advance South, would in the end prove fatal to that Empire.

3  The Imperial General Headquarters plan for the

occupation of Southeast Asia

“War for resources” realism

As mentioned in the introductory chapter, Japan’s occupation of Southeast Asia
involved a large-­scale Southern migration of over 2 million of its citizens and a
huge project to govern over the 140 million people already living there. Let us
 The “Southern question”   41
look at the way in which the occupation was originally designed through the
perspectives, perceived goals and prospects for success of the staff officers on
duty at IGHQ. In order to do this, we will visit IGHQ at the stage of comple-
tion of the blueprint for occupation—the sum of documents containing policy
proposals which that high command devised regarding military operations and
consequent occupation of the region—by delving into the “narrative” left us by
the grand architect himself, Ishii Akiho.
Now this is the same Lt. Colonel Ishii Akio who up until the 5 November
1941 Gozen Kaigi, which decided to wage war and begin preparations for it,
was elsewhere as the army’s man in charge of Japan–US negotiations working
under Military Affairs Bureau Chief Mutō Akira on the draft of a negotiations
proposal. Then on 6 November, together with his promotion to full colonel,
Ishii was appointed staff officer in charge of the governance affairs that would be
conducted by the newly formed Southern Army. During the month just prior to
the opening of hostilities, Ishii, as Southern Army Staff officer and a high-­
ranking staff member at the Ministry of War Bureau of Military Affairs, was
occupied in authoring various policy statements, in particular, drafting policy
proposals regarding the occupation of Southeast Asia.
The postwar “narrative” which Ishii has left us emphasizes the fact that all
staff officers involved in drafting policy were to concentrate on “accomplishing
the Empire’s self-­existence and self-­defense”; that is to say, devote their efforts
solely toward conducting a “war for resources.” Ishii states that in contrast to
Military Affairs Section chief Satō Kenryō and others preparing a set of policy
statements setting the firm establishment of a “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity
Sphere” as both the raison d’être for declaring war and the objective of its pro-
secution, he and Lt. Colonel Fujii Shigeru of the Naval Ministry Military Affairs
Bureau were to “stubbornly persist with one aim and one aim only, self-­
existence and self-­defense.”

Because of our oil supplies depletion, the Japanese Empire will have no
other alternative but to rise up and fight for its survival both economically
and in terms of its national defense. It is solely a matter of how to survive
… If we are once more able to purchase oil from the United States or the
Netherlands, then our war objectives will be achieved. I can only say this …
that our thinking was that if we did not delineate our war objectives within
the narrowest of limits, peace would be difficult to restore … It may be
said, however: Once war breaks out, war might not end until we would go
as far as to the point that we would establish the Greater East Asia Co-­
Prosperity Sphere and/or the New Greater East Asia Order. This is why it
is not impossible to argue that such rhetoric could be included as a conse-
quent and ancillary war objective.
[Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1974, Vol. 5: 341]

In sum, Ishii is saying that while anticipating that the invasion of Southeast
Asia  might eventually lead off into the direction of the “Greater East Asia
42   The “Southern question”
Co-­Prosperity Sphere,” the objective of the war was first and foremost “only for
the purpose of survival”; in other words, the objectives must be narrowed down
to securing resources, symbolized in his thinking by foreign oil.
This idea is certainly reflected in various policy statements written prior to
the first strikes. The “Guidelines for Implementing Imperial National Policy”
approved at the Gozen Kaigi, which decided on opening hostilities (5 Novem-
ber) by stating, “To overcome the present crisis, ensure self-­existence and self-­
defense and build a new order in Greater East Asia, it is hereby decided … to
take up arms against the United States, Britain and the Netherlands,” was not
intended to be made public [Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 1: 417–18; JACAR:
C12120186200]. Ishii and his General Staff colleagues recall their strong feeling
of resistance to including the phrase “a new order in Greater East Asia,” and
they tried to remove the expression from the later deliberated “Framework of a
Pretext for Opening Hostilities with Britain and the United States [JACAR:
B02032965200].” Consequently, in the Imperial Prescript on Declaration of
War immediately after the first attacks, the issue of “a new order in Greater East
Asia” was not mentioned, but rather proclaimed that it was the emperor’s
unwavering belief that war would “contribute to world peace through securing
stability in East Asia” [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1974, Vol. 5: 416–18;
Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 1: 567–8; JACAR: B02032434800]. If “a new
order in Greater East Asia” has been proclaimed, that would have declared the
struggle over hegemony in Southeast Asia to be one of the war objectives. By
avoiding such a statement and citing “stability in East Asia,” Ishii and his col-
leagues wanted to send the message that seizing hegemony over the region was
not a war objective—that is, that peace would be restored as soon as the oil
embargo was lifted. This battle over wording offers the possibility of arguing
that what was going on in the minds of Japan’s military top bureaucrats was the
hope of limiting the objectives to “a war for resources” and thus avoiding
having to politicize and extrapolate those objectives. This way of thinking will
be referred to here as “war for resources” realism.

“Draft of a Policy Agenda for Governing Territory Occupied During

Southern Operations”
Within the process of studying and preparing for war in the South, “war for
resources” realism had been shared not only by Ishii but by many of the General
Staff officers at IGHQ, including the War Planning and Management Detail.
This fact can be confirmed by the document entitled “Draft of a Policy Agenda
for Governing Territory Occupied During Southern Operations,” written
during February and March 1941 by a “Research Detail” consisting of three
officers of the Army General Staff First (Operations) Department—Colonel
Obata Nobuyoshi, Lt. Colonel Nishimura Ototsugu and Lt. Colonel of
Accounting Tōfuku Seijirō—with little knowledge or experience regarding
Southeast Asia, just like all of their fellow staff officers. This document is
well-­known as the basis on which “Guidelines for Implementing Military
 The “Southern question”   43
Administration in Southern Occupied Territories” was formulated in November
1941 in anticipation of the start of the Southern Campaign [Iwatake 1989:
18–27]. Nishimura, who preserved a copy of the “Draft of a Policy Agenda” in
his private papers, until donating it to the National Defense College’s War
History Office in 1961, stated in his answer to the War History Office’s inquiry
that in the process of writing the document, reference materials were available
but nothing had been prepared beforehand, no input from the Navy was
sought, and that he does not recall any substantive cooperation offered by the
Ministry of War, either. In other words, the document was prepared by the
three authors absolutely from scratch. Let us quote from the lead item “I. Gov-
ernance Direction.”

Governance of occupied territory shall involve the elimination of resistance

elements by the use of armed force and quick restoration of law and order
by the revival and management of governance mechanisms based on indi-
genous organizational practices under our rule, thereby enabling the
smooth procurement of resources and dispensing with the troublesome
problems of direct military governance.

As its fundamental aim, the “Draft” states,

We will avoid making any hasty promises concerning any future titles of
sovereignty, reform of the existing governing mechanism, etc.,

and

Concerning countries whose governments recognize our military actions,

we will respect their sovereignty and deal with them as independent polities
… [and will not] intervene in their governance process.
[Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1974, Vol. 5: 419; C14060703800]

Other measures include, “As to religion, we will protect it and respect local
customs based on religious beliefs”; “We will peacefully appeal to local Chinese
residents who have remained and thus encourage the return of those who have
fled”; “Residents of European nationality will be utilized together with native
leaders in reorganizing the governance mechanisms”; “Those among complicit
Caucasians who prove of use will be treated with favor; those who flee will have
their property seized,” all indicating at first glance a policy characterized by flex-
ibility and tolerance, by respecting the indigenous culture of occupied areas, uti-
lizing potential enemies of Chinese and European descent in the interest of the
occupation. Such a policy direction was essentially/basically approved and
adopted by Ishii Akiho, at least regarding its cold disinterest in the occupation
as a holy war—for example, “we will take no special interest in efforts to educate
local residents”—and fiscal administration, emphasizing that “the expenses
necessary for the Empire will entirely depend on local procurement.” On the
44   The “Southern question”
other hand, the statement, “while concentrating on securing resources … we
will do what we can to enable a minimum level of self-­sufficiency for the resi-
dents of the occupied territories,” expresses ambiguity as to the actual level of
tolerance regarding the affairs of daily life implied by Japan’s occupation policy.
Later, Ishii will clarify the policy about this point.
According to his own occupation policy direction, first, regarding British
Malaya, Singapore, Malacca and Penang must be secured as the “top priority
areas in terms of military administration.” The remainder will be left to the auto-
nomous rule of the sultans, while the territories surrendered by Siam (in 1909)
will be returned. Second, regarding the Dutch East Indies, Japanese forces will
assume all duties of peacekeeping, logistics for local procurement, extraction of
defense-­related raw materials and military operations required on Java, Sumatra
and Celebes. The other islands will be governed by the Dutch East Indies gov-
ernment under Japanese military supervision. Finally, with respect to the Philip-
pines, “The main objective is completely destroying all American military bases;
obtaining Philippine raw materials is not a top priority.” The operations forces
will not “directly intervene” in governance there [Iwatake 1989: 25–6]. It was in
this manner that the “Draft of a Policy Agenda” called for minimum intervention
by Japanese forces in the governance of all occupied territory once those forces
had captured that territory according to their own objectives, with no clear guar-
antee as to when they would decide about the attribution of that territory. In
addition, no proposals regarding Burma are to be found in the “Draft.”
Although the importance of Thailand and Burma bordering India to the west
was clear within the overall Southern strategy, expansion of the front to cover all
of Burma was not anticipated at that time. And so, with no prospects for the
region in terms of military operations, Suzuki’s Minami Agency was left free to
go forward with its “scheme (bōryaku)” mission supporting the Burmese national
independence movement [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1967b: 14].

The logic of “Proposed Measures for Dealing with the Philippines”

Deemphasizing the rhetoric over a “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere,”
limiting war objectives to securing raw materials, keeping military governance to
a minimum in occupied territories and assuming a wait-­and-see attitude toward
expanding the war across Burma, the Southern occupation policy that occupied
the minds of Staff officers at IGHQ gives the first-­glance impression of a war
agenda characterized by restraint and moderation. However, the policy direc-
tions they were recommending, formed out of “war for resources” realism had,
in practice, very little, if anything, to do with considerations about the welfare
of the people residing in the territories occupied for the sole purpose of extrac-
tion. This reality is clearly shown by the section in the “Draft of a Policy
Agenda” headed “Proposed Measures for Dealing with the Philippines While at
War with the United States.”
These proposals single the Philippines out from other occupied areas dis-
cussed in the “Draft,” by outlining a policy which “does not emphasize securing
 The “Southern question”   45
raw materials,” but rather takes “measures to prevent the present Philippine
government from taking sides with the enemy, for the purpose of both prosec-
uting the war and more easily securing raw materials”; however, the document
goes on to recommend that even in the event that the Philippine government
does stand with the enemy, military operations should not involve a campaign
of “island-­wide pacification” but be limited to removing the Filipino troops
embedded with the American forces in order to destroy US military bases, and
instead Japan should “wait for the Philippine government’s gradual self-­
destruction by means of ‘scheme (bōryaku)’ and other measures.” The “Pro-
posed Measures” then outline policy in the case that appeasement attempts are
successful and “the present government decides not to oppose the Empire,”
arguing that troops on the ground will “respect its sovereignty and [not] inter-
fere with governance,” and conclude any necessary peace agreements; but if it
does become necessary to impose military administration, “they should be as
simple as possible: only to maintain law and order” [Sanbōhonbu Daiichibu
Kenkyūhan, 1941: 82; JACAR: C14060704300]. In sum, we are presented at
first glance with a very tolerant occupation policy based on indirect involvement:
appeasement of the present Philippine government in order to avoid military
rule, and when military administrative measures are called for, actions should be
very limited in scope.
In the background to this kind of policy direction lay two special circum-
stances: (1) of all the colonies in Southeast Asia at that time, the Philippines
existed as an autonomous territory promised national independence in the near
future by its sovereign, the United States, therefore most of the political, legis-
lative and administrative affairs of the Islands were already in the hands of Fili-
pino officials; and (2) that international exchange between colonial Philippine
political elites and Japan had flourished before the war.
It was in 1896 that the Philippines staged a war for independence against its
then colonial ruler Spain. After a couple of years of progress and setbacks, in
1898, the United States defeated Spain in a war fought over the question of
independence for the Caribbean island of Cuba, and in the process of peace
talks conducted in Paris, Spain ceded colonial possession of the Philippines to
the US. Opposition to annexation as pronounced by US President McKinley’s
condescending “Benevolent Assimilation Proclamation” led to war between the
Philippine revolutionary forces and the United States (Philippine-­American War
1899–1902), ending in a US victory. However, strong opposition to annexation
and the call for divestment of all American colonies continued in the United
States. Meanwhile, in the Philippines, the colonial elite, who had led the revolu-
tion and insurgency against the US, decided to collaborate with its new sover-
eign, convening a “pro-­US” colonial assembly, which nevertheless continued
the (nonviolent) independence movement demanding “immediate, uncondi-
tional, and complete independence.” As a result of the colonial elite’s “pro-­
American” stance, the United States initiated a policy advocating regional
autonomy leading to future national independence, and in 1917 promised
national independence as soon “as a stable system of governance was instituted.”
46   The “Southern question”
Then in 1929, with arrival of a global depression, advocates for colonial divest-
ment suddenly began to gain traction in the US Congress, until finally in 1934
the Tidings-­McDuffie Act was passed establishing the year 1946 as the date for
Philippine independence. Incidental to preparations being made for national
independence were US efforts throughout the 1930s to utilize the issue of pro-
tecting its sovereign rights over the Philippines as a springboard for intervening
in East Asian international politics [Nakano 1997].
The year after Tidings-­McDuffie Act, in 1935, the autonomous colony of the
Commonwealth of the Philippines was founded, with the constitution ratified
by plebiscite, which also directly elected Manuel Quezon (b. 1878) as president
and Sergio Osmeña (b. 1878) as vice-­president, together with the members of a
legislature, which was changed to unicameral in 1935 and returned to bicameral
(as it was in 1917) by constitutional amendment in 1941, and thus laid the
foundations for full national independence by 1946. Quezon was successful in
consolidating power within the Commonwealth’s executive branch, while the
overwhelming majority of seats in the legislature were held by the huge Nacion-
alista Party comprised of a coalition of Quezon and Osmeña factions. “Proposed
Measures for Dealing with the Philippines” called for appeasing the Quezon
administration via various “schemes” in the hope of breaking the bonds tying
the Philippines to the United States. As relations worsened between Japan and
the US, President Quezon decided it was the right time to prepare for post-­
independence national defense under the assumption that Japan was its most
serious threat. He appointed retired US Army Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur
(b. 1880) as his top military advisor and proceeded to raise a Philippine Army
with guidance and monetary aid from the United States. In the meantime,
Quezon also made visits to Japan, where he conducted talks with Foreign Affairs
Ministers Arita Hachirō and Ugaki Kazushige in 1937 and 1938, respectively. It
was a kind of “small nation diplomacy” aimed at maintaining friendly relations
with Japan and avoiding aggression. In addition, Quezon also made clear that
under the Tidings-­McDuffie Act post-­independence Philippines would declare
neutrality in its international relations and would seek guarantees to that effect
from the world powers [ibid.: 221–7]. The perception that, if this was Quezon’s
position it would be possible for Japan to parley with him, formed the basis for
the “Proposed Measures” section.
And sitting in the wings as one “scheme” to “appease the present Philippine
government” was none other than General Artemio Ricarte (b. 1866), the aged
warrior and commander of the revolutionary army in the war with the United
States, now living in exile in Yokohama. In contrast to Emilio Aguinaldo (b.
1869), the president of the revolutionary government, who after his arrest by
the American Army pledged allegiance to the United States, after a similar arrest
in 1900 Ricarte had absolutely refused to do so. After three years of forced exile
on Guam, expulsion to Hong Kong and six years of imprisonment in Manila,
Ricarte was again expelled to Hong Kong from where he sought exile in Japan
in 1915. There he was employed as a teacher of Spanish in a school in Komaba
(Tokyo) for Japanese headed overseas and took up residence in the Chinatown
 The “Southern question”   47
area of Yokohama (Yamashita-­Chō). Ricarte’s life of exile in Japan is described
in detail by close associate Ōta Kaneshirō in his memoir Kikoku (Wailings of a
Restless Ghost, 1972).
Despite the fact that not only the colonial political elite but also Philippine
public opinion as a whole had become “pro-­American,” among the generation
who remembered the revolution and the war with the US, Ricarte remained
highly respected for his refusal to bend and indomitable fighting spirit. Ricarte’s
home in Yokohama, which he “remodeled in cafe style” and named “Karihan”
(“restaurant” in Tagalog), was frequented by Filipino sailors and passengers
from the ships that stopped over at Yokohama. Ricarte, himself a scion of the
colonial elite, was an alumnus of Colegio de San Juan de Letran along with
Quezon and acted as “Captain” Quezon’s commanding officer during the
revolutionary war. Quezon, who himself had been arrested and imprisoned by
the American Army, respected Ricarte “as an elder” and would visit him in
Yokohama on his way to and from the United States. Through his exchanges
with Quezon and other members of the colonial political elite, Ricarte came to
distance himself from his former extremist anti-­American, revolutionary views.
According to Ara Satoshi’s analysis of Ricarte’s statements and activities while in
exile in Japan, the General’s views concerning the United States were by no
means set in stone, and through his conversations with Quezon, he became an
opponent of extremism against the US and a proponent of Quezon’s pro-­
American path to national independence [Ara 1999: 213–16]. One “scheme”
proposed by the above “Draft Measures” was “a plan to overthrow the present
government” if attempts at appeasing Quezon failed, involving Manuel Roxas, a
young political leader “who, with his talents, commands the trust of cadre-­level
bureaucrats and therefore is distanced from Quezon,” as “the best prospect for
leader of the opposition.”
What is most noteworthy here is that appeasing the “present administration”
was not being suggested because “schemes” existed to make it possible, but was
rather an idea born from “war for resources” realism. Item 7 entitled “Guide to
Proposed Measures for Dealing with the Philippines While at War with the
United States” [Sanbōhonbu Daiichibu Kenkyūhan, 1941: 87–9; JACAR:
C14060704400] explains that the country’s prewar foreign trade structure was
deeply dependent on the United States for both imports and exports. The major
products exported by the Philippines were sugar, copra, coconuts, hemp and
tobacco, in addition to iron ore, about 1 million tons, over half of total produc-
tion of which was being exported to Japan, together with some gold and
copper, also important here. On the other hand, its major imports included iron
and steel, cotton cloth, paper, wheat flour, fuel oil and rubber. In this sense,
from a supply and demand standpoint, what the Philippines could offer in the
way of war resources was “extremely little” and the amounts of items like sugar,
copra and coconut oil, for which the Philippines “needs foreign markets for its
own self-­existence … which could not be sufficiently consumed in the Co-­
Prosperity Sphere,” while much of what the Philippines needs to import are
“commodities difficult to find” within that sphere. Therefore,
48   The “Southern question”
The Philippines, if obtained, has very little to offer us, while at the same
time increases our encumbrances. Though we acknowledge the precious-
ness of such necessary resources as hemp and copper for the purpose of
resource extraction, it would not be worth the effort so much as to carry
out an operation to conquer and rule the whole islands. Obtaining
resources is only incidental to the military operation serving the paramount
aim to destroy American military bases in the Philippines. It is thus
important to make clear the intention that we are not fighting in the Philip-
pines for the primary purpose of extracting resources.

It was in this way that the Staff Headquarters “Research Detail” devalued the
Philippines in terms of raw material procurement and perceived its place in the
“Co-­Prosperity Sphere” as “increasing the number of mouths we have to feed”
on account of its prewar foreign trade structure. Moreover, the “Guide” goes
on to instruct,

The reason why our operations forces should not be unconcerned with
the governance of occupied territories is, in the final analysis, because of the
need to obtain raw materials. Therefore, concerning the governance of the
Philippines, which suffers from a scarcity of the kind of material worth
having, it is not necessary to show all that much interest;

and even concerning the true intent of the “Proposed Measures” in advocating
“respect for the sovereignty” of “a government not hostile to the Empire,” the
authors go as far as to claim, “The words ‘respect for sovereignty’ ” are used as
an excuse to deny their [the Philippine government’s] dependency on the
military.” Here we have one more expression of the kind of cold-­heartedness
required of “war for resources” realists.

“Guidelines for Implementing Military Administration in Southern

Occupied Territories”
The General Staff Research Detail’s “Draft of a Policy Agenda for Governing
Territory Occupied during Southern Operations” completed in March 1941,
had been “put away for safekeeping” after calm had settled upon the enthusiasm
over the “seize the moment” view for an advance South. However, come
November, with orders for a battle formation geared to a march southward,
Ishii Akiho, staff officer in charge of Southern Army Political Affairs, orches-
trated the document “Guidelines for Implementing Military Administration in
Southern Occupied Territories” while one of the greatest mobilizations ever was
going on, and sent it off to each expeditionary corps of the Southern Army
[Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 1: 526–8; JACAR: C12120152100].5 In order to
meet the time deadline, Ishii’s “Guidelines,” which was approved by the
IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference on 20 November, required that the
Research Detail’s “Draft of a Policy Agenda” be pulled out of mothballs and
 The “Southern question”   49
reviewed. It is for that reason that Ishii’s version overlaps the content of the
Research Detail’s previous work, especially concerning the essential points of
“war for resources” realism. That being said, we must not overlook several
important revisions made by Ishii. To begin with, Ishii’s “Guidelines” defines
the three main aims of military administration as follows.

I. Policy Direction. Provisional military administration should be imple-

mented in occupied territory to assist in restoring law and order, quickly
securing important resources for national defense and ensuring the success
of material procurement for the military forces on the ground.

Here Ishii has added an important amendment to the “Draft of a Policy

Agenda” in his version, in the phrase “implementing provisional military admin-
istration” over the whole occupied area. Then “Section II. Essential Points,”
which closely follows the “Draft of a Policy Agenda” states,

1. Upon implementing military administration, the greatest effort should be

expended in utilizing the existing governance mechanism and respecting
existing social organization and national customs …

8. Regarding the treatment of American, British and Dutch nationals, all

should be urged to cooperate with the military administration. Steps should
be taken to evacuate or otherwise deal appropriately with those who refuse
to cooperate … Huaqiao (Overseas Chinese) should be encouraged to
estrange themselves from the Chiang Regime and agree and cooperate with
our policies.

While adopting the fundamental policy direction of the “Draft of a Policy

Agenda” concerning minimizing the burden of military administration even by
employing foreign nationals and overseas Chinese, in addition to utilizing the
hardware and software left behind by previous government agencies, Ishii was
far more fastidious about the form that occupations will take; that is, the aspects
of direct military administration. This attention to detail was, according to his
1957 “Diary of Southern Military Administration,” due to “reflections” upon
his experiences regarding the war in China.

In the China Incident, everything that was done under the illusion that it was
just an incident, not a war, was done halfheartedly. What I mean to say is,
wherever our sphere of dominance expanded, we had the Chinese form
administrations on the spot, and while leaving them to conduct their own
political affairs, we in fact intervened a whole lot of time, which in no way
contributed to winning the hearts of the people. When we first proposed the
policy, we firmly believed, since we would fight a war in the South, we should
clear the air and make it crystal clear that these would be wartime conditions.
[Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 443]
50   The “Southern question”
This statement indicates an extremely important point of discussion when think-
ing about the unfolding of policy regarding the occupation of Southeast Asia.
That is to say, under the illusion that there was no war being waged in China,
only crisis management, meant recognizing that the Chinese were the major
actors in political affairs, forcing Japan to accept the fact that any territory they
occupied did not belong to them. Nevertheless, in real terms the violence and
oppression perpetrated by the Japanese forces running roughshod over the
people of China caused untold suffering. The contradiction that arose between
the illusion of crisis control and the reality of war, in Ishii’s words, “did not
contribute to winning the hearts of the people.” However, what Ishii is saying
here is not that a lesson was learned that priority should be given to winning the
hearts of the people in the occupation of Southeast Asia, just the opposite. What
deserved top priority in Ishii’s view is made clear in the following “Section II.
Essential Points.”

7. The heavy burden of procuring national defense resources and achieving

material procurement for the occupation forces on the ground must inevit-
ably be placed on local civilians, and they should be made to bear that
burden; therefore, any demands for placation should never go beyond a
level contrary to the above objectives.

In other words, Ishii’s desire to “clear the air and make it crystal clear that these
would be wartime conditions” translates as an institutionally based preference
for (1) dealing with occupied territory as occupied territory and (2) placing
burdens on the residents as a conquered people.
On this point, he candidly conveys to us the following important
reminiscence.

Determining the three main objectives of military administration involved

first and foremost taking up the bitter experience of the ongoing bickering
during the crisis in China as to whether top priority was to be given to the
needs of our troops or to the livelihood of local civilians.
Stipulating that any burden placed on local civilians, no matter how
heavy, would be borne by them was deemed a wise decision for the purpose
of achieving one of those objectives, the rapid procurement of national
defense resources and successfully procuring materials for the occupation
forces on the ground. 
[Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 443]

It is this kind of problematic that made Ishii so pessimistic about perceiving the
people of occupied territory as political actors, at least in terms of the immediate
problems facing the occupation. This is why in Item 8 of “Section II. Essential
Points” of his “Guidelines”—“[Military Administration] should induce the
native people to have feelings of trust in the Imperial Army while avoiding
instigating the outbreak of independence movements prematurely”—Ishii
 The “Southern question”   51
admonishes the expeditionary forces to be vigilant about causing colonial inde-
pendence movements and to take steps to avoid them. Recognizing demands
for independence by virtue of perceiving occupied people in the colonial regions
of Southeast Asia as political actors was, in Ishii’s way of thinking, a matter of
concern threatening the very success of a “war for resources.”
From such a point of view, Ishii would, after the opening of hostilities,
strongly demand the implementation of military administration, even in the
Philippines, where national independence was already a foregone conclusion and
even the forces on the ground did not expect to set up a military administration.
Even regarding Burma, which had not been designated as a theater of opera-
tions before the war and where special ops had already begun in support of a
national independence movement, as soon as the military, encouraged by its vic-
tories at the onset of the war, decided to invade and occupy the whole country,
Ishii lobbied for the suppression of ideas about independence and became
obsessed with implementing military administration there.
Following the completion and dissemination of Ishii’s “Guidelines,” another
manifesto and child of “war for resources” realism entitled “Economic Policy
Agenda for the South” was approved on 12 December 1941, just after the first
attacks. The main points of this policy outline focusing on political strategy in
the occupied territories confined itself to “initial measures” that would “con-
tribute to the current war effort by fulfilling the demand for important
resources,” and while envisioning a “second policy stage” aiming at the estab-
lishment of “a self-­sufficient system for co-­prosperity throughout Greater East
Asia,” left the particulars of such a vision to future investigation.
After dividing Southeast Asia into two regions—Region A, the areas of Indo-
nesia, Malaya, Borneo, the Philippines, etc., which were being directly occupied
by Japanese forces (Burma and others would be redefined as “territory occupied
by the Imperial Army” in February 1942) and Region B, the areas of Indochina,
Thailand, etc. where Japanese troops had been stationed—the document clearly
ranks policy in order of priority, on the top of which lay the implementation of
“initial measures” in Area A. These “initial measures” comprise three basic pol-
icies: (1) “concentrating efforts on obtaining resources crucial to conducting the
war,” (2) taking every measure to “prevent the outflow of resources specific to
the South into the hands of the enemy,” and (3) in procuring resources, “do
the utmost to enlist the cooperation of existing enterprises in the region”
aiming at “the reduction of the burden being placed on the Empire’s economic
capabilities to as minimal a level as possible” [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985:
129–36;JACAR: C14060761500].
In sum, what is being emphasized ad nauseam in this document is the
supremacy of procuring resources (oil), the need to place the burden of paying
for the war and the occupation on the occupied and the need to take all meas-
ures necessary to force “the occupied to bear the heavy burden placed on their
livelihoods.” As such, this document ranks as the epitome of what we mean here
by “war for resources” realism.
52   The “Southern question”
The conflict between the “war for resources” and the “politics of war”
In his personal memoirs which he began writing about six months into the war,
Colonel Watanabe Wataru (b. 1896), who took upon his shoulders the initial
military administration of Malaya and Singapore by Tomi Group (Twenty-­Fifth
Army) as its chief of the Military Administration General Affairs Department
and in other capacities, recalls upon “Guidelines for Implementing Military
Administration in Southern Occupied Territories,” berating it as “short-­sighted”
and “one-­dimensional.” “In sum, this is nothing but a materialistic policy …
based on the mentality of a band of thieves” ordering “Take and eat what you
need to fill your bellies, then bring the rest back home” [Akashi, ed. 1998, Vol.
2: 421–3]. Even Ishii Akiho could not deny the policy’s inherent “materialism”
in his postwar memoirs. Just the phrase, force the people to bear the heavy
burden placed upon their lives, Ishii writes, “tells much about the character of
the Greater East Asia War” and “having to go that far in making such determi-
nations encapsulates the fundamental reason for opening hostilities” [Bōei
Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 444].
The following is just one of the many examples of “materialist measures” for
“procurement on the ground” that was devised before the war, related to cur-
rency and monetary concerns. It had been deemed necessary for the Japanese
expeditionary forces to directly ensure purchasing power without materials and
cash brought from Japan, by taking over the economies of the regions they
occupied. During the war in China, a new form of military scrip had been issued
to replace the fa-­pi, the local currency issued by the Republic of China; and in
order to stabilize prices, the new currency had to be backed up with investment
of materials and cash from Japan, which imposed a burden on the domestic
economy. As a good example of what not to do, this experience led to the idea
of allowing the local currencies of Southeast Asia to circulate, then print military
notes in each denomination—guldens, dollars, pesos and rupees—for the troops
to take and use in the occupied territories together with the local currencies. In
addition, the Japanese forces were to secure the money they needed by seizing
banks that issued currency and requisitioning by any means possible local cur-
rency (cash) from local people [Shibata 1995]. It was thought that there was no
other alternative to minimizing disturbances (curbing inflation) in the eco-
nomies of the region and stabilizing the value of military scrip with nothing to
back it up. Of course, this policy was merely a glorified form of looting by cov-
ertly injecting military scrip transactions into a pre-­existing system of monetary
exchange.
This is the kind of defiant realism that permeated the army elite’s problema-
tique, exemplified by Ishii Akiho, who were strongly conscious of the limits that
their “have-­not” country had reached, but lacked a shred of pan-­Asianist
“leadership spirit” or “ideals.”
That being said, it serves us well to pause here and consider the following. In
his journal entry criticizing IGHQ plans for military administration, Colonel
Watanabe Wataru of the Tomi Group calls them nothing but “pie in the sky
 The “Southern question”   53
preparations,” adding that they were the product of “in my view raw recruits
who, no matter how intellectually talented, are seriously lacking in both
common sense and experience about the ups and downs of real life” [Akashi,
ed. 1998, Vol. 2: 421–3]. As we will see in the chapters that follow, considering
the relatively impressive start enjoyed by Japan in its occupation of Southeast
Asia, Watanabe’s critique was not exactly accurate. However, for the inexperi-
enced staff officers at IGHQ who planned the war, “war for resources” realism
was another kind of idealism, in that all concerned merely imagined that their
way of thinking was realistic. Can we really conclude that locking oneself into
the idea that “once the war began” the “East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” and
“New Greater East Asia Order” could only be “a consequent and ancillary war
objective” was a realistic option? This was a problem that these General Staff
officers would have to meet head-­on.
Saturday, 29 November 1941. The Classified War Journal entry for this
date reads that the IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference “unanimously
approved opening hostilities against the United States, Britain and the Nether-
lands,” and “reflecting upon the record of this detail over the past year, that
decision is extremely moving. Since the freezing of assets on July 26th up to
today, we’ve experienced nothing but one god damned agonizing moment
after another!” Tanemura Suketaka and his cohorts in the War Planning and
Management Detail, who had been converted to war advocates since first
tossing the question of peace or war into the court of their superiors, were in a
frame of mind that “since everything has been decided here, we might as well
close up shop,” without waiting for the final decision of Gozen Kaigi. On the
following Sunday (30 November) afternoon Tanemura took colleagues to a
movie in Ginza. Then on 1 December, when the Gozen Kaigi’s final decision
was made in the presence of the emperor, as one of the very few army staff offi-
cers to know about the plan to attack Pearl Harbor, he fervently prayed “for
the success of the surprise attack” (3 December). In the eyes of the detail,
ongoing negotiations with the United States, which had reached their eleventh
hour, were merely “fake diplomacy making steady progress” (6 December). On
the day before the first strikes (Sunday, 7 December), detail leader Colonel
Arisue made a visit to the Meiji Shrine, while the other detail officers took the
non-­commissioned officers and clerical staff on a “cheerful holiday in Hakone”
to reward them for their hard work over the past year. Meanwhile, Ishii Akiho,
after arriving at Southern Army General Staff Headquarters in Saigon, was,
according to his memoir (1964), still holding on to a thread of hope that the
United States, which still was not fully prepared for war, would somehow
detect Japan’s decision to open hostilities and sue for peace. However, on 8
December, after hearing of the success of the attack on Pearl Harbor and the
cessation of diplomatic relations with Japan by the United States and Britain,
Ishii writes, “From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, I was completely
transformed into a soldier on the battlefield, and reflected on how long I had
been wandering aimlessly around the halls of Peace” [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshi­
shitsu, ed. 1974, Vo. 5: 576–7].
54   The “Southern question”
It was in this way that the staff officers who had been wandering around the
halls of peace at IGHQ, the top advisors who fumbled the ball when given the
chance for peace, as well as the emperor himself, all for the sake of insufficient
material capabilities, were at once intoxicated by the dramatic reports of the first
strikes and at the same time struck with amnesia about how hesitant they had
been in the past. The majority of the Japanese people as well went crazy over the
Empire’s initial military victories, without a clue as to why their generals, being
fully aware of how reckless such a venture was, had plunged them into war.
10 December 1941. The IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference decided
to “designate the present conflict, including the China Incident, as the Greater
East Asia War” [Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 1: 568]. As to intent of such a
moniker, it seems that most people at IGHQ General Staff, including the War
Planning Detail, who wanted to limit objectives of the war, understood it to be
simply a geographical title. In contrast, there is the view that it stemmed from a
fixation within the top leaders beginning with Prime Minister Tōjō Hideki, on
the idea of building a New Greater East Asia Order. On 12 December, the Min-
istry of War’s Information Bureau publicly announced, “The title Greater East
Asia War signifies a conflict for the purpose of building a New Greater East Asia
Order and does not imply limiting the theatre of war to the region of Greater
East Asia.”
Critically reflecting upon this point, the war history written after the war by
Hara Shirō, a former member of the War Planning Detail, states,

The events surrounding the adoption of this title are not very clear, but in
the final analysis, it indicates a lack of preparation on the part of IGHQ and
the government regarding war objectives and also gave rise to confusion
over how to understand those objectives.
[Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1974, Vo. 5: 569–70]

If so, “war for resources” realism had already begun at such an early stage to be
jeopardized by the “politics of war.”

Notes
1 Besides Gunjishi Gakkai, ed. 1998, the Japan Center for Asian Historical Records data-
base made the original of Classified War Journal available to the public in 2013. Refer-
ence code for each entry of the journal will be from C12120316100 to C12120362800
depending on the date of the original entry. In case dates are cited, the reference cita-
tions for Classified War Journal will hereinafter be omitted.
2 A body set up in November 1937, at the time of the outbreak of second Sino-­Japanese
War, to facilitate communications between Imperial General Headquarters (Daihon’ei;
IGHQ) and the national government. Its name was briefly changed to Liaison Collo-
quium between IGHQ and the government (Daihon’ei Seifu Renraku Kondankai)
from November 1940 to July 1941; then to Supreme Council for the Direction of the
War (Saikō Sensō Shidō Kaigi) in August 1944. When the meeting convened in the
presence of the emperor, the event was called Gozen Kaigi (Imperial Council), fifteen
of which were held between 1938 and 1945.
 The “Southern question”   55
3 “Japanese Continue Indo-­China Attack,” New York Times, 24 September 1940, 4.
4 In the “narrative” presented in detail by Ishii Akiho concerning the events following
the Gozen Kaigi of 6 September 1941, we find a War Planning and Management
Detail wholeheartedly in favor of advocating war. However, according to the content
of its Classified Journal, up through August of that year, members such as Arisue
Yadoru and Tanemura Suketaka were not at all enthusiastic about the decision to
declare war. Only after understanding that the US embargo on oil exports to Japan
would not be reversed did they reach a consensus in late August supporting the
General Staff ’s views advocating war. For Ishii, who as a leader of the Ministry of War’s
Military Affairs Bureau China Detail, originally came up with the idea that the “seize
the moment” view of a Southern advance, dividing the debate at hand between advo-
cating vs. avoiding war was for one’s role or duty as a military leader, rather than a per-
sonal conviction [see Hosaka 1989, Senshishitsu, ed. 1974, Vol. 4, and Gunjishi
Gakkai 1998, Vol. 1: 138–51].
5 In the original of this document, what should be “Item 8” of Section II: General Plan
has been numbered “Item 7.”
2 The occupation of
Southeast Asia
Assertions and the real world

1  The Southern Campaign

The initial war atmosphere

Predawn, Wednesday, 24 December 1941: on the second day of the assault
landing operations staged by the main force of the Watari Group Fourteenth
Army in the Lingayen Gulf waters off the northwest coast of Luzon, it became
the Propaganda Detail’s turn to board a landing craft that would drop it off on
the beach at Bauang, in the province of La Union. The fighting had already
stopped, and the enemy was nowhere in sight. At dawn, the Propaganda Detail
took a rest in a dry rice field under sunny skies and went to work with their
mess kits.
Detail member Kon Hidemi headed for the beach under orders to cover the
landing of invasion commander Lt. General Honma Masaharu. Upon his return,
Kon found the rice was done and the detail leader Lt. Colonel Katsuya Fuku-
shige roasting a whole chicken. “A chicken which had avoided sharp eyes [of
the troops] and been running around [the deserted village] till morning” was
found by the Detail and “now roasting whole over the fire.” Katsuya cut off a
thigh with his jackknife and handed it to Kon. “To take our first steps on the
beach and run into such a delicacy just adds to the excitement in store for the
march to come,” Kon writes naively in his Embedded with the Army in the Phil-
ippines about his first experience achieving war objective no. 2, “material
procurement on the ground” [Kon 1944: 114–17].
The 48th Division, which was the main force in the Lingayen landing opera-
tion, was a unit that had experienced multi-­deployments on the battlefields of
southern China. The act of catching domestic animals and cooking them, con-
jures the image of dexterous farm boys-­turned-soldiers right at home with
“material procurement on the ground.” There being no one around in the vil-
lages was due to the fact that everybody had fled into the mountains fearing for
their lives. The town of Bauang, where command headquarters was first set up,
was also nearly deserted, leaving the staff officers, including the Propaganda
Detail, free to take up lodgings in the empty homes of the wealthier residents.
There, they sipped cognac and whiskey that “had been inadvertently left
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   57
behind,” and drank coffee, the rich fragrance of which “I had never enjoyed” in
Tokyo [ibid.: 128].
The journalists and intelligentsia who had been conscripted into the Propa-
ganda Detail seemed to be unaware that in obeying orders to achieve “material
procurement on the ground,” they were committing acts of looting forbidden
under international laws of war. On the third day of the landing, Kon was
ordered to “requisition materials related to public relations” and headed for San
Fernando, the state capital of La Union. Kon wrote that he was “unable to sup-
press a feeling that seemed like anger” upon arriving in the capital, where “most
of the town” had already been burned to the ground during scorched earth
operations by the US forces. However, when he was led by the Religious Con-
ciliation Detail, who had already arrived, to the city’s largest printing factory
(specializing in religious books), he seems not to have had any doubts about
dislodging a printing press and gathered enough paper, type, ink, and so on, to
fill two freight trucks. Concerning the placement of a “receipt” as “a promise
meaning that if the bearer appears [later] at the Propaganda Detail, payment
will be made in accordance with the value of the requisitioned goods,” Kon
rather proudly writes the “Imperial Army has proclaimed that it will protect the
lives and property of all the Philippine islanders who do not resist,” and
regarding requisitioning, “we are paying the going price” [ibid.: 133–7].
However, the payment received upon appearing at military detachments was to
be made in the form of military notes issued by the Japanese forces in local cur-
rency denominations. This currency, which was derided in the Philippines as
“Mickey Mouse money” and in Malaya as “banana notes,” had no other
backing than the military might of the occupation forces.
The Watari Group Sixteenth Division (also known as the Kyoto Division)
landed separately from Lamon Bay on the eastern Pacific Ocean side of Luzon
and headed west toward Manila through the island’s southern agrarian belt.
Second Lieutenant Hitomi Junsuke’s Propaganda Platoon accompanied the
Division’s Reconnaissance Regiment in the vanguard. The content of Hitomi’s
reports lay in sharp contrast to the landscape described by Kon Hidemi. The
regiment he accompanied camped outdoors during the entire march and “not
even one inch of the dojin natives’1 dwellings were violated.” Military discipline
deviated not one iota from the “Grand Autumn Training Exercises” conducted
in Japan. There was absolutely no perception “that you may do anything at
war.” The main force of the regiment consisted of new recruits trained in Japan
with no battlefield experience. Such a display of strict military discipline, writes
Hitomi, “is truly a sight to behold. It deeply impressed not only the dojin
natives, but this Propaganda Platoon’s members as well” [Watari Shūdan
Hōdōbu 1996, ed. Vol. 1: 13–14]. Such admiration from a soldier who had just
done a three-­year tour of duty in Manchuria speaks volumes about the kind of
discipline that must have been practiced by Japanese troops on the ground in
China.
58   The occupation of Southeast Asia
The occupation of Manila
Dawn, 1 January 1942: the Forty-­eighth and Sixteenth Divisions of the Watari
Group (Fourteenth Army) reached the northern and southern outskirts of
Manila, which the American-­Philippine Army had proclaimed “an open city”
before abandoning its streets. Douglas MacArthur, the commander of the US
Armed Forces in the Far East (USAFFE) had before the war prepared for coastal
operations to reduce the strength of the Japanese forces during their landings;
however, with the loss of air and sea supremacy due in part to the destruction of
most of the US B17 bombers by Japanese air raids at the start of the war,
MacArthur ordered the US-­Philippine forces stationed throughout Luzon to
retreat to the Bataan Peninsula, himself falling back within the walls of the fort-
ress on the island of Corregidor, in the waters off its southern tip, to fight a war
of endurance.
2 January 1942: the main force of the Watari Group entered Manila and
began occupying the city. Ōgiya Shōzō (b. 1913), a special correspondent for
Asahi Shimbun news embedded with a front-­line detachment,2 headed for the
city center. Despite being declared an “open city,” “machine gun fire popped
like roasting beans” in the streets through the night, during mop-­up operations
in search of “stragglers,” in addition to several huge explosions (from devices
possibly planted by the US-­Philippine Army to ignite gasoline dumps) that
shook the evening skies and lit them up like at dusk. Ōgiya and his unit requisi-
tioned their quarters at the Manila Hotel, where General and Mrs. MacArthur
had stayed in a special suite on the top floor. The numerous US nationals who
were staying at or had fled to the American-­owned hotel greeted the war-­grimy
Japanese troops with looks of fear and apprehension. “American women who
looked like they had just stepped out of a fashion magazine” took one look at
the swords held by the Japanese troops and edged all that much closer to their
boyfriends, “just like in the movies.” However, Ōgiya and his comrades, who
just wanted to get to bed, took no time to savor this particular moment of
angst. “After we kicked the Americans out of their suites and locked them up
crammed like sardines in the dining room, I was able to soak in the bath for the
first time in a month.” On the 3rd, the Kempeitai arrived in Manila and pro-
ceeded to round up resident American and British nationals from all over the
city, including the Manila Hotel, and “detain” them on the campus of the
University of Santo Tomas in the center of the city. That evening, “A proclama-
tion of military rule the size of a newspaper page signed ‘Commander, Armed
Forces of Imperial Japan’ was posted all over the city” [Ōgiya 1943: 9, 164–6].

TO ALL THE AUTHORITIES AND THE PEOPLE OF THE

COMMONWEALTH OF THE PHILIPPINES:
(1) As the result of the Japanese Military operations, the sovereignty of the
U.S.A. over the Philippines has completely disappeared and the Army
hereby proclaims the Military Administration under martial law over
the districts occupied by the Army.
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   59
(2) The purpose of the Japanese expedition is nothing but to emancipate
you from the oppressive domination of U.S.A. letting you establish
“the Philippines for the Filipinos” as a member of the Co-­prosperity
Sphere in the Greater East Asia and making you enjoy your own pros-
perity and culture.
(3) The Authorities and the people of the Commonwealth should sever
their relations with the U.S.A. and trust the just and fair administration
of the Army, obeying faithfully all its commands, cooperating voluntar-
ily with it in its stationing and activities here and supplying military
needs when asked.
(4) So far as the Military Administration permits, all the laws now in force
in the Commonwealth, as well as executive and judicial institutions
shall continue to be effective for the time being as in the past. There-
fore all public officials shall remain in their present posts and carry on
[sic] faithfully their duties as before.
(5) The Army recognizes the freedom of your religion and residence and
has a regard for your usual customs, so far as the Military Administra-
tion permits. Accordingly, all the people in the Commonwealth are
requested to comprehend the real intentions of the Army and never be
deceived by propagandas [sic] of the U.S.A. and Great Britain, and you
should never disturb public peace in any way, warning yourselves
against rushness [sic] and refraining from spreading fabulous, wild
rumors. Such actions shall be regarded as hostile operations and offend-
ers shall be severely punished, the gravest offenses being punished by
death, according to martial law.
[JACAR: C14020668300]

In sum, while emphasizing Japan’s justification for waging war on the one hand,
based on measures included in Ishii Akiho’s “Guidelines for Implementing
Military Administration,” like “utilizing the existing governance mechanism and
respecting existing social organization and national customs,” the proclamation
calls upon the occupied under military threat to cooperate with the Japanese
forces and in providing material and maintaining law and order, in order to
restore peace as soon as possible.
It was on the evening of the same day that “more than two hundred healthy
Japanese males of working age” from among the Japanese civilian residents who
had been detained and incarcerated since the start of the war were released from
their holding facility at the city’s Japanese elementary school. Ōsawa Kiyoshi (b.
1906), one of those released, had been born and raised by a family of wealthy
farmers in Gunma Prefecture and after losing both of his parents at an early age,
had spent his adolescence attending Takasaki Junior High School (in the old
system), where he developed a rebellious dislike for moral and military training.
After graduation, Ōsawa spent half a year as a substitute teacher, then quit in
1925 at the age of nineteen to fulfill a childhood dream of going to “anywhere
else where there are coconut trees and blue skies [Ōsawa 1981: 45]” by hopping
60   The occupation of Southeast Asia
aboard a migrant ship owned by an entrepreneur advertising for hemp planta-
tion laborers bound for Davao on Mindanao. After landing at the port of Zam-
boanga, this Japanese Huck Finn refused to go to the hemp plantation and
headed for Manila, where he found work with the help of people he had met on
the boat over. Soon after, he was successful in gaining the franchise for the
Manila branch of Mizuno Sports, the Japanese manufacturer of athletic equip-
ment popular among Filipino sports enthusiasts. As one of the Manila Japanese
community’s success stories in the making, Ōsawa deeply loved and respected
the people and society of the Philippines, which had welcomed him without dis-
crimination. Of course, Ōsawa was no different from any other member of the
Japanese community in patriotic fervor regarding his homeland and was one of
those who welcomed the Imperial Army with “shouts of joy” and “Banzai!”
also recalling “the scene, so genuinely and dramatically Japanese, moved us to
the hearts” when the Japanese elementary school playground was filled with
hundreds of Japanese soldiers [Ōsawa 1978: 116; Ōsawa 1981: 142].
It was on 4 January 1942 that the Propaganda Detail entered Manila.
According to the postwar memoirs of Terashita Tatsuo (b. 1904), a poet who
had been conscripted into the Detail along with Ozaki and Kon, the corpses of
American and Filipino troops piled on each side of the road leading into Manila
struck his nostrils with the heavy stench of death. However, once they reached
Manila, everything changed around them. To the Detail’s amazement, there
were “young women” that had not been seen on the march in. Meanwhile, the
long line of vehicles carrying the Propaganda Detail waving both Japanese and
Filipino flags headed for the crowds of “dumbfounded, squinting” Filipinos and
“third country nationals (daisangoku jin, i.e., those who were neither Japanese
nor Filipinos),” who “hadn’t yet recovered from fright,” upon whom the
Detail’s staff rained over 20,000 leaflets “like cherry blossoms swirling in the
wind,” were then left behind to pick them up and hungrily stare at the print
[Terashita 1967: 126–8].
According to Ōsawa’s recollections, however, the joy within the local
Japanese community “was short-­lived,” as talk spread among both Japanese and
Filipinos who were wondering, “Why are the Japanese soldiers so violent?” At
military checkpoints set up everywhere in Manila, Filipino citizens were forced
to make a deep, Japanese-­style bow when passing through.

Japanese soldiers appeared around the shopping quarters. They stood on

the streets, large armbands around their sleeves, glaring threateningly at the
traffic of shoppers and pedestrians. There, too, they committed outrage. In
public, they slapped poor, defenseless Filipinos in the face, kicked them,
sending them sprawling on the street. Each time I witnessed these, I trem-
bled with indignation, but there was nothing I could do. I felt frustrated.
[Ōsawa 1978: 117; 1981: 142–3]

This sort of behavior, ingrained in the sadistic, violent culture of being a Japa-
nese soldier, especially the “binta” (face-­slapping) that earned the resentment of
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   61
people throughout Southeast Asia, would prompt an irredeemable backlash that
the Japanese military would only realize much farther down the road in the war
and occupation.
It was in this fashion that Manila was occupied; however, the Japanese Army
was to pay a high price for it in the battle for Bataan and Corregidor, which
would prove to be the longest campaign of any of its Southern operations. Later
on, the campaign for the Bataan Peninsula would become so bogged down
partly because the Forty-­eighth Division was ordered to leave the Philippines to
be deployed for invading Java, which was given priority by IGHQ.

The Fall of Singapore

Although not as uneventful as the occupation of Manila, in all the regions ear-
marked for Southern operations, the Japanese armed forces rapidly advanced,
“like a strong wind swirling dry leaves” [Classified Journal of War, 15 January
1942] and occupied one colonial capital after another. Even on the Malay Pen-
insula, where the most intense fighting occurred against the army of the British
Indian Army and joint British-­Australian forces,3 on 11 January 1942 the former
surrendered at Kuala Lumpur and on 15 February Singapore, the symbol of
British hegemony in the South Seas, was overrun. Meanwhile, the conscripted
writers and news reporters of the D Detail embedded with Tomi Group
(Twenty-­Fifth Army), after witnessing the conclusion of a troop transit agree-
ment on board a ship that disembarked from Saigon, landed in the Thai port of
Songkhla on the Malay Peninsula and marched into British Malaya, passing
along with the Tomi Group through the aftermath of intense fighting onto Alor
Setar, the state capital of Kedah (28 December 1941), and finally reaching
Taiping (31 December). Then at dawn on 12 January 1942, they caught up
with the front line and entered Kuala Lumpur immediately after its fall. “It was
both a city of death and a city in the midst of battle,” wrote Ibuse Masuji
[1997b: 484].
15 February 1942. The British commanding officers raising the Union Jack
along with a white flag came to the Japanese headquarters set up at the Ford
Motor Plant on Bukit Timah, Singapore’s highest point (elev. 163 meters), to
negotiate for terms of surrender. Matsumoto Naoji of the Army Information
Detail, who rushed to the scene, records in dramatic fashion the scene at the
meeting between Tomi Group Commander General Yamashita Tomoyuki and
British commander Lt. General Arthur E. Percival, where it was reported that
Yamashita gave Percival an ultimatum about unconditional surrender with
the words, “Give me a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ ” (actually these were said to be the
words of the interpreter).

After deliberating with his aides in whispered tones, Lt. Gen. Percival finally
replied in a quivering voice, “Yes.” The conditions of surrender being laid
out, his audience with the General was ended. The earth-­shaking surrender
of the British Malaya Command has filled the airwaves and astonished the
62   The occupation of Southeast Asia
world. A tumult, reminiscent of the meeting at Shuı̌shīyíng Naval Head-
quarters where 203 Hill was surrendered by the Russians in the siege of
Lushun, is reverberating through every Malay mountain and stream. “To
our fallen comrades, tomorrow your ashes will enter Singapore trium-
phantly on our bosoms!”

In his memoirs published in 1993, after quoting this report, Matsumoto writes,
“Reading this now, it can be summed up in one phrase, ‘wartime collaboration,’
which I can no longer shout out loud [like I used to]” [Matsumoto 1993:
67–9]. The Japanese government did indeed try to get the most mileage out of
the Fall of Singapore as possible. On the 16th, two Fall of Singapore commem-
orative postage stamps that had already been designed, were issued depicting
the siege of Lushun commanders General Nogi Maresuke and Fleet Com-
mander Admiral Tōgō Heihachirō, while on the 17th it was announced that the
name, Singapore, would be changed to “Shōnan,” roughly meaning “radiant
(Shō) south (nan),” taking “Shō” from the imperial era name “Shōwa.”
However, the majority of the Japanese public really needed no such sensa-
tionalist reporting or government fanfare to become intoxicated by the news of
the initial victories over the United States and Britain. It was rather a spon-
taneous explosion of a feeling of rivalry in Japanese consciousness toward the
West, in particular, and the Caucasian/“White Man,” in general. For example,
the following are verses collected by literary critic Okuno Takeo after the war
(1964), which were published in the Asahi Shimbun daily news during those
early stages of victory.

What on Earth is wrong/With giving such an arrogant, aged, senile

country/The beating it has always deserved.
(Saitō Mokichi, clinical psychologist and poet)

Now that our brave warriors/Have risen to the cause/England’s once

invincible black ships/Are now hopelessly waterlogged!
(Aizu Yaichi, art historian)

My heart is a flutter/Hearing of our invasion of Borneo/A land unjustly

occupied/By the White Man.
(Tsuchiya Bunmei, high school principal, classical scholar and poet)

Okuno is of the opinion that the poetry and tanka written by such accomp-
lished muses of the day, “rather than expressing the sentiments elicited as public
songsters under hire by the Empire, they express driven personal sentiments
venting the hatred which had mounted over the years towards the white race’s
rule over East Asia” [Okuno 1964: 496].
In both Manila and Singapore, the most important initial duties given to the
Propaganda Details after the occupation of those capitals was to seize their
newspaper offices and broadcasting stations, then reopen them as print and
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   63
broadcast media under Japanese military supervision. In Manila, the Tribune,
the capital’s foremost morning paper founded in 1925, was seized and reopened
in such a manner; and similarly, in Singapore the Strait Times (est. 1845) was
renamed the Shōnan Times (later Syonan Shimbun).
Ibuse Masuji reached Singapore on the day after the fall of the capital (16
February). It was different from what one had seen in Manila, where the troops
had moved into the heart of the city; the Japanese main force was now
encamped on the outskirts of Singapore, and only the Kempeitai and others
were allowed inside specifically for guard duty. “Enemy helmets and guns have
been left strewn all over the city, and what seem to be Malayan and Chinese
coolies are setting off the bullets they sweep up by stomping on them.” On 18
February, Ibuse and his cohorts, under orders to get newspapers back out on
the street, paid a visit to the offices of the Strait Times, and found the clerical
staff and factory workers already assembled expecting the facility to be seized.
Their representative, a Eurasian clerk by the name of “Jonsu,” appeared to
inform the detail that their British editor-­in-chief had already been sent to the
concentration facility set up at Changi Prison, that all the Chinese news report-
ers had fled, and that the plate maker, whose skills were needed to get the
presses rolling again, had not come in to work out of fear of the Japanese
troops. Ibuse then went to the address “Jonsu” gave them and persuaded the
plate maker, by the name of “Lee Yong,” to come to work. All around the
printer’s home, “Chinese … cracked open their windows peering [at us] with
frightened curiosity in anticipation that something big was going to happen.”
Looking around Ibuse saw them, “hiding like crabs in a grotto.” Soon, Ibuse
would write that such an atmosphere “vanished in a matter of only two weeks
or so” [Ibuse 1997a: 149–52]. What happened during that “two weeks or so”
period is described in his “Southern Voyage Digest (23 February 1942).”

Today (again), a crowd of people appeared asking to complete affidavits

swearing they were law-­abiding citizens. Among them were those implor-
ing in tearful sobs. However, since no one can apply without us knowing
his or her background, I refused and told them to go and take the matter
up with the Military Administration Department. 
[Ibuse 1997b: 493]

Ibuse’s diary, which was published during the war, deftly portrays here for us
in simple terms one aspect of the specter of fear and apprehension spreading
over the Chinese community of Singapore caused by ongoing ethnic cleansing
and wholesale massacre by the Japanese military, euphemistically termed “large-­
scale inspections.” However, the actual account was invented to avoid military
censorship. We know this because in his memoir, Under Civilian Conscription,
published between 1977 and 1980, Ibuse states, “For about one month … we
issued over forty [law-­abiding citizen] affidavits … Of those who appeared to fill
them out, about one in four said that they had been brutalized in some manner
by Japanese Auxiliary Kempeitai” [Ibuse 2005: 103].
64   The occupation of Southeast Asia
The occupation of Palembang
On the day before the Fall of Singapore, army paratroopers attacked and occu-
pied the oil fields of Palembang on the island of Sumatra. If Singapore held
important meaning as the symbol of victory for the Southern invasion, Palem-
bang, and the surrounding oil fields occupied by the Japanese forces around
that time, embodied the accomplishment of one of the invasion’s most
important objectives on the “war for resources” front. Anticipating that the
Allied Nations would naturally attempt to sabotage their colonial oil fields and
refineries, the Japanese military had secretly formed and equipped the Twenty-­
first Armored Field Operations Oil Extraction Detail, centered around engineers
conscripted in the civilian corps for the purpose of restoring and operating pet-
roleum production facilities [Ishii 1991].
One of the members of this detail was Tamaki Akiyoshi, an employee of the
Mitsubishi Petroleum Corp., who on 3 January 1942 departed Osaka on
Manira-­maru (SS Manila) along with the military administration staff of the
Osamu Group (Sixteenth Army). After graduating from the Kyushu Imperial
University College of Engineering Applied Chemistry Department in 1930,
Tamaki went to work for Mitsubishi Petroleum, which had just been founded as
a joint US-­Japan venture, and was assigned as the superintendent in charge of
the construction of Mitsubishi’s Kawasaki Refinery, the largest refinery in Japan
with the core facilities introduced from the US. In 1937, he went abroad to the
United States, in the midst of growing tensions in its relations with Japan, to
study state-­of-the-­art oil refinery infrastructure technology and upon his return
negotiate for its introduction to Japan. It was due to his expertise and experi-
ence in leading edge oil facilities and their construction that Tamaki was con-
scripted into the civilian corps [Chiyoda Kakō 1983: 24–36]. He was aboard
the same transport from Taiwan to French Indochina carrying the crack troops
of the paratrooper detachment. “The paratroopers wore boots equipped with
spring-­loaded heels, carried two hand grenades in their waist belts and trained
on the deck of the ship, jumping and flipping about like a troupe of circus
acrobats.” Then while on the transport from French Indochina to Palembang,
Tamaki witnessed “An innumerable number of drowned corpses of enemy
civilians [who had fled Singapore prior to the fall] floating in the water”
[Palembang no Sekiyu Butai Kankōkai, ed. 1973: 124–5].
The paratrooper attack was an overwhelming success. The refinery of the
British-­Dutch joint venture Bataafse Petroleum Maatschappij in Plaju district in
Palembang, which the Japanese occupation force designated as Oil Refinery No.
1, was captured almost without any damage to the installation. Japanese forces
were able to secure the 150,000 tons of crude and 400,000 tons of refined oil
stored at the refinery [Ishii 1991: 100]. The prewar planning, which anticipated
the destruction of such facilities by the enemy, estimated that during the first
year of the war the amount of oil “remitted from the South” would amount to
a mere 300,000 tons. The almost flawless capture of the crude and refined oil
on Sumatra alone greatly surpassed those estimates [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985:
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   65
263]. Such was not the case for the US-­Dutch Netherlands Koloniale Petro-
leum Maatschappi (NKPM) Refinery in Sungaigerong, which the Japanese
occupation force designated as Oil Refinery No. 2. There, its American plant
engineers destroyed all the facilities with explosives before making their escape.
Just before landing, the tanks of the NKPM refinery could be seen engulfed in
flames, and “strange sounding explosions” heard from time to time. At dusk,
the fires “seared the heavens” [Parenban no Sekiyu Butai Kankōkai, ed. 1973:
59]. Despite a cooling water stoppage, the power plant kept on running and its
boiler tubes had already melted down by the time the Japanese troops occupied
the facility [ibid. 1982: 587].
Tamaki Akiyoshi and his fellow petroleum engineers then began restoring a
huge state-­of-the-­art oil refining installation defying comparison to anything
operating in Japan. Tanaka Munetsugu, who followed Tamaki’s Detail as a
member of the Southern Army Operations Team dispatched to Palembang by
Mitsubishi Petroleum, recalls that after inspecting Refinery No. 2, he found

the scale of the main machinery overwhelming … generally speaking, the

size of each piece of machinery, the width of the pipes running from them,
the breadth of the site, all were over ten times the scale of the Kawasaki
Refinery.
[Ibid. 1973: 316–17]

The restoration and operation of such a huge plant was in itself the technical
training chance of a lifetime for these Japanese engineers. Tamaki, who had
been appointed plant manager of No. 2, found a set of English language
manuals left behind by NKPM, studied the technological aspects of every piece
of equipment, then began issuing daily job orders in English to the refinery’s
full-­time workforce, numbering about 2,000, and tens of teams of Chinese sub-
contractors who had joined the restoration effort, receiving daily and weekly
reports on the progress, while making appearances on the job to show them
how to use their welding equipment [ibid. 1982: 589]. Abe Isao, who was dis-
patched from Nippon Petroleum to operate the BPM Refinery No. 1 in Plaju
that had been saved from destruction, recalls those days as an exciting time for
engineers like him to study leading edge Western technology: “Seeing that the
plant’s equipment and technology were far superior to what was in Japan, I was
filled with a fearless commitment to learn it all.” And when he was made
machinery test run assistant, he remembers “proudly accepting because it was
equipment that didn’t exist in Japan” [ibid.: 45–8].

The stationing of Japanese troops in Thailand

On 18 December 1941, Takami Jun and his fellow B Detail members said
goodbye to Ibuse Masuji and the D Detail in Saigon and headed by truck over-
land to Phnom Penh, crossed Cambodia over the “newly established border”
into Battambang, which had been “returned” to Siam the previous March.
66   The occupation of Southeast Asia
Then the detail marched West over the “old border” for 700 km until reaching
Bangkok on 29 December. Up until this time in his diary, Takami had made no
mention of Burma. Then on 2 January 1941 he was ordered to do a story about
Victoria Point (present day Kawthoung) on the southern tip of Burma border-
ing Thailand. His diary reads, “I was caught by surprise and had to get ready in
a hurry” [Takami 1965: 289].
As already mentioned, before the opening of hostilities, IGHQ had no
expectations about a major offensive that would extend over all of Burma, but
rather outlined a vague plan to “deal with Burma when the opportunity presents
itself,” after Southern operations have settled down a bit. Even the plan itself for
“dealing with Burma” included rear military support for the Burmese national
independence movement through the Minami Agency and hopes for igniting
independence movements in India. In sum, they would let schemes and plots
run their course with no decisions on the specifics. The initial duties of the
Hayashi Group (Fifteenth Army) within the Southern Campaign were essen-
tially to solidify the rear of the Tomi Group, which staged an armed landing at
Kota Bharu, then march south over the Malay Peninsula to Singapore. In order
to accomplish this task, the Hayashi Group initiated “operations to infiltrate
Thailand,” simultaneously with the first strikes. Whether those operations would
end in the “peaceful stationing of troops” or escalate into an armed invasion of
Thailand depended first and foremost on Thailand, not Burma; that is, the
response of Siamese Prime Minister Phibun.
Within the region of Southeast Asia, which by the turn of the twentieth
century had been almost entirely colonized by Western powers, Thailand was
the only territory able to maintain sovereignty as the Kingdom of Siam, under
King Chulalongkorn (Rama V of the Chakri Dynasty; r. 1868–1910), who act-
ively promoted the establishment of modern governmental institutions. Mean-
while, France, which had completed its colonization of Vietnam by the 1880s,
posed a threat to Siam by taking over the region on the east bank of the
Mekong River (Laos) in 1893. In response, Siam took advantage of the pro-
jected image that Thailand was valuable to the British Commonwealth as a
buffer state in order to barely maintain its sovereignty. On the other hand,
with  the penetration of France into the Indochina peninsula and Britain into
the Malay Peninsula, Thailand was by no means able to escape the reality of
European colonial rule in Southeast Asia, in the sense of being forced to
approve British economic concessions on the Malay Peninsula in exchange for
a secret security treaty, which had seriously wounded its pride as “a great
nation.”
In 1927, a small group of military and civil elites fed up with monarchical
rule formed a society while studying abroad in Paris, which they called the Peo-
ple’s Party, and staged a constitutional revolution in June 1932. After the
revolution, national political instability continued as the new People’s Party’s
attempts to establish one-­party rule clashed with King Rama VII (r. 1925–35)
who opposed such one-­party rule. It was only after the failure of an anti-­
People’s Party coup d’état in 1935 and the consequent abdication of Rama VII,
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   67
that stability was achieved for the time being under a People’s Party regime.
During this time, the People’s Party took a position that greatly diverged from
the monarchy’s policy, followed since the nineteenth century, by adopting a
pro-­Western line of diplomacy and inviting Westerners to serve as administrative
advisors, showing a move to strengthen its relations with Japan. In February
1933, in a vote of 42–1 by a special session of the League of Nations Assembly
in favor of the withdrawal of Japanese forces from Manchuria, Thailand had sur-
prised international society by being the only abstaining member, and thus indi-
cated a change in its diplomatic policy. Even in the aborted coup d’état attempt
of 1935, the People’s Party regime, fearing that the United States and Britain
would intervene on the part of the monarchy, secretly requested support from
Japan.
In 1938, Field Marshall Phibun, who had been among the seven founders of
the party, was appointed prime minister. With the outbreak of the Great War in
Europe the following year, the Phibun regime declared neutrality; however, a
movement to recover the “territories lost” to Britain and France continued to
be a cherished hope of the People’s Party. Then with France’s defeat by
Germany in June 1940, Thailand strengthened its demands for the restoration
of the British and French concessions, and in November of that year, after the
stationing of Japanese troops in French Indochina, fighting broke out on the
Thai-­French Indochina border. At first, the Thai Army went on the offensive
and was able to push into Cambodia, but during January 1941, with the French
Indochinese fleet’s defeat of the Thai Navy, Thailand found itself at a dis-
advantage. It was at this point that Japan offered to mediate the grievances
between the two parties, with the intention of not only putting an end to chaos
in Indochina, but also bringing Thailand over to the Japanese side. According
to the mediation proposal submitted by Japan in March, France would return to
Thailand northern and western Cambodia, along with a portion of Laos, thus
returning Thai borders to what they were at the turn of the century. The “new
border” which Takami and his cohorts crossed on 18 December 1941 was the
new boundary line drawn as the result of that mediation.
In light of the above developments, IGHQ, fully confident that Thailand
would stand beside Japan as the latter conducted its Southern Campaign and
obtained full cooperation from the Phibun government in cutting off all British
influence west of Burma via a minimal force garrison “stationed as peacefully as
possible” within Thai territory. However, pro-­Western sentiment within most
parts of Thai society was still as strong as it had been in the nineteenth century,
while dissatisfaction over Japan’s mediation, which returned only a portion of
the French concessions, continued to smolder beneath the surface. On top of
that, not knowing the whereabouts of Prime Minister Phibun at the time of the
first strikes led to a very unexpected course taken in the “Thailand infiltration
operation.”
Immediately prior to the first attacks, on 2 December 1941, an incident
occurred on the Thai-­Cambodia border, in which Japanese troops arrested and
beat up a Thai government official whom they had mistaken for a Chinese. After
68   The occupation of Southeast Asia
issuing a strong protest to Japan, Phibun, declaring that he would investigate
the incident personally, suddenly disappeared, and his absence prevented any
further progress in Thai–Japan negotiations over the recognition of the “peace-
ful stationing of Japanese forces.” Because it had to advance in coordination
with the Tomi Group assault landing at Kota Bharu, at dawn on 8 December,
the Hayashi Group staged assault landings in southern Thailand along the
eastern Malayan coast and in the vicinity of Bangkok, while entering central
Thailand from Cambodia. Casualties inflicted in the fighting at all three of these
locations included about 100 Japanese troops and about 200 Thai troops, police
officers and volunteers killed in action. In the midst of the chaos caused by this
state of affairs, Phibun reappeared at the prime minister’s residence. At 7:30 in
the morning surrounded by Japanese representatives, including the Japanese
ambassador to Thailand and top military brass, Phibun, when pressed for his
approval of Japanese troop transit through Thailand, issued a Cabinet decision
ordering a cease-­fire. Then in the afternoon, both countries concluded a military
forces agreement that allowed Japanese troops to move through Thai territory.
At this point in time, Phibun continued to insist on Thai neutrality, by demand-
ing that the partisan clause proposed by Japan—“Japan will give due considera-
tion to the restoration of territory lost by Thailand in the region of Malaya”—to
be stricken from the agreement. At any rate, fighting between the two armies
had been stopped and a “peaceful stationing of troops” was finally accomp-
lished, setting the stage for the arrival in Bangkok of Hayashi Group com-
mander Iida Shōjirō the following day.
It was in this manner that the Phibun government betrayed Japanese expec-
tations by assuming a position of neutrality at the start of the war. However,
just two days later, on 10 December, Phibun changed his mind and told the
Japanese delegation that he would agree to the conclusion of a Japanese-­Thai
treaty of alliance, which was formally signed on the 21st, citing as its objective,
“building a new order in East Asia.” Then on 25 January 1942, the Kingdom of
Siam issued a declaration of war against the United States and Britain. With
respect to what was behind such a capitulation to Japan’s intentions, despite the
chaotic situation during the first days of the war, the war histories written in
Japan are of the opinion that it was the initial victories enjoyed by Japan—the
devastating attack on Pearl Harbor, and the sinking of the battleships HMS
Prince of Wales and HMS Repulse, the main force of Britain’s Eastern Fleet,
which was reported on 10 December—that might have caused the sudden
change in the position of the Phibun government [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu,
ed. 1967b: 62]. On the other hand, in the contemporary Thai historical nar-
rative, there is a strong tendency to explain Thailand’s cooperation with Japan
after the opening of hostilities as entirely due to coercion on the part of the Jap-
anese military. On this point, Murashima Eiji, historian of contemporary Thai-
land, has pointed out, 

[the Phibun regime leadership’s] passionate desire for territorial expansion

based on the idea of a great Thai nation and [their] sympathy and support
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   69
for the anti-­colonial struggles going on in neighboring countries have been
ignored as determining factors in what can be called a spontaneous declara-
tion of war on the US and Britain and pledge of cooperation to Japan. 
[Murashima 1999: 433]

Yoshikawa Toshiharu, in a posthumous work published in Thai, entitled The

Japanese Garrison in an Allied Thailand (2010), points to the complicated
emotional position of the Thai side: (1) that from the perspective of the exhila-
rating rise in morale experienced by Thailand in its border clashes with the
French, the territory ceded through Japan’s grievance mediation was deemed
small in comparison, and (2) Phibun’s impression of “having given the West a
sound thrashing, at least France” surely resonated with Japan’s talk about “Asia
for Asians,” but at the same time he entertained strong reservations about
cooperating with Japan from the start of war up until the declaration of war on
the US and Britain [Yoshikawa 2010: 29–32, 51–3]. Sharing ideas about Pan-­
Asianism and looking upon a world war as an excellent opportunity for realiza-
tion of the great Thai nation notwithstanding, one can also detect the existence
from the very beginning of apprehension and reluctance on the part of Thailand
in the face of what could turn out to be recklessness on the part of Japan in its
war on the US and Britain.

The invasion of Burma

On 2 January 1942, Takami Jun, having been suddenly ordered to do a story
on Victoria Point, left Bangkok and headed south on a trip that took over four
days to reach the border region between Burma and Thailand on the northwest
coast of the Malay Peninsula looking out over the Andaman Sea. Victoria Point,
which was located on the southern tip of British colonial Burma, where the Kra
Buri River empties into the Indian Ocean, was the area which the 143rd Infan-
try Regiment, after landing at Chunphon on the northeastern shore of the
Malay Peninsula during the “infiltration of Thailand,” had been ordered to
“find the opportunity” to cross the border and occupy. On 14 December, after
finding that the border guards on the Burma side had all fled, the 143rd had
met no resistance in occupying Victoria Point.
What Takami observed during nearly a week there was a typical colonial land-
scape characterized by migrant rubber plantation workers from India, commer-
cial activities dominated by Chinese, and a mixture of Thai, Burmese and
Malayan residents. By the time Takami arrived at Victoria Point, all of the area’s
British and Eurasian administrators and Eurasian police force had been captured
and incarcerated. According to Takami, the Japanese troops, who were carrying
plenty of food and fodder, distributed rice among the starving Indian rubber
plantation workers, who had depleted their food supplies, and reopened plant-
ing operations. Here he is describing how war offers another kind of opportu-
nity—for sectarian ethnic violence, like Thais crossing the borderless war zone
to loot and attack Indian migrants [Takami 1965: 289–314].
70   The occupation of Southeast Asia
Just after Takami returned to Bangkok, on 10 January, the 55th Division,
the main forces of the Hayashi Group (Fifteenth Army), began the invasion of
Burma from Thailand. On the 31st the Japanese forces captured Moulmein
(Mawlamyine), a strategic point on the west coast of the northernmost part of
the Malay Peninsula just across the Gulf of Martaban from Rangoon (Yangon),
and began the full-­scale invasion that had not been anticipated before the war.
Encouraged by its initial victories, IGHQ had consequently broadened the scale
of its Southern Campaign.
Only two weeks after the first strikes, on 21 December, Army General Staff
Chief of Operations Section Hattori Takushirō landed in Saigon and surprised
everyone at the Southern Army Command with a “Draft Outline of 15th Army
Operations” that ordered “the occupation of the strategic area of Burma” [Bōei
Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1967b: 72]. Hattori recalled after the war that the
insertion of Burma, which had not been originally earmarked for invasion, into
the final operations plan “was my idea.” This decision was based on a “map
maneuver conception,” assuming “it would be only natural for the British forces
to try to destroy our right wing [in terms of the southern advancing Japanese]
from Burma, so our right wing must extend through Burma.” However, since
military capability was not sufficient for such an operation, until the Southern
Campaign achieved its initial aims, “we thought that even if we did secure
Burma, we would be able to extend our reach only as far as southern Burma”
[ibid.: 15].
Exceeding such expectations by achieving through its initial victories virtual
control over the sea from the Western Pacific to the Indian Ocean, IGHQ
decided to expand the war front. And so, aiming at the occupation of Burma
proper and the complete shutdown of the “Chiang Kai-­shek Lifeline,” Hattori
suggested to the Southern Army Command the “immediate occupation of
Rangoon in one fell swoop,” and if “conditions” allow, “taking the opportunity
to launch a campaign aimed at Mandalay” [ibid.: 72–3]. Initially surprised by
this sudden proposal, the Southern Army General Command later agreed as the
Southern Campaign continued to progress smoothly, for on 22 January 1942,
IGHQ issued a directive to the Southern Army Command to secure the whole
area of Burma with the final objective of occupying the northern stronghold of
Mandalay and the oil fields in the vicinity of Yenangyaung (Army Order No.
590). Consequently, after the occupation of Moulmein, the main force of the
Hayashi Group occupied the capital of Rangoon on 8 March, after fierce fight-
ing with the British Indian Army and the Chungking Kuomintang Army, which
was protecting the “Chiang Kai-­shek Lifeline.”
Meanwhile, the Minami Agency, which before the first strikes had left
Bangkok and was biding its time in Saigon, returned to Bangkok in the rear of
the Hayashi Group and on 28 December formed the Burmese Independence
Army (hereafter BIA) from the “30 patriots,” including Aun Sang, who had
received military training on Hainan, and some 300 Burmese men recruited
inside Thailand. Owing to the above-­mentioned changes made in operations
planning, the direction of Burmese independence suddenly turned vague, while
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   71
the BIA was moving along with the Japanese forces and stepping up recruit-
ment, rapidly expanding its fighting ranks. However, the start of a full-­scale
invasion in Burma, which had not been anticipated before the war, would cause
friction not only between the Hayashi Group, the operation’s main force, and
IGHQ and the Southern Command, but also between the Hayashi Group and
the Minami Agency, which had made preparations to foment a full-­blown
national independence movement, and Burmese nationalists, beginning with the
Thakins.
The Japanese forces who advanced along with the BIA were greeted with
open arms by the Burmese masses. According to the research done by Burma
expert Nemoto Kei, the BIA deftly utilized the familiar Burmese custom of
fortune telling, tabaun, in which Minami Agency head Suzuki Keiji was likened
to Bo Mojo, the god of lightening. In his journal, Takami mentions the “young
Burmese volunteers” predicting that “lightening (mōjō) would drive Britain out
of Burma and that that lightning is the Japanese Army” [Takami 1965: 319].
By March, the BIA numbered over 10,000 strong, and the BIA and Japanese
forces were hailed en masse by Thakins everywhere they went, soundly defeating
the British and setting up provisional local governments. However, for the Japa-
nese forces as a whole, the BIA was seen as merely one part of the army’s
“scheme (bōryaku)” operations, and once the order had been given to invade
and secure Burma, the BIA could not be allowed to act on its own. Also, there
were cases in which detachments of the Hayashi Group were not informed that
the BIA even existed. At the southern city of Moulmein, which had been occu-
pied by the Fifty-­fifth Division, political recruitment activities on the part of the
BIA were prohibited, as friction arose even at the earliest stages between the
Burmese and Japanese forces [Nemoto 1996: 110–11].
A serious situation developed in the delta region of Burma infiltrated by the
Japanese forces, when BIA and Thakin Party members attacked the Karen
people, whom they had previously suspected of harboring pro-­British senti-
ments, resulting in a large number of deaths among the Karens who fought
back. This incident, known as the Myaungmya Massacres, remains even today a
source of mistrust toward the Burmese by the Karen people.
Once again, the Japanese military had come south unprepared: this time con-
cerning how to deal with ethnically-­diverse societies. The Japanese military pres-
ence in Burma created an atmosphere that greatly disturbed the order and
balance needed for coexistence among multi-­ethnic groups throughout the
country. Japan’s invasion of Burma under the slogan of “Burma for the
Burmese” would deal a tremendous shock to the culturally-­diversified world
which had been created under British colonialism.

Mission accomplished
The final objective of Japan’s Southern Campaign, the invasion of Java, which
IGHQ expected to be a difficult operation, was realized in almost no time at all.
With the passage of the deadline (end of 1941) given to the Dutch colonial
72   The occupation of Southeast Asia
government at the start of the war over demands to station Japanese troops in
major centers of Indonesia, the Japanese military, enjoying a war front unfold-
ing far ahead of schedule, initiated its “invasion operations in the Dutch East
Indies” on 11 January 1942. The Japanese forces attacked Borneo (Kaliman-
tan), Celebes, Anbon, Makassar and Palembang island-­by-island, and on 1
March the whole main force of the Osamu Group (Sixteenth Army) descended
on Java at such locations as Merak in the west and Klangan in the east. Just
before trying to land, the troop transport convoy with the Corps General Staff
on board became embroiled in the Battle of Sunda Strait, in which three of its
vessels were seriously damaged by mines, and the whole staff, from commander
Lt. General Imamura Hitoshi on down to the members of the PR Detail came
very close to ending up in the sea. Otherwise, from that time on the landing
went very smoothly without a great deal of damage overall. Once on shore, the
Japanese troops encountered little resistance from the cooperative local island-
ers. A report to Southern Command in Saigon that an intelligence plane “flying
in the rear of the landing forces … observed crowds gathering around the tanks
cheering their arrival,” strengthened Ishii Akiho’s confidence that a successful
military administration of the island was imminent [Ishii 1957: 111]. On 6
March, Japanese forces quickly occupied the capital of Batavia (Jakarta), and
even the Dutch Indies military command holed up in Fort Banten, decided not
to resist and sued for surrender earlier than expected. Dutch Indies Commander
Lt. General Hein ter Poorten, despite a plan to surrender just part of the Fort
Banten Garrison being rejected, gave in to the commander Imamura’s demands
for unconditional surrender, and on the 9th issued an order to all Dutch forces
in the region to lay down their arms.
It was in this manner that in terms of taking over the colonial capitals of
Southeast Asia, Japan was able to announce, “mission accomplished” by the first
week of March 1942. This provided the impetus for IGHQ to order the Tomi
Group’ Eighteenth and Fifty-­sixth Divisions to be redeployed from the Malay
operations to join the Hayashi Group in advancing north with the objective of
taking Mandalay. After encountering heavy resistance from British Indian Army
and Chinese forces along the way, on 1 May 1942, the Hayashi Group occupied
Mandalay, which lay in ruins as the result of British and Chinese scorched earth
operations.
Takami Jun accompanied the Japanese forces on the road to Mandalay.
According to his Burma Diary (1944), although food and ammunition supplies
were sufficient up to the occupation of Rangoon, during the Mandalay cam-
paign, supply lines could not keep pace with the troops’ advance, resulting in
having to purchase food “mostly from Burmese living on the land.” While prais-
ing “the unselfish cooperation shown by the Burmese towards the Imperial
Army … which in various aspects the Imperial Army does not know how to
thank them,” he excoriates the “Chungking forces” who “looted at will and on
their retreat, took what they wanted and set fire to everything else, turning what
used to be Burmese settlements into one large burned-­out field.” He adds that
the Burmese “clearly saw the Chungking army as their enemy and cooperated
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   73
with the Japanese forces out of gratitude to the splendid attitude shown by the
troops” [Takami 1944: 117–22]. Although it is true that the Japanese forces
were welcomed by the Burmese at that point in time, if we change perspective,
the picture painted by Takami leaves no room for consideration of the fact that
in the war itself, being a battle for “material procurement on the ground,” the
fine line between receiving “unselfish cooperation” and perpetrating untold
looting and violence is indeed an ambiguous one at the least.
Among Japan’s initial victories, there was only one that greatly diverged from
the military’s game plan. The siege of the US-­Philippine forces resisting on the
Bataan Peninsula had at first been given the status of an “enemy mop-­up”
operation, which would pose no obstacle to the Southern Campaign as a whole,
and thus was not invested with the forces sufficient to accomplish it. To the
contrary, as long as the Battle of Bataan continued, Manila Bay, which was an
important strategic point linking Southeast Asia with Japan, could not be freely
utilized. Moreover, on 30 March 1942, Commander MacArthur, who had
escaped from the fortress on Corregidor, appeared in Australia promising to
retake the Philippines in his famous “I shall return” declaration, turning his
image as a defeated general into the gallant leader of an army of resistance. The
long, drawn-­out Battle of Bataan became for Japan a problem that could not be
overlooked in political terms as well. In order to break the deadlock on the
battlefront, the Japanese military deployed all the troops it could spare, like the
First Artillery Field Command, into the Watari Group (Fourteenth Army) and
on 3 April launched an all-­out attack on Bataan. On the 9th, Major General
Edward King, commander of the USAFFE forces on Bataan, which had reached
its limits due to the dwindling food and ammunition supplies, surrendered
leaving Corregidor as the last line of resistance. Then, as the Japanese occupied
a part of the island after heavy bombardment, on 6 May, Lt. General Jonathan
Wainwright, who had been appointed Allied commander of the Philippines in
MacArthur’s absence, sued for surrender and announced the following day in a
radio broadcast that he had acceded to the demands of Watari Group com-
mander Honma Masaharu and ordered all members of the US-­Philippine armed
forces to surrender their arms, thus bringing to an end the invasion of the Phil-
ippines, at least for the meantime.
On 15 May, the Southern Army announced the occupation of Burma proper
and declared that its “Southern invasion mission” was now accomplished. That
being said, “mission accomplished” by no means meant that Japanese forces had
taken full control of colonial Southeast Asia. In the Philippines, during March
1942, while the sieges of Bataan and Corregidor was still going on, a guerrilla
organization known as Hukbalahap (Tagalog acronym for “People’s Army
against Japanese”) was formed in central Luzon by the forces of the Socialist
and Communist Party-­led agrarian movement which had flourished there since
before the war. Even after the formal surrender of the US-­Philippine forces,
there remained officers and troops all over the islands that refused to lay down
their arms, and in conjunction with local leaders, formed militias under the
command of US Army officers, and called themselves the USAFFE Guerrilla
74   The occupation of Southeast Asia
Army Forces. In Malaya as well, the Malayan Communist Party, comprised of
overseas Chinese, which prior to the war had developed into an anti-­Japanese
resistance, save-­the-nation movement, formed its own Malayan People’s Anti-­
Japanese Army immediately after the Fall of Singapore. Also in Burma, where
the Japanese forces had sided with the nationalist movement via the Minami
Agency, confrontation and fighting continued on the northern border with the
Allied forces comprised of the British Indian Army and Chinese forces.
Meanwhile, as the Allied Nations deployed their main forces to the war in
Europe and while the US counterattack in the Pacific took the form of the
“Island Jumping” operation under the now Allied Supreme Commander
MacArthur centering around New Guinea, fighting had now ended in the
greater part of both Insular and Continental Southeast Asia, which now found
itself occupied by Japanese forces. Since the question of what kind of occupa-
tion the Japanese Occupation of Southeast Asia was will occupy the rest of this
study, let us begin at the beginning.

2  The start of Southern military administration:

appeasement and coercion

The Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere as cliché

Let us imagine the vast body of narrative left to us by those Japanese who had
become intoxicated by the initial successes of the war as rapids in a river of
information flowing past us. And no matter how many times we dip our hands
in the constantly changing torrent, what comes out are surprisingly similar
handfuls of hackneyed phrases, emptied into buckets full of clichés. This uni-
formity of expression, rather than being created through state censorship and
regulation, is the result of what can be described as a chemical reaction occur-
ring in Japan at that time between “conventional wisdom” and “current affairs.”
First, there are the clichés, “liberation (kaihō)” and “holy war (seisen).” Six days
after the opening of hostilities (14 December 1941) the Osaka Mainichi
Shimbun daily news began a seven-­part series entitled “The US-­British With-
drawal and the East Asian Economy” with the following words.

The opening of the Greater East Asia War has freed the 1 billion people of
the region from the shackles of colonial management by the United States
and Britain for the past century. The people of East Asia can now see a life
of boundless co-­prosperity that awaits as the smoke clears from the raging
fires of war. In this series, we will describe the economic vision of Greater
East Asia that is now possible due to the victories achieved in this great
holy war.

As discussed in Chapter 1, the staff officers at both IGHQ and the Southern
Army General Staff had preferred to thoroughly direct their efforts to the reality
of “a war for resources,” while shunning ideas concerning waging a war of
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   75
liberation or launching an East Asian holy war. Nevertheless, within the mood
produced by Japan’s initial military victories, those same ideas of liberation and
holy war suddenly gripped the entire nation with intensity beyond the military’s
wildest imagination.
The cliché of “racial war” was also inundating public opinion, as evidenced
by the poetry and tanka that appeared in print during this time. The Japanese
government was increasingly alerted to the trend. The part of Indochina now
swarming with Japanese troops of the Southern Army still continued to be
French colonial territory, and the alliance with the Axis nations of Germany and
Italy had become the lynch pin of Japan’s war policy. On 12 January 1942, the
Cabinet Information Bureau issued a memo titled “Concerning the Use of the
Phrase ‘White Man’ ” to the Interior Affairs Ministry (Police and Public Security
Bureau), stating, “In countries like the United States and Britain, we observe a
conspiracy to cast the present conflict as a war of race against race,” insisting
that “from now on, using the phrase ‘White Man’ as an object of criticism
should be avoided” [JACAR: A05032053600]. Despite such concern at the
upper echelons of government, “anti-­White rhetoric” did not disappear from
the media.
Then, as to the question of what would actually be brought about by “libera-
tion” and “holy war,” it is necessary to take up the narrative concerning “rehab-
ilitation (kōsei).” In the above-­mentioned series on Western withdrawal and East
Asia economics, for example, we find such statements as “it will not be long
until we see the rehabilitation of the Philippines as one link in the Greater East
Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” and “As the Greater East Asia War unfolds, we look
forward to the day when the Dutch East Indies truly achieves rehabilitation as
an important facet of the Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere.” “Rehabilita-
tion” as used in this context has less to do with material, economic upturn than
with “rehabilitation from some undesirable condition,” implying superior ethical
and moral values. The preconception underlying this kind of narrative is that as
the result of the colonies of Southeast Asia having been dominated by the West
both culturally and psychologically, they found themselves frivolous, decadent
and idle. Consequently, what frequently appears as the concrete form of “rehab-
ilitation” are clichés about returning to one’s authentic “true essence (honzen/
hon’nen).”
For example, a series of articles appearing in the Osaka Mainichi Shimbun
(20–22 February 1942) entitled “The Significance of the Fall of Singapore”
inform us,

When the regions of the South return to their true essence of East Asia, the
fundamental character of economy and industry of the region must be the
creation and expansion of material exchange relationships free of British-­
style financial influence and economic exploitation.

A Yomiuri Hōchi Shimbun series (10–20 November 1942) entitled “First Anni-
versary of the War: The Advance of Greater East Asia” reads, “The rebuilding of
76   The occupation of Southeast Asia
the Philippines must aim first and foremost at rehabilitating the true essence of
unique Filipino tradition of and the national character,” and “Now that it has
cast off its former inimical British character, Burma has rehabilitated its true
essence in striving towards ‘Burma for the Burmese’ and ‘Asia’s Burma.’ ”
While “rehabilitation” and “true essence” seem at first glance merely abstract
concepts, in fact, they are rhetorical keywords crucial to the policy decisions
made by Japan concerning its occupation of Southeast Asia. It is inevitable that
colonial economies, which cut ties with their sovereigns due to war and occupa-
tion, will descend into chaos. As soon as intra-­regional trade becomes paralyzed,
the breakdown of supply and demand for rice and other necessities throughout
the region cannot but have a directly negative impact on the daily lives of
everyone.
It is for this very reason that the new state of affairs under the Japanese occu-
pation had to be explained as a situation worth endurance, despite the lowering
of living standards. This situation should be deemed good and proper in the
sense of returning to one’s true essence prior to colonial rule; it is the means to
“rehabilitation” from the distorted conditions of colonization, to “freeing from
the shackles.” Such a series of clichés regarding the idea of a “holy war” func-
tion as explanatory principles for legitimizing the use of coercion in making the
people bear “the heavy burden … placed on” them as predicted by Ishii Akiho
in his “Guidelines for Implementing Military Administration in Southern Occu-
pied Territories” approved on 20 November 1941. If so, the “war for resources”
realism to win the fight “solely as a matter of how to survive” pursued by Ishii
and his fellow General Staff officers at IGHQ can be said to have actually neces-
sitated that very idea of “a holy war,” from which they all wanted so badly to
distance themselves.
Now let us take up the question of where the premise was found for the
idea that it was the Japanese (and they only among Asia’s people of color)
who would “lead the alliance” in the region’s war for “liberation.” Here we
will focus on two more clichés, “level of the people (mindo)” and “spirit
(seishin).”
For example, in a Kobe Shimbun editorial published just after the Fall of Sin-
gapore (17 February 1942), entitled “Ethnic Policy and Ensuring Leadership”

It is an almost irrefutable fact that when compared to Japan, the level of the
native peoples we are dealing with lags behind in every aspect of politics,
economics and culture. Therefore, the main points of ethnic policy should
obviously concentrate on raising their level of the people, in conjunction with
realizing the Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere. This is one of our
most important appointed tasks as leaders.

This kind of “level of the people” or mindo concept was frequently used not
only as an index for comparing Japan with the territories its military was occu-
pying at the time, but also to compare those territories themselves. For example,
regarding the Vietnamese, the pages of Japan’s daily newspapers claimed, “they
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   77
are a people at the lowest level of the people in the South” [“Indochina and
Thailand from the viewpoint of economy (3),” Osaka Mainichi Shimbun, 19
February 1941]; and “at a primitive level of the people between pigs and
humans” [“How miserable is this people of the Orient!: Views on Indochina
peasant’s life,” Kobe Shimbun, 27 October 1940]. The Philippines was rated as
a nation “at a comparatively high level of the people” [Osaka Mainichi Shimbun,
6 September 1942], while Java in the eyes of Nakayama Yasuhito, who would
be appointed chief of general affairs at the Java Military Administration, Indone-
sia prior to the start of the war was a land of “savages who don’t know if their
coming or going … in fact, at a very low level politically and culturally”
[Nakayama 1941: 113–18].
It was in this way that “level of the people” was frequently used both before
the war and during wartime to assert Japan’s superiority, while at the same time
raised as a standard (albeit subjective and ambiguous) to show that the peoples
of Asia belonged under Japanese rule.
In real terms, “level of the people” is none other than a concept to evaluate
countries and regions on the basis their respective levels of modernization
according to Western standards. The characterization of the “level of the
people” reached by the Philippines as “high” indicates its comparatively wide-
spread Western political institutions and educational system, while calling the
level of Indonesia’s “level of the people” “low,” ignores the existence of the
highly developed traditional (non-­Western) Javanese culture. As its credential
for assuming leadership over a “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” that
was calling for “Asia for Asians” liberated from the West, Japan was now citing
the fact that it had reached the highest level of Westernized modernization in
the region. How self-­contradictory can one get? Moreover, according to the
research done by Gotō Ken’ichi, political historian of modern and con-
temporary Southeast Asia, a survey conducted by the Japanese military admin-
istration to “scientifically” measure Indonesia’s “deviation” from the standard
in terms of “level of the people,” found “in general, an unbelievably high level
of intelligence” compared to Japan [Gotō 1991a, 179–80]. In either case,
arguments based on “level of the people” alone were sorely insufficient for
legitimizing Japan as the new leader of Southeast Asia to replace the Western
powers.
It is for this very reason that Japan’s ultimate leadership qualification had to
be national “spirit (seishin),” rather than “level of the people (mindo).” An
article that appeared in Osaka Mainichi Shimbun (13 September 1942), entitled
“Railway God Soldiers, Part I,” describing the activities of a southern railway
detachment that had succeeded in reconstructing railroad trestle bridges in
Sumatra destroyed by the Allied forces, reported the reaction of local residents
to the detachment’s work, “beginning to realize, although somewhat hazily, the
true meaning of the railroading spirit of alliance leader Japan, wrought from
the kind of railroading spirit, military training and soul (tamashi’i) that exists at
home here in Japan.” As Tomi Group (Malaya) commander Yamashita Tomoy-
uki waxed eloquent to one reporter,
78   The occupation of Southeast Asia
One portion of the local people … in our eyes, is comprised of an extremely
lazy race of individuals, who have to be taught first and foremost the Japa-
nese way of thinking and way of life, for us to gradually make them aware
of the Japan spirit.
[Osaka Mainichi Shimbun, 7 June 1942]

In comparison to high marks scored in “level of the people,” Filipinos were

very poor students on the subject of national “spirit” propaganda. In an article
reporting on the situation in the Philippines one month after the Japanese occu-
pation, we find, “one urgent problem is that of re-­instilling Asian spirit into
[Filipino] hearts … [filled with] the haute couture of Southern Europe, fol-
lowed by forty some odd years of American jazz” [Tokyo Asahi Shimbun, 15
February 1942]. In his message of August 1942 entitled “What We Offer to the
Philippine People,” Watari Group (Fourteenth Army) commander Honma
Masaharu stated, “In building a new Philippines, our first step will be to estab-
lish in politics, economics, industry and education a basis for culturally-­centered
spirit” [Osaka Mainichi Shimbun, 4 August 1942]. Later on, during the occu-
pation of the Philippines, another cliché would wear upon the ear to the effect
that in contrast to the Christianity offered by Spain and the education offered
by the United States, Japan would offer a national “spirit.”
One more important cliché would gain currency regarding the image of the
“Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere,” what John Dower points out in his
War Without Mercy as the use of the term “sono tokoro,” which he translates as
“proper place.”
Prime Minister Tōjō Hideki in his speech of 21 January 1942 before the
House of Representatives of the Diet on the direction of implementation of
military rule in the occupied territories demonstrates the typical use of “sono
tokoro” as a cliché.

The fundamental direction for building the Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity
Sphere, which actually has its origins in the great spirit of our nation’s
founding, is to allow every country and every people of East Asia to attain
its place (sono tokoro) and firmly establish an order of coexistence and co-­
prosperity based on the principles of moral justice that form the core of the
Empire. (Applause).4

Dower interprets the cliché “proper place,” as repeated over and over in the dis-
course regarding the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere,” to be a keyword
denoting “each ethnic or national group,” whose existence is assumed to be in
substance unequal, locating their respective roles [i.e., proper places] in “the
regional or global scheme of things” [Dower 1986: 264–6]. Ruth Benedict’s
Chrysanthemum and the Sword (1946) also emphasizes the use of “sono tokoro,”
translated as “proper station,” appearing in such documents as the final commu-
niqué issued by Japan to the United States in 1941 as embracing a principle
deeply ingrained in Japanese life of an unequal hierarchical social structure much
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   79
different from the American idea of “equality” [Benedict 1946: 43–75]. While
there is no doubt that the idea of a “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” is
premised on the Japanese people forming a privileged social class as the Sphere’s
“leader race,” both Dower and Benedict’s interpretations of “sono tokoro” leave
much to be desired.
Tōjō’s phrase “the great spirit of our nation’s founding” indicates Emperor
Meiji’s “Five Article Oath” of 6 April 1868 and a letter written in his own hand
at that time, in which the phrase “sono tokoro” appears. To wit “If even one
person in the whole nation is unable to attain the place (sono tokoro), I myself
will be entirely to blame,” meaning the emperor will do everything in his power
to improve his performance, and never betray his position as a monarch.5 Here,
it is clear that the original meaning of “attain the place (sono tokoro wo eru)” is
“to make a living on the occupation suitable to each person.” Since what Tōjō
is referring to here is the promise made by Emperor Meiji and his government
to dedicate themselves to securing a livelihood for all the people, Dower and
Benedict’s “proper place” seems better translated as “livelihood,” like in
“earning a living.”
“Sono tokoro” did indeed come to be widely used throughout Meiji, Taisho
and Prewar Shōwa Japan, but in the sense of the words of Emperor Meiji
regarding securing the means to earning a living. Beginning with Tōjō’s Diet
speech in January 1942, the frequent use of the cliché “sono tokoro” in reference
to the occupied territories of Southeast Asia, while premised upon the image of
the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” as a hierarchically stratified
regional order, now extended Emperor Meiji’s promise to the people of occu-
pied Southeast Asia, as shown by the following newspaper article.

As already mentioned, it will not be allowed for the native peoples to exclu-
sively continue living secure and happy lives as if the war for liberating East
Asia were somebody else’s business. However, ensuring the absolute necessi-
ties of life is a common-­sense demand stemming from the fundamental spirit
behind building Greater East Asia; that is, making it possible for each of the
region’s people to earn livelihoods best suited to them (sono tokoro wo eshimeru).
[“The Direction of New Dutch East Indies,” Tokyo Asahi Shimbun,
3 April 1942]

An article in the business tabloid, Chūgai Shōgyō Shimpō (15 March 1942), on
the population of Greater East Asia, reads, “it will not be an easy task in helping
each and everyone in the huge region encompassing the Greater East Asia Co-­
Prosperity Sphere to attain the livelihood best suited for him (sono tokoro).”
In sum, while implying the placement of everyone in their proper pecking
order, the cliché, “sono tokoro” by definition refers to securing every one’s
livelihood according to their abilities and needs. However, there the problem
goes far beyond semantics. What is more important is the fact that in their “sono
tokoro” pronouncements, Tōjō and the Japanese government repeatedly
promised governance in good faith aiming at stabilizing daily life in Southeast
80   The occupation of Southeast Asia
Asia. So, why all the rhetoric? Because the war leadership was fully aware of how
extremely difficult it was going to be to fulfill that promise, with or without
class and racial equality, given their unflinching “war for resources” mindset.

A hint of reality
In a letter chock full of clichés praising the grandest of all, the “Greater East
Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere,” Murata Shōzō, Supreme Advisor to the Watari
Group Fourteenth Army wrote to his second son, Takeji, just after arriving in
Manila, “I can only sit here and stare, unable to get a bit of work done yet.”
Directed at a young adolescent preparing to graduate from elementary school,
the letter continues as follows.

It is going to be an extremely difficult task getting a people so fond of the

United States and so inured by American culture to once again return to a
true essence as an oriental people and collaborate with us as a part of the
East Asia Co-­prosperity Sphere … However, it’s a task that must be
accomplished by any means, of course out of loyalty to His Majesty, the
Emperor, but also out of respect for the brave men who have sacrificed
their lives on the battlefield. Moreover, it is necessary to help the masses
not only of the Philippines, but of the whole area of the South Seas we have
captured, attain livelihoods best suited them (sono tokoro) … And in the
regions like Manchuria and China, where we have left so much to be done,
we must renew our efforts and steadily advance … It would be the most
honored duty as a Japanese for your elder brother and you, Take-­chan, to
succeed this grand enterprise.6

Hanzawa Keiichi, whose research traces in detail the development of Murata’s

“perception of the war,” has pegged the shipping magnate as a member of the
“imperial bourgeoisie” on two counts: (1) in his dedication to the emperor as a
“loyal subject” and (2) in his role as a businessman active at a time when Japa-
nese capitalism was identifying itself as the material production cog in mech-
anism of “the emperor’s war” [Hanzawa 2007: 183–203]. In this letter to his
thirteen-­year old son, we certainly find Murata having one of his “imperial bour-
geois” moments, lecturing the boy on his father’s loyalty to the emperor and
enthusiasm for the Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere. It is only a sample
of the kind of clichés that filled not only newspaper articles, broadcast media
and military propaganda, but also the huge body of correspondence that was
flowing between Japan and Southeast Asia.
Here, too, we must stop and consider; for the people who were throwing
these clichés were all Japanese, and thus constitute no more than the occupiers
muttering to themselves. Did this monotonous monologue ever reach the ears
of the occupied? Did they eventually enable the development of “dialogue” in
any sense of that word? Finally, to what extent was Japan able to convince the
occupied of this kind of smug narcissistic worldview?
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   81
5 March 1942. Sakakibara Masaharu at the Southern Army Command
received the order of transfer to the Military Administration from the Informa-
tion Department, a few days later being promoted to Second Lieutenant. It was
“the day I’ve finally been waiting for,” since he had felt

information and public relations are psychological arts. I wasn’t born to be

an artist; it doesn’t suit me … When all’s said and done, the basis of
Southern policy is securing resources. It’s conducting raw materials surveys
and making economic policy. That’s the front I want to be on.
(5 January 1942)

This is not to say that Sakakibara was not anxiously aware of the mountain of
difficult issues facing military administration in Southeast Asia.
“The objective of Southern development is the import of South Seas prod-
ucts,” but “It takes money to buy things … Material backing is needed to avoid
inflation caused by large outflows of yen. The military may try to avoid it
through the local forces of production and military might of the armed forces,
but that will probably prove impossible” (8 March 1942). So, in the end, the
outcome of the Southern occupation will depend on the direction of the
“regional livelihood question.” But is that possible? Sakakibara grapples with
these questions as follows.

At the present time, the urgent focus on the mission to build a Greater East
Asia involves neither a one-­hundred-year plan, nor forming the ideological
basis of a moralistic state. It is finding a way to insure the basic necessities
of life so that the not even one person among the people of Greater East
Asia be well-­fed and well-­dressed while leaving no one behind to starve …
That’s why the most urgent business at present has to be the rationing
of rice.
(15 March 1942)

Even before his transfer to Military Administration, Sakakibara writes, if Japan

does not recognize the right of the occupied to a livelihood,

local sentiment towards the Japanese will turn hostile, building Greater East
Asia may be impossible, or at least more difficult … we must give them the
right to survival that they are entitled to. That is the single most urgent
business at hand.
(30 January 1942)

Since the eyes with which Sakakibara is observing the war and military rule in
the South are those of keizaijin (Homo economicus), he is not of the opinion
that all economic common sense regarding how to earn a living can be defied
by military reasoning. These kinds of doubts and anxiety that were beginning to
arise in the mind of someone on the military administrative staff with a bird’s
82   The occupation of Southeast Asia
eye view of the whole picture of the occupation of Southeast Asia can be inter-
preted as one small hint about what was in store for the Japanese occupiers in
their encounter with the reality of the occupation.

“Successes” of initial military administration

Terashita Tatsuo recalls for us the convivial atmosphere of citizens cycling
through the streets of Manila only days after the announcement of military rule
in the city (3 January 1942). In the streets along the shoreline, “Bright happy
go lucky young Filipino men and women and third country nationals pedaling
their bicycles, with bemused smiles seeming to ask ‘Where is this war we’re sup-
posed to be in?’ ” [Terashita 1967: 136–7].
The same kind of mood is also present in the memoirs of Katō Isamu, chief
of accounting of the extraction detail of the “oilmen detachment” at Palembang
in Sumatra. Katō, who at the end of May 1942 had gone to the Osamu Group
(Sixteenth Army) General Staff Accounting Section in Jakarta to submit a
report, noted “a wave of young [Dutch] women, enjoying the freedom to ride
their bicycles amongst the beautiful greenery of city, radiant in the intense sun-
light” [Palembang no Sekiyu Butai Kankōkai ed. 1973: 89]. Despite such an
atmosphere having been created in part by their army’s confiscation of the
bicycle riders’ automobiles, Japanese observers, like Terashita and Katō, were
able to see only the peaceful side of such scenes.
It was at this same time that Ibuse Masuji wrote in his diary about revisit-
ing the home of the platemaker Lee Yong, whom he had persuaded to return
to work at the Straits Times three months previously. Lee Yong’s children
“recited for us the Japanese a-­i-u-­e-o alphabet song they had learned” and the
kids across the street appeared at their windows “raising their voices … in a
rousing chorus of the ‘Sobieru Fuji no Sugata Koso (How magnificent Mt.
Fuji rises)’ March” [Ibuse 1997a: 152]. In Takami Jun’s Burma Diary (1944)
we find the entry, “The restoration of Rangoon to law and order began with
the reappearance of the bazaars,” which is followed by a description of the
peaceful marketplace atmosphere with smiling vendors addressing the Japa-
nese troops as “Heitai-­san,” concluding, “one Burmese fellow told me that he
had never before seen such serenity” among the British and Burmese [Takami
1944: 239]. Meanwhile, neither Singapore, whose Chinese community was
experiencing the squeeze of a “Large-­scale Inspection (daikenshō)” or “Sook
Ching” conducted by Japanese troops, nor Rangoon, whose northern region
was still the scene of fighting against the British Indian Army and Republican
Chinese forces, could by no means be compared with Manila or Jakarta.
Ibuse’s diary, which he wrote “being aware of possible army censorship,”
should not be taken at face value, and in the picture painted by Takami, the
brush strokes of a public relations man are definitely evident. Despite such
reservations, the rather anti-­climactic manner in which normalcy was restored
more or less characterized the post-­occupation moods in all the areas under
Japanese occupation.
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   83
It was in this way, that following the initial Japanese victories, “law and
order” in the occupied territories, with the exception of the inability to suppress
the movements of American-­Philippine army “straggler insurgents,” was
thought to be so secure that a wave of optimism about the success of military
rule in the region washed over the entire military complex from the war leader-
ship in Tokyo to the Corps Commands on the ground.
The most important reason for optimism about the future among the war
leadership was the continuing victories, not only on the battlefield, but also in
the “war for resources” in that “national defense material” was now actually
being secured and “remitted to the home front.” The day after the uncondi-
tional surrender of the Dutch Indies forces, on 11 March 1942, the IGHQ/
Government Liaison Conference approved a document entitled “How Actual
Initial Operations Performance Compares with Planning Expectations in
Military, Political and Economic Aspects.” The document cites not only the
obvious cutoff in the supply of important material to the United States and
Britain, but also “the better than expected” achievements in “securing material”
Japan needed, “particularly oil,” and thus predicts “a strengthening of the
material capacity for prosecuting the war above expectations” despite remaining
issues pertaining to securing the food supply [Bōei Kenkyūjo, 1985: 234–5;
JACAR: C12120213200]. In real terms, in the case of oil, Japan’s top priority
“national defense resource,” the capture of resources did exceed expectations,
due to the occupation and restoration of oil fields and refineries, such as in Pale-
mbang. To wit, current oil production in the occupied territories would come
to some 4 million kl, reaching 8 million kl the following year. The amount of
petroleum that was remitted to Japan, 1.6 million kl in 1942 exceeded expecta-
tions by a whopping 0.3 million kl and the following year totaled 2.3 million kl,
300,000 kl above expectations [ibid.: 263].
The circulation of goods within the theater of the Southern Campaign was
given utmost importance second only to such primary objectives as the capture
and remittance of “national defense material” and cutting off supply to the US
and Britain, since intra-­regional exchange was considered absolutely crucial for
realizing material procurement for expeditionary forces on the ground, and also
stabilizing daily life there by minimizing local shortages in food and goods.
Among the government bureaucrats assigned to form a material mobilization
plan for this to happen was Iwatake Teruhiko (b. 1911), who was dispatched
from the halls of the Ministry of Commerce and Industry through the Cabinet
Planning Agency to the Military Administration Detail at the Southern Army
General Staff. Utilizing his experience at the Cabinet Planning Agency in charge
of single-­handedly planning material mobilization in wartime Japan, Iwatake
completed his proposal entitled “A Plan for Commodity Distribution in the
South” in mid-­April 1942. The plan called for the establishment of procedures
by the Southern Army Staff to facilitate the flow of necessary material in
response to private sector demand in each region and begin issuing to each
area  army by the 15th of every month a material mobilization plan reflecting
their respective requests. Through this procedure, Iwatake made summaries of
84   The occupation of Southeast Asia
population and production data in each area, prewar performances and monthly
requests by each area army, and then drew up a transport plan in the Material
Mobilization Detail. Ishii Akiho tells us that “he sensed” that a mutual exchange
and transport plan “had gradually gotten on track” around June 1942 [Bōei
Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 447–9]. After the war, Iwatake, whom Ishii calls “a man of
considerable ability,” worked at both the Ministry of International Trade and
Industry and Kobe Steel before retiring in 1971, to enter the undergraduate
curriculum at the University of Tokyo on his way to becoming a pioneer in the
history of Japan’s military administration of Southeast Asia, and for us an
extremely valuable informant and narrator.
Such was the way in which Japan’s occupation of Southeast Asia was shown
to have gotten off to a successful start, thus deepening national euphoria over
the war; however, there is one aspect that should not be ignored. That is to say,
Japan’s “successes” during the initial occupation process did not mean the
beginning of a large-­scale transformation of the region in the spirit of “return to
a true essence” and “rehabilitation” as extolled within the realm of cliché encap-
sulated by the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere.” It meant exactly the
opposite. The initial political and economic stabilization of the region was sup-
posed to be accomplished by each of the area corps sticking loyally, with some
exceptions, to the game plan indicated in Ishii’s “Guidelines for Implementing
Military Administration in Southern Occupied Territories” (20 November
1941), in particular the strategy of “utilizing the existing governance mech-
anism and respecting existing social organization and national customs.” Under
such dictates, Japan could do almost nothing to break down the prewar colonial
political order and social structure of Southeast Asia created under its Western
sovereigns, but rather restored the status quo ante in the midst of the chaos
caused by the invasion and from then on tried to maintain it. In terms of such
an occupation policy, Japan can even be viewed as watching over the occupied
peoples of the region in a spirit of conciliation and appeasement. In order to get
a grasp of the real picture painted under such a policy, let us take a bird’s eye
view of how military rule was first set up in each of the occupied territories.

The Philippines: the Quezon administration, sans Quezon

The Philippines was not only the first occupied territory to be placed under Jap-
anese military rule (3 January 1942), but also represents the classic case of occu-
pation policy prioritizing maintenance of the status quo ante. As already
discussed, the Japanese Army, from as far back as the planning stages simulating
war with the United States, had hoped to embrace the present Commonwealth
of the Philippines as is mainly through a “scheme (bōryaku)” to win over its
president Manuel Quezon to the Japanese side. In the “Idea Concerning How
to Facilitate the Termination of Hostilities with the United States, The Great
Britain, the Netherlands and Chiang Kai-­shek,” drafted by Ishii Akiho and his
fellow General Staff officers and approved by on 15 November 1941, we also
find, “As to dealing with the Philippines, we will allow the present regime to
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   85
continue for the time being to contribute to facilitating the termination of hos-
tilities” [Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 1: 524; JACAR: C12120204100]. As
already mentioned, the main actor in the “scheme” to win Quezon over was
Revolutionary War Hero General Artemio Ricarte.
Ōta Kaneshirō recalls the “look in Ricarte’s eyes” when he accompanied the
general to Army General Staff Headquarters at Miyakezaka (Chiyoda-­Ku, Tokyo)
on 9 December 1941 “flashing with the vitality that permeated his whole body.”
After discussions at the Military Operations Section, a sending off party for the
general was held at the Army Officers Club, where “the triple chant of ‘Long
Live the Philippines (Hikoku Banzai)’ was shouted by one and all.” From then
until his departure, Ricarte went several times to the NHK broadcasting facility
to deliver messages announcing “to my comrades in the Philippines and Quezon,
who we thought were still in Manila … behave prudently and be calm, I will
soon be with you” [Ōta 1972: 118–19]. Then on 18 December, Ricarte and his
entourage boarded a military plane at Haneda Airport, which after stops in
Shanghai and Taiwan, landed the following day in Aparri on the northern tip of
Luzon, where the Japanese advance contingent had already landed. On the 21st,
the contingent entered Vigan, the state capital of Ilocos and raised the Philippine
flag over city hall, then they headed south through Ilocos region, deserted as
described by Kon Hidemi, toward Manila. On the 29th, they dispatched Maria
Dominguez, a granddaughter of Ricarte, to Manila with a letter from her grand-
father to Quezon which she was to secretly deliver to Quintin Paredes, an influ-
ential politician, close Quezon advisor and floor leader of the Nacionalista Party
[ibid.: 270–1]. However, Quezon, acquiescing to American fears about negoti-
ating with the Japanese, had already accompanied MacArthur in the evacuation
to Corregidor on the 14th. Then with the worsening of the situation, Quezon
left the Philippines altogether for the United States, where he set up a govern-
ment in exile and would die suddenly from worsening tuberculosis on 1 August
1944, on the eve of a US counter-­invasion.
The “scheme” to win Quezon over thus failed. The Japanese military,
however, was determined to maintain his administration, with or without him.
Beginning on the day after the declaration of military rule, Watari Group Chief
of Staff Maeda Masami, who had before the war secretly operated in the Philip-
pines (1925–8) disguised “as an electrical appliance store owner by the name of
Takeda,” conducted a series of informal talks with important Filipino politicians,
resulting in a request on 7 January to set up a committee for the purpose of offi-
cially forming a pro-­Japanese administration. Then on 21 January 1942, Prime
Minister Tōjō stood before the Imperial Diet in Japan and outlined a plan for
granting the Philippines independence in exchange for collaboration with the
Japanese Empire, stating, 

When the time comes that the people of the islands understand the real
intentions of the Empire and pledge their cooperation as one wing of
Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere, then the Empire will happily grant
them the honor of national independence. 
86   The occupation of Southeast Asia
In response, on the 23rd, thirty influential members of the colonial elite gath-
ered at the residence of House of Representatives Speaker Jose Yulo, where they
drafted and signed “a reply” to the Japanese Commanding General’s request
and formed the “Executive Commission” comprised of the signers. Appointed
commission’s chairman was Jorge P. Vargas, Quezon’s executive secretary, who
at the time of his boss’ departure had been entrusted with managing affairs as
“Mayor of Greater Manila.” Quezon had allegedly directed Vargas and the
other Cabinet members he was leaving behind, with the consent of Douglas
MacArthur, to do everything in their power, with the exception of taking an
oath of allegiance, to lessen the misery of the people.7 The “reply” sent to the
Army General Staff had that exact directive in mind in the following carefully
worded statement promising cooperation in administrative affairs.

Having in mind the great ideals, the freedom and happiness of our country,
we are ready to obey to the best of our ability and within the means at our
disposal the orders issued by the Imperial Japanese Forces for the mainte-
nance of peace and order and promotion of the well-­being of our people
under the Japanese Military Administration.
[Tribune, 25 January 1942]

While it was clear to all that the Quezon Cabinet members and influential poli-
ticians and businessmen who formed the majority of the Executive Commission
were strongly pro-­American in their sentiments, the Japanese military neverthe-
less entrusted a pro-­Japanese government to these elite members of the central
and local branches of the Commonwealth administration [Nakano 1997:
235–7]. Moreover, since almost all the bureaucratic posts in the Common-
wealth government had already been filled by Filipinos, there was little necessity
to employ Americans in applying the principle of “utilizing the existing govern-
ance mechanisms” to the Philippines. Consequently, most civilian nationals of
Allied Nations, mainly adult males, were soon incarcerated in various facilities.
On the other hand, the Japanese avoided giving political appointments to the
Ganap Party and its leader Benigno Ramos, despite the fact that they consti-
tuted just about the only group which had actively pledged to collaborate with
the Japanese. Ramos, who before the war had been the leader of the Sakdalista
Party, the only anti-­US nationalist movement ever elected to the prewar
National Assembly, had headed the unsuccessful Sakdalista anti-­US uprising in
May 1935 and consequently sought political exile in Japan. Then after his
return, Ramos was tried and sent to prison in 1939. Although the Japanese
forces released Ramos from prison, unlike their treatment of Ba Maw in Burma
and Sukarno in Indonesia, who were also freed, the Japanese decided not to
appoint Ramos to a position of leadership, but instead give top priority to the
existing political elite centered around the Quezon regime.
In the background to this decision lay the existence of a deep, longstanding
class conflict between the Filipino political and economic colonial elite and a
poverty-­stricken class of peasants and landless farm laborers, the former having
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   87
historical roots in the principilía class of landlords and local aristocrats under
Spanish rule, who during the revolution and war of independence seized polit-
ical leadership, then later changed course and pledged cooperation to the US,
and came to dominate the legislature under American governance. For the Phil-
ippine nation as a whole, among both the colonial elite and the masses, the
revolution and the war of independence had all but been forgotten in the
process of the Americanization of their society, exemplified by the diffusion of
English and the hope of emigrating to the United States, while at the same time
the Sakdalista movement, albeit a small political force, were lambasting the elite
for betraying the revolution and pledging cooperation with the US, while pub-
licly declaring their opposition to both American rule and Filipino landlordism.
It is for this reason that from the perspective of the colonial elite and those who
desired to court them, Ramos and his cohorts could not be allowed any kind of
political ascendancy whatsoever.8
In December 1942, the Japanese Military Administration, on the eve of its
first year of operations, disbanded all political parties in the Philippines and
founded a client political organization, Kalibapi (Association for Service to the
New Philippines), whose organization was in fact dominated by the leaders of
the Quezon administration’s ruling Nacionalista Party. Just prior to the found-
ing of the Kalibapi, Director of Philippine Military Administration Bureau
Wachi Takaji issued an order saying, “We sever all ties with the Ganap Party and
caution everyone not be associated with it,” together with dismantling Ganap
political headquarters and disbanding all party members who attempt to arm
themselves or continue political agitation. Anyone disobeying this order would
be suppressed, while capable persons among the party’s moderates would be
considered for bureaucratic appointments at both the central and local levels.9
Nacionalista Party National Action Headquarters Chief Benigno Aquino (Sr.)
was named vice-­president of Kalibapi, as the Party’s leadership occupied the
other top posts, while Benigno Ramos was given the unenviable post of chief of
public relations.
It was against this backdrop that a strong backlash arose from within a
portion of the Watari Group on the ground against the Japanese Military
Administration’s attitude of appeasement toward the Filipino elite, including
the pro-­American faction. Soon, with a worsening of the war effort, plans for a
coup d’état surfaced which would place the Ganap Party and others of its ilk in
the seat of government. However, the central military administration and IGHQ
were able to hold the line in maintaining the “Quezon Regime, sans Quezon”
status quo. Their thinking was that if the Ganap Party, whose legacy was rooted
in the agrarian poor and its class struggle against the landlords and other princi-
pilía of Nacionalista Party elite, were put in power, a backlash would occur
among that elite, causing chaos in politics and society and making it impossible
to thoroughly maintain stable military rule. General Ricarte, whom the coup
d’état supporters hoped to be its standard bearer, absolutely refused to
cooperate in the scheme and took pains to distance himself from the Ganap
Party.
88   The occupation of Southeast Asia
One of the key persons advocating the “appeasement logic” was Colonel
Utsunomiya Naokata (b. 1898), who after his transfer from Brazil to the Philip-
pines in September 1942, became an irreplaceable central figure in the military
administration, first as assistant chief of staff and chief of General Affairs Depart-
ment in the Military Administration, then later aide-­de-camp at the Japanese
Embassy. In his postwar memoirs Utsunomiya states, “The Philippine people
had not the least idea that the United States was a vile enemy … we should
avoid implementing a cold-­hearted policy that would let them fall ever more in
love with the Americans” [Utsunomiya 1981: 53] and adds that from the time
of his appointment on, “I thought it of primary importance … to avoid offend-
ing and treat like gentlemen” those Filipinos who prided themselves as intellec-
tuals [Yomiuri Shimbun 1970: Vol. 10: 320]. And so, within the political
process at the top spot in Japan-­Philippine relations during the occupation, it
was figures like Murata Shōzō, the supreme advisor to the military administra-
tion and the ambassador plenipotentiary to the Philippines, and Hamamoto
Masakatsu, the special advisor to President Laurel, who rubbed elbows with the
Filipino elite as “gentlemen,” who became active as the main players on the
Japanese side.
However, the Japanese policy of appeasement toward the elite was not alto-
gether committed to the principle of non-­violence; rather it was through viol-
ence and suppression that its policy of appeasement was so politically effective.
For example, Jose Abad Santos, the Supreme Court justice who accompanied
Quezon during his escape to Corregidor, but did not accompany the president
into foreign exile, was arrested by Japanese troops in the Visaya Islands and
executed on 7 May 1942, around the time of the fall of Corregidor. Although
certain aspects remain unclear regarding Santos’ execution, and the incident
stirred controversy in the proceedings of war crimes tribunals held after the war
(e.g., that the execution order was fabricated by Staff officer Tsuji Masanobu),
in its real time context, the incident had a tremendous impact on the pro-­
American elite and strongly reinforced the impression that Japanese requests for
cooperation were in the end orders from people who held the power of life and
death and would not take no for an answer.

Burma: the rise of the Thakin nationalists

Together with the announcement of military rule throughout Burma on 4 June
1942, Ba Maw was appointed president of the Burmese Executive Administra-
tion. The announcement, which came after the unexpected start of the Burma
invasion, followed by the occupation of Rangoon on 8 March and Mandalay on
1 May, was the last in the order of similar announcements made in the occupied
territories. The military campaign had also been fraught with serious friction
due to the Burmese independence movement being dealt with as a special ops
“scheme (bōryaku),” the details of which will be described in Chapter 4.
Regarding the aspect of governance, such as in the Philippines, where auto-
nomy and the transfer of colonial government into the hands of indigenous elite
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   89
had progressed, in Burma, as well, the Japanese military was also able to imple-
ment its fundamental policy of maintaining the status quo ante by “utilizing the
existing governance mechanisms.” However, there were great differences
between the two regions as to their respective political environments. In the
Philippines, anti-­American nationalism had all but vanished from among the
highly educated, wealthy elites, and the country was already on track toward
national independence based on a legal arrangement made with its sovereign,
and the large Nacionalista Party had gained dominant majorities in both the
colonial legislature and executive branch. In contrast, the political scene in
Burma was still wavering between two extremes, and even among the educated
elite, political forces were still at the stage of demanding independence from
Britain. These differences thus determined the different influences that the same
policy of “utilizing existing governance mechanisms” would exert on political
dynamics in each occupied region. The political environment in Burma may be
summarized as follows, courtesy of the research done by Nemoto Kei.
Through a series of three wars fought between the British and Burmese
during the nineteenth century, Burma’s monarchy headed by the Konbaung
Dynasty fell in 1886 and was colonized as the Burma Province of British India.
The core of colonial administration was comprised of some 150 members of the
Indian Civil Service, initially all of British descent, but was gradually Indianized
during the early twentieth century. Then from the 1920s on, the Burmese
began to enter the Indian Civil Service and by the end 1937 comprised just
under 30 percent of the administration. British governance over the areas of
ethnic minorities like the Kachin and Shan peoples was entrusted to “saophas,”
who ruled them as feudal states under the British Crown, while central, or min-
isterial, Burma was in 1923 allowed to develop gradual autonomy, like in the
Philippines, under a provincial legislative council comprised of 103 members,
eighty of whom were elected. Then, the Government of Burma Act (promul-
gated in 1935, enacted in 1937) separated Burma from British India and made
it a direct colony of the Commonwealth with a bicameral parliament and a col-
lectively responsible Cabinet system headed by a prime minister appointed from
among the members of the lower chamber. Immediately after the start of World
War II, in November 1939, in order to obtain Burma’s cooperation in the
Allied war effort, the Britain Government announced, “We anticipate that the
time will come for Burma to become an autonomous territory enjoying equal
status with all other members of the Commonwealth.” Although it was not
specified as to exactly when this change of status was to take place, in the
opinion of Nemoto Kei, Britain had nevertheless decided to end colonial rule in
Burma [Nemoto 1996: 24–38, 90].
The recipients of the above British policies for regional autonomy and also
the bearers of Burma’s administration and the national independence movement
were a middle-­class elite who had completed the educational system set up by
the Empire. While supporting the colonial system through their preparatory
training such as entrance into Rangoon University (est. 1920), the group was
also critical of the inequality imposed by colonial rule and produced the
90   The occupation of Southeast Asia
standard bearers for national independence. Nemoto has identified three distinct
groups of political elites existing at the time: (1) those affiliated with the General
Council of Burmese Associations (hereinafter GCBA), who were born during
the 1890s and who led the Burmese nationalist movement during the 1920s,
1930s and 1940s; (2) those affiliated with the Our Burma Association, the
Thakins, born during the first couple of decades of the twentieth century and
involved in non-­parliamentary direct anti-­British mass resistance aiming at
national independence; and (3) top Burmese civil servants, born of the same
generation as the Thakins, but who distanced themselves from politics.
Within the prewar world of colonial politics, it was the GCBA elite, aiming at
regional autonomy through cooperation and negotiation with Britain, who
dominated the legislative assemblies of the time. In contrast, the Thakins exhib-
ited superiority in their ability to mobilize the Burmese masses with such actions
as the series of anti-­British protest demonstrations and a general strike called
“The Year 1300 National Uprising,” named after the Burmese calendar year,
held between the end of 1938 and start of 1939, which called for and brought
about the resignation of Ba Maw, who had formed the first Cabinet (1937–9)
under the Government of Burma Act. Ba Maw’s successors, U Pu (1939–40)
and U Saw (1940–1), attempted to suppress the Thakins, who continued their
call for anti-­British resistance and national independence, even after the start of
World War II in 1939. In response, the Thakins joined Ba Maw, who had hard-
ened his anti-­British stance and opposed Burma’s involvement in the war, in
forming the anti-­British “Freedom Bloc,” with Ba Maw as chairman and Aung
San as general secretary. Then, in August 1940, Ba Maw was arrested on charges
of sedition and imprisoned, followed by increasing arrests of members of the
Thakins and Freedom Bloc, which greatly hindered the Burmese anti-­British
movement. It was during this period that in November 1940 Army Colonel
Suzuki Keiji formed his Minami Agency special ops unit at the exact time,
forcing Aung San and his cohorts into exile.
The fact that the then premier U Saw was out of the country at the time of
Japan’s first strikes also influenced attempts to “utilize existing governance
mechanisms.” U Saw, who heard about the first strikes while traveling in the
United States and Britain seeking immediate national autonomy, decided to bet
on Japan instead, by virtue of their series of recent victories, and set up a secret
meeting with the Japanese consulate to neutral Portugal to plead for Japan’s
cooperation in Burma’s push for national independence. However, after the plot
was revealed to the British, U Saw was arrested on his way back to Burma and
detained in Uganda for the duration of the war [Nemoto 1996: 86–94]. In the
absence of a head of state to negotiate with, the Japanese military found an
invaluable asset for “existing governance mechanism” in the person of former
prime minister Ba Maw, who had been imprisoned for sedition against the
British, but during May 1942 had escaped and made contact with the Japanese.
According to the memoirs (1962) of Iida Shōjirō, commander of the Hayashi
Group (Fifteenth Army), “because at the beginning we were dealing with
people of strong anti-­British sentiment, it was only natural that we would meet
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   91
many Thakins”; however, “unfortunately, [not] one [among the Thakins] was
suitable for assuming leadership,” so “Dr. Ba Maw … who had been friendly
with the Thakins for some time now, received their recommendation, which
we  also accepted, to act as chairman of the preparations committee” [Iida
1962: 19–20].
On the other hand, despite the fact of the support given them by Colonel
Suzuki and the Minami Agency, Thakins were kept at arm’s length by the rest
of the Japanese forces, who considered them immature, extreme and left wing.
Although the Thakins, as a highly educated group of elites, would not be totally
excluded from the political process like the Ganap Party in the Philippines, since
they had in fact been excluded from colonial politics in prewar Burma with not
one Cabinet or legislative post to their name, they could not have been looked
upon by Japanese military administration as a group to be proactively mobilized
from the viewpoint of “utilizing existing governance mechanisms.” The provi-
sional governments that the Thakins had formed throughout Burma during the
early days of the occupation were summarily disbanded by Japanese military
administrative orders. In July 1942, BIA (the Burmese Independence Army)
was disbanded, with one unit of crack troops being organized under the Hayashi
Group as the Burma Defense Force commanded by now Colonel Aung San.
Meanwhile, one thing going for the Thakins was their shared experience with
Ba Maw in the struggle under the “Freedom Bloc” and the latter’s appointment
of Aung San (Defense Minister) and other Thakins to government posts. Later
on, the Thakins, who had now taken the opportunity to advance politically
within the central mechanism of the pro-­Japanese Burmese government, would
use that lever to strengthen their opposition to the favoritism bestowed on the
GCBA elite. It was in this manner that the Japanese military’s decision to
“utilize existing governance mechanisms” resulted in freezing and shutting
down the existing ebb and flow of local politics through its occupation of the
Philippines, while at the same time awakening political dynamism in Burma in
the form of the rise of Thakin nationalism in the legitimate political arena
[Nemoto 1997, Takeshima 2003: 221–30].
It should also be mentioned that all of Burma’s British nationals, including
the top-­level British bureaucrats manning the colonial government, left for India
and other points along with the British Indian Army forces, “fleeing for their
lives” at the time of the Japanese invasion [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 445].
Consequently, no problems arose concerning the utilization or incarceration of
British nationals who remained behind. On the other hand, of the nine top-­level
Burmese civil servants, only three left with the British forces, while the remain-
ing six stayed behind to continue to occupy such important posts as state
governor, meaning that the Japanese military was able to apply its principle
of  “utilizing existing governance mechanisms” without having to deal with
Caucasians [Nemoto 1996: 110-15].
92   The occupation of Southeast Asia
Java: uproar over the treatment of Whites
The Dutch East Indies were divided up into three separate military jurisdictions;
namely, Java under the Osamu Group (Sixteenth Army), Sumatra and Borneo
(Kalimantan) under the Tomi Group (Twenty Fifth Army) and Celebes and
eastward under the Navy. As far as the military administration of the region was
concerned, the most important focus would soon turn upon the occupation’s
clash with Indonesian nationalism in the region’s central area of Java. But prior
to such concerns, at the initial stage of military rule, other problems arose over
“the utilization of existing governance mechanisms” that both surprised and
divided the Japanese military personnel who came to Java. It was about that
glimmering mood of young women “on bicycles” and “free lifestyles” being
enjoyed by White Dutch nationals. As already alluded to, the people at IGHQ,
while denying theoretically the argument that their objectives involved conduct-
ing an interracial war, the connection between race and war had become an
inextricable fact of life even for them. Such a contradiction between lofty official
positions and the facts of life on the ground would cause havoc in Java concern-
ing how the military administration should treat the White residents of the
Island, and give rise to similar misunderstanding and contradiction in the recol-
lections of those who had to deal with the problem. Here let us proceed by
referring to a memo dated 27 February 2000 attached to Ishii Akiho’s 1957
“Diary of Southern Military Administration” by Iwatake Teruhiko, now a bona
fide war historian tracing the actual course of events in the archives of the
National Institute for Defense Studies.
Starting at the very beginning, the principle of “utilizing existing governance
mechanisms” proposed in “Guidelines for Implementing Military Administra-
tion in Southern Occupied Territories” had originated from the author’s experi-
ence working temporarily at the Asian Development Agency (Kōa-In), which
was set up in 1938 to implement administrative and economic policy in the ter-
ritory occupied by Japanese forces during the Second Sino-­Japanese War. From
that management experience, Ishii adopted the opinion that it would not be
wise for Japanese personnel to become involved en masse in the administration
of occupied territory, as they had in China.

We were determined to show everybody how in the South a handful of [Jap-

anese] personnel could with a simple overall set of principles employ a
maximum number of local people, in particular those who were already doing
the job (Whites included), and succeed in conducting government affairs.
[Ishii 1957: 16–17]

If so, the treatment of Whites by the Imamura military administration in Java

just after the occupation could be evaluated as merely a simple and faithful
attempt to implement such a policy direction.
In contrast to the situation in Burma and the Philippines, the transition to
indigenization of the central administrative mechanism had not progressed very
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   93
far in Indonesia, leaving European Whites in control. Also, with the Nether-
lands already having been occupied by German forces at the European front,
Dutch and Allied nationals had sought refuge in the colonies, bringing the
number of registered aliens to 66,528 by 1942, making Indonesia the largest
haven for Westerners in all of Southeast Asia [Utsumi 2001: 7–8]. Incarcerating
such a huge population would be physically impossible and an overwhelming
burden on the military. Moreover, from Japan’s standpoint, Indonesia was geo-
graphically the most remote territory occupied in the Southern Campaign, and
since it had so rapidly reached the stage of military rule, preparations had not
yet been made to dispatch from Japan the necessary military and civilian person-
nel for conducting administrative affairs there. Without utilizing Dutch and
other Caucasians, it would have been almost impossible not only to reopen
administrative services, but also bring industry, especially the petroleum facili-
ties, back online. In response to such a situation, during the early stages of the
occupation, the Osamu Group employed civilian Dutch engineers and managers
to operate former enemy-­held corporations and plantations and in principle
confined their daily lives and livelihood to existing neighborhoods, without
incarceration.
In an interview given in 1978, Saitō Shizuo of the Osamu Group Military
Administration Department Planning Section recalled that the aim of military
rule was “to contribute to achieving the overall war objectives,” adding, “There
is no point in destroying Java where [natural] resources and facilities are more
or less intact. Therefore, [we thought it best] to occupy things as they were and
maintain them that way” [Saitō 1980: 2]. From such a point of view, it was only
natural that Dutch expertise would be employed in the management of develop-
ment resources and agriculture. For example, in order to reopen the petroleum
production facilities at Palembang, the Osamu Group sent a call out for Dutch
engineers over the radio, to which over 200 responded and were concentrated
in one corner of the refinery. The Japanese engineers adopted the “practice of
dropping in at the camp whenever we needed to conduct Q&A sessions with
related personnel” [Parenban no Sekiyu Butai Kankōkai, ed. 1973: 152–3].
However, those Japanese visiting Java from Japan and other occupied territ-
ories equally found White people prancing about so uninhibited quite vexing,
on the list of which we surprisingly find Ishii Akiho, the author of the “Guide-
lines for Implementation” that called for the utilization of existing human
resources including Caucasian. Just after the occupation of Java, Ishii writes in
his diary (12 March 1942) regarding the foreigners living in the city of Bandung
(West Java), “Has Lt. General Imamura left everybody do as they please out of
a strong sense of confidence or intoxication with peace?” [Ishii 1960: 49]. It
should be fairly clear that he means “left the Whites to do what they please.” In
his postwar memoirs, however, Ishii seems to have come to his senses, for
regarding the utilization of Whites in his “Guidelines for Implementation” he
states, “Later I was embarrassed to admit that at the time I had actually forgot-
ten the principles which I had previously authored” [Ishii 1957: 115]. This is
the kind of testimony that suggests how both hectic and chaotic things were for
94   The occupation of Southeast Asia
the planners and managers of the occupation. Measures concerning the employ-
ment of Caucasians had originally been proposed in March 1941 by “Draft of a
Policy Agenda for Governing Territory Occupied During Southern Opera-
tions.” In contrast, in his “Guidelines for Implementation,” Ishii spent all of his
energy developing principles for implementing the military administration and
material procurement on the ground, while leaving all other matters to the
above “Draft of a Policy Agenda.” One of the matters that he inserted “as is”
from that document without seriously taking into consideration must have been
the rules for employing Caucasians, and then later remembered that he “had
forgotten about it.”
On his tour of Java at the end of March 1942, IGHQ Army Chief of Staff
Sugiyama Hajime became incensed upon observing Dutch married couples
strolling around Batavia in public, and ordered that enemy nationals should be
locked up like in Singapore. In response, Imamura pleaded that he was only
treating enemy nationals according to the fundamental rules contained in Ishii’s
“Guidelines for Implementation,” which failed to convince Sugiyama, who
upon his return to Tokyo requested the Minister of the Army (PM Tōjō) that
Dutch residents be incarcerated. The Ministry of War then dispatched the Chief
of the Military Affairs Bureau Mutō Akira and Personnel Bureau Chief Tomi-
naga Kyōji to Java, and Sugiyama enlisted the cooperation of Commander Ter-
auchi Hisaichi and his Southern Army General Staff, including Ishii, to iron out
a plan for incarceration of Dutch nationals, then issue an order to that effect to
the Osamu Group [Imamura 1960: 146–57; Saitō 1977: 53–9]. Upon receiving
Terauchi’s order, the Osamu Group devised a plan to round up all males among
the remaining Dutch nationals and incarcerate them in a facility constructed for
that purpose in eastern Java at Banyuwangi, Kediri and to confine all of the
women to designated districts in each city, which was then submitted to War
Minister Tōjō and met his approval. Consequently, as early as mid-­April 1942,
the Osamu Group reversed course by dismissing all government officials of
Dutch and European descent, arresting almost all the Dutch bureaucrats and
initiating an alien registration scheme that classified “foreigners” into “extremely
hostile,” “confined to residences” and “designated residents.”
It was in this way that the Imamura military administration delayed the
implementation of incarceration of Java’s Caucasian population only for about a
month by “letting them do as they please” in accordance with rules concerning
treatment initially approved by IGHQ. However, the dispatch of Japanese
military administrative staff and civilian business personnel was also delayed by
such events as the 8 May sinking of the Taiyō Maru in the waters off Nagasaki
by a US submarine, resulting in the loss of more than 600 passengers bound
for all points south, including Indonesia, to manage the enterprises seized from
the enemy. It took the Osamu Group until the end of 1942 to complete the
task of incarcerating and confining Dutch residents; and according to the
research done by Utsumi Aiko, a total of 4,492 of them had been registered as
“extremely hostile” (as of 1943) and placed in detention, where discipline was
comparatively lax during the early stages of the occupation, and Japanese
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   95
military administration continued to utilize some of the “extremely hostile,”
allowing them to live with their family. Those classified as “confined to resi-
dents” numbering 15,252, were confined to residential districts for existing
schools, family dwellings, etc., while 46,784 “designated residents” were issued
alien registration papers allowing them to move about more or less freely
[Fukami 1993: 35; Utsumi 2001: 7-8]. In Manila, the large majority of Ameri-
can and British males and some of the women and children were detained in the
Santo Tomas Concentration Facility and their counterparts in Singapore found
themselves incarcerated in the grounds of Changi Prison. In all cases, most of
the women and children, nationals of the Axis and neutral nations as well as
Christian clergy were not incarcerated, meaning that scenes of Westerners
walking the streets did not altogether vanish from occupied Southeast Asia. In
the case of Java, where tens of thousands of foreign residents were allowed
public access, one might not be able to deny the impression of “the enemy”
living their lives in relative freedom.
Imamura’s wrote in his memoirs that many military people, like Military
Affairs Bureau Chief Mutō Akira, who were at first critical of his administration,
eventually supported the utilization of Dutch human resources after personally
experiencing the real situation on the ground. For example, Southern General
Staff Commander Terauchi Hisaichi, who conducted an Indonesian tour of
inspection during June 1942, found little to complain about, and in his first
meeting with Imamura, Ishii Akiho who had accompanied Terauchi, told the
General how “impressed” he was with how things were progressing so smoothly
by the book (his “Guidelines for Governance”) and imploring him not to
change a thing in the future” [Imamura 1960: 157–60].10 Even if Imamura
intended no irony about the Southern Army and IGHQ forcing his administra-
tion to reverse course for no apparent reason, Iwatake’s hypothesis seems nearest
the truth; namely, that it was probably such a realization of futility (of incarcera-
tion) within the Southern Army and the war leadership, in the wake of the
Osamu Group turnabout and consequent measures to immediately incarcerate
almost 70,000 Dutch nationals, that motivated Takeuchi’s inspection tour to
restore Imamura’s reputation. In his postwar recollections, Ishii evaluates the
Imamura administration with the words, “The smooth implementation of
military administration in Java was in part due to its efficient utilization of the
local Caucasian population. They were particularly helpful in restoring and oper-
ating highway and railway transportation” [Ishii 1957: 115], thereby praising
Imamura for faithfully sticking to rules in a game plan that even the author had
forgotten.
Upon his transfer to Rabaul, Papua New Guinea, to take command of the
Eighth Area Army on 8 November 1942, Imamura recalls petitioning Terauchi,
then Southern Army Commanding General, to continue his Javanese “relaxing/
moderate military administration” [Imamura 1960: 203–6]. In any case,
Imamura’s wishes would not come true as the fate of enemy nationals in
Indonesia would take a serious turn for the worse into a situation characterized
as the worst treatment of foreigners in Southeast Asia, reaching war crimes
96   The occupation of Southeast Asia
proportions, which makes Imamura’s “moderate military administration” even
more conspicuous. Let it not be said, however, that the treatment of enemy
nationals under a “moderate military administration” is not at all the same as
the intention to look after their welfare, for the complete lack of concern for the
livelihoods of Westerners was as apparent under Imamura as it would be during
the latter stages of the occupation.
Just as the utilization of Dutch bureaucrats ended for all intents and purposes
a little over a month after the occupation of Java, so too would the employment
of Dutch experts in the restoration and maintenance of administrative and eco-
nomic management be short lived. It was not long before Japanese personnel
began advancing into Indonesia industrial and agrarian management, while
native Indonesians were hired to staff the civil administration under Japanese
military rule, leaving the Caucasian community out of work. The livelihoods of
those among them with world war refugee status were the first to plummet into
poverty and degradation. Later on, in November 1943, Dutch nationals started
to be sent to military concentration facilities under the guise of “housing the
destitute.” In Java alone, 70,000, on Sumatra, over 12,000 civilians were
crowded into poorly equipped facilities [Utsumi 2001: 8–25]. The Japanese
military was indifferent to life support for these destitute Westerners. The hor-
rible sanitation facilities, starvation, and brutality, that would be called war
crimes, perpetrated all over the region in Indonesia at the concentration camps
set up by the military for civilian enemy nationals, would lead to the highest
mortality rates of the civilian detainees in all of occupied Southeast Asia
[Hayashi 2005: 95–6].
It was in this way that the brouhaha over the military’s treatment of Cauca-
sians during the early occupation of Java escalated into a problem of war crimes
proportions. In another vein, the problem of how to treat former colonial polit-
ical forces, which became the focus of the occupation of the Philippines and
Burma from early on, receives almost no attention in either the records of the
war leadership or the diaries and memoirs of Ishii Akiho with reference to Indo-
nesia. There is no doubt about the ample intelligence gathered before the war
in the Dutch Indies by such agents as Suzuki Keiji clarifying the activities of
Indonesian nationalists. But there is no evidence of such information being uti-
lized to implement, much less study and plan, concrete strategies for Indonesia,
like the Minami Agency operations in Burma or the Commonwealth appease-
ment plan for the Philippines. Although the Japanese military freed nationalists,
like Sukarno, who had been exiled to western Sumatra, and Mohammed Hatta
and Sutan Sjahrir, who were held captive in western Java, and allowed them to
politically organize, at that point in time, the perception that Indonesia was also
in the process of becoming a political standard bearer of “independence” was
totally missing from the policy decisions being made on the Japanese side.
Instead, among the war leadership, riding the waves of its military victories, the
idea began to form that Indonesia should be Japan’s permanent territorial pos-
session. And so, a perceptual gap would soon widen to serious proportions
between the Java Osamu Group, forced to respond to a direct encounter with a
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   97
rapidly rising nationalist movement in Java, and the Southern Command off in
Saigon and IGHQ farther away in Tokyo.

Malaya and Singapore: the Chinese community under heavy manners

The occupation army’s fundamental preplanned approach to ruling the occu-
pied, “utilizing the existing governance mechanisms,” which we have seen had
very different ramifications for life in the Philippines, Burma and Indonesia, was
nowhere in sight during the Tomi Group, Twenty Fifth Army’s transition from
war to occupation in Malaya and Singapore. Not only were the institutions of
the former British authorities not continued, but also all of their minions were
hauled off to the prisoner of war camp at Changi Prison. On this point, Ishii
Akiho recalls, 

In Malaya we avoided the Caucasians like the plague and wouldn’t let them
near military administration. Tsuji [Masanobu] was a soldier full of hatred
for the enemy; as far as the “White Man” went, he needed to be suppressed
from top to bottom, provided that [White] POWs were thoroughly used
en masse as coolies. It was a style very different from what we were doing
in Java.
[Ishii 1957: 145]

Since, even under the principle of “utilizing existing governance mechanisms,”

enemy nationals who are of no practical use to the occupation were to be incar-
cerated, like the American residents in Manila, the basis for locking up British
nationals in Malaya cannot be completely attributed to anti-­White hysteria in
the Tomi Group General Staff. As exemplified by its new Japanese name,
Shōnan, Singapore was from early on earmarked for territorial annexation in
Japan proper. The fact that immediately after the occupation of the city, a large
number of Japanese civil servants were dispatched there to serve in its military
administration is also a strong indication of the Japanese state’s intention to rule
it directly from Tokyo. Therefore, if “utilizing the existing governance mecha-
nisms” was not a necessary condition for the Tomi Group to maintain law and
order in Malaya, neither was a program of appeasement toward local political
forces. In particular, with regard to the Chinese (nationals and Malayan) com-
munity, which accounted for over half of the city’s population, the Tomi Group
would enforce a policy that can only be described as “military backed heavy-­
handedness,” with no ifs, ands or buts.
When considered from the aspect of the dominant influence exerted by
Huaqiao (Overseas Chinese) communities throughout Southeast Asia, it would
seem that their cooperation would be crucial to any occupations resulting from
a “war for resources.” However, many Southeast Asian Huaqiao had, prior to
the Asia-­Pacific War, supported the anti-­Japanese resistance movement of the
Chiang Kai-­shek regime on the mainland and generously contributed to it finan-
cially. How was such hostile enemy behavior on the part of Huaqiao in the
98   The occupation of Southeast Asia
occupied territories to be dealt with? Starting again with Ishii Akiho’s Novem-
ber 1941 “Guidelines for Implementing Military Administration,” we find the
idea that Huaqiao should be “encouraged to estrange themselves from Chiang’s
regime and agree and cooperate with our policies,” indicating a policy of
“inducement” regarding cooperation with the Japanese, which in fact set the
tone for the “Policy Agenda Regarding Huaqiao” that was approved on 14 Feb-
ruary 1942 by the IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference. That being said,
the document itself is not much more than a statement of such abstract aims as
persuading Huaqiao “to contribute to the increase and attainment of material
necessary for the defense of the Empire,” “to actively cooperate with imperial
policies by applying them in their existing economic functions and practices,”
and “supporting and complying with imperial administrations set up in the
occupied territories.” As to how “support, compliance and cooperation” were
to be elicited, concrete measures would be left up to each area corps command
[Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 108–9 (JACAR: B02032971500)].
As for the Tomi Group, whose occupation of Singapore and Malaya encom-
passed the largest Huaqiao population of all the occupied territories, there is its
own undated memorandum titled “Guidelines for Implementing Maneuver on
Huaqiao.” According to the research done by Akashi Yōji, this document is a
part of a series of policy statements regarding military administration authored
at Tomi Group Staff Headquarters in Taiping around the end of December
1941 by Assistant Chief of Staff Watanabe Wataru and Takase Tōru, a former
member of the Hankou Special Operations Agency. Being recognized as a
“China expert” and “Tairiku-­Rōnin,” those prewar Japanese adventurers who
roamed around China or the Korean Peninsula to promote their political activ-
ities, Takase was employed as an army contractor on the recommendation of
Watanabe’s close friend Lt. Colonel Tsuji Masaharu (b. 1902), who was at that
time the chief staff officer in charge of Tomi Group military operations, pres-
ently directing the siege of Singapore.
The Tomi Group “Guidelines for Implementing Maneuver on Huaqiao,”
which begins with a statement of purpose declaring “Huaqiao policy relying
mainly on attracting maneuver is now a thing of the past,” highlights a new
assertive tone in stark contrast to the measures introduced in the IGHQ’ “Policy
Agenda Regarding Huaqiao.” Furthermore, during the initial stage, instead of
“proactive attracting maneuver,”

We will let them make their own decisions. For those who choose the
route of swearing full compliance and giving ungrudging cooperation,
their rights and interests will be recognized without being deprived of
their livelihoods; those who decide otherwise will absolutely not be
allowed to survive.

In other words, those Huaqiao who cooperate will be treated favorably, while
those who do not will be thoroughly cleansed and suppressed (i.e., slaugh-
tered). Farther into the Tomi Group “Guidelines,” we come to the second
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   99
stage, including “the Huaqiao community as a whole will [be ordered to]
procure a minimum of 50 million yen in capital,” as its guarantee of “complete
cooperation” in the Southern occupation; those who refuse will be liable to
“the most severe sanctions” of seizure of assets and exile of whole lineages with
no hope of re-­entry; and “we will respond to insurgents … with the ultimate
[death] penalty as a means of setting the tone for the whole Huaqiao com-
munity.” In addition to such heavy-­handed measures for coercing cooperation,
the “Guidelines” proceeds to Stage 3, which warns “against the silly idea of
suppressing and dispossessing Huaqiao in the hope that Japanese will take
their  place,” emphasizing the need to “make full use of … their capabilities
and commercial skills … for the purpose of doing business in the South,” and
to finance the occupation by having them participate in production and
development in the region [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 287–9; JACAR:
C14060608800].
Akashi points out that what lay in the background to such heavy manners
were the strong beliefs of “China experts” like Watanabe that empathizing with
Chinese in general was not worth the effort, as exemplified in such comments as
“during the early stages of the occupation it will be necessary to come down
hard on these people in the process of normal operations” and “this is a race
with smiles on their faces and rebellion in their hearts; no matter how you treat
them, they will be intransigent to the bitter end” [Akashi 2001: 39–40]. At the
same time, behind the policy for utilizing, not suppressing, the influence of
Chinese on all fronts lay the more down-­to-earth assessment of the “extra-
ordinary existence” of the economic capability of Huaqiao communities
throughout Southeast Asia; “5 million strong with the power to mobilize up to
5 billion won of capital” [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 289].
18 February 1942: This is the day on which Brigadier General Kawamura
Saburō, commander of the Ninth Brigade of the Fifth Infantry Division,
reported to Tomi Group Headquarters, which had just been set up on the
campus of Raffles College (now the National University of Singapore), to
receive his commission as commander of the Shōnan Garrison from Tomi
Group Commander Yamashita Tomoyuki. According to the memoirs and testi-
mony attributed to Kawamura, who after the war was convicted of war crimes
and executed, Yamashita’s orders that day were “to conduct mop-­up opera-
tions” involving the “search for” and “exacting judgment of ” “enemy Huaqiao”
[Hayashi 2007: 53–8]. Subsequently a debate arose over the term “exacting”
(i.e., summary, without due process) among Kawamura’s Second Field Military
Police Battalion who had been so ordered. Ōnishi Satoru, one of the battalion’s
squad leaders, recalls his resistance to a military order to the effect of having
auxiliary Kempeitai (field troops deployed under the Military Police) arresting
and executing Huaqiao without any investigation, suggesting that they instead
be detained “in empty prisons” or “exiled to other islands.” Nevertheless, the
order stood [Ōnishi 1998: 176–80]; and thus began the “Large-­scale Inspec-
tion (Daikenshō)” (also known as Sook Ching, the purge). In 1979, Ibuse
Masuji recalled the incident in the following way.
100   The occupation of Southeast Asia
As far as I can remember, thousands of Huaqiao were being assembled in
open spaces around the city. On my way back and forth from my office at
the Shōnan Times, I saw a few of these places. In one there must have been
3,000 assembled, in another about 2,000 … Immediately after the cleans-
ing was over, we heard reports that auxiliary Kempeitai soldiers, given
orders to liquidate so many innocent people and scared out of wits, after
killing some turned to a Kempeitai officer and pleaded, “that’s enough, let
the rest go,” to which they were soundly reprimanded with the words,
“Hell no! You’re under orders. You fool! Are you going to disobey a com-
manding officer?” and then thus were forced to continue against their will.
[Ibuse 2005: 336–8]

Matsumoto Naoji of the Army Information Detail recalls, “I heard about Huaqiao
cleansing from the unlikeliest source.” The female proprietor of a barbershop,
whom Matsumoto had come to know well, came to ask his advice about her
husband who had been detained by the Kempeitai. Matsumoto then took the
woman to the nearby Kempeitai squad screening center, where there were so
many suspects being brought in that the entrance was completely blocked. The
woman pointed inside and said, “There he is, that man over there in the corner …”
While Matsumoto of course couldn’t tell a law-­abiding civilian from “traitor
Chinese (Hàn jiān)” or “plain-­clothes soldiers,” he could not feel but “these guys
could have been summarily arrested for no obvious reason” and managed to per-
suade the Kempeitai squad leader to release ten or so of the suspects.
Then a few days later Matsumoto was told by “a young 2nd lieutenant
acquaintance of mine,” “There’s a traitor hunt going on. Come on along, you
might get a story out of it,” and was then taken to a concentration camp in the
vicinity of Changi Prison (where British and other foreign POWs were being
held). When they arrived, they found a wire fence with a ditch dug around its
inside periphery, “about a meter and a half deep, 2 meters wide and 200 meters
around, enclosing about 200 people sitting on the ground like beads on a
rosary, with their hands tied behind their backs” [Matsumoto 1993: 77–9].
Apart from his memoirs, Matsumoto also described the scene in an interview
with Akashi Yōji with the following gory details.

Of the prisoners, there were those resigned to their fate, who bared their
necks of their own accord … Completely composed. It was as if they had
some religious assurance that they would be resurrected or something.
There were those who stuck out their necks refusing blindfolds by shaking
their heads as if saying, “Get on with it.” And so, heads began flying,
lopped off one after the other. Seeing that, I couldn’t take any more, saying
“I gotta go,” and ran off.
[Matsumoto 1998: 523–4]

In his memoirs, Matsumoto adds, “The young officer just laughed” [ibid.:
1993: 79].
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   101
The detailed facts regarding the massacres perpetrated throughout Singa-
pore, which continued into the beginning of March, have been kept secret, and
the exact number slain remains unclear. Hayashi Hiroshi has pointed out that
other than the estimate of at least 5,000 dead (a figure agreed upon by Japanese
military authorities), there is no hard data available, while at the same time indi-
cating that the figure of 50,000 estimated by Singaporeans should not be dis-
missed as overly inflated [Hayashi 2007: 169–70]. The archeological survey in
search of corpses conducted under the direction of the Singapore Chinese
Chamber of Commerce and Industry in 1962, found traces of the massacre in
twenty-­five different locations around the city, and in Jalan Puay Poon (present
day Siglap), which was not located in the main Sook Ching area, mass graves
containing 2,278 victims were unearthed [Xu and Cai, eds. 1986: 59–72].
Although denying the Singaporean claims concerning the body count, arguing
that the number of victims could not have been any more than 2,000, former
Kempeitai Squad Commander Ōnishi Satoru, who served ten years in prison for
his role in conducting the operation on the ground, has admitted that he dir-
ected indiscriminate summary executions under army orders. It was his under-
standing at the time that the “inspection” was part of the continuing mop-­up
operations ordered after the Fall of Singapore. “I often heard that non-­resistors
were being arrested … We then could not afford taking a week or two to judge
them. From a general perspective, it follows that we went too far and did some
wrong things” [Ōnishi 1998: 175–6].
Because the “Large-­scale Inspection” was a battle maneuver, it is generally
understood that the military administration mechanism did not become
involved. Watanabe Wataru, the Tomi Group Chief of Military Administration,
stated in 1966 that since Sook Ching “was conducted with such ingenuity that
still blows my mind even to this day,” it was only when missing persons reports
began inundating Military Administration Headquarters around the end of Feb-
ruary that he and his staff became aware that massacres were going on through-
out the city [Akashi 2001: 78]. As to who proposed and planned the ethnic
cleansing of the Huaqiao community, although there is no definitive documen-
tary evidence to clarify the actual situation on the ground, everyone who was
involved is unanimous in pointing to the role played by Tsuji Masanobu. This is
a name that comes up continuously when investigating the darker side of the
Japanese Army’s campaigns, special operations and war atrocities, giving the
overall impression of a soldier who was determined to fight the Asia-­Pacific War
on his own terms. After the war, Tsuji was able to avoid facing accusations of
war criminality by hiding out in various countries of Asia, until his miraculous
emergence in Japan after the Allied occupation, after which he entered the polit-
ical arena, being elected four times to the House of Representatives of the
National Diet and once to the House of Councilors. Then, in 1961, Tsuji dis-
appeared as quickly as he had appeared, while on tour in Southeast Asia, where-
abouts unknown until the announcement of his death seven years later. In the
“Large-­scale Inspection,” Tsuji was not only responsible for proposing and
planning the ethnic cleansing of the Huaqiao community, but also assumed
102   The occupation of Southeast Asia
leadership over the mass executions, touring throughout Singapore to person-
ally urge the Kempeitai to accomplish the tough task ahead. Kempeitai Squad
Leader Ōnishi Satoru recalls how Tsuji, screaming at the top of his lungs, told
him “What the hell is taking so long? I want to reduce the population of Singa-
pore by half, god dammit!” [Ōnishi 1997: 75]. In 1979, Ibuse remembered
Tsuji, as “wallowing in the limitless depths of evil; I didn’t expect a human
being could commit the most excessive crimes imaginable” [Ibuse 2005: 254].
It has also been pointed out that Tsuji would often exceed his authority in
arbitrary decision-­making and execution, including fabricating orders from
above. However, such does not seem to be the case in the ethnic cleansing of
Huaqiao Singaporeans, for even if we assume that it was arbitrary decision and
execution on Tsuji’s part that led to excessive loss of life, the Japanese military
had already been pretty determined to purge the Huaqiao community at the
very beginning. In other words, “mass searches” constituted merely one
unavoidable tactic in militaristic, heavy-­handed measures that Watanabe and his
cohorts in the Tomi Group initially had in store for the Huaqiao community.
Even Yamashita Tomoyuki praised the operation as one of the war’s successes,
for according to Utsunomiya Naokata, during October 1944, Yamashita, who
had just arrived in the Philippines to take command of the Watari Group (Four-
teenth Army), hearing of the way in which anti-­Japanese resistance guerrilla
forces were rampaging all over the countryside, rolled his eyes in disbelief, utter-
ing in criticism of “conciliatory military rule,” “I never dreamed it would come
to this. It’s all your and Wachi’s [Watari Group Chief of Staff] faults, spoiling
these people rotten during your stints in administration.” “In Singapore,”
Yamashita continued, “I rooted out every guerrilla and suspected guerrilla,
including Huaqiao, law and order in the Malayan theater was thus signed, sealed
and delivered” [Utsunomiya 1981: 81, 98–9]. When the Southern Army Head-
quarters criticized Osamu Group commander Imamura for his “moderate
military administration” in Indonesia, they cited “the venting of Japan’s might
upon” Singapore as one of Japan’s most impressive accomplishments [Imamura
1960: 154].
While what actually happened during Sook Ching was and is still enveloped
in secrecy, the operation itself was by no means covert, as indicated in case of
Information Detail Matsumoto Naoji being invited to sit on the front row seat
at the “traitor hunting” venue. To the contrary, the original aim of “large-­scale
inspections” was to publicize the events of the purge in order to throw the
Huaqiao community into an atmosphere of panic and fear. For example, on 24
February 1942 Shōnan Garrison commander Kawamura had an announcement
published in the third issue of the Syōnan Jit Poh, a Chinese newspaper pub-
lished under Japanese military rule, in which he states that the “mop-­up” of
“Huaqiao traitors” is “the most important task before us” and that those “who
obstruct our great endeavor here” “will be brought to justice” and “shown
absolutely no mercy,” while those “law-­abiding citizens who actively cooperate,”
“whether Huaqiao or otherwise, [will be looked upon] as equals” [Xu and Cai,
eds. 1986: 42–3]. On the front page of that same issue appeared an editorial
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   103
entitled “Sacrificing One to Save One Hundred,” stating “already one ring-
leader of the anti-­Japanese conspiracy has been harshly punished”; and anyone
who “tries to benefit the enemy will under no uncertain terms be shot dead”;
while at the same time announcing that all peace-­loving citizens will be able to
enjoy their daily lives under the auspices of the Emperor of Japan [ibid.: 52–3].
The effects of such shock and awe were immediate, according to the Osaka
Mainichi Shimbun, which reported (24 February 1942) “Since their triumphant
march into Shōnan, our troops have thoroughly searched and cleansed the
Huaqiao community” and the next day ran a story on how one member of the
Singapore Huaqiao community, Lim Boon Keng, “was rescued by Japanese
troops during their search for insurgents,” concluding, “as the result of the
exchange of ideas with our military authorities, Mr. Lim is now happily advanc-
ing towards the construction of a new East Asia.” Lim Boon Keng would soon
be appointed chairman of the Huaqiao Association, organized under the aus-
pices of the Japanese and comprised Chinese community leaders, who, fearing
that Sook Ching would soon come knocking on their doors, promised their full
cooperation to the military authorities, and, as proposed in Watanabe Wataru’s
“Guidelines for Implementing Maneuver on Huaqiao,” pledged the sum of 50
million yen to the coffers of the Military Administration Bureau. The money
was appropriated from Huaqiao residents throughout Malaya based on an
assessment conducted by the Huaqiao Association. owing to the fact that only
28 million yen was actually collected by the deadline of June 1942, the Associ-
ation made up almost all of the difference with a 22 million yen loan from the
Yokohama Specie Bank.
On 25 June 1942, an event celebrating the donation was held at the
“Yamato Theater” in the Nantian Bazaar. The Syōnan Jit Poh (26 June) pre-
sented detailed coverage of the celebration together with posting a directive
issued by Tomi Group Commander Yamashita (Yokohori, ed. 1993). Ma Jun, a
member of the Huaqiao community who witnessed the event, recalls in his
postwar memoirs a nervous and animated Lim Boon Keng, whose timid attitude
was “so ugly that I could not see,” “bowing profusely and shivering intermin-
ably” before the commanding presence of Yamashita Tomoyuki during the
formal presentation of the 50 million yen cheque, not raising his head even after
Yamashita left the hall [Xu and Cai, eds. 1986: 147].
Watanabe’s heavy-­handed measures toward the Huaqiao community, culmi-
nating in the extortion of 50 million yen, were eventually to be criticized that
the measures went too far. In particular, many of the civilian bureaucrats who
were assigned to Singapore as the Military Administration staff expressed disap-
proval for Watanabe’s right-­hand man, Takase Tōru, the “Tairiku Rōnin” who
would “swagger about the Military Administration” as if he owned the place
[Yamashiro 1998: 243–4]. There was also criticism from inside the walls of the
Ministry of War that the 50 million yen “donation” should not be accepted,
though the contribution was finally approved after all was said and done
between the Ministry, the Tomi Group and the Southern Army General Staff.
To Watanabe’s disappointment, General Yamashita, who trusted and supported
104   The occupation of Southeast Asia
Watanabe, was transferred to Manchuria as the First Area Army Commander in
July 1942 and the army-­staffed military administration was gradually taken over
by civilian bureaucrats, who, Watanabe would complain, “made my life miser-
able” [Akashi 2001: 39–53].
One very interesting aspect is the reaction to all of this by Ishii Akiho, the
mastermind of the original “Guidelines for Implementing Military Administra-
tion in Southern Occupied Territories,” which Watanabe had criticized as
“unrealistic preparation” planned by “a bunch of eggheads.” Regarding the
50-million-­yen contribution, Ishii writes,

Don’t ever come crying [to the domestic economy] for money or material!
That is where the genius in such a fundraising plan to finance military
administration lies, in the spirit of the Southern Army General Staff ’s firm
desire for the troops to get by on their own [in the occupied territories]. It
was a triumph won through the uncommon shrewdness displayed by Takase
Tōru (who was assigned very early thanks to recommendation of Mr.
Tsuji).
[Ishii 1957: 147]

In sum, the policy of “respecting existing social organization and national

customs” was all but a means for achieving the three main war objectives
(restoration of law and order, rapidly securing national defense resources,
material procurement for the troops on the ground), while liquidating
Huaqiao could be accepted as just another of the devices based on the Japa-
nese Army’s crackpot realism. The specter of ethnic cleansing and an oppres-
sive counterinsurgency, even in the relatively conciliatory attitude showcased
in the other occupied territories, would always be a fact of daily life under Jap-
anese military rule. However, such heavy manners could never be anything but
palliative measures. For an anti-­Japanese resistance movement spearheaded by
a Huaqiao community inflamed and fueled by a deep sense of bitterness and
revenge over the mass murder of its members and the extortion of its wealth,
would turn Yamashita’s Malayan pride and joy into a region where “security
has deteriorated to a level second only to the Philippines” [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed.
1985: 492].
7 February 1942. With the Fall of Singapore clearly in sight, the Philippine
capital of Manila has now experienced a month or so of Japanese military rule
that has restored the city’s daily life to “normalcy.” Meanwhile, just a little over
100 km. away to the south in Batangas, around Lawa ng Taal crater lake, and in
Tayabas, at the foot of Mt. Banahao, the greater part of the population remains
camped out in the hill regions, having abandoned their towns and villages, both
fearing the Japanese forces and anticipating an impending counterattack by the
Americans. In order to persuade these refugees to return to their homes, the
Watari Group Propaganda Detail organized a “Batangas Area Propaganda Detail
(Batangasu Hōmen Senden’han),” which was deployed from Manila at the end
of January and had for about a week been traversing the region and having a
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   105
modicum of success in getting the people to submit to Japanese authority.
Hearing the rumors of the detail’s successes, a group from Propaganda Detail
Headquarters in Manila under Lt. Colonel Katsuya arrived for an inspection
tour of the relatively large town of Lipa. During their stay, a group of writers
and intellectuals in the detail’s civilian corps witnessed an event, which would be
repeated and continue to be handed down as a stand-­up comedy style funny
story.11
Among the Propaganda Detail’s commissioned officers coming to Lipa was
Second Lieutenant Mochizuki Shigenobu (b. 1910), who was relatively old for
the rank of second lieutenant at the age of 31, and whose peculiar mannerisms
had earned him the nickname “Rev. Mochizuki.” He had, however, a checkered
past. A native of Nagano Prefecture, at an early age Mochizuki had, while
attending Matsumoto High School, become an ardent follower of Watanabe
Masami, the founder of the Tenge Sect, expounding a Buddhist interpretation
of Imperial Way (Kōdō) ideology, and went on to pursue these ideas, studying
at the Tokyo Imperial University Department of Chinese Philosophy and its
graduate school, while propagating Watanabe’s doctrine in Chiba and Miyazaki
Prefectures until he was recruited into the army in 1940. He then graduated
from Morioka Army Reserve Officer Cadet School at the top of his class and
also excelled in marksmanship. The literati civilian corpsmen in the Propaganda
Detail ridiculed him as “having inordinate interest in sermonizing,” while they
were to write many pieces to be published during and after the war, fondly
remembering him as a cheerful and bright person. Later during the war, Mochi-
zuki was to found the Tagaytay Educational Training Center on the north side
of the Taal volcano to introduce his spiritualism to the youth of the Philippines.
It was impossible for Mochizuki, “having inordinate interest in sermoniz-
ing,” to contain himself when he saw the people of Lipa gathering around the
Propaganda Detail’s vehicle, on which Mochizuki climbed up and started to
address to the Filipinos in the audience. Standing beside Mochizuki up on the
vehicle was a bewildered Julio Luz, the detail’s language interpreter, a practicing
dentist from a family of large Batangas landlords, who had also studied abroad
in Japan. Despite his often-­frivolous attitude and broken Japanese, Luz was
probably the most important factor in the detail’s successes in persuading the
local residents to capitulate, and for that reason had won deep trust from
Hitomi and others of the detail.
As expected, Mochizuki’s speech was difficult to follow. Ozaki’s novel has it
starting off something like this:

The time has come for each and every Filipino to reflect upon the way in
which he and his fellow countrymen have become estranged from the tradi-
tion and pride of being Asians, through the long years of schemes (bōryaku)
by the American government. The Philippines is today much like a rotting
hedge. But this particular rotting hedge has not been blown down by the
Wind. No! The hedge itself has fallen because it can no longer support
itself.
106   The occupation of Southeast Asia
At first, Luz was plunged into a state of confusion. However, for a time, the
crowd listened intently to what Mochizuki was saying and “gave him a tre-
mendous round of applause.” Encouraged by the excitement, Mochizuki fired
up the rhetoric, “resting his left hand on his sword and pointing up into the sky
with his right,” “Now the time has come for you, my fellow Asians, to rise up,
treading on the broken hedge!” [Ozaki 1954: 148–9]. All of a sudden, some-
thing was wrong. The Japanese nationals in the detail which understood
Tagalog explained with a wry smile what was happening. Hitomi describes the
scene as follows.

Mr. Luz couldn’t make heads or tails out what Mochizuki was talking
about. And so, wiping the sweat from his brow, Mr. Luz proceeded to fill
in the blanks with an altogether different speech. “This is something I saw
with my own eyes when I was a student in Japan. There was this friend who
had gone shopping in a department store, and when he got home realized
that he had left something behind … so he went back to find it, knowing
full well that because this was Japan, someone would have put it aside for
him. That would never happen in the Philippines, would it? That’s how
honest and upright the Japanese really are.”
[Hitomi 1994: 503–4]

What strikes one is the two completely contrasting atmospheres being created—
here in the Philippines operating in a rural setting that can only be described as
peaceful and quiet, while over in Singapore readying the Huaqiao community
for a cruel wave of ethnic cleansing—two contradictory milieus of the same Jap-
anese Army. On the other hand, if all the clichés put on display in Mochizuki’s
desperate attempt at inspirational speaking had to be saved in translation by
Luz’s episode of “Japanese as good Samaritans” in order to create even an
ounce of amity between the Japanese occupiers and the occupied, and if in his
persuasive narrative Luz did save the day for the capitulation operation, then it
may well be said that no language yet existed for the occupiers to get their
message across to the occupied. That is to say, the only medium through which
the occupiers could make themselves loud and clear was “the threat of viol-
ence.” If so, the parallel scenes in the Philippine countryside and on the streets
of Singapore were not all that contradictory, in terms of Japan’s efforts to
govern occupied Southeast Asia.
The present chapter has been an attempt to take a bird’s eye view of the
startup operations for Japan’s military rule in Southeast Asia from the dual
aspects of assertions about it and how it actually played out in the real world.
Clichéd assertions touting “holy wars” and “revival of Asian true essence” aside,
the “success” of military rule was made possible by (1) a policy to “occupy
things as they were and maintain them that way,” i.e., occupation under the
existing conditions of Western colonialism and the maintenance of that status
quo, and (2) unimpeachable armed coercion. To put it in another way, the
Japanese were up to this point in absolutely no mood to listen to anything the
 The occupation of Southeast Asia   107
occupied people of Southeast Asia had to say. And there is no reason why they
should have. Therefore, the encounter, in the true sense of the term, between
Japan and Southeast Asia had yet to take place.

Notes
  1 The use of the pejorative terms dojin, domin (aborigine, bushman) to refer to indi-
genous peoples of the occupied territories was virtually universal among their Japa-
nese occupiers.
  2 Reporters embedded with the armed forces at that time comprised those, like Mat-
sumoto Naoji, who had been conscripted as civilians in PR Details (later Information
Sections) and those who were dispatched by news corporations. Ōgiya was one of the
latter.
  3 The great majority of the troops charged with the defense of the British Empire in
Southeast Asia were from the British Indian Army, in addition to Australian Army
forces.
  4 Kampō Gōgai (Official Gazzete, extra issue), “Stenographic Records of the 79th
Imperial Diet House of Representatives, No. 2,” 22 January 1942. Imperial Diet Pro-
ceedings Research System [http://teikokugikai-­i.ndl.go.jp/].
  5 “Oath (Goseimon),” Statute Book (Hōrei Zensho), 1867. [http://kindai.da.ndl.go.jp/
info:ndljp/pid/787948/81].
  6 Murata Shōzō to Murata Takeji, 11 March 1942. From the material sources donated
to the FJOP (see References).
  7 The question of authenticity of such a directive has been taken up in the following
literature: Laurel 1962: 3–5; Steinberg 1967: 32–3; Agoncillo 1984: 12–14; Friend
1988: 86–8.
  8 Murata Shōzō called the Ganap Party as “bunch of vagrants wandering around the
city” [Murata 1969: 703] and Hitomi Junsuke was of the impression that they were a
segregated caste [Interview, 12 October 2010]. It seems that the isolation experi-
enced by the Ganap Party treated under US rule as just another group of thieves,
bandoleros and religious fanatics was clearly apparent in the minds of the Japanese
occupiers.
  9 “Dealing with the Ganap Party” in “Matters regarding Dissolution of the Political
Parties and Organization of the Association for Service to Reconstruction of the Phil-
ippines,” Philippines Military Administration Directive No. 280, 21 November 1942.
Riku-­A-Mitsu Dai-­Nikki, Vol. 62, 1942, No. 13 [JACAR: C01000926900].
10 This recollection is directly belies Ishii’s memoirs [1957: 113–14], which recall on
that occasion Terauchi “barely listened to the briefing and said something like ‘We’re
going to have to lock up all the Whites. It’s a public disgrace,’ ” to which Imamura
retorted, “I’ve already taken extensive measures to segregate them.” Later, continues
Ishii, IGHQ and the Southern General Staff, upon realizing the futility of incarcera-
tion, directed that treatment of Whites be relaxed and that they be employed in
military administration but Imamura refused to make any changes in policy.
11 Recollections of this incident appear in Ozaki 1943: 107–8, as well as ibid. 1954:
146–52, Yomiuri Shimbunsha 1970: Vol. 11: 156–9, and they have been corrobo-
rated by a Filipino couple who accompanied the detail [Watari Shūdan Hōdōbu, ed.
Vol. 1: 48, 64].
3 The Greater East Asia
Co-­Prosperity Sphere
Ambition and reality

1  The limits of military colonialism

The tide turns on the battlefront

“The Battle of Midway seems to have ended in defeat for the Imperial Navy.”
So, reads the entry dated 9 June 1942 in the Classified War Journal kept by the
IGHQ (Imperial General Headquarters) Army General Staff War Planning and
Management Detail. The defeat occurred when IGHQ was just about to launch
Operation FS, a huge scale maneuver to invade Fiji and Samoa, in order to cut
off lines of communication between the United States and Australian forces,
then invade and occupy New Caledonia, a French colony that had sided with
Free France instead of Vichy France, in order to secure the Island’s valuable
mineral deposits. With these objectives in mind, during May the new Seven-
teenth Army was formed and sent into battle on 4 June. It was on the following
day that the Battle of Midway began, and by its end on 7th the Japanese Navy
had lost four aircraft carriers.
The Classified War Journal of the 9th continues in a tone of sympathy with
the Navy, which had suffered its first “black star (i.e., defeat mark),” with the
words, “the Army, who should also be heartbroken, deeply grieves.” However,
the period of mourning seems to have ended quickly according to the Classified
War Journal entry two days later, which excoriates the Navy, stating, “does that
careless operation at Midway show how little import they give to severing
American-­Australian lines?” and “those responsible for Midway, inebriated by
our success so far, lost track of the objective, made careless mistakes and failed.”
These remarks were directed at Combined Fleet Commander Yamamoto
Isoroku, who had lost his gamble, betting on an early decisive battle with the
US Navy. Army Military Affairs Bureau Chief Satō Kenryō recalled in 1976, that
the Army had not been very enthusiastic about the sudden proposal made by
the Navy to spearhead Operation FS with the Midway operation, but gave their
approval only after being pressed by the Navy at Yamamoto’s beck and call. Satō
called Yamamoto’s attack on the main force of the Allied Fleet, without suffi-
cient rest, preparation and study, sloppy, reckless and “a crime worth ten thou-
sand deaths.” After Yamamoto was killed in April 1943 when his plane was shot
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   109
down over the island of Bougainville, Satō advised Prime Minister Tōjō not to
treat the admiral as a hero with a state funeral [Satō 1985: 303–8]. Rather than
being sloppy and reckless, the Army found itself in fantasyland, “counting its
chickens before they hatched” [Tanemura 1952: 126] concerning the Opera-
tion FS objective of cutting off the US from Australian forces and military
administration of the occupied New Caledonia. In the contest to expand the
war under the intoxicating influence of Japan’s initial victories, the Army and
the Navy were just about evenly matched and marching in lockstep.
Our Classified War Journal also provides insight into how after the Battle of
Midway the staff officers at IGHQ lost their sense of direction in planning and
managing the War. Without one revision in strategy, the Navy continued to
squabble with the Army over steel, oil and sea vessels, at least on paper, while
on the seas it was losing more ships than expected to attack by enemy sub-
marines, and the damned domestic economy was running out of shipbuilding
resources to cover those losses. The “war for resources” had taken a turn for the
worse earlier than expected. On 15 August 1942, “suffering from material
shortages, the Ministry of War will deliberate requesting as a last resort the pur-
chase of 1 million tons of steel and 500,000 tons of ships from Germany.” The
Classified War Journal derides this obviously impossible attempt to procure
national defense resources as “the ghost from Bancho Sarayashiki”1 concluding,
“this is a sufficient proof of how the Greater East Asia War is growing more and
more severe.” Meanwhile, on 18 August, the Chief, Assistant Chief of Staff and
their departments and sections chiefs gathered to have their photographs taken
for a portrait, entitled “On the Eve of the Greater East Asia War,” to be painted
by Wada Sanzō.2 Although a trivial event, posing for photos in the midst of a
worsening war effort, which the Classified War Journal describes as “high
comedy for generations to come,” is typical of the stouthearted, devil-­may-care
mood that still prevailed at IGHQ.
While the Army General Staff was preparing to have its legacy etched in oil,
the war front concentrated in the Solomon Islands and the Battle of Guadalca-
nal, where the Japanese had built an airbase to advance Operation FS after the
loss of the aircraft carriers at Midway. On 7 August, the US Marines landed and
captured the airbase and then on the 21st surrounded and annihilated the
Twenty-­eighth Infantry Regiment detachment under the command of Colonel
Ichiki Kiyonao. In February 1943, after half a year bogged down in a war of
attrition, the Japanese forces abandoned Guadalcanal and were finally forced on
the defensive within the Pacific Theater. However, in terms of the whole region
still occupied by Japanese forces, mainland Southeast Asia’s front in western
Burma had been brought to a standstill, while fighting between Allied and Japa-
nese forces would not begin in insular Southeast Asia until the US landing on
Leyte in October 1944. The major battlefields on which the Japanese did
engage the US and Allied forces would be limited for the time being to the
eastern edge of the Pacific Theatre in the vicinity of the Solomon Islands and
Eastern New Guinea, peripheral not only in geographical terms, but also in
terms of the “war for resources.” In the case of Nazi Germany, its occupied
110   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
territories (with the exception of Norway and a few others) having been estab-
lished within an area of control which had expanded concentrically, were falling
one by one as that area was reduced by the Allied counteroffensive. In contrast,
Japan would continue to maintain its occupation over almost all of Southeast
Asia until the first half of 1944 and the greater part of it—minus the Philippines
and Burma—until its unconditional surrender in August 1945.
Therefore, while the tide was definitely turning on the Asia-­Pacific War
fronts, Japan was still able to maintain military rule over the region. As for
Japanese-­occupied Southeast Asia, the region now found itself bereft of the
foreign trade network formed with its former sovereigns and the rest of the
countries of the West, which was the very foundation of colonial industry, while
at the same time, the intra-­regional trade networks which had flourished before
the war and even the flow (migration) of human resources were now under Jap-
anese military restrictions. Moreover, those walking around as if they owned the
Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere were also Japanese, including over
40,000 Japanese civilians (as of June 1943) who were now living in the region
in the capacity of military government civil servants, employees of enterprises
commissioned to operate production facilities seized from the enemy and tour-
ists [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 183]. What was going through the minds of this
new ruling class put in place by the might of the Japanese army as it encoun-
tered the people of Southeast Asia?

Sakakibara Masaharu adventures south

In March 1942, Sakakibara Masaharu received his longed for transfer to the
Southern Army Military Administration General Affairs Department. His duties
were mostly clerical, preparing documents, organizing meetings, and the like.
As the sixteenth lord of Takada Fief with the title of viscount, however, Saka­
kibara “seems to have been an embarrassment to” his superiors [Akashi, ed.
2004, Vol. 1: 2], which may very well be one of the reasons why he would not
be sitting for long behind a desk in Saigon, but rather assigned to a series of
inspection tours of the occupied territories, with the following destinations: the
Philippines (18–25 May 1942), Java (20 June-­9 July), Malaya (26–30 August),
Sumatra (30 August–13 September) and Burma (14–29 April 1943).
As a commissioned officer with aristocratic credentials, Sakakibara was given a
warm reception wherever he went, by commanding generals and top military
advisors alike, and allowed to go where he wanted and see what he liked. Both his
general impressions of the places he visited and opinions about the facilities he
toured—mostly large plantations, raw materials processing plants, mines, etc.,
reflecting his keizaijin (homo economicus) proclivities—are expressed in detail in
his diary. On the other hand, the diary hardly touches upon events surrounding
the work he was assigned at General Staff Headquarters in Saigon. What the
readers do find is a collection of Sakakibara’s personal views regarding military
administration in the South in a sort of “lesson for the day” format discussing the
various issues that had come under study at the Military Administration from time
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   111
to time; for example, “Handling Enemy Enterprises in Thailand” (4 June 1942),
“Salient Points Regarding Industrialization of the South” (5 June) and “Misgiv-
ings about the Dutch-­Style Governance on Java” (6 June). Besides his diary,
Sakakibara’s personal collection of documents pertaining to the Southern Army’s
military administration have been published in nine volumes as Sakakibara Family
Collection of Southern Army Military Administration Department Papers [Akashi,
ed. 2004]. These are secret documents composed by the Southern Army, mainly
concerned with economic and financial issues, which Sakakibara was able to
handle personally, due to both his military security clearance and status as a peer
of the realm. The diary provides him with a medium for expressing his personal
views upon reading those documents and touring the occupied territories, the
published version of which begins on 18 November 1941 and ends along with
his term of enlistment and return to Tokyo on 1 May 1943.
What is particularly interesting about Sakakibara’s diary is that the more he
traveled, the more he seemed to develop a kind of admiration for the “suc-
cesses” of the Western colonization of Southeast Asia, while at the same time,
nurturing doubts about Japan’s occupation of that same region. These were by
no means doubts concerning any of his colleagues in particular, or critical com-
ments about the General Staff as a whole. Rather, the theme that pervades the
pages of Sakakibara’s diary has more to do with an overall commitment to the
kind of “war for resources” realism held by Ishii Akiho and Ishii’s “Guidelines
for Implementing Military Administration in Southern Occupied Territories,” as
seen in his negative attitude regarding the question of national independence
(and decolonization) of the region and his enthusiastic support for utilizing
Caucasian human resources. That is to say, the doubts embraced by Sakakibara
are those of a typical keizaijin concerned specifically with the real limits of
Japan’s capability as an occupier of Southeast Asia and directed at the way in
which Japan’s advance into and control over that region ignored that reality,
thus eventually confronting “Japan and the Japanese” as a whole. What follows
is an overview of the state of affairs which the Japanese Empire was directly
facing, based mainly on observations made by keizaijin as “homo economicus”
par excellence Sakakibara Masaharu.

Deteriorating food and material supplies

During 10–11 May 1942, on the eve of the declaration of “mission accomp-
lished” in the Southern military campaign, a conference was held by the
Southern Army General Staff attended by “material mobilization personnel”
from each of the military administrations. The main topic of the conference was
how, in the aftermath of the impending success of the invasion stage of the
Southern Campaign, were transport capabilities (seagoing vessels) to be appor-
tioned and scheduled in the midst of fleet reductions of unanticipated propor-
tions due to enemy submarine attacks.
While requests had increased from all military administrations for the alloca-
tion of vessels to meet the daily needs of civilian life in the occupied territories,
112   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
the General Staff would not budge from its position of giving top priority to the
transport (i.e., remittance to Japan) of war resources. In his diary entry for 11
May, Sakakibara describes the General Staff ’s position as follows:

We fully understand the views of staff members of military administrations

influenced by the sentiments of the miserable aborigines [in regions] sud-
denly having to cut their former ties to the West and now intensely suffer-
ing in their daily lives … [however] today’s Greater East Asia will not allow
such commiseration. Politics must not bend to human emotions … The
building of Greater East Asia begins from Japan.

Like Ishii Akiho of the Southern Army General Staff, Sakakibara was a firm
adherent to the kind of “war for resources” realism that required the occupied
territories to endure hardship and suffering. However, although one of the
faithful, Sakakibara as “homo economicus” did worry about whether or not Jap-
anese military administrations could thoroughly apply that realism. His diary
shows us growing anxiety, almost on a daily basis, over a clash occurring
between the Southern Army’s administrative realism and reality on the ground.
It was one week after the material mobilization meeting that Sakakibara first
stepped foot in the recently occupied Philippines. His diary entry of 18 May
1942 brands the air-­conditioned Manila Hotel as “the Orient’s finest” and
wonders at “the truly luxurious government and American-­related buildings,”
and upon viewing the bronze statue of Philippine nationalist hero Jose Rizal
standing in the city center’s Luneta Park, states, “I’m rather intrigued by such a
tolerant colonial policy followed by the Americans.” On the other hand, as for
the rich lifestyle of Manila’s urban elite characterized by the consumption of
“luxurious cooling fans, refrigerators and automobiles,” he critically notes,
“they have been spoiled by America’s tolerant policy … of materialistic demo-
cracy” (19 May). Upon his return to Saigon, Sakakibara states emphatically that
“such a policy of indulgence … could never be afforded by poverty-­stricken
Japan” and argues that the occupied territories must “come to their senses
about their essential place in the world and participate in the planning of the
Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere, for which they should make sacrifices”
(2 June). Of course, the “splendor” of Manila, which Sakakibara is pointing to
as “becoming accustomed to a culture above their station, learning intellectual
nonsense … with nothing productive to show for it” (29 May) and the Ameri-
canized lifestyle, were not those of the Filipinos in general but of the wealthy
Philippine colonial elite whom the army staff officers had been dealing with
since the occupation began. In any case, his experience in the Philippines
strengthened Sakakibara’s resolve regarding the kind of “war for resources”
realism that required the occupied territories to endure economic hardship.
On the other hand, for Sakakibara, the “homo economicus,” who knew that
without giving “the right to survival that they are entitled to,” “building
Greater East Asia may be impossible, or at least more difficult” (30 January
1942), it is totally different to insist on sumptuary pronouncements from refusal
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   113
to ensure a minimum standard of living. It is around 30 July that the diary
begins to show signs of imminent danger regarding the threatening issue of
“the right to survival.” The state of paralysis wrought upon the colonial eco-
nomies of the region by the Japanese invasion and the policy of local procure-
ment of material resources for the occupation forces have resulted in 

fairly rapid reductions of daily necessities and dry goods in each occupied
territory. The structure and importation of goods since the opening of
hostilities has come to a halt; so it’s no wonder that scarcities would occur
due to the sudden increase in the consumer population by the entry of the
troops. 

Sakakibara then argues, since not only do scarcities in “soap, toothpaste, cotton
cloth” and other daily necessities threaten to “unsettle the hearts of the people
and destabilize public safety,” but also problems in keeping the peace threaten
to have adverse effects on attaining important material, “it is important to secure
such goods to some extent.”
Come 11 August, Sakakibara, hearing of scarcities, “especially acute in Burma
and Borneo” weighs the pros and cons of a “ticket rationing program” for the
allocation of goods, concluding that rationing will not work once the shortages
have occurred. Furthermore, in order to implement such a program, it would
be necessary to decide who among local residents are qualified to receive alloca-
tions. Since the occupied territories have no household or family registration
systems like Japan, a rationing program would require conducting a “genea-
logical census,” which would be impossible during wartime. So instead of
rationing, what are needed are active measures to increase the production of
affordable articles of personal consumption. On 25 August, he informs us that
the supply of rice, “the ultimate necessity of daily life,” is not meeting demand
either “at home” or in the occupied territories due to “snags in maritime trans-
port.” On 26 September, product scarcities are now beginning to trigger price
inflation; consequently, efforts at rationing (which he doubts will work) are
beginning everywhere, to which he recommends production adjustment among
occupied territories to mutually supply necessary articles; and concerning “daily
necessities (rice, salt and sugar) … price reduction measures are definitely called
for.” Come October, the situation is starting to get out of hand. Disastrous
flooding has cut off rice exports from Thailand and has consequently caused
serious concern over rice scarcity all over Southeast Asia. What Sakakibara is
talking about here is rampant hoarding in the region in response to the unset-
tling news from Thailand and the need to assure everyone that there are suffi-
cient reserves to offset the situation, in order to prevent hoarding (1 October).
It is in this fashion that Sakakibara’s diary provides an on-­the-scene report of
escalating concern during the occupation’s earliest stages of shortages in the
necessities of daily life, including food. He fears that such conditions will
threaten the major objective of the war to secure resources, and from his “homo
economicus” viewpoint he informs his diary about the necessity of increasing
114   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
the production of daily necessities and policy intervention in commodity distri-
bution and markets. Whether or not he informed his superiors at General Staff
headquarters about these issues is not clear; but in either case, the response to
the kind of deterioration in daily life that was bothering Sakakibara was funda-
mentally left up to the military administration of each occupied territory, and as
a result, no effective measures were taken, as inflation raged out of control
around them and both goods and food supplies dwindled day by day.

The arrival of Japanese civil servants and businessmen and the

concept of military-­led colonialism
In a letter of Murata Shōzō, the Supreme Advisor to the Watari Group (Four-
teenth Army), to his 12-year old son Takeji (8 July 1942) from Manila, we find
the following passage.

Recently, the Japanese population here has grown considerably. Every

morning during breakfast, when I look down from my second story window
onto the boulevard and see so many gunzoku with their khaki-­colored long
swords and high boots commuting to the military administration offices, I
imagine a scene from the Marunouchi [Tokyo] business district.3

Murata is describing a landscape within Japan’s unfolding Southern Campaign

newly created by a massive migration of public servants and private sector per-
sonnel from Japan into the major cities of the occupied territories. The Taiyō
Maru marine disaster which occurred off Nagasaki in 8 May 1942 was also part
of this new stage in the Southern Campaign. On that day, the Taiyō Maru,
carrying over 1,000 employees from Japan’s major corporations, equipped with
the needed technological know-­how and/or business experience in Southeast
Asia to function as “industry, development and trade personnel” to manage
assets seized from the enemy in the occupied territories, was torpedoed and
sunk by an enemy submarine, during which 60 percent of its passengers
drowned, causing a serious setback to the initial efforts at occupying and man-
aging the South. But the large-­scale migration continued until the end of 1942
when the Army Information Bureau was proud to announce that between 6,000
and 7,000 gunzoku had been successfully dispatched [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985:
183]. In the process of corporate Japan’s advance south, there were cases where
the management of capital assets seized from the enemy was directly commis-
sioned to corporations by the military or those where the military ordered the
founding of new enterprises. Either way, these were the risk-­free ventures guar-
anteed by the state, which was left to a dog-­eat-dog bidding war within a private
sector eager to reap the opportunities [Hikita and Suzuki 1995]. Personnel to
administer the civil and military governance of the occupied territories also
increased exponentially after the invasion phase ended, as by September 1942,
some 20,000 people, including 327 bureau chiefs, 2,953 administrators, along
with clerical staff, language interpreters, technicians, etc., were processed
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   115
through the army and navy [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 197–8 (Asahi Shimbun,
10 September 1942)].
In his diary, Sakakibara frequently criticizes this mass mobilization of civil-
ians; and regarding the corporate sector’s advance, he calls for “prioritization,”
stressing businesses specializing in important material—the more critical the
need, the higher the priority. He also warns about the dangers of allocating
rights to recently arriving large corporations and zaibatsu enterprise groups,
calling for the protection of trading companies and “those who have worked
hard in the region for so many years” (31 May 1942). As far as the civil admin-
istrators hired by the army were concerned, Sakakibara considers them worthless
due to their advanced age and being “already out of touch with the real world”;
and regarding the “lackeys and typists” that were dispatched along with them,
he decries, “what are we going to do with all these people?” contending that
only a small number of young, talented civil servants should have been dis-
patched. “Where are we going to find enough rice to feed them?” (1 June), he
queries, in a diatribe about the limits to living off the land, which make the
frivolous large-­scale dispatch of more consumers to the occupied territories
undesirable.
Sakakibara’s strong views about this large migration of non-­combatants were
shared by his colleagues in all four area group corps, although from a somewhat
different perspective. In contrast to Sakakibara’s doubts about how these
incoming civilians were going to contribute to the “war for resources” effort,
Hayashi Group commander Iida Shōjirō, for example, in his postwar memoirs
(1957), raises the question of how Japanese corporations “who came trolling
for vested interests” would be seen in the eyes of the people of the occupied ter-
ritories. As will be later described, Iida, both in his clashes with the Southern
Army General Staff during the war and in his postwar recollections, was of the
understanding that Japan’s war objective with respect to Burma was “national
independence,” “not taking Burma for us.” In that context, concerning the
advance of Japanese nationals, Iida criticized, “[Japanese trading companies]
decided that opportunities in Burma were theirs for the taking and would be
managed that way from then on.” Concentrating only on “preparing for their
companies to take effective control in the future,” they had no interest in
“developing Burma’s economic strength.” So, what was going on in the minds
of the Burmese seeing “Japanese with all that in mind coming in and throwing
their weight around everywhere?” [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 489].
Saitō Shizuō, a staff member of the Java Military Administration, also touches
upon the large-­scale advance of Japanese civilians in his memoirs published in
1977, after his retirement from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In place of initial
military administration, “which emphasized simplification,” from August 1942
onward, the appearance of a large contingent of Ministry of Home Affairs
(Naimushō) bureaucrats from Japan, 

in effect marked a transition stage in the preparation of military governance

mechanisms from what international law considered to be the provisional,
116   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
general character of occupied territorial administration to colonial, perma-
nent and specific forms of governance … as a matter of fact, dissatisfaction
was voiced about the Japanese Military Administration [on Java] failing to
respect the will of the people, even worse than during the Dutch East
Indies era. 
[Saitō 1977: 68–9]

As Saitō suggests, the large-­scale migration of Japanese professional bureau-

crats and businessmen into Southeast Asia made what was initially a military
takeover of the region take on more of a colonial tone. Related to this point,
Iwatake Teruhiko, who was put in charge of the Southern Army’s material
mobilization program in the region, indicates in his book published in 1989
that one way of looking at military administration in the South, was “building
military colonies,” which had been Japan’s continental policy since 1931, “cul-
minating in colonialism with a strong military flavor.” From the Mukden Inci-
dent throughout the war that followed on the Chinese mainland, although
Japan had set up independent states, like Manchukuo and the Wang Zhaoming
(Jingwei) Republic of China regime, in the territory it occupied, each was in fact
subjected to “administrative guidance” under conditions of military occupation,
as well as “economic” occupation by a horde of privileged Japanese civilians and
corporations who came and settled in those territories. In Southeast Asia, the
republics of Burma and the Philippines set up under Japanese occupation were
for all intents and purposes carbon copies of the occupation pattern established
on the Chinese mainland. On the other hand, in those areas that continued to
remain under direct military rule, Japan acted like any other colonial sovereign
and established exclusionary autocratic systems by which to rule them. Both
cases are what Iwatake refers to as “military-­led colonialism” [Iwatake 1989:
110], a term not to be taken lightly when coined by one at the core of the
military administration of Southeast Asia during the war and one of its most
astute students afterwards.
However, we must once again pause to ponder, for if we assume that Japa-
nese military rule in Southeast Asia was in fact strongly characterized by
“military-­led colonialism,” it does not necessarily mean that Japan was indeed
able to colonize the region. To advance this hypothesis let us look more closely
at the “narrative” provided for us by Iwatake himself. As previously mentioned,
Iwatake, as the author of “A Plan for Commodity Distribution in the South,”
was highly respected for his abilities in the area of material mobilization by Ishii
Akiho. In an interview conducted in 1986, Iwatake talked about his experience
as follows:

In other words, before the War, the commodity circulation in Southeast

Asia, which centered on Singapore, constituted one complete cycle, which
made it a self-­sufficient system to a certain extent. Of course, the export of
special raw materials, like rubber and tin, and the import of special manu-
factures both existed, but overall from Bangkok in Thailand to Rangoon in
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   117
Burma and from there to Saigon in French Indochina, goods were circulat-
ing like links in a chain. If Japan could not devise and implement some kind
of plan to revive that kind of circulation, Singapore, for example, would not
get the rice and other goods it needed. Or in the case that nothing could
be done about, say, salt and sugar surpluses being held up on Java, we
would have to devise a plan to get them flowing again … by issuing orders
to our shipping or railway detachments stationed in each area. 
[Iwatake 1991: 15]

From the early modern period onward, Southeast Asia generated a complicated
socioeconomic structure consisting of inter-­and-intra-­regional maritime trade
with its periphery extending from China to Southwest Asia, increasingly in con-
junction with a system of trade and financial settlements with the imperialist
nations of the West which had colonized the region (with the exception of
Thailand) by the early decades of the twentieth century [Sugihara 1996]. The
invasion and occupation by Japanese forces brought that structure to a halt by
suddenly freezing economic activity throughout the whole region. What
material mobilization expert Iwatake attempted to do in response was to relieve
the paralysis by reviving the flow of intra-­regional commodity distribution with
Japanese military hands on the rudders and throttles of Western-­built merchant
ships and trains. And it might have worked for a time with some level of success,
but it was the best that Japan would ever be able to achieve. This is because
Japan did not have the capability to offer the region any new production and
distribution structure that would go beyond merely reviving a portion of exist-
ing intra-­regional commodity circulation and agricultural production. The
classic example demonstrating such a stark reality is cotton growing.

The transformation of cotton growing

The logic of building the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere,” aiming at
“restoring the Southern regions to their authentic Greater East Asian tradi-
tions,” implies, in regard to the field of agricultural production, achieving self-­
sufficiency within that sphere by shifting the production of export commodities
now in excess supply due to the cessation of trade between the West and South-
east Asia to the production of goods now lacking in supply within the sphere.
Although such a transformation to an export substitution economy is usually an
issue to be solved over the medium or long term, cotton growing was one area
marked “rush” in the agenda to achieve intra-­Sphere self-­sufficiency, due to the
following state of affairs. Cotton textile production represented Japan’s largest
export industry prior to the war, whose production was totally dependent on
the import of raw materials, which constituted about one-­third of Japan’s total
import, 70 percent of which was raw cotton, the bulk of which came from the
United States, India and Egypt. Just prior to the outbreak of the war in China,
in 1936, raw cotton imports to Japan totaled about 15.21 million piculs
(987,000 tons), about 86 percent of which originated from the above three
118   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
regions [Seki 1956: 105, 328; Takaoka 1988: 58]. Like petroleum, raw cotton
symbolized the dependence of Japanese capitalism on the resources of the
American and British empires, meaning that diplomatic problems with those
empires threatened the very existence of the Japanese spinning and weaving
sectors.
From 1937 on, as the war escalated in China, Japan enacted restrictions on
raw cotton imports as one link in setting up a planned economy geared toward
procuring the wherewithal for war and accumulating foreign currency. Con-
sequently, by 1940 cotton imports had fallen by half from their previous peak,
while at the same time, the Japanese Cotton Growers Association (est. 1938)
was in the process of implementing national policy aimed at securing “home-­
grown” raw cotton resources by expanding cultivation in Korea and Manchuria.
As of 1939, however, the total output of raw cotton production in Japan, China
and Southeast Asia altogether came to 5.81 million piculs (4.78 million from
China), which accounted for just a little over one-­third of the average cotton
consumption in the region [Seki 1956: 303; Takaoka 1988: 58]. On the eve of
the Asia-­Pacific War, cotton exports plummeted as the result of economic sanc-
tions imposed by the US and Britain, posing the most serious threat the Japa-
nese textile industry had ever faced. Given such prewar conditions, Japan’s
occupation of Southeast Asia was interpreted as a golden opportunity to realize
“self-­sufficiency” in textile raw materials for both Japan and the “Greater East
Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” by expanding cotton growing from Manchuria and
China southward. The raw materials-­starved Japanese textile industry also
sought a way out of its troubles by increased production in the Southern occu-
pied territories.
In April 1942, the Ministry of War designated seventeen corporations
related to spinning, weaving, raw cotton and land reclamation to participate
in  a five-­year plan to open 1,316,000 chōbu (1,305,000 hectares) of cotton
fields in Southeast Asia, which would be producing an estimated 3,948,000
piculs (250,000 tons) of raw cotton. The fields were to be apportioned as in
Table 3.1.
Since cotton growing was seen as a possible substitute crop for sugar cane
and a “winter crop” cultivated in harvested rice fields, the plan aimed at con-
verting fields in the Philippines and Java over-­producing sugar cane for the
“Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” to cotton and initiating cotton
cultivation on existing rice land.
When considering any realistic chance of success for the plan to substitute
cotton for sugar cane, the question first to be raised concerns the adaptability of
cotton growing to the ecology of occupied Southeast Asia. During the twen-
tieth century, the only areas to have achieved competitiveness in the inter-
national raw cotton market were certain regions of continental Southeast Asia in
Vietnam and Burma. In the twenty-­first century, China, India and the US are
the top three countries producing cotton, occupying about 60 percent of total
world output, have been joined by Pakistan, Brazil, Uzbekistan, Australia and
Turkey, all with continental climate conditions.4 In contrast to such conditions,
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   119
Table 3.1  Five-year plan for cotton growing under Japan

Territories Crop Area (chōbu = 0.9 ha) Companies in charge

Output Targets (piculs)

Philippines 500,000 chōbu Kanagafuchi, Dainihon, Tōyō, Daiwa,

1,500,000 piculs Kurashiki, Kureha, Tōyōmenka,
Taiwan Takushoku, Tōyō Takushoku

Burma 338,000 chōbu Nihon Menka, Gōshō, Fujigasu

1,014,000 piculs
Java, Sumatra, and 140,000 chōbu Mitsui Nōrin, Higashiyama Nōji
Northern Borneo 420,000 piculs
Celebes, Lesser Sunda 338,000 chōbu Kanegafuchi, Dainihon, Tōyō,
Islands, New Guinea, 1,014,000 piculs Taiwan Takushoku, Nanyō
Southern Borneo Takushoku, Nanyō Kōhatsu,
Mitsui Nōrin, Mitsubishi Shōji

Source: UNITIKA Shashi Henshu Iinkai 1991: 173.

the area earmarked by Japan’s 1942 five-­year plan was, with the exception of
Burma, all located in insular Southeast Asia.
The fact that the area designated for cotton growing was not the best suited
for the task was widely recognized, even at the earliest stage of the occupation.
For example, a two-­part series appearing in the Osaka Mainichi Shimbun on 12
and 13 March 1942, while extolling the necessity to develop cotton growing in
the South, also described the natural conditions conducive to “today’s cotton
growing regions all over the world” as “a continental climate … in which the
rainy season, planting season and dry season are all in accord,” and points out
the difficulties in opening cotton fields as follows.

Converting surplus sugar cane plantations in the Dutch East Indies and the
Philippines to cotton cultivation has been raised as an important policy for
the Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere. Such a task has, in the opinion of
the experts, been said to be easily accomplished in terms of agrarian techno-
logy … However, within the climatic conditions of maritime Southeast Asia,
although there are separate dry and rainy seasons, the occurrence of typhoons
in the region would be detrimental to cotton growing. Moreover, in areas
not susceptible to typhoons, there is severe insect infestation, which is the
greatest enemy to present cotton growers in the region, according to a con-
sensus of experts. Not only is the region not blessed with the natural con-
ditions of continental areas, but it is also faced with a number of difficulties
pertaining to reclaiming virgin territory. From the choice of seed type to
ensuring cotton farming startups, new construction of ginning mills, ware-
houses, breakwaters and transport facilities … all are by no means easy prob-
lems to solve. Here we are presented with difficulties specific to agricultural
development, not encountered in the development of subterranean resources.
120   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
Despite all this, the article rather feebly concludes, “However, it cannot be con-
cluded that the South is not altogether unsuitable to the development of cotton
growing.” The article shows that even before the five-­year plan was approved,
the difficulties of opening Southeast Asia, in particular its insular areas, to cotton
growing were thoroughly anticipated. Furthermore, assuming that all the dif-
ficulties could be overcome and the expected results achieved, the area under
cultivation would never be able to compete with major world growers in terms
of either price or product quality. This is a common-­sense fact that no expert or
grower could rebut. Nevertheless, because (1) the vagaries of having to compete
on the global market had been ignored because it was considered as resource
development within an isolated militarized zone known as the “Greater East
Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” and (2) something needed to be done in response
to the scarcity of cotton manufactures indispensable to both civilian and military
life, the cotton-­growing development plan was pushed forward with all of the
major Japanese textile corporations in tow. To make a long story short, the
cotton-­growing development project was pushed forward as one battlefront in
the “war for resources”; and if developing an industry devoid of competitiveness
in global markets in peacetime deserves the claim of “true-­self of East Asia (or
Asian Authenticity),” it meant that the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity
Sphere” had once again proved itself to be none other than a set of emergency
measures that could only be enacted within a militarily cordoned off zone, iso-
lated from the rest of the world.
The “war for resources” realist cum “homo economicus” Sakakibara first
mentions the five-­year plan on 25 March 1942, just before it was approved in
Tokyo, with the words, “cotton growing should be promoted as long as it does
not interfere with the production of food and goods, our main priority.” Then
on 30 May, in the aftermath of the Taiyō Maru disaster, during which “the van-
guard Philippine cotton growing detachment” was lost, he writes “[in the Phil-
ippines] the allocation of land for the cotton growing project remains
impossible,” indicating that the five-­year plan had already found its parade being
rained upon. In a matter of less than two months, Sakakibara’s diary tells us that
“rapid increases in production output and crop conversion are not possible,”
since once “agriculture, which is essentially an organic industry that deals with
living plants,” is abandoned, there is no way to keep it from completely going
to waste. “Improvements in agriculture require long periods of trial and error
… simply increasing or reducing production according to some material mobil-
ization plan is not only impossible, it’s also inappropriate.” Therefore, “the
problem at hand … is first and foremost to resuscitate agricultural management
to what it was [before the invasion]; agricultural improvement comes after that”
(19 July). In other words, the conversion of sugarcane to cotton is a long-­term
issue. What is needed now is to raise the cane back up in the fields, regardless of
how much of it will go unused. Sakakibara’s pessimism would foreshadow the
cotton conversion project’s beeline into miserable failure.
The focus of the cotton conversion project would be on the Philippines both
in the sense that within the whole occupation of Southeast Asia Japan was able
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   121
to implement for a time its cotton conversion programs to a certain extent, and
in the sense of being a project symbolizing “a return to Asiatic authenticity.”
This effort to bring cotton to the Philippines, which has been well researched by
the likes of Nagano Yoshiko [1999], also resulted in a rich body of “narrative,”
including the memoirs [1983] of Kayahara Kōichi (b. 1905) describing his
inspection tour of how the cotton-­growing project was progressing on the
ground and a history of the Philippine program with plenty of primary sources
and essays written by those involved and their descendants, all edited by
Takaoka Sadayoshi [1988], who directed the program in the capacity of head of
the Kureha Textile Corporation’s Philippine Development Department. What
both the research to date and the “narrative” bring to light is what can only be
described as a reckless cotton-­growing project that was not only doomed by
Mother Nature, but also fiercely resisted by the occupied people up until its
demise.
Historically, a rich tradition of textile weaving had already developed in the
Philippines, until the mid-­nineteenth century when the country was opened to
foreign trade under Spanish colonial rule, and the Philippine textile markets
became dedicated customers of US and British cotton goods, sending the indi-
genous industry into a tailspin. In place of the fields in the Visaya Islands, in
particular on Negros, as well as in central Luzon plain, large-­scale sugar planta-
tions were opened, financed by US and British capital. Under US imperialism,
sugar cane cultivation flourished through exports almost totally dependent on
the huge American consumer market. On the other hand, since the Philippine
sugarcane industry depended solely on American consumers through a generous
guaranteed share of the US market, it lacked global competitiveness, and as
Philippine national independence in 1946 loomed larger and larger, so did a
possible end to colonial tariff exemptions that had kept it viable. The Common-
wealth government was therefore faced in its preparations for independence
with the task of restructuring an economy dependent on the sugar export indus-
try. One of its efforts was an import substitution policy decision during the mid-­
1930s to found a state-­funded corporation that would build textile production
facilities and embark on cotton growing in the vicinity of Koronadal on
Mindanao.
This development provides ample proof that Japan’s idea of growing cotton
in the Philippines was not completely nonsensical, while it also means that
Japan’s “war for resources” would pose a great challenge to the foundation of
the Philippines’ national economy dependent on colonial relations with the
United States during the first half of the twentieth century, thus making an
enemy of the sugar industry which was the biggest stakeholder to support the
maintenance of Philippines-­US “special relations.” As discussed in Chapter 2,
the occupation of Southeast Asia, in general, had been stabilized after Japan’s
initial military victories by not destroying the prewar colonial order or structure
built under Western rule but rather reviving it from the chaos of the invasion
and maintaining it. Cotton-­growing development in the Philippines represented
a policy very much opposing such a general rule.
122   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
Kayahara Kōichi was still editor-­in-chief of the magazine Kōdan Kurabu
when he was commissioned in 1943 by the War Department’s Division of
Information to make an inspection tour of the Philippines, whose main objective
was observing how the cotton-­growing program was progressing. After his first
“glimpse” of the cotton fields on Luzon in the New Year, Kayahara flew to
Negros at the end of January, landing on the island’s west coast at Bacolod, not
only its largest state capital, but also the former “sugar capital” of US-­Philippine
foreign trade.

What I felt after first stepping foot on the ground were the cold stares aimed
at me by the local citizens. Since first arriving in Manila, I had never encoun-
tered such strange looks from Filipinos filled with cold-­hearted enmity.
Those eyes were sufficient warning that something had gone very wrong.
[Kayahara 1983: 185]

Partly due to the Taiyō Maru disaster in May 1942 killing the many cotton-­
growing experts, the arrival of the Japanese textile industry representatives to
direct the cotton-­growing project on Negros was delayed until November, the
very end of the sowing season. The project was not only marked by difficulties
in concluding contracts with landowners, persuading cultivators who had fled
the Japanese troops to return and securing water buffalo for plowing, but the
work was also marred from start to finish by guerrilla attacks, in which many
were killed. Consequently, during the first season, only about 800 ha. of land
on Negros could be planted. After his tour of the cotton fields, Kayahara visited
Talisay City, the site of a several sugar refineries about ten kilometers north of
Bacolod. After his visit to one refinery with 80,000 tons of annual output capa-
city, where he had climbed an 8,000-ton mountain of stocked sugar, Kayahara
recalls, “[on top of this hill] of white sugar so precious as to drive one wild at its
mere mention … I thought, ‘This has got to be Japan’s ultimate extravagance’ ”
[ibid.: 190–1].
After the war and independence, the Negros sugar industry would succeed in
maintaining its special relationship with the United States and the quota system
up to the 1970s. Then, during the 1980s, with plummeting prices on the global
market, the Philippines lost its sugar export markets, while the world’s attention
was drawn to the “Negros Famine” of 1984 [Nagano 1990]. It was the occu-
pied people of Negros who formed this very same interest group that main-
tained favored trade relations with the US after the war and whose refusal to
cooperate greeted the end of the occupation with no significant development in
Japan’s cotton-­growing project.
The cotton-­growing project on central Luzon, where cooperation was more
easily attained from landowners willing to convert their rice fields, also ended in
failure, due mainly to resistance and damage at the hands of both the forces of
Nature and guerrilla insurgents. According to Takaoka Sadayoshi, who was
Kureha Textile’s man in charge there, due to delays caused by the Taiyō Maru
disaster and further delays due to the abandonment of initial plans to plant
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   123
cotton on Negros, Kureha was able to complete most of the sowing in Nueva
Ecija and Bulacan after its arrival in November 1942. Then the dry season was
upon them, and the fields were subjected to a lack of water and insect
infestation.

The cotton plant, which is weakened by water shortage, is susceptible to

parasites. First, there is the leafhopper, which devours the plant’s foliage.
Then there are the bollworms and boll weevils that bore into the young
boll and suck out its juices. Many kinds of insects pose dangers to cotton.
Particularly, at the beginning of the dry season the green and succulent
plants covering the rice paddies are the perfect attraction for insects. They
descend with great force to feast upon the cotton fields.

Humans are helpless before a rampant swarm of insects; “it is excruciating

standing by not able to do a thing with tears in your eyes.” It was the same for
all the other Japanese textile firms that advanced into the Philippines [Takaoka
1988: 75–6].
During the 1943 cotton-­growing season, another destructive force, besides
bugs, descended upon the fields in central Luzon and elsewhere—local anti-­
Japanese guerrillas. At the Kureha project in Nueva Ecija, from October to the
following January, employees were continually attacked and killed by guerrilla
forces. Another enemy was the weather. During October and November 1943,
immediately after the Republic of the Philippines was proclaimed (14 October),
Luzon had twice been inundated by flooding, which had forced Kureha to
abandon over 60 percent out of 2,000 hectares of planted cotton. The 1943
crop also failed. The following year, although planting was conducted as antici-
pated, beginning in September 1944, further cultivation was made impossible
by the worsening of the war, and the whole project was abandoned with the
landing of the Allied forces on Leyte (20 October 1944). The Kureha reclama-
tion detachment members then accepted induction into the Watari Group
(Fourteenth Army), many of whom would die of battle wounds or sickness in
the fighting on Luzon.
Regarding the failure of cotton growing in the Philippines, Takaoka states,

Seen from a broad historical viewpoint, the decisive factor was the worsen-
ing of the War … it was a luckless, pathetic orphan who, bereft of clement
weather and the productivity of the land, not to mention good timing,
became unfortunately entangled in failure.
[Ibid.: 130]

In another statement, however, “As to the fundamental question of whether or

not growing cotton in the Philippines was feasible,” Takaoka had to honestly
admit, “negative.” In addition, as to the “technological” question and the
problem of “the corporate managers in charge of the actual project,” Takaoka
looks inward.
124   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
As someone with ten years’ experiences purchasing raw cotton in India and
many years in raw cotton trading and use in Japan, I was looked upon by
my colleagues in the cotton-­growing project as the most knowledgeable
among them. However, I was nothing but a pupil on his first day of school,
from the standpoint of what all that experience meant as far as actually
growing cotton is concerned. The rest can be easily guessed.
[Takaoka 1988: 70]

The Japanese Empire’s experience in colonial agriculture, especially that con-

ducted under tropical conditions, was nowhere near that of Europe and the US.
Even in its reckless promotion of a conversion to cotton growing while claiming
“Asiatic authenticity,” Japan’s capability was lacking in every category, from
know-­how and experience to capital investment. If so, the development of
cotton growing could only destroy existing cultivation methods, which becomes
clear when we observe colonial agriculture through the eyes of the occupied.
Although the Japanese may have felt that their cotton-­growing project had been
sabotaged by guerrilla operations, from the viewpoint of those same guerrillas,
their actions were justified in merely defending themselves against Japanese
attempts to violently destroy their capital assets.
Although not an eyewitness to the failure of agricultural projects during his
tours of Southeast Asia during the early years of the occupation, Sakakibara
was, nevertheless, convinced of the unreasonableness of “rapid increases in pro-
duction and crop conversion” by a moment of realism stemming from his kei-
zaijin (homo economicus) character. Along with his continuing tours
throughout the occupied territories and repeated questioning of the various
issues facing the Southern Army General Staff regarding military rule in the
region, his keizaijin realism may have been gradually gaining ground on his
“homo bellicus” side.

Japanese immigrant communities

“Seventy per cent of Japanese nationals are comprised of Okinawans. Most Jap-
anese nationals, some 14,000, are abaca growers living at the foot of Mt. Apo.”
This fact was confirmed by Sakakibara during May 1942 when he first visited
the abaca plantations of Davao on southern Mindanao. These abaca plantations,
which had been opened over the last forty years by immigrants from Japan and
two local Japanese companies (Ōta Kōgyō and Furukawa Takushoku), formed
the foundation of the largest Japanese community in Southeast Asia and were a
living example of the kind of success stories written by Japanese caught up in
the “go South young man” boom of the prewar era. During the war, the state-­
approved Japanese textbook for moral training of 1943 contained an article on
the life of Ōta Kyōsaburō, “the pioneer of Davao,” who led the first private
sector reclamation project on Mindanao. However, when Sakakibara visited the
place, he found the plantations “in pretty bad shape due to lack of care since
the  War and continuing drought,” not to mention the havoc wreaked by an
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   125
infes­tation of locust. “I went over to the abaca factory, which was no big deal”
(22 May 1942), writes Sakakibara rather indifferently about what was supposed
to have been a proud moment in Japan’s advance south.
The Japanese Davao community has been linked to the Benguet immigrants
of northern Luzon, said to be the vanguard of the Japanese migration South,
who comprised a crew of immigrant labor to build a road zigzagging through
treacherous mountain passes from the highland city of Baguio to the lowlands
of La Union between 1901 and 1905. Legend has it that if it were not for the
superior talents and work ethic of the Japanese contingent among the Ameri-
cans, Filipinos and Chinese working on the project, one of the most difficult
and expensive civil engineering feats of its day would never have been built.
After this success, a portion of the Benguet road crew then joined the abaca
project in Davao. This story has been challenged by historian Hayase Shinzō as
contradicting the historical facts about the Kennon Road, and shows how it was
fabricated to sing the praises of just how talented the Japanese were who took
place in the “Southern rush” of the 1920s and 1930s. What is noteworthy here
is that at the time the Kennon Road was under construction, the Japanese busi-
ness community, which had recently made inroads into Manila society, wanted
absolutely nothing to do with the low wage earning Benguet workers from
Japan [Hayase 1989: 215–16].
Sakakibara’s dry remarks about the Davao abaca workers reflects an attitude
quite similar to the business elite of Manila, for in a diary entry written two
months after his Davao excursion discussing the education of Japanese nationals
as the top education issue in the occupied territories, he lays his feelings bare
with, “Of those [Japanese] who have already migrated South, there are way too
many people of inferior character, like in Davao, where they’re no better off
than the dojin natives” (26 July 1942). Welcoming longtime Japanese residents
of Southeast Asia into such duties in conducting the occupation as language
interpretation, while condescendingly treating them as bothersome was an atti-
tude not limited to Viscount Sakakibara alone, but observed throughout the all
those affiliated with the Southern Army. The Japanese communities which had
developed not only in the Philippines, but in British Malaya, Singapore, Java
and Sumatra as well, were all characterized by a dual structure comprised of elite
commercial, financial and marine transport company employees expecting to
repatriate in two or three years, on the one side, and a “no good, uneducated,
voiceless majority” of immigrants who had resigned themselves to permanent
residency, on the other [Yano 1975: 125]. The condescension and vigilance on
the part of the former regarding the latter was fully inherited by the Japanese
military forces who opened the Southern Campaign and the bureaucrat
and  civilian “gunzoku” who trailed after to govern and exploit the occupied
territories.
Fair portions of the prewar Japanese communities were occupied by natives
of Okinawa, who had been relegated to a peripheral existence in the Japanese
Empire. From the standpoint of establishing Japanese as the leading (i.e.,
ruling) ethnic group in Southeast Asia, the military administrators of the region
126   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
feared that the presence of Okinawans would work to ruin that image.
Utsunomiya Naokata, the chief of General Affairs Department in the Philippine
Military Administration recalled after the war, “The cooperation given by
natives of Okinawa Prefecture to the military, especially on Mindanao, was
exemplary … many of them, both men and women, sacrificed their lives on the
battlefront and behind the lines …,” but also reflects on the fact that 

most of the [Japanese] fishermen, abaca growers (on Mindanao), carpenters

and the like were mostly from Okinawa. Generally speaking, their level of
sophistication was not very high and they lacked manners. This was espe-
cially true among the 2nd generation born from intermarriage with lower
class Philippine women. 
[Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 511–12]

From the “narrative” presented by the likes of Sakakibara and Utsunomiya, it

appears that the marginalization and alienation (i.e., otherness) practiced by the
Japanese Empire toward non-­Japanese people was also extended to their fellow
citizens hailing from Okinawa.
In contrast to its clear dislike and distrust of “natives of Okinawa Prefecture,”
the Southern Army and its “gunzoku” contingent failed to mention in their
“narratives” the existence of immigrants from all points in Japan who had
worked their way up to become leading members of local commercial and
industrial communities in the colonial capital cities of Manila, Batavia, etc. Take
the example of the retailing and service stores in Dutch East Indies called “Toko
Jepang,” which were formed by a group of young Japanese who during the
1920s and 1930s “became embedded within the Indonesian masses as medicine
peddlers traveling all over the islands with their medicine chests hanging from
both ends of a balance beam” [Gotō 1977: 27–8]. One of these young entre-
preneurs who cast his fate with Toko Japeng was Ichiki Tatsuo, who after quit-
ting middle school in Shibushi, Kagoshima Prefecture, started training as a
portrait photographer in Oita Prefecture and “adventured on south” in 1928 at
the age of 22. Although finding a job at a photography studio in Palembang,
Ichiki, who still dreamed of independence, learned Indonesian and married an
“aborigine” women despite the taboo against intermarriage in the Japanese
community, living a life of friendship and love among the Indonesian masses,
deepening his knowledge of their language, while being increasingly influenced
by pan-­Asianism advocated in the world of Japanese journalism. It was during
1936 that Ichiki, who could be often found at the Japan Club in Bandung
reading the daily newspapers, was hired as a reporter for the Nichiran Shōgyō
Shimbun (Japan-­Dutch Commercial Times), a career move that was to change
his whole life [ibid.: 50–9, 78–9].
Similar stories can be told by the many young Japanese who dreamed of
success in “crossing South” and ending up in the South Seas city of Manila.
Ōsawa Kiyoshi, who, as we have already seen, succeeded in capturing the
franchise for Mizuno Sporting Goods in Manila, recalled that many of the over
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   127
5,000 Japanese nationals residing in the Philippine capital before the war formed
a community of men who “left their country at the age of twenty or younger,
with a firm determination to settle down and live permanently in the Philip-
pines” and “They toiled in the foreign land, saved money by pinching and
scraping, made homes of their own, with the result that, as middle-­aged busi-
nessmen or shopkeepers, they had gained social recognition and status” (Ōsawa
1978: 108, 1981: 131–2). It was Japanese-­run enterprises, like the “Taiyō
Bazaar on Avenida Rizal” department store which first employed Ōsawa, that
served the economic needs of the local community with their staffs of young
Japanese immigrants.
Hotta Shōichi (b. 1913), a native of Fukuoka, who like Ōsawa migrated to
Manila after graduating from middle school, first found a job at Oracca Confec-
tioneries, the largest Japanese corporation in Manila, and later, while working
for such Japanese firms as Osaka Shōsen (shipping) and Ishihara Sangyō
(mining) as a local hire, attended high school and college. After the United
States passed immigration legislation in 1924 prohibiting the entry of Asians
(including Japanese), Japanese young people turned “South” to work their ways
through institutes of higher learning, in “a land of opportunity and success”
providing a substitute English language environment for America. Hotta recalls,
“talented” and “highly skilled” Japanese nationals before the war being hired by
the Japanese occupation forces “in menial tasks,” like language interpretation,
and having their “useful experiences and knowledge all but ignored” [Hotta
1994: 417–18].
Many local Japanese residents who came into direct contact with the Japa-
nese forces, no matter which side of the tracks in Japan they hailed from—blue
as well as white collar, worker and capitalist alike—were people who had
migrated to the Southeast Asian colonial economy during the interwar period in
search of either jobs or business opportunities, and had achieved autonomous
livelihoods as accepted members of local society. To put it another way, the
form of existence attained by these people was a natural reflection of the cap-
abilities of prewar Japanese capitalism, and in contrast to the Japanese who
advanced en masse into the region on the heels of military invasion and occupa-
tion, they had already found their respective niches in the socioeconomic milieu
of the occupied territories, as autonomous and autogenous members of society,
not as parasites.

Admiration for Dutch colonialism and views about employing

Westerners
16 June 1942. Sakakibara Masaharu was boning up on the history of the Dutch
East Indies before he took off for a tour of Java. What he learned, according to
his diary, created a strong impression concerning Western colonial rule. Con-
cerning the “management of estates unique to the Dutch” in the agricultural
development of colonial Sumatra, building of one hospital to be shared by the
three estates was “extremely rational,” “there is a lot for us to learn from Dutch
128   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
colonial policy,” and “we certainly must give the Dutch their due in the extent
to which they cleared the jungles [of Sumatra].”
Although unimpressed with the Japanese abaca plantations on Mindanao,
after stops in Java, Malaya and Sumatra, Sakakibara had rave reviews for both
the scale and quality of colonial development capitalized by Western imperial-
ism. In his comfortable digs at Batavia’s luxurious Indies Hotel, he writes, “Java
is by far No. 1 in the South Seas” (22 June 1942), citing the examples of the
production facility in Bandung which was manufacturing over 90 percent of the
world’s quinine, “where we find a fairly complicated production process requir-
ing lots of skilled labor” and the “top quality” international headquarters of the
Paris-­based Institut Pasteur (25 June). Then while in Malang, he visits tobacco
and abaca plants “with state-­of-the-­art German machinery” and a tapioca factory
“out of service because of lack of money … having employed 5,000 workers”
(29 June), and traverses huge plantations with “plots of quinine … and tea that
reminded me of how many people in the world must drink it … and coconut
trees,” on a two-­week cross-­island tour from Batavia in the west to Surabaya in
the east on “good roads that reach the remotest of villages” on an island “of
picturesque volcanoes” (25, 26, 28 June).
It was while Sakakibara was driving around Java that Southern Army General
Headquarters moved from Saigon to Singapore, where from day one he never
fails to record for us the nervous and edgy atmosphere hanging over the city. 

The looks in the eyes of the city’s Indians, Chinese and Malays do not
resemble the gentle and affectionate looks of the Indonesians I observed in
Java. The eyes of the 60,000 some odd Indian and British prisoners of war
are mostly tinted with a hue of dissatisfaction, the color of revenge. 
(10 July 1942)

Then from the end of August, Sakakibara embarked on a tour of Malaya and
Sumatra. In Malaya, he inspected tin mining and refining facilities, but what
seemed far more impressive was the “two-­hour drive” up to the Cameron High-
lands summer resort and the “world’s largest” funicular railway that took him
atop Penang Hill to the Consulate-­General’s retreat. “The world’s largest cable
serving only forty households! Only British genius could have thought of that
… among the monumental colonial programs they put all they had into,” he
exclaims (29 August).
“Looking down over Sumatra, one sees a conglomeration of connecting
plantations, not to be seen in Malaya, impressively laid out … with massive irri-
gation facilities. Sumatra is a veritable treasure trove. Let’s investigate it in more
detail.” It was on 30 August 1942 that Sakakibara arrived in Sumatra, the prom-
ised land, where he spent all of two weeks taking in its sights. At Minangkabau,
Aceh and Batak he learned Sumatran ethnology and toured the Goodyear
rubber factory, the world’s most technologically sophisticated production facil-
ity at the time, proclaiming, “Sumatra is truly wonderful!” (6 September).
“What surprised me most were the cultivated slopes on either side of the
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   129
highways. They showed at a glance that Sumatra was by no means undeveloped,
but a thriving frontier ready for reclamation” (7 September). At a tobacco plan-
tation on the outskirts of Medan, he writes, 

Plowed tobacco fields interspersed within a huge plantation are rotated

every eight years. At the factory, leaf selection is done by experts who have
learned the trade since childhood. One cannot help being taken back by the
grand achievements brought about by Dutch agriculture. 
(10 September)

Sakakibara’s appreciation for the Dutch colonial development of Java and

Sumatra was not only due to its scale, but also, “the irrigation and agricultural
management conducted in the East Indies is no match for Japan’s agrarian
policy implemented in Taiwan” (4 October). What also impressed him was
Dutch organizational skill and technological know-­how behind all the estates,
mines and factories; that is, the system of colonial management developed over
a long period of time. It was a system that could not be suddenly taken over by
someone equipped with nothing but soldiers and guns.
What Sakakibara argues over and over again in the pages of his diary is the
necessity to maintain “the kind of diversified plantation management” con-
ducted on Sumatra. In order for Sumatran agriculture to fulfill the two con-
ditions of (1) responding to changing developments in world commodity
markets and (2) the need for long-­term investment in successful, profitable
cultivation, individual estates would have to not only balance their own profit
and loss statements in diversifying their crops in accordance with market con-
ditions, but also reduce their risks of loss by organizing agricultural coopera-
tives. As to how such a system of estates could be maintained, he first refutes the
movement to commissioning management of enemy plantations to Japanese
small businesses and small-­scale farmers, arguing:

Talented engineers who have worked on the estates for between 20 and 30
years now cannot be matched by Japanese in either management or techno-
logy. Trying to compare the existing estates run by Japanese with estates
run by the enemy is out of the question, the difference between the techno-
logy of Japanese farmers who arrogantly boast twenty years of experience
operating on Sumatra and that of the Dutch is like night and day. There-
fore, agricultural technology should be secured by learning from the Dutch,
not the Japanese; moreover, what the Dutch have to teach us is not all that
complicated.
(27 September 1942)

As part of his argument that “estate management is only possible with the help
of Dutch engineers,” Sakakibara cites “letting them go about their business
in safety without threat of abduction or confinement to special residential areas”
as important for the successful business administration of the South. Such a
130   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
precedent is provided in “Guidelines for Implementing Military Administration
in Southern Occupied Territories” drafted by Ishii Akiho and was, in fact, one
of Imamura’s measures in his initial “moderate” military administration on Java.
However, at the same time that Sakakibara was informing his diary of his hopes
for employing Western experts, the reality out on the streets was trending in the
opposite direction with the large-­scale influx of bureaucrats and civilians from
Japan, on the one hand, and redundancy, unemployment and confinement of
the Dutch population, on the other. Aware of such a trend, he expresses his
concerns with the words, “We should take a broad view and be employing
British and Dutch nationals … making mistakes in how to employ them or pre-
venting them from working by rounding them up, makes Japan’s future seem so
bleak” (4 October 1942).

The paralysis of commodity distribution and views condoning

“smuggling”
“The arterial-­sclerotic condition of things being in some places and not in others
seems to have struck the South” (31 August 1942). One “must read” part of
Sakakibara Masaharu’s diary contains his comments on the paralysis that overcame
maritime transport routes and commodity distribution networks throughout
Southeast Asia during the early years of the Japanese occupation. Within the wors-
ening inefficiencies in seagoing vessels caused by the “sinking of Japanese ships by
enemy submarines” (12 May), securing transport capabilities was one of most
important war objectives in both “remitting resources to the homeland” and
reviving the circulation of material and food throughout the occupied territories
(“Southern mutual exchange”). What this problem meant for Sakakibara was the
pitiful insufficiency of bottoms afloat. Owing to the destruction of production
facilities abandoned by the Dutch in Surabaya, together with the torpedoes and
mines, difficulties encountered in restoring port facilities had kept them in a state
of dysfunction (30 June). From the sight he caught while flying over Palembang
on his return to Singapore, oil production seemed to have gotten back on track,
but “I saw only one or two ships that looked like tankers” (9 July).
Even before the occupation, maritime shipping in Southeast Asia was already
on the verge of crisis, due not only to a rapid reduction in European-­owned
cargo ships since the outbreak of war on the Continent, but also to a rapid
reduction in American and Japanese freighters passing through Southeast Asia,
as the result of trade restrictions imposed on Japan by the United States. Then,
as soon as the Japanese forces occupied the region, commercial shipping activ-
ities operated through the forces of the free market were halted. Although our
material mobilization expert Iwatake Teruhiko tried to restore trade to its
prewar condition through the allocation of ships under a planned economy and
military commandeering, Sakakibara describes in his diary that there were limits
even to such pre-­planned efforts.
Recognizing those limits, Sakakibara informs us, the Japanese Army came up
with a plan to build shipyards in the currently occupied territories of Southeast
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   131
Asia for the construction of wooden bottomed vessels to replace steel bottoms
that required both more time and mooring facilities, then mass produce a fleet
of sailing ships (1 million tons in five years) to conduct “intra-­regional com-
modity flow within the South” and even remit defense resources to the home-
land. To carry out this plan, shipbuilders would be dispatched from Japan to
supervise the construction of the wooden bottom shipyards (11 June 1942). To
the contrary, Sakakibara saw the problem of intra-­regional commodity flow
within the South not so much as one stemming from a lack of seagoing vessels,
but rather the regulated economy.

Recently in Malaya, the junks have now reappeared with the lifting of
restrictions on their use and are transporting vegetables from northern
Sumatra, resulting in improvements in the circulation of products. After the
fighting began, junks had holes drilled in their hulls and sunk for the time
being, but now they have been raised, drained and put into service. This
was all the doing of the Chinese. Therefore, we should let this trend con-
tinue for a time, then enact a registration system necessary to keep the junks
from going over to the enemy and to regulate their operations.
(14 May 1942)

Here we find Sakakibara deeply impressed with Chinese merchants who sub-
merged their junks, fearing that they would be damaged in the fighting, then
raising them back up and staunchly resuming their commercial activities. On the
other hand, the junk trade, which facilitated intra-­regional commerce in South-
east Asia, was largely halted in the first place by the Japanese military placing the
movement of goods under its own control. In this respect, three months later
Sakakibara writes, “The fact of facilitating the flow of goods by turning a blind
eye to a certain amount of junk transport would be effective, when considering
the smooth allocation of resources and the effect it would have on daily life.”
Then from his position opposing the abandonment of surplus production of
rubber and sugar in favor of crop conversion, he boldly suggests that 

it would be better to consider something like a smuggling scheme to divert

Malayan rubber to India in exchange for their cotton and jute … it is no
longer a question of stubbornly sticking to the principle of not allowing
even one widget of important national defense resources to reach the
enemy, it’s time to start forming a strategy for giving up a little if it is in our
interest. 
(8 August)

It was in this way that Sakakibara argued for the maintenance of the existing
colonial industrial structure, surpluses and all, and was thus all in favor of act-
ively employing the Western personnel who managed it and giving some slack
to Huaqiao junk “smugglers” who had facilitated intra-­regional commodity dis-
tribution before the war; for “smuggling” under a military-­led planned economy
132   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
is just another word for the revival of prewar “free trade.” Sakakibara’s argu-
ment for returning things to the way they were in Southeast Asia is not all that
different from restoring the region to its pre-­occupation conditions. What floats
to the surface in all this is not only the fact that Japan lacked the capability of
taking over from the West as the governor and business manager of Southeast
Asia, but also whether or not Japan was capable of even being an effective para-
site. Regarding this latter doubt, there was no plan to keep the host alive over
the middle and long terms, for any parasite that threatens the very life of its
host, is from the host’s standpoint a malignant growth that must be removed. It
is in this sense that Japan’s military rule would end up bringing starvation and
death to Southeast Asia in a matter of only a few years. The only thing the Japa-
nese Empire was capable of was expropriating war goods in the style of the
empires of antiquity through violence and military might, since it was bereft of
the skills to manage the economies of the occupied territories, like most modern
empires had.
What these facts lead to is the question posed at the end of Chapter 2:
whither the course of “appeasement and coercion,” maintenance of the status
quo backed by militarism, the combination of which was cited as the major
factor in the early “successes” of Japanese military rule? What Sakakibara was
scribbling about in his diary was none other than a foreshadowing of how the
view of preserving the status quo with sound colonial economic policy would go
up in smoke in the absence of the personnel to implement it and a thriving
commodity distribution system to nourish it. The reason why Sakakibara’s
observations remained merely harbingers of the future was because everything
was still being held together by “armed force” wielded by the Japanese military
rulers of the region. Therefore, as soon as flaws began to appear in that “military
might,” the whole occupation apparatus would come tumbling down. It is in
this sense that it becomes important to look at just how “appeasement and coer-
cion” was employed by the Japanese military to build its occupation apparatus
and exactly how it did fail and collapse on the ground. There is a very interest-
ing piece of narrative that presents a microcosm of both of these aspects—
buildup and breakdown—at play, told by Hitomi Junsuke during his tour of
duty throughout the Philippines as leader of the Watari Group Public Relations
Detail between 1942 and 1943.

2  The limits to oppression: Hitomi Junsuke’s Philippine

experience

“An abnormal scene in San Fernando”

5 May 1942. Two days after his arrival in the Philippines on his way to his duties
at the Burma Military Administration, Kuwano Fukuji, who had been con-
scripted into the army civilian corps due to his four years of experience in Burma
as an employee of Mitsui Bussan Trading Co., pulls into the train station at San
Fernando in Pampanga on the Manila-­Dagupan railroad in central Luzon and
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   133
immediately observes “an abnormal scene.” A train has stopped at the platform
opposite the one where three or four women “are peddling papayas and bananas
from the baskets they are carrying.” “I could see that two or three cars had been
exclusively for American POWs and another car carrying Japanese troops … As
soon as the women spotted the troops they hurriedly ran to the windows of the
POWs cars.” Then, yelling 

Sorry, sorry! … they flung as much of their fruit as they could through the
windows into the coach. After emptying their baskets, they ran like crazy
out of the station to the fruit stand at the entrance, filled their baskets again
and returned to give the POWs more.
The women were so determined, as if their lives depended on it. While
saying “Sorry, sorry” and throwing fruit to the POWs, they didn’t even give
the Japanese troops a passing glance.

Kuwano was “shocked by what had just happened.” For a Japanese under the
influence of the intoxicating initial victories in the Southern Campaign, one
would have expected it only natural for the Japanese troops to be welcomed by
the Asian masses as liberators. However, from what he had observed at San
Fernando Station, Kuwano reasoned, 

The American administrators must have won the people over deep in their
hearts. That explained the determination on the part of the women … I
was forced to wonder if it had been Korea instead, the Japanese authorities
in Korea would possibly have elicited the same feelings. 
[Kuwano 1988: 49–50]

It was on 28 June that Kuwano finally reached his destination, after seventy-­five
days in transit through the Philippines and Java, and began work in the Burma
Military Administration Economic Department’s Commerce and Industry
Section, which lasted until March of the following year.
Several weeks before Kuwano caught a glimpse of “an abnormal scene,” San
Fernando Station was filled with the stench and moans of the exhausted POWs,
Americans and Filipinos, who, having been forced to walk for about 90 km from
the southern end of Bataan Peninsula where they surrendered, were being
pushed into box cars bound for Capas Station, from which they had to walk for
another 13 km to Camp O’Donnell, the final destination of the “Bataan Death
March.” The forcible mass transfer on foot for about 100 km of American and
Filipino POWs, who’d already been suffering from malnutrition and sickness
after four months of battle, ended in the death of an estimated 500 Americans
and 2,500 Filipino soldiers during the transfer and 1,500 American and 26,000
Filipino soldiers at Camp O’Donnell. Watari Group Commander Honma
­Masaharu would later be convicted of war crimes committed by troops under
his command and executed by firing squad on 3 April 1946. The American
POWs Kuwano encountered might have been roped into labor gathering
134   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
deserted weapons and equipment back in the Bataan Peninsula from Camp
O’Donnell.5
What Kuwano witnessed in San Fernando was one scene from an overall
Philippine landscape cluttered with a kind of unbridled enmity for Japan unpar-
alleled in occupied Southeast Asia from the day the troops landed. Regardless of
the reasons why, the Japanese military was now forced to deal with the reality
on the ground as the occupiers of the region. If the pursuit of a “Quezon sans
Quezon” civil administration was a Japanese response to that reality within the
political process going on at the top, responding through direct engagement
with the “pro-­American masses” on the ground at the base of the occupation
would be the task faced by the “Propaganda” Public Relations Detail led by
Lieutenant Hitomi Junsuke, or the “Hitomi PR Detachment.”

The Hitomi PR Detachment on the go

Let us first trace the footsteps of Hitomi and his men from their deployment
immediately after arriving in Manila to the Batangas Province (26 January–
8 February 1942) with instructions to persuade the residents of the region
hiding in the mountains out of fear of the Japanese troops to return to their
homes, then touring over to the Bicol region (27 February–9 March) for the
same purpose. The episode recounted at the end of the last chapter of Mochi-
zuki Shigenobu’s passionate sermon to a crowd of peasants totally flabbergast-
ing his Filipino interpreter took place during the operation in Batangas. Then
the detachment was placed under the command of the Sixty-­fifth (Nara) Divi-
sion in its counterinsurgency mission dealing with the anti-­Japanese guerrillas in
the Mountain Province of northern Luzon and in Ilocos provinces (25 April–
18 August). Come October, Hitomi was dispatched to the Island of Panay in
the Visayas, the hottest bed of guerrilla activities in the Philippines, to engage in
counterinsurgency operations. However, in May 1943, Hitomi was relieved of
his duties (more details to come) as PR Detail CO by Colonel Utsunomiya
Naokata, stationed back in Manila, then later transferred to duty at the Informa-
tion Department (Hōdōbu) of the Watari Group (Fourteenth Army) Head-
quarters until the end of the war.
In order to avoid the pejorative connotation of the Hitomi PR Detachment
as a “propaganda unit,” they often introduced themselves as a “goodwill
mission,” and in that capacity set out to allay popular fears by holding “Japan-­
Philippine Goodwill Festivals” everywhere they went, featuring concerts and
motion picture screenings, along with medical treatment. In order to present
such a diversified program, the detachment not only enlisted local Japanese resi-
dents and journalists, photographers, authors and the like from the homeland,
but also hired many local and Manila-­based Filipinos to act as presenters, includ-
ing singers, musicians, film technicians, physicians and nurses. (Hitomi would
also set these local Filipino professionals loose among the members of the audi-
ence to sound out their real sentiments toward the Japanese troops and the
guerrillas.) Such a public relations campaign concentrated on entertaining the
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   135
people proved most effective in relatively stabilizing “public sentiment” during
the initial stages of efforts in the Philippine countryside. The idyllic image it
tried to project has been portrayed by Ishizaka Yōjirō, who accompanied the
Hitomi Detail during their tour of the Bicol region, in his novel Mayon no
Kemuri (Smoke from Mt. Mayon, 1977). What is noteworthy for the discussion
here, however, is that in northern Luzon and on Panay, where Hitomi would
find himself facing the spread of “rebellion,” we find his account of anti-­
insurgency operations enabling him to use to the fullest his experience in Man-
churia fighting the Communist front.

Tactics promoting “wait and see”

At 7:30 in the morning on 24 April 1942, the “Hitomi Detachment” departed
Manila for Baguio, the major urban center of northern Luzon [Watari Shūdan
Hōdōbu 1996, ed. Vol. 1: 138]. On 9 April, Major General Edward P. King,
the Commanding General of the Philippine-­American forces in the Bataan Pen-
insula, had surrendered and on 7 May, after the fall of Corregidor, Lt. General
Jonathan M. Wainwright had signed a document of surrender and issued a
command to all USAFFE forces to lay down their arms. Although Colonel John
P. Horan responded by surrendering his command of the northern Luzon dis-
trict, there were those US-­Philippine officers and troops in the insular regions
who refused to surrender, marking the beginning of the USAFFE guerrilla
movement. The Allied Forces Southwest Pacific Theater Command led by
Douglas MacArthur, who had pledged a counterattack on the Philippines from
Australia, was able to restore communications with these guerrillas by the end of
1943 and designated them as Allied forces “regulars.” Together with the weak-
ening of Japan’s air and sea superiority, top secret supply lines were opened via
submarines, and in a parallel development Hukbalahap launched an armed anti-­
Japanese resistance movement in central Luzon. It was in this way that the
largest scale guerrilla movement in Southeast Asia unfolded on Philippine soil,
which Hitomi was ordered to counter by means of “enemy straggler” capitula-
tion operations in northern Luzon, a “hotbed” of guerrilla activity.
Upon their deployment to Baguio, the reports tell us, the Hitomi Detach-
ment embarked on their usual “goodwill mission” activities. For example, on 29
April 1942, the detachment boarded their vehicles for a one-­hour drive to the
Benguet Consolidado mining operation, where they held one of their Festivals
before an audience of 400 locals, featuring “oral presentations” by three Philip-
pine presenters, five motion pictures (cartoons, a newsreel, “Elementary School
in Japan,” “Japanese Industry” and “a Philippine drama”), printed leaflets, a
photography exhibit and medical services (treating twenty-­two patients) [ibid.:
148–50]. Come May, the detachment moved its base of operations from Baguio
to the Ilocos region on the northwest coast of Luzon, where a “Japan-­Philippine
Goodwill Festival” was held in the southernmost town of Agoo, La Union,
attended by about 800 locals. This entertainment-­filled venue featured “oral
presentations” by four presenters, interspersed with solo vocal and children’s
136   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
and adult couples’ dance performances with piano and guitar accompaniment
and a marching routine [ibid.: 159–60].
But as the detachment moved farther and farther north along the Ilocos
coast, the festive atmosphere began to change in an area, which the Japanese
forces had not yet fully pacified, and whose towns and villages were being
“taxed” in kind by the USAFFE guerrillas in the form of foodstuffs. The detach-
ment’s reports reveal a situation described as “anarchy and lawlessness,” touch-
ing upon one incident in particular indicating that things were going to get even
worse. Accompanying the Hitomi Detachment was a contingent of US officers
led by Colonel Nicoll F. Galbraith (a former USAFFE staff officer), who had
been ordered by General Wainwright to carry his surrender order to the US
military personnel among the guerrillas of northern Luzon. On 31 May 1942,
while being urged by Galbraith to lay down their arms, a group of guerrillas led
by Lieutenant George Barnett, a mining engineer who had been drafted after
the opening of hostilities, surrounded the colonel’s contingent and absolutely
refused to obey Wainwright’s order to surrender their arms. This was the same
George Barnett who would lead guerrilla units here in Ilocos Sur under the
United States Forces in the Philippines-­northern Luzon (USFIP-­NL) com-
manded by Colonel Russel Volckmann [ibid.: 212–15].
Upon receipt of Galbraith’s report, Hitomi put a stop to the surrender order
dissemination program, and beginning on 1 June instituted his own “straggler
capitulation operation” out of Candon in central Ilocos Sur. From that time on,
the detachment’s reports take on an altogether different tone, from tips on
winning the hearts of the people to the compilation of a staff diary on counter
insurgency campaigns. News of the goodwill festivities thins out in favor of
detailed intelligence information on the anti-­Japanese guerrilla movements, ana-
lysis of popular sentiment wavering between the Japanese and guerrilla forces,
ambushes on guerrilla hideouts and harsh interrogations of the captives, and
reconnaissance missions utilizing enemy collaborators.
And what he failed to relate in the reports is supplemented by the extremely
interesting narrative Hitomi provided in interviews conducted in the 1990s,
enabling the reader a fly-­on-the-­wall view of the true picture of the Japanese
occupation. While in northern Luzon and on Panay, Hitomi kept the “holy
war” rhetoric to the absolute minimum in favor of persuading the Philippine
people to take a “wait-­and-see” attitude about the outcome of the US-­Japanese
conflict in the Pacific.
One reason why Hitomi decided not to employ the “holy war” rhetoric
stemmed neither from any personal doubts about it nor any lack of interest in
indoctrination style propaganda. Hitomi had in his prewar civilian career been a
schoolteacher with a passion for promoting rural education, and had enlisted in
the army because he desired experience in military training to enrich his peda-
gogy. If all went as planned, he would have attended officer candidate school,
served an apprenticeship as a commissioned officer, then quit the army to return
to teaching. The incident at Marco Polo Bridge in July 1937, however, plunged
Japan and China into full-­scale hostilities, and this meant for Hitomi a cessation
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   137
of his career as a schoolteacher and direct induction into the army. In one of his
postwar interviews Hitomi stressed the importance of a seminar he attended one
summer while he was a student at a young adult education training center at a
normal college in Kyoto Prefecture. It was a two-­week “private training camp”
sponsored by the Mainichi Shimbun’s Exemplary Farmers Association (Tokunō
Kyōkai) featuring instructors such as a right-­wing agrarianist Yasuoka Masahiro.
Hitomi went on in the interview to relate that experience to the support he gave
Mochizuki Shigenobu in the latter’s formation of the Tagaytay Educational
Training Center (to be covered in Chapter 5) [Hitomi 1994: 482–3].
Given such a self-­attested background, Hitomi, under the right conditions,
was fully capable of waxing eloquent to the masses about the “holy war” being
waged by Japan on their behalf. As a matter of fact, Ishizaka Yōjirō, in the
“overview” he presented regarding the PR campaign in the Bicol region, writes,

detachment leader Hitomi would always explain in general terms the Impe-
rial Army’s true intent in the present Southern military campaign, empha-
sizing the fact that the people of East Asia rallied around Japan should rise
up, throw off the White Man’s shackles and firmly establish a Greater East
Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere.

From this testimony, we can conclude that during his early propaganda activities
Hitomi had no qualms about beating the “holy war” drum [Watari Shūdan
Hōdōbu 1996, ed. Vol. 1: 79–80]. His “wait-­and-see promotion campaign,”
on the other hand, was the child of Hitomi, the soldier, the anti-­insurgency
expert directly faced with reality on the ground,
In another interview, Hitomi tells of one incident in particular, the Mochi-
zuki speech (7 February 1942), which convinced him that propaganda in the
Philippine countryside based on “holy war” ideology would be a very hard sell.
From that one incident, he realized that when having to disseminate propa-
ganda orally through Tagalog interpreters, talking about such ideas as the “holy
war” would be extremely difficult just in terms of vocabulary.

What I immediately learned as soon as we arrived in the countryside was

that just telling these people about the Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity
Sphere, and all that, was in itself a big mistake … the fact that there were
no words in Tagalog to express such ideas was no coincidence. There was
no need to try. From that experience, we decided to talk about things
related to everyday life, problems related to self-­interest.
[Hitomi 1994: 505]

As to what “problems of self-­interest” were needed to be talked about in north-

ern Luzon, Hitomi elucidates as follows.
Let us say that the guerrillas attack Village A and kill a number of Japanese
soldiers. That may be a “mission accomplished” for the guerrilla cause, but in
that case the Japanese Army will immediately deploy an infantry detachment to
138   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
Village A. These troops who have just lost their comrades in arms “will come in
a state of great agitation.” The villagers will sense danger and flee for their lives.
Seeing this, the Japanese troops will think, “They’re running away because they
have done something wrong,” and “will regard them as the enemy and shoot
them down.” The guerrillas have already fled to safety up in the mountains, but
the villagers have been thrown into the fight and killed. “Of course, the Japa-
nese forces would begin punitive operations to thoroughly wipe out the guer-
rillas.” He then goes into his “wait-­and-see promotion campaign.”

This war is being fought between Japan and the United States. In the
process, Japan took Bataan, Corregidor and Luzon away from the Ameri-
cans, but from now on, the final victory will be determined outside of the
Philippines. We, being Japanese, hope Japan will win, but you may or may
not think the Americans will probably win. Either opinion is fine. In any
case …, if we take into consideration that their attacks on Japanese troops
will just cause in all kinds of suffering for the Philippines in return, guerrilla
activity becomes meaningless … So why don’t you stop that kind of behav-
ior for the meantime, sit back and watch calmly.
[Ibid.: 508–10]

Hitomi was quite aware that statements expressing the opinion that it was all
right to think that “the Americans would win” would certainly not win the
approval of the Watari Group General Staff in Manila. That is why he never
mentioned them in his reports. That being said, in his report regarding a
“Townsfolk Festival” in Candon (5 June 1942), we do find him following
Colonel Galbraith’s appeal for “cooperation on the part of the general public”
and a female PR staff member’s “speech on securing peace in daily life,” with
the words, “emphasizing the fact that it would be the wisest course for rem-
nants of the defeated army to immediately stop their senseless resistance and
surrender,” thus leaving us evidence of his “wait-­and-see” strategy in the con-
temporary documentation [Watari Shūdan Hōdōbu 1996, ed. Vol. 1: 238].
Although Hitomi’s promotion of a wait-­and-see attitude certainly expresses
the greatest amount of Japanese empathy possible toward the occupied people
of the Philippines, its “logic of appeasement,” which at first glance seems mild-­
mannered, would never have gotten off the ground without the “threat of
oppression” or rather the frightening “might” wielded by the Japanese military.
As we will see in the next section, no one was more cognizant of this “carrot
and stick” connection than counter insurgency expert Hitomi himself.

“Successes” in northern Luzon
In the sources related to Hitomi, we find an “Interim General Report” on the
surrender campaign around Candon dated 15 June 1942 and a “Situation
Report” summarizing the end of the campaign dated 28 June 1942. What these
two documents reveal is a situation in which almost no American or Filipino
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   139
officers present in the area had surrendered, a population “dead set on the
general idea that US-­Philippine forces will win out in the end” and soldiers-­
turned-guerrillas caching weapons in preparation for a full-­scale uprising, in
anticipation that “they will receive assistance from the US Army in two or three
months.” Then Hitomi decided to radically transform the detail’s propaganda
campaign.

The hearts of the people have not come over to our side and remain in
utter despair. It is clear our mild-­mannered public relations campaign up to
now has not achieved its objective. Therefore, from around 10 June we will
switch to a more aggressive program, which will put the greatest amount of
emphasis on the fact that what we “say” in our appeals will be perfectly
matched with what we then “do.”
[Watari Shūdan Hōdōbu, ed. Vol. 1: 316]

As to what this declaration of “consistency between words and deeds” meant in

concrete terms, Hitomi first turned his attention to the fact that almost all the
guerrillas active in Ilocos Sur had been the locals born in the region. In par-
ticular, in the vicinity of Candon, many had received orders from their superiors
to take their weapons home and live with their families or hide out near their
home villages. While the guerrilla commanders lived the lives of fugitives in the
hill regions, many among the rank and file were living with their families in the
villages and towns, making it possible for the Japanese to “use their families as
hostages” [ibid.: 280–1].
Among the extant “public relations reference sources,” there is a form from a
directive issued on 15 June 1942 to the mayor of Santa Cruz, a town to the
south of Candon, ordering him to arrange the surrender of “the following
combat survivors within 48 hours … with their weapons.” Upon surrender,
“The Japanese Army will guarantee life and property, provided that you comply
with orders given by the Japanese troops,” and if they do not surrender, “They
and their families will be hunted down and arrested by the Japanese troops and
shot, while the citizens of Santa Cruz, as accomplices, will be subjected to the
strictest sanctions from the mayor on down,” though the shooting was never
actually carried out by the Hitomi Detachment.
The order was signed by Hitomi himself as commander of the “Imperial Japa-
nese Special Operations Unit” [ibid.: 273]. In the “enemy combatant public
relations” campaign directly targeting guerrilla forces, the Hitomi Detachment
threw off the guise of the “Goodwill Mission” in favor of the labels “Special
Operations Unit” and “Secret Intelligence Unit,” thus employing psychological
warfare tactics to make it look like “there is a massive mop-­up operation
imminent.” In addition, in cooperation with the Japanese security forces, they
gained tips from secret informers as to guerrilla hideouts, ambushed them and
took many insurgents captive; “moving under the shadow of darkness” and
“appearing in unexpected places and times” to spread “fear and uncertainty
among surviving combatants in hiding” [ibid.: 317]. And so, “a system of reward
140   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
and punishment was made widely known,” in which those who voluntarily sur-
rendered “out of fear of our military might” and swore to cooperate with the
surrender program would be immediately set free, while those who had to be
captured “would be dealt with harshly” [ibid.: 276–7].
Hitomi also found the “use of Filipino captives for cross purposes”
“extremely effective.” From those captives he was certain he could trust, he
formed partisan units armed with handguns. In one report, he states,

due to their unexpected daring and the fact that we can disguise them as
stragglers speaking fluent Tagalog, these units are very easy to deploy and
suited to attacking small enemy detachments … using POWs to our
advantage … is a valuable topic for future study, for here as well as Man-
churia and China.
[Ibid.: 282]

Hitomi embarked on his “utilization of capitulators” by tying “the use of

POWS for cross purposes” in with “using family members as hostages.” In an
“Interim General Report,” 

regarding the commanders of the surviving combatants, who have fled into
the hills with no intention of surrendering … we have devised every means
available, including the use of capitulators (i.e., taking their family members
temporarily hostage until we achieve our objectives) and forming assassina-
tion teams to infiltrate their ranks. 
[Ibid.: 281–2]

Then, in his “Situation Report” filed at the conclusion to his Candon campaign,
Hitomi cites as “its successes,” “16 captured and 117 surrendered (including
two American officers),” in addition to “one abandoned corpse (enemy officer
assassination)” [ibid.: 320]. From all of this information, we find that Hitomi
ordered guerrilla capitulators, under the stress of their families being taken
hostage, to sneak into the mountains to assassinate a guerrilla commanding
officer.
It was in this way that during the counterinsurgency operation in the vicinity
of Candon, the Hitomi PR Detachment, which included a platoon of seven Jap-
anese uniformed soldiers, together with twenty-­six Japanese civilian corpsmen,
drivers and American and Filipino PR staff members (including several POW
officers), was able to by the end of June capture sixteen, persuade 117 to sur-
render and assassinate one, resulting in a rosy outlook for law and order in the
region “beginning to see the light of day” and “the total annihilation of [a
portion of] the enemy combatants still on the loose … [being] just a matter of
time” [ibid.: 322–4].
Then, Hitomi took his detachment north to Batac and Dingras in Ilocos
Norte [7 July–12 August]. On the first day of operations there, one of the
American couriers was shot and killed by guerrillas while on a surrender appeal
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   141
mission, indicating to Hitomi that the situation in this part of Luzon was indeed
serious. The guerrillas of Ilocos Norte were also mainly natives of the state, and
it was they who were functioning to maintain law and order in an unpoliced war
zone being infiltrated not only by Japanese troops, but also “stragglers” from
the outside [ibid.: 467–8]. The leader of the Ilocos Norte guerillas was Roque
Ablan, who had been elected state governor in 1937 and was serving his second
term. Being supported by Lt. Feliciano Madamba, a former schoolteacher in
Abra and Major Isabelo Monje, also a former schoolteacher from Paoay, these
guerrillas had taken 200 rifles from a weapons dump in Laoag in January 1942
and were involved in law enforcement along with their anti-­Japanese resistance
activities.6
Setting up his base of operations in Dingras, Hitomi embarked “on a popu-
list campaign,” designed to distance the people from the guerrilla forces by
holding “Japanese-­Filipino Goodwill Festivals,” featuring speeches by local
celebrity and revolutionary hero General Artemio Ricarte and medical services
provided by Filipino physicians and nurses accompanying the detachment, while
trying to persuade local political leaders to take a “wait-­and-see” attitude about
Japan’s war with the United States.
Like in Ilocos Sur, Hitomi also initiated “counterinsurgency PR,” devising
every means possible, like employing undercover agents and organizing capitu-
lators in special operations units to foil the enemy. We will spare the details
here, since the counterinsurgency program overlaps with what was done in
Ilocos Sur, only to relate that it produced much the same results in obtaining
the surrender of many guerrillas. To wit, early August was marked by the sur-
render of Monje and the area enclosed by the rectangle formed by the four
points of Batac, Laoag, Dingras and Dinga was “absent of remaining enemy
combatants.” There were 125 surrenders, twenty-­three submissions, fourteen
POWS, and the capture of two heavy machine guns, fifty-­one rifles and eighty-­
six handguns. Hitomi was able to conclude operations in northern Luzon on 12
August [ibid.: 474–5]. The Hitomi Detachment was awarded a commendation
from the Nara Division commander, a rarity for a non-­combat unit, which
shows how highly the army valued Hitomi’s operations. Kon Hidemi’s Embed-
ded with the Army in the Philippines (1944) has this to say about the episode.

There was a young lieutenant in my detail by the name of Hitomi, who

with his magnanimous personality had the uncanny power of persuasion
over even the most stubborn town mayor or village headman to start
rebuilding their devastated settlements. On the other hand, despite his
gentle appearance, he was a hardened soldier in dealing with enemy strag-
glers, encouraging his amateur PR Detail corpsmen, fighting with only a
handful of troops and capturing guerrilla leaders. This is why he was able to
accomplish so much in our work in the countryside and why he was an
officer fully deserving an individual commendation from the Division
command for his expertise in propaganda and appeasement operations.
[Kon 1944: 217]
142   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
To what extent Kon Hidemi was acquainted with all the secrets that went along
with Hitomi’s “uncanny abilities” is not clear; but what is quite apparent is that
the “success” enjoyed in Ilocos by the Hitomi Detachment was due to heavy-­
handed “proactive public relations” combined with a persuasive “wait-­and-see”
line of reasoning, both of which had nothing to do with “goodwill missions.”
Although the Hitomi Detachment “did not kill even one soldier who surren-
dered and always kept its promise to release capitulators immediately after
debriefing” [Hitomi 1994: 511], the “success” of its operations, which was
predicated on the unrelenting use of armed force by the Japanese Army, was
due to conditions enabling it to persuasively argue the “cons” of continuing
guerrilla resistance and the benefit of taking a wait-­and-see attitude about who
was going to win the war. During the time immediately following the fall of
Corregidor, while the Japanese security forces of northern Luzon were being
reinforced, the Hitomi Detachment was able to relay to the guerrilla forces
located in at least one specific area a clear message that the Japanese forces held
the upper hand.
It goes without saying that the “success” of the Hitomi Detachment enabled
only temporary stability in one very limited region for a short time during the
early stage of the occupation. The “Situation Report” that Hitomi filed (9
August 1942) at the conclusion of his Ilocos operation anticipated a far from
optimistic outcome. Despite progress in the surrender program on the surface,
the general public sentiment toward Japan is evaluated as very antagonistic, and
“at present due to heavy pressure applied by the Japanese troops their (anti-­
Japanese) ideas have receded from view into dark silence.” Delving deeper into
the hearts of the people, it is clear that they regard the Japanese troops as
“invaders of Philippine soil,” and “curse us for ruining their contented way of
life.” Thus, Hitomi points to the problems of daily life, such as “the rapid rise in
unemployment” and “deepening difficulties in earning a living,” as the major
factors in growing anti-­Japanese sentiment. Hitomi goes on in his report to list
specifically the effects of enemy propaganda depicting “violence against women
and girls by Japanese troops” as “spreading like wild fire,” (the report does not
mention if they are true or not); acts of robbery, burglary, murder and rape by
people calling themselves Japanese military intelligence agents and military
administration police officers, and the disdain by political parties and individual
hatred toward collaborators helping the Japanese military [ibid.: 471–4]. Above
all, what this report brings to the forefront in a situation being dominated by
anti-­Japanese sentiment is the fact that once the “might” of the Japanese Army
wavers, it will be extremely difficult to stop the collapse of the type of Japanese
military rule that has nothing but armed force to support it.
Since the purpose of the present treatise is to weave together the “narrative”
presented by the Japanese occupiers, we will not go into detail about the post-­
Hitomi Detachment history of the war in Ilocos, which would necessarily lead
us into the American and Filipino narratives. In sum, a serious disagreement
would arise within the ranks of the USAFFE = USAFIP NL guerrillas over
whether or not to purge those in the region who were collaborating with the
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   143
Japanese, in particular, how to deal with the chaos and bloodletting at the end
of 1944 involving the police force and Japanese security forces under the pro-­
Japanese state government of Ilocos Norte, in which hardliners like Lieutenants
John Barnett and John O’Day would be suspected of committing atrocities.
What is important for us here is that while this internal disagreement played
out, the ranks of the USAFIP guerrillas grew in the presence of Japanese
military oppression, until February 1945, when they were successful in single-­
handedly liberating the state capital of Laoag and then giving chase to the
fleeing Japanese until they finally rid the Norte, Sur and Abra regions of Ilocos
of all Japanese presence in the Battle of Besang Pass in June. Lurking in the
shadows of the history of such daring deed are recollections of “guerrilla atro-
cities.” It seems that the logic of “might” brought into the region by the Japa-
nese Army, including the Hitomi PR Detachment, should at least be partly
blamed for the escalation of an internal political struggle into the shedding of
blood [Nakano 1996].

“Setbacks” on Panay
The month of October 1942 would mark the beginning of Hitomi’s last opera-
tion in the Philippine countryside, this time on the island of Panay. The sources
chronicling Hitomi’s activities on this island in the western Visayas are fragmen-
tary, but include such documents as “reports on public sentiment” and trans-
lations of “enemy correspondence.” There are also the memoirs of Kumai
Toshimi, who took charge of counterinsurgency military tactics and intelligence
gathering, invaluable for their objectivity concerning “a relentless kill or be
killed situation” [Kumai 1977: 4], in which the Japanese forces were put on the
defensive and efforts to “urge a wait-­and-see attitude” would never work.
Panay Island was occupied in a virtually bloodless manner on 16 April 1942
by a three-­pronged Japanese landing in the three state capitals of Iloilo, San Jose
de Buenavista and Capiz (Roxas), but the island soon became known as the
staging ground for the fiercest guerrilla resistance movement in the Philippines.
Before the war, Panay, especially the state of Iloilo, was an export base of sugar
produced in Negros, its neighbor across the Guimaras Strait, sharing economic
interests characterized by strong pro-­American sentiment. By June following the
fall of Corregidor and the general USAFFE surrender of the 8,000-troop Panay
Garrison (Sixty-­first Division), in which only about 1,000 including all 30 US
officers actually surrendered, the “Free Panay Guerrilla Forces” numbering
2,000 strong were organized under the leadership of Lt. Colonel Macario
Peralta, Jr. and would soon grow into an army of 8,000, which in November
succeeded in restoring communications with MacArthur’s USAFFE command
in Australia. It was during the beginning of March 1942 that Tomas Confesor,
the state governor of Iloilo made his escape from Manila and returned to Panay
to organize a resistance movement. Then Peralta was joined by House of Repre-
sentatives member Jose Zulueta, Confesor’s political rival, and while continuing
their prewar political in-­fighting, still managed to build a formidable guerrilla
144   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
organization. Compared to the estimated troop strength of the Japanese Panay
Garrison at 5,580 as of March 1943, the guerrilla forces numbered near 15,000
by June [Manikan 1977: 317–18]. The areas that the Japanese forces were able
to secure on a regular basis were the cities of Capiz and Iloilo, their suburbs, the
Antique copper mines and the state capitol of San Jose. All troop movements
required the use of armored vehicles [Kumai 1977].
Animosity was also strong in the hearts of the people of Panay, a feature that
Hitomi made the subject of a report submitted on 20 December 1942 entitled
“Regarding Public Sentiment in the Vicinity of San Jose, State of Antique,
Panay Island.” This document cites the sudden worsening since mid-­August of
law and order in San Jose, which had been completely pacified early on in the
occupation, as being caused by about 200 Philippine troops, who after being
persuaded to surrender at the end of July gave up their weapons and ammu-
nition and were allowed to return home, being suddenly called to assembly on
5 August and sent to a POW camp in Iloilo without forewarning. This “decep-
tion” had not only generated a great deal of distrust of the Japanese, but also
rampant rumors of atrocities and executions “had shocked public opinion and
provided attractive tidbits for enemy counter-­propaganda.”
Hitomi further points to the “improper handling of workers” by Ishihara
Sangyō mining development company commissioned by the army to extract
copper from the mines of San Remigio, Antique. It seems that unable to
procure labor as the result of guerrilla propaganda and threats, Ishihara had
resorted to corvée labor, at times threatening people at gunpoint, “the same as
abducting them,” to work in the mines. Also, a group of “low life Japanese”
had brought on anger and escape attempts among workers by such behavior as
beating, assault, face slapping, torture and looting meat and vegetable store,
causing a vicious circle of violence leading to labor shortages. The report goes
on to conclude that under such conditions, the guerrilla forces, through “the
kidnapping and massacre of pro-­Japanese Filipinos,” “orders forcing [their]
evacuation,” and “enlistment appeals and conscription declarations,” have
“finally succeeded in creating an atmosphere of belligerence towards Japan and
are persuading ordinary citizens to secretly cooperate with the remnant combat-
ants … law and order has taken a complete turn for the worse” [Watari Shūdan
Hōdōbu, ed. Vol. 1: 485–9].
Even under such conditions, Hitomi continued as before to defend “pro-
moting a wait-­and-see attitude” about the outcome of the war. In January
1943, two female authors Abe Tsuyako (b. 1912) and Kawakami Kikuko
(b. 1904), who were sent to the Philippines by the IGHQ Information Depart-
ment, were part of the tour led by Kayahara Kōichi who paid a visit to the
Hitomi Detachment while on duty in San Miguel on the outskirts of Iloilo.
Hitomi found himself in a real pickle.

Then in Japan, everyone was waxing eloquent about “Well, the significance
of the present war is about this and that …” While in the battle zone, if
[they heard] us treating [the people] like a bunch of children in a way we
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   145
did day in and day out, with “Well now, this is in your best interest, and
since resisting the Japanese troops will cause harm to everybody else, it’s
best that you stop doing this, that or the other,” [the visitors from Japan]
would probably look at us as if we were out of our minds and say, “What
kind of public relations is that?” So, the night before [they arrived], I told
the interpreters, “Tomorrow I’m going to be a different person and talk
about all the difficult stuff, but you just ignore me and keep talking about
what you always do.” Next day, while I was speaking for the benefit of the
visitors from IGHQ, the interpreters were translating it as before, “Doing
this and that are in your best interest.” We were terribly nervous!
[Hitomi 1994: 506]

Here Hitomi has borrowed a page from interpreter Julio Luz’ book, no doubt
recalling the incident involving Mochizuki Shigenobu a year earlier in Batangas.
And the ruse worked again, for Abe Tsuyako, recounting her encounter with a
certain “Lieutenant H,” mentions nothing peculiar about the incident in her
recollection published during the war [Abe 1944: 172–8]. In his postwar
memoirs, Kumai also seems not to have seen through Hitomi’s PR stratagem
[Kumai 1977: 55].
There is no evidence either that Hitomi’s promotion of a “wait-­and-see atti-
tude,” which he was trying to conceal with such a charade, affected his opera-
tions in Panay one way or the other. The Hitomi source collection’s
“intercepted enemy correspondence” includes the translation of a letter (dated
29 December 1942) written by Lieutenant Colonel Valentin Grasparil, USAFFE
guerrilla commander in Antique Province to the collaborator provincial gov-
ernor Tobias Fornier. In the letter Grasparil writes, “Does your excellency not
know of the massacres of innocent civilians in such places as San Jose, Sibalom
and San Remigio,” then presents a list of atrocities committed by Japanese
troops and decries “the betrayal of a sense of freedom and security” of the prov-
ince’s people by the Japanese. He continues, “because of our resistance, the
Japanese will no longer be able to continue their violent acts of the past, and
we, the people, will once more attain a modicum of freedom and security.”
Here we find a confident force of guerrillas not choosing to “wait-­and-see,” but
rather taking steps to put a stop to Japanese atrocities by swearing vengeance
and stepping up proactive anti-­Japanese resistance activities. “We were fooled
once, but never again,” writes Grasparil about his deep commitment to all-­out
resistance, thus putting to rest the “appeasement” measures that seemed some-
what “successful” at first. Finally, the slogans urging people to calm down and
see what happens had lost all of their albeit dubious persuasiveness [Watari
Shūdan Hōdōbu, ed. Vol. 1: 536–7].
On 14 February 1943, a group headed by Watari Group commander Tanaka
Shizuichi on an inspection of the frontlines was attacked by a cadre of guerillas
in the vicinity of Janiuay, Iloilo, and had to flee for their lives, having been given
a taste of what the guerrillas of Panay had in store for their Japanese occupiers
[Kumai 1977: 54–8; Hotta 1994: 413; Hitomi 1994: 514]. Later in his
146   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
“Situation Report” submitted to the Watari Group General Staff dated 2 March
1943, Hitomi writes, “the enemy has gained overwhelming superiority in apply-
ing pressure on ordinary civilians … There is no longer any value in propaganda
based on empty words not accompanied by the use of armed force”; and then
requests the deployment of combat forces to join the PR Detail [Watari Shūdan
Hōdōbu, ed. Vol. 1: 576]. Hitomi was now on the verge of stepping into the
quagmire of “punitive action.”
During the next two months of difficulties experienced in the anti-­guerrilla
program, until he was relieved of duty as PR Detachment leader on Panay,
Hitomi and his detachment were assigned by Lt. Colonel Totsuka Ryōichi,
commander of the 170th Independent Infantry Battalion that had arrived in
Panay during January 1943, to embark on a campaign to distance the masses
from the guerrillas; that is, getting villagers to agree with what was called “con-
centrated settlements,” an old, universal population control tactic, known as
“draining the swamp,” designed to cut off lines of food supplies to the guerrilla
forces, first attempted by the Japanese in the Second Sino-­Japanese War, includ-
ing Totsuka. One day in May 1943 Hitomi was ordered by the Watari Group
General Staff in Manila to get on a reconnaissance plane and report immediately
to headquarters. It was a direct order from Vice-­Chief of Staff Utsunomiya
Naokata. While still feeling how strange it was for a simple lieutenant to be spe-
cifically called in by the top brass so urgently, Hitomi was met by Utsunomiya
with the words, “You guys are conducting concentrated settlement operations
over in Panay, aren’t you?” “It’s already failed on the mainland (China) … and
has no effect but to turn the people against us,” then ordered that the program
be stopped. Hitomi, who had enthusiastically cooperated with the Tostuka Bat-
talion, while trying to persuade Utsunomiya about the necessity of cutting off
supply lines to the guerrilla, let slip, “Sir, how can you give such an order in
Manila, when the General hasn’t been informed of the situation on the ground?
The situation is not the same …” For a junior officer to address a superior, much
less the vice-­chief of staff in such an insolent manner, “I ducked my head
waiting for the lightening to strike.” But instead, Utsunomiya just snickered and
relieved him of duty on Panay saying, “Going off at half-­cocked like that is just
the reckless youth coming out. You needed to cool off for a while here in
Manila” [Hitomi 1994: 519–20].
It is not clear what had brought this all on, but we do know that Utsu-
nomiya, as already mentioned was a strong advocate of the “appeasement”
approach who, in his capacity as the one among the top officials of the Japanese
forces in the Philippines, had already dedicated himself to preserving cooperative
relations with the colonial Philippine elite who formed a collaboration govern-
ment. There is also the possibility that Fermin Caram, the collaborating provin-
cial governor of Iloilo, who had been a political ally of former Governor
Confesor, had heard complaints from his colleague, now turned guerrilla leader,
about the Japanese “concentrated settlements” program. In any case, there is no
doubt that efforts by Totsuka and his anti-­insurgency expert Hitomi to forcibly
relocate large portions of the population on Panay was nipped in the bud by a
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   147
General Staff officer dedicated to staying on the good side of the Philippine’s
existing colonial elite through appeasement.
This change of duty also saved Hitomi from the horrors to come. For the
anti-­guerrilla punitive action campaign, which began on Panay at the beginning
of July 1943 immediately after the arrival of Lt. General Kōno Takeshi and his
Seventy-­seventh Infantry Brigade, soon escalated in an all-­out assault on both
guerrillas and non-­combatants alike along major arterials, resulting in the indis-
criminate massacre of men and women, young as well as old. Kumai Toshimi in
his memoir described the actions of an army captain, who was a veteran of the
wars in Manchuria and China, on the front line of the punitive campaign as
follows. After summarily beheading a wounded man who tried to attack Kumai
while he searched one village, the captain turned to the villagers and screamed
“the family of this man must be around,” to which one villager frightened out
his wits pointed a shaking finger to a young woman. “There’s going to be more
shit like this. Kill her to show everyone what happens when it does!” yelled the
captain. One of his men drew his sword and quickly lopped off the heads of the
crying women and the three children clinging to her [Kumai 1977: 84–5].
The Panay guerrillas recorded in detail the kind of damage done by such
atrocities from the time they occurred. According to these reports, as of 11 Sep-
tember 1944, the number of casualties due to atrocities committed by the Japa-
nese forces had reached at least 4,653, including 3,025 in Iloilo, 358 in Antique
and 1,270 in Capiz.7 The military oppression, which included such atrocities,
that visited Panay after the breakdown of peaceful efforts, was for a time suc-
cessful in forcing “tactical surrenders” and a curtailment of attacks by the guer-
rillas. However, the losses sustained by the guerrilla combatants themselves were
limited to only 1,380 [Manikan 1977: 733], not to mention that their fighting
capacity was gradually increasing due to materiel supplied by US submarines a
total of seven times between April 1943 and December of the following year,
enabling them to stage a counterattack from mid-­year 1944, during which they
were able to restrict the movements of the Japanese troops once again to the
cities of Iloilo, San Jose and Capiz (Roxas) by around the time of Allied landing
on Leyte in October, then liberate those three cities by the end of March 1945,
sending the Japanese literally heading for the hills, where they finally surren-
dered in September. After the war, the investigation of war crimes committed
by Japanese related to the Panay Security Forces was both swift and thorough.
Beginning with brigade and battalion commanders, Kōno and Totsuka, eleven
persons were tried, sentenced to death and executed [Cha’en, ed. 1986:
164–72].

Realism defied by reality

The idea of “urging a wait-­and-see attitude” was a part of the “logic of appease-
ment” born from the military realism developed by Hitomi Junsuke, who had
fought anti-­Japanese guerrillas in Manchuria during his tour of duty. Hitomi
was more aware than anyone else of the fact that the effectiveness of such an
148   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
approach not only was directly linked to the military might of the Japanese
troops, but also depended on the level of stability in daily life of the occupied
and military discipline maintained among the occupiers. If so, this realism of
Hitomi the soldier was bound to be betrayed by what was really happening in
Japanese-­occupied Philippines.
As merely the leader of a public relations detail active in the field, Hitomi
would not have had the opportunity to read the top classified document entitled
“Proposed Measures for Dealing with the Philippines While at War with the
United States” in the archives at IGHQ. However, the “wait and see” approach,
which Hitomi even hid from his direct superiors through a deceptive “side
show,” was in fact completely in line with the theory held by the “Proposed
Measures” —namely, giving top priority to “destroy U.S. military bases” while
taking measures only “to prevent the present Philippine government from
taking sides with the enemy.” Furthermore, a view of appeasement that rules
out forcible indoctrination of abstract ideals, even for the occupiers-­cum-
appeasers, was the only possible way to make some headway among the people
for the time being. For that reason, during the time that Hitomi’s counterinsur-
gency operation emphasizing a “wait and see” attitude continued, it may be said
he was performing the task of concluding a “tacit agreement” on a ceasefire
acceptable to both the Japanese and Philippine sides.
In order to preserve that “tacit agreement,” it was necessary above all to sta-
bilize daily life to a level that the occupied could bear. However, as proven time
and time again, total disregard for the welfare of the people once more reared
its ugly head as the true character of Japan’s occupation of Southeast Asia.
Hitomi looked back on another “war propaganda defeat” in the form of the US
Army’s effort during last half of the war promising that enlistment in the
USAFFE guerrilla regulars would come with full back pay and fully army pen-
sions after the war, recalling how this tactic caused the guerrilla forces to swell
faster than waxing eloquent about the heroism in resisting the Japanese.

I first realized that we had been outdone … when such US propaganda

suddenly took hold throughout the entire region … The Japanese army
may have succeeded in occupying the Philippines, but it was totally incap-
able of providing any kind of employment opportunities to ensure liveli-
hoods for its people. That’s why everybody ended up out of work and
unable to earn a living … Accomplishing an occupation is one thing, what
you have to do next is to provide the people with a way to earn a living. No
matter how you propagandize that, the propaganda itself isn’t going to
solve the problem automatically. As soon as the Americans came out with
their campaign, I experienced my first gulp of impending defeat. We didn’t
stand a chance.
[Hitomi 1994: 527–8]

No matter how much effort was put into preserving a “tacit agreement” bereft
of provisions for stabilizing daily life, it would always be necessary to maintain
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   149
overwhelming military superiority to keep the occupied convinced that armed
resistance would be certain suicide, while at the same time ensuring strict
military discipline within that force to avoid inciting the occupied to risk their
lives out of outrage and revenge. Unfortunately, the reality on the ground in
Japanese-­occupied Philippines would, with the passage of time, never have
allowed such a “tacit agreement” to continue. Even the enjoyment of military
superiority in northern Luzon during the height of Japan’s overwhelming domi-
nance allowed only a semblance of how “appeasement” can be built upon
“might.” Soon, however, an expanding anti-­Japanese resistance organization on
Panay, reinforced by supplies from the US Army, put an end to that military
superiority as early as the end of 1943. Hitomi’s logic of “appeasement” had
been refuted by the occupied. As a result, in order to maintain the upper hand,
the Japanese had to resort to the maximum use of force, involving punitive
strikes against the guerrilla forces, in particular, and massacres among the rest of
the civilian population, in general. And so, within a situation in which heavy-­
handed oppression was regarded as a legitimate means of control, maintaining a
balance between military discipline and the use of armed force turned into an
extremely precarious juggling act.
In this chapter we have examined the “narrative” left to us by two particip-
ants in the occupation of Southeast Asia—that of Sakakibara Masaharu, who
through his numerous tours of the region caught a glimpse of a reality in which
Japan lacked the capability to realize its ambitions toward establishing a military-
­led colonial system, and that of Hitomi Junsuke, who through his propaganda
campaigns in the Philippine countryside came face to face with the reality which
put an end once and for all to the logic of “appeasement and oppression” that
Japan was trying to foist upon its occupied territories—both of which suggest a
war and an occupation which demanded more than Japan was capable of pro-
viding, would shake the Empire to its foundations and soon cause its utter
collapse.
However, the absence of the wherewithal by which to conquer and rule went
beyond mere physical productive capacity. For what the “narrative” provided by
the Southern occupiers from the Land of the Rising Sun also reveals is that the
Japanese as a people just did not have what it took in terms of the necessary
human capacity or cultural capital.

3  An opportunity for soul searching

The battlefields of Burma

Sakakibara Masaharu returned to Japan temporarily during October to Novem-
ber 1942. On 7 October, after landing at an airfield in Kumamoto (Kyushu), he
boarded an automobile for a ride into the city; and during “40 or 50 minutes
driving through this nostalgic rural landscape,” he could not help comparing in
his mind what he was viewing out of the window and the infrastructure that the
Western powers had built up in their Southeast Asian colonies.
150   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
The roads are notoriously bad here. While I was aware it has universally
known that Japanese roads are terrible, it was brought home to me even
more strongly after having just driven over the paved roads in the South.
Then there were those tiny old clunkers still being driven around. Seeing
such a sight, any foreigner would begin to wonder about what’s really
going on in Japan, with all its brand-­new state of the art tanks and
battleships.

It was at the end of December that Sakakibara returned to Southern Army

General Staff Headquarters in Singapore. Since his stint would be over in April
1943, he planned a tour of Burma, which he still had not seen, before returning
to civilian life. He got his chance on 14 April, boarding a flight from Singapore
to Rangoon accompanying a group headed by Ba Maw, and upon landing, his
first impression was that “for all intents and purposes Burma is still a battle-
field.” Even Rangoon was still under frequent bombardment, air raid shelters
lined the street in front of the “Shikijima Inn,” where he was to lodge, since all
the first-­class hotels in the center of town “nobody wanted to stay at, because
they were in the middle of areas being targeted by the bombing” (15 April).
Actually, rather than Burma “still” being a battle zone, Allied bombing raids
had escalated day by day since January 1943. Kuwano Fukuji, who had ended
his Burmese tour of duty at the end of March, describes the scene in his diary.
In Rangoon, the air raid sirens screamed all day long, forcing everyone to run
for the bomb shelters and not get any work done. Then come February the
streets of the capital became the target of daily bombing and destruction. Scared
to death, half of the “coolies” working at the Japanese Chamber of Commerce
fled for their lives. Ever dwindling supplies of rice, salt, clothing, etc., brought
on “anxiety and unrest” that “escalated into dissatisfaction throughout the
whole country,” and “what I was worried in June and July last year began to
settle in among us” [Kuwano 1988: 268–93]. Even in Burma, where in stark
contrast to the Philippines, the people had greeted the Japanese with open arms,
the situation was quickly turning ugly.
It was in the midst of this transformation of Burma into a “battle zone” that
Sakakibara set out on 16 April 1943 from Rangoon to have a look around the
countryside. First making his way north to the town of Taungoo, Sakakibara
turned east “climbing up the stairs of mountains” into the “Great Shan Plateau”
(Shan Highlands), home of the Karen people. His destination was the Mawchi
Mines, a rich source of tungsten and tin. There Sakakibara found a situation in
which the resumption of mining operations had been greatly delayed by mis-
trust toward the Japanese on the part of local miners over incidents involving
the rape “of local young women” by Japanese company and platoon leaders (18
April). From there, he made his way through the “level plateau belt,” the rice
growing region of Loikaw, then further north to Taunggyi. Here he found the
Shan people “who resembled the Japanese more than the Koreans and were very
hospitable … and forthright,” commenting on the previously debated possibility
of the annexing the Shan States to Japan and setting up Japanese colonies there
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   151
(19 April). Maintaining a northerly direction, he arrived in Hsipaw, the location
of a 500-acre Tung tree oil plantation which had been commissioned to a
twenty-­year old Japanese youth with no prior experience to operate on his own.
Here he paused to decry the lack of properly trained experts, as one of “several
distressing problems to be overcome before Japan’s great leap forward” (21
April). He then passed through Lashio on his way to the pièce de resistance on
his tour, Namtu Baw Twin, the site of one of the world’s largest silver mines.
While the Baw Twin mine was officially under direct management by the
military (army), a major portion of the management had actually been commis-
sioned to the Mitsui Mining Co. and the copper refinery section had been
joined by the Nippon Mining Co. It has been “a difficult decision to make” in
the midst of the fierce competitive bidding contest for that particular contract.
On this, Sakakibara comments “Even in the middle of a world war, it’s too bad
that powerful interests still get to push their weight around” (22 April). Mean-
while, Mitsui was having trouble getting the mine up and running within the
“battle zone” that Burma has become. Baw Twin has been touted as a mine
with a 3-million-­ton capacity, whose operations were capable of extracting
1,500 tons of superior 16 percent lead ore, capable of yielding nickel, cobalt,
silver and gold. However, just after the resumption of operations, at the ore
dressing process “if the bombing starts, we’ll be back to where we started” and
the refining factory, which was still far from restoration, “will be forced out of
commission once if it is restored and the smoke from its chimneys is targeted.”
Consequently, “they had to focus on the dressing process” and give priority to
transporting the 20,000 tons of lead stores back to the homeland. “In any case,
nothing is feasible without presupposing the air raids (23 April).” On his return
trip, Sakakibara, stopped at the Hayashi Group force’s rest and relaxation center
of Maymyo (present Pyin Oo Lwin) on his way to Mandalay, then headed south
along “the hot tropical hellhole” known as the Irrawaddy River, stopping at
Aunglan to visit a cotton mill commissioned to an affiliate of Toyo Textiles on
one bank and a cement quarry on the other side at Thayet (26 April), then on
to Rangoon via Prome (Pyay), arriving on the 27th.

“Governing the South begins with governing the Japanese”

During his almost two-­week stay in Burma, Sakakibara did not experience one
direct air bombardment, but he did note, 

on the 23rd [April 1943] a dozen or so bombers had attacked Rangoon,

making 120 strikes. Mandalay has been subject to bombing raids on a daily
basis. Baw Twin, which we just left this morning was bombed at around
noon and the dressing facility was hit several times.
(24 April 1943)

Thus, witnessing the “battle zone” that was Burma from the ongoing reports of
air raids continuing throughout the country. Possibly reinforced by such an
152   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
impression, what he saw when he returned to Penang (Malaya) made his
blood boil.
There he found 2,500 combat troops and 600 military administration staff
members waiting to board a ship bound for Burma. It seemed that due to a
scarcity of sea-­worthy cargo space, they had been waiting there for the past two
or three months. He witnessed Japanese caught in transit “buying up everything
in sight,” creating shortages in all kinds of daily necessities, and the “homo eco-
nomicus” in him surfaced, coming down hard on the same “soldier boys” he
usually regarded so paternalistically, declaring, “if we don’t restrict purchasing
by these Japanese [transits], it will become utterly impossible to secure enough
daily necessities.”

The troops in transit were mostly raw recruits in a foreign land for the first
time, thinking that while they were on leave in Penang they should forget
about the war for the time being and enjoy themselves. Were these trained
Japanese soldiers? Taking in the sights like a bunch of curious tourists,
throwing their money around in local shops, loitering around snow cone
stands … Can such wretches do their jobs on the frontlines in Burma? 
(30 April 1943)

Then he took one look at the way the officers bound for Burma were living it
up in the luxurious Penang Hotel (across from his own room there, by the way),
while their troops roughed it in the barracks, and flew into another rage. “Is this
the way comrades in life and death … should be segregated in quarters as
different as heaven and earth? Will there be any soldier under the command of
these kinds of officers who would willingly give up his life for them in the battle?
How the raw recruits were conducting themselves out on the street “is the
result of these kinds of commanding officers without an ounce of conscience. 

You sons of bitches deserve to die … your negligence will never be for-
given, even if you kneel down and beg before the Emperor while commit-
ting hara-­kiri. It’s the proliferation of these kinds of idiots in the armed
forces that keep us up all night worrying and praying for some semblance of
self-­discipline to descend upon their ranks. 
(30 April 1943)

Such rancor may very well have been stirred up by memories of a younger buck
private Sakakibara who was hardened into a soldier by the beatings and belittle-
ment of his superiors.
Reflecting upon Sakakibara’s diary, the Burma tour and everything else, one
notices an almost day-­by-day increase in rigor when evaluating his fellow coun-
trymen, in general, and his comrades in arms, in particular. For example, while
in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, he writes about Japanese officers paying for young
Dutch women who had turned to prostitution to avoid starvation. Upon seeing
“three or four of them staggering around the streets drunk dragging Dutch
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   153
madams in tow,” he contemplates, “this only goes to show that we may have
been able to conquer here, but we’re going to have a hell of time governing.
Even the defeated Dutch get more respect from dojin natives than the Japanese
(4 July 1942).”
Singapore, as well, began to disgust him. 

The Japanese who have lately arrived … are most seen crowded into places
like bars and brothels (“comfort stations”), walking the streets drunk …
soldiers on leave drinking liquor, with no sense of shame, drawing their
sword in drinking establishments, it’s beyond the pale. 
(20 August 1942)

Prices are rising in Shōnan. The main reason is the shopping being done by
Japanese. You go into any store in the city selling textiles, wool, or shoes,
and you’ll find it full of Japanese … Soon there will be nothing worth
buying in all of Shōnan. [Such consumerism] is about all that these Japa-
nese have ever been taught. 
(28 September 1942)

Observing such a lack of circumspection on the part of his fellow citizens wher-
ever he went, Sakakibara came to see them through the eyes of the occupied as
“[Japanese are] always on their way to the brothel,” reacting with anger and
despair at the sight of a privileged people driven by materialism, drawing forth
the comment:

It’s come to a point where we have to scream, “governing the South should
begin with governing the Japanese.” 
(28 September 1942)

The ugly Japanese

The publicly intoxicated, “shop till you drop” “indulging in wine and women”
Japanese depicted in the diary of Sakakibara Masaharu frequently appear else-
where in the “Japanese narrative” regarding the occupation of Southeast Asia.
These “ugly Japanese,” as we will call them, together with their acts of violence
and cupidity toward women in rape cases and comfort stations, are in some
cases singled out for harsh criticism, disdain and food for thought, while in
others they are recorded and recalled almost unconsciously without any
criticism.
For example, in his reminiscent short story entitled “Studies of Human Being
in Miki Kiyoshi” (1950), Kon Hidemi presents us with a “narrative” enabling a
re-­reading from the viewpoint of the “ugly Japanese.” For here we have a rather
anguishing recollection of the kind of lifestyle enjoyed by civilian corpsmen in
Manila, which Kon failed to record in his 1944 Embedded with the Army in the
Philippines. While Sakakibara Masaharu does not include himself among “ugly
154   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
Japanese” when he calls for “the importance of strong character and education
in assuring our leadership roles” (20 August 1942) on the same day that he was
reflecting upon Japanese soldiers wielding swords and other body parts in the
bars and brothels of Singapore, Kon Hidemi is more self-­reflective and self-­
deprecating in his postwar recollection of wartime experiences. The story
unfolds looking back with a wry smile upon his Public Relations Detail during
their first days after the occupation of Manila in January 1942.

The formation of the detail was a farce, none of the uniformed members,
including the detail leader, had any idea of how to utilize their civilian
corpsmen … even when we were at Headquarters, there was nothing much
for us to do … realizing there was no use trying to figure out our jobs by
conferring with soldiers who didn’t know what they were doing, either, we
then decided among ourselves the kind of work we would do and did it on
our own.
[Kon 1950: 36]

One of these corpsmen-­initiated projects was the reopening of motion picture

theaters, which is described in detail in Kon’s wartime Embedded. When he
returned from motion picture jobs to headquarters, he found “it was like
someone had stirred up a bee’s nest, everyone was running around out of sorts
about something, everyone was complaining” [ibid.]. It was in this way that the
second wave of civilian corpsmen arrived from Tokyo at the beginning of March
to an office “where we already had too many people who hadn’t yet learned to
get along with each other” [ibid.: 37]. Arriving with the newcomers was Miki
Kiyoshi, whom Kon had known but not been that close to. As a serious scholar
of dialectical materialism who had studied with the likes of Nishida Kitarō and
Martin Heidegger, Miki, whose writing on philosophy and criticism had been
widely published and read, was probably the detail’s most prominent intellectual
celebrity.
While in his wartime account, Kon cheerfully describes the arrival of the new-
comers as “the arrival of the second group of corpsmen … indeed energized us.
Now that the Detail had doubled, the mess hall and everywhere else was
buzzing [Kon 1944: 216],” in his postwar 1950 short story, he describes how a
SNAFU in the process of the first group shirking their duty to find quarters for
the second group gave rise to a deep sense of double-­dealing between the two
groups, after the second group was forced to bunk in a “Chinese-­run brothel
right across the street from the first group’s rooms in the comfortable Bayview
Hotel.” In fact, just after his arrival, Miki Kiyoshi had to be hospitalized after
suffering light injuries in a traffic accident between two army truck drivers. After
his release from the hospital, on an earnest request from the leader of the second
group, Miki was singled out for a room in the Bayview Hotel [Kon 1950: 39].
The story goes on to relate episode after episode of how the PR Detail was
messed with by Miki’s complicated, idiosyncratic personality, at which Kon
himself was frequently dumbfounded. There was Miki in the hospital after his
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   155
accident, ranting about how could the army “let this happen to Miki Kiyoshi, of
all people,” only to fall shy and reticent about the affair after his release. Then
there was Miki’s misogyny. “ ‘They’re just instruments,’ he’d say, then extol the
effectiveness of masturbation in sexual release; but he was just drawing people
into his own “disturbing world of isolation, suspicion and jealousy.”
Three years later, in March 1945, Miki was arrested on charges of violating
the Maintenance of Public Order Law for hiding his friend and Communist
Takakura Teru at his home in Tokyo and held in detention at Toyotama Prison
even after Japan’s surrender, where he died that September. After the war, this
incident would catapult Miki to sainthood as a tragic philosopher who stood up
to injustice. It was in the midst of such adulation, that Kon Hidemi’s shocking
and scandalous short story created such uproar. However, Kon’s exposé is not
only limited to the peccadillos of Miki Kiyoshi, but also depicts the decadent,
lazy lifestyle of the whole group of civilian corpsmen stationed in Manila,
including himself, wallowing in booze and consumerism.
There is Ozaki Shirō lying in bed all day at the Bayview, complaining to his
colleagues “What the hell’s wrong with just telling them that I don’t feel well?”
There is teetotaler Ishizaka Yōjirō whose regimen was up at the break of dawn
and after a brisk morning walk, back to his room in the hotel for the rest of the
day. As a matter of fact, “even if we showed up at work, there was nothing to
do, anyway … everybody was too busy avoiding heat stroke [ibid.: 36].” Come
evening, Ozaki would miraculously recover and never be found without a drink
in his hand, waiting for hard working Kon to return from the office so they
could go out on the town: “What’ll we do for dinner tonight? Italiano? España?
I could go for some Chinese myself!” After returning Ozaki to his room, Kon
would then “often climb the blue tower (euphemism: go to brothel) along with
his naughty friends” to relieve the stress from “acute imbalances” in his sex life.
Meanwhile, Ishizaka, whose delicate constitution prevented him from such
strenuous activity as “climbing the blue tower,” found shopping to be “an
outlet for his frustrations,” decorating his bed with “a useless French doll next
to his pillow that he’d paid 50 yen for.” The decadence of the PR Detail’s
drunks and big spenders was brought up indignantly by Miki Kiyoshi at a
meeting that made Kon feel so guilty that “I wanted to crawl into a hole some-
where.” Miki turned out to be no saint in this respect, either, filling two trunks
with “mountains of cotton fabric and a huge ball of wool thread.” “I didn’t
realize you were such the shopper,” Kon commented, to which Miki “sheep-
ishly” defended himself by explaining the wisdom of purchasing cotton and
wool in the midst of a clothing shortage [ibid.: 44–6].
Of course, membership of the intelligentsia didn’t necessarily mean one had
to be a “mirror for princes.” The kind of fun that the PR Detail was having,
which had been denounced by Miki Kiyoshi in “sermons from Savonarola
himself,” were in one sense a human reaction trying to make the best of being
coerced into serving a term of nonsensical conscription with nothing else to do.
Also within the framework of the kind of “ugly Japanese” depicted in the avail-
able “narrative,” this group of corpsmen represent the pinnacle reached by the
156   Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere
“flotsam” floating on the sea of Japanese intruders, military and civilian alike,
who did nothing but take the possessions and bodies of the occupied without
even an inkling of reciprocity, thus giving credence to Sakakibara’s premonition
that the large-­scale deployment of bureaucrats and businessmen from Japan
would be the ruin of daily life in the occupied territories.
Kuwano Fukuji, who visited the Philippines on his way to work in Burma,
described this “leisure class” of Japanese in very interesting keizaijin (homo
economicus) terms. Two days after witnessing the “abnormal scene” on the
station platform at San Fernando (7 May 1942), he paid a visit to the “Japan
Bazaar” department store on Avenida Rizal, where 

I purchased a large order, including 20 yards of white poplin, ten yards of

khaki drill, children’s shoes and hip boots. After all, the goods were so plen-
tiful that I bought everything I could ever want … In Japan, cotton had
disappeared from the shelves, so for us who would have had to pay an arm
and leg for it in Japan, the textile goods here looked cheap. 
[Kuwano 1988: 57–8]

This was also the thinking of Miki Kiyoshi. For those coming from Japan where
cotton goods had dried up due to a drastic reduction in raw cotton imports, the
stores in the Philippines selling their existing stocks of imported cotton goods
were a sight for sore eyes. And Kuwano was paying in Japanese military notes
denominated in pesos. In terms of purchasing power, this scrip, which was cir-
culating along with prewar pesos, which had been valued at a rate of 1 peso = 2
yen, but now were valued at par, could now, prior to inflation, buy twice the
amount of Philippine goods as before the war. Cheap indeed! However, only
eleven days after his shopping spree, on 18 May, Kuwano writes,

It seems that the stores in town are running out of goods. Compared to
when I arrived, many things are getting more expensive. According to those
who have lived in Manila for some time, compared to prewar times,
tobacco, liquor and everything else has over doubled in price. Milk is now
selling at ten times its prewar price. There are hotels that no longer served
butter. When stocks are depleted, since there is nothing coming in … the
inflation of military note will probably be unavoidable in a couple of
months. The same phenomenon is bound to occur in all the occupied ter-
ritories of the South. How are we going to solve that?
[Kuwano 1988, 66]

The image of the “ugly Japanese” introduced here is one that was created by
Japanese criticizing the behavior of other Japanese. So, it should not be surpris-
ing that there is no consciousness or perception within all of this censure,
about the presence of “the other.” It goes without saying that the expression of
“ugliness” here does include an image of behavior looked upon as despicable in
the eyes of the occupied; however, there is no Japanese narrative derived from
 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere   157
concrete instances of dialogue with “the other” about such behavior. This lack
of dialogue would soon end, as Japanese would be forced to directly confront
“the other” as the occupied people of the South. It is from this moment on that
the occupation of Southeast Asia would finally take on the full meaning of a
“classroom” or training ground geared toward postwar Japan and its people.

Notes
1 The story of Okiku, a house servant who breaks a piece out of a valuable set of ten
dishes. According to any particular version, she is either punished or killed, either
throwing herself or being thrown into a deserted well. From that time on, the well
becomes haunted with the voice of a woman counting plates, “one, two, three …
nine,” but never reaching ten. Here, a ghost woman counting numbers of phantom
dishes are metaphorically likened to the impossible trade deal with Germany.
2 Wada Sanzō, Tactical Situation Report to Chief of Staff Officer, Marshal Sugiyama,
c.1943. Oil on Canvas. X00150. The National Museum of Modern Art, Tokyo.
3 Murata Shōzō to Murata Takeji, 8 July 1942. From the material sources donated to
the FJOP.
4 “Cotton production by country worldwide in 2016/2017 (in 1,000 metric tons),” www.
statista.com/statistics/263055/cotton-production-worldwide-by-top-countries/.
5 Elizabeth M. Norman and Michael Norman, “Bataan Death March” Encyclopaedia
Britannica, 27 April 2017. (www.britannica.com/event/Bataan-Death-March; Tenney
1995: 94–5).
6 On the history of the guerrilla movement in Ilocos Nortre, see Pobre (1962) and
Llanes (1968). In his book, Llanes quotes from the police documents of the collabora-
tion government of Ilocos, recording counter-­guerrilla operations and atrocities, which
can be checked in his personal papers [Jose L. Llanes Guerrilla Papers, University of
the Philippines Archives].
7 Sixth MD OCA, “Civilian Casualties as a result of the Japanese Atrocities in Panay,
Report,” 11 September 1944. Bdle.#2 Vol. 15, Japanese War Crime Records/Closed
Reports, Philippine National Archives.
4 “Independence” under Japan

1  The conflict over “independence”

“Politics activated, war capacity down”

5 December 1942. Late this evening, just a few days before the one-­year anni-
versary of the first strikes that marked the beginning of the “Greater East Asia
War,” Satō Kenryō, the Ministry of War Military Affairs Bureau Chief had just
come under physical attack in the Vice-­Chief of Staff quarters by an enraged
Tanaka Shin’ichi, Army General Staff Chief of Operations Department. The
Classified War Journal of the War Planning and Management Detail records
that the two generals had exchanged “fists of iron.” It was this same Tanaka
who in June 1941 had appealed to and won over War Planning Detail Lt.
Colonel Arisue Yadoru to his point of view with “his rank, fists and violence.”
This was a point of view vehemently opposed to the “Policy Agenda for the
South” proposed by the Detail, which had leaned toward taking a wait-­and-see
attitude concerning the use of military force in Japan’s advance into South Asia
after bothering to read the conclusions of the Military Affairs Bureau War Prep-
aration Section’s study entitled “Analysis of National Physical Capability.” At
that time, Tanaka had been joined in his promotion of the “golden oppor-
tunity” to strike now view of entering the South by none other than Satō
Kenryō, his opponent in the mêlée of 5 December. According to Satō’s postwar
recollection, Tanaka, who had been drinking heavily, started to draw his sword,
and when someone intervened to stop him, he punched Satō, who then
returned the blow with three of his own [Satō 1985: 315–16].
At the time of the altercation, the transport fleets heading for Guadalcanal,
where a war of attrition was being fought, had been suffering attacks from US
submarines; and in order to replace the sunken ships, the Army General Staff
was seeking to increase its commissioning (leasing capacity) of commercial ships.
The Ministry of War Military Affairs Bureau opposed the request, arguing that
any further military commissioning would harm domestic productivity and
reduce the output of war supplies. The Ministry of War’s opinion was accepted
at the 5 December Cabinet meeting, and the General Staff ’s request for ships
“to cover attrition” between January and March 1943 was cut in half to 85,000
 “Independence” under Japan   159
tons. This was only half the story, for it was also decided that from April on, the
army would “release ship commissions” back to the private sector to the tune of
180,000 tons. As the army’s chief of operations, Tanaka had lashed out against
the Cabinet decision, which left no alternative but to withdraw from Guadalca-
nal, as intervention in the imperial prerogative of supreme command. On the
day following the decision, Tanaka met with prime minister and War Minister
Tōjō Hideki in an attempt to overturn the resolution, but was not successful.
Tanaka’s calling Tōjō and his advisors “you bunch of stupid fools,” leading to
his replacement as chief of operations department is a well-­known episode sym-
bolizing where the war was then headed [Tanemura 1952: 140]. The with-
drawal from Guadalcanal was made official at the Imperial Council (Gozen
Kaigi) held on 31 December.
The chapter from War Planning Detail member Tanemura Suketaka’s
postwar version of the detail’s Classified War Journal, which deals with the
period from the decision to abandon Guadalcanal to February 1944 is entitled
“Politics Activated, War Capacity Down (Odoru Seiji, Kudaru Senryoku) [ibid.,
Chapter 14: 143].” What the title expresses is a growing expectation among
the leadership (of the military and government) that further breakthroughs
would have to be made on the political level in accordance with Japan having
been forced into a defensive position militarily. This trend began on the army’s
China policy front, with the “Basic Policy Direction in Dealing with China for
the Purpose of Successfully Completing the Greater East Asia War” approved
by the Gozen Kaigi of 21 December 1942 [JACAR: B02030534100]. Con-
cerning the Nanjing Republic of China Government’s Wang Zhaoming
(Jingwei) regime, the policy direction, in exchange for Wang’s full participation
and cooperation in the war effort, opened the possibility of (1) returning
concessions and abolishing extraterritoriality; (2) placing limits on “Japan’s
monopoly” over economic policy-­making and (3) relinquishing the right to
station troops “after the war,” all for the purpose of “uniting with a new and
improved, politically strengthened China … and bringing the war to a success-
ful conclusion.” Since the start of the Asian-­Pacific conflict, a propaganda war
had also begun between the Chungking Regime and the US and Britain, on
one side, and the Nanjing Regime and Japan, on the other, marked by the cen-
tenary of the Treaty of Nanjing (August 1942), in which hopes that China’s
unequal treaties would be abrogated were rising and the US and Britain issued
a declaration on 10 October that they were planning to do away with the extra-
territorial rights they exercised vis-­à-vis the Republic of China [Ma 2000:
118–24]. It was in the midst of such an international situation that a public
relations campaign calling for a “new policy” was led by Shigemitsu Mamoru
(b. 1887), the Japanese ambassador to the Nanjing government who was to be
the new Minister of Foreign Affairs and stage the Assembly of Greater East
Asiatic Nations (Dai’tōa Kaigi; hereinafter AGEAN)1 with Tōjō, and began
taking hold in both political and military circles. From November on, it was
General Staff Headquarters who took the initiative in drawing up concrete
measures [Hatano 1996: 77–88].
160   “Independence” under Japan
Despite such phrases as “respect for sovereignty” for governments who
cooperated with Japanese occupations being merely gestures, subjectively speak-
ing, policy had taken a significant turn. According to Tanemura’s recollections,
consideration of “Basic Policy Direction in Dealing with China” was first com-
manded by Department Chief of Operations Tanaka with the words, 

From now on in handling the crisis in China, we will do away with the con-
ventionalities, and have to count on bold political measures. If we win the
War, everything will fall into place afterwards; but if we lose, there will be
nothing left, even if we retain certain interests. What is most important in
winning the War is bringing 400 million Chinese hearts and minds over to
our side. 

Tanemura recalls “PM Tōjō is really excited about this,” resulting in a rapid
approval by the Gozen Kaigi [Tanemura 1952: 144]. Preparations were going
forward in staging a huge PR coup with the arrival of Wang Zhaoming
(Jingwei) from Nanjing to discuss China’s participation in the war effort on 20
December, and then the world was shocked with the announcement of the
signing the Sino-­Japanese joint declaration of war and treaty of alliance on 15
January 1943. On 14 December, all the chiefs of staff of the area armies in
China were summoned to Tokyo for a briefing on the new policy direction. The
Classified War Journal’s entry for that same day reads, “The Basic Policy Direc-
tion for China has drawn an historic line leading us into a period of transforma-
tion and taking the first step in its implementation.” Tanemura who sat in the
presence of the likes of Tōjō and Chief of Staff Sugiyama Hajime making such
declarations as, “Let’s turn our heads around 180 degrees and give our full and
immediate cooperation in implementing these measure,” recalls, “Those who’re
listening rolled their eyes in bewilderment, thinking, ‘What am I hearing?
What’s in store for us now?’ ” [ibid.: 145].
Meanwhile, important policies were being formulated concerning the future
of the southern occupied territories, in the form of “Plan for the Future Title to
the Occupied Territories” and “Matters Concerning Burmese Independence
Policy for the Purpose of Successfully Completing the Greater East Asia War,”
both of which were approved by IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference on 14
January 1943. With these resolutions, IGHQ and the government confirmed
their commitment to granting “independence” to Burma on 1 August 1943,
marking the first anniversary of the formation of the Ba Maw government (a pro-­
Japanese governing mechanism under the supervision of the military administra-
tion), and also to confer “independence” on the Philippines “as soon as possible
after the fruits of cooperation are forthcoming.” Elsewhere, study would begin
on whether or not to add Indonesia to the already published list containing
Malaya and Singapore as a territory earmarked for annexation to the Empire, but
the final decision was delayed, since any “hasty determination of the intentions of
the Empire” could risk “information being leaked” [Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol.
Two: 348–53; JACAR: C12120153600; B02032943700].
 “Independence” under Japan   161
The events leading up to these decisions were, from the start of the war,
marked by complicated and serious conflict among IGHQ, the Southern Army,
each area corps, including those manning political maneuvers and propaganda
programs aiming at national independence of each occupied territory in the
South, particularly Burmese independence. And even after the decisions were
finally made, the worsening of the war became tangled up with continuing
political flare-­ups over the occupied territories, bringing to light an empire
beginning to be tossed about by “the other,” its occupied peoples. There was
through 1942, Southern Army staff officer Ishii Akiho talking about continuing
efforts to check “independence” movements, then through 1943 there appeared
Foreign Minister Shigemitsu Mamoru’s brainchild, “New Policy for Greater
East Asia,” followed by Tōjō Hideki as prime minister introducing measures to
grant “independence” and acting as chief negotiator with the heads of the Asian
entities which attended AGEAN conference.

Imposing a ban on “independence propaganda”

Dusk, 2 March 1942. After landing on Java a detachment of the Osamu Group
Public Relations Detail had just entered the town of Serang, the provincial capital
of Banten in West Java. Amidst the fragrance from the Madelon flowers, calling to
mind Japan’s Paulownia blossoms, “an uncountable flock of swallows nimbly
takes flight soaring through the sky rolling their white underbellies.” Within this
glittering spectacle, the PR detachment began writing in huge letters BERSA-
TOELAH BANGSA ASIA (Asia Unite!) on the walls of houses along the road.

As soon as the Indonesians saw this phrase, they gave us the thumbs up and
shouted in unison, “Hidup Nippon (Long live Japan)!”

“Asia Unite!” When we first embarked on the Greater East Asia War, this
slogan was indeed pure and sincere.
[Machida 1967: 76–8]

This is a scene from the humorous and witty memoir, The Fighting Culture
Corps, published in 1967 by Lt. Colonel Machida Keiji, leader of the Osamu
Group (the Sixteenth Army) Public Relations Detail. Machida then goes on to
tell how such slogans of liberation and holy war first displayed by the PR Detail
were “suppressed” by IGHQ and the Osamu Group Headquarters. According
to his account, prior to the landing on Java, 

I had conferred with people from General Staff Headquarters and come to
an agreement that one of our duties would be trying to raise national con-
sciousness [among the Indonesian people] and urge them to dedicate their
lives to the liberation of Asia in solidarity with Japan. It was for this purpose
that the PR Detail took it upon ourselves to make the first slogan upon
landing “Asia, Unite!” and stir up movements with such strange sounding
names as “Tri-­Asianism.” 
162   “Independence” under Japan
Moreover, “We weren’t trying to deceive anyone. We were really into it. We
were really fired up.” However, “A couple of days—maybe a few weeks at
most—after landing, the excitement of being made Detail leader … ended, like
a deflated advertisement balloon” [ibid.: 139, 142].
As mentioned previously, the Osamu Group PR Detail had prepared for
duty in Tokyo by making recordings of songs like “Indonesia Raya” and sewing
red and white “Merah Putih” flags by the hundreds. The detachment that
accompanied the Palembang occupation paratrooper operation had inundated
the town with Merah Putih flags and broadcast “Indonesia Raya” continuously
over public loud speakers [ibid.: 109]. However, when the Osamu Group
Headquarters declared the establishment of military rule on 7 March 1942,
measures like Declaration #3 (20 March) concerning “Restriction on Speech
and Movement, Etc.” and #4 concerning “The Display of the National Flag,”
made it clear that open political debate and the use of the Indonesian flag
would not be tolerated. (Later the use of the Japanese flag would be forced.)
Soon the song title “Indonesia Raya” was banned, being replaced with “Hidup
Indonesia” [Fukami 1993: 31]. Then on 26 June, a declaration appeared in
which “all speech, behavior and insinuation, as well as propaganda, related in
any way to political issues is hereby prohibited until further notice.” With this
action, “It was only natural for Indonesians to think that they had been hood-
winked by Japan, and our PR Detail, which had joyfully ushered in the military
occupation, had also been deceived by the supreme command” [Machida
1967: 148–9].
Army Lieutenant Hitomi Junsuke of the Watari Group PR Detail, who had
deployed to the Philippines under the impression that granting “independence”
there was a foregone conclusion, shared Machida’s confusion, according to one
of his postwar (1994) interviews.

Now the unequivocal order had come down not to mention the word
“independence” ever again … Everybody in the Detail, beginning with the
intellectuals (writers), was angry, since they had just stripped us of our
raison d’être. Who in the hell does IGHQ think they are! Nobody will ever
be able to trust Japan again! … We were outraged.
[Hitomi 1994: 512–13]

The area corps public relations people were not the only ones to express
bewilderment. “What made it difficult from the beginning was the order never
to mention the word ‘independence,’ ” recalled Iida Shōjirō, commander of the
Burma-­bound Hayashi Group (Fifteenth Army) in his postwar memoirs.
According to Iida,

While I never officially heard this with my own ears, my staff had apparently
heard it from people at the Southern Army General Command. From the
time we began operations in Burma, saying the “I”-word had already been
strictly forbidden.
 “Independence” under Japan   163
[Other than the military objectives of invasion] politically, we had no
intention of making Burma ours. The Burmese were our allies. It was up to
us to assist them in their passionate desire for national independence, to
help them realize their goals. If we could no longer even use the word,
independence, in front of them, how in the world were we supposed to
relate to them our true intentions? 
[Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 483]

What is interesting about this kind of “narrative” is that just about everyone
who was puzzled by the ban put on the “I”-word mentions never having heeded
it. Machida, who admits “I was mesmerized by the initial enthusiasm like everyone
else in the Detail,” recalls “I could do nothing.” Machida writes in his memoir
that as detail leader, he watched over his men with a laissez faire attitude not
daring to keep them from going about their mass propaganda activities proselytiz-
ing a holy war ideology geared toward national liberation and “independence.”
“The Army had picked the wrong man to lead the Detail. Or maybe it was just
one of those ironies of History.” Why? “My holier-­than-thou samurais … pro-
moting the gradual realization of Asian ideals, leading the people of Java in the
direction most feared and hated by the [Japanese] supreme command.” Person-
ally, Machida “did not like the term ‘holy war,’ and never once puts it in writing,”
“my job was to drink sake (alcohol) all day and leave the rest to my men … and
to tell you the truth, I enjoyed every drop of the best Java had to offer.”
Filling in for Machida as his section leader was Shimizu Hitoshi (b. 1913),
head of the popular appeasement program, who in a postwar (1987) interview
never mentioned dissatisfaction concerning any restrictions imposed by the
Osamu Group on his own propaganda campaign stressing pan-­Asianism. The
shadow cast over Shimizu’s postwar recollections by his superior Lt. Colonel
Machida is indeed dim. Rather, Shimizu remembers Osamu Group commander
Imamura Hitoshi as a “tolerant father” covering for him, concerning IGHQ’s
obsession about “if we keep this up, we’re going to find them independent in
no time.” Shimizu also recalls “We promoted [the military’s propaganda] with
the general idea that Imamura is ‘a real savior’ who was actually going to liber-
ate Indonesia.”
Hitomi Junsuke in the Philippines also relates,

From then on we didn’t emphasize that again, but we didn’t exactly deny it
either, in a gesture of passive resistance. For if there was in fact no intention
of granting the Philippines independence, our invasion of the country was
indefensible in terms of propaganda.
[Hitomi 1994: 513]

Hayashi Group Commander Iida also recalls, 

The question of now or later aside, what’s wrong with promising eventual
independence? As I thought me using the word independence by no means
164   “Independence” under Japan
contradicted the essential idea of a holy war and was even inevitable from a
policy standpoint, I had absolutely no qualms about using the word. I did
not, however, go as far as to use the word unnecessarily in such cases as the
public announcements, which didn’t call for the word to be used. 
[Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 483]

Here we have diverse uncontested accounts of how a “noticed prohibition”

never got off the ground, on the ground.

The Tōjō speech of January 1942 and the “battle of telegrams”

The “interdiction” on uttering the word “independence” out loud mentioned
in the “narrative” introduced above was interpreted as coming from “the top,”
“Imperial General Headquarters (IGHQ),” etc., but the actual situation was a
little more complicated than that. First of all, Prime Minister Tōjō Hideki
himself, the “top” figure in the government, was a fervent advocate of the holy
war of liberation ideology, whose bold public statements put the military propa-
gandists to shame. Japan’s first international public statement concerning the
future title to its occupied territories on 21 January 19412 came from the mouth
of Prime Minister Tōjō during his policy direction speech for that year before
the Imperial Diet. The draft of the speech had been approved by the IGHQ/
Government Liaison Conference on the 14th.
To begin with, the draft contained a declaration that since Hong Kong and
Malaya had been British “bases for political disruption in Asia … The Empire
would secure them as such, as bases for the defense of Asia.” As for the
Philippines, 

When the time comes that the people of the islands understand the true
intentions of the Empire and pledge their cooperation as one wing of the
new East Asian order, then the Empire will happily grant them the honor
of national independence. 

Finally, concerning the Dutch East Indies, Burma, etc., “The intentions of the
Empire are no different,” implying that these regions were also being earmarked
for “independence” [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 39; JACAR: B02032971000].
The Army General Staff was not at all happy with such declarations.
Regarding the title of the occupied territories, it had been agreed not to make
“frivolous announcements,” but Tōjō was all of a sudden going to make policy
statements. According to the Classified War Journal, concerning the draft of
Tōjō’s speech having “fairly resolute content,” the General Staff, “as the
supreme command, found it difficult to give it spontaneous approval” and sub-
mitted proposed revisions to the Ministry of War. Although the Draft may have
been “politically effective,” the Classified War Journal expresses the detail’s dis-
satisfaction with Tōjō’s jumping the gun being “arrogant” and “his words of
late indicate that he’s having a nervous breakdown” (15 January 1942). To the
 “Independence” under Japan   165
staff officers at IGHQ, who wanted priority given to military matters pertaining
to the Southern Campaign, Tōjō was probably seen as being bewitched by “the
politics of war” and embarking on a reckless course.
In the final draft, concerning Indonesia and the “Dutch Indies,” the state-
ments were toned down to a great extent to dealing with those territories in
same way as Australia, and in the live speech before the Diet on the 21st, Tōjō
stated that if the “Dutch Indies” and “Australia” “resisted … they would be
crushed,” but if they “understand and cooperate with the true intentions of the
Empire … [we will be] willing to help them in the interest of their own welfare
and development.” On the other hand, the speech retained the promises of
“independence” to the Philippines and that “the intentions of the Empire have
not changed” toward Burma.3 The speech jump-­started the Philippine political
elite, which had been dragging their feet in organizing the collaboration gov-
ernment after the declaration of military rule on 2 January 1942, and provided
the rationale for the formation of the Executive Commission on 23 January,
headed by Jorge Vargas, the former chief of staff of the Manuel Quezon admin-
istration. In this sense, the Tōjō’s speech had a significant impact as a political
message that Japan, departing from its initial attitude of restraint in avoiding
“holy war” propaganda, was now advocating the cause of a colonial
liberation war.
Be that as it may, the day after the speech, a telegram arrived from Southern
Army General Staff Headquarters “demanding an explanation” from both
IGHQ and the government, protesting, despite the fact that it had already been
decided that “the future title of the South would not be determined hastily”
“it’s outrageous that such an abrupt announcement statement was made in the
Prime Minister’s speech.” The telegram excoriating Tōjō’s speech was written
“on no uncertain terms” on orders from Southern Army Chief of Staff Tsukada
Osamu by a still inexperienced chief of military affairs Lt. Colonel Satō Hiro’o.
The telegram arrived while the superior staff officer of military administrative
affairs Ishii Akiho was in Manila negotiating the formation of the Philippine
civilian collaboration government. Tōjō seemed to have been offended by the
missive. Acquiring a copy of the return telegram drafted by IGHQ he “laid
down law” by stating, “Complaints from the field after a decision has been
made will not be tolerated.” Ishii, who had taken a look at the “reprimand”
after returning to Saigon and not knowing the background, “felt like I was in
another world,” but also notes that Tsukada was “mad as hell” at both Tōjō
and Military Affairs Bureau Chief Satō Kenryō [Ishii 1957: 85]. Tsukada
retorted with a telegram to IGHQ, saying, “If the Combined [Southern] Forces
[have done anything] counter to the decisions made at central command, I
would certainly like to hear about it.” Fearing that this tiff would turn into a
“battle of telegrams,” Tanemura Suketaka of the War Planning Detail took steps
not to disseminate the content (Classified War Journal, 23 January 1942). The
episode goes to show how early on in the occupation of Southeast Asia
misunderstanding and conflict arose among IGHQ, the Japanese government
and the Southern Army over the subject of “independence” in the region.
166   “Independence” under Japan
While he acted as if he was an outsider to the telegram battle, Ishii Akiho was
one of those who tried to bring the campaign to grant “independence” to a
screeching halt. In his memoirs, Ishii describes Southern Army Chief of Staff
Tsukada as a soldier who “hated and was uncomfortable with politics” and who
“rubber stamped everything related to military administration” (although, as we
will see later, he was an early advocate of annexing Indonesia as Japanese ter-
ritory). Tsukada’s vice-­chief of staff and military administration department chief
Aoki Shigemasa could also care less about anything other than the battle front,
sporting the pet phrase, “when it comes to administration, we leave everything up
to Colonel Ishii.” Staff officer Satō Hiro’o, who had studied electrical engineering
and came from the technical officer ranks, “was never much use at the beginning
of the War.” This is why, “for all intents and purposes, until May 1942, I took
care of every aspect of military administration at General Command” [Ishii 1957:
5–8]. And so it follows that it was one of Ishii’s tasks in that same capacity to do
everything he could to stop “independence” in its tracks.
16 February 1942. Prime Minister Tōjō spoke again before the Imperial
Diet, the day after the Fall of Singapore. In the Classified War Journal, we find
an icy comment on the prime minister’s overacting, “All the Prime Minister’s
doing at the Diet is bark, bark, bark. Let him bark all he wants, if it brings us
victories. A good hawker is never on the up and up.” Other than the theatrics,
the speech itself, which had been approved on 12 February 1942 by IGHQ/
Government Liaison Conference, added some subtle amendments to the official
government direction with respect to the title of the occupied territories. Con-
cerning what exactly would be “happily” granted by “the Empire” on the con-
dition of “cooperation in building Greater East Asia” was now termed with
respect to Burma “our active cooperation” in “the building of Burma for the
Burmese, cherished for so long by its people.” With respect to India, it was “a
generous and bold offer of assistance in exchange for its patriotic efforts, in
anticipation of the restoration of its position in the world as India for the Indian
people.” And regarding the “people of Indonesia,” it was “respect for their
aspirations and traditions, liberation from the oppression of the US and British
puppets of the Dutch government in exile, and making the region safe for all
Indonesians to live.” It is clear that “independence” had been dropped from the
government’s vocabulary and was replaced with such phrases as “Burma for the
Burmese” and “India for the Indians.” In the case of Indonesia, the unequi-
vocal term “independence” was now replaced with “a safe place to live.”
Overall, it seems that the reaction from the Southern Army urging that clarifica-
tion concerning the title of the occupied territories be delayed had had its
desired effect.
It was in this way that the lines were drawn between various groups in the
military, from the PR Details of the Watari and Osamu Groups to the Hayashi
Group Commander all in favor of “independence,” and politicians led by Tōjō
Hideki extolling Japan’s “holy war” at home and abroad, on the one side,
opposed by a reluctant IGHQ, together with the Southern Army General
Command set on stopping any movement for “independence,” on the other.
 “Independence” under Japan   167
Within such a situation, since the Southern Army General Command was in a
position to issue direct orders to its area corps, as long as IGHQ did not inter-
vene, each area corps was beholden to all the Southern Army policy directions.
And so, it was that the Southern Army ordered the Hayashi Group (Fifteenth
Army) to cease and desist its call for the formation of an “independent”
Burmese government and set up a Japanese military administration (3 June
1942), while disbanding the Minami Agency special ops unit in the process.
This is how Japan’s position on “independence” faded into the background, to
the extent of infuriating the likes of Hayashi Group Commander Iida with
rumored bans on “even mentioning the ‘i’-word” that reverberated through the
ranks of the area corps for a time. Let us now look at the backdrop against
which the Southern Army “reversed course” on the issue of “independence.”

“Independence” as a “scheme”
To begin with, there are two things that need to be confirmed here. The first is
the fact that the kind of independence that was subjected to scrutiny at IGHQ,
the Japanese government, the Southern Army General Command and its area
corps was always premised on Japanese political intervention or military control,
while envisaging guidance provided by the Japanese state and Japanese military
occupation or troop presence at least while under wartime conditions. The dis-
cussion so far regarding this very kind of independence which ignores national
self-­determination has followed the lead of Takeshima Yoshinari and his detailed
study [2003] of the primary sources related to the issue of independence for the
territories of the Southeast Asia occupied by Japan, by enclosing the term in
quotation marks to indicate “so-­called independence.”
As already indicated, the views about “East Asian liberation” and Japan’s
“holy war” occupying Japanese mainstream thinking at the time of the opening
of hostilities were ideas based on the understanding that it was Japan who would
be the sole alliance leader and guiding light in Asia. Furthermore, given the
main objective of the war as attaining national defense resources—“supporting
the war by means of war”—it was necessary that the economies of the territories
occupied in the process be totally subsumed under Japanese military rule. It is
this premise that makes it perfectly clear why the quote/unquote expression of
“independence” should be used. In addition, it has also been hopefully made
clear that while shouting “Asian liberation” from the rooftops, Japan, through
the large-­scale migration of Japanese bureaucrats and private sector businessmen
into the occupied territories soon after the first strikes, embarked on a move to
militarily colonize Southeast Asia.
In the same sense, “Manchukuo” and the Nanjing “Republic of China” were
also “independent” states under Japanese occupation. In these cases, Japan
recognized “independence,” and while local leaders of each region formed the
core of each state, not only did the Japanese garrisons stationed there provide
law enforcement and national defense, but soldiers and bureaucrats were also
dispatched from Japan to take over the important functions of the state by
168   “Independence” under Japan
pulling the strings behind the scenes, while Japanese corporations profited from
positions of economic privilege. This type of “independence” has been described
by Iwatake Teruhiko [1989: 110] as a “military-­led colonialism” and by Hatano
Sumio [1996: 104] as “the Manchukuo model.”
What merits most important significance here is the fact that Tōjō Hideki,
despite all of the oratory constantly pronouncing Japan’s intent to grant inde-
pendence ahead of anyone else, in the throes of an impending “nervous break-
down,” was Japan’s foremost proponent of “the Manchukuo model.” In his
various appointments from the Mukden Incident through the resulting Second
Sino-­Japanese War—as Army General Staff Organization and Mobilization
Section chief, Guangdong Kempeitai commandant and Guangdong Army chief
of staff—Tōjō Hideki prided himself in the “success” of the governance of Man-
chukuo via “guiding hands” behind the scenes and believed deep in his heart in
a “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” family with Japan as the head of the
household. Tōjō’s idea of a patriarchal “Co-­Prosperity Sphere” can be seen in
all its glory in the speeches he delivered as prime minister. For example, he fre-
quently refers to the Nanjing Nationalist regime as “our younger brother.” In
the speech following the Fall of Singapore, he states, “The Empire’s attitude
toward the people of the Republic of China regards us as nothing less than
blood brothers, relying on and helping each other to build Greater East Asia”;4
then on 15 December 1942 while glad-­handing Wang Zhaoming (Jingwei),
who had come to Japan to discuss the Nanjing regime’s participation in the war,
he croons, 

I don’t consider your country to be a weak sister. After all, your govern-
ment is only two years old; you’re still a youngster … when you fall down,
we help you back up … there should be no walls separating brothers …
there’s no need for a child who returns home to stand to attention in the
entrance hall with his calling card ready … We are members of the same
inner circle, make yourself at home. 
[Itō, et al., ed. 1990: 139]

On 1 September 1942, the Tōjō Cabinet forced through a resolution aiming

at the establishment of the Ministry of Greater East Asiatic Affairs, a proposal
based on the idea of applying the “Manchukuo model” to the “Greater East
Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere.” The proposal would consolidate several bureaus of
Ministry of Foreign Affairs related to East-­Asiatic affairs, the Ministry of Recla-
mation, the Asiatic Development Agency (Kōa-in) and all the bureaus related to
Manchuria into one giant ministry, drawing into its purview not only Man-
chukuo and China, but also all the occupied territories of the South, including
those to be granted “independence.” This was none other than what Shigemi-
tsu Mamoru termed “the final plan” to destroy once and for all the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs, which had proven time and again to be a thorn in the military
establishment’s side [Shigemitsu 1986: 421]. Needless to say, Foreign Affairs
Minister Tōgō Shigenori fiercely resisted the plan.
 “Independence” under Japan   169
What is noteworthy for us here is that with his argument Tōgō was attempt-
ing to oppose the “Manchukuo model” and paternalistic “Co-­Prosperity
Sphere,” wielding the sword of modern international law calling for the respect
of national sovereignty and diplomatic equality. “In the process of building
Greater East Asia, respecting the independence of independent states” is neces-
sary and “no attempt should be made to restrict that independence.” The
Greater East-­Asiatic Affairs Ministry proposal 

would alienate the hearts of the people of the occupied territories, and be
detrimental in regard to the India front … the Prime Minister has stated
that the countries of the Greater East Asia region should treat themselves as
kin, but for that to happen, it is first necessary to make others feel like kin.
By intervening in the domestic affairs of others, we ruin that sentiment of
kinship. 

In sum, Tōgō insisted if [Japan] does not respect the modern international legal
ideas of diplomacy toward the countries of “Greater East Asia,” it will never be
able to stand up to American and British colonialism. It can also be taken as a
statement from the same standpoint of Shigemitsu Mamoru’s “new policy,”
which will be discussed later on [Itō et al., ed. 1990: 83–5].
Despite the protest lodged by Foreign Minister Tōgō against the Cabinet
decision, which should have been unanimous, the Foreign Ministry did not
possess the political punch to bring down the Tōjō government at its zenith of
power and Emperor Hirohito had expressed no desire to call for the Cabinet’s
resignation. Tōgō was finally forced to submit his resignation on the same day
as the Cabinet decision was made on 1 September 1943. (Tōjō assumed the
position for time being until Tani Masayuki took his place.) Then on 28
October, a bill to establish the Greater East-­Asiatic Ministry was presented
before a regular session of the Privy Council [Sūmitsu’in] for deliberation,
which “only on rare occasions for such a formal meeting” turned into a long
and heated debate [Fukai 1953: 256]. Tōjō saw the resolution passed by a
majority, another rarity. His words on that occasion expressed his unwavering
belief in the merits of the “Manchukuo model.”

Diplomacy in the conventional sense assumes nations at odds with one

another, and thus does not apply to the region of Greater East Asia, in
which there is nothing but exterior governance for Japan to lead the region
… this is not to alter the existing policy for the countries within the Greater
East Asian Sphere but rather to deal with it by the organization based on
the fact (existing situation). 
[Ibid.: 257]

These words were recorded in the private memorandums prepared by Fukai

Eigo (b. 1871), Privy Council advisor and the former president of the Bank of
Japan, who noted that Tōjō’s rebuttal to the critics “was as plain an indication
170   “Independence” under Japan
as we need of the intention to treat the countries of the Greater East Asia sphere
as dependencies” [ibid.: 257]. In this same rebuttal, Tōjō states, “Our relation-
ship with respect to China is like a father and his family,” once again clarifying
his belief in a “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” subject to Japanese
parental guidance [ibid.: 261]. It was in this manner that the line drawn
between the Japanese government and the military over granting “independ-
ence” to the occupied territories of the South came to divide opinion over
whether or not to grant the kind of not independence but “independence”
envisioned by the likes of Tōjō firmly believing that there is no foreign diplo-
macy but “only exterior governance.”
The second fact that needs to be confirmed here is that from the very begin-
ning of the war, “independence” was never regarded as anything but a
“bōryaku,” i.e., “scheme.” While thumbing through the documents left by the
Imperial Army, one often encounters such phrases as “by means of schemes,”
“through strategic operations and schemes,” etc.5 For a military organization,
the conventional means for achieving their objectives are military operations
involving the use of armed force. However, in the case of the Japanese Army,
whenever there were objectives that could not be achieved merely by conven-
tional warfare (battle operations), or when there were objectives that did not
require the use of force, there was never any reluctance to resort to unconven-
tional warfare and the hatching of “schemes.” In particular, throughout its
preemptive incursions into China since the 1931 Mukden Incident, Japanese
forces had resorted to unconventional tactics ranging from terrorism and drug
trafficking to manipulative ceasefire and peace proposals. In other words, the
Japanese forces saw every available means outside the realm of conventional
warfare (operations) as a “bōryaku/scheme,” thus creating a trade-­off relation-
ship between the two. When trying to solve problems by means of military capa-
bility, there was little room for employing “schemes,” for the latter presented
risks to the success of conventional military operations. Conversely, if conven-
tional operations were not planned to be conducted, the possibilities for hatch-
ing “schemes” were almost unlimited.
From the beginning to the end of his stint as a Southern Army staff officer,
Ishii Akiho regarded “independence” as falling completely within the category
of a “scheme.” In his journal “Diary of Southern Military Administration
(Nanpō Gunsei Nikki),” Ishii creates a section entitled, “Balancing Military
Administration with Bōryaku/Schemes in Burma” [1957: 88] and upon com-
pleting the draft of his outline for implementing military administration in
Burma on 14 January 1942, he uses the expression “the thorny problem of
balancing [military rule] with bōryaku/schemes” [1960: 26]. As a matter of
fact, from the documents he drafted before the war, we can say that Ishii was
the leading advocate for “independence” as a “scheme.” In his “Idea Con­
cerning How to Facilitate the Termination of Hostilities with the United
States,  Great Britain, the Netherlands and Chiang Kai-­shek” [approved by
IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference on 15 November 1941], he writes,
“pro­moting Burmese independence and using that achievement [will] stimulate
 “Independence” under Japan   171
independence movements in India …” At the time Ishii wrote these words of
wisdom, Burma and India had not yet been included in the Southern invasion
campaign plan, meaning that IGHQ was still counting on the special ops
“schemes” hatched by the Minami Agency to foment revolution in Burma and
the “Fujiwara Agency” to form an Indian National Army. However, as soon as
Japan embarked on conventional military operations to invade and occupy
Burma, the Southern Army would then have to disavow “independence” as a
special ops “scheme.” Knowing this fully well, Ishii writes in his memoirs about
the “Idea,” “I drafted it, but when facing the problem of how to deal with
reality, I was hard pressed to actually strike a balance between that [the “inde-
pendence” scheme] and military administration” [Ishii 1957: 88–9].

Ishii Akiho and the issue of Burmese “independence”

End of December 1941. Colonel Suzuki Keiji, head of the Minami Agency
special ops unit, sought confirmation from the Hayashi Group (Fifteenth Army)
of his “Minami Agency Burma Maneuver Plan,” aiming to incite a “rebellion
that will not only disable operations led by the enemy, but also enlist the full
cooperation of the Burmese people” to support the invasion of Burma by the
Japanese Army, which initially limited its field of operation within the vicinity of
the border between Burma and southern Thailand. The plan’s “Outline of
Implementation” called for 

directing the members of the Burmese Independence Party to organize a

rebel army that will destroy the domestic political structure and cause civil
unrest, while at the same time forming a volunteer army as the armed force
at the center of an independent government, then call upon both armies to
first pacify the Tenasserim Division [present-­day Tanintharyi Region], after
which a provisional government would be set up there. 

Then they would lay siege to the capital city of Rangoon, and march north until
“northern Burma is pacified and independence complete” [Bōei Kenkyūjo Sen-
shishitsu, ed. 1967b: 118; JACAR: C01000661500, 0565–6]. In accordance
with the plan, the Burmese Independence Army (BIA) was formed with Suzuki
in command as “General Bo Mogyo,” meaning “Commander Thunderbolt.”
The army’s General Staff was dominated by Japanese officers, but from the
Thakins, Brigadier General Aung San and Lt. Colonel Hla Myaing served as
staff officers [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1967b: 124–6].
At that time, Suzuki had no inkling of any possible contradiction between
such “bōryaku/schemes” and the aim of the Japanese Army’s conventional
military operations. Suzuki’s “Burma Maneuver Plan,” at least on paper,
asserted maneuver for independence to be the “scheme” as a means of warfare.
Suzuki had embarked upon forming the Minami Agency as an intelligence agent
directly under orders from IGHQ, and as the Southern Campaign unfolded,
was first put under orders from the Southern Army [24 November 1941], then
172   “Independence” under Japan
upon the start of the invasion of Burma, he was placed under the command of
the Hayashi Group [23 December]. Suzuki acted as a liaison between IGHQ
and the Southern Army to keep their intentions mutually in sync. It was in
December 1941 that Suzuki was able to confirm the army’s “support for
Burmese independence,” when Army General Staff Operations Section Chief
Hattori Takushirō arrived in Saigon from Tokyo to discuss the Burma cam-
paign. At that time, the Southern Army also “had high expectations regarding
bōryaku/scheme maneuvers in dealing with Burma and considerably placed their
hopes in progress toward Burmese independence as the result of the activities of
the Minami Agency” [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1967b: 121]. As to the
“initial motivation” behind Suzuki’s Burmese independence mission, historians
tend to agree that rather than feeling some kind of resonance with Burmese
nationalism, Suzuki was driven by “the hope of advancement” via success as a
military officer [Takeshima 2003: 211–13].
Meanwhile, as soon as the decision was made to conduct a full-­scale invasion
of Burma, an operation that had not been initially planned, Southern Army staff
officer Ishii Akiho decided to do everything in his power to put a stop to any
further development of Suzuki’s independence “scheme.” Ishii repeatedly
argued, 

This is not the time for forming an independent government that could
screw up the campaign. The more intense our demands for the campaign
became, the more an independent government would be forced by us to
pursue policy against the will of the people, which would end up in disillu-
sionment and grief, bringing about growing opposition between [an inde-
pendent regime] and Japan, in general, and the Army, in particular. 
[Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 453]

For Ishii, filled with the hope that “since we would fight a war in the South, we
should clear the air and make it crystal clear that these would be wartime con-
ditions” and with the firm intention to act decisively to secure military material
and procurement on the ground for the occupying forces, for which the local
civilians “should be made to bear that burden” [ibid.: 443], every effort would
be necessary in opposing the kind of “wartime politics” that would allow “the
occupied” becoming a political force to be reckoned with, even under the kind
of “independence” Japan was willing to offer.
Changing perspective, Ishii was critical of the idea of “independence” as
defined by the “Manchukuo model,” which he thought would not lead to
winning the hearts and minds of the people. On this point, Ishii would have
agreed with Foreign Minister Tōgō opposing Prime Minister Tōjō’s position on
the issue of setting up a Ministry of Greater East-­Asiatic Affairs. If we interpret
Tōgō’s argument as being if we grant independence, we must respect national
sovereignty, then Ishii’s political intuition makes sense, since granting independ-
ence sans quotation marks was simply impossible for any entities under foreign
occupation and invasion while granting the kind of independence with
 “Independence” under Japan   173
quotation marks would do nothing but betray the hopes of the occupied. So
why grant anything? No deal might have been better. It was his belief in such a
rationale that turned Ishii into a one-­man fire department attempting to “extin-
guish the blaze” every time politics threatened to fan the flames of Burmese
“independence.” His “Diary of Southern Military Administration” relates such
fire-­fighting experiences in detail.
5 January 1942. Suzuki Keiji submitted his “Burma Maneuver Plan” to the
Southern Army General Command. Ishii “says ‘no’ and proposes it be shelved
for a while,” since, he recalled, it was “a plan to infiltrate southern Burma and
immediately set up a provisional government” [Ishii 1957: 89]. Hayashi Group
Commander Iida Shōjirō also recalled that at the time, Suzuki’s plan to set up a
provisional government during the invasion of Burma “was unreasonable, so I
didn’t approve it” [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 483–4]. Ishii, who had completed
his draft of “Outline for Military Administration in Burma” in mid-­January
1942, went to Bangkok on 8 February, the day before the Southern Army’s
order for the infiltration of strategic areas within Burma, to explain orders per-
taining to the implementation of military administration before the Hayashi
Group General Staff Officers. He hopes he could win them over to the strategy, 

By all means set up a military administration which utilizes as extensively as

possible local governance mechanisms, continue to foster the independence
movement through bōryaku/schemes and organize its advocates into a
volunteer army, but do not let them form an independence government
too early; rather absorb its leaders into the existing governance
mechanisms. 
[Ishii 1957: 90–1]

However, when Ishii returned to Saigon on 10 February there was a surpris-

ing telegram from IGHQ waiting for him. The gist of the telegram was “take
the lead in establishing Burmese independence around the time of the siege of
Rangoon.” Since Rangoon was situated in the south near the border with Thai-
land, “around the siege” of that city meant granting immediate “independ-
ence.” Ishii’s first reaction to the telegram was that Suzuki Keiji, leader of the
Minami Agency special ops unit who had been directly under IGHQ command
until very recently, was behind all this through his connections there. Ishii
replied, “Conditions here have not progressed that far” and sent a “personal”
telegram to the 8th (Scheme Ops) Section Chief Takeda Isao picking his brain
about “what are your ideas in considering an independent governance mech-
anism?” to which Takeda replied, “Let me get back to you on that.” Mean-
while, the invasion was making headway to Moulmein on 31 January 1942,
then to Rangoon on 8 March, in the midst of which the Burmese Independence
Army was creating quite a stir among the masses and the independence move-
ment was beginning to build momentum. “Nevertheless, in reality, we were to
set up the military administration. They [Minami Agency] began to be
frustrated.”
174   “Independence” under Japan
Col. Suzuki of the Minami Agency was having a rough time of it in the
form of growing disagreement with his superior officers. The colonel and
his Japanese officers infiltrated the BIA and depending on the circum-
stances, were bragging about raising the flag of rebellion against the Japa-
nese forces. [Southern Army’s] Chief of Bōryaku/Scheme Special Ops.
Ōtsuki [Akira] went to Rangoon in mid-­March to confer with Suzuki and
calm him down.
[Ishii 1957: 91–2]

21 March 1942. Hayashi Group Commander Iida, who had been persuaded by
Ishii’s arguments at the start, begins “to have a change of heart” and expresses
his opinion to the Southern Army commander [Terauchi Hisaichi] that “Burmese
independence should be actuated quickly,” a request that Ishii is determined “to
absolutely forbid” [ibid. 1960: 51]. It was at just that time (23 March) that a
contingent led by IGHQ Army Chief of Staff Sugiyama Hajime, along with his
Bōryaku/Scheme Special Ops Section Chief Takeda and Military Operation
Section Chief Hattori, arrived in Saigon on an inspection tour of the South. Ishii
became involved with the contingent, in particular Takeda, in a debate over such
topics as “how to deal with Burma, bōryaku/scheme in India and the use of Hu
Wenhu (entrepreneur and politician who was captured by the Japanese force
during the occupation of Hong Kong),” which resulted in “disagreements all
around.” Ishii recalls “Takeda looking uncomfortable” when “I let slip some
harsh words criticizing the hastiness” of Burmese independence. At the begin-
ning of April, Ōnishi Hajime, Ishii’s replacement as the Ministry of War’s Military
Affairs Section top level staff member, who had accompanied Military Affairs
Bureau Chief Mutō on an inspection tour of the South, remonstrated Ishii saying
“You’re going too far, restricting Burmese independence. Slow down!” Ishii was
thus fighting a lonely battle taking on the top brass [ibid. 1957: 92–5].
On 8 April, Ishii flew to Rangoon and the next day at Corps Headquarters in
Toungoo “candidly had it out man-­to-man with Commander Iida about the
future of Burma.” 

General Iida was of the opinion that Burma should be granted independ-
ence immediately. I rebutted his argument with examples of my own excru-
ciating experiences in China. With that, I went as far as to justify that it
might be a good idea to leave Burma and other areas open for considera-
tion as Japanese territory. Nevertheless, the conversation of course proved
fruitless. 

Ishii, who also took the opportunity to observe the BIA up close, writes, “They
were like the paramilitary squads we used in China. Their relationship with the
military administration was confused. If they were not handled properly, they
were capable of causing a great deal of trouble” [ibid.: 97–8].
On 23 May, just after the declaration of “mission completed” for the military
phase of the Southern Campaign, the Hayashi Group Headquarters once again
 “Independence” under Japan   175
wired the Southern Army to announce, “We will form a new government
regime in Burma.” Ishii stuck to his guns. While replying that the Hayashi
Group should correct the direction, he dispatched Staff Officer Satō Hiro’o to
Rangoon. On his return Satō, reported to Ishii that the BIA should “be dis-
banded as soon as possible, and that the Southern Army General Command
agreed that letting a volunteer army run wild was indeed risky.” Following this
line of reasoning, Ishii devised a proposal for a military governance mechanism
that was sanctioned by Southern Army Commander Terauchi and issued to the
Hayashi Group for implementation. Consequently, the BIA was reorganized
and reformed as the Burmese National Army (hereafter BNA), the Minami
Agency special ops unit disbanded, and Colonel Suzuki Keiji was relieved of
duty [ibid.: 98–9].
1 August 1942. A Burmese civilian government presided over by Ba Maw
was formed in the same manner as the government of the Philippines. With this
move, the Southern Army had now intervened to bring to a screeching halt the
Burmese “independence” mission, which, before the war, was first regarded part
of the “scheme” to come, then after the start of the war was continued along
with the full-­scale invasion of Burma amongst all the excitement about Japan’s
“holy war” to liberate the region. Ishii recalls that it took some time “to pains-
takingly iron out the contradictions presented by the Burmese independence
operation that plagued us even before the War started,” and that in the end
Japan was able to set up an administrative organization in Burma “not all that
different” in character from the one in Philippines [Ishii 1957: 100].
That being said, the issue of Burmese “independence” was not over by any
means. Even after the formation of a civilian government in August 1942, Ishii
continued to be “frequently clouded in an atmosphere, emanating not only
from Burma, but also from the Hayashi Group’s top brass and almost everybody
in Tokyo, of dissatisfaction with the mere formation of a government.” Iwakuro
Hideo, who took over the India independence movement scheme program
from the Fujiwara Agency, also expressed similar dissatisfaction in his hope that
immediate Burmese independence would “trigger” the independence move-
ment in India. Meanwhile, it was around the time of the formation of the
Burmese government, that IGHQ began toying with the idea of an invasion of
eastern India. Despite the fact that several previous studies revealed gloomy out-
looks regarding success, followed by either abandonment or postponement,
now that the war was taking a turn for the worse, the plan was pushed forward,
starting in motion a flow of events leading to the Imphal Campaign (also known
as the Battle of Imphal; March–July 1944), which would deal a devastating
blow to the Japanese war effort. As of mid-­year 1942, the thinking at IGHQ
was “we are still uncertain whether or not we would proceed with the plan, but
there is a still a chance we will, so we had better be prepared.” Ishii was of the
opinion that if an invasion of eastern India was begun,

the requirements for the operation would inevitably fall on Burma, whether
we liked it or not. We would have to put an end to efforts at winning the
176   “Independence” under Japan
hearts of the people, which an independent Burmese government would
never be persuaded to accept.

While preparing for such a contingency with the draft of a secret agreement
between an independent government and Japan recognizing “interior guidance
authority” on the part of the Japanese Army commanders, Ishii was also trying
to avoid such a situation by repeating to all within earshot his mantra about
postponing the formation of an independent Burmese government [ibid.:
101–4].
1 July 1942. On the occasion of the Southern Army General Command’s
move to Singapore, Chief of Staff Lt. General Tsukada Osamu was transferred
to command the Eleventh Army (central China area corps) and replaced by Lt.
General Kuroda Shigenori from Staff Headquarters in Tokyo, who was a strong
advocate of granting “independence” to Burma, “not only because it was what
was in the wind at central command in Tokyo, but also because he personally
believed that it was the right thing to do.” Kuroda seemed to be teasing Ishii,
who had “solidified his views” from his bitter experiences in China, when he
quipped, “Wang [Zhaoming/Jingwei] gave you a pretty rough time of it in
China, didn’t he?” [ibid.: 104]. At a military affairs conference held in Tokyo
between 12 and 13 October, Kuroda brought up the issue of a declaration by
the prime minister promising Burma independence at the earliest possible
opportunity and presented a proposal for directing Ba Maw to begin prepara-
tions for independence. However, Kuroda rescinded his proposal in the midst of
vehement opposition by his Southern Army staff officers, including Ishii, result-
ing in the dispatch of a personal letter from Tōjō to Ba Maw that read, “We
promise to recognize independence at the appropriate time.” Ishii was relieved,
thinking that this was as far as things were going to go regarding Burmese inde-
pendence [ibid.: 105–7].
6 January 1943. Ishii Akiho was transferred from the Southern Army General
Command to the Army War College due to health reasons. “Now one more obs-
tacle to Burmese independence had disappeared from the Southern theater,” he
recalls [ibid.: 109]. Meanwhile in Tokyo, reports of the imminent conclusion of
a Sino-­US treaty rescinding all extraterritorial rights in China forced the resched-
uling of the joint Japan-­Nanjing regime declaration and treaty signing marking
the latter’s participation in the war (according to the “new China policy”), from
15 to 9 January , early enough to beat out the Sino-­US treaty signing by two
days. Chiang Kai-­shek, heartbroken over being preempted by the Japan-­Wang
regime agreement due to delays in the Sino-­UK negotiations caused by disagree-
ment over the return of the Kowloon Peninsula to China, stood before the
Nationalist Assembly and called Britain’s refusal to return Kowloon “extremely
regrettable” [Ma 2000: 132–3]. Japan had drawn first blood in the diplomatic
battle of Asian-­Pacific international declarations and treaties.
Together with such harbingers of great things to come on the China front,
IGHQ entered the final stages of its study, “Plan for the Future Title to the
Occupied Territories” and the discussion turned to “an immediate decision” on
 “Independence” under Japan   177
Burmese independence in order to “solidify our defenses before the US and
Britain have a chance to counterattack.” The “activated politics” was rising at
tempo allegro. Prime Minister Tōjō remarked, “If we rely only on reports and
opinions from the troops on the ground [Southeast Asia], military rule will
remain intact there for the next two or three years,” but, “things have their own
way [of working out]” [Itō, et al. 1990: 500]. Such a statement showed that
the decision by Tōjō, IGHQ and the government to let Burmese independence
happen had been made on the run.

A labyrinth with no way out

From the “narrative” provided to us by Ishii Akiho, he was fighting almost
alone in trying to bring anyone, soldier or politician, over to his argument
opposing immediate “independence” for Burma. This was not because Ishii’s
opposition derived from his own personal view of the issue, for it is well docu-
mented that the same argument had become well established within the
Southern Army General Command. Originally, the Southern Army had been
formed as a combined force charged with “securing the South and establishing
a self-­sufficient victorious apparatus” over a more than likely protracted war as
one agency for coordinating strategic measures determined within the Japanese
military (Army Order No. 650, 29 June 1942) [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985: 23;
JACAR: C14060076900]. From this standpoint, the most important issues
facing the Southern Army was taking control of the Southeast Asian economy,
including commodity distribution networks, monetary institutions and human
resource mobilization, by giving top priority to the needs of military operations
and securing logistics. Therefore, it would only logically follow that the
Southern Army would be opposed to independence (even the “independence”
version), which would open to the occupied peoples of the South, who inevit-
ably were to become the victims of its economic hegemony, available paths
through which they could take direct political action and pose obstacles to
military campaigns and lines of supply.
In the diary of Sakakibara Masaharu, who worked at Southern Army General
Command headquarters as well, we find frequent statements criticizing “inde-
pendence” along the lines of Ishii Akiho. For example, at the time that IGHQ
was applying pressure in favor of granting “independence,” soon after the for-
mation of a Burmese civilian government, Sakakibara wrote, 

there is no means other than exploitation in bringing the war to completion

… the question is how to implement it … things like political attempts to
win the hearts of the aborigines are problems we will deal with in the next
phase … for now there is only obtaining important material. 
(17 August 1942)

Then, during April 1943, while on his tour of Burma, which would within the
year be earmarked for independence, Sakakibara, while criticizing the fact that
178   “Independence” under Japan
military rule had been thrown into a panic by preparations for independence
and was losing the capability of carrying out its essential function to support the
war effort through effective logistics administration, wrote, 

such phrases as independence government are [nothing but a part] of the

big propaganda scheme … Which is more important? The War or inde-
pendence? … Independence cannot be achieved without victory on the
battlefield … the urgent tasks at hand for Japan have to do with the War,
organizing the Burmese masses to prosecute the War and giving full-­scale
support to the operations of the Japanese forces. 
(27 April 1943)

Such an argument is chock full of the views held throughout the Southern Army
giving top priority to successfully completing the “war for resources.”
What is interesting here is the statement made in the postwar “narrative” by
Machida Keiji, the Osamu Group PR Detail leader who complained that he
“had been deceived by the supreme command,” that his detail’s exhorting
“independence” among the Indonesian people “was one of the biggest mistakes
in the Greater East Asia War.” There is Machida’s personal experience of
landing on Java to spread the word about Japan’s “holy war,” and after realizing
how he had been “deceived,” letting his detail do what they wanted in conduct-
ing propaganda about “independence” while he made his job “drink sake
(alcohol) all day.” Then there are his objective observations as an army officer,
perceptions not far from those of Ishii Akiho and Sakakibara Masaharu. “There
wasn’t any need for Japan to go flaunting it [independence] all over the place.
To the contrary, putting the kibosh on such extremism should have been
Japan’s most important point in its indoctrination efforts” [Machida 1967:
115]. Placed once again in the position of an individual soldier, Machida was
also of the opinion that from the standpoint of the Southern Campaign as pro-
secuting a “war for resources,” bōryaku/schemes directed at “independence”
enabling the occupied peoples to rise up as agents of direct political action,
placed nothing but stumbling blocks in Japan’s way and would in reality come
back to haunt the Japanese forces.
In contrast, Ishii Akiho recalls with the help of hindsight his own past efforts
to apply the brakes to Burmese “independence,” pleading he doesn’t know
whether or not Burmese “Independence” on 1 August 1943 “contributed to
Japan’s and the army’s cause or shackled us in any way during the coming dif-
ficulties we experienced in the war after that date.

Considering here and now in postwar terms, Japan giving Burma its inde-
pendence at a relatively early date may have contributed positively to the
friendship between our two countries today, and in retrospect, granting
them independence on that 1st Day of August Showa 17 [1942] instead of
1 August 1943 could have probably been a damn smart idea.
[Ishii 1957: 109]
 “Independence” under Japan   179
Ishii might want to say there really was no need to have agonized so much over
whether or not to prioritize the high moral ground of liberation and “independ-
ence,” if Japan was destined to lose in any case. From such after thoughts given
by Machida and Ishii, we are presented with the portrayal of the Japanese
Empire entering a maze with no way out, in terms of political dialogue between
the Japanese occupiers and the occupied of Southeast Asia, since it was an inva-
sion and consequent occupation that was clearly attempting to build a military-­
led colonial regime wrapped in the rhetoric of liberation and independence from
Western hegemony.
What we have also seen above is a fairly broad-­based contingent of players—
from the PR Details in Java and the Philippines, bōryaku/scheme special ops
units in Burma and India, and the Hayashi Group Headquarters, all active in
the region, to the very top in Tokyo, both military and civilian—all supporting
and promoting “independence,” adding their own riffs to the main theme, thus
resisting the Southern Army’s attempt to halt this rising “politicization” of the
war with its own “war for resources” line of reasoning. So, what are we sup-
posed to make of such a conflict? To begin with, it is quite possible that there
were among the Japanese dispatched to various regions of Southeast Asia those
who reasoned that “independence” of its colonies was the obvious conclusion
they draw from the then popular understanding of Japan’s war objectives.
What is more important here, however, is that these Japanese reacted negatively
to measures aiming at suppressing “independence” based on their direct
field  experiences of contact with the people and administrative leaders of the
occupied.
On the other hand, the leadership in Japan, both at IGHQ and in the gov-
ernment, ignored the Southern Army’s wait-­and-see attitude toward “independ-
ence,” and assertively took the initiative in coordinating policy geared toward
“independence” for Burma. What lay in the background can probably be identi-
fied as the army’s penchant for “bōryaku/scheme” of a political nature.
However, what may be even more important is that both IGHQ and the gov-
ernment had been forced to adopt a “global perspective” within the composi-
tion of a world war, as indicated by parallel events developing around the issue
of world powers returning concessions and rescinding rights of extraterritoriality
in China. To put it another way, Japan was being forced to keep constantly
in  mind two different “others”: the occupying forces had the occupied to
worry  about, while IGHQ and the government were facing the international
community.
Of course, adopting a “global perspective” amounts to no more than apply-
ing the “Manchukuo model” when it came to the brand of “independence”
being sold by the political and military leadership in Tokyo, beginning with
Tōjō’s rhetoric, a bill of goods nowhere near the kind of national sovereignty
defined by modern international law. The true intent behind this kind of “inde-
pendence” was probably best laid out in all its splendor by Tōjō himself in an
explanation of the objectives behind concluding a treaty of independence with
Burma before the Privy Council on 29 July 1943, just a few days before
180   “Independence” under Japan
Burmese “Independence.” His presentation is replete with the phrase “[saving]
face of a small country.” He premises this phrase with the fact that “Burma is a
nation based on moral righteousness as one member of the Greater East Asia
Co-­Prosperity Sphere, and whose cooperation is needed in building a new world
order.” 

We must always be cognizant of the necessity to save face of small countries

… but it is the largesse and military might of Japan that will enable Burmese
independence … The inclusion of equal terms in the text of the treaty is
intended to clearly uphold such dignity of Burma, while its political agenda
will be controlled by Japan and Japan’s superior strength will prevail in any
future problems that may arise … But we don’t want Burma to be made
aware that force will be used … Therefore, it is in order to allow them to
save face that we are concluding a treaty guaranteeing independence on an
equal footing.
[Itō, et al., ed. 1990: 522–3]

In these statements, which cannot be called anything but self-­serving, one may
easily extradite notions of Japan as a patron state, in which diplomacy
accompanied by granting “independence” would only be an expedient for Japan
to act as Burma’s patron state, as Tōjō stated elsewhere, “there is nothing but
exterior governance for Japan to lead the region” [Fukai 1953: 257].
What comes into question here, however, is that despite being subsumed
under Japan’s military superiority, or rather due to that fact, the occupied will
now be able to rise up in direct political action ready and willing to erase the quo-
tation marks from the “independence” they have been granted. Now let us look
at to what extent Japan attempted to force upon the occupied its self-­serving
image of a “co-­prosperity sphere” based on Tōjō’s beloved “Manchukuo model.”

2  The rising voices of the occupied

Dead end of the war

10 March 1943, Army Day, annual commemorations for the Imperial Army’s
victory march into Fengtian (present-­day Shenyang) during the Russo-­Japanese
War. At the main entrance to the Nippon theater in Tokyo’s Yūrakucho, a huge
hyakujōshiki (165 sq. m) wall hanging, unfurled on the 5th, reproduced a
photograph entitled “Fight to the Finish! (Uchiteshi Yaman!),” with a close-­up
of two Japanese soldiers donning steel combat helmets and jungle fatigues in
the midst of mortar fire, one set to throw a hand grenade and yelling loudly
something like “Here’s a hand grenade for you!” (campaign sponsor Asahi
Shimbun 28 February morning edition interpretation) and the other in prone
position with bayonet fixed. The photograph was taken by Kanemaru Shigene
(b. 1900), Japan’s pioneering “commercial photographer,” who was to become
the first chairman of the Japan Advertising Photography Association after the
 “Independence” under Japan   181
war. Author Fukada Yūsuke (b. 1931) recalls his impression after looking up at
that giant poster on his way home from primary school: “I was overawed by
how the photo had been enlarged so many hundreds of times, but also
remember being mesmerized by the strange presence of the screaming soldier,
feeling the urgency of the War, however vaguely” [Fukada 1991: 9–10].
It had been a month now since the “change of course” after Guadalcanal (9
February). The death of Combined Fleet Commander Yamamoto Isoroku in an
aerial battle over Bougainville Island (21 May) and the “Gyokusai” annihilation
of the Attu Island Garrison (30 May), which had fought to the death in the
Aleutians, would be officially released from IGHQ on each date. The German
forces had been devastated in the battle for Stalingrad and forced to surrender
on 2 February, and on 10 July the Allied forces would land on Sicily, leading to
the collapse of Mussolini’s regime. The arrival of desperate times in the war
effort and the fact that the Axis powers were already losing it could no longer be
hidden from the public.
As to the battlefront, which had worsened to the extent that Japan now
found itself backed into a corner, IGHQ and the government had drawn up and
were now constantly deliberating over a document entitled “World Situation
Assessment,” which presented an analysis of how far the world war had come
and what steps to take in the future. While recognizing that the war had taken a
turn for the worse, the document argues that the conflict will be successfully
completed if only by the skin of Japan’s teeth, relying on wishful thinking. The
various versions of the document and minutes of its deliberation sessions bring
to light a Japanese war leadership clearly despondent over the changes in global
affairs, in general, and the growing attack capability of the Allied forces, in par-
ticular, but at the same time powerless to make any fundamental changes to
their overall strategy.
The “Overall Assessments” of 7 November 1942 and 27 February 1943 are
almost identical.

Over the coming two years now we will overcome all difficulties … allied
with Germany and Italy in firmly establishing a self-­strengthening invincible
political and military front … in significantly reducing the enemy’s war
capability whenever and wherever we meet US and British counterattacks
… we are fully confident that the US and Britain’s war ambitions will
eventually dissipate, and we will be able to sufficiently attain our war
objectives.
[Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967: Vol. 2: 173–4, 385; JACAR: C12120216300;
C12120219100: 96–7]

Here we find a vague optimism in the hope of subduing one Allied counterat-
tack at a time. However, in the time that had elapsed between these two ver-
sions of the “Assessment,” the war front had gone through a significant
transformation, with Japanese and German defeats at Guadalcanal and Stalin-
grad, respectively.
182   “Independence” under Japan
The deliberations over the February 1943 “Assessment” are reported “envel-
oped in an atmosphere of general agreement” over the pressing need to make
adjustments in the existing strategy geared to bringing Britain to its knees prior
to defeating the United States. Here the consensus sought succor in the words
of Foreign Minister Tani Masayuki that the United States was “weak in spirit”
and “was being undermined by labor problems, national elections, etc.” PM
Tōjō chimed in with the supposition that “America’s weakness … is of a psycho-
logical nature, in divided public opinion and the fomentation of war weariness
over the coming three years.” And interjecting a ray of hope, he asks, “After all,
we can hardly say that the US enjoys an overabundant supply of human
resources, can we?” Despite the optimism, there was no satisfactory reply to
Tōjō’s inquiry that could lead to a “decisive conclusion” [ibid.: 379–81]. And
overall, despite the deep belief reiterated with the utmost confidence before the
war about Americans being quitters, the Japanese war leadership, still confident
now over one year after the actual opening of hostilities, has demonstrated its
astonishingly poor problem-­solving ability and learning curve.

Shigemitsu Mamoru’s “new policy for Greater East Asia”

There was one amongst this group of war leaders enveloped in an atmosphere
of increasing gloom concerning the downturn happening at the front and suf-
fering from a lack of ingenuity about how to deal with it, who managed to
inject a breath of fresh air into the deliberations. Shigemitsu Mamoru, whom
we have already seen as the leading advocate for “a new China policy direction”
as ambassador to that country, had now been appointed foreign minister at the
request of PM Tōjō on the occasion of the Cabinet shakeup in April 1943 and
thus given a place at the table in the War Room in Tokyo.
Shigemitsu was a veteran career diplomat who before the war had held the
posts of ambassador to the Soviet Union and Britain, before taking up similar
duties in China just after the first strikes in December 1941. He struck a familiar
figure wherever he went, hobbling on a prosthetic right leg after being wounded
in the Shanghai Bombing Incident of April 1932 instigated by a member of the
Korean independence movement. In a piece written just before the start of the
war (2 December 1941), Shigemitsu had criticized the reckless manner in which
Japan had been plunged into war, stating,

I’m completely flummoxed as to what kind of self-­destructive force was behind

it. While the whole country does seem to have gone stark raving mad, I still
can’t stand to see the sight of it having to suffering a nervous breakdown.
[Shigemitsu 1986: 315]

In his postwar “narrative,” as well, Shigemitsu tells us that he was naturally

opposed to the establishment of the Ministry of Greater East-­Asiatic Affairs for
its “dismantlement of the Foreign Affairs Ministry,” and to show his opposition,
decided to resign his post as ambassador to China without having a chance to
 “Independence” under Japan   183
implement his proposed “new China policy direction.” However, he rescinded
his resignation when Tōjō, of all people, approved the “new policy” and sought
his cooperation in its implementation. His appointment as foreign minister in
the new Tōjō Cabinet was above all for the purpose of implementing that policy
and also promoting a “new policy for Greater East Asia,” which “expanded the
China policy to encompass to the broadest extent possible the areas under
Japan’s control” [Shigemitsu 1952, Vol. 2: 166, 170, 173].
Regarding this Shigemitsu-­style diplomacy during the Asia-­Pacific War, there
is the comprehensive research done by Hatano Sumio [1996], who has exam-
ined in detail the series of policies for Greater East Asia promoted by Shigemitsu
in his attempt to make “decolonization” an issue in discussing the War. Hatano
praises the efforts made by Shigemitsu to transcend the image of a “Greater East
Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” under “Japan’s leadership,” and pursue his version
of wartime Asian diplomacy offering such principles as autonomous independ-
ence and national sovereignty on an equal standing with Japan, which could be
comparable with the Allied nations’ Atlantic Charter. Kawanishi Kōsuke [2012]
has gone even farther in arguing that the concept of “autonomous independ-
ence,” by which Shigemitsu’s diplomacy tried to give substance to the “Co-­
Prosperity Sphere,” in effect gave birth to “agents for resisting Japan” and
threatened Japan’s proposed “leadership role.” At the same time, the idea of
granting independence to the South became caught up in the debate over
Korean independence and suffrage, and thus began undermining the Japanese
Empire in the world of public opinion, even prior to the collapse of its military
superiority. While following both of these approaches to “Shigemitsu diplo-
macy,” let us first trace the “narrative” pertaining to the “new policy for Greater
East Asia.”
As discussed later, Shigemitsu highly praised PM Tōjō for his contribution
to “new policy” directions; however, Shigemitsu’s writing from the time of his
appointment as foreign minister in that Cabinet is filled with harsh criticism
about the ways in which the Tōjō Cabinet worked under military leadership.
Even in a piece dated as late as 2 July 1944, on the eve of the Tōjō Cabinet’s
resignation triggered by the “Gyokusai” annihilation on Saipan, in which
the  Cabinet is described as a “Manchurian regime” of despotism issuing
orders  under the narrow-­minded leadership of a military faction, Shigemitsu
writes,

The Tōjō Cabinet has considered political diplomacy to be an obstacle …

They think political diplomacy does not exist outside the sphere of the
political strategy of war planning and management, which is one aspect of
military affairs. Even now, IGHQ drafts directions, agendas and mecha-
nisms for war planning and management under military leadership, that
include diplomacy and domestic affairs, as well … However, they are con-
fused about where lie the basic concepts. Today’s world will unfold from
the whole spectrum of human life, which does not begin with the world-
view of few soldiers. Diplomacy begins from the whole spectrum of external
184   “Independence” under Japan
relations; politics traverses the whole spectrum of human political life.
Military affairs should not prevail over a national decision, while the latter
should not be determined relying on the former.
[Shigemitsu 1986: 419–20]

Shigemitsu’s observations can certainly be read as a biting criticism of a military

establishment that could only see politics as one of the “bōryaku/schemes”
available within the sphere of military operations. From such a point of view, we
find the “war for resources” realism espoused by Ishii Akiho, who also tried to
separate politics from conventional war, and Tōjō and his counterparts at
IGHQ, who promoted “the politics of war” as a “scheme” and actively sup-
ported “independence” according to the “Manchukuo model,” were all in the
same boat, uncomprehending significance of political diplomacy. In the “nar-
rative” presented here, one cannot but sense Shigemitsu’s powerful desire to
wrest “political diplomacy” from the war leadership of soldiers backed into a
corner and return it to civilian custody. The following is an overview of what he
tried to achieve as Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Shigemitsu’s “new China policy” and its extrapolated “new policy for Greater
East Asia” were, in sum, “for completely recognizing China’s independent
sovereignty and the return of China into the hands of the Chinese,” meaning
the abrogation of Japan’s unequal treaties with China and the wider application
of such a principle to “the nations of East Asia” [Hatano 1996: 83]. Using our
terminology, such a policy encompasses Chinese-­Japanese relations character-
ized by mutual respect for national sovereignty and equality between two inde-
pendent nations (sans quotation marks) and lays down the principle for
international relations within the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere.”
According to his postwar recollections [1952], as to the background against
which Shigemitsu advocated his “new China policy” upon being appointed
Ambassador to China in Nanjing just after the opening of hostilities with the
US and Britain, he thought that even if the Manchurian problem could be
solved with “Japan’s limited capability,” the China problem could not; and
“there was no way to harmonize relations between the two countries, whether
Japan won or lost the war, but to adopt a policy based on equality and mutual
respect between Japan and China.” He also pointed out that by end of 1942
the military had “changed its attitude, if only on the surface” and aligned with
Shigemitsu’s “new policy” thanks to “the ability of Prime Minister-War Minister
Tōjō to get things done with some encouragement from the lips” of Emperor
Hirohito. Then, “after almost a year [from January 1942] of indecision and
waning opportunity, things came to fruition,” with a change of perspective on
the war in China brought about by the opening of hostilities with the US and
Britain. Shigemitsu points to three factors here. To begin with, over 1 million
Japanese youth had become involved in the Second Sino-­Japanese War since
1937 and “they finally came to the conclusion after all the bloodshed that the
two countries did not have “anything to argue about,” much less “any reason to
wage war.” Second, 
 “Independence” under Japan   185
a major breakthrough in Japanese understanding of the world situation
occurred since they were plunged in the Great War … now they understand
Japan’s mission regarding Asia, is a responsibility to be shared with China
… Once the Japanese people realize that the liberation of East Asia and
Asian resurgence must be Japan’s mission, they gradually awake from the
nightmare they found themselves in. 

Finally, the procurement of material by the Japanese forces in China had

reached a dead end (against the backdrop of inflation caused by the circulation
of currency with no material backing), necessitating a spontaneous offer of
cooperation from the Chinese side [Shigemitsu 1952, Vol. 2: 162–4].
Shigemitsu’s “new policy” direction is thus seen in hindsight as a new prob-
lematic, leveraged by the new reality brought on by engaging the US and
Britain in a world war, concerning how to conciliate and affiliate based on equal
relations between Japan and China and link this new relationship to “the libera-
tion of East Asia.” So, when Shigemitsu argues, “If we did not confront the
nations of East Asia, starting with China, through establishing relationships
based on respect for sovereignty and equality, then the war would have abso-
lutely no meaning for Japan [ibid.: 162–3],” he is saying that his “new East Asia
policy” was not merely an extension of the “new China policy,” but rather
indispensable to it. Thus, Shigemitsu took the position that the Japanese gov-
ernment should have been making it plain at home and abroad that the
“purpose” of the “Greater East Asia War” was the “liberation” of the region.
This is how he came to adopt a “politics of war” approach standing diametri-
cally opposed to his counterparts at IGHQ General Staff, fearing that the “holy
war” argument could get out of hand.
There is one more angle that must not be ignored in identifying what had
brought on this “new East Asian policy” vision; that is, the need to combat the
Atlantic Charter signed at the US-­Britain summit of August 1941, declaring
“certain common principles,” which pledged Britain and the US not to seek ter-
ritorial aggrandizement or territorial changes without the consent of the people
concerned; to respect the sovereign rights and self-­government; to promote
global open trade and economic prosperity; to establish a peace which will
afford “all nations the means of dwelling in safety” and “lives in freedom from
fear and want”; to assure freedom of the seas and aviation, and necessity of dis-
armament of such nations “which threaten, or may threaten, aggression outside
of their frontiers.”6 It had been just after the start of the Asia-­Pacific War, on 1
January 1942, that the two-­country bilateral charter was expanded into an Allied
nation declaration signed by the twenty-­six nations at war with the Axis powers
and clarifying that the charter’s vision had been incorporated as one of the
Allied war objectives. In a document entitled, “The Atlantic Charter and the
Pacific (Greater East Asia) Charter,” which is thought to have been written just
after his appointment as foreign minister, Shigemitsu makes the following
argument.
186   “Independence” under Japan
“In the present war … while appointing themselves as the protectors of
smaller nations and peoples, [the Allied nations] have denounced the Axis
powers now occupying [Western] colonies in Asia and Africa and countries
in Europe and the Middle East as ‘invaders’ and ‘enemies of freedom,’ in
attempts to befriend these smaller nations.” However, the great majority of
these “smaller nations” are now occupied by the Axis nations, thus leaving
the Atlantic Charter with “empty promises” when it comes to any vision
regarding the postwar world. Moreover, is it not a fact that the Soviet
Union, a member of the Allies at war with Germany, has massacred thou-
sands of Poles at Katyn? “Then, how could the Americans and British,
indebted with empty promises, and the Soviets, betrayers of freedom, have
a monopoly on protecting freedom?” How long will the Axis powers con-
tinue to be content with being labeled “in the role of invading countries”
as the Allied powers insist? “The liberation, building and development of
the Orient [should be] Japan’s war objective.” Japan is “in a position to
grant freedom and protect it” in the Asian countries it occupies. “Satisfying
the needs of the other nations of East Asia [should be] the policy of the
Empire and our national slogan.”
[Shigemitsu 1986: 328–30]

As evidenced by this argument, the “new policy for Greater East Asia” was no
different from the postwar global image of national self-­determination
expounded by the Atlantic Charter. The problem lay in exactly who was going
to build such a world. On this point, Shigemitsu believed that while the world
was still at war, Europe, especially the British Empire, would not be able to
spontaneously embark on decolonization; therefore, the Atlantic Charter was
nothing more than “an empty promise designed to prosecute the War.” In fact,
on numerous occasions after the publication of the charter, British Prime
Minister Churchill insisted on the floor of Parliament that national self-­
determination applied to the countries under German occupation (in the Middle
East and Europe), but was not intended to apply to colonies of the British
Commonwealth [Brinkley 1994: 102]. In contrast, Shigemitsu argued that since
Japan had in fact brought Southeast Asia under its military control, a “Pacific
Charter or Greater East Asia Charter” issued by Japan would “consist of living
words and realistic measures” for the nations of Asia, which “could not but be
successful” [ibid.: 330].
On 23 May 1943, Shigemitsu presented for the first time his “new policy”
before Emperor Hirohito, who “deeply nodded his approval,” stating they
“should refuse to lend an ear to the various criticism and thoroughly implement
this new policy towards China issue, which should not be overturned” [Shige-
mitsu 1968: 339]. At the same time that his “new policy” was receiving the
imperial stamp of approval (May 1943), Prime Minister Tōjō directed the
Cabinet to draft an “Outline of Political Strategy Planning and Management in
Greater East Asia” covering the rest of the year. After two sessions before
IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference, the “Outline” was approved in a
 “Independence” under Japan   187
Gozen Kaigi/Imperial Council on 31 May. The reason why it took more than
one session of deliberation to pass was due to disagreement over making “a
peace initiative with Chungking.” It was eventually decided that the final draft
of the “Outline” would read, “We will wait for the right moment to direct the
Nationalist Government [Nanjing] to begin its political maneuvering towards
Chungking.” Meanwhile, discussion also diverged greatly on the issue of occu-
pied Southeast Asia, ending in decisions to add the Philippines to Burma in
granting immediate “independence,” setting the date for granting independ-
ence “at around October of this year.” On the other hand, “Outline” contained
a new direction concerning Malaya, Sumatra, Java, Borneo and Celebes in
“making them territories of the Empire, doing our utmost to develop important
supplies of resources and to win the hearts of the people.” These latter areas
would not be granted “independence,” but would rather be “granted as much
political participation as their respective level of the people (mindo) allow.”
Finally, the “Outline” states that after Philippine independence, “all the leaders
of the countries of Greater East Asia will be invited to Tokyo to pledge their
iron-­willed commitment to the successful completion of the war and establish-
ment of the Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” [Bōei Kenkyūjo, ed. 1985:
49; JACAR: B02032973300].
It was in this manner that “Outline” marked a new stage in diplomacy
toward mainland China by bringing the “peace initiative towards Chungking”
into view as a natural extension to Shigemitsu’s “new China policy” proposals.
Concerning the recipients of “independence” in the occupied South, however,
progress had continued only with Burma and the Philippines, while national
policy earmarked Indonesia as “territory of the Empire,” an idea first explored
by the military and a far cry from Shigemitsu’s image of a Greater East Asia
­Co-­Prosperity Sphere comprised of sovereign, independent nations.
From the various “narratives” concerning the deliberations over “Outline”
several points of dispute arise that can be interpreted as discords within IGHQ
and the government regarding the “new policy for Greater East Asia” [the fol-
lowing discussion based on Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 2: 403–6, Gunjishi
Gakkai, ed. 1998, Vol. 2: 383, Shigemitsu 1986: 356–7]. To begin with, there
is the timetable for Philippine “independence,” to which the “naval side”
objected, stating “It is too early. Just to shuffle around the heads of the present
leadership will take a considerable amount of time.” This objection was based
on the dissatisfaction within both the army and navy ranks in the Philippines
concerning the failure to restore “law and order” and form a collaborationist
government with pro-­American political elites. Concerning the convening of
AGEAN (the Assembly of Greater East Asiatic Nations) in Tokyo, both the
Navy and the Greater East Asia Ministry pleaded “too early”; moreover, there
was also disagreement as to whether such a policy guaranteed Japan’s continued
“iron grip” over “leadership in planning and managing the War.” Tōjō tried to
put these objections to rest by declaring that Philippine independence would be
granted “as quickly as the whole situation demands,” and “we can accomplish
everything by proceeding as planned,” concluding that “there is no need to
188   “Independence” under Japan
change the timing.” At that same time Army Chief of Staff Sugiyama, while rec-
ognizing the worsening of “law and order” in the Philippines, stated that inde-
pendence “quickly granted will make it possible to improve public safety,” and
“the worsening of public safety makes it necessary to speed up political proced-
ures for independence.”
On the other hand, regarding AGEAN, everyone agreed on Shigemitsu’s
suggestion that it should include only the heads of “independent countries,”
while a separate venue should be created for representatives of the peoples of
non-­independent territories, like French Indochina and Indonesia. While it may
seem contradictory that Shigemitsu, the champion of “East Asia liberation,” was
now refusing to allow certain representatives of peoples of the region seats at
the Summit Conference table, by limiting the Conference to the heads of inde-
pendent states, he was giving priority to his objective of maintaining “the guise
equality” among those states. From this viewpoint, Shigemitsu was distancing
himself from “the concept of a Japanese-­Manchurian-Chinese aggregate,” advo-
cating “formal equality of Manchuria, China, the Philippines and Burma with
Japan,” and proposed a multilateral treaty of alliance.
What was going on in Shigemitsu’s mind at the time was a “Pacific Charter”
to combat the Atlantic Charter and a treaty of alliance staunchly maintaining
“the guise of equality and balance … without allowing the fact that the Empire
was the leader of the Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere to rise to the
surface” [Hatano 1996: 130]. However, Army Vice-­Chief of Staff Hata
Hikosaburō raised the objection that “neither China nor Manchuria would
stand for” being treated equally with Burma or the Philippines, and argued that
a treaty of alliance should only be bilateral, thus convincing the other delibera-
tors to veto Shigemitsu’s proposal. Concerning the Japanese military presence in
the region, Shigemitsu seemed to be of the opinion (at least in his memoirs)
that with the exception of wartime, no provision should be sought that even
hinted at “postwar or permanent stationing of troops or continued military
pressure [Shigemitsu 1986: 357]. It was in this way that Shigemitsu’s “new
policy” was placed on the discussion table to determine the direction of recog-
nizing the countries of Asia as equal players in the international politics of the
region, during which the army, Tōjō and Shigemitsu took the lead in getting on
board with its agenda, while the Navy and Ministry of Greater East-­Asiatic
Affairs dragged their feet.
16 June 1943. Prime Minister Tōjō stands before the plenary session of the
House of Representatives of the Imperial Diet and delivers a policy direction
statement that touches upon the “Outline of Political Strategy Planning and
Management in Greater East Asia” which is highlighted by the declaration, “We
will bestow the honor of national independence on the Philippines by the end
of the year.” Regarding the other areas earmarked as “territories of the Empire”
in the “Outline,” he obfuscates the true situation, stating, “Based on the wishes
of the aborigines themselves, and in accordance with their levels of the people
(mindo), we intend to within the year begin to set up mechanisms by which
aborigines will be able to participate in politics,” adding, “Especially with
 “Independence” under Japan   189
respect to Java, after due consideration of its mindo and in accordance with the
wishes of its people, we expect to accomplish this at the earliest possible date.”7
The content of the speech describing all the occupied regions as being on the
same track as Burma and the Philippines in terms of “political participation,”
singling out Java in particular, is the first political gesture made toward Indone-
sia by IGHQ and the government to be found in the public record. However,
in light of reality on the ground in Indonesia, characterized by sprouting nation-
alism, the statement can only be regarded as a belated, inconsistent response to
the “wishes of the aborigines.” While it is not certain what influence Shigemitsu
and his Foreign Ministry, who showed no signs of opposition to Indonesia’s
“annexation to the Empire” during the above deliberations on the “new
policy,” had on the content of Tōjō’s speech, on the following day (the 17th),
before the House of Representatives Budget Committee, Shigemitsu supple-
mented the prime minister’s words with the following interpretation.

Regarding each individual country, whether it is granted full independence

or broad political participation, we will meet their expectations, by mutually
establishing cooperative neighborly relations in an atmosphere of equality
(byōdō) and reciprocity (gokei).8

Within this “clarification,” Shigemitsu brings up the two words, “equality” and
“reciprocity,” which were never mentioned in any of Tōjō’s political statements.
Moreover, while the true intent is by no means certain, the context includes
both the independent nations and the territories enjoying political participation
as the objects of relations based on “equality” and “reciprocity.” This statement
contains all of the ideals in the “new policy for Greater East Asia” incompatible
with the patriarchal image of the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere”
envisioned in the “Manchukuo model.” Later on as well, while gearing up for
AGEAN conference and its joint communiqué, Shigemitsu would make every
effort to grace his policy documents with the words “reciprocity” “equality”
“bilateralism,” while the print media was buzzing with phrases like “reciprocity
and equality.”
It goes without saying, that no matter how the “new policy” presents the
image of a “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” in pursuit of genuine inde-
pendence (sans the “”), as long as its members were under Japanese military
occupation, there would be no possible way to establish real relationships of
reciprocity and equality between Japan and the occupied people of Southeast
Asia. Even the “Greater East Asia Charter” envisioned by Shigemitsu was in the
end nothing more than a lot of talk about a future postwar order of mutual
respect for sovereignty, equality and reciprocity, which thus offered the same
“empty promises” as the Atlantic Charter. However, this reality does not mean
that the “new policy” was bereft of meaning. This is because from the stand-
point of the occupied peoples of Southeast Asia, it put Japan exactly in the same
position as the signers of the Atlantic Charter indebted with their “empty
promises.” Moreover, from this same standpoint, Japan was different from the
190   “Independence” under Japan
region’s absentee Western sovereigns in that it was making such promises right
in front of the occupied. Furthermore, this debtor, Japan, might not be around
for long. Therefore, it was necessary for the occupied to collect a debt in a hurry
from Japan, while it was around, in the form of independence. It was in this
manner that Shigemitsu’s “new policy” was meant to be an opportunity for ani-
mating the occupied and accelerating their formation into a positive political
force.
From the aspect of the “internal affairs” of the Japanese Empire, dangling
“empty promises” before “the outsider” also produced disturbing effects.
According to the research done by Kawanishi Kōsuke, the Japanese government
loudly propagated the Tōjō speech of 16 June 1943 as Japan’s “Greater East
Asia Declaration,” while gathering information on reactions from the foreign
countries. It is no surprise that opinion regarding the speech differed among the
neutral countries, Axis powers and Allied nations; however, what is noteworthy
for our purposes is the report that came in from the Japanese embassy in Man-
chukuo about the disquieting reactions to the speech by local Korean residents,
including rancor toward the empire for granting independence to southern
peoples, while ignoring the question of “Korean independence.” Kawanishi
points to such reactions as harbingers of how “independence” in the South
would shake the Japanese Empire to its foundation [Kawanishi 2012: 171–4].
The most important aim of Shigemitsu’s “new policy” was to bring closure
to the Sino-­Japanese war and make peace with the Republic of China. However,
Tōjō’s “Greater East Asia Declaration,” based on Shigemitsu’s “Agenda for
Political Strategy Planning and Management in Greater East Asia,” was dis-
avowed by the Kuomintang government, which called Tōjō’s statement a “fab-
rication” [ibid.: 173] as he maintained that “several gentlemen [of the
Kuomintang] had already distanced themselves from the Chungking regime and
were working with Chairman Wang”. Shigemitsu’s “new policy” concerning the
Republic of China was destined to be dealt with as mere propagandist mutter-
ings. Shigemitsu continued to promote efforts to persuade key figures in the
government, thinking that his “new policy,” which had made what the Japanese
considered to be important compromises on such issues as the return of conces-
sions and abandoning extraterritorial rights, would be able to be implemented
when Japan won the war and was filled with confidence. However, it was only
in a little less than a year that it would began to bear fruit, from the end of
1942, when it became clear the war was taking a turn for the worse. From the
above developments, there is no doubt that Shigemitsu’s “new policy” was in
various respects just another “political strategy” to (1) compensate for “dwin-
dling war capability” in the eyes of the military and (2) smooth relations with
the pro-­Japanese Nanjing government. Despite his irritation concerning the
limits to his “new policy” and the shallowness of the military’s understanding of
it, he continued to do everything in his power to promote it.
On the other hand, it is difficult to conclude that the “new policy” in fact
turned out to be nothing but Japan muttering to itself. Shigemitsu’s policy
called for the countries of the region to assume the “guise” of multilateral
 “Independence” under Japan   191
equality among all parties, including Japan, by refuting the conventional,
ingrained concept of a Japan-­Manchuria-China alliance, which hinted at north-
eastern Asia forming the core of “Greater East Asia” with Southeast Asia on its
periphery. However, this way of thinking was subjected to such responses at
IGHQ and the government as “opposition due to the inability to understand
anything about it,” “going along with the program with only a partial under-
standing” and “interfering without understanding but finally giving in” [Shige-
mitsu 1986: 423]. Rather, accepting Shigemitsu’s “new policy” with a grain of
truth, but guarded, the occupied people of Southeast Asia (Kawanishi’s “out-
siders” within the empire), had come to collect what was due from the Japanese
purveyors of empty dreams. It is ironic that the brunt of these “voices” would
have to be borne by none other than Tōjō Hideki, the standard bearer of the
“Manchukuo model” of militaristic patronage.

Tōjō Hideki and the “new policy”

Essentially a very serious military man, highly capable of administrative
affairs and straight-­laced even with his men, the same cannot be said of his
political acumen, allowing the situation before and after the opening of
hostilities with the US and Britain to elevate him to the position of
dictator.

This character description of Tōjō Hideki in Kokushi Daijiten, the world’s most
comprehensive encyclopedia of Japanese history was written by Fujiwara Akira
(b. 1922), who served as a commissioned army officer during the war in China
and after the war went on to distinguish himself as a scholar of Japanese con-
temporary history, in general, and military history, in particular. These words
about Tōjō written by Fujiwara, whose interest in studying history arose from
his anguish concerning the contradictions and errors which he witnessed for
four years on the battlefield, seem quite generous. They also tie in with Fuji-
wara’s critical views concerning Emperor Hirohito’s avoidance of any responsib-
ility for the war, his plausible deniability. Fujiwara, who in his memoirs recalls,

While contemplating [on 15 August 1945] the fact that he would be

expected to commit suicide, a totally composed Emperor Showa saying
such silly things [over the radio] as “Having able to maintain the Kokutai
(national polity), I am always with ye …” stuck in my craw and was the
determining factor in changing my ideas. 
[Fujiwara 2006: 234]

And ends his “Tōjō Hideki” entry with the words,

Against a backdrop of the army’s inordinate ascendancy in the world of pol-

itics, he became the top leader in wartime, representing the hardline views
of the staff officers under him. However, in Japan, where its emperor was
192   “Independence” under Japan
exonerated from all responsibility for the war, he was charged with having
the greatest responsibility, on a par with Hitler and Mussolini. 
[Fujiwara 1989: 122]

Satō Kenryō, who served in the Tōjō Cabinet as chief of military affairs in the
Ministry of War, called Tōjō “the veritable reincarnation of what is meant by a
notion of responsibility.” He also describes Tōjō as lacking flexibility, flatly
rejecting such an idea as having a banquet with the army and navy leaders to
discuss what they cannot speak at the Gozen Kaigi in front of the emperor.
“How can those people be so stupid!” Tōjō would utter [Satō 1985: 236–7].
Having climbed the ladder to success as a talented bureaucrat, he was “a
paragon of attentiveness,” but as to his “sense of responsibility,” “his heart
belonged to” only the emperor himself, and as for the rest he gave not the least
attention to their criticism, stubbornly accumulating power and suppressing all
opposition. Regarding Tōjō’s presence at the Privy Council deliberations over
the establishment of the Greater East-­Asiatic Ministry, Fukai Eigo recalls “a
thin-­skinned Prime Minister Tōjō accusing every kind of suggestion to be part
of a plot to overthrow the Cabinet.” Even in his replies to Fukai’s queries, Tōjō
“showing signs of irritability … would repeat his point in verbose, long-­winded
soliloquies.” What comes to mind when reading Fukai’s comments is hardly
someone exuding the aura of a dictator [Fukai 1953: 254, 260]. Such denigrat-
ing descriptions of Tōjō in the Classified War Journal kept by the General Staff
War Planning Detail as “on the verge of a nervous breakdown” and “yelping
throughout the conference,” is evidence of the cold heartedness with which his
stature as a powerful figure was viewed by those around him.
The reason for rehashing here what has been said over and over about the
image of Tōjō Hideki stems from the problem of what to make of Tōjō Hideki
who together with Shigemitsu Mamoru staged the “new policy for Greater East
Asia” and in particular, succeeded in bringing off the AGEAN conference.
When asked about this development, Shigemitsu tended to waver in his expla-
nation. As already pointed out, Shigemitsu was vehemently opposed to both the
Tōjō Cabinet behaving in the style of a “Manchukuo government” and the rail-
roading through of the Ministry of Greater East-­Asiatic Affairs; and there is also
his comment on losing popularity during the last days of the Cabinet, “While
going along with things on the surface, the Japanese people in any period would
rise up against such holier-­than-thou politics in every possible way” [Shigemitsu
1952: Vol. 2: 229]. Be that as it may, concerning Tōjō’s contribution to Shige-
mitsu’s “new policy” regarding China and Greater East Asia is evaluated in
postwar hindsight as follows.

Prime Minister Tōjō gave his all everywhere, and while I harbor doubts as
to what extent he actually embodied the meaning of the new policy direc-
tion, his taking the lead in its implementation was, in my opinion, mainly in
accordance with the wishes of the emperor. At the same time, his under-
standing of the new policy was far more profound than any of the military
 “Independence” under Japan   193
top brass and others who had cropped up as soldier-­politicians. At least he
did what he could to place our war objectives in a fair, open and farsighted
context, as clearly shown in both his words and actions at such venues as
the Assembly of Greater East Asiatic Nations. 
[Ibid.: 168–9]

In his wartime “narrative” as well, Shigemitsu continued to praise Tōjō after the
“success” of the Assembly of the Greater East Asiatic Nations conference, when
in December 1943 he writes, “Prime Minister Tōjō is an Army general with a
keen brain. His dedication to duty and his intelligence are seen very rarely in the
same soldier” [Shigemitsu 1986: 417]. But by July 1944, during the last days of
the Tōjō Cabinet, Shigemitsu whistles a different tune regarding its promotion
of the “new China policy,” doubting whether if “[Tōjō] lacks commitment,
supporting the policy only to accommodate the wishes of the Emperor” or
“[he] has a commitment but is not tough enough because of his military per-
son’s biases,” adding “I regret” that Tōjō at least doesn’t dare to “aggressively
apply [the policy] in conducting internal political affairs” [ibid.: 424].
One would normally find it quite strange that a foreign minister as the main
advocate for the “new policy” could not tell whether or not his prime minister
actually did understand and was committed to that policy. But maybe Shigemit-
su’s intuition was not clouded. There is the possibility that Tōjō in fact had had
no second thoughts about his commitment to the image of a paternalistic
“Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere,” while regarding Shigemitsu’s “new
policy” principles of “equality” and “respect for sovereignty” certainly played
the role of the supportive prime minister, at least in his dealings with the heads
of state within the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere.” In this respect, at
a “confab of senior statesmen” on 23 July 1943, Tōjō was confronted by rival
Admiral Okada Keisuke in a tense exchange during which Okada declared,
“Respect for the sovereignty of nations of Greater East Asia is only natural given
that they are part of an alliance. They are not foreign entities … We should
make our demands without reservation as allies.” Tōjō replied,

I am in favor of the view that the nations of Greater East Asia are not
foreign entities … The formation of the Ministry of Greater East-­Asiatic
Affairs is premised on the view that they are not foreign polities … Con-
cerning the weaker members, however, they need to be dealt with on an
equal footing as a matter of formality.
[Itō, et al., ed. 1990: 207]

From this statement by Tōjō, there appear glimpses of the “Manchukuo

model” idea of what is “not a foreign polity” and the idea of “on an equal
footing” involving a type of diplomacy that only takes pains to insure that “weak
countries save face.” In evaluating Tōjō’s “words and actions” as “placing our
war objectives in a fair, open and farsighted context,” Shigemitsu has abstracted
such ideas from the equation, or just ignored them. And so, what does
194   “Independence” under Japan
constitute a fair evaluation of Tōjō’s actions? Let us begin with an examination
of the “narrative” regarding the various scenes where diplomacy among the
“Greater East Asia” heads of state was conducted, starting with AGEAN
conference.

The Assembly of Greater East Asiatic Nations

5 November 1943. The press suddenly announced the Assembly of Greater East
Asiatic Nations (AGEAN) to be held in Tokyo, drawing a great deal of excite-
ment with a photo of Prime Minister Tōjō flanked by the other summit attend-
ees: Wang Zhaoming (Jingwei), Republic of China (Nanjing Government)
executive agency chairman, Zhang Jinghui, Manchukuo prime minister, Ba
Maw, prime minister of Burma, just granted “independence” on 1 August, Jose
P. Laurel from the Philippines just granted “independence” on 14 October,
Prince Wan Waithayakon from Thailand “representing the prime minister,” and
Subhas Chandra Bose of the provisional Free Indian Government, an officially
recognized conference observer. After a welcoming party at the Prime Minister’s
Residence on the evening of the 3rd, the heads of state attended an audience
with Emperor Hirohito the following day.
Fukada Yūsuke, just twelve years of age at the time, recalls, “for us young-
sters … it was an extraordinarily festive event, making us proud to be Japanese.”
The foreign representatives “were topics of daily conversation among all the
kids, and because of their exotic sounding names, became more familiar on the
playground than the names of Army and Navy heroes” [Fukada 1991: 6]. After
the end of the conference sessions on the afternoon of the 7th, a “Greater East
Asia People’s Solidarity Festival” was held in downtown Tokyo’s Hibiya Park,
featuring speeches by Tōjō and the other participants, culminating in a “Reso-
lution on the Successful Conclusion of the Greater East Asia War.” On that
same day, the 4th Annual Meiji Shrine National Physical Training Champion-
ship was held at Jingū Stadium, which welcomed the summit contingent with a
special program featuring the unfurling of the “Flag of the Five Countries of
Greater East Asia” and a final event, “Greater East Asia Synchronized Youth
Gymnastics,” which included foreign students from the five countries
[Takashima 2012: 257–9]. Fukada’s childhood memories of the Conference
“making him proud to be Japanese,” captures a huge, dream-­like national four-­
day long event from “a gala party at the Prime Minister’s Residence,” “synchro-
nized gymnastics” at a jam-­packed, cheering Jingū Stadium to the “evening at
the Kabuki Theater” finale, momentarily livening up an atmosphere of anxiety
and frustration brought on by the direction the war was taking.9
Indeed, AGEAN was held as gloomy skies were beginning to form over the
horizon at the war front. Just a month before, the summary to the “World Situ-
ation Assessment” submitted to the Gozen Kaigi of 30 September 1943 had
concluded that it was time to recognize that the “US, Britain and Soviet Union
… had gained the upper hand in the War,” meaning that the “world war will be
heating up considerably come spring and summer of next year” [Sanbōhonbu,
 “Independence” under Japan   195
ed. 1967: Vol. 2: 478; JACAR: C12120196000]. At that meeting Navy Chief
of Staff Nagano Osami “suddenly electrified” the atmosphere with the words,
“Only time will tell concerning victory or defeat … it is impossible to make any
assurances about progress on the war front.” Such “words of pessimism about
the Navy’s confidence concerning its outlook on the future of the war,” had
seldom, if ever, been spoken within earshot of the emperor. At the meeting
Tōjō waxed inspirational, insisting, “We will fight through to victory. No matter
what the situation has in store, Japan will never alter its commitment to achiev-
ing its war objectives” [Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967: Vol. 2: 471].
An uneasy hue was beginning to permeate the political front, as well. On
New Year’s Day 1943, The Asahi Shimbun published a statement entitled “On
the Wartime Premier” written by Nakano Seigō, who had received the largest
number of votes in the 1942 House of Representatives Elections, despite not
being a candidate recommended by the Imperial Rule Assistance Association
(Taisei Yokusan Kai), criticizing Tōjō’s war planning and management strategy.
Then in June, a group of house members, including Hatoyama Ichirō and Miki
Bukichi, left the Imperial Rule Assistance Political Group (Yokusan Seiji Kai, a
faction boasting almost the whole house membership). This was followed by an
unsuccessful attempt by Nakano to single-­handedly approach a senior states-
men’s group with the aim of bringing down the Tōjō Cabinet. On 21 October,
the Tōhōkai, a political group led by Nakano, were taken into police custody en
masse, and the Kempeitai arrested Nakano. After finding no grounds for suspi-
cion he was released on the 25th and two days later was found in his home dead
by his own sword, just in time to receive coverage in all the evening editions.
The fact that the suppression of the “Nakano faction” was conducted with
Tōjō’s strong endorsement is clearly proven by the minutes kept of the related
Cabinet meetings [Itō et al., ed. 1990: 277–81]. The Nakano affair occurred
while preparations for AGEAN conference were entering the final stages.
A full account of Fukada Yūsuke’s “proud moment” during his wartime
childhood has been published in his Century of the Dawn (1991), containing
interviews conducted at a time when many of the participants were still alive.
Fukada criticizes the mainstream “simplified, cut and dried view of the Pacific
War” as a “fight between liberalism and fascism” orchestrated at the “Tokyo
Tribunal,” which simply dismisses AGEAN as a “variety show starring the heads
of all the puppet governments.” Fukada criticizes Imperial Japan as well, arguing
how the hopes of Wang Zhaoming (Jingwei), who bet his life on seeking a
peaceful settlement (Japanese troop withdrawal) to the Sino-­Japanese conflict,
were betrayed by Japan, how Japan’s divisive and cruel administration of its
occupied territories in Southeast Asia brought about the loss of the hearts and
minds of their people, and how the ideals of “respect for sovereignty and inde-
pendence” espoused by the conference never filtered down into the ranks of the
Japanese Army on the ground. Then the book goes into more detail about the
colorful Asian leaders as “protagonists,” vividly describing how Tōjō, a perfec-
tionist (on details), took the lead in preparations for the conference and the Jap-
anese government tried very hard to save its face despite shortages of materials.
196   “Independence” under Japan
Just getting all these heads of state from all over “Greater East Asia” to Tokyo
in one piece was a great logistical achievement, given the dismal way in which
the war was progressing. For example, Ba Maw’s plane had crashed in Taiwan,
but everyone aboard miraculously emerged unscathed. Each of the heads of
state was assigned professional attendants from the luxury Imperial Hotel hired
by the government. They lodged at the homes of wealthy business moguls and
plutocrats, and were driven around “in style” in (ironically) all American-­built
vehicles requisitioned by the government.
While Fukada was still researching his book, in 1989, NHK broadcasting
aired a documentary entitled “Voices from the Past: The Leaders of Asia and
the Pacific War,” which reenacted AGEAN from ninety recording disks of its
proceedings preserved in the Diplomatic Archives of the Japanese Ministry of
Foreign Affairs. The daily records kept by two of Tōjō’s personal secretaries
between 1941 and 1945 [Itō, et al., ed. 1990] also provide detailed accounts of
the exchanges between the heads of state during, before and after the confer-
ence. Returning to Fukada’s research, one of his collaborators was Hamamoto
Masakatsu (b. 1905), who acted as both the special advisor to Philippine Presi-
dent Laurel and as Tōjō’s interpreter at AGEAN. While giving us a veritable
play-­by-play recollection of the atmosphere surrounding the conference,
Hamamoto absolutely refutes any preconception that Laurel was some kind of a
“puppet.” Such “narratives” that have now come to light raise the need to revise
the conference’s image as a pre-­scripted “variety show.” Instead, what arises
before our eyes are the figures of Asian heads of states, the conference’s “leading
men,” boldly resisting “Tōjō’s brand of hegemonic pan-­Asianism” with logically
presented arguments for “sovereign independence” and individualistic, persona-
ble integrity.
In this sense, Fukada (1991: 82–3), Hatano (1996: 175) and Kawanishi
(2012: 188) all point to the speech given by Laurel on the first day of the Con-
ference proceedings (5 November 1943). Prior to the conference the Japanese
side requested each of the heads of state to submit drafts of their speeches under
the pretense of having them translated into Japanese, but for the actual purpose
of having them censored. Laurel, who was requested for a copy and refused,
decided to speak without any pre-­written draft [Fukada 1991: 31–2; Jose 2003:
203]. In the middle of the speech, Laurel cautiously praised and quoted a
portion of Tōjō’s opening address, which he “listened with attention and enthu-
siasm,” before proceeding to interpret it in his own way with the phrase “In
other words”:

According to His Excellency, the starting point of the establishment of the

Sphere is recognition, respect for the autonomy and independence of any
integral unit, so that, with that recognition of political independence and
territorial integrity, each nation may develop in accordance with its own
institutions, without any particular member monopolizing the resulting
prosperity of any given country or nation … Japan will not be happy, I
know, to live alone and see here brethren in East Asia die. She wants to live,
 “Independence” under Japan   197
it is true. At the same time, however, she wants her brother Orientals to
also live, and to co-­exist with her. Japan lives, China lives, Thailand lives,
Manchukuo lives, Burma lives, India lives, the Philippines lives, and, all of
us living, we shall endeavor to achieve, not alone the prosperity of China or
any other nation or integral unit, but the prosperity of all …
[Ministry of Greater East-­Asiatic Affairs 1943: 27–8; JACAR:
B10070140800]

It was a clear criticism of the expropriation of resources Japan was conducting

on the ground in every one of the territories it occupied. Then at the end of the
speech Laurel specifically referred to “the peoples of Java, Borneo and Sumatra”
who had neither been invited to Tokyo, nor even mentioned in Tōjō’s opening
remarks, adding that their “interests cannot be different from those of other
peoples of Greater East Asia [ibid.: 32–3],” implying that Japan was wrong not
to grant Indonesia independence. There is no doubt that on the whole Laurel’s
speech sung the praises in the most flattering phraseology of Japan and the
Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere, but embedded within the flattery was
also a message of bitter criticism of Japan and a passionate call for “autonomy
and independence.” Here we may find one classic example of what Kawanishi
[2005] calls “voices of resistance,” which Laurel would be tenaciously express-
ing on many more occasions, beyond the AGEAN table in Tokyo, during tense
negotiation between Japan and the Philippines.
It was Laurel who had been appointed chairman of the Preparatory Com-
mittee for Philippine Independence (PCPI) at the direction of the Japanese gov-
ernment, which in the Tōjō speech of 16 June 1943 had promised the
Philippines “independence within the year” in accordance with “Outline of
Political Strategy Planning and Management in Greater East Asia.” Now Laurel
was the chosen one from the new generation of the Philippine political elite to
stand in for the Quezons and Osmenias of the prewar Commonwealth.
However, this succession differed in that this chosen one was not a veteran poli-
tician with plenty of money and control over a political machine, like Manuel
Roxas, who had been groomed to be Quezon’s successor, but rather a lawyer
who had earned his LLD from Yale University and was a well-­regarded member
of the Supreme Court and its chief justice at the time the war began. After the
opening of hostilities, Quezon relieved Laurel of his Supreme Court duties to
serve as the new Attorney General, and ordered him to remain in Manila.
Quezon thought that Laurel would be the best choice to negotiate with the
Japanese, since he had been given an honorary doctorate from Tokyo Imperial
University College of Law. His son, Jose III, had studied in Japan at the Army
Military Academy (Rikugun Shikan Gakkō) and from before the war had
expressed pro-­Japanese sentiments. On the Japan side, the rather low-­key Laurel
was highly thought of for his integrity as a law scholar and upstanding character.
Now that it had granted the Philippines “independence,” it was time for Japan
to elect it a president. The army’s top military advisor Murata Shōzō chose
Laurel and had his secretary Akiyama Tōru write a recommendation to that
198   “Independence” under Japan
effect for submission to the military [Akiyama 1994: 68–9]. Just prior to the
formation of the PCPI, on 4 June 1943, Laurel was seriously wounded by anti-­
Japanese guerrillas while enjoying a round of golf at the scenic Wack Wack
Country Club in Mandaluyong. The tragedy made Laurel the “man of the
hour,” and the logical candidate to be the new leader of the Japanese-­occupied
Philippines.
It was in this way that Laurel became president of the Philippines, by riding
the wave of both Quezon’s implied approval and Japan’s support and expecta-
tions. During his Japanese clientship, however, Laurel’s every action and every
word emanated from the sole intent of protecting the interests and security of
the Philippine people in wartime, an attitude that would continuously bring him
into conflict with the Japanese military on the ground and Japanese politicians
off in Tokyo. To begin with, in the process of preparing for independence,
regarding the drafting of the “republic’s” constitution, trouble arose between
the Japanese side, which hoped for a simple document concentrating power in
the central government to facilitate the country’s cooperation in the war effort,
and the Philippine side, which expected to maintain the essence of the 1935
Constitution which had already been democratically ratified by popular vote. As
the PCPI chairman and a legal scholar, Laurel refused to budge from the Philip-
pine position. Another acute issue was Japan’s demand for the conclusion of a
bilateral treaty of alliance and a Philippine declaration of the war against the
United States. In July 1943, Tōjō visited the Philippines to see for himself how
the preparations for independence were coming along, telling the members of
the PCPI that he would ask for a treaty when independence was granted; while
at the end of September, when Laurel traveled to Japan to report that prepara-
tions for “independence” had been completed, he was requested to declare war
on the United States and the other Allied nations. In response to such demands,
Laurel continued to refuse to declare war on such grounds as not having suffi-
cient political power to do so on his own and the pro-­American sentiment of
the Philippine people, while at the same time refusing to allow the military
mobilization of Filipino citizens [Jose 2003: 206–12]. It was in the midst of
such strained Japan–Philippine relations that Laurel delivered his “off the cuff ”
speech at AGEAN conference in November.
Laurel was, of course, not the only participant at the conference to square off
with the Japanese over “sovereign independence.” Even in his absence due to
“health problems,” the Thai Prime Minister Phibun would probably have been
more adamant and straightforward regarding the issue. A disturbing anti-­
Japanese mood had already been mounting in Thailand. As early as 18 Decem-
ber 1942, a clash between Thai workers and Japanese troops had resulted in a
number of deaths on both sides, in the aftermath of a Japanese soldier beating
up a Buddhist monk at Bangkok’s Bang Bon Station for giving a cigarette to a
white POW forced to work on the construction of the Thai-­Burma Railroad.
From that time on, rumors of rebellion would spread throughout Bangkok.
Then, in the midst of the escalation of Allied bombing missions in neighboring
Burma, the Phibun administration began to visibly distance itself from Japan,
 “Independence” under Japan   199
despite it being the first Asian country to conclude an alliance [Yoshikawa 2010:
58–61]. Regarding his failure to show up at AGEAN, Phibun, while citing per-
sonal health reasons, also stated that if he were healthy enough to make the trip
to Tokyo, his participation in the conference would have led to the destabiliza-
tion of domestic politics, and also argued that Thailand was in a very different
situation from the attending five countries who were being “made independent”
under the auspices of Japan. In any case, Japan was forced in the end to allow
Prince Wan Waithayakon to attend in Phibun’s place [Kawanishi 2012: 187].
The Prince also pleaded “sudden illness” to delay arrival that spared him from
having to attend preliminary talks with the Japanese government. From his seat
at the conference table, nothing but hollow words of praise for the Greater East
Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere were forthcoming.
While Burmese Prime Minister Ba Maw presented no problems for Japan
during his public appearance during AGEAN festivities, after their conclusion,
on 8 November in a private meeting with Tōjō, Ba Maw ruffled the Japanese
prime minister’s feathers with a loud and long-­winded complaint about the
army’s Burmese occupation policy. Ba Maw described how the Japanese forces
were causing possible reductions in rice production by closing off main arteries
and pressing agricultural laborers and water buffalo into service without
notifying the Burmese government, and decried the continuing detainment of
suspected political insurgents, citing the fact that even the Minister of Internal
Affairs had been placed under suspicion, without him, the prime minister, being
informed of the situation. When the army did inform him of its policy, they had
the utter gall to send a low ranking Kempeitai officer to brief him. Ba Maw dis-
missed the officer as unqualified for such a task, complaining that in the eyes of
the Burmese people, such a breach of decorum made their prime minister look
like a clown. “Trust me as Burma’s sovereign,” ranted Ba Maw, “[taking action
without informing me] puts me in an extremely difficult position as sovereign”
[Itō, et al., ed. 1990: 346–50], accusing even independence with quotations of
being trampled upon by the Japanese occupation forces in Burma.
In the background to Ba Maw’s complaint, lay the reality of increasing fric-
tion between Japanese forces “living off the land” and the people working it, in
a Burma assumed to have so easily and proactively acceded to cooperating with
the Japanese through the “independence” campaign waged since the beginning
of the war. Kuwano Fukuji, who worked in the Burmese military administration
as a civilian corpsman before “independence,” left this impression after depart-
ing (6 April 1943).

Neither the military personnel nor the bureaucrats noticed to what extent
the Burmese who were so pro-­Japanese before the War came to doubt
whether Japan was really a country they could rely on. Losing the hearts of
the people is scary business. Even granting formal independence will not
make the Burmese people happy. Given the way Japan is operating now, I
doubt whether Burma will continue to peacefully cooperate.
[Kuwano 1988: 345]
200   “Independence” under Japan
After devoting himself to an independence movement organized through special
ops tactics or “scheme (bōryaku)” only to be relieved of duty, Colonel Suzuki
Keiji mentions in the small amount of postwar “narrative” he did impart, “the
feelings of resentment towards the atrocities committed by the Japanese troops”
on the part of the Burmese “who had seen their homes set ablaze and loved
ones slain.” Also, the occupation army’s economic policy of mercilessly seizing
“the few businesses in which the Burmese had managed to survive” and allot-
ting them to “military-­commissioned Japanese entrepreneurs” struck the
Burmese as “a deep seated and frightening desire to dominate underneath all
the grandiloquence the Japanese were feeding them” [Suzuki 1953: 8].
It was such oppressive conditions that fostered anti-­Japanese resistance in
Burma, as well. Even Aung San, Ba Maw’s National Defense Minister and
supreme commander of the BNA, which had been formed from the BIA, finally
decided to shift allegiance from pro-­Japanese cooperation lent since the days of
the Minami Agency to resistance, by secretly planning an anti-­Japanese uprising
with the Communist Party, which had begun insurgent activities from the very
start of the war, and the People’s Revolutionary Party, which had turned against
the Japanese due to disenchantment regarding the BIA-­Japanese military alli-
ance. In August 1944, the Communist Party, People’s Revolutionary Party and
BNA secretly formed Hpa Hsa Pa La (the Burmese acronym for the Anti-­Fascist
People’s Freedom Alliance) with Aung San as its chairman, while Ba Maw kept
all information about the underground resistance from reaching the public
media and the ears of the Japanese occupation forces [Nemoto 1996: 129–31].
In this manner, heads of the region’s “independent” states under the obliga-
tion to protect their people and their interests took their seats at the AGEAN
conference of November 1943 to conduct “sovereign independence” diplomacy
and plead their cases in person against the backdrop of the unreasonably cruel
reality of the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia.
The research done by Takashima Kō [2012] has revealed an interesting
aspect of AGEAN as producing an atmosphere transcending the ordinary diplo-
matic pomp and circumstance into an ethnic people’s “protest” demonstration.
In the afternoon of the day after the conference ended, the heads of state were
escorted to the stands of Jingū Stadium to watch the Fourteenth Annual Meiji
Shrine Tournament, “Greater East Asia Synchronized Youth Gymnastics,” fea-
turing Japanese government-­sponsored foreign students from all over Southeast
Asia, including the areas occupied and garrisoned by Japanese troops. In the run
up to the event, an argument broke out in which the student who was to carry
the placard for the Vietnamese contingent protested the designation “French
Indochina” and demanded that it be changed to “Annam.” Being forced to
carry the “French Indochina” placard under orders from the Greater East-­
Asiatic Ministry, the carrier while passing in front of the Tournament Master of
Ceremonies, Prince Takamatsunomiya, “made a gesture of giving the placard
back to the Prince.” It was a clear protest of the continuation of French coloni-
alism in his country under the Vichy France government and Japanese military
presence. Leocadio de Assis, a foreign student from the Philippines, commented
 “Independence” under Japan   201
in his diary that the event might have been inspired by the speech given by
Laurel during AGEAN proceedings [Takashima 2012: 262–3].
The “Greater East Asia Joint Declaration” adopted by AGEAN can be
described as one of its more transparent “charades,” in the sense that it had
already been gone over with a fine-­toothed comb by the people at IGHQ and
the government and was announced as drafted. On the other hand, we should
take note of the high ideals expressed in the text with such words as “sover-
eignty and independence,” “reciprocity” and “opening of resources.” Following
the preamble, the joint declaration, as translated and published by the Ministry
of Greater East-­Asiatic Affairs after the conference, states five main principles.

1 The countries of Greater East Asia through mutual co-­operation will

ensure the stability of their region and construct an order of common
prosperity and well-­being based upon justice.
2 The countries of Greater East Asia will ensure the fraternity of nations
in their region, by respecting one another’s sovereignty and independ-
ence and practising [sic] mutual assistance and amity.
3 The countries of Greater East Asia by respecting one another’s tradi-
tions and developing the creative faculties of each race, will enhance
the culture and civilization of Greater East Asia.
4 The countries of Greater East Asia will endeavor to accelerate their
economic development through close co-­operation upon a basis of
reciprocity and to promote thereby the general prosperity of their
region.
5 The countries of Greater East Asia will cultivate friendly relations with
all the countries of the world, and work for the abolition of racial dis-
crimination, the promotion of cultural inter-­course and the opening of
resources throughout the world, and contribute thereby to the pro-
gress of mankind.
[Ministry of Greater East-­Asiatic Affairs 1943: 64–5; JACAR:
B10070140800]

Behind every innocent sounding word of every noble article of the Declaration
lurked the grinding and screeching of policy directions, reflecting clashing inter-
ests within IGHQ and the government [Hatanao 1996: 170–3]. Yet, as one
result, the ripples and echoes given off by the “universal, lofty ideals” thrown
into the declaration gave rise to discussion over the objectives of the war and
postwar planning, while linking up with the movement among Shigemitsu and
his cohorts foreseeing defeat at the Foreign Ministry “to clarify what Japan had
to say for generations to come” [ibid.: Chapters 8–9]. The content of a docu-
ment geared in such a manner toward “universality” and “the postwar world”
should also be highlighted as providing a forum for the political actors rising up
throughout Asia to make their demands known to Japan.
202   “Independence” under Japan
The road from “independence” to independence
Amidst the series of demands, criticism, complaints and protests which the par-
ticipating heads of state laid out during AGEAN conference, the Japanese gov-
ernment and its leader Prime Minister Tōjō managed to maintain literally a low
profile throughout the whole affair. There were no reprisals feared by Laurel
and his contingent for refusing to submit a copy of his speech and then free-
wheeling it. Nobody made a peep during the conference’s bilateral talks sessions
about the Philippines declaring war on anybody. Prince Wan Waithayakon, who
stood in for Phibun (who feigned illness) and had pleaded sudden illness for his
tardiness, seemed to be full of vim and vigor during the conference, while the
cordiality shown by the Japanese government knew no limits from start to
finish. Although reeling somewhat from Ba Maw’s barrage of complaints, Tōjō
replied that there was nothing to worry about, since “the imperial government
essentially relies upon Your Excellency concerning everything from A to Z,” and
recognized wrongdoing on the part of the military, citing problems caused by
Kempeitai officers and the like as excellent examples of people who have not
yet  set their heads straight concerning Burma’s independence [Itō, et al., ed.
1990: 349].
Doubts of course remain as to what extent Tōjō’s low profile was the result
of a deep understanding of AGEAN conference’s feeling of “respect for sover-
eign independence.” For the Japanese government, in particular for Tōjō
Hideki, who had just come down hard on Nakano Seigō’s public campaign
against him, the conference was an event that could not be allowed to fail in any
way. For the participants, there may have been the feeling that there had been
plenty of opportunities for “threats by the weak” and that a political dynamic in
which the Japanese side would put up with them was at least temporarily in
motion. If so, Tōjō’s attitude can be characterized a merely a passing phase, but
was that all it was?
Just after AGEAN ended, on 16 November 1943, the supreme command of
the Thai National Army requested the Japanese forces garrisoned in Thailand to
refrain from conducting maneuvers, training exercises and parades near the
statue of Rama V, the constitutional memorial, the victory memorial and the
statue of Rama VI. The reason cited was that such conduct would incite anti-­
Japanese resentment among the people. It was in this way that the Thai govern-
ment intended to protect its sovereignty by utilizing to the fullest extent its
position as a full-­fledged ally that had permitted Japanese troops to be stationed
within its borders, not as an occupation force. Even after Phibun resigned as
prime minister in July 1944, the alliance with the Japanese garrison was main-
tained until Japan’s defeat, despite the development of the pro-­Allied forces
Free Thai Movement as Japan’s fortunes of war worsened. Yoshikawa Toshiharu
[2010: 62–3, 164] has argued that it was the alliance with Japan that enabled
Thailand to protect its national interests and preserve sovereignty.
Turning to Burma, the research done by Takeshima Yoshinari on the
Burmese National Bank that was founded after “independence,” in January
 “Independence” under Japan   203
1944, describes the events surrounding the Ba Maw administration insisting on
“monetary sovereignty,” in response to the Japanese Army’s issuance and circu-
lation of promissory notes (scrip) to cover its Southern war expenses, and Japan
relenting and deciding to pay those expenses with interest bearing loans of cur-
rency issued by the BNB. By negotiating the issue, Ba Maw threatened a direct
confrontation and insisted from a position of strength that Burma “was
approaching sovereignty,” thus defying any attempt to “label it a puppet gov-
ernment” [Takeshima 2009: 137].
In the Philippines, the Laurel administration, which had refused to accom-
pany the treaty with Japan concluded on the occasion of receiving its “inde-
pendence” with human resource support for war, continued its effort to
maintain de facto neutrality (see Chapter 5). Regarding Laurel’s diplomatic
efforts for little over a year between “independence” and the veritable collapse
of his administration after his escape from Manila in December 1944, Ricardo
Jose has shown that by carrying on a hard fought “test of wills” with Japan,
Laurel achieved maximum utilization of “independence, which the Japanese had
foisted on the Philippines as propaganda and a strategic ploy” [Jose 2003: 213].
The above examples show that the dynamism of wartime diplomacy between
Japan and the “nations and peoples of Greater East Asia” was not merely a
passing phenomenon occurring only during AGEAN Conference. Such dyna-
mism can be seen in the shift among the occupied peoples of “independent”
Asia toward both public and clandestine refusal to cooperate with, or out and
out resist, its Japanese occupiers, as well as in each of their governments’ diplo-
matic efforts to play the “five GEA principles’ card” in removing the quotation
marks from “independence.” In the end, the fears held by Ishii Akiho concern-
ing “wartime politics” came true. Or did a method ever exist to prevent such
fears from becoming reality? Although there is obviously the fictitious side to
erasing the quotation marks from an “independence” maintained under occupa-
tion by a foreign army; but at least on the level of diplomatic debate, in response
to efforts to remove the quotation marks, the Japanese government, which was
now aware of the objective reality that its “military capability was declining” and
also locked, at least in its verbal commitments, into the “AGEAN principles,”
found itself in no other position than to respect “sovereign independence.”
Looking back upon process by which Japan had backed itself into such a
corner, one notices that the questions of whether or not Tōjō’s acquiescent atti-
tude and Japan’s respect for “sovereign independence” were just passing fancies
or what was the connection of all this to the “Manchukuo model” are not very
meaningful when considered in the light of the “realpolitik” of the “Greater
East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere.” This is because what was now determining the
direction of “Co-­Prosperity Sphere politics” were neither the intentions nor
statements of Japan or Tōjō, but rather “the others” in Asia who rose up and
rushed forward in direct political action.
If one would try to understand the problem from the standpoint of Tōjō
Hideki himself, it would probably go something like this. No matter what his
own personal agenda may have been, his job as prime minister and duty as
204   “Independence” under Japan
“essentially a very serious” soldier-­bureaucrat forced him to follow the “polit-
ical” course in which the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” was heading.
Here, it was the “serious” response to the relationship with “the other” which
Tōjō developed through his numerous pronouncements as prime minister and
his summit diplomacy that presented a far more important problem than any
anxiety he may have suffered over his ideals and their consistency.
Despite being appointed prime minister under the “good auspices” of
Emperor Hirohito, Tōjō had to embark on a brand-­new experience as Japan’s
premier without any preparation or statecraft. The schoolboys of wartime Japan
would continuously mimic the “Tōjō-style” by imitating his “voice and facial
expressions” [Fukada 1991: 35] He was the first Japanese prime minister whose
behavior and gestures were reported and scrutinized for the nation by the mass
media to such a great extent. The “summit diplomacy” which had him flitting
here and there about the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” was also the
first for a Japanese prime minister. And it was Tōjō Hideki who was experi-
encing all of this. We have actual film footage of the “Memorial Day” celebra-
tion of 6 May 1943, a day of thanksgiving for the Imperial Army on the first
anniversary of the fall of Corregidor and the surrender of the USAFFE forces,
held in central Manila’s Luneta Park, marking one leg of Tōjō’s initial tour of
the Southern occupied territories.
We see Tōjō standing alone on a podium in the middle of the park
­surrounded by a huge crowd of some 300,000 “others.” This was probably one
more milestone in the history of the Japanese premiership. In the inimical style
played out daily in schoolyards all over Japan, Tōjō raised his voice and
screeched,

The time has come for people of the Philippines to rise up!10 It is now time
for you to rid yourselves as quickly as possible of the scourge of American-
ism; to nurture the kind of virility and enterprise that underlay national
ascendency; to recapture the true identity of the people of Greater
East Asia!

At the moment of hearing the deafening applause that greeted these vigorous
words (whether he noticed that Jose Laurel III addressed the crowd with a loud
speaker in the background is another story [Agoncillo 1984: 48; Wachi 1956:
142–3]), Tōjō found himself experiencing the same moment as when the
Osamu Group PR Detail was welcomed with similar dissonance upon touching
down on Java. It may have been this oration before 300,000 strong that rever-
berated through Tōjō’s mind. After his return to Tokyo, he took to the task of
overcoming opposition from the Navy in the deliberations over the “Outline of
Political Strategy Planning and Management in Greater East Asia,” cutting off
further discussion with assurances of “independence” of the Philippines “as
quickly as the whole situation demands,” stating “we can accomplish everything
by proceeding as planned.” Prime Minister Tōjō Hideki was just another typical
Japanese to be overwhelmed by Asian “others” rising up with such force in the
 “Independence” under Japan   205
direction of “sovereign independence”—If we take this as one valid evaluation
of Tōjō’s efforts, then in the sense that when all is said and done, there is no
real alternative but to shut up and listen when “the other” begins talking about
justice, sovereignty and independence, we find Tōjō having been put in a posi-
tion not so dissimilar from Osamu Group PR Detail leader Machida’s decision
to eat, drink and be merry, for “there was nothing I could do.”

Notes
  1 Dai’tōa Kaigi has frequently been translated as “Greater East Asia(n) Conference,”
while the Japanese government called the conference “the Assembly of Greater East
Asiatic Nations.” See [JACAR: B10070140800] and “Tokyo Names Nov.15 for Axis
Conference: Meeting of Greater East Asia Puppets is Also Scheduled,” New York
Times, 6 November 1943: 7.
  2 Kampō Gōgai (Official Gazette, extra issue), No. 3 (22 January 1942).
  3 Ibid.: 16.
  4 Kampō Gōgai (Official Gazette, extra issue), No. 16 (17 January 1942): 232.
  5 The Japanese term here is “bōryaku,” defined as any act of deception. Here it refers
more to the underhanded machinations of unconventional warfare, like misinforma-
tion and scapegoating, than conventional art of war deceptions, like camouflage or
ambush, as well as political maneuvers staged by the Imperial Army.
  6 Atlantic Charter, 14 August 1941. http://avalon.law.yale.edu/wwii/atlantic.asp.
  7 Kampō Gōgai (Official Gazette, extra issue), No. 1 (16 June 1943): 5–7.
  8 Kampō Gōgai (Official Gazette, extra issue), No. 2 (17 June 1943): 7–8.
  9 Nippon News, No. 179 (10 November 1943). News film available at: www.nhk.
or.jp/archives/shogenarchives/ (NHK War Testimonies Archives).
10 Nippon News, No. 153 (11 May 1943). Ibid.
5 Southeast Asia and the collapse
of the empire of Japan

1  Nationalism in Asia as the war draws to an end

Chandra Bose and the Battle of Imphal

19 August 1944. The battle for the liberation of Paris by the Allied forces was
about to begin (German forces were to surrender on the 25th). In Japan, it had
been a month since the Tōjō Cabinet resigned en masse on 18 July after being
held responsible for the loss of Saipan (US forces declared occupation of the
island on the 9th) and a new cabinet was formed under the premiership of
General Koiso Kuniaki, Governor-­General of Korea. That day marked a meeting
of the first “Supreme Council for the Direction of the War (Saikō Sensō Shidō
Kaigi),” the refurbished IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference with the
emperor in attendance. The “World Situation Assessment” reached during the
meeting differed little from the previous year’s version, as Germany was heading
more rapidly toward defeat. 

The enemy has now taken the initiative in the War … and is continuing to
do everything in its power to mount serious decisive offenses on both the
political and military fronts … developments on both fronts will probably
be broadly expanded beginning in the coming summer and fall …
[however, Japan] no matter how the situation unfolds in Europe … will
continue to fight on until the successful completion of the War. 
[Sanbōhonbu 1979: 52; JACAR: C12120198300]

It was in this way that as the war began to draw to an end, the Japanese Empire
was not only about to be engulfed militarily by the Allied forces, but at the same
time shaken to its foundations by nationalist movements led by political actors
who had risen up in the occupied territories. Let us try to grasp what happened
during this time from mid-­August 1944 to the end of the war from the available
“narrative” surrounding the three issues of Japan’s defeat in Imphal, the Philip-
pine “declaration of war” on the United States and Britain and whatever came
of Indonesian “independence.”
The order by the Southern Army to disengage from the Battle of Imphal
(the Japanese Army’s “Operation Code-­U”) was issued on 2 July 1944
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   207
[Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1968: 673], around the same time as the loss
of Saipan to the Allies.
The invasion of eastern India, which became an order of business as early as
August 1942 on the strength of the occupation of Burma (May 1942), con-
tinued to be considered from the objective of solidifying Burmese defenses
against increasing Allied counterattacks and bombing raids; but the plan was
shelved due to dubious logistics and gloomy forecasts about success. The con-
ventional wisdom then began to be revised with the appointment of Mutaguchi
Renya (b. 1888) to replace Iida as commander of the Hayashi Group (Fifteenth
Army) and Kawabe Masakazu (b. 1886) to take over the newly formed Burma
Area Forces high command. Not only was the operation resurrected by a fervent
Hallelujah from Mutaguchi and an Amen from Kawabe, but its scope was also
expanded from the original objective of defending Burma’s borders into an
ambitious plan to cross those borders into nearby Imphal in the Arakan moun-
tains and launch an invasion of Assam, from which a campaign would be con-
ducted to put an end to British rule in India.
Mutaguchi, who had commanded the China Garrison’s First Infantry Regi-
ment in the encounter with Chinese troops during the Marco Polo (Lugou)
Bridge Incident of 7 July 1937, describes how he was driven by ambition to
realize “the long-­cherished dream as a male,” saying, 

since I was the one who triggered off the Lugou Bridge incident … I
thought that if I could lead in invading India and decisively influence the
Greater East Asia War, I would be able to justify myself in front of the
nation as someone who had contributed, though indirectly, to the eventual
outbreak of the Great War. 
[Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1968: 90–1]

Mutaguchi’s plan was greeted with doubts, opposition and wait-­and-see atti-
tudes by his group brigade commanders and superiors at the Southern Army
General Command as a reckless venture that ignored the problem of logistics.
However, the opposing Staff officers were transferred elsewhere and IGHQ
(Imperial General Headquarters) approved the plan in January 1944 and Opera-
tion Code-­U got underway on 8 March.
Although the Japanese invasion force was successful in reaching the vicinity of
Imphal, it was met by fierce attacks from the British Indian Army, which control-
led the air, on the one hand, while suffering from isolation due to cuts in its
supply lines and miserable jungle conditions. With nowhere to go, the ranks
began to experience losses due to battle wounds, sickness and starvation. Initially
predicted to take about six weeks to complete, by the time of the emperor’s
birthday (April), Imphal still was not even close to being safely in Japanese hands.
It was clear that the mission had failed. However, due to delays in deciding to
abort the mission, the rainy season set in, and amidst chronic starvation, dysentery
and malaria, the troops on the ground were plunged into unprecedented confu-
sion and chaos, in which Thirty-­first Brigade commander Satō Kōtoku decided to
208   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
retreat in “defiance of orders.” After the mission was officially aborted at the
beginning of July, the escape route back into Burma turned into a disgusting trail
strewn with the corpses of wounded, sick and starved soldiers. According to the
Area Army’s chief of logistics Lt. Colonel Kurahashi Takeo, compared to the
Hayashi Group force’s combined strength of 155,000 troops before the Imphal
campaign, those who came out of the jungle alive amounted to just 31,000,
bringing the mission’s casualty rate to 80 percent [Maruyama 1984: 184].
While taking in to account the psychological need to pass the buck for such a
reckless operation that brought about so much suffering and death, the “nar-
rative” regarding Imphal places a great deal of emphasis on the fascination
stirred up within the Japanese military establishment by the passionate appeal
for Indian independence made by Subhas Chandra Bose of the Free India Pro-
visional Government, who fervently advocated an invasion of eastern India while
the preparation stages of Operation Code-­U were in progress. According to
Kawabe Masakazu, during his first meeting with Bose at the end of July 1943,
the commander of the Indian National Army “was adamant about the indispen-
sability of an immediate invasion of India … was determined to ally himself with
any and all nations that regarded the US and Britain as their enemies,” then
explained that it was such determination that had led to his “heartrending”
decision “to part ways with his beloved master Gandhi.” After his encounter
with “such an affable and remarkable personality,” Kawabe noted “a strong
desire to lend all the cooperation and support I could muster to the grand plan
laid out by such an outstanding man as Chandra Bose was on that occasion set
ablaze, though implicit” [Yomiuri Shimbunsha 1969, Vol. 9: 34–6]. Bose’s
initial meeting with Mutaguchi came even later, at the end of February 1944,
just prior to the start of the Imphal operation. Nevertheless, “they hit it off
splendidly,” discussing plans for the timing of the victory march by the joint
Indian-­Japanese forces and entrusting the Indian army with military administra-
tive affairs after Imphal was safely occupied [ibid.: 42–4].
Chandra Bose (b. 1897) had been one of the top leaders of the Indian inde-
pendence movement, had served as mayor of Calcutta and been elected chair-
man of the Indian National Congress twice. His constituency had grown in the
region of eastern Bengal during his early political career as an uncompromising
supporter of the anti-­British national independence struggle. Then, within the
intensifying global situation at the end of the 1930s and his deepening differ-
ences with Gandhi and mainstream Indian National Congress politicians over
the pros and cons of non-­violent struggle and support for the Allied powers
after the outbreak of the war in Europe, in January 1941, he fled house arrest
under the Imperial Police in Calcutta, first to Russia, then afterward appearing
in Germany in March. After receiving support from the Nazis, Bose went on
shortwave radio from Berlin to advocate his anti-­British pro-­national independ-
ence position and was put in command of an Indian combat unit (approximately
3,000 troops) formed mainly from POWs captured at the North African
front.  However, as the World War, in particular the Soviet-­German conflict,
enfolded, Bose gradually came to realize the limits imposed on Indian national
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   209
independence by cooperating with Germany. Meanwhile, Japan, following its
first strikes against the US and Britain, formed the “Indian National Army”
from British Indian Army troops that had been captured during the invasion of
Malaya and Singapore in a special ops mission conducted by the “F Agency” led
by Fujiwara Iwaichi. Not all of these “independence” special ops had been suc-
cessful, however, what with Mohan Singh, a former captain in the British Indian
Army, who was reluctant about pro-­Japanese collaboration, being jailed on sus-
picion of espionage, and former longtime resident of Japan Rash Behari Bose not
proving up to snuff as an independence movement leader. Then, Japanese
leaders, judging that they shared common interests, decided during January
1943 to summon Chandra Bose, who after secret passage via German and Japa-
nese submarines appeared before the Japanese public on 16 June during Prime
Minister Tōjō’s “Greater East Asia Declaration” speech. From July, Bose
embarked on strengthening the organization of the Indian independence move-
ment in Singapore, first appearing at Prime Minister Tōjō’s side during his
inspection of the Indian National Army on the 5th. Then, on 21 October, Bose
formed the Free Indian Provisional Government, and immediately after receiving
Japan’s recognition, he declared war on the US and Britain. The Indian National
Army that was reformed under Bose’s command at that time numbered about
13,000 strong; and from that time until the start of the Imphal campaign, its
ranks grew to brigade proportions of about 19,500 [Maruyama 1985: 78, 176].
Chandra Bose stood out among all the chief executives who “cooperated
with Japan” for his unquestioning and unwavering support for the Axis powers,
which stemmed directly from his unquestioning and unwavering commitment
to an anti-­British, independent India agenda. In addition, while Bose had no
territory nor nation to rely upon, he would not allow any other regime leaders
to best him on the point of demanding and obtaining Japan’s cooperation and
acceptance. Even the designation of the Free India Provisional Government’s
province as the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, British territory then occupied
by Japanese troops, was brought up in a meeting between Bose and Tōjō just
after the former arrived in Tokyo to attend the AGEAN conference and quickly
decided thereafter. Upon hearing Bose’s request, Tōjō had balked at first, reply-
ing that there was going to be “quite a battle ahead” to keep the US and Britain
from regaining possession of the Islands [Itō, et al., ed. 1990: 287]. However,
according to the Sugiyama Memos, 

From the first exhilarating day of AGEAN conference [5 November 1943]

until the morning of the 6th, the suddenly impassioned vision of the joint
Prime Minister/Ministers of War and the Navy made it possible for a reso-
lution calling for a declaration [of province] at the end of that day’s session. 
[Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1967, Vol. 2: 515]

Although Bose was not given the opportunity to speak on that first day, the
“atmosphere” of the conference had produced in Tōjō and the Japanese contin-
gent a feeling that it could not let such an excellent opportunity pass.
210   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
During the Imphal campaign as well, Bose had stubbornly insisted on “full
equality between Japan and India and national independence” before a Japanese
military that regarded his INA as “a thorn in the side in terms of operations in
the field,” made the Japanese recognize that “equal respect be shown” toward
anyone of the rank of unit commander or above with leadership authority over
INA troops within the Japanese Army, and regarding the Kempeitai, forced an
agreement that only when necessary for the sake of defense would he recognize
“jurisdiction within the strictest limits” and would not recognize any jurisdic-
tion claimed by low ranking Kempeitai irregulars [Maruyama 1985: 86–9].
Preparations were also made by the INA and Japanese forces concerning military
administration after Imphal was occupied. These included “Indian personnel
and material, including crop seed, at the ready for the restoration of lighting
and running water, technical support for reconstruction projects, and agricul-
tural labor, amounting to what could be one large-­scale military administration”
[Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1968: 272–5]. But Operation Code-­U turned
out to be nothing but a pipe dream.
The INA was also injected into the front line with the Japanese forces and
thus received equal footing in death on the battlefield, and from sickness and
starvation that marked their tragic road to defeat. Maruyama Shizuo (b. 1909),
who was embedded with the Imphal invasion forces as a reporter for the Asahi
Shimbun, recalls the scene crossing the swirling waters of the river at Yanan
(Burma).

At the first light of day, I could see the river bank turned black, covered by
the horde of troops milling about there. They were the first arrivals, sitting
on the pier, rocks and lumber piles, prostrate on the ground, standing in
the muck stunned. A short distance away from the pier, a naked Indian
soldier was lying on the ground face up. He seemed to be still alive, because
his body would jerk from time to time. Beside him was lying a uniformed
Japanese soldier. Motionless, he might have already been dead.
[Maruyama 1984: 169–70]

In his postwar memoirs Kawabe insists that “the idea of the Imphal operation
was strictly strategic,” and its objective was “to frustrate plans by the British
Indian Army to retake Burma,” calling the criticism that the operation “was
pushed forward by hardened appeals by Bose to the Tōjō government” and
“was an impossible venture from the very beginning” as “absolutely beside the
point.” On the other hand, as to “the fair amount of time it took to decide on
ending the mission” after it was plainly clear that the operation had failed.
Kawabe comments, “The operation had been understood both in Japan and
abroad for its political significance … the agony over not being able to dismiss
Chandra Bose’s grand plan got in the way of making a straightforward strategic
decision” [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1968: 614–15]. The attempt to
transfer responsibility to “political significance” is not very persuasive when the
argument rolls off the tongue of the operation’s commanding officer, but there
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   211
is no mistake that we are witnessing in this “narrative” someone who was far
removed from the suffering that took place on the battlefield, the posture of
one mediocre soldier, bereft of a consistent explanation, reeling from “justice”
imposed by “the other.”
Seeing the Imphal operation as a “useless fight” with no bearing on the
outcome of the War for the Japanese, Maruyama, who marched side by side
with the INA troops, looked back on that experience as thoroughly convincing
him that they were no “puppets,” but rather men who believed in their convic-
tions and strongly desired independence, and as “opening my eyes to [the
meaning of] nationalism.” After the War, Maruyama would become the leading
correspondent for the Asian affairs desk at the Asahi Shimbun. Then, during his
twelve years as a member of the newspaper’s editorial committee, “all of the
editorials that I wrote sympathetic to Asian nationalism were influenced by my
experience during Imphal” [Maruyama 1984: 198].
18 August 1945. Upon hearing of Japan’s defeat in the Pacific War, Chandra
Bose, who had dedicated his life to the anti-­British Indian independence
struggle, immediately decided to head for the Soviet Union, “out of my com-
mitment to ally with any country that regards the US and Britain as their
enemies.” The Japanese Foreign Ministry and the military cooperated in Bose’s
exile, placing him aboard a Japanese plane headed for Dalian (Yunnan) from
Saigon to put him in touch with the Soviet army. After a stopover in Taipei,
however, the passenger plane crashed immediately after takeoff. Despite freeing
himself from the wreckage, Bose was engulfed in flames and breathed his last.
After the war, the commanding officers of the INA were court martialed in
India for acts of treason. However, even the anti-­Axis power Indian National
Congress lent its support to the defendants throughout the trial, which unfolded
into a huge nationalist movement creating a political groundswell in the direc-
tion of national independence. In contrast, the evaluation of Chandra Bose and
his role in all this has been mixed. For example, historian of contemporary India
Nagasaki Nobuko [1989: 245] has offered the viewpoint that (1) when the Jap-
anese succeeded in occupying Burma proper in May 1942, Gandhi predicted
victory for Japan in the war and anticipated its invasion of India and (2) Bose’s
presence was influential in the “quit India” movement, which in turn inspired
Bose and the INA, concluding that “the activities of Bose and Gandhi were
not  at odds, but rather complemented each other in support for Indian
independence.”

The “steadfast” Laurel administration in the Philippines

Let us go back a year to 19 August 1944. This is the day on which the Supreme
Council for the Direction of the War received and approved, together with that
year’s “World Situation Assessment,” a document entitled “Outline for the
Direction of the War to be Taken.” Although filled with no longer meaningful
views on the successful completion of the war and pie-­in-the-­sky “political
strategy” concerning the postwar era, like fostering friendly relations with the
212   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
Soviet Union and negotiating peace between Germany and the Soviets,
regarding policy in response to the “nations of Greater East Asia,” there were
two important measures, one of which pertaining to the “participation” of the
Philippines in the war.

With respect to the Philippines, we will recognize the wishes of its president
and have him declare war on the United States and Britain as the occasion
warrants.
[Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1979: 57; JACAR: C12120198500]

The original record available on JACAR cloud archives showed that the
measure was added in handwriting to the printed draft prepared for the 19
August meeting. Shigemitsu Mamoru, who had been jointly appointed to head
the Koiso Cabinet’s Ministries of Foreign Affairs and Greater East Asia, has left
us a memo on the meeting entitled “Top Secret Summary of Supreme Council
for the Direction of the War in the presence of the Emperor.” In the memo,
Shigemitsu wrote that as the war front gradually turned in the direction of the
Philippines, and since the Philippine president “seems to have desire to parti-
cipate in the fighting against the US and Britain,” he suggested that Japan take
this opportunity to recognize such a wish and have him [Laurel] declare war
on the US and Britain at the proper time. The article in the “General Plan”
was then approved without any objection [Itō, et al., ed. 2004: 25–6]. Such a
statement by Shigemitsu that the Philippine president “seems to have desire to
participate” in the war effort has a strange ring to it, in light of the fact that
there was very strong pro-­American sentiment throughout the Philippines
and the fact that President Laurel had already demurred on Japan’s request to
“join the War effort” even after the Philippines was granted “independence.”
How is one to understand such an apparent contradiction between the two
accounts?
To begin with, let us point out the clear contrast existing between the posi-
tions of Chandra Bose, whose complete dedication to the anti-­British, Indian
independence struggle led him to enlist the Indian National Army in the service
of the Japanese Army, and Jose Laurel, the chief executive of an officially pro-­
Japanese government teeming with de facto pro-­American political elites. In
terms of political choice, Laurel, who had already prioritized above all else
seeing the Philippine state and its people through the War, diverges greatly from
Bose, who considered national independence to be of the utmost importance.
However, despite these different choices, in terms of political action, the Laurel
administration was imbued with the same passionate commitment as Bose, in
stubbornly being themselves, which was confirmed and even emphasized in
plenty of “narratives” left by the Japanese who evenly expressed respect for the
president.
Hamamoto Masakatsu, Tōjō’s interpreter at the AGEAN conference, who
was born in Hokkaido in 1905, raised in Hawaii and graduated with honors
from Harvard Law School before attending Keio University in Tokyo, was the
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   213
author of a most unique curriculum vitae that listed his present position as the
executive manager of General Motors in the Far East [Katori 1998] at the start
of the war, the news of which reached him at the Yamato Hotel in Mukden,
Manchuria. Back in Japan, Hamamoto dealt with the military requisition of the
GM factory and then volunteered for the army, which took several months for
security clearance to hire him as a civil administrator. He arrived in the Philip-
pines in July 1942. Given his outstanding linguistic skills and educational back-
ground, Hamamoto soon won the complete trust of the Philippine contingent
as the official Japan-­Philippine interpreter and was appointed by Laurel as a
special presidential advisor when the Philippines was given “independence.” In
his postwar memoirs, Hamamoto has time and again looked back on Laurel “as
a courageous patriot who took a liking to me. He was no puppet by any stretch
of the imagination” [Hamamoto 1994: 87].
When asked why he thought so, Hamamoto would often cite the time when
Laurel received a report that the Kempeitai were coming to take one of the offi-
cers in the presidential guard regiment into custody on suspicion of anti-­
Japanese resistance activities (November 1944). From his executive office in the
presidential mansion (Malacanyang Palace), Laurel

hung up the phone, put on his leather hat and shoved it down around his
ears … opened a desk drawer, drew out a .45 Colt pistol and checked to see
if it was loaded … in preparation for the confrontation ahead.

Laurel told Hamamoto that if anyone of the Kempeitai “takes even one step
inside” the gate of Malacanyang Palace, “I will shoot him dead on the spot,”
adding that “I will kill you if you get in the way.” Hamamoto, who knew the
president meant business, made a secret phone call to Southern Army Vice-­
Chief of Staff Wachi Takaji, who ordered the Kempeitai to back off, thus avoid-
ing a shootout [ibid.: 87–9]. The incident is also referred to by Laurel himself
in his War Memories, written while in US custody at Yokohama and Sugamo
Prisons from September to December 1945. Not aware of Hamamoto’s scheme,
Laurel merely writes, “[T]he Kempeitai from Fort Santiago did not come, I
don’t know why” [Laurel 1962: 33].
Ambassador to the Philippines Murata Shōzō also found it difficult to hide
his admiration for Laurel. In a letter to his eldest son, an Army 2nd Lieutenant,
dated 20 August 1944, Murata describes Laurel’s reaction to the backslide in
the fortunes of war as 

of the longer view, strongly confident of Japanese victory, assured that if

per chance we aren’t successful today, we would eventually realize the five
principles declared at AGEAN conference … He is completely composed
… in a state of mind far beyond any fear for his own life. 

Murata goes on to describe how happy he is that he and Laurel had hit if off so
wonderfully. 
214   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
He is one of the unique figures in the Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity
Sphere … It’s always a pleasure when we meet every day … your father is so
lucky to know such a man, on the golf course, at meals together, caught up
in general conversation or when plunged into talks on the affairs of state.
We have become the best of friends.1 

Amidst increasing fears of bombing raids, almost every day Murata and Laurel
dared to invite Cabinet members and prominent public figures to rounds of golf
on the course on the opposite bank of the Palace across the Pasig River. Mura-
ta’s Philippine Diary records these outings, along with what everyone shot on a
particular day.
Immediately after Murata’s letter to his son extolling Laurel, the tension was
raised considerably in Japan-­Philippine relations over the issue of the latter
“joining the War effort.” In the United States, the trilateral conference held in
Hawaii between MacArthur (the Army), Admiral Nimitz (the navy) and Presi-
dent Roosevelt (commander-­in-chief ) on 16–17 July had reached an agreement
on a plan to retake the Philippines, instead of invading Taiwan, as the next war
objective. At that exact same time, IGHQ began preparations for “Operation
Code-­Shō,” which designated where the decisive battles would be fought with
the United States, the first of which was the Philippines. Amidst such growing
tension on the war front, elements within both the Japanese Army and Navy
were growing more and more dissatisfied over the Laurel regime’s reluctance to
cooperate in the war effort, leading to concerns over a coup d’état led by dis-
contented elements of the Japanese military having Ganap leader Benigno
Ramos or General Artemio Ricarte as an alternative head of the state. Murata
warned the military leadership several times about the moves being made by
these disgruntled minions. For example, he approached Southern Army com-
mander Terauchi Hisaichi with the words, 

There are those in the Navy, and from time to time among the lower ranks
of the Army, who are murmuring things about the Laurel administration.
They are out of line. Something decisive must be done before such talk gets
out of hand. 
[Murata 1969: 136–7]

It was feared that delaying “a declaration of war” would place the Laurel regime
in even more difficult circumstances than it already found itself.
25 August 1944. After a day of entertaining a group of visitors on the golf
course and elsewhere, Laurel, Murata and Hamamoto found themselves reduced
to a threesome and began “engaging in an unexpectedly serious discussion just
before dinner.” Laurel begins by asking, “What is it that Japan wants from the
Philippines right now?” Murata answers, “To join the War effort”; then adds,
“But Japan is not going to unduly force the issue. We are already fully aware of
what your intentions are, Mr. President … when the right time comes.” “That
is my intention,” replied Laurel, “as you know there are various plans [in the
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   215
making]” [Murata 1969: 121]. Already prior to the date of this tête-à-tête, the
Supreme Council for the Direction of the War had already decided to “recog-
nize the wishes of its president and have him declare war on the United States
and Britain as the occasion warrants.” This chronology led one to assume that
injecting the “fiction” that this was what the Philippines wanted to put an end
to any further discussion on the Japanese side regarding when the time was right
for Laurel to join the war and that the Council’s decision was put in writing for
the purpose of passing off joining the war under the pretense of “sovereign
independence” as Laurel’s ultimate decision.
The issue of “declaring war” would become one focus of debate in postwar
Philippine politics over pro-­Japanese collaboration. In was in 1946 that Claro
M. Recto, who as Foreign Minister was one of the central figures along with
Laurel in drafting a declaration of war, published his memoirs as a rebuttal to
questions about his responsibility in the affair. What Recto emphasized was that
the document was drafted as nothing but a statement of the simple fact that the
Philippines was “in a state of war” as defined by international law, thus avoiding
a “declaration of war” pitting the US and Britain as enemies of the Philippines.
Recto also stressed that (1) the declaration was “worthless,” since it was not
accompanied by an order to mobilize in any way the Philippine people for the
war effort and (2) Laurel’s deliberate failure to seek the approval of the National
Assembly required under the Constitution sent a clear message to the United
States and other Allied nations that the document was not valid, since it had
been written under duress applied by Japan [Recto 1946, 49–55].
Murata’s Diary details how he mustered his own courage in dealing with the
“state of war” declaration, from which we observe that Murata was well aware
of Philippine intentions as described above by Recto and was in general agree-
ment with them. In particular, concerning the phrase “state of war,” Murata
requested Special Plenipotentiary and China expert Tajiri Akiyoshi to examine
the “Declaration of War Against the US and Britain” issued by the Nanjing
Nationalist government on 9 September 1943.
Tajiri found that the English language version had declared a “state of war”
and that the English statement published simultaneously by the Japanese gov-
ernment, interpreting the document as “a declaration of war,” concluding
“both a declaration of participation in the war against the US and Britain and
a  declaration of state of war may take the same effect” (3 September 1944)
[Murata 1969: 131–2].
21 September 1944. At a little after 9 a.m., US bombers attack Manila tar-
geting airfields and port facilities for about two hours. The afternoon, as well, is
marked by intermittent air raids, and Manila reverberates from the thunder of
long range artillery bombardment and is engulfed in rising clouds of black
smoke. The Ermita district of central Manila is hit accidentally, causing collat-
eral damage and civilian deaths. The bombardment marks the beginning of US
military operations to retake the Philippines. Hamamoto from his hotel room in
Manila and Murata from the Japanese Embassy both rush to Malacañang Palace
and meet Laurel ensconced in its air raid shelter. They are once more a
216   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
threesome. On his way to the Palace Hamamoto had dropped into the Agri-
culture and Commerce Ministry Building to get the original of the “Martial
Law Declaration” from the safe kept by Southern Army Vice-­Chief of Staff
Wachi Takaji, as previously planned [Hamamoto 1994: 103–4]. In the shelter,
Murata urges Laurel to decide that “the time has come.” In response, Laurel
asks Murata for his opinion of the three alternatives for how to proceed:
(1) declaring martial law and then “joining the War effort” under the extra-
ordinary powers granted him as chief executive, (2) convene Congress and seek
its approval in accordance with the Constitution or (3) seek congressional
approval after declaring martial law and state of war. Murata replies that the
present conditions make it impossible to seek congressional approval, and even
if Congress were forced to convene, a hundred different voices would never
reach a consensus. If Congress is forced into session, Japan would end up having
to rely on the strength of the military, which the Philippine government would
never want. To avoid that, “The President must take the initiative on his own to
boldly declare martial law and decide to go to war.” Murata recalls that direct
executive action is exactly what was already going through Laurel’s mind, but
he needed confirmation from the Japanese side. Murata, perfectly understanding
Laurel’s mind, bolstered his argument with dire warnings that if the declaration
of war is delayed even a few days “who knows what will happen,” even a coup
d’état [Murata 1969: 155–6].
However, as always Laurel remained cautious. After declaring a martial law, he
conferred on 22 September with his Cabinet members and the Council of State
(advisory agency of elder politicians) on the wording of the declaration. While the
document was still under advisement, Foreign Minister Recto went to the Japa-
nese Embassy as Laurel’s representative to report on the progress being made in
the deliberations. On that occasion Murata told Recto that in contrast to the US
forces incorporating the Philippine Army into its ranks, “even if the  Philippines
declares war, Japan would never put its mothers’ sons on the battlefront,” the
fighting “would be done by Japanese forces alone,” and that all Japan wanted
from the Philippines was “to maintain law and order and cooperate sufficiently
with Japanese military operations.” Recto “smiled, politely, said his good-­byes”
and left [ibid.: 158–9]. The following day, President Jose Laurel announced,

Now, therefore, I, Jose P. Laurel, President of the Republic of the Philip-

pines, do hereby proclaim that a state of war exists between the Republic of
the Philippines and the United States of America and Great Britain, effective
September 23, 1944, at ten o’clock in the morning.2

27 September 1944. A telegram dated 25 September 1944 arrived at the Japa-

nese Embassy from Shigemitsu Mamoru, informing them, in the capacity of
Minister of Greater East Asia, of the government’s position regarding the Phil-
ippine “Declaration of War,” the text clearly indicating that it was sent in
response to a request from Murata Shōzō. The telegram begins with a statement
of support for the Laurel government and the colonial elite in general. 
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   217
First, in order to strengthen the political power of President Laurel … we
must trust Laurel to the end and demonstrate an attitude of strong support
for his administration … regarding pro-­Japanese elements outside of the
Laurel government, we will respect Laurel’s wishes and embrace the present
administration … regarding important figures who are seen as so-­called
pro-­American, we will do what we can not to exclude them.

It then reads, 

Secondly, we will respect the sovereignty and independence of the Philip-

pine state … [in order to] make inroads thoroughly into the Philippine
public and private sectors via the implementation of the true intentions of
the Empire … we must make every effort to help the Philippine govern-
ment win the hearts of the people. 

After repeating the Shigemitsu-­style diplomacy slogan “sovereign independ-

ence,” the telegram goes on to make the interesting statement,

To all the Empire’s military, bureaucratic and civilian personnel stationed in

the Philippines, mind that you thoroughly follow the above directives and
do everything in your power to eliminate once and for all any kind of dele-
terious aggravation that would harm Japanese-­Philippine cooperation.
[Murata 1969: 168]

The double-­speak phrase “deleterious aggravation” which appears here refers to

the frequent, nationwide acts of violence and atrocity being perpetrated by Japa-
nese troops in the field, which the Laurel administration had continued to
denounce both in public and private. One of these denunciations that we know
of is a long letter of protest dated 20 June 1944 and submitted by Foreign
Minister Recto to Vice-­Chief of Staff Wachi Takaji. After the receipt of the
letter, on 10 July Murata took Recto to meet personally with Southern Army
Chief of Staff Iida Yuzuru and Vice-­Chief of Staff (Chief of the Military Admin-
istration General Affairs Department) Takahashi Tan to impress on them “the
utmost importance of the kind of military discipline needed in the Philippines
[ibid.: 81].” Recto began the letter with a statement that despite “independ-
ence,” “little has been accomplished … to eliminate the feeling of distrust and
hostility which a considerable portion of our people continue to entertain
towards the present regime,” followed by an appeal to the Japanese authorities
to look upon that situation not from some abstract view of war objectives, but
rather from the standpoint of ordinary people capable of judging between what
is right and what is wrong about the things going on around them in their daily
lives. Then he poses the question, why on earth would people place their trust
in the Republic and Japan after being treated with cruel bigotry and arrogance
and forced into a life of poverty after having been driven from their homes and
had their property seized without fair compensation. The letter then goes on at
218   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
length with the sole aim of denouncing the acts of atrocity perpetrated by the
Japanese occupation forces.

Thousands of cases have been reported of people being either burned alive,
killed at the point of bayonet, beheaded, beaten without mercy, or other-
wise subjected to various methods of physical torture, without distinction
as to age or sex … In my home-­town alone, Tiaong, Tayabas, over one
hundred were summarily executed during the “zonification” of the people
there shortly before the inauguration of the Republic. The same thing was
done in Lopez, Tayabas, where no less than this number of people were put
to death as recently as March, 1944 … The cases of these municipalities are
merely cited as typical instances of what are common occurrences in other
municipalities all over the Islands.

In conclusion, Recto points directly to Japanese arrogance as creating an atmo-

sphere of anti-­Japanese resistance.

An invidious comparison is often made between the single-­minded and pas-

sionate determination of the Japanese people and the disunited and luke-
warm attitude of the Filipino people, implying that there must be
something fundamentally wrong with the Filipinos. There is no truth in this
however. The Filipinos fought for their freedom against overwhelming
odds during four centuries of their history. And they will do so again, val-
iantly and without counting the cost, with a determination not less pas-
sionate than that of any other people, whenever they are convinced that it is
their freedom and their honor they are fighting for.
[Recto 1946: 115–25]

Murata supported this particular line of protest from the Philippine national
leadership. For example, on 5 August 1944, when Lt. General Suzuki Sōsaku
came to his office to say hello after arriving in Mindanao as the commander of
the newly formed Thirty-­fifth Army (Shō Group), Murata told him that the
Philippine guerrillas were not necessarily a “pro-­American contingent,” but in
fact had become insurgents due to how the Japanese security forces were affect-
ing the quality of law and order (i.e. joined the anti-­Japanese resistance in
response to atrocities perpetrated by the Japanese forces). As one case in point,
Murata “dared to” tell Suzuki all the “gory details” of 

an incident that came up just the other day brought to my attention by the
President himself, involving the security forces stationed a Naujan on
Mindoro, who had the barbarity to hang a young woman upside down and
insert a club into her vagina. 

Suzuki replied, saying “I had the same trouble with my men in China and the
South,” and that he had been ordered by Minister of War Sugiyama himself
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   219
“to issue directives not to antagonize the Philippine people any more than we
have already.” Here we have proof that even the highest levels of the war leader-
ship had become sick and tired of the chronic violence being perpetrated by its
forces on the ground [Murata 1969: 96–7].
From the fact brought out at the war crimes tribunals after the war that
much of the atrocities committed by the Japanese forces throughout the Philip-
pines happened after the Allied landing on Leyte (October 1944), Recto’s pro-
tests of the previous June had had little, if no, effect. What is important here is
the fact that Recto (probably with postwar hindsight) had made it clear that the
Philippines were “in the right” on the issue and that the Japanese had nothing
to say in response to his protest. The oppression inflicted by the Japanese forces
on ordinary people throughout the occupation gradually reached the doorsteps
of their government leaders by its conclusion. For example, a niece of Laurel’s
living in Batangas was found barely alive buried in a hole by the Kempeitai along
with other villages with a wire leash around her neck. Hearing of the incident
Laurel turned to Hamamoto in tears of anger and frustration, shouting how was
he supposed to “maintain neutrality” while this kind of atrocious behavior was
going on all over the country [Hamamoto 1994: 89].
Beginning with the Allied landing of 20 October 1944 and the ensuing Battle
of Leyte, followed by the Battle of Luzon after the Lingayen Gulf landing on 9
January 1945, spreading to Cebu (26 March 1945) and the Visayas, on to Zam-
boanga (10 March) and Mindanao, the Philippines, now the scene of full-­scale
war on every front involving ferocious resistance by the Japanese Army to the
overwhelming firepower of the Allied forces, were exposed to the worst level of
physical and human destruction in all of Southeast Asia, reducing the great
majority of it cities, beginning with Manila, to rubble. According to figures com-
piled by the Philippine government after the war, of the total national population
of 16 million as of 1939, the number of war deaths suffered by the Philippine
side, including those caused by the economic collapse under the occupation, came
to 1.1 million [Yoshikawa 1991: 386–7]. It goes without saying that many of
those deaths were the result of atrocities perpetrated by Japanese soldiers upon
non-­combatants, including women, like the so-­called “Manila massacre” that
accompanied the Allied siege of the capital during February and March 1945.
In contrast to such carnage, the relationship of cooperation between Japan
and the Laurel administration despite all kinds of ups and downs was maintained
until the end—cooperation characterized by a mutual understanding of a passive
definition of government in both senses of a “government that will not fight
back against the Empire” as anticipated by “Proposed Measures for Dealing
with the Philippines [Chapter 1]” and one that “will not pledge allegiance to
Japan” (i.e., betray the United States), as President Quezon had ordered Laurel
before leaving him behind in charge. According to Hamamoto, when newly
appointed commander of the Watari Group (Fourteenth Army) Yamashita
Tomoyuki first met Laurel, when Japan still anticipated positive breakthroughs
via the first leg of “Operation Code-­Shō,” Yamashita quipped, “It’s enough
if  you (the Philippines) will not be on the American side,” and Laurel replied,
220   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
“I don’t intend to send even one Filipino youth into battle; but we will honor
our treaty of alliance with Japan” [Hamamoto 1994: 110]. Up until the last
days of the occupation, both parties had once more confirmed the under-
standing they had reached at the beginning.
However, Mutō Akira, Yamashita’s close confidant who was appointed
Watari Group Chief of Staff, had something different in mind when he
approached the Ganap Party with a far more proactive definition of government.
Despite Vice-­Chief of Staff Utsunomiya Naokata being opposed to giving
Benigno Ramos any important role in the political affairs based on a briefing
about contemporary Philippine politics up to that point in time, Mutō rebutted
harshly with “In the event that the majority of Filipinos fail to cooperate with
the Japanese military, we shouldn’t necessarily shirk from giving such a person a
greater role to play” [Utsunomiya 1981: 153–5]. It was on 8 December 1944
as the Battle of Luzon stood imminent and the war became three years old, that
Makapili (Alliance of Philippine Patriots) was founded from the remains of the
Ganap Party as a genuine auxiliary troop organization for the purpose of aiding
the Japanese forces. Despite opposition from the Laurel administration, efforts
by Murata, Hamamoto and Utsunomiya managed to maintain some semblance
of harmony between the two groups.
22 December 1944. Three years since Quezon fled Manila, the Laurel
administration also vacated Manila and moved to Baguio along with the Japa-
nese military. Then on 29 March 1945, Laurel, Benigno Aquino and several
other leaders fled to Taiwan along with Ambassador Murata and on 9 June
touched down in Japan at Fukuoka Airfield to become a government in exile.
Before their departure, Murata had requested the Army General Command
several times to protect the Cabinet officers that would be left behind in the
Philippines. Even though there had been “several incidents” involving “pro-­
American” politicians like Manuel Roxas, Murata’s requests were directed more
at postwar Japan-­Philippine relations when he warned, “think of the future, take
a lenient attitude, and whatever you do, don’t get rid of them” [Murata 1969:
458]. This is the reason why Hamamoto Masakatsu would remain in the Philip-
pines to make sure that the Cabinet members left behind and their families, in
the hideouts in the mountain of Baguio fleeing the air raids, received special
passes issued by Commander Yamashita himself [Hamamoto 1994: 112–13].
On 18 April, Roxas and other Cabinet leaders escaped across the frontlines into
Allied-­held territory and surrendered to the US military forces. Of them, only
Roxas was designated as “liberated” through MacArthur’s intercession, while
the rest were put under arrest.
17 August 1945. Together with Japan’s unconditional surrender, Laurel
announced the end of the “Philippine Republic” at the Nara Hotel where he
had been staying. Later Laurel and his entourage, Jorge Vargas who had been
dispatched to Tokyo as the “Republic’s” Ambassador and others were to be
incarcerated in Sugamo Prison, along with suspected Japanese war criminals.
In the Philippines, on 4 July of the following year, the country would be
granted independence (sans inverted commas) from the United States and form
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   221
a “new” Republic, as anticipated before the Japanese invasion. Winning the
presidential election held that previous April was none other than Manuel
Roxas. Just after independence, at the end of July, Laurel and his entourage,
who had been brought back from Japan, were indicted along with the Japanese
collaborators whom they had left behind before the People’s Court on charges
of treason. However, on 28 January 1948, Roxas issued a special presidential
pardon exonerating all those who had collaborated with the Japanese in either
their economic or political activities. (Recto refused the pardon and was later
found not guilty by the courts.) Soon after his pardon, Laurel returned to pol-
itics. In the presidential election of November 1949, Laurel stood as the can-
didate of the opposition Nacionalista Party against the incumbent Liberal Party
candidate Elpidio Quirino, in the vacuum left by Roxas’ sudden passing. It was
widely rumored, that although actually winning the vote, Laurel was deprived of
victory due to election fraud on the part of the Liberal Party, or so he claimed.
Many of the leaders, like Laurel and Recto, who served in the pro-­Japanese
government, went on to occupy important positions as elder statesmen through-
out the 1950s and 1960s. How the postwar return to power by this group of
wartime Filipino wartime collaborators should be evaluated in terms of the con-
temporary history of the Philippines is a very interesting and important problem,
which unfortunately cannot be discussed here in detail. However, it would seem
fair to say that although they were not able to attain their stated objective of
doing their best to protect their people from atrocities and barbarism at the
hand of the Japanese occupation forces, they were for the most part accepted
back into postwar Philippine society and politics.
What should be asked here are the reasons why Japan lent its support to the
Laurel administration up to the end. First of all, there is no doubt that like
Hamamoto and Murata, there were many people who lent undying support to
the regime out of personal admiration for Laurel, the man. However, Laurel’s
dynamic personality notwithstanding, it would be mistaken to interpret support
for passive cooperation as a point in favor of “people of conscience” on the Jap-
anese side. Rather, these people had no other alternative in their efforts to avoid
the total collapse of the occupation as they knew it. In this sense, the view of
contemporary Philippine historian Ricardo Jose seems nearest to reality. To wit,

Actual preparations for the coup were made, before more sober Japanese
officers dissuaded the radicals that the coup would be more harmful and
would completely alienate the Filipino people. Laurel’s steadfastness pushed
the Japanese into a corner from where they could not escape.
[Jose 2003: 211]

Here as well, end times for the Japanese Empire are put in relief as being swayed
by or totally dependent on the “steadfast other” in the guise of the Laurel
regime, and thus quietly linking the prewar establishment—the Quezon Regime
sans Quezon—with the postwar establishment, as if handing back something
that had been taken and put aside.
222   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
The unfolding issue of Indonesian “independence”
19 August 1944. In the “Outline for the Direction of the War to be Taken”
approved on this day, in addition to the issue of the Philippine declaration of
war, one more important policy direction concerning the occupied territories of
Southeast Asia loomed large in the decision to “clearly announce at the earliest
date the bestowal of independence on the East Indies” [Sanbōhonbu, ed. 1979:
57; JACAR: C12120198500]. This direction was to be publicly announced on
7 September before the fifth Imperial Diet in the so-­called “Koiso Statement.”
As previously discussed, at the stage of a preliminary draft for Prime Minister
Tōjō’s Address before the diet in January 1941, Indonesia was once being ear-
marked for “independence” together with Burma, but due to opposition from
IGHQ the move was rolled back to the status as given to Australia. Then in the
“Outline of Political Strategy Planning and Management in Greater East Asia,”
approved in May 1943, Indonesia was secretly designated to be annexed into
the territory of the empire. Now this same Indonesia had been put on track for
“independence,” a move approved by both IGHQ and the Japanese govern-
ment. It was in this way that Indonesian independence, which from the start
had not been seriously considered as the provice to be given “independence,”
became the main focus of the final chapter, the swan song, so to speak, of the
history of the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia.
The evolution of the issue over Indonesian independence under Japanese
military rule has received increasing attention since Nishijima Shigetada’s work
[1959, Gotō 1989, Kurasawa 1992] and its prologue, the formation of Indone-
sian nationalism, has also been well researched. From our perspective of the Jap-
anese “narrative,” the research to date has brought into sharp relief the way in
which Japan looked upon its occupied territory in the East Indies in almost total
ignorance, or lack of concern, regarding either the area’s colonial background
or the development of Indonesian nationalism. To begin with, let us reflect on
the “narrative” presented to us by Machida Keiji, the drunken, devil may care
leader of the Osamu Group (Sixteenth Army) Public Relations Detail.

To throw caution to the wind and plunge the nation into war, then set out
to design a propaganda campaign for Indonesia without the slightest notion
of the emotional state of its people was the height of stupidity. Although
the fundamental direction at first was to elicit across-­the-board cooperation
for Japan’s war effort while raising national consciousness and unifying
national sentiment geared to independence, given the level of the people
(mindo), much higher than the Japanese war leaders were willing to give
Indonesia credit for, we were facing a ferocious level of national
consciousness rivaling that exhibited by the Japanese during the Meiji
Restoration era.
[Machida 1967: 115]

Machida then follows this general statement with his own version of the history
of Indonesia and Java dating from the Palembang Kingdom up to the just
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   223
before the start of the war. In conclusion, he writes, “Not only did I not know,
but the whole Japanese leadership hadn’t an inkling, that we had arrived just
before their independence movement was set to explode” [ibid.: 168]. Let
us  briefly explore this pre-­detonation moment here for ourselves. (See also
Shiraishi 1997.)
At the turn of the twentieth century, when the Netherlands began to
promote colonial development and education by introducing what it termed
“Ethische Politiek” as a “progressive” policy agenda designed by liberal-­minded
thinkers—one example being Sukarno’s formal education in a Dutch primary
school in Mojokerto, East Java, to Hogere Burger prep School in Surabaya,
then onto the Bandung Institute of Technology in the hope of becoming an
architect—an indigenous elite was in the process of development, although, by
the beginning of the 1920s, it was smaller in scale and somewhat belated com-
pared to other colonies of Southeast Asia. Meanwhile, beginning around 1910,
an Islamic alliance began to rapidly grow as a movement incorporating the
methods of modern mass activism via journalism, political organizing and public
assemblies and oratory. Then out of the economic chaos in the aftermath of the
World War I the trade union movement gathered strength, strongly influenced
by socialist and communist ideas, leading to not only schism within the Islamic
alliance, but also the latter’s loss of its appeal to the masses due to its refusal to
directly confront the colonial authorities. The Communist Party and People’s
Alliance quickly expanded to take its place, but were purged and outlawed after
the rebellions in West Java (1926) and Sumatra (1927), their leaders exiled to
New Guinea.
After this process of growth, schism and collapse experienced by both the
Communist and Islamic associations, Sukarno, now a practicing architect, gath-
ered his friends together to form the Indonesian Nationalist Party (PNI) in July
1927. With his extraordinary public speaking skills, Sukarno won the passionate
support of the mostly illiterate masses of Indonesian society, charming his audi-
ences with the single, romantic hope of “bringing together” the nationalist
movement, vaulting into the position of “leader of the nation” on the shoulders
of the rapidly expanding PNI. In response, the Dutch colonial authorities,
which had already done away with the rebellious Communists and People’s Alli-
ance, focused their suspicions on Sukarno, putting him under arrest in 1929 for
two years, then after his release, arresting him again in 1934 and sending him
into exile to Kota Ende at the southern end of Flores Islands in the Lesser
Sundas (later he would be moved to Bencoolen, Sumatra). When the Osamu
Group forces launched their attack on Java, Sukarno had been in exile for eight
years. Around the time that Sukarno was sent away, Mohammed Hatta
(b.  1902), another product of the Dutch colonial education system, having
returned from studying in the Netherlands, began organizing a nationalist
movement from the foundations of the “New PNI” called the Indonesian
National Education (PNI-­Baru) and was called to be the leader of the national-
ist movement in place of Sukarno, but with the contrasting style of an intellec-
tual advocating Western modernization and democracy. However, Hatta and
224   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
fellow New PNI leader Sutan Sjahrir (b. 1909) were arrested in 1934 and exiled
to Papua.
It was in this manner that during the latter part of the 1930s, the Indonesian
independence movement was contained on the surface through the uprooting
and exile of dyed-­in-the-­wool activists and the sanctioning of the activities of an
elite group of collaborators by the Dutch colonial authorities. It was this collabo-
rationist group of nationalists, deeply impressed by the autonomous government
formed in the Philippines under United States sovereignty that had promised
independence, that made request after request for such conditions as local auto-
nomy, a national assembly and a change of name from Dutch East Indies to
Indonesia, and were virtually ignored time after time by their own colonial
power, the Netherlands. On the occasion of the outbreak of full-­scale war in
Europe, the pro-­nationalist forces did take an anti-­fascist position; however, after
the Netherlands adopted the hardline attitude, along with Britain, that colonies
like Indonesia did not qualify under the national self-­determination principle of
the Atlantic Charter, their frustration drove a portion of them to consider
approaching Japan [Kurasawa 2005: 215–28]. It was this superficial containment
of the nationalist movement that created Machida’s “bomb ready to go off.”
This is the version of prewar Indonesian history that Machida recalls Japan
failing to notice. For example, in the war history series volume The Invasion of the
Dutch East Indies [Bōei Kenkyūjo Senshishitsu, ed. 1967a], we find nothing
about any “scheme (bōryaku)” except one instance of the Southern Army’s decep-
tive radio broadcast effectively causing confusion among the enemy. The series
volume, The Invasion of Burma [ibid. 1967b], stands out in stark contrast.
Instead, we find on the pages of the Indonesia volume impressions left by Osamu
Group soldiers, such as “No matter where we went during the invasion, there was
no need to take precautions concerning the aborigines” [ibid. 1967a: 612].
Southern Army staff officer Ishii Akiho also has stated that upon receiving an air
reconnaissance report of people surrounding Japanese tanks with open arms, “I
predicted that military administration here was going to be a cinch and immedi-
ately wrote that down in my journal” [Ishii 1957: 111]. As already indicated pre-
viously, given the “trade-­off between conventional warfare and scheme (bōryaku)”
that was going through the heads of the Japanese military, it is not surprising at
all that in the case of “aborigines,” filled by some “primordial belief in the Impe-
rial Army,” neither IGHQ or the Southern Army would consider them deserving
of anything like “political intrigue.” Moreover, when we add these layers of
euphoria over Japan’s initial victories and the image of Java and Sumatra as
wealthy colonies that animated Sakakibara Masaharu’s diary, the dream of annex-
ing Indonesia into the empire envisioned by the Japanese military establishment
would be an ever-­so-likely next policy agenda issue. Already on 29 March 1942,
Southern Army Chief of Staff Tsukada Osamu told Ishii, “It’s time to start doing
something about making Java a part of Japan” [ibid.: 111].
It was due to the predominance of such optimism that Ishii Akiho was very
much surprised on 9 October 1942. Southern Army Staff Officer Lt. Colonel
Satō Hiro’o, returning from a business trip to Indonesia, reported a message
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   225
from the Osamu Group (Sixteenth Army) Chief of Staff Brigadier General
Okazaki Seizaburō reading, “Get a declaration from the Prime Minister grant-
ing high level autonomy to Indonesia. Without it, I can’t guarantee that law
and order will be maintained.” Ishii recalls,

Up until that time, there had never been any worry about public safety on
Java. It was an altogether sudden new development … I told him [Satō],
“Maybe some time in the future, but now it’s out of the question.”
[Ibid.: 117]

This episode clearly shows the differences in perception and response between
people like Ishii looking down upon Southeast Asia from their armchairs at
Southern Army General Command Headquarters and their area armies peering
directly into the eyes of the people they were occupying on the ground. For
Ishii with images of the masses seen from reconnaissance flights dancing in his
head, Indonesia was a problem- and worry-­free occupied territory, where direct
military rule would ensure that the “war for resources” was carried out smoothly
and tacitly. On the other hand, for Machida and his cohorts in the Osamu
Group PR Detail, the “Hidup Nippon!” and “thumbs up” they were greeted
with were still being extended by “the other,” whose voices could be as threat-
ening as they could be welcoming.
One example of such tonal ambivalence in the “voice” of the masses in occu-
pied Indonesia is the latent threat imparted to the Japanese by the “3A Move-
ment.” According to Machida, the 3A Movement was a spur of the moment
idea based on the three slogans of “Asia’s Light, Japan,” “Asia’s Protector,
Japan” and “Asia’s Leader, Japan” symbolized by inverting the Allied V-­sign
hand gesture into an A-­sign. It was begun in the absence of still exiled leaders
such as Sukarno and Hatta, on 17 March 1942 under the chairmanship of Mr.
Raden Sjamsoeddin, one of the leading figures of the moderate collaborationist
Parindra (Partai Indonesia Raya), and despite its ambiguous objectives “spread
like cholera” throughout Indonesia and culminating in a parade of 200,000
participants through the streets of Batavia on the emperor’s birthday (29 April)
[Machida 1967: 153–7].
One of the masterminds behind spreading the 3A Movement “like wildfire”
was Shimizu Hitoshi (Public Relations Section head). As indicated by Second
Lieutenant Saitō Shizuo (Osamu Group Military Administration Planning
Section), in addition to “his genius as a mass organizer,” Shimizu gained experi-
ence in “the Japanese agitprop citizens’ councils of Manchukuo [kyōwakai] and
northern China [Shinminkai]” [Saitō 1977: 113]. However, in a postwar
(1987) interview, Shimizu denied the view that the 3A Movement was influ-
enced by either the Japanese Imperial Rule Assistance Association or Chinese
Shinminkai movements.

That’s because putting the meat on the Movement’s bones was actually
being done by Indonesians all over Java. I was only there as a language
226   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
interpreter and go-­between, so there was hardly any Japanese input at all …
I myself was just a pipeline through which the Indonesians could talk to
the  Japanese. On a scale of 10, Japan got either a 3 or a 4 as far as my
effort went.
[Shimizu 1991: 327–8]

Machida describes Shimizu as “closer to the Nesians [sic] than the Japanese,
eating and sleeping with them, running around trying to procure funds for
them. There was no slowing him down” [Machida 1967: 161]. Shimizu is a
prime example of one portion of the Japanese dispatched to Indonesia whose
lives resonated with the passion surrounding Indonesian independence aiming
at merdeka and became caught up in it.
Even though it may appear like a pro-­Japanese alliance movement calling for
the dissolution of political parties and the building of a consensus organization,
the 3A Movement was linked by Indonesians to national independence, which
is why the movement took off in such a spectacular manner. The Osamu Group
PR Detail “helped spread the word around and as a matter of fact wanted it to
succeed” [ibid.: 157–9]. However, according to Machida, among all the
hubbub about the Southern Army imposing a ban on spreading ideas about
“independence” in its occupied territories, the military administration top brass
“criticized the PR Detail for taking matters into its own hands and took steps to
smash the 3A Movement … It was over in less than six months” [ibid.: 163].
From October 1942, the newspapers discontinued covering the 3A story.
[Fukami 1993: 55]. It was at the same time that Osamu Group Chief of Staff
Okazaki began screaming at Southern Army Headquarters to get the prime
minister to make some “autonomy concessions,” or else pandemonium. These
facts suggest that the staff officers of the Osamu Group had already begun to
embrace the uneasiness over whether or not “the maintenance of law and order”
could be assured as the overwhelming “voice” of cooperation with the military
administrative turned to one of dissent, during the “successes” of the 3A
Movement.
As already touched upon, regarding the direction that military rule took in
the hands of Osamu Group Commander Imamura Hitoshi, Saitō Shizuo
emphasized that it was a “lenient military regime … designed to keep the
damage on the ground to a minimum.” Accordingly, in the same spirit as
employing Dutch and other Caucasians, regarding the nationalist movement,
“it tended toward fulfilling their ethnic sentiments” [Saitō 1980: 2–3]. When
he first met Sukarno after the nationalist leader had finally been delivered to
Batavia during July 1942, Imamura stated that although he himself had no
authority to give assurances concerning the bestowal of “independence,” “he
did guarantee that making it possible to pursue happiness in daily life was within
his jurisdiction” and with a non-­verbal hint of “his personal support for inde-
pendence,” sought Sukarno’s cooperation with the military authorities. In
response, Sukarno, apparently fully grasped the real meaning of Imamura’s tacit
hints. He came to the conclusion that collaboration marked the fastest track to
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   227
national independence, persuaded the anti-­Japanese elements around him “to
reconsider” and pledged his cooperation. This exchange involving sheer per-
sonal magnetism, Saitō tells us, was an accomplishment attributable to “Imamu-
ra’s character” [Saitō 1991: 177–8]. What should not be overlooked here,
however, is force of the “hidden agenda” of cooperation with the military
through the independence-­or-nothing position taken by Sukarno and his
nationalist comrades, which the Japanese “dare not question.” It was in this
manner that the Japanese demands on Indonesia concerning military rule grew
more burdensome, generating a political dynamic in which the more the nation-
alists acceded to those demands and mobilized their cooperation, the more
pressure was applied in the direction of Indonesian independence. The criticism
by IGHQ and the Southern Army that the attempts to manipulate nationalism
were nothing more than “playing with fire” [Saitō 1977: 80] can be said to be
the product of the concern of such a political dynamic beginning to gain
momentum.
After Imamura was transferred in November 1942 to command the Eighth
Area Army (Solomon Islands and New Guinea) forces in the defense of Rabaul,
his “laissez faire military regime” headed into a period of transition, during
which its administrators would become more and more vigilant with respect to
the politicization of the nationalist movement’s aspirations for independence.
Meanwhile, as harsh reality continued to set in over the entire Pacific theater,
Indonesia, especially Java, not only became an uncharacteristic haven of security
under military rule, but also as a densely populated, highly productive occupied
territory took on the character of a supply depot for attaining material procure-
ment on the ground for the Japanese forces stationed throughout Southeast
Asia. Needless to say, such a role necessitated both the procurement of food and
the impressment of labor. In the absence of any accurate statistics describing the
actual situation, there are qualitative descriptions, like a report of one area of
Java having between 10 and 30 percent of its rice crop sequestered, indicating
that while a system of rice rationing was not implemented, food insecurity was
on the rise within the agrarian community due to arbitrary imposition of rice
procurement quotas [Gotō 1989: 115]. With respect to the forces of produc-
tion, on Java alone as many as 2.1 million romusha workers were mobilized, of
which about 165,000 had been herded off the island as of April 1944. Under
miserable working conditions, lack of proper sanitation and food shortages,
records kept by the Japanese tell us that “in one year the depletion rate reached
as high as 20 percent” [ibid.: 92]. In the background to such estimates lay a
dismal landscape of Japanese occupied Indonesia, erasing the memories often
cherished in Japan of a “Javanese Garden of Eden.”
The growing heavy-­handedness in both military rule and resource mobiliza-
tion could not have been possible without more cooperation from nationalist
activists. For that purpose, the 3A Movement was replaced with the POETERA
(Poesat Tenaga Rakjat; Center of People’s Power) mass mobilization movement
in March 1943. Sukarno was placed at its head aiming at national solidarity and
social organization under the name of total mobilization in collaboration with
228   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
Japan in such areas as food procurement and romusha labor impressment. In
response to Sukarno’s cooperation under military rule, strong opposition was
expressed among activists who had experienced European-­style nationalism
while studying abroad; and Sutan Sjharir refused to cooperate with Japan from a
consummate anti-­fascist standpoint. However, the intellectual bent of the anti-­
collaborationist faction was no match for Sukarno’s political and organizational
abilities. The former amounted to nothing but disgruntled bystanders through-
out the occupation period. Hatta, who had returned from exile along with
Sukarno, did join POETERA, but maintained a passive, neutral role, acting as a
liaison with Sjahrir and the other anti-­collaborationists.
The overwhelming influence and ability to mobilize possessed by the collab-
orationists centered around Sukarno proved to be a boon to the Japanese war
effort; but on the other hand, the more all of these collaborationist movements,
including POETERA, became permeated by the forces of nationalism, the
greater was the danger posed to the Japanese military by their politicization.
Moreover, during May 1943, as the Philippines and Burma were being ear-
marked for “independence,” Indonesia was secretly being reserved for annexa-
tion into the empire, resulting in a system of “political participation” in the
military administration clouding the future province of Indonesia. In order to
achieve a modicum of consistency between reality and policy-­making, in August
1943, only six months after the start of POETERA, Saitō, accompanied by
Shimizu, paid a visit to Sukarno in order to convince him to disband POETERA
and refit it into a pro-­Japanese collaborationist organization without a visible
nationalist agenda [Saitō 1977: 126–9]. The result was the Java National Service
Association, a bureaucratically organized group with no political affiliations and
a membership that included all the residents of Java.
On top of this civilian organization, the Osamu Group Military Administra-
tion ordered the formation of PETA (Pembela Tanah Air; Defenders of the
Homeland; Kyōdo Bōei Giyūgun) as a military organization with the objective of
defending the “homeland,” without any presumptions regarding the “inde-
pendence” of that homeland. On an island of 50 million residents, the 15,000-
man Japanese garrison was indeed lacking in troop strength, when considering
how to defend Java against an inevitable future attack by the Allied forces. A
“corps” of native Javanese “dedicated to Japanese military rule” was what was
called for. On the international front, despite such collaboration under military
rule, neither Sukarno nor Hatta were invited to AGEAN (the Assembly of
Greater East Asiatic Nations) on 5 and 6 November 1943 (their visit to Japan
was rescheduled for 13 November), because Indonesia had not been granted
“independence.” This snub caused much dissatisfaction. It is also thought that
one of the reasons for the formation of “native detachments” was to absorb the
forces of nationalism passionate in their quest for “independence.” Right in
the middle of the formation of the Indonesian volunteer army (Heiho) was the
Osamu Group General Staff Special Detail in charge of political special opera-
tions. First, a Volunteer Army Training Unit was formed to educate its com-
manding officers, producing a large regiment of about 500 officers. The army’s
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   229
troop capability would increase to sixty-­six regiments totaling 33,000 men,
twice the size of the Japanese forces.
Morimoto Takeshi (b. 1921), an army Second Lieutenant and officer trainee
in the PETA, serving as a platoon leader, has written a history of that army
(1992) based on interviews with a large number of people affiliated with it.
According to this work, the core cadre of the Indonesian command consisted of
those who had been trained by the General Staff Special Detail at the Tangerang
Youth Center (Java’s version of the Army’s Nakano School in Tokyo for intelli-
gence agents). Ichiki Tatsuo, a long-­time resident of Java, also participated in
the formation of the PETA cadre in the highest of the spirit as an instructor and
author of a Japanese-­Indonesian interlinear translation of the Center’s training
manual. Because the curriculum of the Training Unit was both short and of
little substance, the emphasis was put on instilling “an enormous amount of
spirit (semangat) and firing up the candidates’ self-­awareness and enthusiasm.”
Furthermore, “any word or action on the training ground that might arouse
sentiments of independence was strictly forbidden”; but in practice, 

the curriculum implied an independent Indonesia by covering the history of

how the people of the East Indies had been exploited by the Dutch and
exposed them to a grueling training program promoting the kind of self-­
awareness becoming of future commanders of an independent army. 
[Morimoto 1992: 91]

Among the Japanese instructors, as well, there were many who took “independ-
ence” for granted, as seen by the following excerpt from the diary of Sergeant
Tani Kazuhiro.

It was rough, but it was worth it. The training of officers who would
become the nucleus of the Indonesian National Army … Eating from the
same pot, sleeping in the same blankets were the cornerstones for Indone-
sian independence. 
[Ibid.: 104]

Beginning with the 3A Movement, then POETERA, the Java National Service
Associations and finally PETA, the Japanese Army resorted to all kinds of pro-
grams using every trick in the book to obtain collaboration with its military
occupation without inciting a nationalist movement. And as a result, the Indo-
nesian masses responded more enthusiastically than the Japanese could ever
expect. However, these were also programs that did incite the nationalist spirit
of independence and were unable to avoid the politicization of that spirit. In
addition, a portion of the Japanese participants, like Shimizu Hitoshi, the
General Staff Special Detail and the instructors in Tangerang, went beyond the
call of duty and dedicated their lives at every opportunity to resonate in solid-
arity with Indonesian nationalism. What they had become deeply committed to
was not a Japanese-­centered holier-­than-thou view of liberation and “holy war”;
230   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
it was rather “justice on the other’s side” in a brand of Indonesian nationalism
transcending all obstacles that overwhelmed, fascinated and unified their object-
ives. Soon, based on such empathy, some Japanese began to appear on the scene
firmly committed to independence above all else, realizing that if indeed Japan
had become an obstacle to independence, then Japan needed to be overcome,
just like the Western nations before the occupation.

Denial of the Japanese Empire: the Blitar rebellion and the BNA
uprising
In the midst of the worsening situation on the war front, the belated but inevit-
able promise of anticipated “independence” declared by Prime Minister Koiso
in September 1944, which had been greeted by the Indonesian people with
elation, had now become a source of dissatisfaction. In the cases of Burma and
the Philippines, “independence” had been promised and then accompanied by
the establishment of governance mechanisms and gradually progressing prepara-
tions, leading to the setting of a date for that long-­awaited moment. In con-
trast, the Koiso declaration regarding Indonesia had not given rise to such
concrete developments, while at the same time heavier burdens were being
placed on the East Indies, especially Java, as the logistics center of forced grain
procurement and labor mobilization for the Pacific War effort. One concrete
expression of the widespread deep frustration and anger was the armed anti-­
Japanese uprising by PETA’s East Java Blitar Regiment during February 1945.
According to Morimoto’s history of PETA, the Indonesian officers of the
Blitar Regiment had been subjected to such insults as being face slapped by
both Japanese superiors and non-­commissioned officers in plain view of civilians.
Furthermore, troops on leave for a week of rest and relaxation in their home-
towns, witnessing appalling scarcities of food and medicine that had occurred
there over the six months since their induction, had become angry and disen-
chanted with Japan. These troops had also seen manual laborers mobilized to
build their own bases dying from chronic malaria and dysentery from substand-
ard food, housing and medical care, and women and children being rounded up
to the take up the slack. From the distrust caused by this dark side of the Japa-
nese occupation and promises of “independence” not worth the paper they were
printed on, the inner circle of the Blitar Regiment, from as early as September
1944, just after the Koiso Statement, had begun to form a plan to raise a rebel-
lion in support of an Allied counterattack. And so, before dawn on 14 February
1945, fearing that the plot would be discovered, Tangerang Academy graduate
and platoon leader Supriyadi (b. 1923) gave the order to attack, resulting in
two Japanese killed and two wounded (one later dying) [Morimoto 1992:
543–5, 577].
15 February 1945. One day after the rebellion in Blitar, the rebel contingent
and the Japanese pacification troops remained in a standoff, while Shimizu
Hitoshi, a trusted friend of the Indonesian side, hurried from Jakarta in an effort
to persuade the mutineers to surrender. Relaying a message from the Osamu
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   231
Group headquarters that “no disciplinary action will be taken,” Shimizu, with
the help of local elders, persuaded the rebel officers to lay down their arms and
return to their quarters. However, Shimizu’s promise would be later betrayed,
as calls for punishment rose among the ranks of the Osamu Group led to a court
martial, at which fifty PETA soldiers were put on trial. Six were sentenced to
death and executed on 14 May [ibid.: 582–5, 593–5]. Supriyadi was not among
them, having gone missing after the incident subsided. After the declaration of
Indonesian independence, he was posthumously appointed as the new nation’s
first commander of the armed forces. In this way, the incident has been evalu-
ated as a historical turning point in Indonesia’s quest for liberation under Japa-
nese occupation from “independence bestowed” to “independence fought for
and taken” [Gotō 1991b: 386]. Viewed from the Japanese side, as an incident
occurring in a region where it was thought the initial problem-­free establish-
ment of occupied military rule meant having won the hearts of the people, the
Blitar mutiny exposed the possibility of the Japanese Empire collapsing under
the weight of “denial” on the part of “the other.”
Thirty minutes past two on the afternoon of 15 February 1945. While
Shimizu faced the mutineers in Blitar, Indonesia, in Tokyo, the Supreme
Council for the Direction of the War gathered at the Imperial Palace. In the
Philippines, two weeks had passed since the beginning of Battle of Manila,
during which indiscriminate Allied bombardment and Japanese forces running
amok with sword and rifle in hand decimated the civilian population, leaving
rotting, stinking corpses strewn all over the city. This date also marks the start
of naval shelling and air attacks on Iwo Jima, followed in four days by a landing
by US Marines and a ferocious land battle. The “World Situation Assessment”
of that Leadership Council session was short and to the point. The United
States shifted the brunt of its troop capability to “East Asia” and was probably
planning to launch an offensive designed to surround the imperial mainland by
August or September.

The war up until now has become a source of serious concern for Japan and
Germany; however, the enemy nations as well are having their own serious
difficulties, meaning that we both have reached the stage of a test of endur-
ance … Those who strengthen their resolve to win and fight through to the
end will be rewarded with victory.
[Sanbōhonbu 1979: 232; JACAR: C12120332800]

It was in this manner that Japan would continue the war a little longer with talk
about a “test of endurance” without mentioning who would be responsible for
such a grueling experiment. At the beginning of March 1945, continental
Southeast Asia became a hotbed of activity. First, in French Indochina, where
after the collapse of Vichy France in the previous year, movements were afoot
within the French Army to ally with the de Gaulle government, Japanese forces
in an operation (Code-­Mei) to take control of armed forces in the region
launched a peremptory strike to dismantle the French colonial administration
232   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
and on 9 March declared Vietnam (Annam), Cambodia and Laos “inde-
pendent” kingdoms. However, the operation was thrown into chaos by the rise
of guerrilla activities by the Viê.t Minh national independence movement seeking
liberation from both France and Japan. Meanwhile, on the Burma front, after
the Imphal campaign was aborted, retreating Japanese forces were defeated after
attempting a counter attack against pursuing British forces at the Ayeyarwady
River, and on 19 March, Mandalay, the major urban center in the north, fell to
the British. The Burma front had become the harbinger of what would happen
to the entire Japanese line of defense.
Nakamura Toshiharu (b. 1910), who had been dispatched to Rangoon in
December 1944 as the legal secretary of Ogawa Gōtarō, a fiscal expert appointed
by the army as the top advisor to the Ba Maw government, recalled the scene at
Group (Fifteenth Army) Headquarters as 

enveloped in an atmosphere of self-­effacement by a bunch of Staff officers

thoroughly imbued with a sense of helplessness and an impatient chief of
staff who uses his fists to keep order, and then resorts to frequent outbursts
of uncontrollable anger, kicking over everything in sight. 

and mentions the daily routine of “a bunch of Staff officers drowning their
depression every night in the bars around town” [Nakamura 1977: 9–10]. The
above-­mentioned “impatient chief of staff ” was none other than Tanaka
Shin’ichi, who had been appointed to that post in September 1944 after the
debacle at Imphal. The same Tanaka, who as Operation Department chief had
used his fists at Imperial Headquarter to bring a doubtful War Planning and
Management Detail section chief Arisue over to his side on the issue of the
“golden opportunity” view of a Southern invasion, who swung on Military
Affairs Bureau chief Satō to express his opposition to withdrawal from Guadal-
canal and had reprimanded Prime Minister Tōjō on no uncertain terms, was
now beating up his staff out of impatience over the breakdown happening on
the Burma war front.
27 March 1945. Aung San, Burma Minister of Defense and National Army
commander, suddenly ordered his troops (about 10,000 strong) to rebel. The
Communist Party, forming the Hpa Hsa Pa La anti-­fascist league with Aung San,
and a portion of the peasantry joined the rebellion. Over ten of the approximate
200 Japanese military advisors to the National Army were killed, while the
remainder were tacitly allowed to flee, and the former members of the Minami
Agency unharmed and treated with respect. The rebels lay in ambush for Japa-
nese troops retreating from the front, launched night raids on Japanese positions,
attacked Kempeitai and others whom the Burmese people had grown to despise,
and sabotaged food stores, armories and bridges. Although small in scale, the
uprising loomed large in refuting once and for all the legitimacy of Japanese
military rule in Burma. Hpa Hsa Pa La had pledged its complete allegiance to
the advancing Allied forces, and the two would continue their “honeymoon” as
long as Japan remained their common enemy [Nemoto 1996: 134–8].
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   233
The BNA and Blitar uprisings shared the common background against which
the turnaround was occurring on the war front. The rebellion of the PETA
forces had also been planned to coordinate with the Allied attack on Japan, but
fear of disclosure had forced it to start earlier than planned and caused its pacifi-
cation. In contrast, the BNA uprising was well coordinated with the Allied
movements and involved the whole army, due to the excellent leadership dis-
played by Aung San. Above all, though, is the common significance of both
risings, of not just “turning their backs” on the Japanese because they were
losing the war, but rather as groundswells of anger and revenge on the part of
the masses toward Japanese rule in Southeast Asia.
Takahashi Hachirō (b. 1914), former operative in the Minami Agency who
remained as a military advisor to the BNA, was in the Arakan mountains with
the BNA chief of staff when the fighting started. Takahashi recalls having
stripped to his underwear to cool off and taking a siesta in the shade of a tree
when he was awakened by gun shots signaling that the mutiny had begun, and
there stood the chief of staff himself to “courteously” announce that the fight-
ing had indeed started. Takahashi recalls taking the news “more calmly than
expected” and thinking, “well, they finally did it,” since he had had thoughts of
launching an attack on Japanese headquarters himself. 

Rebellion broke out because in the words of one village elder “for every
three Japanese you meet, at least two men to do you harm.” And even if
the BNA hadn’t risen up, there were plenty of villages determined to take
matters into their own hands. That sort of spirit was most rife in the Arakan
region where I was active. 
[Moriyama and Kurizaki 1976: 173–6]

After returning to Japan after the war, Takahashi would go back to Burma in
1955 to work in the Ministry of Defense as a training instructor and compiler of
BNA history.
23 April 1945. The Hayashi Group General Staff decided to abandon
Rangoon. Staff members boarded the convoy of troop transports out of the city,
and at about 9:45 p.m. the evening silence was broken by a deafening roar of
the departing convoys. Soon afterwards, the convoy caught up with “a detach-
ment of the Free Indian Army.” Nakamura Toshiharu recalls, 

We were in the trucks and they were trailing behind eating our dust.
Although we had sworn to stand by one another to the death, once in the
throes of defeat, segregation had set in … I couldn’t help sympathizing and
wanting to apologize. 
[Nakamura 1977: 17]

The British occupied Rangoon on 2 May.

Unlike the Laurel administration, Ba Maw and his entourage were not given
air accommodations out of Rangoon, but put on a bus susceptible to air attacks
234   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
and driven to safety [Nemoto 1996: 140]. Later, Ba Maw was able to escape to
Japan and managed even after Japan’s surrender to remain hidden in the wilds
of the Niigata Prefecture. He was arrested later that year and detained at
Sugamo detention center and was eventually allowed to return home in 1946.
At that same time, back in Burma, a very complicated political situation was
unfolding over independence from the British, with Aung Sun as the main
protagonist. After winning the election of April 1947, Aung San was assassin-
ated on 19 July by a faction led by former prime minister U Saw, who had
returned from imprisonment in Uganda the previous year, an incident that is
still shrouded in mystery. In January 1948, the Union of Burma was estab-
lished as a sovereign and independent state, although bereft of a strong leader
and plagued with continuing civil unrest caused by armed struggles on the part
of such forces as the Communist Party and the Karen People’s Alliance.
Military rule would once more be imposed in 1962 after a coup d’état by
General Ne Win.
12 June 1945. Takami Jun, now back in Japan, wrote in his Diary in the
Midst of Defeat something that he has just heard from friend and journalist
Kurashima Takejirō concerning the BNA uprising.

He said that it was Brigadier General Aung San who had been the first to
turn against us. Is that the same Aung San who when I was in Burma had
been our most trusted ally? We trusted him even more than Ba Maw.
Anyway, I had no rancor in my heart upon hearing the news. After all, the
Japanese had turned out to be no good. It was that fact that depressed me
even more. After all, I thought, Aung San’s anguish over having to betray
Japan must have been much deeper than any sorrow we felt after he turned
traitor.
[Takami 1981: 173]

The almost endless Japanese narrative that exists regarding the defeat in the
Asia-­Pacific War is like a stream raging by before our eyes. When we reach in
and scoop out a handful of the water, we see swimming in it one more school of
clichés “babbling self-­negation and reflection.” What exactly did those Japanese
learn while haunted with the idea that “Japan turned out to be no good” during
the last days of the Japanese Empire?

2  The occupation of Southeast Asia as a “learning

experience”

The Japanese Empire on its way out

8 June 1945. What would be the last “World Situation Assessment” was sub-
mitted before today’s Gozen Kaigi gathered to decide on the final stand to be
taken in defense of the homeland. In the report’s conclusion appears the phrase
“the divine opportunity of victory.”
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   235
The European alliance has already collapsed … the Empire truly stands at
the crossroads of life and death and the enemy is also suffering and makes
haste towards a quick end to the war. Therefore, the Empire must maintain
its struggle for victory with firm resolve, and through quickly implementing
a political and military policy agenda with unabashed loyalty to our imperial
tradition throw caution to the wind in seizing the divine opportunity of
victory.
[Sanbōhonbu 1979: 268; JACAR: C12120236400]

In Indonesia, which has been anticipated as the last line of Southern defense,
substantive developments toward “independence” had gotten underway with
the convening of BPUPKI (Investigative Committee in Preparation for Inde-
pendence) on 28 May. These efforts were to culminate on 17 July, when the
Supreme Council for the Direction of the War finally decided on strongly pro-
moting preparation for “independence” by “recognizing East Indies independ-
ence … for its effectiveness in successfully prosecuting the Greater East Asia
War” [“Matters Pertaining Recognizing East Indies Independence,” ibid.: 280;
JACAR: C12120338200]. The decision was accompanied by top-­secret tele-
grams sent to the troops in the field (Southern Army, Osamu Group, etc.),
ordering preparations to be made for “independence” come the beginning of
September, explaining its objective as “mainly to contribute to the war effort”
by maintaining a base of logistics for Japanese troops on the frontlines. On 9
August, Southern Army Commander Terauchi Hisaichi summoned Sukarno and
Hatta to Saigon, and on the 11th at the Southern Army Headquarters in Da Lat
represented the Japanese government in a ceremony ordering Indonesia “inde-
pendent.” Since “the decision to make Indonesia independent” had already
been made, Terauchi ordered the organization of BPUPKI and the beginning
of concrete preparations as soon as possible, stating that as soon as those prepa-
rations were completed “independence” would be implemented starting with
Java [Nishijima 1959: 424–32]. However, even those frantic efforts could not
make independence happen before Japan’s defeat. On the morning of 14
August, at the last Gozen Kaigi, Emperor Hirohito approved the acceptance of
the terms of the Potsdam Declaration. At noon (one report says afternoon) that
same day, a welcoming celebration was held for Sukarno and his entourage after
their flight from Saigon landed in Jakarta [Fukami 1993: 222].
Just past 10 p.m. on 16 August 1945. Sukarno and his entourage paid a visit
to Osamu Group Military Administration General Affairs chief Nishimura Otot-
sugu at his quarters. According to Saitō Shizuo who was in attendance, Sukarno,
“knowing already that the war was over,” pressed Nishimura “to recognize the
opening of the Investigative Committee [BPUPKI]” for the purpose of quickly
declaring the independence of the Republic of Indonesia. Nishimura replied
“one phrase at a time as if talking to himself.” “Speaking on behalf of Military
Administration General Yamamoto,” while nothing could be further from
Japan’s intention than to speak this way at the final stage after cooperating with
independence until now, “having already surrendered, Japan can no longer
236   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
support independence,” and already having received orders concerning imple-
menting the conditions of surrender, “from now on, we must maintain the
status quo, since we have lost our freedom of action.”
After a series of reconfirmations, Sukarno and Hatta announced, “If Japan is
no longer willing to help us, so be it, but we would like you not to get in our
way, either.” Then Sukarno “chimed in bitterly,” 

You Japanese were certainly high and mighty when you were winning, but
now that you are losing, all of a sudden you turn tail and run. Is that what
you mean by that Bushido that you’re so proud of? If so, then we’ll just
have to show you what Bushido is when the tables are turned and your
back’s to the wall. 
[Saitō 1977: 198–201]

As a matter of fact, prior to the above encounter, Sukarno and Hatta had just
returned from Rendasgenklok, where they had promised a declaration of inde-
pendence to a group of young Indonesians who had already said “sayonara” to
Japan and its Bushido and had taken the two leaders hostage seeking immediate
action. The meeting with Nishimura was to make sure that all procedures had
been halted in Japan’s efforts to grant “independence,” meaning that it was a
just another step toward declaring independence (sans quotes) to the nation and
the world. At 10 a.m. on 17 August 1945, Sukarno declared from his home the
formation of an independent Republic of Indonesia, followed by his appoint-
ment as its chief executive and Hatta as his vice-­president.
2 September 1945. Since Japan’s defeat, daily mass demonstrations had been
held along Rue Paul-­Bert in Hanoi calling for solidarity among all political
parties to prevent France from reestablishing its rule over Indochina. The Viê.t
Minh, who had continued underground resistance activities against the Japanese
occupation, is out in full force. Ishikawa Yoshitaka, a Japanese diplomat, who
witnessed the events from his hotel room, recalls the “August Revolution” as
follows.

On the last day of the demonstrations, on a Sunday [2 September 1945],

the Etsunan Alliance [Viê.t Minh] had just concluded its party convention,
and as the screaming crowd streamed down Rue Paul-­Bert, it was joined
from all sides by a convoy of tanks. It was the Alliance’s armed forces.
Rounds of live ammunition were fired into the air, boom! boom! The doors
of the public offices, which were closed on Sunday, flew open … and the
huge flags of the Alliance were unfurled over every building. That was the
way in which the Alliance conducted its bloodless coup d’état. Without
even one casualty.
[Ishikawa 1996: 56]

These two scenes from Jakarta and Hanoi capture the overwhelming force gen-
erated by ethnic nationalism (i.e., the movement to form nation-­states) by the
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   237
current victors in the struggle to capture the political space of Southeast Asia
during the mid-­twentieth century. The Japanese military and diplomatic person-
nel who stood by powerless and witnessed these events embodied the sad figure
of the Japanese Empire which had just been ordered to get the hell out of
Southeast Asia as the initial losers in that struggle, which was about to encoun-
ter a stormy and turbulent period tangled up in anti-­colonial struggles for inde-
pendence, civil war, interregional disputes and finally nation-­state building.

The historical impact of Japan’s occupation of Southeast Asia

The “Empire of Great Japan” has the dubious honor of being the first colonizer
of the Asian-­Pacific region to go down in defeat and total collapse. The present
treatise, as one treatment of the facts surrounding that collapse, has been
focused on the historical impact exerted on Japan by its military occupation of
Southeast Asia, based on the existing “narrative” told by Japanese who were
directly involved in the occupation of that region.
Come to think of it, the bubble of clichés of “liberation” and “holy war”
doubled and tripled in size along with the first strikes against the US and
Britain, this itself was one result of the historical impact of the Southern Cam-
paign on the Japanese people. Minds agonizing over such developments as
losing control of the war in China and the mired Japan-­US negotiations turned
in the excitement of the initial victories in the Pacific to hope in the war
objective of “liberation of the nations of East Asia” from the “fetters imposed
upon them by US-­British colonial rule for the past hundred years.” Meanwhile,
the minds of Japan’s military elite, represented here by Ishii Akiho, had turned
to other matters in the pursuit of a brand of crackpot realism called a “war for
resources” to attain by armed force the war resources still needed for victory,
while their hearts were chilled at the thought of Japan’s “holy war” inciting calls
for independence throughout Southeast Asia and thus undermining their plans
for the militaristic exploitation of the occupied territories. This is the reason why
after initially implementing direct military rule over the occupied territories, the
Southern General Command’s attempts to suppress the “holy war” ideology
clashed so vehemently with propaganda campaigns and special operations
designed to encourage movements for “independence” and push the great ideal
of Japan’s “holy war.”
The debate over the question of which, between the “war for resources”
realism and “holy war” ideology, was more realistic and which was more ideal-
istic was in fact extremely fluid. Originally, the IGHQ elite’s conceptualization
of securing resources was nothing but an abstract military adventure of pure
fantasy, as the unfolding of the war proved so clearly. On the other hand, “holy
war” idealism was supposed to play a role in supporting “war for resources”
realism as a method of forcing the occupied peoples to tighten their belts and
cooperate with the war effort. However, the occupied peoples added one more
factor to the equation by responding with demands on the occupiers for unadul-
terated “liberation,” here referred to as removing the quotation marks from
238   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
“independence.” Therefore, this kind of vacillation and confusion over exactly
what Japan’s war objectives were ended up throwing the Japanese Empire off
kilter just at the time of its greatest expansion.
On the contrast between the chimera of “prosperity” in the slogan of
“Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” and the “real desire” of Japan’s mili-
taristic colonialism, the present volume has focused upon the fact that even
though military colonization was indeed the “desired outcome” for the occupi-
ers, their ability to bring it to fruition was seriously limited. Thanks to its initial
victories, there is no doubt that Japan found itself in the ambitious position of
forming a new order in Southeast Asia. However, its actual occupation policy
made it clear from very early on that it would do nothing but nurture and
exploit the old order of Western colonial rule, unequipped to realize a transition
from militaristic to economic colonialism, a fragile rule with a penchant for
despoliation, based on “appeasement” and “oppression”—a parasite unable to
coexist with its host. And so the “reality” of the Japanese Empire not being up
to the task of forming a new order greatly influenced its wartime diplomacy,
characterized by the issue of “granting independence” and convening the
Assembly of Greater East Asiatic Nations, under conditions where “declining
military capability” joined hands with “the rise of politics,” and brought on its
ultimate collapse.
The occupation of Southeast Asia, the intermingling of two processes—one
involving a war and occupation beyond Japan’s national capacity sending the
Japanese Empire toward military and economic collapse in simple profit and loss
terms, the other involving “sovereign independence” and “justice” declared by
Southeast Asian nationalists who won “political agency” in the war of words
drowning out Japan’s declarations of “holy war” and “Greater East Asia Co-­
Prosperity Sphere”—one real, the other conceptual, together shook the empire
to its foundations and brought it tumbling down.

“Their” nationalism
Following again in the vein of the occupation of Southeast Asia’s historical
impact on Japan, there is one more point that the present treatise has taken up,
and that is the opportunity offered the Japanese people to learn from the dys-
functionality of imperial Japan’s approach to the Asia-­Pacific War through its
interaction with the occupied peoples of Southeast Asia who played the existen-
tial role of “the other.” The major focus in this sense has been placed on the
question of how to come to terms with the nationalistic ideas of this “other.”
When looking through all the patriotic clichés, like “making Japan the leader
of the alliance” and the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere,” that run ad
nauseam through the wartime “narrative,” one never ceases to be amazed at the
utter sanctimoniousness with which “the other” is being conceptualized. For
example, in contrast to Sakakibara Masaharu’s diary entry (16 January 1942)
that reads, “The Greater East Asia War is a movement for the liberation of Asian
people of color. We are fighting to radically overturn the rule of the White Man
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   239
in Asia,” the fact that he pays not one iota of attention to the issue of “inde-
pendence” of those same colonies indicates a concept of “liberation” in which
these colonized people would cross the color line from the side of White Man’s
rule into the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” (cf. Japanese rule). In
this case, the colonies are conceptualized as “one of us.” As things actually
played out, however, the “political agency” which rose up on the ground in
occupied Southeast Asia would never be associated with “inclusion” or
“brotherhood” with Japan, but would rather be dealt with by Japan on a
“we”/“them” basis. And once “they” insisted on being treated as “they,” even
Tōjō Hideki who dreamed every night of a “co-­prosperity sphere” comprised of
one big happy “inclusive” family of “brothers and sisters,” was forced to comply
with the norms and protocols of the kind of sovereignty and equality that such a
claim demanded. This, as already pointed out, is the reality of “the politics of
war” unfolding against the backdrop of a deteriorating war situation.
This situation on the ground indicates, nationalism aiming at the formation
of a nation-­state had absolute legitimacy that even Japan as “the leader” of
“Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” could not easily ignore. To put it
another way, at this particular moment in time, the darker side of nationalism
envisioning the formation of a nation-­state with its unavoidable problems of
how to deal with human rights, ethnic and religious minorities and sectarian
disputes had not yet appeared on the horizon. And so, at a time when directly
confronted with “their” incorrigible independence-­or-nothing ideas, both the
Japanese government and the area corps in the field—in other words, those Jap-
anese forced to deal with nationalist movements—had no other choice than to
express approval, other than to take a clear stance as the oppressor. And when
this choice conflicted with “being Japanese,” there were cases in which national-
ism of that time possessed a level of righteousness for even Japanese to declare
“to hell with Japan.”
It is in this sense, that the Japanese of the Osamu Group forces in Indonesia
were confronted with an ineradicable conflict with “the other” during the last
days of the occupation of Southeast Asia. In particular, the Japanese commis-
sioned and non-­commissioned officers who led the PETA regiments on Java
developed a commitment to “fight and die alongside” their Indonesian officers
and men in anticipation of defending the island against an Allied invasion.
Immediately after its defeat, when the Japanese military decided to disband and
disarm the PETA volunteers (16 August 1945), there were not a few of their
Japanese leaders who sought to join or cooperate with the Indonesian side in
attaining independence.
Eventually, not many Japanese officers joined the Indonesian side. Morim-
oto, in his history of PETA, writes that the Japanese leaders were assigned to
PETA not because of their ideological commitment but of following the military
order. The rule that any order from a superior, being an order from the
emperor, could never be disobeyed caused them not to rush to the Indonesian
side. However, the psychological aspect could not have been so cut and dried.
Morimoto recalls his own experience as follows.
240   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
When leading guerrilla detachments [in readiness for the defense of Java],
I did my best to get close to the Indonesians … When the war was over,
however, apparently my mind leaned towards Japan, while I had a sense
of loyalty stuck in my young brain that “If I were invited to join a war of
independence, I would and that’s an ongoing promise.” I was “ready to
go if needed.” However, they [Morimoto’s Indonesian proteges] didn’t
invite me. With a sigh of relief, I wished them the best of luck and we
parted.
[Morimoto 1992: 673–4]

On the other hand, as time passed after its surrender, the Japanese forces were
placed into the unenviable position of being ordered by the Allies to maintain
law and order and keep their weapons to themselves, while being requested by
the Indonesian side to provide arms in support for a war of independence. At a
staff officer meeting on operations held on 21 September 1945, the Osamu
Group reconfirmed the basic principle of “avoiding at all costs any detrimental
effects on the Japanese state.” Nevertheless, the actual response was not as
uniform among the regiment leaders in the field, there being troop units that
surrendered their arms without a fight and those who refused, fight or no fight.
The majority ended up having to be disarmed after being subdued in battle. It
has been estimated that by the end of 1945 about half of the weaponry held by
the Japanese forces in central and eastern Java had been handed over to the
Indonesian side. In skirmishes that occurred during this time, over 400 Japanese
troops were killed in battle, accounting for half of all such deaths suffered by the
Osamu Group forces during its entire military operation on Java. [Gotō 1989:
287–8].
It was in this way that the Japanese forces as a whole gave top priority to
complying with the Allied army in the hope of returning home, despite feelings
of empathy toward the Indonesian independence movement. Those few who
did not share such logic, the Japanese troops, non-­commissioned officers and
civilian corps members who threw in with the Indonesian cause, the so-­called
“AWOL stragglers who stayed behind,” have been estimated in the range of
277. Concerning the motivation driving this small contingent, historian of
Southeast Asia Gotō Ken’ichi has argued that despite a strong 

identification with Indonesia and various forms of sympathy with “inde-

pendence,” there was a convergence of a feeling of weightlessness brought
on by defeat, insecurity and fear about returning to a devastated homeland
and ennui over what was to be gained by returning home. 

Among this tiny contingent of Japanese who “melded themselves, rather roman-
tically, to the hope of independence for Indonesia,” was Ichiki Tatsuo [ibid.:
289–95].
It was on 15 August 1945 that Ichiki, who had changed his name to
Abdul  Rahman, was assigned combined combat and training duties in the then
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   241
People’s Security Corps (BKR), which would blossom into the Republic of
Indonesia Army, then the present Indonesian National Army. Then in June
1948, after the Renville (ceasefire) Agreement was concluded that January,
Ichiki was put in command of a special all-­Japanese guerrilla detachment and
became active in Dutch-­occupied East Java, when on 9 January 1949 he was
killed on the front line of the preemptive Dutch surprise offensive, Operation
Kraai [Gotō 1997: 189–90, 198–9].
Morimoto has described Ichiki and his Japanese comrades as “left out, unable
to keep pace with the Indonesians, who regarded them as white elephants. That
is why some of them formed a separate Japanese detachment so they could show
their own brand of heroism” [Morimoto 1992: 673]. While armed clashes were
still going on between the Republic of Indonesia and British/Dutch forces after
the declaration of independence, the Sjahrir Cabinet, which was formed in
November 1945, adopted a conciliatory platform, including the adoption of
modern nation-­state institutions and steps to protect foreign capital, in an
attempt to realize national independence through diplomatic means. Beginning
in 1948, Hatta, who held joint appointments as prime minister and ministers of
foreign affairs and defense, followed suit with a pro-­Western line, winning a
transfer of sovereignty at The Hague Round Table Conference, which was offi-
cially implemented in December 1949. When viewed from such developments,
one can fully understand how 200 or so Japanese “AWOL partisans” bent on
armed struggle against the Dutch would gradually be viewed as a liability by
their Indonesian comrades. The Dutch also saw the writing on the wall and set
out to severely punish the Japanese guerrilla contingent, executing three of its
members in August 1948. Prior to their execution, the three (including one
Korean inductee) sang the Japanese national anthem and shouted three rounds
of “long live the Emperor” [Gotō 1977: 202–4].
Saitō Shizuo, who was involved in the East Indies military administration
from start to finish as Chief of Staff member of the Osamu Group Military
Administration, cut his ties with the Indonesian independence movement after
Japan’s defeat, like any good career diplomat would, and concentrated his
efforts on protecting Japan’s national interests and getting its citizens back
home safely. However, this is the same Saitō who continued claiming “to reso-
nate with nationalist ideas” throughout the postwar period as the result of an
incident that occurred in Semarang, central Java, on 15 October 1945, just
before the British troops landed. Upon receiving a report of a clash between
Japanese and Indonesian forces, Saitō rushed to the scene of the incident along
with representatives of the republican government to mediate the problem and
found a large number of Japanese POWs kept in Semarang’s Bulu Prison had
been massacred after things had gotten out of hand over Japanese troops refus-
ing to surrender their weapons. The incident left 149 dead and thirty missing in
action, resulting in the worst mass murder of Japanese nationals during the Jap-
anese occupation of Indonesia [Miyamoto 1973: 164]. Saitō recalls standing at
the entrance to one of the prison cells and seeing written on one of the walls in
blood something that he would never be able to forget. The words,
242   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
Bahagia Merdeka Happy Independence
Happy to die for Indonesian independence
Long live the Japanese, the Emperor …

The message in blood was, according to Saitō, written by a 29-year old youth
who had been dispatched to Indonesia by the Morinaga Dairy Corporation
[Saitō 1977: 235–6]. Saitō touches upon the sanguine message once again at
the end of his Memoir of Military Administration, re-­confirming that the
purpose of Japanese military rule in Indonesia was “to realize war objectives and
win the hearts of the local residents” and insisting that the question of whether
or not military rule contributed to independence of any one nation should be
left to the historians to argue. Saitō does not stop there, however, offering his
own personal view that military rule by the Southern Army, whose objectives we
have seen clearly included the territorial annexation of the East Indies and mili-
taristic colonial policies, he fought against “a tendency leaning towards colonial-
ism” and “possessed a conscience in pursuit of a balanced regime.” He then
concludes that the bloody message of the dying youth on the prison wall at
Bulu, “resonated with nationalism in words writ large and was the embodiment
of the kind of conscience that both scolded and encouraged the military admin-
istrations of the South” [ibid.: 281–3]. It had now been four years since military
administration planning had begun in November 1941 with the question,
“Conceptually speaking, how should we proceed in case we do occupy [the
South]?” And Saitō’s is telling us that his “conscience” was bolstered not by
“our colonialism” in the form of the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere,”
but rather by resonance with “their voices” calling for Indonesian nationalism.
Here is one historical experience encountering, resonating with and then being
overwhelmed by Asian nationalism of a man who after the war would earn his
living as a career diplomat and return to Jakarta as Japan’s ambassador to Indo-
nesia (1964–7), and is thus an excellent example of how the core of the East
Indies occupation experience became a “learning experience” for living in the
postwar world.

From the end of the war to its aftermath

28 December 1944. Kon Hidemi, who had just published his Embedded with
the Army in the Philippines, chronicling his experiences during the early stages of
the war as a civilian corpsman, arrived in Manila knowing nothing about the
situation, but determined to carry out his orders to cover the “historic grand
battle” that was about to unfold on Philippine soil. Upon his arrival, Kon not
only found no “historic grand battle” raging, but no Japanese Army, either, the
Watari Group (Fourteenth Army) headquarters having already taken refuge in
Baguio, and the rest of the troops running for cover into the suburbs. Suspect-
ing some SNAFU, Information Department chief Colonel Akiyama Kunio
asked, “What are you doing here?” [Kon 1978: 114]. Astonished by how things
had changed, Kon recalled,
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   243
The Manila of 1942 and the Manila of 1944 were as different as heaven and
hell. The Filipino friends I had made back in ’42 were nowhere to be
found, maybe in hiding or something. They had lost all love of Japan and
slipped into the underground … A great gap had been created between the
Japanese, as even in broad daylight Filipinos would now look upon the Jap-
anese with nothing but disdain and outrage … In three years Manila had
turned into a city of the dead.
[Ibid.: 7–9]

6 January 1945. After staying for about a week in Manila, Kon met his old
friend Hitomi Junsuke and accompanied Hitomi’s Information Department’s
detachment as it fled the city for the refugee life in the mountains of northern
Luzon. At the end of March, Kon decided to risk escaping on a plane to Taiwan
and departed alone for the airfield in Echague with a sack of rock salt from
Hitomi as a going-­away present. Upon his arrival at Echague, Kon heard the
news of the German surrender and was allowed to board a “Shinshitei” army
reconnaissance plane that by a stroke of good luck had just made an emergency
landing, thus completing a miraculous escape to Taiwan. This adventure was
recalled in the book published as Wandering in the Mountains: I was a Straggler
in the Battle of the Philippines in 1949. Kon Hidemi thus became a rare narrator,
having experienced the Philippines from the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity
Sphere’s” initial victories to its final demise.
Just before dawn on 8 January 1945. Long-­time Japanese resident Ōsawa
Kiyoshi was rushed to the Philippine General Hospital in the Ermita District of
central Manila after being seriously injured in a traffic accident. Ōsawa, who under
the occupation had been put in charge of the Fuel Regulation Collective and per-
formed well in his duties rationing gasoline and motor oil and manufacturing sub-
stitute oil and substitute fuel barrels, and in that capacity was the rare owner of a
deferment among the many eligible Japanese residents who have been drafted,
was on his way out of the city together with the Japanese employees of the col-
lective when his lower body was caught in the rear wheels of a passing truck after
reaching the suburbs. Although his life was saved by surgeon Antonio Sison, post-­
surgery infection set in causing Ōsawa to lose consciousness for three weeks from
25 January to 16 February. As Ōsawa vegetated, the Battle of Manila began,
during which Japanese troops hemmed in by Allied bombardment run amok in
Ermita on a rampage of atrocity claiming the lives of countless numbers of Fili-
pino civilians. The Philippine General Hospital, which because of its architectural
durability had become home to about 8,000 refugees was the scene of Japanese
soldiers running up and down the halls indiscriminately killing and wounding
doctors, nurses and patients, and raping the women. Ōsawa regained conscious-
ness the day after the Allied forces liberated the hospital. Amidst the hatred that
had fomented a manhunt for any Japanese in the city, Ōsawa was protected by the
doctors and nurses around him, while he lay helpless in a hospital bed.
After the war, just about every Japanese national residing in the Philippines
was forcibly shipped back to Japan, leaving behind many Filipino children of
244   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
Japanese descent. Ōsawa, who had sworn he would spend his last days in the
Philippines, was not awarded a deferment this time. In January 1946, the slow
moving “repatriation trucks” and “open boxcars” that took Ōsawa to his point
of disembarkation were constantly assailed with wave after wave of rocks and
broken sticks and calls of “Bakayarō!” (sons of bitches) and “Patay!” (death
to you).

In all my years in the Philippines, I had never seen the Filipinos so fiercely
enraged … Who was responsible for making the benign, friendly Filipino
hate us and want to kill us? Numbly I crouched on the hard floor, my head
buried in my hands, my body trembling with deep grief.
[Ōsawa 1978: 188; 1981: 239]

Thirteen years later, Ōsawa returned to the Philippines in 1959. Although

receiving a warm reception personally, Ōsawa, aware of the lasting disdain
toward the Japanese engrained in postwar Filipinos and deeply hurt over how
Japan’s invasion and war crimes had torn away his happy memories of the
prewar Japanese community, dedicated his life to the repatriation of Japanese
business and individuals to the Philippines.
In his Wandering in the Mountains, Kon Hidemi also asked himself why the
Japanese had become so despised. After departing his mountain hideout and
coming upon a narrow garden in the back of a house abandoned by a local Jap-
anese resident, which had been recently planted and was now sprouting veget-
ables, Kon remembered being saddened by the snug determination to live one’s
life like in Japan, no matter where one went and at having peered into the heart
of an “unloved citizen of upstanding, hard-­working national character” who
would no longer be allowed to enjoy his “postage stamp sized garden” [Kon
1978: 65–7]. Here we have, courtesy of a writer’s sensibility, a narrative captur-
ing the holier-­than-thou, xenophobic, exclusionary aspects way down deep in a
Japanese “national character” that tends to be self-­contained.
One refreshing departure from the death and misery of mountain wanderings
is the depiction of Kon’s encounter with the Lopez family, who had sought
shelter on the “other side of the river” in Echague to escape the Allied
bombing. After using the rock salt Hitomi had given him to save the Lopez
children who were suffering from sodium deficiency (hyponatremia), Kon was
greeted as a lifesaver and moved in with the family of ten or so in their two-­
room dugout, enjoying their food, taking siestas and conversing with papa
Lopez, nodding wisely with pipe in mouth. It was a peaceful world totally
different from the five months of flight. During that time, Kon thought often of
his family in Japan, “unable to keep still, haunted constantly by a longing to
survive and get back home.” Kon no longer needed his pipe and erudition to
figure out that he wanted to live, that there was nothing better than peace and
he was “really fed up with war.” Here we can observe one classic “narrative”
announcing the beginning of the postwar world while standing at the war’s
denouement.
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   245
Also appearing in Wandering in the Mountain is one soldier whose death
Kon Hidemi regretted most of all. That would be Mochizuki Shigenobu, whose
unintelligible sermon intended to inspire a group of peasants in a small town of
Lipa in Batangas at the beginning of the occupation was rescued at the last
minute by a perplexed interpreter who ad-­libbed, “Take it from me. The Japa-
nese are good people.” On 22 May 1944, Mochizuki was killed in action on his
way to Manila from his Tagaytay Educational Training Center, when he
encountered guerrillas, or more possibly bandits, attacking the bus carrying
civilians. This Tagaytay training camp was a boarding facility built by Mochizuki
with the cooperation of Hitomi Junsuke aiming at producing “forthright young
men burning with true patriotic self-­consciousness” needed to build the “new
Philippines.” This camp, into which Mochizuki poured his heart and soul, was
located south of Manila in the resort region of the Tagaytay highlands, situated
on the north side of Lawa ng Taal crater lake, and produced its first graduating
class in August 1943 after two months of training. Mochizuki’s death came
while the second class was involved in a training course completely designed by
Mochizuki himself. It was in 1980 that a group of camp alumni, relatives,
friends and underclassman Fujimoto Kōhō convened around Hitomi Junsuke to
commemorate Mochizuki’s passing with a volume entitled Pillar of Nation of
the Philippine Islands (Hitō no Kuni Bashira) [Mochizuki, ed. 1980], contain-
ing the camp’s training manual, Mochizuki’s writings, together with eulogies.
The type of education envisioned by Mochizuki, who had been teased by the
Hitomi Detail as “obsessed with sermonizing” and called “The Priest Mochi-
zuki,” unfolded into the nucleus of inspirational indoctrination and training at
both the Kōa Training Camp in Malaya and the Tangerang Youth Gymnasium
on Java, where daily curricula of “prayers at ablution” and “meditation” were
emphasized. The main learning materials included such titles as “The Japanese
Spirit: Imperial Way Spirit or the Polity of Nippon,” “The Japanese Woman’s
Code of Ethics” and “Building the Foundation of the Philippine Republic,” a
call for a return to the Orient, all revealing at a glance the holier-­than-thou
ideological indoctrination shoved down the throats of the occupied territories
based on the concept of endurance and self-­sacrifice. Not only the titles, but
their content, as well, seldom went beyond that theme; however, from the rec-
ollections of the graduates of these facilities contained in Pillars, despite some
confusion regarding the kind of spiritual guidance being offered by a man from
an alien, one gets the impression that it was always received in the well-­
intentioned spirit with which it was offered and with a certain amount of good
humor. There is hardly a trace of Mochizuki’s training regimen trying to force
feed some self-­righteous version of “Japanism.”
One unique aspect of Mochizuki’s style was the way in which he would
attempt to explain in plain English such concept as “the Japanese spirit” and the
philosophy underlying the divine right of Japan’s imperial line to rule the nation
and the empire. To begin with, he would often develop his arguments based on
Christian scripture. For example, in explaining the “Japanese spirit,” he would
compare the Japanese people’s belief in their emperors to the belief in the
246   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
“divinity of Jesus Christ,” and in “Foundation of the Republic of the Philip-
pines,’ ” he cites “the salt of the Earth” from Matthew 5:13 to argue the
importance of patriotism, stating, “Just as salt which has lost its savour [sic] is
cast away, people who have lost their national spirit will be trodden under the
feet of other people” [ibid.: 108–9, 142]. Putting aside for the moment the
level to which such attempts at analogy were comprehended, the blood, sweat
and tears expended to render the “translations” appearing in the English mater-
ials are indeed moving, once we find out that the whole enterprise was the work
of a Japanese Imperial Spirit (Kōdō Seishin) apologist uttering precepts guaran-
teed to be lost in translation.
Be that as it may, what is probably worthier of note here are two essays which
Mochizuki submitted to a literary magazine by the name of Southern Cross
(Minami-­Jūjisei) published by the PR Detail and geared to the armed forces,
the content of which is surprisingly critical of the Japanese people. In one essay,
entitled “Looking Back on the 1st Year of the Holy War” [December 1942],
Mochizuki vents his anger toward a Japanese Army that “has forgotten the true
essence of the god’s soldiers who fought so bravely on the battlefield,” whose
soldiers are now occupied with slapping the faces of innocent civilians, playfully
grabbing women by their noses after making them bow for the umpteenth time,
losing all respect for military discipline by daring to commit the ultimate crime
of raping women, all “traitors among us” who use the authority of the Japanese
military administration to assuage their thirst for violence and terror. The essay
concludes with, 

Before making demands on the Philippine people to understand the true

meaning of the Greater East Asia War, it’s high time, the Japanese state
should continue to make those demands on its own Japanese people … the
idea of “the whole world under one roof ” can only be realized by Japanese
acting like Japanese should.

The other piece, entitled “What Might Seem Trivial Being of Great Import”
[February 1943], contains more of the same condemnation, reiterating in a
roundabout way a report submitted by Hitomi. To wit, compared to the calm
and secure situation in Lucena, where Hitomi had praised the discipline displayed
by the Japanese troops who passed through that region after landing at Lamon
Bay at the start of the war, in the state of Antique on Panay (settlement not men-
tioned), where workers have been pressed into service at gun, the situation had
gotten out of hand, meaning that the quality of law and order depended upon
the quality of the behavior of the Japanese troops, as Ambassador Murata has
already pointed out. This time Mochizuki concludes with the words, 

The only way to force the Philippine people to act once again like them-
selves is for every single Japanese to act once again like Japanese should.
Soldiers acting like soldiers always should is the most important ingredient
to winning the hearts of the Philippine people. 
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   247
In both his public speaking and writing, “The Priest” Mochizuki was a man of
powerful positive words which never yielded to despair. That being said, we
should not forget to note that from the ideal “Japanese” created in the mind of
Mochizuki, the apologist for “the Japanese spirit,” the “Japanese” on the
ground were to be soundly criticized and denounced.
11 May 1945. Kon Hidemi, who had just escaped to Taiwan with his life,
was reunited with Ambassador Murata Shōzō in the air raid shelter of their
lodgings. “In the middle of night, Mr. Murata, ambassador to the Philippines,
descended into the hotel’s bomb shelter dressed in tuxedo trousers and mid-­
length boots, sat down in the dark beside me and started speaking in whispers”
[Kon 1978: 263]. Murata apparently did not notice Kon in the darkness of the
shelter [Murata 1969: 521].
On the 29th of the previous March, Murata had himself escaped from Luzon
on a plane to Taiwan as part of an entourage accompanying President Laurel,
and since then had spent over a month of uneventful days waiting around, even
finding time to pen “Critique of Philippine Policy,” regarded as a superb piece
of writing in the “Japanese bashing” genre by VIPs at the higher echelons of
the Southern Occupation’s political process. Murata begins much like his
unseen companion in the bomb shelter, by asking the question, why is Japan
(and its people) so despised? Or to rephrase Mochizuki-­style, how did “the Jap-
anese” stop acting like “the Japanese” I know? In the sixteen-­part answer to
that question which follows, Murata runs the gamut of specific criticisms,
including lack of preparedness in both personnel and policy decision-­making,
discord between the army and navy, tyranny displayed by the Kempeitai and
other security forces, as well as the day-­to-day issues of military scrip and the
food supply. Among them “the Japanese” occupy two groups in particular:
(1) “we gave the false impression that Oriental people should disregard material
aspects of life and live their lives merely on their strength of character” and
(2) “most of us, while being, for the most part, well-­educated, lacked worldly
sophistication, which tended to estrange us from people of different cultures.”
Regarding the former, if material condition had been stable, it would have
been possible to “explain the [Japanese] state, society and the essentials of inspi-
rational training” to Filipinos. Instead, in the midst of destabilized employment
opportunities, shortages of daily necessities and the food supply, a severe decline
in the standard of living and lack of public safety, it is no wonder that the Phil-
ippine people became fed up with all the Japanese talk about Oriental Spirits.
With respect to the latter, while Japan prides itself in diffusion of education and
literacy rates unprecedented in the rest of the world, all of that learning is not
reflected in “patterns of behavior in everyday life,” in particular, “when traveling
abroad and encountering people who may not be as advanced culturally.” Japa-
nese forget how to behave themselves morally (thus summarizing all of the con-
crete examples mentioned here, beginning with Mochizuki’s list).
What is noteworthy here about Murata’s “Critique” is that it is not just “him
talking to himself.” One day (1 March 1945) while Murata was fleeing with the
presidential entourage through the mountains of Luzon with a company of
248   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
Japanese troops, he heard Laurel utter that over the three years of Japan’s occu-
pation, the Philippine people had come to the sad conclusion that the Japanese
were “a cruel and merciless people.” It was that comment that prompted
Murata to trace “my own mistakes in not being able to understand the psyche
of the [Philippine] masses” and write down what was in his heart like he was
conversing with Laurel [Murata 1969: 431, 699–714].
During September 1945, about a half-­year after writing his “Critique,”
Murata was locked up in the Yokohama Detention Center and spent the next
two years of his life under suspicion of war crimes until his release from Sugamo
Detention Center in August 1947. He would not be further indicted and would
appear as a witness at such venues as the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal. A recipi-
ent of Murata Shōzō’s wartime letters at home, Takeji, Murata’s second son
who was twelve years old at the outbreak of the war, reached a major turning
point in his life while Murata was confined at the Yokohama and Sugamo deten-
tion centers. When Murata returned home, Takeji had already become a profes-
sional jazz drummer earning twice as much as his elder brother working in an
office. Soon Takeji, while still being an undergraduate at Keio University, would
be praised for his “Stan Levy style” drumming and start his promising career
with such big bands as Blue Coats in postwar Japanese jazz scenes [Segawa
2004: 88].
After his release, Murata was first banned from holding public office, then in
1951, when the ban was lifted, he returned to his former career as a leader in
the maritime transportation industry and government consultancy. This career
would be marked by the important role he played in reestablishing postwar rela-
tions between the Japanese and Asian business communities up until his death
in 1957. In 1954, Murata was appointed plenipotentiary envoy in the first
round of Japan-­Philippines war reparations negotiations provided under the San
Francisco Peace Treaty of 1951, and revisited the Philippines during August
1956, immediately after a treaty between the two countries was signed restoring
normal diplomatic relations, as head of a Japanese goodwill mission. In addi-
tion, as the chairman of the Society for the Promotion of Japanese International
Trade, Murata visited Beijing in January 1955 to conduct top level talks with
Premier Zhou Enlai, leading to the signing of a trade agreement (third phase)
between Japan and the People’s Republic that May [Murata 1969: 721–3].
Hanzawa Ken’ichi, in his study of Murata’s war consciousness, calls Murata,
who was rumored to “be turning a bit Red” after his trade-­related dealings with
the Communist Bloc, “a bourgeoisie in pursuit of peace,” and explains his con-
version from “imperialist bourgeoisie” as directly attributable to his wartime
experiences. Although Murata remained a dyed-­in-the-­wool proponent of the
concept of the “Greater East Asia Co-­Prosperity Sphere” even to his dying days,
as the result of his personal observations of what actually happened during the
“war that got out of hand,” both while in the Philippines and at the Tokyo Tri-
bunal and while contemplating the meaning of how deeply he had become
involved in it, he was forced to finally recognize that the “great cause” was only
an illusion and accepted the existence of war crimes and that he himself had
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   249
been one of the perpetrators. As the culmination of such realization, Hanzawa
cites a piece Murata wrote for the journal Sekai (The World) during his last years
(1955).

We conducted a war of aggression in China for over ten years. We ravaged

the land and wreaked untold physical and psychological havoc upon hun-
dreds of millions of its people. We Japanese should be deeply ashamed of
ourselves for our past deeds.
[Murata 1955: 19]

Although Murata mentioned only China by name, Hanzawa argues that it

would be more appropriate to think that it was the Philippines and the other
countries of “Greater East Asia” that occupied Murata’s mind while writing his
apology for Japan’s “war of aggression” [Hanzawa 2007: 183–203]. The seven
long years from the time he joined the Philippine government’s flight to Baguio,
fled to Taiwan and was imprisoned at Yokohama and Sugamo, culminating in
his return to public life, provided Murata with plenty of time to reflect and con-
template. If indeed those months and years of contemplation led Murata to look
straight at reality and embrace it without any ideological distractions, one would
then be able to conclude that his days ahead in the spotlight of Japan’s postwar
leap forward into Asian affairs were no longer framed by ideological quests.

“Back home from the South”

Let us close this chapter with a discussion of what lessons were learned by philo-
sopher Miki Kiyoshi during his almost year-­long stint as a civilian corpsman in
the Philippines by examining his hope “to learn something” [Miki 1968, Vol.
19: 419]. Just after his deployment, during his first days in the Philippines, Miki
writes in a letter, “Everything is so superficial and simple, there is no meaning,
no complexity” [4 May 1942; ibid.: 422] and in another, “[Life in] Manila is
nothing but a cheap imitation of Americanism” [19 May 1942; ibid.: 425], thus
reiterating the typical Japanese disregard for Westernized culture in the Philip-
pines. However, after a couple of months shut up in his room alone with his
books and research, after failing to hit it off with the intellectuals among his
fellow corpsmen, Miki’s correspondence records an altogether different
impression.

How do nations get formed in the first place? What are the determining
conditions? … within the [countries] of so-­called Greater East Asia Co-­
Prosperity Sphere, other than China, this place seems most interesting.
(23 July 1942; [ibid.: 428])

The influence of Americanism that one notices at first is only partial

and superficial. As one might expect Spanish influence seems to run deeper
and wider. Moreover, it’s interesting to find the Philippine people with
250   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
characteristics in common with the people of the Orient. Judging based on
first impression alone is a dangerous business. To really understand the
psychology of a native people probably takes at least a year.
(7 August 1942; [ibid.: 433])

The thoughts that Miki did put together about Southeast Asia, in general, and
the Philippines, in particular, when he did get back home is the last compilation
of work that would be published during his lifetime. However, it has all but
been ignored in the research on Miki for its statements and opinions that do not
fit in comfortably with the mainstream paradigm linking Miki’s ideas and logic
to his “untimely end” immediately after Japan’s defeat [Tairako 2008: 306–7].
Attention had been drawn to the collection of papers only recently by an inves-
tigation conducted by Tairako Tomonaga, which focused on the criticism of the
idealist stance that Miki took upon his return to Japan, and represents probably
the first genuine research on Miki from the viewpoints of philosophy and the
history of ideas. While following Tairako’s line of inquiry, here we will focus on
an essay in the collection entitled “Back home from the South” (February 1943)
Miki wrote for Ikkyō Shimbun, a student newspaper of the Tokyo University of
Commerce (now Hitotsubashi University), that seems to epitomize his frame of
mind after his return from the Philippines. While very short in length, the essay
is a concise and clear exposition of the “learning experience” we have been dis-
cussing here through failures of the Japanese Empire during the occupation of
Southeast Asia, in the form of intellectual issues that the occupation posed for
the Japanese people.
The essay starts with rather unexpected praise for one Japanese whose name
remains anonymous, but whom we have come to know in these pages as
Hamamoto Masakatsu, advisor to President Laurel and well-­known language
interpreter at events held by Miki’s PR Section.

The first thing I anguished about on returning was the need for knowledge.
Let’s begin with the knowledge of linguistics … Over there [in the Philip-
pines], there is one person in particular who stands out from all the rest on
the frontlines [of language], a person who studied in the United States from
the time he was in kindergarten through graduation from college. This per-
son’s impressive grasp of the English language is far superior even to that of
Americans, as Filipinos praise; and he also fully understands what the Japa-
nese spirit is all about. At first, he seemed just like your common everyday
language interpreter, but he turned out to be the genuine article, deserving
of our esteem. All others paled in comparison.
[Miki 1967, Vol. 15: 520]

This anonymous tribute to Hamamoto is clearly grounded in an incident that

occurred during September 1942 at a Japan-­Philippine cultural gathering spon-
sored by the Watari Group Information Department, at which Miki was to give
a lecture to be translated into English by Hamamoto.
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   251
Suddenly the auditorium became completely silent. “Something’s not
right,” I thought to myself, finally realizing that I had been rephrasing Miki
Kiyoshi’s speech into Japanese. I quickly switched to English [LOL]. After-
wards, [author] Ozaki Shiro, of Jinsei Gekijo fame, came up to me and said,
“Thanks to you, I finally figured out what Miki’s philosophy is all about.”
Right in front of Miki! [LOL].
[Hamamoto 1994: 81]

This experience must have produced as much of a shock for Miki as that experi-
enced by Mochizuki Shigenobu during his paraphrased sermon in Batangas.
Miki’s “Back Home from the South” continues,

When all is said and done, ideology amounts to nothing but self-­satisfaction
and narcissism. However, in every fight there is always an opponent …
Anyone who was involved in the war of propaganda, or the war of ideas, in
the South and takes any responsibility for it was deeply aware of the
problem of expression; in other words, how to put Japanese ideas into
words that could make sense to the enemy or the local indigenous people.
This is not just a problem of linguistics, but actually a problem of logic …
Ignoring logic and arguing in a seemingly Japanese manner, that is “ideo-
logy in the rear [formed in a safe place far from the frontlines]” that fails to
take reality on the frontlines into consideration.
[Miki 1967, Vol. 15: 521–2]

From the shocking experience of having had his Japanese deemed untranslatable
into English, translated instead back into such Japanese as translatable into
English, Miki not only became convinced of the necessity of the “logic as the
method” in relating ideas to those of alien cultures, when mere vocabulary fails,
but also came to agonize over the lack of logic in the Japanese way of expressing
ideas. Of course, the fact that Hamamoto was able to translate Miki’s lecture on
Nishida’s philosophy at least into Japanese means that there was some kind of
logic to it.
As a matter of fact, one can cite another, extremely important incident, prob-
ably unknown to Miki, in which that very same lack of logic put a stop to
Hamamoto’s translation abilities. This would occur in 1943 when Prime
Minister Tōjō made two requests to President Laurel implying that Japan
wished Laurel to declare war on the United States and Britain. Laurel refused
on both occasions. At those exact tense, breathtaking moments, Tōjō suddenly
started reciting proverb on one occasion and poetry on another (something he
frequently did in the midst of negotiations).

10 July 1943—there is no courage in knowing what is just, without acting

upon it (Gi wo Mite Sezaru wa Yū Naki Nari: from the Analects).
[Yomiuri Shimbunsha 1970, Vol. 11: 229–30]
252   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
1 October 1943—The path I set out on at dawn in the name of my
Emperor/for sake of you is glorious, exhilarating and sad (Kimi ga tame
Asashio Fumite Iku Michi wa Tōtoku Ureshiku Kanashiku Arikeri: from
Sakura Azumao).
[Itō, et al., ed. 1990: 264]

On both occasions Hamamoto, not grasping what Tōjō was trying get at, was
lost for words; and the heads of state changed the subject [Yomiuri Shimbunsha
1970, Vol. 11: 230]. Later, during a meeting with Chandra Bose, who had
arrived for AGEAN (the Assembly of Greater East Asiatic Nations), Tōjō once
again recited verse. Unable to hold his temper, Hamamoto shouted, “Your
excellency, what are you trying to say?” Tōjō: “You don’t understand?”
Hamamoto: “No.” Later one top military liaison officer Colonel Akamatsu
Sadao scolded Hamamoto, yelling, “Who’s the Prime Minister around here?” to
which Hamamoto replied, “When I’m speaking English to someone, I am. I’m
the one who has to make him understand, am I not?” [Fukada 1991: 148–9].
The fact that such absurdity unfolding in negotiations between heads of
state, where there is absolutely no margin for misunderstanding, would be
allowed regarding as important a question as whether or not the Philippines
would declare war on the Allies is just one more ammunition for Miki’s serious
doubts about the absence of logic among the Japanese people. Perhaps the
whole occupation of Southeast Asia was just an endless series of difficulties over
translation from summit meetings in Tokyo to propaganda events in remote vil-
lages. Returning to “Back Home from the South,”

What I felt was particularly needed while I was in the South was positivist
knowledge … However, in conventional Japanese scholarship there seems
to be a kind of disdain for positivism. It goes without saying that in scholar-
ship, positivism needs to be accompanied by logical thinking; propositions
that are scientific are established by their unification of positivism and logic.
However, the way things stand now in scholarship, the intellectual charac-
ter of things is questioned far more often than their scientific character …
But questioning something’s intellectual character without taking up its sci-
entific character, in other words ignoring the positivist aspects, results in an
“ideology in the rear” out of tune with reality on the frontlines.
[Miki 1967, Vol. 15: 522–3]

While it is indeed extraordinary for a philosopher like Miki Kiyoshi to take up

the cause of positivism, such advocacy is the result of developing an excoriating
entrenched hatred of the prevalence of the kind of policy and inspirational
propaganda not in the least cognizant of what was really happening on the
ground in the occupied territories. As Tairako has indicated in his research, this
attitude did not merely stop at criticizing the occupation, but was extended to a
deep self-­criticism of Japanese scholarship, in general, and Miki’s own philo-
sophical ideas, in particular; and if we were to interpret “ideology in the rear” as
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   253
a kind of code phrase, it also includes a fairly bold attack on IGHQ, which
brought up the hindmost part of the rear. Moreover, Miki’s critique extends to
the views of national spirit and idealism that had come to permeate mainstream
Japanese thought. Miki turns to the unification of ideas and daily life (praxis) in
his conclusion to “Back Home from the South.”

Whenever separation [between theory and praxis] occurs, the resulting

weakness is always sharply and unforgivingly sensed by people of other cul-
tures. This is the reality on the frontlines. No matter how elegantly the
phrases roll off our tongues, without any attempt to put them into practice,
nobody is going to get on board. No matter how loudly we shout about
Japanese spiritualism, as long as their actual daily lives are dominated by
Western materialistic hedonism, ideas will never be of any use as such.
[Ibid.: 523–4]

This is why Mochizuki Shigenobu yelled about how “the idea of ‘the whole
world under one roof ’ can only be realized by Japanese acting like Japanese
should.” Miki gives quite another thought:

Whenever ideas and practice fail to coincide, we must reflect not only on
the possibility that there is something wrong in their advocates, but also on
the possibility that something is wrong in the ideas themselves. In other
words, the ideas have become metaphysical, and have thus become of no
use in dealing with reality. In this case as well, the problem is the positivistic
nature of ideas.
[Ibid.: 524]

In retrospect, many Japanese who took part in the occupation of Southeast Asia,
including, of course, the intellectuals affiliated with the area corps Public Relations
Details, as well as the silent majority of bureaucrats and soldiers dispatched to the
region, were all critical of Western colonial rule and racism which prevailed in
Asia, and sought to change and renovate colonial society by denouncing the
material culture, universalism and liberalism of “Occidental modernism,” advo-
cating pan-­Asianism and confederacy in its place as an integrating ideology. In the
“narrative” produced by such people, we find reflected agreement not only with
the military establishment’s occupation policies, but also the mainstream ideas
permeating Japanese society at the time. However, this was nothing but “ideo-
logy in the rear,” to borrow Miki’s phrase, a set of ideas that were impossible to
articulate with practice. And so, what “reality on the frontlines” made clear from
beginning to end was the contradiction between one Japan denouncing mod-
ernity altogether and another overburdened with it at the same time, and the
contradiction of a Japan criticizing Western racism, while at the same time locked
into the very racial ideology underlying White supremacy. It was for this reason
that trying to explain the ideas of patriarchal pan-­Asianism and “Japanese spiritu-
alism” logically to “the other,” the occupied of Southeast Asia, became untenable.
254   Collapse of the Japanese Empire
One answer to the inquiry posed by Miki in his quest for the positivistic
aspects of ideas comes into relief when juxtaposed to the failure of the occupa-
tion of Southeast Asia. What had to change was not “them” living over there,
but “us” living right here in Japan. It would not be long before “postwar Japa-
nese,” in the process of their defeat and own foreign occupation, would place
under lock and key that “Japanese spirit (authenticity)” which had been forced
upon Southeast Asia and get back to the business of full-­scale assimilation into
“Western modernity.” Miki’s inquiry implies that this moment was already
beginning on the ground in Southeast Asia.
As for Kon Hidemi, who soon after his escape to safety in Taiwan would start
raking Miki Kiyoshi over the coals in his writing, described in his own “nar-
rative,” Wandering in the Mountains, that upon his return from the “reality on
the frontlines” and subsequent encounter with the “ideology in the rear,” he
was stricken with an illness resembling today’s post-­traumatic stress disorder.
Indeed, Kon had escaped to Taiwan carrying the full physical and mental experi-
ence of what Miki discussed in his “Back Home from the South” as the bank-
ruptcy and collapse of Japanese idealism and ideology. Landing in Taiwan only
an hour and forty minutes from the denouement of months lost in the moun-
tains of Luzon full of “malnourished soldiers with pale, swollen faces, soldiers
wasting away from malaria, unshaven soldiers with bulging eyes filled with hope-
lessness and despair,” Kon reacted to the scene of peace around him with impa-
tience and irritability at the journalists who refused to take his accounts of the
real situation at the Battle of Luzon seriously, “repeatedly berating them as
nothing but cowards and defeatists.” Fed up with the pretentious bragging of
his fellow journalists filling their bellies with food and drink, Kon let his fists do
his talking in a series of drunken rows [Kon 1978: 237, 252].
After stating his clear pacifist, anti-­war position in the epilogue to the 1949
edition of Wanderings, Kon sums up with the words,

I believe that if it weren’t for the good intentions of others, I would never
have gotten out of the Philippines alive. It is my sincerest hope that no
matter where I find myself, no matter what the intellectual atmosphere, I
will never turn my back on humanism and do all I can to spread the kind of
toleration and goodwill that form the foundation of humanism.
[Ibid.: 266–7]

It is an epilogue that no longer has room for the idealism of sacrifice that cheap-
ens life and glorifies death. As the Southern Campaign and occupation of South-
east Asia as the great experiment based on “ideology in the rear” drew to an
end, what the “postwar Japanese” were looking for was an uncomplicated
humanism that respected life. The extensive loss of life and massive destruction
wrought by the great experiment of “ideology in the rear” had rendered the
romantic idealistic notion of dying a hero’s death on the battlefield risible in
their eyes, and it was clear to them that idealism, bereft of logic and lost in
translation, had been soundly defeated, and that modern international society’s
 Collapse of the Japanese Empire   255
principle of sovereign independence had come out the victor. For the large
majority of the Japanese people, there was no other way but to choose mod-
ernity through military defeat and self-­deprecation. It was in this way that the
Japanese people came to support together with the international community the
fact that postwar Japan would be healed, rehabilitated and enriched by choosing
modernity.
The Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia and the days leading up to its
eventual collapse, as investigated in the present treatise, was among many other
things an important time providing an opportunity for a nation to put itself in
perspective through the eyes of “the other.” The meaning of the occupation of
the region as a historical experience opened to postwar Japan and its people,
which rose from such an opportunity, goes far beyond gaping at the historical
mirage showing Japan liberating Southeast Asia from the yoke of Western colo-
nialism but instead directs Japanese to indubitable conclusions. Through
military defeat, despair and self-­deprecation, through an encounter with “the
other” known as Southeast Asia, for the first time there appeared Japanese
people awakened to the empty, fictitious image of the Greater East Asia Co-­
Prosperity Sphere and made aware that a clean break with imperial Japan and its
false narrative constituted the best possible first step into the postwar world. It
was not long before Japan was allowed to “re-­enter international society
(kokusai shakai ni fukki)” with the San Francisco Peace Treaty and proceed to
negotiate the war reparation treaties with the countries of Southeast Asia. On
that occasion, a “postwar Japan,” which had made a clean break with the past
and embraced world peace, and its “postwar people,” reborn as lovers of peace,
as if stricken by amnesia, was met with surprised looks by the peoples of South-
east Asia, many of whom had moved from occupation into the sturm and drang
of wars for national independence, internecine strife and political chaos [Nakano
2002]. If so, the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia, in its failure to liberate
the region from the West, may be looked upon as at least liberating the Japa-
nese people from the ideological yoke of imperial Japan.

Notes
1 Murata Shōzō to Murata Shinichi, 30 August 1944. From the material sources donated
to the FJOP.
2 Nippon News, No. 227 (5 October 1943). NHK War Testimonies Archives.
Glossary

A Plan for Commodity Distribution in the South: Nanpō Busshi Kōryū Keikaku 
南方物資交流計画
Administrative Director: Shisei Chōkan  司政長官
Administrative Staff: Shisei Kan  司政官
Analysis of National Physical Capability: Butteki Kokuryoku Handan  物的国
力判断
Army Military Academy: Rikugun Shikan Gakkō  陸軍士官学校
Army War College: Rikugun Daigaku  陸軍大学
AGEAN; Assembly of Greater East Asiatic Nations: Dai Tōa Kaigi  大東亜会議
BIA; Burmese Independence Army
BNA; Burmese National Army
Bureau: Kyoku  局
Cabinet Planning Agency: Kikaku’in  企画院
Central District Army: Chūbu Gun  中部軍
Classified War Journal: Kimitsu Sensō Nisshi 機密戦争日誌
Department: Bu  部
Detail: Han  班
General Affairs Department of Military Administration: Gunsei Kanbu Sōmubu 
軍政監部総務部
Gozen Kaigi/Imperial Council: Gozen Kaigi  御前会議
Hayashi Group (Fifteenth Army): Hayashi Shūdan  林集団 (第15軍)
IGHQ; Imperial General Headquarters: Dai Hon’ei  大本営
IGHQ Army Department Order: Dai Riku Mei  大陸命
IGHQ Navy Order: Dai Kai Rei  大海令
IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference: Dai Hon’ei Seifu Renraku Kaigi 
大本営政府連絡会議
Imperial Diet: Teikoku Gikai  帝国議会
Imperial Prerogative of Supreme Command: Tōsuiken no Dokuritsu  統帥権
の独立
Imperial Rule Assistance Association: Taisei Yokusankai  大政翼賛会
Imperial rescript: Shōsho  詔書
INA; Indian National Army
 Glossary   257
Industrial development and trade staff: Sangyō Kaihatsu Kōeki Yōin  産業開発
交易要員
Maintenance of Public Order Law: Chian Iji Hō  治安維持法
Manchurian Independent Garrison Unit: Manshū Dokuritsu Shubitai  満州独
立守備隊
Military Administration: Gunsei Kanbu  軍政監部
Military Operations Detail: Sakusen Han  作戦班
Military Operations Section: Sakusen Ka  作戦課
Ministry of Greater East-­Asiatic Affairs: Dai Tōa Shō  大東亜省
Ministry of Home Affairs: Naimu Shō  内務省
Ministry of War Military Affairs Bureau: Rikugun Shō Gunmu Kyoku  陸軍省
軍務局
National Mobilization Act: Kokumin Chōyō Rei  国民徴用令
Northeastern Anti-­Japanese Coalition partisans: Tōhoku Kōnichi Rengun 
東北抗日聯軍
Osamu Group (Sixteenth Army): Osamu Shūdan  治集団 (第16軍)
PETA; Pembela Tanah Air; Defenders of the Homeland
POETERA; Poesat Tenaga Rakjat; Center of People’s Power
Privy Council: Sūmitsu’in  枢密院
Religious Conciliation Detail: Shūkyō Senbu Han  宗教宣撫班
Section: Ka  課
Sho/victory Mission No. 1: Shō Ichigō Sakusen  捷1号作戦
South Voyage Digest: Nankō Taigaiki  南航大概記
Southern China Area Army: Minami Shina Hōmen Gun  南支那方面軍
Southern Invasion Operation: Nanpō Kōryaku Sakusen  南方攻略作戦
Supreme Council for the Direction of the War: Saikō Sensō Shidō Kaigi  最高
戦争指導会議
Tomi Group (Twenty Fifth Army): Tomi Shūdan  富集団 (第25軍)
Unconventional Warfare Section: Bōryaku Ka  謀略課
War History Office: Senshishitsu  戦史室
War Planning and Management Detail: Sensō Shidō Han  戦争指導班
War Preparation Section: Senbi Ka  戦備課
Watari Group (Fourteenth Army): Watari Shūdan  渡集団 (第14軍)
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Index

Note: see also List of policy documents (x–xi)

Abe Tomoji (1903–73) 3, 7, 10, 24 over “independence” of 115, 162–6,

AGEAN (Assembly of Greater East Asiatic 172–8; invasion of 70–3;
Nations) 159, 187–9, 194–202, 252; “independence” under Japan 160, 180;
not inviting Indonesia 228; see also each as a war front 150–1, 232; war plan and
country and participant 44, 66, 171
“Analysis of national physical capability”
34–5, 38–9 Changi Prison 63, 95, 97, 100
Aquino, Benigno, Sr. (1894–1947) 87, Chiang Kai-shek (1887–1975) 176; lifeline
220 29, 31, 33, 70
Arisue Yadoru (1903–73) 37, 53, 55 China: Chungking (Chiang Kai-shek)
Atlantic Charter 39, 183, 185–6 Republic of China Government 28–31,
Aung San (1915–47) 33, 90–1, 171, 200, 52, 97
232–4 Churchill, Winston (1874–1965) 39, 186
Australia 39, 73, 135, 143, 165; Army cotton (cloth) 47, 113, 131; significance
forces 107, 108 and prewar crisis of 117–18; stockpiling
Axis Alliance (with Germany and Italy) by Japanese 155–6
29–30, 36, 39, 75 cotton growing: difficulty of 119–20; a
five-year plan 118–19; resistance in the
Ba Maw (1893–1977) 88–91, 150, 175–6, Philippines to and failure of 121–4
200, 233–4; at AGEAN 194, 196, 199;
insisting on “monetary sovereignty” 203 Dutch East Indies 92, 116, 127, 164; fall to
Bataan Death March 133 Japan 14; invasion of 10, 72; Talks with
BIA (Burmese Independence Army) 70–1, Japan 36; see also Indonesia and Java
91, 171, 174–5
BNA (Burmese National Army) 15, 175, East Timor 14
200; uprising 232–4 Emperor Hirohito (1901–89) 169, 184,
Bose, Rash Behari (1886–1944) 209 191, 194, 235; support “New Policy”
Bose, Subhas Chandra (1897–1945) 194, 186
208–12, 252 Equality (byōdōi) and reciprocity (gokei),
Britain (United Kingdom) 34, 39, 176, principle of 189, 201; as an American
224; Battle of 28, 32 idea 79; Bose insisted on 210; in
British Indian Army 107, 209; for Burma modern international law 169; and
70, 72, 74, 82; and Imphal, battle of “New Policy” 184–5, 193
207, 210; for Malaya 61 Executive Commission (of the Philippines
Burma 2, 9, 14–15, 200, 211, 233; allied under Japan) 86, 165
bombing on 150; and Battle of Imphal
207; under British rule 89–90; disputes Fifteenth Army see Hayashi Group
 Index   269
Fourteenth Army see Watari Group 196, 212–16, 219–20; on Laurel 213;
France 66, 232, 236; attempting Miki Kiyoshi on 250–1; and Tojo’s
recolonization 16; defeat to Germany poems 251–2
27–8, 67; liberation of 15; see also Hata Hikosaburō (1890–1959) 188
French Indochina; Vichy France Hatta, Mohammad (1902–80) 96, 223–5,
Free India Provisional Government see 228, 235–6, 241
Bose, Subhas Chandra Hattori Takushirō (1901–60) 70, 172, 174I
Free Thai Movement (Seri Thai) 15, 202 Hayashi Group (Fifteenth Army) 2–3, 14,
French Indochina 6, 14, 24; “August 66–8, 70–2, 207–8; see also Burma; Iida
(1945) Revolution” 236; border Shōjiro
conflicts with Thailand 67; Hitomi Junsuke (1916–) 21, 57, 136–7,
“independence” under Japan (March 147–9; assignment to the 14th Army
1945) of 15–16, 231–2; stationing 5–6, 9; on a ban on independence
Japanese troops in Northern 28–30; propaganda 162–3; Batangas mission
stationing Japanese troops in Southern (Lipa episode) 106; Bicol mission 135;
36–9 “goodwill mission” activities 134–6;
Fujiwara Agency 21, 171, 175 Ilocos mission 138–42; Kon Hidemi
Fujiwara Akira (1922–2003) 191 meets 243; Mochizuki Shigenobu and
Fujiwara Iwaichi (1908–86) 209 245–6; Mountain Province mission
Fukada Yūsuke (1931–2014) 194–6 135–6; Panay mission of 143–6; urged
Fukai Eigo (1871–1945) 169–70, 192 “wait and see” attitude 136–8
“holy war (of liberation)” rhetoric of 19,
Ganap Party (Philippines) 86–7, 107, 220 43, 74–6, 167, 237–8; advocated by
Gandhi, Mahatma (1869–1948) 208, 211 Tōjō 164–6; not employed by Hitomi
GCBA (General Council of Burmese 136–7
Associations) 90–1 Hong Kong 9–10, 28, 46, 164, 174; fall
Germany 26, 31–2, 109, 206, 208–9; plan to Japan 14
to import iron and ships from 109; Honma Masaharu (1887–1946) 2, 56, 73,
surrender of 243 78, 133
Germany and the Soviet Union, The War Hotta Shōichi (1913–2004) 127
between 36–7, 208, 212 Hpa Hsa Pa La (Anti-Fascist People’s
Gozen Kaigi 54, 192; on 13 November Freedom Alliance, Burma) 200, 232
1940 32, 2 July 1941 38, 6 September Huaqiao (Overseas Chinese): forced
1941 55; 5 November 1941 2, 41–2, 1 donation 99, 103–4; general occupation
December 1941 53, 21 December 1942 policy for 49, 98; junk trade by 131; in
159–60, 31 December 1942 159, 31 Malaya and Singapore, Tomi group
May 1943 187, 30 September 1943 policy for 98–9; prewar support of
194, 8 June 1945 234, 14 August 1945 Chiang Kai-shek 97; see also Sook Ching
235 massacre
“Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere” Hukbalahap (People’s Army against Japan,
19, 117, 238, 255; as cliché in war Philippines) 73, 135
propaganda 74–80, 137; Japan as the
leader (patriarch) of 168, 170, 239; self- Ibuse Masuji (1898–1993) 3, 9–10, 61,
sufficiency in 117; vs. “war for 102; on Singapore 63, 82; on Sook
resources” realism 41–2 Ching 99–100
Greater East Asia Joint Declaration Ichiki Tatsuo [Abdul Rahman] (1900–49)
(AGEAN principles) 201, 203, 213 11, 126, 229, 240–1
Greater East Asia Synchronized Youth IGHQ (Imperial General Headquarters):
Gymnastics 194; Vietnamese students’ 20, 67, 97, 171, 214; gathered for a
protest at 200 portrait 109; and Midway defeat
Greater East Asia War, designated as 54 109–10; see also List of policy
Guadalcanal, Battle of 109, 159, 181 documents
IGHQ Army General Staff 39, 85, 109,
Hamamoto Masakatsu (1905–96) 88, 158, 164; interest in “the South” 26–8
270   Index
IGHQ War Planning and Management Japanese immigrant communities:
Detail 26–7, 33–7, 53, 55 Okinawans and 124, 126; in the
IGHQ/Government Liaison Conference Philippines 59–60, 124–7; “toko
26, 35–6, 53–4; see also Tōjō’s speeches jepang” in Indonesia 126
Iida Shōjiro (1888–1980) 2, 21, 68, 90–1, Japanese-Manchurian-Chinese alliance
115; on Burmese “independence” 188, 191
162–4, 173–4 Java 2, 28, 224–5; aim of military
Imamura Hitoshi (1886–1968) 2, 5, 21, administration in 93; invasion of 61,
72, 107; and “independence” issue 163, 71–2; as supply depot 227, 230; Tōjō’s
226–7; and “moderate military speech (June 1943) on 188–9
administration” 93–6, 102; see also Java National Service Association 228–9
“Whites”
Imperial Council see Gozen Kaigi Kai’onji Chōgorō (1901–77) 3, 10
Imperial Rule Assistance Association 195, Kanemaru Shigene (1900–77) 180
225 Karen people 71, 150, 234
Imphal, Battle of 15, 175, 206–11, 232 Katsuya Fukushige 9, 56, 105
INA (Indian National Army) 171, 208–11 Katyn massacre 186
Indonesia 3, 10, 28, 92, 274; casualties of Kawabe Masakazu (1886–1965) 207–8, 210
war 16; as the haven for the Allied Kawamura Saburō (1896–1947) 99, 102
nationals 93; (issues of) independence Kayahara Kōichi (1905–94) 121–2, 144
165, 197, 222, 225, 227; independence Kempeitai (Military Police of Imperial
war (1945–9) 16, 240; “Indonesia Japanese Army) 195, 210; arrest Aung
Raya” 11, 162; nationalism 242; plan/ San in Amon 33; in Burma 199, 202,
idea to annex 166, 187, 222; prewar 232; in the Philippines 58, 213, 219,
independence movement 222–4, 228; 247; in Singapore 63; and Sook Ching
see also Dutch East Indies; Java 99–102
“Independence” 19; background of intra- Koiso Kuniaki (1880–1950): cabinet 206,
military disputes over 179–80; in 212; statement (7 September 1944)
quotation marks, definition of 167; see 222, 230
also Burma; “Manchukuo Model”; Kon Hidemi (1903–84) 245, 247;
“scheme (bōryaku)” conscripted 1–3, 7–9; escape from
Ishihara Kanji (1889–1949) 26 Manila 242–3; on Hitomi 141; landing
Ishihara Sangyō 127, 144 56–7; on life in Manila 153–5; turns to
Ishii Akiho (1900–96) 20, 25, 30, 40, 53; pacifism 244, 254
and “Draft of a Policy Agenda Dealing Kōno Takeshi (1891–1947) 147
with the China Incident” 30–1; efforts Korea/Koreans (as Imperial Japan’s
to contain movement for subject) 23, 33, 133, 150, 241
“independence” (of Burma) 166, Korean independence: movement for 182;
172–8; and guidelines for military question of 183, 190
administration policy 48–51; on Kumai Toshimi (1917–) 143–5, 1
Huaqiao forced donation 104; on Kuroda Shigenori (1887–1954) 176
Indonesia 72; on Iwatake 84; and “war Kuwano Fukuji (1901–99) 12–13, 23,
for resources” realism 41–2, 52, 237 132–3, 156; on Burma 150, 199
Ishikawa Yoshitaka (1917–) 236
Ishizaka Yōjirō (1900–86) 3, 135, 137, Laurel, Jose P. (1891–1959) 88, 203,
155 247–8; at AGEAN 194, 196–7, 201–2;
Iwakuro Hideo (1897–1970) 175 anger over Japanese atrocities 218–19;
Iwatake Teruhiko (1911–) 17, 23, 83–4, in exile 220; Japan’s choice as President
92, 95; on commodity distribution in and support for 197–8, 217, 219–20;
the South 116–7; on “military-led postwar years 221; and the “state of
colonialism” 116, 168 war” declaration 212, 214–16; meet
Tōjō Hideki 251
Japanese atrocities 147, 200, 217–19; see law and order 43, 45, 49, 83, 105; in
also Manila; Sook Ching massacre Burma 82; in Indonesia 225–6; Japanese
 Index   271
troops ordered to keep after surrender 232–3; and the issue of Burmese
16, 240; in Malaya 102, 104; in the “independence” 171–5
Philippines 140–1, 144, 187–8, 216, mineral resources: cobalt 151; copper
218 47–8, 144, 151; gold 47, 151; iron
“level of the people (mindo)” 76–8, 187, (ore) 31, 47; nickel 151; silver 151
222 Ministry of Foreign Affairs 6, 168, 182,
Leyte: US landing on 15, 109, 123, 147, 196, 212
219 Ministry of Greater East-Asiatic Affairs 188,
Lim Boon Keng (1869–1957) 103 200–1; establishment 168–9, 182, 192–3
Ministry of War 27–9, 94, 103, 109, 118;
MacArthur, Douglas (1880–1964) 46, 58, Information Bureau 2; Military Affairs
86, 214, 220; Allied Supreme Bureau 34, 158
Commander 135; “I Shall Return” 73 Mochizuki Shigenobu (1910–44) 105,
Machida Keiji (1896–1990) 10–11, 178, 245–7, 253; speech in Lipa 105–6, 134,
205, 222; on a ban of “independence” 137, 251
propaganda 162–3; excitement after Morimoto Takeshi (1921–) 229–30,
landing 161; on 3A movement 225–6 239–41
Maeda Masami (1892−1953) 85 Murata Shōzō (1878–1957) 11–12, 22,
Makapili see Ganap Party 80, 114; “Critique of Philippine Policy”
Malaya (Malay Peninsula) 2–3, 164; anti- 247–8; on Ganap Party 107n8; postwar
Japanese resistance 74; invasion of 13, years; and “state of war” declaration
61; plan to annex 160 214–16, 248–9; support Laurel
Malayan People’s Anti-Japanese Army 74 (administration) 197, 213–14, 216–17,
Manchukuo 116, 167–8, 190, 225 220; support Recto’s protest against
“Manchukuo Model” 168, 172, 179, 189, Japanese atrocities 217–19
203; Tōjō’s belief in 168–70, 180, 193 Murata Takeji (1928–) 80, 114, 248
Manchuria 5, 57, 67, 118, 168 Mutaguchi Renya (1888–1966) 207–8
Manchurian Incident 12 Mutō Akira (1892–1948) 41, 94–5, 220
Manila 6, 63, 82, 249: Battle of 15, 23,
219, 231, 243; fall to Japan 14, 58, Nacionalista Party (Philippines) 46, 85,
60–1; U.S. bombing on 215 87, 221
Marco Polo Bridge, the incident of 136, Nagano Osami (1880–1947) 195
207 Nakamura Toshiharu (1910–) 232–3
Martin, Maurice-Pierre Auguste Nakano Seigō (1886–1943): 195, 202
(1878–1952) 29 Nakayama Yasuhito (1900–80) 77
Maruyama Shizuo (1909–2006) 210–11 Navy, Imperial Japanese 2, 14–15, 92;
material procurement (for the military Army’s criticism on 108–9; discord
forces) on the ground 49–50, 83, 172; between Army and 15, 29, 247;
in Burma 73; Java as a base for 227; opposition to the Philippines
military notes as a way of 52; in the “independence” 187–8; and war plan
Philippines 56–7, 113 29, 32, 34, 37
Matsumoto Naoji (1912–95) 4, 61–2, New Caledonia 108–9
100, 102, 107 New Guinea 14, 74, 95, 109, 223
Matsuoka Yōsuke (1880–1946) 29, 37–8 “New Policy (for China and Greater East
Midway, Battle of 14, 108–9 Asia)” 159, 186–91; see also equality;
Miki, Bukichi (1884–1956) 195 Shigemitsu Mamoru; Tōjō Hideki
Miki, Kiyoshi (1897–1945) 12, 153–6, Nimitz, Chester W. (1885–1966) 214
249–54 Nishihara Issaku (1893–1945) 29
military (national defense) resources 19, Nishimura Ototsugu (1900–87) 42–3,
34, 39–40, 131; securing of 49–50, 235–6
104, 167 Nogi Maresuke (1849–1912) 62
military notes 52, 57, 156, 247
military scrip see military notes Obata Nobuyoshi 42
Minami Agency 21, 33, 70–1, 90–1, Ōgiya Shōzō (1913–92) 58, 107
272   Index
oil (fuel-) 31, 34, 47, 109, 130; fields 22, Recto, Claro M. (1890–1960) 215–19,
32, 70; remitted to Japan 83; reopen 221
facilities of 64–5, 83; US embargo of “rehabilitation (kōsei)” 75, 84
39, 42, 55; as war objective 41, 51; and Ricarte, Artemio (1866–1945) 46–7, 85,
war plan 64; see also Palembang; “war 87, 141, 21
for resources” rice 31, 117, 199; and cotton growing
Okada Keisuke (1868–1952) 193 118, 122; famines during war 16; supply
Okazaki Seizaburō (1893–1979) 225 issues 76, 81, 113; procurement in Java
Ōnishi Satoru (1903–94) 99, 101–2 227
Ono Toyoaki (1912–2003) 2, 4, 8 romusha 227–8
Operation Code-“Sho” 214, 219 Roosevelt, Franklin D. (1882–1945) 29,
Operation FS 108–9 39, 214
Osamu Group (Sixteenth Army): 64, 92, Roxas, Manuel (1892–1948) 47, 197,
96; Blitar rebellion and 231; 220–1
deployment 2–3, 6; after Japan’s rubber 31, 47, 116, 128, 131
surrender 239–40; invasion of Java 72, Russo-Japanese War 1, 180
223; PR detail of 161–2, 225–6; see also
Imamura Hitoshi; “Whites” Saipan, loss of 183, 206–7
Ōsawa Kiyoshi (1906–2002) 23, 59–60, Saitō Shizuo (1914–98) 21, 115–16,
126–7, 243–4 241–2; on aim of occupation policy 93,
Osmeña, Sergio (1878–1961) 46 226; attached to the 16th Army 6, 11;
Ōta Kaneshirō 47, 85 meetings with Sukarno 228, 235–6
Ōtani Kōzui (1876–1948) 28 Sakakibara Masaharu (1911–2002) 21–2,
Ōya Sōichi (1900–70) 3, 10 81, 110–11, 238–9; arguing for
Ozaki Shirō (1898–1964) 3, 7–8, 105–6, restoring prewar colonial condition
155, 251 131–2; attached to the Southern Army
6–9; on Borneo 202; on Burma 150–1;
Palembang (oil fields) 23, 64–5, 83, 93, on cotton growing 120, 124; on Dutch
162; Kingdom (Darussalam) 222 colonial management 127–30; on food
PCPI (Preparatory Committee for and material supply issues 111–14; on
Philippine Independence) 197–8 Japanese immigrant communities
People’s Party (Thailand) 66–7 124–5; on Java 127–8; on Malaya 128,
Percival, Arthur E. (1887–1966) 61 131; on mass arrival of Japanese civilians
PETA 228–9; Blitar Rebellion 230–1 115; opposition to “independence”
petroleum see oil 177; on Palembang 130; on paralysis of
Phibun (Phibunsongkhram, Plaek commodity distribution 130–2; on the
1897–1964) 15, 66–8, 198–9, 202 Philippines 112–13; on Singapore 153;
Philippine-American War (1899–1902) 45 on Sumatra 128–9; on ugly Japanese
Philippines 2–3, 14, 219; casualties of war 152–3
16; military administration 51, 58–9; Sakdalista Party (Philippines) 86–7
occupation plan 44–5, 48; prewar Satō Hiro’o (1901–72) 165–6, 175, 224
politics and economy 17, 45–7; Satō Kenryō (1895–1975) 36–7, 41, 158,
surrender of US forces 14, 73, 135 165; on Tōjō Hideki 192; on
POETERA 227–8 Yamamoto Isoroku 108–9
Potsdam Declaration 16, 18, 235 Satō Kōtoku (1893–1959) 207–8
Satomura Kinzō (1902–45) 10
Quezon, Manuel Luis (1878–1944) 46–7, “scheme (bōryaku)” 21, 178–9, 184, 205;
84–8, 197–8, 219 “by the American government” 105; in
Burma 33, 44, 71, 88, 170–3; IGHQ
Ramos, Benigno (1893–1945) see Ganap Section of 174; “independence” as
Party 170–1; for India 171, 174; in Indonesia
Rangoon 70, 173, 232: fall to Britain (Java) 224; in the Philippines 45–7, 84–5
(May 1945) 15, 233; fall to Japan sea-going vessels: allocation of 111–12;
(March 1942) 14, 70, 88 construction of wooden 131; loss by
 Index   273
submarine attacks of 109, 111, 130; sugar 113, 117, 131; exports from the
requisition of 32 Philippines 47, 121–2, 143; converting
Second Sino-Japanese War (China to cotton production 118–20
Incident) 32, 54, 92, 146, 184; as not a Sugiyama Hajime (1880–1945) 33, 37,
war 49; quagmire of 13, 37; seek 94, 174, 188; Memo of 20, 209
settlement of 190, 195 Sukarno (1901–70) 96, 223, 225, 235;
Semarang Incident 241–2 lead POETERA 227–8; meets Imamura
Shibafu Hideo (1908–84) 34–5, 40 226; proclaim independence 16, 236
Shigemitsu Mamoru (1887–1957) 20, Supreme Council for the Direction of the
159, 168, 182–9; support for Laurel War 206, 211, 215, 231, 235
212, 216–7; on Tōjō Hideki 183–4, Supriyadi (1923–45) 230–1
192–3 Suzuki Keiji (1897–1967) 33, 71, 96,
Shimada Keinosuke (1894–1959) 5 171–5, 200; see also Minami Agency
Shimizu Hitoshi (1913–2000) 163, Suzuki Sōsaku (1891–1945) 218
225–6, 230–1
Singapore 3, 64, 82, 209; fall to Japan 14, Tagaytay Educational Training Center
61–3, 74–6, 166; named as “Shōnan” 105, 245
62; plan to annex 160; as a prewar trade Taiwan 129, 196, 214; as a base for
center 116–17; Southern Army HQ Southern invasion 9, 32; escape to and
moves to 6, 128, 150, 176; as a target exile in 220, 243, 247, 254; people of
of Southern Operation 32, 37; see also 23–4
Malaya; Sook Ching Taiyō Maru disaster 94, 114, 120, 122
Sino-Japanese joint declaration of war and Tajiri Akiyoshi (1896–1975) 215
treaty of alliance 160, 176 Takahashi Hachirō (1914–86) 233
Sixteenth Army see Osamu Group Takami, Jun (1907–65) 65–6, 69, 71, 82;
Sjahrir, Sutan (1909–66) 96, 224, 228, on BNA uprising 234; in Burma
241 campaign 72–3; conscripted 2–3, 9–10
“sono tokoro (proper place/livelihood)” Takaoka Sadayoshi (1900–92) 121–4
78–80 Takase Tōru 98, 103–4
Sook Ching massacre (“large scale Takeda Isao (1902–47) 173–4
inspection”) 63, 82; beginning 99; as Takeda Rintarō (1904–46) 3, 10
effective intimidation 102–3; eye- Tamaki Akiyoshi (1908–81) 11, 64–5
witness accounts of 100; number of Tanaka Shin’ichi (1893–1976) 37,
victims 101 158–60, 232
“The South (Nanpō)” 3–4, 14, 26–8 Tanaka Shizuichi (1887–1945) 145
Southern Army (General Staff/Command) Tanemura Suketaka (1904–66) 26–7, 29,
8–9, 94, 104, 111, 225; and invasion of 51, 53, 55; on “New Policy” 159–60
Burma 70; move to Singapore 128, Taniguchi Gorō (1902–96) 11
176; opposition to Burmese Terashita Tatsuo (1904–86) 60, 82
“independence” 115, 162, 173, 175, Terauchi Hisaichi (1879–1946) 2, 174–5,
177; against Tojo’s speech 165 214, 235; on treatment of “whites,”
Southern China Area Army 28–9, 32 94–5, 107
Southern Invasion (Operation) 2, 9, Thai-Burma Railroad, construction of 198
12–13, 64; accomplished 74; plan 171; Thailand 2–3, 15, 34, 66–9, 79; and
preparation and exercise for 32–3 AGEAN 194; alliance with Japan 68;
“Southward advance by force” 29, 31–2; anti-Japanese sentiment in 198, 202; as
“circumspect” views of 31, 34, 36–7, a sovereign state 17, 199; stationing
39; “seize the moment” views of 31, Japanese troops in 14, 68–9
36–7 Thakins (Burma) 33, 71, 90–1, 171
Soviet Union (Russia) 182, 186, 211–12; 3A Movement 225–7
Neutrality Pact with 36; a possible war “three main aims of military administration
with 27, 32, 37 in the South” 49–50, 104
“spirit (seishin)” 76–8, 182, 245, 250, Tōfuku Seijirō 42
253–4 Tōgō Heihachiro (1848–1934) 62
274   Index
Tōgō Shigenori (1882–1950) 168–9 Utsunomiya Naokata (1898–1997) 21,
Tōjō Hideki (1884–1948) 4, 12, 33, 54, 88, 102, 220; on Okinawans 126; recall
159; and AGEAN 194–9, 202; appoint Hitomi from Panay 146
Shigemitsu Foreign Minister 182–3; on
Burmese “independence” 177; cabinet Vargas, Jorge B. (1890–1980) 86, 165,
resign en masse 206; and establishment 220
of the Ministry of Greater East-Asiatic Vichy France government 14, 16, 29, 200,
Affairs 168–9; on the Philippines 231
“independence” 187–8; read poems at Viêt Minh 16, 232, 236
summit meetings 251–2; support “New
Policy” 160, 183, 186, 192−3; views on Wachi Takaji (1893–1978) 87, 102, 213,
191–2; visit to the Philippines (in May 216–17
1943) 204–5; see also “Manchukuo Wainwright, Jonathan (1883–1953) 73,
Model” 135
Tōjō’s speeches at Diet 21 January 1942 Wan Waithayakon (1891–1976) 194, 199,
78, 164–5, 222, 16 February 1942 166, 202
16 June 1943 188–90, 209 Wang Zhaoming [Jingwei] (1883–1944)
Tomi Group (Twenty-Fifth Army) 66, 68, 160, 168, 194–5; Nanjing Republic of
72, 92; deployment 2–3; invasion of China 31, 116, 159, 167–8
Malay Peninsula 13, 61; see also Sook “war for resources” 41, 64, 74, 76;
Ching massacre optimism 83; vs. “politics of war” 53–4;
Totsuka Ryōichi (1899–1947) 146–7 realism 42–4, 47–9, 51, 111, 237; a
“true essence (honzen/hon’nen)” 75–6, turn for the worse 109; see also cotton;
80, 84, 246 oil; Ishii Akiho
Tsuji Masanobu (1902–61) 88, 97–8, Watanabe Wataru (1896–1969) 21, 52–3,
101, 104; involvement in Sook Ching 98–9, 101, 103–4
101–2 Watari Group (Fourteenth Army): 2, 9,
Tsukada Osamu (1886–1942) 165–6, 56–8, 73; Propaganda Detail 5, 56–7,
176, 224 104–5, 132; Religious Conciliation
Twenty-Fifth Army see Tomi Group Detail 4, 57
“whites (Caucasians/ allied nationals),”
U Saw (1900–48) 90, 234 treatment/employment/detention of
United States: reaction to Japan’s advance 43, 49, 130; absence in Burma 91; in
to French Indochina 29–31, 36–9; Java, disputes over 92–7, 107; in
negotiations with 36 Malaya and Singapore 97; in the
USAFFE (U.S. Army Forces in the Far Philippines 58, 95
East) 58, 73, 135, 143, 204
USAFFE guerrilla 73, 135–6, 142–4, Yamamoto Isoroku (1884–1943) 2, 108,
148 181
“utilizing the existing governance Yamashita Tomoyuki (1885–1946) 2, 61,
mechanism,” principle of 49, 59, 84; 77, 104, 219–20; and Sook Ching 99,
not applied to Malaya and Singapore 97; 102–4
in Burma 89–91; in Java 92; in the
Philippines 86 Zhang Jinghui (1872–1962) 194