MacArthur strides toward his plane in Tokyo after President Truman has relieved him
Ridgway and Doyle Hickey, SCAP’s current chief of staff, formally greeted the General’s limousine at Haneda. Then MacArthur relieved the honor guard and he and Jean bade farewell to the Japanese leaders, the diplomatic corps, and senior occupation officials—Sebald, Albert Wedemeyer, C. Turner Joy, and Britain’s Sir Horace Robertson. Cannon were booming out a salute, eighteen jet fighters and four Superfortresses were swooping overhead, but except for the muffled sobbing of Tanaka and the women the scene on the airstrip was oddly silent. The first passenger up the ramp was Ah Cheu, dignified in her Cantonese coat and trousers, and everyone heard her when, turning and waving, she cried: “Good-bye, everybody! Good-bye!” As she bowed in all directions, an army band struck up “Auld Lang Syne. “ The General, Jean, Arthur, and the others followed the amah. At 7:20 Story roared down the runway, gathering speed. The crowd, still quiet and aware of the historicity of the event, watched the plane rise, circle the field, head northeastward. They gazed upward until it dwindled to a speck over the Pacific and disappeared. Thus the Andalusians may have felt as they watched Caesar, in trouble with Rome’s optimates, leave his proconsular post in Farther Spain to travel home and refute the criticism. Like him, MacArthur, returning to Washington after a fourteen-year absence, was journeying from an outpost of empire to the epicenter, the very pivot of his nation’s power. But Caesar’s age had been fifty; his time had come. MacArthur was thirty years older; his time, and that of the values he represented, had irretrievably passed.60
During the long flight to Hawaii, Bunker, Canada, the Huffs and the Whitneys read or chatted quietly while Arthur sang to Ah Cheu and the General worked on his speech to Congress. Jean sat silently beside him. From time to time he set his pencil aside; their eyes would meet, and wordlessly they would hold hands. At one point, worrying that she might become exhausted, he led her to a bunk, took down a blanket from an overhead rack, and spread it over her in his slow, deliberate, old man’s way. Then he patted her hand and returned to his manuscript.61
She was back with him when the Bataan soared over Diamond Head and glided toward Hickam Field. Below stood a crowd estimated by the New York Times at 100,000. “They must be there for you,” Jean said. MacArthur said uncertainly, “I hope they’re not just here because they’re feeling sorry for me.” They were there, as the Times noted, to give him their “heartfelt aloha,” lining a twenty-mile parade route to the campus of the University of Hawaii, where 3,000 students cheered as President Gregg Sinclair awarded him an honorary doctorate of civil law, saying: “General MacArthur is one of the great Americans of this age, and in the opinion of many in this group, one of the greatest Americans of all times.”62
Story approached the California coast after sundown, as ordered. The MacArthur’ went up to the pilot’s compartment to glimpse the first shadowy outline of the homeland Arthur had never seen. As San Francisco’s lights winked into view, the General put his hands on his son’s shoulders and said, “Well, my boy, we’re home.” The plane touched the runway at 8:29 P.M. Story came back to open the door, and the General, as always, called, “Good flight, crew!” Then he stepped out on the ramp. Instantly, his gold-encrusted cap and his dramatic trench coat were bathed in massed spotlights. He said: “Mrs. MacArthur and myself have thought and thought of this moment for years,” but no one below could hear him. More cannon were firing, and somewhere out there in the dark an army band was playing. Presently no one could hear the music, either; over ten thousand San Franciscans had broken through police lines and were surging around the Bataan. Among those lost in the turmoil were Governor Earl Warren, who, with the mayor, was waiting to welcome him. It took the General’s party twenty minutes to reach the cars. And that was only the beginning. A half-million aroused people were in the streets, most of them yelling, many fainting, and all of them, it seemed, blocking the progress of the motorcade. Two hours later, having crawled fourteen miles, the MacArthur’ reached the Saint Francis Hotel, where a wedge of cops linked arms to save them from being trampled to death and Arthur, understandably frightened, kept looking to his mother for reassurance. In their suite the MacArthur’ saw television for the first time, a candy store sent the boy milk shakes of three different flavors, and Ah Cheu, to comply with immigration laws, was admitted to the United States as a “student.” The following morning another half-million Californians hurrahed as the returning hero toured the downtown area. At times he was invisible, even to the millions watching on TV, through a downpour of confetti, ticker tape, shredded newspaper, and feathers from pillows torn apart by hysterical fellow guests at the Saint Francis. On the steps of City Hall he said: “I was just asked if I intend to enter politics. My reply was no. I have no political aspirations whatsoever. I do not intend to run for political office, and I hope that my name will never be used in a political way. The only politics I have is contained in a single phrase known well to all of you—‘God Bless America!’”63
That, of course, was precisely what a candidate would have said. Washington could not fathom his intentions, but the capital’s leaders were dealers in the currency of popularity; they recognized a political phenomenon when they saw one, and although the General’s Constellation didn’t reach Washington National Airport until after midnight on April 19, and though many there were mourning Arthur Vandenberg, who had died a few hours earlier, another twelve thousand were milling around outside the terminal. The Joint Chiefs were on hand to present him with a silver tea service, so was the secretary of defense, so was the congressional leadership—so, it appeared, was everyone except Harry Truman, who had sent his military aide and old National Guard crony, Harry Vaughn, to represent him. None of them were any luckier than Governor Warren. The throng overwhelmed barriers and swept the distinguished greeters aside. MacArthur spent a quarter-hour fighting his way to his limousine. Jean and Arthur were briefly separated. Whitney was knocked off his feet. The only men in the eye of the storm to emerge unbruised were the Washington correspondents, who had prudently worn football helmets.64
Hillocks of banked flowers awaited the General in the Statler’s presidential suite. Putting his wife and son to bed, he sat down at the suite’s writing desk to polish his address. By now it had passed through several drafts. Bunker had typed the first in Honolulu; enlisted men in San Francisco had copied subsequent versions. It was in the Statler, just before dawn that Thursday, that MacArthur wrote the final paragraph. No one knew of that ending until he delivered it, but it is possible that Truman may have seen the rest. According to his recollection, he had told Secretary Pace, “Frank, you get a copy of that speech and bring it to me.” Pace said that it would be very embarrassing, that he would “really rather not.” The President said, “Frank, I don’t give a good goddamn what you’d rather. I want you to get me that speech and bring it to me on the double.” Apparently a Pentagon public-relations officer approached the General in San Francisco, telling him that the text would have to be cleared. Whitney writes that “MacArthur was almost as angered as he was astonished. . . . He therefore immediately challenged the legality of the directive, at which the Department of the Army quickly backed down, admitting in its apology that the order had been a mistake by one of the Department’s administrative officials.” But Truman told Merle Miller that Pace “went and got it, and I read it. It was nothing but a bunch of damn bullshit.” 65
Actually the commander in chief would have been justified in demanding the right to approve MacArthur’s remarks. A five-star general could not be formally retired; his salary, those of the officers accompanying him, and the cost of his plane were being funded by the government. And it was clear, as Millis notes, that he was about to deliver “an attack upon the administration’s conduct of a foreign war of a kind not often permitted to top generals just relieved for insubordination to the civil authority.” But under the circumstances it was out of the question for Truman, resentful though he was, to
order the General around. Therefore he kept his profile low, instructing his staff to make sure that MacArthur received full honors and that schoolchildren and government workers were given a half holiday to greet him. Expecting the cabinet to attend the joint session would have been too much, however. They would listen to the speech with him in the White House and discuss its impact afterward.
At noon the House of Representatives convened. Jean appeared in the visitors’ gallery at 12:13 P.M and received an ovation; at 12:18 the General’s officers escorted Arthur to the well of the House; at 12:20 floodlights were turned on and the senators marched in. The excitement began to build until, at 12:31, the doorkeeper cried: “Mr. Speaker, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur!” The audience leaped to its feet, shouting, clapping, and thumping desks as MacArthur, erect and impassive, strode down the aisle, mounted the podium, and awaited their attention. As the hall quieted, he said in measured tones: “Mr. President, Mr. Speaker, distinguished Members of Congress, I stand on this rostrum with a sense of deep humility and great pride; humility in the wake of those great American architects of our history who have stood here before me; pride in the reflection that this forum of legislative debate represents human liberty in the purest form yet devised . . . . I address you with neither rancor nor bitterness in the fading twilight of life with but one purpose in mind: to serve my country.”66
They went wild again. And again. And again. Altogether his thirty-four-minute address was interrupted by thirty ovations. It was clear to those hearing him for the first time that he had mastered what entertainers call “projection”—an intimate, one-to-one relationship with each member of his audience, which, because of radio and television, exceeded thirty million Americans. They were, Life reported, “magnetized by the vibrant voice, the dramatic rhetoric and the Olympian personality of the most controversial military hero of our times.” He kept his hands anchored on the lectern, except when turning pages; only once, in reaching for a tumbler of water, did his right hand tremble. He was lucid, forceful, dignified, and eloquent; though he clearly thought his message urgent, his delivery was unhurried and rhythmic. All his life had been a preparation for this moment. George Kenney, listening on Eniwetok, remembered watching him “hold audiences spellbound before and this was no exception. As always, his profound knowledge of his subject, his clarity of presentation and his undoubted sincerity, held the attention of the listener to the end.”
He would, he said near the outset, confine his discussion “to the general areas of Asia.” A swift review of the continent’s history followed. He erred once, saying the Chinese warlord Chang Tso-lin came to power “at the turn of the century”—actually it was a quarter-century later—but most Orientalists were impressed by his grasp of the Far East, particularly his analysis of China’s emergence as an aggressive, imperialistic power whose vigorous thrusts were evident “not only in Korea, but also in Indochina and Tibet, and pointing potentially toward the south,” reflecting “predominantly the same lust for the expansion of power which has animated every would-be conqueror since the beginning of time.” He had no illusions that lofty dreams could solve Asia’s problems: “What the peoples strive for is the opportunity for a little more food in their stomachs, a little better clothing on their backs, a little firmer roof over their heads, and the realization of the normal nationalist urge for political freedom.” These goals, he believed, could best be reached by a United Nations victory in Korea and the restoration of peace. Indeed, since Peking had entered the conflict there had been no other way to achieve them: “Once war is forced upon us, there is no alternative than to apply every available means to bring it to a swift end. War’s very object is victory—not prolonged indecision.” And, once again: “In war, indeed, there can be no substitute for victory.”67
Victory had been within his grasp when the Chinese intervened. “This created a new war and an entirely new situation . . . which called for new decisions in the diplomatic sphere to permit the realistic adjustment of military strategy. Such decisions have not been forthcoming.” He had urged the administration to adopt a realistic course of action. At no time had he contemplated an invasion of Manchuria or any other mainland territory, but “the new situation did urgently demand a drastic revision of strategic planning if our political aim was to defeat this new enemy as we had defeated the old.”
To achieve this, he recommended five steps: a recognition of the need “to neutralize the sanctuary protection given the enemy north of the Yalu,” an intensified economic blockade of the mainland, imposition of a naval blockade, “air reconnaissance of China’s coastal areas and of Manchuria,” and unleashing Chiang for Chinese Nationalist raids on the mainland. These were subtly different from those he had urged upon the Joint Chiefs on December 30; there was no mention now of destroying China’s “industrial capacity to wage war” by aerial bombardment and naval gunfire, and none of using KMT reinforcements in Korea. But the substance was the same, and his sincerity was obvious when he said: “For entertaining these views, all professionally designed to support our forces . . . and bring hostilities to an end . . . at a saving of countless American and allied lives, I have been severely criticized in lay circles, principally abroad”—a dig at the British—and “despite my understanding that from a military standpoint the above views have been fully shared in the past by practically every military leader concerned with the Korean campaign, including our own Joint Chiefs of Staff.”68
That brought a standing ovation. It was untrue, and the Chiefs would later say so, but MacArthur could never bring himself to recognize that members of his own profession opposed his program. He was convinced that they had been cowed by the administration, and he may have been right, though they strenuously denied it. The fact is that they were cautious and he was incautious; throughout his career that had been the key to his successes as well as his failures; that was why his reputation had eclipsed theirs, why he was addressing Congress from a podium normally reserved for chiefs of state. All his life he had been a daring officer, an advocate of aggressive action, and now he told his listeners why: “History teaches with unmistakable emphasis that appeasement but begets new and bloodier war. It points to no single instance where the end has justified that means—where appeasement has led to more than a sham peace. Like blackmail, it lays the basis for new and successively greater demands, until, as in blackmail, violence becomes the only other alternative. Why, my soldiers asked of me, surrender military advantages to an enemy in the field?” He paused histrionically, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper: “I could not answer.”
MacArthur addresses joint session of Congress, April 1951
MacArthur, Arthur IV, and Jean after the speech to Congress
He praised “your fighting sons,” reporting that “they are splendid in every way. . . . Those gallant men will remain often in my thoughts and in my prayers always.” Then, in words few would forget, he said: “I am closing my fifty-two years of military service. When I joined the Army, even before the turn of the century, it was the fulfillment of all my boyish hopes and dreams. The world has turned over many times since I took the oath on the Plain at West Point, and the hopes and dreams have long since vanished. But I still remember the refrain of one of the most popular barrack ballads of that day, which proclaimed, most proudly, that ‘Old soldiers never die. They just fade away.’ And like the soldier of the ballad, I now close my military career and just fade away—an old soldier who tried to do his duty as God gave him the light to see that duty.” The last word was a hush: “Good-bye.”*69
He handed his manuscript to the clerk, waved to Jean, and stepped down into pandemonium. The legislators were sobbing their praise, struggling to touch his sleeve, all but prostrating themselves in his path. Representative Dewey Short shouted: “We heard God speak here today, God in the flesh, the voice of God!” A senator said: “It’s disloyal not to agree with General MacArthur.” With few exceptions, their constituents, glued to television screens or inten
t by radios, were equally moved. In New York Herbert Hoover called MacArthur “a reincarnation of St. Paul into a great General of the Army who came out of the East.” Cheeks were wet, voices hoarse, chests heaving. “When it was over,” said Kenney, “you had the feeling that everyone took a deep breath, that they had forgotten to breathe as they didn’t want to miss any of his words.” Senator James Duff of Pennsylvania said that the entire country was “on a great emotional binge.” Americans were phoning their newspapers, demanding that they “defy the bankrupt haberdasher” and the “traitorous” State Department which planned to “sell us down the river to Great Britain, Europe, and the Communists.” One woman in New Jersey, agreeing with Short and Hoover, said that the General had “the attributes of God; he is kind and merciful and firm and just. That is my idea of God.”70
These calls were coming into the White House, too, where the President and his advisers were still gathered around a television set in the west wing. The cabinet, with the exception of Acheson, was appalled, wondering whether the administration had been dealt a mortal blow. The sardonic secretary of state reassured them. He thought the address “more than somewhat pathetic”; it reminded him, he said, of the father who had zealously guarded his daughter’s chastity and who, when she announced she was pregnant, threw up his hands and cried: “Thank heaven it’s over!” Truman, less elegant, felt that his opinion of the speech had been confirmed; for all the “carrying-on” and the “damn fool Congressmen crying like a bunch of women,” it was, the President said, “a hundred percent bullshit.”