Free Supreme Commander by Jr. Seymour Morris

Wainwright, another pen for “las” and gave it to Percival. With the third pen he wrote “Mac,” this one to be given to West Point. With the fourth he wrote the end part of his last name—“Arthur”—for his aide General Whitney. With the fifth he wrote his full name, this pen for the U.S. government. He was not finished. Reaching into another pocket, he pulled out a sixth pen and signed his full name again, this pen for his wife and son. Even MacArthur, it seemed, wanted a souvenir.
    Now the Allied nations signed. Admiral Nimitz signed for the United States. Eight other nations followed: China, the United Kingdom, the USSR, Australia, Canada, France, the Netherlands, and New Zealand. There was an embarrassing moment—causing the proceedings to fall behind schedule specified by the rehearsal stopwatch—where one of the representatives signed on the wrong line. “Fix it!” barked MacArthur, whereupon an American aide rushed up, crossed out the signature, and had the man sign his name again in the proper space. Two of the Japanese delegates managed a smile: Even momentous events like this could have a moment of levity.
    When all the representatives finished signing, MacArthur stepped forward and announced: “Let us pray that peace be now restored to the world and that God will preserve it always.” He paused for a dramatic moment, then proclaimed: “These proceedings are now closed.”
    No one said a word. It was a ceremony conducted with extreme dignity, words carefully chosen—no gloating, no military bands, no thumping of drums. As the Japanese turned around and began to file out, MacArthur leaned over and whispered in Admiral Halsey’s ear, “Start ’em up, Bill.” Halsey gave the signal. From the east came a tremendous roar: Overhead a massed flight of four hundred silver B-29 Superfortress bombers and fifteen hundred blue navy fighters started to appear, coming closer and closer as everyone looked up at them flying overhead on their way to Tokyo—a loud display of American power to the Japanese nation. The calm, flat ocean reverberated with the sound: The thunder was deafening.
    Then the clouds broke suddenly and the sun came out, a perfect symbol to capture the spirit of the day. No doubt, joked an American reporter, MacArthur ordered that one, too. It was like Babe Ruth pointing to the exact spot in right field before hitting a home run, said a Japanese reporter.
    As the thunder faded and people returned their gaze to the surrender desk, there was no MacArthur. He had vanished. He was inside the ship, on his way down to the radio room to broadcast the major portion of his speech for the day, this one for the American people. This speech, probably even more than his words before the signing, was his real Gettysburg Address. Speeches in print never have the resonance they do when heard, but here is a speech worth quoting in its entirety. It is one man’s attempt to put the surrender event in its full context. Because it was written and delivered by a victorious general enjoying unprecedented authority, it was read and reread countless times by millions of Japanese, looking for hidden meanings portending their future.
    Today the guns are silent. A great tragedy has ended. A great victory has been won. The skies no longer rain death—the seas bear only commerce—men everywhere walk uptight in the sunlight. The entire world lies quietly at peace. The holy mission has been completed and in this reporting to you, the people, I speak for the thousands of silent lips, forever stilled among the jungles and the beaches and in the deep waters of the Pacific which marked the way. I speak for the unnamed brave millions homeward bound to take up the challenge of that future which they did so much to salvage from the brink of disaster.
    As I look back on the long, tortuous trail from those grim days of Bataan and Corregidor, when an