zJack

Look at the posture of the two men in this photograph, taken in Tokyo on September 27, 1945. Twenty-five days earlier, World War II had ended. Across Allied capitals, politicians and newspapers were demanding that Emperor Hirohito be indicted as a war criminal and hanged. When the Emperor asked to visit the U.S. Embassy in person, General Douglas MacArthur stood in an unbuttoned khaki shirt with no tie, hands on his hips. As MacArthur later confessed in his memoirs, he braced himself for an awkward plea: throughout history, conquered rulers almost always blamed their advisors and begged to save their own necks. Everyone left the room except the Emperor's interpreter. MacArthur offered him an American cigarette and noticed the Emperor's hands trembling slightly as he lit it. Then came the words MacArthur never forgot. In his autobiography Reminiscences, MacArthur wrote that the Emperor told him he had come to offer himself to the judgment of the powers MacArthur represented, as the one to bear sole responsibility for every political and military decision made and action taken by his people in the conduct of the war. MacArthur wrote that a tremendous impression swept over him, chilling the marrow of his bones. Standing before him was a man willing to lay his own life on the chopping block so his starving, bombed-out nation would not be torn apart. In that single thirty-five-minute meeting, the Supreme Commander decided no trial would touch him. When their talk ended, breaking his own initial protocol, MacArthur personally escorted the Emperor out to his car. Two fierce enemies walked into that room in 1945. Eighty years of peace across the Pacific walked out.

In 1944, thousands of Japanese on Saipan hid in caves, sure the Americans would torture them if they came out. Many families chose the cliffs instead. An 18-year-old American Marine from East Los Angeles walked up to those caves at night, alone, and called to them in Japanese. His name was Guy Gabaldon. He was a Mexican American kid who had grown up partly in the home of a Japanese American family, the Nakanos. That is where he picked up his Japanese. When the war came, the Nakanos were sent to internment camps. Their twin sons, Lane and Lyle, joined the U.S. Army anyway and served in the 442nd. Fifty years later, he still said it plainly: "These were Americans." On Saipan, Gabaldon was a scout with the 2nd Marine Regiment. Right after landing, he slipped off on his own and came back with prisoners. His commanding officer, Capt. John Schwabe, threatened him with a court-martial for leaving his post. The next night, he came back with about fifty. After that, they let him go out alone. He crawled to the cave mouths in the dark and promised the people inside water, medical care, and that nobody would hurt them. Night after night, ten or twenty at a time, they followed him out. On July 8, by his own account, about 800 came out in a single day. Schwabe remembered that day too. It was the day they tagged him the Pied Piper of Saipan. Not everyone listened. At the cliffs, he begged a mother not to kill her child. He watched her throw the baby and jump. He was still talking about it fifty years later. His Navy Cross citation says that on Saipan and Tinian he brought in "well over one thousand enemy civilians and troops." Schwabe recommended him for the Medal of Honor. He received the Silver Star. Sixteen years later, after Hollywood made a movie about him, the Navy upgraded it to the Navy Cross. He died in 2006 and is buried at Arlington National Cemetery. I am Japanese. Those caves were full of my people, frightened, starving, and certain that the Americans were monsters. An American teenager walked toward them in the dark and offered them water. On this Veterans Day, Japan should know his name.