Reminiscences [Illustrated Edition]

General Douglas MacArthur

• Publisher: Verdun Press
• Year: 2016
• eBook ISBN: 9781787201828
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: European History
• Index: History

Written in his own hand and finished only weeks before his death, this memoir by Gen. Douglas MacArthur spans more than half a century of modern history. His vantage point at center stage during the major controversies of the twentieth century afforded him unique views of the conflicts in which he played a vital role. No soldier in recent times has been more admired—or reviled. Liberator of the Philippines, shogun of occupied Japan, victor of the battle of Inchon, the general was a national hero when suddenly relieved of his duties by President Truman in 1950. His supporters believe his genius for command and skill as a strategist stand as landmarks in military history. His critics are not so kind, calling him a gigantic ego paying homage to himself in this book. Regardless, Reminiscences is a moving final testament by one of America's most decorated heroes, decade by decade, battlefield by battlefield.
After graduation from West Point with the highest average ever achieved by a cadet, MacArthur served in Vera Cruz during the Mexican uprisings and later in World War I. His courage in the trenches and his leadership of the famous Rainbow Division won him seven Silver Stars. Appointed Supreme Commander of Allied Forces in the Pacific in World War II, he was the architect of the campaign to drive the Japanese from their strongholds at Bataan, Corregidor, and New Guinea. His account of the war is dramatically punctuated with revealing portraits of key personalities and insights into his stands on controversial issues.
Richly illustrated throughout.
"Douglas MacArthur's memoirs...record an extraordinary and controversial public career of more than fifty years—as MacArthur wanted it remembered."—Newsweek
"MacArthur was praised and blamed most of the time for the wrong reasons. His Reminiscences, written in the last two years of his life, should help put him back in perspective."—Time

PART ONE—EARLY YEARS, 1880-1912

THE MacArthurs are of Scottish descent. A branch of the Clan Campbell, the traditions of the family are linked with the heroic lore of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Their antiquity is measured by the ancient Scottish adage: “There is nothing older, except the hills, MacArtair and the devil.”

Seven centuries ago the Campbells were divided into two warring factions, one group led by the Argyle, the other by the MacArtair. By virtue of fire and sword, MacArtair maintained its position as head of the clan until its defeat during the reign of James I in the fifteenth century. Subsequently, the remnants of the clan became located on the shores of Loch Awe, in the general vicinity of Glasgow.

“The tartan of the clan is green, black, and gold:

“‘Tis Green for the sheen o’ th’ pines

And Black for the gloom o’ th’ glen

‘Tis Gold for the gleam o’ th’ gorse

The MacArtair tartan, ye ken.”

Its badge is wild myrtle; its motto Fide et Opera (with faith and by work); its battle cry “Listen! O Listen.”

“O the bags they are piping on banks of Loch Awe,

And a voice on Cruachau calls the Lairds of Lochaw;

‘MacArtair, Most High, where the wild myrtles glisten,

Come, buckle your sword belt, and Listen! O Listen!’”

During my long national service, I have, like the clansman of Loch Awe, had to listen and listen, and listen.

My American forebear sought this land early in its days of struggle for the rights of man. My grandfather, Arthur MacArthur, was brought to these shores by his widowed mother in 1825 not long after the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo.

In him, the vigor of the old clan and the hope of a new land were joined. Both of his parents, Arthur and Sarah, were named MacArthur and there has been an Arthur MacArthur in each succeeding generation.

They settled in Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts. Arthur attended Wesleyan, then studied law in New York, where he was admitted to the bar in 1840.

The times were unsettled. Indian wars were frequent and, as befitted a warrior clan, Arthur joined the militia forces of Massachusetts. He became a captain and later Judge Advocate of the Western Military District of the state.

In those days the frontiers of the country were being pushed ever westward by hardy pioneers in Conestoga wagons and canal boats. Law was needed in the expanding territories and so the thirty-five-year-old attorney, with his wife, the former Aurelia Belcher, and four-year-old son, Arthur, left their home in Massachusetts for a new life in the rich lands of the Great Lakes country. Shortly afterwards a second son, Frank, was born.

Arthur’s legal experience and abilities earned him marked success and within two years he became city attorney for Milwaukee. In 1855, after a bitter campaign, William A. Barstow, of Waukesha, and Arthur MacArthur were elected governor and lieutenant governor, respectively, of Wisconsin. However, the newly organized Republicans charged Barstow with fraud and he immediately resigned, turning the governorship over to my grandfather. No question was raised about the honesty of his election and Arthur MacArthur was suddenly the governor of Wisconsin.

He was in office for five days when the Supreme Court of Wisconsin ruled that Coles Bashford, the Republican candidate, had been elected, but upheld the election of MacArthur and his tenure of office as governor. This is probably the record for the shortest term ever served by a governor of one of our states.

He returned to the practice of law and in 1857 was elected judge of the Second Judicial Circuit, the most important in the state. “His course,” says the record, “was so upright, his decisions so just and courageous, and his bearing so blameless that after the expiration of his first six-year term he was re-elected unanimously.”

In 1870 President Grant, the great strategist and victor of the Civil War, then in his first term of office, summoned my grandfather to the White House to appoint him associate justice of the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia.

Arthur MacArthur became one of the first of the criminologists and penologists whose efforts have so revolutionized our judicial processes. His inborn sense of justice and his deep understanding of human nature were the motivating forces in his verdicts. Yet, the records show that in cases where the evidence produced criminal intent and wanton disregard of law, his sentences were severe.

During his stay on the bench, my grandfather lent himself to many benevolent and educational causes. He served as president of the Washington Humane Society, as president and chancellor of the Board of Regents of the National University, and as president of the Associated Charities of the District of Columbia. In an age of conservatism, his efforts to alleviate poverty and privation marked the liberal ideals now common to mankind.

I have many recollections of my grandfather. He was a large, handsome man, of genial disposition and possessed of untiring energy. He was noted for his dry wit and I could listen to his anecdotes for hours. One I shall never forget was a patent case with Daniel Webster and Henry Clay as the opposing attorneys. Webster pleaded that a certain machine violated the patent rights of his client. Clay denied this, and his eloquence held the court breathless for hours until one would have thought that the two machines no more resembled each other than day and night. When Webster rose to answer, the stillness was profound, the excitement intense. Millions of dollars hung in the balance. He gravely placed the two machines before the jury, saying, “There they are. If you can see any difference between them it is more than I can,” and sat down. He won the case. And my grandfather had illustrated a lesson which, unhappily, I have not always emulated: “Never talk more than is necessary.”

It was he who taught me to play cards and, incidentally, the game of poker. The last hand I ever played with him I held four queens and in my elation bet every chip I had. I can still feel the shock when he laid down four kings. And I have never forgotten his words, “My dear boy, nothing is sure in this life. Everything is relative.”

His son Frank graduated from Harvard in 1876, and was admitted to the bar in 1890. Following in his father’s footsteps, he began to practice law in New York City, when he died suddenly on December 1, 1890.

Justice MacArthur served on the Supreme Court for eighteen years, resigning in 1888 at the age of seventy-four. Eight years later, on August 24, 1896, he died while vacationing at Atlantic City, watching the surging sea break on the beach, and perhaps—who knows?—dreaming of the placid waters of Loch Awe as they lapped the heathered banks so far away in Scotland.

AT the time the Civil War broke out, my father was not yet sixteen years old. His boyhood had been spent in Milwaukee reading and devouring stories of the debates between his hero, Abraham Lincoln, and Stephen Douglas. When the call-to-arms sounded, my father begged to be permitted to join the Union Army.

“Dad,” he said, “I’m going to volunteer.”

“Not yet,” was the reply. “I’ll send you to a military school for a year—and then, God be with you.”

Attending a private military academy, he so impressed his teachers with his innate grasp and mastery of tactics and strategy that they insisted he should go to the United States Military Academy. Armed with a letter from the governor of Wisconsin to the President of the United States, and escorted by Senior Senator Doolittle of Wisconsin, he called at the White House on a May day in 1862, only to be told that all Presidential vacancies had been filled for the coming June. But there was a definite promise of appointment for the next year. President Lincoln greatly esteemed the boy’s father and, placing his arm around the lad’s shoulders, told of his own boy, who wanted to go to the front at once. But young Arthur did not wait. Perhaps he could hear the roll of the war drums and the old clan war cry “Listen! O Listen!”

He was seventeen years old when, on August 4, 1862, he left his home as first lieutenant and adjutant of the 24th Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry—the Milwaukee regiment destined for bloody glory on so many battlefields of long ago.

It came first at Perryville, in the heart of Kentucky, on October 8, 1862. The regiment, commanded by Brigadier General Philip Sheridan, was inexperienced and only partially trained. The enemy attacked fiercely, but the raw soldiery held and finally drove them back. Conspicuous at the front was the “boy adjutant.” He was cited for “gallantry in action” and awarded the brevet of captain. In those days, except for the Medal of Honor, brevets, not medals, were given. For Arthur MacArthur it was the beginning of Sheridan’s esteem for him.

After Perryville the division went into camp at Mill Creek, a short distance from Nashville.

General Sheridan understood that adequate training of troops was essential to victory in war. From the beginning of time professional soldiers have tried to impress their governments with this vital factor. With it comes success, without it disaster. It has been said, with some extravagance it must be admitted, that “Battles are won on the drill field, not the battlefield.” In Sheridan’s own words:

All worked unremittingly in the camp at Mill Creek in preparing for the storm, which now plainly indicated its speedy coming. Drills, parades, scouts, foraging expeditions, picket and guard duty, made up the course in this school of instruction, supplemented by frequent changes in the locations of the different brigades, so that the division could have opportunity to learn to break camp quickly and to move out promptly on the march. Foraging expeditions were particularly beneficial in this respect, and when sent out, though absent sometimes for days, the men went without tents or knapsacks, equipped with only one blanket and their arms, ammunition and rations, to teach them to shift for themselves with slender means in the event of necessity. The number of wagons was cut down to the lowest possible figure, and everything made compact by turning in all surplus transportation and restricting the personal baggage of officers to the fewest effects possible.

The results of this careful training were repaid a hundredfold in the bloody struggle in Tennessee—beginning on New Year’s Eve and lasting three days into 1863—, called Murfreesboro by the North, Stone River by the South. Sheridan’s division held the right of the Union line, with General Sill’s First Brigade on the outer flank and the 24th Wisconsin at its extremity. The line was a prepared one with rifle entrenchments and supporting artillery. The enemy, in full force, struck the flank in early morning, hoping to envelop and roll up the entire Union line. The struggle was one of the fiercest of the war. In overwhelming numbers the enemy endeavored to encircle the right. But Sheridan pivoted again and again to fend off the blow. Fourteen times that day the Wisconsin regiment changed front until, at the end, it was facing directly toward the rear of its original line of battle—and, strange as it may seem, occupying its original breastworks in the opposite direction. The carnage was merciless. The regiment lost nearly 40 percent of its strength. General Sill was killed. Every mounted officer of the 24th was down except the adjutant. In effect, he became its commander. He was everywhere, rallying the ranks, reorganizing the companies, holding on with tooth and nail. The indomitable Sheridan was roaring in his ears, “Pivot, Arthur, pivot! Roll with the punch! He must not turn you!” And when Sheridan rode up that night he patted the lad and with a grin, when he saw the 24th in its original rifle pits facing the other way, said, “Arthur, my boy, congratulations. You haven’t lost a foot of ground.”

Shortly after Murfreesboro, Adjutant MacArthur was invalided with typhoid fever and missed the bloody engagement of Chickamauga. The regiment missed him too. It became disorganized in the desperate fighting and was badly mauled. He recovered, however, and rejoined it in time for the engagement at Missionary Ridge.

On the day of the battle, November 25, 1863, the Confederate Army under General Braxton Bragg organized a defensive line of rifle pits beginning at the foot of the ridge, with successive lines up its rugged face. It was a broken, ragged slope difficult of ascent even under peaceful conditions. Jagged boulders jutted out, deep gullies scarred its surface, twisted underbrush barred the way.

Sheridan was ordered to take the rifle pits at the foot of the ridge. Under a storm of shot and shell, the troops pressed forward through the timber and carried the line at the point of the bayonet. But their position was desperate, exposed as it was to the concentrated fire from the slopes and crest. Should they go forward or back?

No one seems to know just what orders may have been given, but suddenly the flag of the 24th Wisconsin started forward. With it was the color sergeant, the color guard of two corporals, and the adjutant. Up they went, step by step. The enemy’s fire was intense. Down went the color bearer. One of the corporals seized the colors as they fell, but was bayoneted before he could move. A shell took off the head of the other corporal, but the adjutant grasped the flag and kept on. He seemed to be surrounded by nothing but gray coats. A Confederate colonel thrust viciously at his throat, but even as he lunged a bullet struck and the deflected blade just ripped a shoulder strap. No movement yet from the Union lines. And then, above the roar of battle, sounded the adjutant’s voice: “On, Wisconsin!”

They come then; they come with a rush and a roar, a blue tide of courage, a whole division of them. Shouting, cursing, struggling foot by foot, heads bent as in a gale! Gasping breath from tortured lungs! Those last few feet before the log breastworks seem interminable! Men tumble over like tenpins! The charge is losing momentum! They falter! Officers are down! Sergeants now lead! And then, suddenly, on the crest—the flag! Once again that cry: “On, Wisconsin!” Silhouetted against the sky, the adjutant stands on the parapet waving the colors where the whole regiment can see him! Through the ragged blue line, from one end of the division to the other, comes an ugly roar, like the growl of a wounded bear! They race those last few steps, eyes blazing, lips snarling, bayonets plunging! And Missionary Ridge is won.

The adjutant suddenly falls to the ground exhausted, his body retching, racked with pain. He is a terrible sight—covered with blood and mud, hat-less, his smoke-blackened face barely recognizable, his clothes torn to tatters. Sheridan, the division commander, utters not a word—he just stares at him—and then takes him in his arms. And his deep voice seems to break a little as he says: “Take care of him. He has just won the Medal of Honor.”

Wrote Captain E. B. Parsons, the senior captain in the regiment, to Judge MacArthur:

Arthur was magnificent. He seems to be afraid of nothing. He’d fight a pack of...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• PREFACE
• PART ONE-EARLY YEARS, 1880-1912
• PART TWO-WASHINGTON AND VERACRUZ, 1912-1917
• PART THREE-WORLD WAR I, 1917-1919
• PART FOUR-IN DEFENSE OF PEACE, 1919-1941
• PART FIVE-WORLD WAR II: RETREAT FROM THE PHILIPPINES, 1941-1943
• PART SIX-WORLD WAR II: THE ALLIED OFFENSIVE, 1943-1944
• PART SEVEN-WORLD WAR II: CONQUEST OF JAPAN, 1944-1945
• PART EIGHT-THE OCCUPATION OF JAPAN, 1945-1950
• PART NINE-FRUSTRATION IN KOREA, 1950-1951
• PART TEN-SOLDIER’S RETURN, 1951-1964
• REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER