War with Japan

If there was one thing the people of the Soviet Union did not want to do in August of 1945, it was enter into a new war.  It had been three months since victory over Germany, and everyone wanted to believe that this would be the start of a wonderful new life – that soldiers would return from war, that wounds, both physical and emotional, would gradually heal, and that everything would be just fine. But, as usual, ordinary people did not have any say in the matter. The only way they could express their feelings was using the official formulations handed down from above.

On August 2, the kolkhozniki (collective farm workers) of Moscow Region issued a statement “to all kolkhozniki and tractor station workers, to all agricultural specialists of the Soviet Union,” sharing their joy at the end of the war and their desire to do the best work possible:

We have decided to hoe our potatoes two or three times; we managed to cover our entire patch during our first weeding, and half of it has even had a second going-over. We will weed our vegetable patches as many times as are needed.

It is hard to believe that ordinary peasants would not weed their vegetables as many times as needed in any event, but in the surreal atmosphere of the Stalin era, even such things had to be determined at a higher level. And why not? Such calls were viewed as part of the natural order of things. Peace had been restored and that was good. And they certainly planned to weed their vegetables as many times as was needed.

Several days passed and now it was the turn of the kolkhozniki of Rostov Region to speak to the people. They reminded everyone that:

We have now reached the time of the agricultural year that is most critical, that demands the greatest responsibility: harvesting the grain and preparing it for storage. We kolkhozniki of the Soviet Don River basin, we workers of the tractor stations and of the sovkhozy [state farms], all the toilers of the village and the stations and the farm, will fight with everything in us to fulfill the instructions of the Party and the government to collect the harvest quickly and without waste and to fulfill the first duty of the kolkhoz – the harvesting of grain.

It seems unlikely that there was anyone in the villages who did not realize that harvesting grain was the most important thing they did. But it was not just that they had to harvest the grain. They had to hand it over to the State – that was the true First Commandment of kolkhozy. Going out into the fields was transformed into a sacred act and violation of the First Commandment became a mortal sin.

As fate would have it, the appeal to remember the harvest came on the very same day when the fate not only of Japan, but of the entire world, was shaken. This was August 6, the day the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. There was not a word about this in the newspapers; information came only after a 24-hour delay.

It was not until August 8 that President Harry Truman’s announcement about the New Atom Bomb was printed on the last pages of Soviet newspapers, without commentary. Journalists had not yet received instructions about how to react to what had happened, so they just provided a brief and dispassionate account, expressing neither approval nor condemnation. But any attentive reader would have been able to guess that changes were coming.

On August 5, Stalin had returned from the Potsdam Conference, where the victorious allies had met. The entire country, naturally, was eager to welcome him home and show their unanimous support for the decisions of the Potsdam Conference. Three days later, there were already visitors at the Kremlin – T.V. Soong, President of the Kuomintang Executive Yuan and Kuomintang Foreign Minister Wang Shih-chieh. There were probably many who wondered what sort of urgent business had brought these Chinese leaders to Moscow. What had happened? But these ruminations were probably quickly put to the side –1945 was no time to sit around discussing the actions of the government. The Chinese can come and go – it is none of our business.

Meanwhile, echelon upon echelon made their way across Eurasia. Soldiers were being brought from Berlin and from Prague, from Budapest and from Warsaw. They spent long weeks traveling across the wasteland of Europe, over the charred and trampled earth of Belarus, across the devastation of Ukraine. Many of them passed close to their homes and families, and in most cases their loved ones did not have the slightest idea. Then there was the long, seemingly eternal, passage through Siberia. Mile upon mile of taiga flashed through the train windows. Cities occasionally appeared amidst the endless forest. Some had been there for hundreds of years; others had been built quite recently – right before or even during the war.

A little farther from the train tracks – of course hidden – were a multitude of forced labor camps.

Simultaneously with this deployment, the camps received new residents: echelons of soldiers recently “freed” from Nazi prison camps... Soviet citizens unfortunate enough to find themselves in territory occupied by the Nazis. Did the soldiers know of this? Probably they knew, but preferred to keep these thoughts to themselves. Did they understand where they were being taken? Most likely they understood, or at least were able to guess.

In the end, their long journey ended on the shores of the Pacific Ocean.

On August 9, the entire Soviet Union learned of the new war.

On August 8th, the Soviet People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs,
V. M. Molotov, received Japanese Ambassador Sato and communicated the following statement in the name of the Soviet Government, to be conveyed to the government of Japan:

“After the defeat and capitulation of Hitler’s Germany, Japan is the only great power that insists on a continuation of the war…

“True to its duty to its Allies, the Soviet Government has accepted the proposal of its allies...

“The Soviet Government believes that only such a policy is capable of bringing peace…”

Well, if we must, we must. Everyone rushed to show their approval for the new war.

At Ball-bearing Factory No. 1, night-shift workers held a meeting of the roller-bearing shop, the automatic lathe shop, the separator shop and the forge shop. Foreman Vasin, who took the floor after Party Organizer Ivanov of the roller-bearing shop, who had relayed the contents of Comrade Molotov’s statement, said that he – and he was speaking for the entire collective – fully supported the government’s decision.

Passionate speeches could be heard in the forge shop. Manager Shemyakin expressed his approval of the Soviet government and pledged to double ring output. Ironsmith Goncharenko concluded his brief statement with a call to increase output and pledged to do just that. Foremen Makarov and Gorliv attested that the shop was ready to fulfill any task set by the government.

Perhaps Foreman Vasin or Party Organizer Ivanov could still recall how several years ago, in the spring of 1941, they had unanimously expressed their approval of the non-aggression pact signed between the Soviet Union and Japan. At the time, this seemed a great achievement. Stalin was so happy about this pact that he even escorted the Japanese diplomats to the train station. Eyewitnesses describe how he walked cheerfully along the platform, joked with the conductors, and said to the Japanese ambassador after hugging him, “We Asians should not fight one another.”

Of course, since then, everything had changed. A terrible war had been fought against Germany. Japan had kept its word and had not invaded the Soviet Union. But what else could be done? The USSR had to fulfill the request of its allies. Back in Yalta, Stalin had promised to start a war against Japan no later than three months after the defeat of Germany. Three months had passed and it was time to keep his promise.

Was this how the Allies now wanted the Soviet Union to support them in Japan? Did President Truman – who had barely been able to conceal his sense of triumph as he told Stalin that American scientists had successfully conducted tests of a new bomb – really need this? What was Stalin thinking when he politely congratulated Truman on his success, maintaining a look of complete calm and – to the President’s great surprise – not asking a single question about the deadly weapon. Most likely, Stalin immediately sent an order to Igor Kurchatov to speed up efforts to create a Soviet bomb; most likely coded messages were fired off to spies in the U.S., demanding that they urgently obtain information about what was happening in Los Alamos. And, of course, orders were issued to hurry the redeployment of troops to the East, closer to Japan.

At this point, who cared about the forgotten non-aggression pact – who, that is, besides the Japanese military? America and the Soviet Union were faced with quite a different question – who would wind up with a larger sphere of influence in the Far East? This meant that the time to act was now. It was not long before planes were flying to Hiroshima and Nagasaki and echelons were making their way across the vastness of Siberia, and Foreman Vasin and Party Organizer Ivanov were ordered to immediately express their approval of the new war.

And so the war began.

It must have seemed a terrible shame to start fighting all over again so soon after the war with Germany ended. But if we are to believe what journalists wrote, the military stepped into battle without flinching.

In early morning, the powerful bombers of Officer Nikiforov’s detachment took off from the airfield. Their goal: to bomb the military targets around a major Japanese-Manchurian city. The planes head for the East.

Among the pilots of the combat formation are the old, the young, those seasoned in battle and those who have never been under fire. Comrade Svirida flies his plane with confidence…Together with his fellow crew members, he collected money to buy his own plane and requested Comrade Stalin to send him and his plane to the Soviet-German front. The request was approved and Comrade Svirida dropped many a bomb on Fascist Germany from his flying machine. Now he is here again.

Master Sergeant Kuzin is flying toward enemy territory. He chanced to take part in some of the most colossal engagements of the Great Patriotic War. Now he is peering down at the Manchurian earth, which is obscured by morning fog. There, new battles and new glory await our pilots.

Sergeant Kamyshny is flying the first combat mission of his life. The flight commander is following his actions closely and is satisfied. Comrade Kamyshny is calm and attentive. He is ready to carry out the mission.

…The target has been spotted. The pilots press their eyes to the sights. The bombs fall to the ground. The pilots see pillars of flame rise up out of the military storage depots and the rail yard.

The enemy was not able to do anything to prevent the powerful bomb strike. Having dropped their lethal cargo, the planes head back.

How did Comrade Svirida manage to collect enough money to buy his own plane? How many times were deductions taken from his paycheck, as it was explained to him that this was actually all his idea in the first place, and that this would earn him the great honor of approaching Comrade Stalin personally. Did his crew make it to the end of the war? What became of them, of Master Sergeant Kuzin, of young Sergeant Kamyshny?

Of course, the journalist who described their flight in such purple prose never came back to see how their lives turned out. What happened to them after the war? Did they stay on to serve in the Far East or were they demobilized? Did any of them wind up in a labor camp for expressing too much enthusiasm for the beauties of Manchuria and Japan? Did they have nightmares about the cities reduced to rubble, or did their consciences tell them that they had just been doing their duty and that they had committed acts essential to the security of the country?

The Emperor announced Japan’s surrender and Soviet troops continued to advance. Special explanations were published in the newspapers to the effect that words alone mean nothing, since the Japanese troops were continuing to fight. For two more weeks, the troops marched across Manchuria, still fighting the cornered Japanese, still dying at a time when the war was essentially over.

In Moscow, Physical Education Day was being celebrated. And General Eisenhower arrived in the USSR.  Naturally, he was greeted warmly and with enthusiasm – he could certainly have had no inkling of the mockery and insults that would rain down on his name in a few years, after the start of the Cold War. For now, there was to be a reception in his honor in the Kremlin, where a meeting of representatives of the Allied Powers was taking place.

Alongside newspaper articles about the banquet in the Kremlin, there was news of another event of supreme importance: the fourth edition of Stalin’s book, On the Great Patriotic War of the Soviet Union, had come out in the Kyrgyz language. One has to assume that the other republics were keeping up – no one wanted to be the republic with the fewest number of editions.

The troops kept going. Journalists described their actions, evidently competing to see who could come up with the most fantastic reporting.

The path the invasion followed was a tough one. Chest-deep in water, the soldiers of Captain Safulin’s battalion combed every square inch, pulling Japanese scouts out from among the rushes. On an island, our soldiers caught 19 Japanese officers who had dressed themselves in the rags of Manchurian farmers. These “peasants” were photographing our coastline. They stationed radio transmitters in peasant huts, to connect the island with Kwangtung Army Headquarters.

So far, so good. After all, there probably really were scouts in the area of battle, although it is a bit hard to imagine 19 Japanese officers all photographing the coastline at the same time. But if we are going to believe the journalists, there were plenty more surprises. It turns out, for instance, that the nomads of the Mongolian steppe welcomed the Soviet invasion. In fact, they even kept red flags in their yurts, ready to be waved at the victorious invaders.

South of the road, the steppe is just as vast and desolate. But, a few kilometers on, we unexpectedly find ourselves in the midst of a huge encampment of Mongolian nomads. Around us undulate waves of sheep, and among these waves wagons, covered with white canvas parched by the sun, people are scurrying and horsemen in colorful dress gallop with long whips.

This entire tribe of Mongolian nomads is traveling down from the Khingan Mountains toward western grazing lands. The Mongolians are herding their livestock across the front line and are headed straight for the Red Army. As a sign of friendship and respect, from horseback and wagons they are waving red flags. Hundreds of such flags rise above the steppe just as soon as the convoy of Soviet officers comes into view.

But whatever lies were told, whatever political games were being played or propagandistic articles written, the troops really were marching on and on, and the war was coming to an end. The newspaper stories became more and more jubilant; the numbers of captured Japanese soldiers and officers became more and more impressive.

And finally there was a communiqué from the battleship Missouri:

The Japanese delegation of 11 is ascending the gangway, having been brought to the ship as soon as preparations for the ceremony had been completed. All present are completely silent as the representatives of haughty Japanese diplomacy and rabid militarism approach the table. In front, dressed in black, is the head of the Japanese delegation, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Mamoru Shigemitsu. Behind him is the short and stout Chief of the Army General Staff, General Umezu. With him are Japanese diplomatic and military officials in motley uniforms and suits.

The entire group makes a forlorn impression.

For five minutes, the Japanese delegation stands under the harsh gaze of the representatives of freedom-loving nations assembled on the ship’s deck. The Japanese are forced to face the Chinese delegation…

It is silent as MacArthur addresses the delegates and guests.

MacArthur concludes his speech with a laconic gesture, inviting the Japanese delegation to approach the table.

Shigemitsu walks slowly to the table. After clumsily carrying out his painful duty, Shigemitsu draws away from the table without looking at anyone. General Umezu carefully signs his name.

The Japanese resume their places.

MacArthur walks up to the folders laid out on the table and invites American Generals Wainwright and Percival – the heroes of Corregidor – to join him. Not long before, they had been rescued from Japanese captivity. Just a few days before, Wainwright had been freed by the Red Army in Manchuria.

After MacArthur, the Chinese delegates sign the Instruments of Surrender.

After the Chinese, British Admiral Fraser approaches the table.

The clicking and whirring of innumerable movie and still cameras increase as MacArthur invites the Soviet delegation to the table. It has been the center of attention here. Lt. General Derevyanko, the signer of the Instrument, is accompanied by Air Major General Voronov and Rear Admiral Stetsenko.

Of course, even here the correspondent could not restrain himself; he had to show who was really most important on the Battleship Missouri, and who had the most pictures taken. Nonetheless, the magnitude of the moment is clear.  The Second World War had come to an end. (Well, not quite. Even now, 60 years on, there is no peace treaty between Russia and Japan.)

Pilot Svirida and Master Sergeant Kuzin, Sergeant Kamyshny and Captain Safulin were all ordinary people who very much wanted peace to come as quickly as possible so that they could return home to their families and get back to their ordinary peacetime lives. Did they manage to this?  Heaven only knows…