Douglas MacArthur Read online

  “Make no mistake,” wrote public relations expert Ernest Dupuy many years later, “it was then Major Douglas MacArthur, Class of 1903, who sold to the American people the Selective Service Act”—and made it possible to create an American army that would swell in less than two years from barely over 100,000 to more than two million.34

  MacArthur liked the job of public relations, and didn’t mind the long hours. It turned out he had a gift for selecting what would attract media attention, and avoiding what would be a bore—a gift that would pay off in his own career from trench raids in France to the landings at Inchon.

  “I am working very hard with my newspaper men,” he wrote to his hero of the moment, General Wood. In the end, his overall assessment of journalists echoed that of a character in a novel a few years later: “if you tried to bamboozle them they were out for your blood, but…if you trusted them they would see you through.”35

  He learned that the press, if handled correctly, could be the kind of sympathetic prop and support that his mother had been, listening to and upholding his side of the story against attacks by the disapproving patriarchs of the army and the Washington establishment. MacArthur had resolved that he would never again make the mistake he made in Alvarado. Never again would he perform great deeds of bravery and skill, and allow the world not to hear about them.

  As for the press’s assessment of MacArthur, that was made plain in a letter sent to Secretary Baker and signed by twenty-nine Washington correspondents, including the representatives of the Associated Press, The New York Times and the New York World, the United Press, and the Chicago Tribune, Washington Star, and Philadelphia Record.

  “We feel no doubt of what the future holds for Major MacArthur,” it read. “Rank and honors will come to him if merit can come to any man; but we wish to say our thanks to him for his unfailing kindness, patience and wise counsel we have received from him in the difficult days that are past…

  “He has put his personality in the task…and if wise decisions are reached eventually as to the military policy of our country, we cannot but feel that the major has helped, through us, to shape the public mind.”36

  The letter was dated April 4, 1917. Two days later America declared war on Germany.

  It was news from Mexico, ironically enough, that finally forced Wilson to act. British naval intelligence had intercepted a telegram from German ambassador Arthur Zimmermann, promising large chunks of the western United States if Mexico followed an American declaration of war against Germany—a growing possibility now that Germany had resumed unrestricted submarine warfare—with a declaration of its own of war against the United States and allied itself with Germany. Wilson was so shocked by the news, and the fact that the German ambassador had arrogantly sent the secret message using the American commercial cable that Wilson had lent him at no charge, that he could only exclaim over and over again, “Good Lord! Good Lord!”37

  Still, he dithered for almost another month until repeated torpedo attacks on American merchant ships finally convinced him to summon Congress on April 2. Four days later, on April 6, 1917, Congress formally declared war, joining Britain and France in what Wilson called “the war to end all wars” against Germany.

  The next step was to send an army to Europe. The man to command it would not be the one originally slated for the job, General Frederick Funston. Arthur MacArthur’s old friend and comrade from the Philippines, and Douglas MacArthur’s commander from Veracruz, had suddenly died of a heart attack in San Antonio back in February. Ironically, it was MacArthur who brought the news to President Wilson personally, at Secretary Baker’s house.

  “What now, Newton, who will take the Army over?” Wilson had asked Baker. The secretary had paused and, as MacArthur later remembered, turned to the young public relations officer standing beside him.

  “Whom do you think the Army would choose, Major?”

  “For myself the choice would unquestionably be General Pershing,” MacArthur promptly answered.

  Wilson looked at him, MacArthur remembered, then said in a quiet voice: “It would be a good choice.”38

  It’s a good story, and it’s probably true. All the same, Wilson and Baker didn’t need a thirty-seven-year-old major’s advice to know that John Pershing was the right man for the job. Born in 1860 in Missouri, Pershing had attended West Point, where he had been a brutal hazer. But he had also taught at an African American school after he finished high school, and his fervent belief that black soldiers were as good as their white counterparts—a conviction confirmed by his command of the famous Buffalo Soldiers during the 1890s—earned him the nickname “Black Jack” (cadets he taught as an instructor at West Point used a more offensive word than “Black”).

  His expedition in Mexico against bandit leader Pancho Villa in 1916 (the same expedition where another young army officer, Lieutenant George Patton, first saw action) had made him a national hero and the inevitable choice for America’s first overseas expeditionary force. So in April, Pershing was recalled from Mexico and dispatched to Paris to form a headquarters unit in advance of the impending arrival of his troops.

  The big question was whether he would have any troops to lead.

  The Selective Service Act passed by Congress created an army that would eventually number in the millions. But they would not be ready to go overseas for another year or two. There were some Regular Army divisions that could be ready, especially the well-equipped First Division. Its 7,000 officers and men, however, were not even close to the numbers America’s new European allies wanted and expected. How was the War Department going to make up the difference?

  It was Douglas MacArthur who championed the most obvious answer: mobilize the National Guard. It was active in all forty-eight states; its members at least had military training, and if they weren’t up to the standards of the armies now fighting in Europe, they could be gotten ready for overseas service in a fraction of the time it would take to train new recruits. He also pointed out that some Guard divisions, like New York’s, were nearly as well trained and equipped as some Regular units. In sum, “National Guard divisions should be able to fight proudly” alongside the Regular Army, MacArthur believed, even in the increasingly harsh conditions in Europe.

  The rest of the General Staff, though, were to a man against the idea. A new staff study had come out, asserting that the optimal size for an American Expeditionary Force to France would be 500,000 men, all of whom should be recruited and trained by the Regular Army. No National Guard units were necessary, or even desirable, to augment that overseas force.

  When the study reached MacArthur’s desk, with the signatures of all the other members of the General Staff, all of whom endorsed it, filling up the last page, he dolefully added his. But he also added a tart note, saying, “I completely disagree with this conclusion, but I will not attempt to detail my reasons as I feel no one will give them the slightest attention.”

  Years later, he admitted, “It was a discourteous remark,” and a potentially career-ending one—as he realized a few days later when he learned that Secretary Baker wanted to see him at once.

  “What’s it about, Sam?” MacArthur asked the elderly black messenger who brought the summons to his office at the War Department.

  Sam had worked for MacArthur’s father during his adjutant general days, and had known Douglas almost his entire life. Sam’s answer was not reassuring.

  “Don’t know,” he said, “but that little feller didn’t smile at me.”

  With a dry throat and a sinking heart, MacArthur made his way to Baker’s office, where he found the secretary of war puffing on his pipe and reading the report—especially MacArthur’s note at the end.

  The secretary, according to MacArthur, sat for a full minute in silence. Then he said, “Major, I have just read your endorsement.”

  MacArthur waited.

  Baker went on, “I agree with you in this matter. Get your cap. We are going over to the White House to place the whole question
before the President for his attention.”39

  They soon found themselves ensconced with President Wilson, and for a full hour they went over the arguments in favor of mobilizing the National Guard—the primary one being that it would increase manpower far beyond the half-million number recommended by the army’s General Staff.

  MacArthur recalled that Wilson listened intently, and finally said, “I am in general accord with your idea, Baker, to put this into effect. And thank you, Major,” he added, turning to MacArthur, “for your frankness.” From that moment, staff study or no staff study, the dispatch of National Guard units to France to serve in Pershing’s American Expeditionary Force was official policy.

  For MacArthur, certainly, it was a personal triumph. All the same, crossing one’s superiors—including Chief of Staff Major General Hugh Scott, who had personally endorsed the report—wasn’t a good precedent for the future. Senior officers don’t appreciate having their judgment questioned or their shortcomings pointed out by a young upstart, even if it’s Arthur MacArthur’s son. Nor would later senior politicians, including occupants of the White House, appreciate it, even when that upstart grew older and more distinguished. Yet it was a habit that MacArthur was never able to kick, especially as his confidence that he, and only he, had the right answer grew stronger with every run-in—and the results, more often than not, proved him right.

  As one of his aides during the Korean War put it, “I knew he was positive that there wasn’t anything anyone could do as well as he could do it. But at the same time,” Edward Wright, MacArthur’s former G3 (head of operations), added, “while I was learning this, I was learning he was right.”40

  MacArthur believed it too. And that confidence began to catch fire when he won his single-handed combat with the General Staff over sending the National Guard to France.

  He and Baker still had one hurdle remaining. It was General Mann of the Militia Bureau, the officer who would be in charge of mobilizing the National Guard units, who pointed it out. Which National Guard divisions do we send? he asked Baker. New York and Pennsylvania are in the best shape, but if they go first, what will the other states say?

  Baker, being a politician, saw the problem at once. “If we sent the New York National Guard first,” he recalled, some in New York would ask why their boys got sent first. At the same time, other states would start “charging that we were preferring New York and giving it first chance.”

  They couldn’t wait until all the National Guard units were ready. Time would run out. So how could they select one state without offending the rest? The problem seemed insoluble. So Baker turned to his public relations officer, the original champion of the National Guard plan, for advice.

  “I disclosed my puzzle to Major MacArthur,” Baker later recalled, “who suggested the possibility of our being able to form a division out of the surplus units from many states, the major part of whose National Guard organizations were [already] in multi-state divisions.” Baker enthusiastically agreed, and at once set MacArthur and Mann to drawing up a list of individual regiments that would be ready to join.41

  When they came back to Baker’s office with their list ready, he was delighted to see the wide diversity of state units this new division would include, from New England and New York all the way to Texas, Colorado, and California.

  “It’ll stretch like a rainbow clear across the United States,” MacArthur said in a fit of enthusiastic eloquence. The name stuck.42 Although officially numbered as Forty-second, from that day forward the National Guard division that was to be the first to go to France was known as the Rainbow Division, with its divisional patch a rainbow semicircle of red, blue, yellow, purple, and green.

  They had a division and a unit roster; next they needed a commander. MacArthur pushed for General Mann himself, although because Mann was approaching retirement age MacArthur in private urged Baker to pick the best colonel on the General Staff to serve as Mann’s chief of staff, someone who was vigorous enough and competent enough to shoulder most of the general’s burden.

  Baker nodded. “I’ve already made my selection for the post.”

  MacArthur asked who it was.

  Baker put his hand on MacArthur’s shoulder. “It’s you.”

  MacArthur was stunned. He managed to stammer his thanks, but pointed out he was only a major and not eligible.

  “You’re wrong,” Baker said with a smile. “You are now a colonel. I will sign your commission immediately.” He added, “I take it you will want to be in the Engineer Corps.”

  Suddenly MacArthur had a vision of his father, a young officer in blue waving a flag from the top of Missionary Ridge in 1863. “No, the Infantry,” he promptly answered.

  When Mann heard the news, Baker recalled, he was delighted. As for MacArthur, “I could only think of the old 24th Wisconsin Infantry,” he confessed later—and of his father. Now it would be his turn to find glory on the battlefield in the ultimate test of honor and manhood.43

  But first there was a division to organize. MacArthur found it the hardest task of his life.

  —

  They started showing up on Long Island in late August, on a 500-acre stretch of ground between Mineola and Garden City that MacArthur dubbed Camp Mills, after General Alfred Mills, who had commanded West Point when he had been there.

  The first to arrive were men from New York’s Sixty-ninth National Guard regiment, “the Fighting Irish,” a regiment with deep Civil War roots, now dubbed the 165th. When they learned they were to be the New York representatives in the Rainbow Division, they were “full of excitement,” according to a battalion chaplain, Father Francis X. Duffy.44

  After the New Yorkers came men from MacArthur’s home state, Wisconsin, and another Civil War–era regiment, the Fourth Ohio. The Ohioans and Wisconsinites were redesignated the 167th Infantry Regiment and formed with the New Yorkers one of the Rainbow’s two combat brigades, the Eighty-third. By September, Camp Mills was also hosting the Fourth Alabama. MacArthur the Civil War student would have known that the Fourth Alabamans and the New York Sixty-ninths had actually fought each other at First Bull Run, and then again at Fredericksburg.

  So together with a regiment drawn from three Iowa National Guard units, designated the 168th Infantry, the Alabamans (now renamed the 167th Infantry) became the Rainbow’s other combat brigade, the Eighty-fourth Infantry Brigade. They would be led by a hard-nosed brigadier general named Robert A. Brown, whom MacArthur had gotten to know when they had served together on the General Staff—and from whom MacArthur would eventually take over as the brigade’s commander.

  Ohio, Wisconsin, New York, Alabama, and Iowa. These states now formed the fighting core of the Rainbow Division, the Eighty-third and Eighty-fourth Infantry Brigades. The rest—Californians, Coloradans, South Carolinians, Georgians, Kansans, forty-two states in all—were scattered through the division’s other units, including supply, medical, and Signal Corps, as well as its machine-gun battalion (which was to be equipped with 260 of the latest .30-caliber Browning models) and its Field Artillery Brigade.45 In an almost literal sense, America was marching off to war.

  What the Rainbow lacked in equipment—very few of the machine guns it needed ever reached Camp Mills and tents were in such short supply that twelve men were sleeping in tents made for six—and experience, the division made up in enthusiasm and the quality of its officers, a large number of whom were Regular Army professionals. Out of their number would come two chiefs of staff of the army (including MacArthur himself), six major and lieutenant generals in World War Two, a secretary of the army as well as the air force, two big-city mayors and two governors—not to mention the man who would become America’s top spymaster in World War Two.46

  All the same, they were still far from France—and far from being ready to go there. One young Rainbow officer, John B. Coulter, remembered the chaotic atmosphere as “one of feverish preparation, from the Divisional Commander to the rawest recruit.”47

  And supervising
it all was MacArthur. He developed at Camp Mills a routine that disposed of paperwork based on his father’s policy in the Philippines: “never postpone until tomorrow what can be done today.”

  The routine was simple. Before MacArthur arrived at the office in the morning, he had usually worked out the salient issues of the day and their solutions in his mind while getting up and having breakfast. Thanks to his wide and varied reading, including his reading of the same reports his staff used to come to their decisions, and his nearly stenographic memory even of casual conversations, he never had to rely on a staff meeting to figure out or debate what to do next—not at Camp Mills and not thirty years later in Korea. Instead, he would attend a meeting to assign tasks that the chief of staff had left vacant and to absorb new information that might change or modify earlier decisions. Then he would quit the room, leaving the working out of details to subordinates.

  Eventually, he learned to do away with staff meetings altogether. When a problem cropped up he would simply summon the relevant person for a one-on-one meeting, and they would work it out on the spot.48

  It was a strange, even idiosyncratic, system. But MacArthur was an instinctive delegator, a habit that he found not only saved time but won trust and loyalty. He always delegated with a specific goal in mind—not to raise anyone’s self-esteem or to groom successors (few on his staffs ever qualified for either category) but to free himself to think about the bigger picture. Once to a subordinate who felt it necessary to point out something he thought the boss had overlooked, MacArthur wrote a note that simply read “I know everything.” He meant it, and subordinates, including those at Camp Mills, would gradually come to realize it was probably true.