JAPAN: New Man, New Methods

From the word go. the tactics were new, strange, decisive. It is nothing new for Japanese Cabinets to fall while still young, for in the last nine years ten have fallen. But the way the Cabinet of Premier Admiral Mitsumasa Yonai fell last week was unusual. Without the customary subterfuge, right before the very footlights of politics, the Army forced Yonai’s resignation. Openly the Army gave its reason: the Cabinet’s failure to follow the “dynamic policy” the Army advocated.

Selection of a new Premier is usually a long, mysterious, behind-the-scenes intrigue, but last week the choice was made with curious dispatch. Immediately upon receiving Admiral Yonai’s resignation, the Emperor summoned to his seaside resort Marquis Koichi Kido, his new Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal, traditional adviser on choice of officials. Marquis Kido, who is barely five feet tall, weighs only 120 pounds, requires only two-thirds of the orthodox amount of silk for a kimono, and has such tiny feet that he has to buy children’s shoes, humbly begged a short period of reflection. The period was as short as he is, for Marquis Kido’s mind was all made up. So was the Emperor’s mind, the Army’s mind. Elder (90-year-old) Statesman Kimmochi Saionji’s mind, even, amazingly, the people’s mind. Such unanimity was certainly a new phenomenon for Japan. The obvious choice: Prince Fumimaro Konoye, Japan’s weak-bodied, weak-willed Strong Man (TIME, July 22).

Keen little Marquis Kido has long been called “a sharp pocketknife” in the waistcoat of Prince Konoye. With great speed, the Marquis whittled for Konoye a wooden sword of authority—by the entirely unprecedented step of summoning an advisory conference including six former Premiers (including Prince Konoye himself, who held the office in 1937-39). All of them, including Konoye, wanted Konoye. Kido consulted with Elder Statesman Saionji, then reported to the Emperor. Within 24 hours of Yonai’s resignation, the Emperor commanded Prince Konoye to form a Cabinet.

From this point on, the novelty of procedure was, in a land of imitation, positively inspirational. Instead of settling down in clublike “Cabinet-forming headquarters,” surrounded by seas of steaming tea, trays of raw. fish and rafts of politicians, Prince Konoye simply told the Army and Navy what he stood for and directed them to submit the names of candidates for their ministries. When they did, he summoned three men. The first, onetime president of the monopolistic South Manchuria Railway Yosuke Matsuoka, promptly accepted the ticklish post of Foreign Minister. The second, Director General of Military Aviation Lieut. Gen eral Eiki Tojo, took the War Ministry; and the third, Yonai’s Navy Minister Vice Admiral Zengo Yoshida, agreed to stay in office.

Next, instead of going ahead with the formation of a huge Cabinet, Premier Konoye called together these three men to clarify their platform. Every plank was new as fresh-cut pine. They agreed to strengthen ties with the Axis; to shake up Japan’s diplomatic personnel (i. e., inject a few chauvinists) ; to establish a “zone of stability in East Asia” (i. e., Japan’s sphere of exclusive domination) ; to re-examine Japanese-Soviet relations, with a view to possible rapprochement; to end “reliance” on the U. S. and Great Britain; to leave political-party members out of the Cabinet, at least until the new nationalist single party, which Prince Konoye has been fostering, comes into being. At week’s end Minseito, the only important group which had not signified its support of the single-party idea, did so.

Finally, Premier Konoye proceeded in leisurely fashion to round out his Cabinet. Instead of talking to candidates face to face, he called them up by telephone. He made it clear that the Big Four — Konoye, Matsuoka, Tojo, Yoshida — would run the show. For the other Cabinet posts he did not pick big names or big careers, but five efficient, willing bureaucrats, two businessmen, and one journalist turned free-lance politician.

By these tactics, in which Prince Konoye showed himself to be an inventive genius, the new Premier shoved the Japanese Empire a long step towards what it thinks it desires: totalitarianism. The Prince, who once appeared at a masquerade dressed up as Hitler, seemed last week to enjoy the novel game of dictator. Even the Army looked as if it liked being told what to do (because it was told to do virtually what it wanted). But there was almost too much novelty in Japan last week. Seasoned bystanders expected Konoye would eventually get bored, or the Army restive, or the Emperor cautious. In the meantime, Japan was taking to its imitation of Naziism with surprising coordination. Furthermore, the projected policies of Prince Konoye in East Asia were calculated to accomplish what every Japanese passionately desires: make the white man either get friendly or get out. The Japanese, a poetic people, thought it would be fitting that the man who was Premier when the China Incident broke out should be the one to end it—with total victory.