(See Cover)
A huge Japanese lay half asleep on the immaculate mats of his living-room floor. Wall panels had been pulled wide so that he could contemplate his precise garden and bask in the afternoon sunshine. His brown, rough-silk kimono lay open from shoulder to ankle, his undershirt was unbuttoned, he wiggled his toes in white, mitten-like socks. His radio blared a grunt-by-grunt account of the winter sumo wrestling matches.
Occasionally staccato news flashes broke in: The Abe Cabinet is definitely out . . . Prince Konoye is being urged . . . General Hata will almost certainly be chosen if the Army consents. . . .
The big man half-listened. He fought to keep his heavy lids open. Towards sundown, he stretched, yawned, painfully arose, and laboriously shuffled off to the bathroom. Half an hour later—bathed, dressed and wide awake—he crouched at a low table and began eating.
Suddenly the telephone rang. An urgent voice commanded: "You will present yourself immediately at the Imperial Palace." The big man put on his naval court uniform, and with trembling hands arranged a blazing white decoration over his heart. He stepped into his waiting Buick.
A few minutes later he stood in the Imperial throne room.
He could scarcely believe his one good ear when he heard the Son of Heaven command him, the new Premier of Japan, to form a Government. It was all he could do to bow low, mumble the prescribed formulas of acceptance ("I am filled with trepidation . . . I beg time . . .") and back away.
Admiral Mitsumasa Yonai was amazed and wildly happy. He had been aloft in giddy rigging before—had climbed to power (as Admiral of the Combined Fleet, beginning in 1936) and into politics (as Navy Minister in three crucial Cabinets, 1937-39). But seldom had he dared dream of touching this uppermost skysail of influence.
Not that he lacked self-confidence. Mitsumasa Yonai knew that he had in him the genes of command. Nearly six feet tall, weighing 188 pounds, with airplane shoulders and a tri-motor voice, big of hands and feet and manner, he had always dominated littler men. His nickname—The White Elephant—was one of awe, and had none of the Occidental connotations of that phrase. It referred to his size; his exceptionally fair and aristocratic complexion, accented in its whiteness by his hair, black and shiny as a phonograph record; and his appearance of strength and wisdom.
If Admiral Yonai was himself amazed at the Emperor's choice, the people of Japan were more so. The White Elephant was certainly a dark horse. The appointment of General Shunroku Hata, War Minister in the fallen Cabinet, had been so generally taken for granted that afternoon that newspapers came out with extras announcing his appointment as a fact. Office seekers prematurely crowded the Hata home to congratulate him.