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The future of Japan was last week more obscure—more likely to put a Premier in his cups—than at any time since Japan invaded China in July 1937. For the first time the Japanese people were admitting to the world that they want peace. The Japan Times went so far as to publish a long and surprisingly generous list of suggested peace terms, specifically renouncing territorial ambitions, asking no indemnity, guaranteeing Chungking's legal currency. Never before had any Japanese spoken of negotiating with the Chungking Government.
The Army hotly denied that its telegram to Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek fortnight ago, notifying him that its objectives had been reached, was a plea for peace. It was nothing more, said Army spokesmen, than an old Chinese custom—after an overwhelming victory, offer the beaten enemy merciful terms. But the Army could not deny that it had failed to send similar telegrams after its victories at Shanghai, Nanking, Hankow. Three days after the newly assembled straw army of Puppet-elect Wang Ching-wei was reported in revolt, Premier Yonai assured the Diet that the forthcoming installation of Puppet Wang would be the first step toward peace.
Is peace likely? As long as Japanese soldiers remain on South Chinese soil, no. As long as the Japanese refuse to discuss terms with Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek himself—not the "Chungking Government"—no. A remote chance for peace (for a time) lies in the Japanese withdrawing to the five occupied northern provinces, the Chinese conceding them. But if the war drags on—for six months, a year, two—Japan may slip off the rope to the end of which she has so nearly come. If that happens, if Japan's military economy collapses, then all Hirohito's horses and all of his men will not put Japan back together again.