Open Writing

New light has been cast on a legendary remark attributed to World War II General of the Army Douglas MacArthur by documents recently discovered in the vaults of the venerable Guttenberg Archives.

According to the documents, which include an apparently long-forgotten interview granted by the General to an obscure newsman in September of 1946, the celebrated MacArthur quote, "I shall return," was never a promise at all, as history most certainly has suggested, but rather, according to the General himself, "an out and out threat."

The startling and sordid revelation, with due respect to the courageous Filipino people, apparently was lost to history for nearly six decades as the result of a monumental misunderstanding that became, as it were, self-perpetuating.

It seems the original written interview, on being mailed to the reporter's wire service, had been slugged "RETURN," a completely logical choice, of course, in light of its subject matter.

The unfortunate effect, however, was as if the package had been stamped "RETURN TO SENDER," result of which was that the interview spent the next thirty-one years in the capable hands of the U. S. Postal Service, where it was efficiently "returned" back and forth repeatedly between its original source (the reporter) and its original destination (the wire service).

How it eventually fell into he hands of the Guttenberg Archives perhaps ten years ago remains a mystery, although the Post Office did initiate an investigation into the matter in April of 1978. The investigation was sidetracked for nearly eight more years, however, when the original inquiry was inadvertently mailed without a stamp.

In any event, the interview finally has resurfaced; and despite the intrigue surrounding its recent discovery, several history-changing facts are now known.
As witnessed by a Filipino attorney named Llamapampas, among others (and as confirmed by the General himself), the threat originally was directed towards a Manila dentist named Vagabundo. Gist of the spat (which incidentally and inadvertently affected the outcome of the entire Pacific war) was the smoldering accusation that Dr. Vagabundo had stubbornly withheld a special set of custom gold dentures from the General when, in fact, they were desperately needed by MacArthur, claiming an unpaid balance due of $4.18.

When the gold dentures had not been delivered as promised by the fall of Corregidor, the General, never a patient man, became virtually apoplectic, brandishing his baton at Dr. Vagabundo in a manner perceived by numerous witnesses as menacing, and literally screaming the now-famous, "I shall return!"

As it happened, Dr. Vagabundo's dental drill was inadvertently wired into the same frequency as Radio Manila, and the threat was broadcast throughout the whole of Southeast Asia, being, as history now records, mistakenly interpreted as a promise.

Events of the next few years were nothing short of incredible. Following Pearl Harbor, of course, the American Naval Fleet was slowly rebuilt, eventually culminating in the Battle of the Coral Sea (1942), in which the Americans checked the southward expansion of the Japanese once and for all. The island war swung into full force, with the Americans inching their tortuous way toward the victory that eventually would be theirs. Slowly, island by bloody island, the U. S. Navy and Marines fought their way back in the general direction of the Philippines.

A major boost to the successful American thrust occurred when the Japanese, to the astonishment of everyone, decided not to invade Australia. It would be a much-regretted decision based on one of the few humorous episodes of the long war.
It seems that the Japanese high command, in early 1942, received what it thought was a secret memo directly from the emperor, the would-be communique cleverly disguised as a captured Chinese menu. To their reluctant amazement, they
discovered that Won Ton, when spelled backward, is NOT NOW. Thinking they had decoded a direct order from the emperor himself, they immediately cancelled plans to attack the Australian mainland, turning their attention instead to the southeast and Malaya. In many ways, this served to clear the path for the Americans, with whom they would have clashed in perhaps the biggest single battle of the war had they continued their drive southward to Australia.

Eventually, of course, MacArthur did indeed return to the Philippines, thereby fulfilling his threat. By this time, however, Dr. Vagabundo, a reputed Jesuit as far back as the 1930s, had taken actual vows and journeyed to the island of Mindanao, where he worked until his death in 1992 among the lame and destitute.

The gold dentures were used for a short time as a paperweight by a Japanese colonel named Hakido Haki, later to be shamed by the incommodious nickname, "The Chicken Colonel," as the result of his having flown 187 kamikaze missions without so much as nicking an aerolon. Haki was employed until his retirement in 1987 as plant safety manager for the Sony Corporation's Yokohama Division. Following his retirement, he spent his time breeding rare miniature nasturtiums, which he continued to ship to collectors throughout the world until his death in 1995.

To the moment of his death in 1964, MacArthur, while admitting that the famous line had indeed been a threat rather than a promise, denied nonetheless that the threat had been aimed at the Manila dentist, saying only, "He was a little man ... and a man against whom I was utterly without malice." When questioned about the dentures themselves, the General would only say, "Nonsense, these are my real teeth, and I have had them since miniature childhood." (With all respect due him, however, there are far too many witnesses to the event to simply assume truth on MacArthur's part, and most historians dismiss the weak "My Teeth" argument as the blustery remark of an aging man caught in the twilight of his life between reality and Bonkersville.

The golden dentures have long since disappeared, although rumors abound in the Japanese capital city concerning the dentures and their mystical whereabouts. At least once a year, historians say, a stranger walks into a Tokyo newspaper office and plops down a pair of choppers he swears are the genuine item. All thus far have proven to be fakes, and the collection continues to grow.

Whatever the eventual story outcome, their amazing tale is presently being made into a major motion picture by the people who brought you Raiders of the Lost Ark, scheduled for release early next year, and tentatively titled, Robbers of the Golden Dentures.