How one Canadian's mistake almost botched the Japanese instrument of surrender at the end of WWII

In the closing days of 1945, the Japanese town of Kokura escaped atomic destruction not once, but twice, due to fortunate turns in weather. 

Among other Americanisms adopted by Okinawa during the post-War administration by US forces—such as an abiding love of A&W restaurants and SPAM—was the requirement to drive on the right, in contrast to the rest of Japan.

With the Vienna Convention on Road Traffic entering into force in 1977, and earlier 1949 Geneva Convention on Road Traffic, both requiring member states to have a uniform traffic direction throughout the country, post-occupation Japan was obliged to bring Okinawa in line with the rest of the country and international practice. Owing to assorted bureaucratic wrinkles, however, it was not until 1978 that Okinawa finally made the switch to left-hand drive.

Today, that switch is commemorated by the "730 Monument" in Ishigaki-jima, in the far south of Japan.

THIS PAST APRIL, FAMILIES ACROSS Okinawa gathered as they do each spring at island cemeteries for a lively graveside party. Family members sat under canopies and on blue tarps, laid out neatly in small courtyards in front of family tombs. Children dashed around the crypts, while the adults laughed and ate elaborate meals prepared for the occasion. Even in famously festive Okinawa, the cheerful sight was striking in a space usually thought of as solemn.

THERE ARE FEW FOREIGN BANDS that whip Japan’s famously stoic audiences into a frenzy the way that English rockers Queen traditionally have. 

Every April 17 is Queen Day there, with a slate of events to celebrate the day that the band first arrived in the country, back in 1975. 

While the global pandemic has changed the celebration of Queen Day, it hasn’t blunted the intensity of Japanese fans’ love of the band.

In Japan, even something as mundane as manhole covers can be turned into beautiful works of urban art. 

Join us as we discuss the history and philosophy of ornate, enameled manhole covers found in 95% of Japanese municipalities.

September 2nd – known to history as VJ Day – marks the signing on-board the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay of Japan's formal surrender. Under the watchful eye of the 31-star American flag that had accompanied Matthew Perry and his Black Ships into that same bay in 1853, the ceremony was brief and solemn as Allied and Japanese representatives signed the two copies of the instrument of surrender.

Amidst the solemnity of the occasion, however, came an unusual historical footnote courtesy of the Canadian representative, Colonel Lawrence Moore Cosgrave. When signing the Japanese copy, Col. Cosgrave – perhaps owing to blindness in one eye – placed his scrawl below the line reserved for the Canadian signature and instead signed on the line of the French representative. 

Each subsequent delegate eventually signed on the next available – if incorrect – line; the final delegate from New Zealand simply signing his name in a blank space underneath the others, his signature line having been commandeered by the Dutch.

When the Japanese delegation protested – could they accept a botched surrender document? – Douglas MacArthur's famously brusque chief of staff General Richard Sutherland scratched out the now-incorrect list of Allied delegates and handwrote the correct titles under each signature, adding his initials to each correction to forestall further protest. The Japanese were then dismissed from the USS Missouri with a short "Now it's all fine" from Gen. Sutherland.

It was a quirky end to an otherwise dark chapter of human history. Canada's contribution to the historical blooper reel can be seen by the public at Japan's Edo-Tokyo Museum, where the surrender document remains on display. The Allied copy of the document, it should be noted, was signed without incident.

Phones left in taxis. Briefcases forgotten under train seats. Dropped wallets, abandoned umbrellas, misplaced purses. Japan’s 126 million residents lose a vast number of personal items every year. But a remarkably high percentage of them are returned to their rightful owners. 

This week we explore the factors driving Japan’s efficient lost-and-found system, and its uncanny ability to reunite owners with lost property. 

Special thanks to CityLab, who originally published an article on which this episode is based; and to the anonymous person in Takasaki, Japan who once turned in my wallet to the police

Walking through Tokyo's labyrinthine Shinjuku Station can be a challenge for even seasoned commuters. Hundreds of exits, countless corridors and the constant crush of passengers in the world's busiest train station are not for the faint of heart.

Yet one can frequently spot school children no older than five or six years old — sometimes alone, other times in small groups — lining up among suit-clad men and women to take the train with no adult supervision.

This episode looks at the cultural factors that let children ride even busy train lines alone, or carry out small errands on their own.

Apologies for the delay in this week's episode! A last minute re-record was needed
to add in some information newly reported this week in Japanese media.

For two decades, it was the lament of inexperienced visitors to Japan: Where are all the trash cans? It’s a cruel trick, in a way: In a country with innumerable vending machines, there’s often nowhere to put one’s wrappers or empty bottles.

Public waste bins and garbage cans were largely removed from Japanese cities following the 1995 sarin gas attacks, forcing residents to adopt some of the world’s more disciplined waste disposal techniques.

Gradually, however, trash cans made their return to Japanese public spaces.

The return, it would seem, may be short-lived. In February 2022, it was reported that Tokyo Metro removed all 239 trash cans in its stations across the capital, following a similar move by the Seibu Railway Company.

For its part, however, JR East has announced that it has no plans to remove trash cans from its stations.

IN THE WANING MONTHS OF World War II, as the likelihood of a land invasion of the Japanese home islands loomed, the United States’ Joint Intelligence Center, Pacific Ocean Areas (JICPOA) instituted a new psychological warfare unit under the command of Colonel Dana Johnston.

That Mt. Fuji would then become a physical target of Allied psy-ops is not surprising. As detailed in a declassified 1945 memo from Col. Johnston to JICPOA’s commanding officer, General Joseph Twitty, the proposed operation would “give Fujiyama with some color other than that seasonably endowed by nature.”

In other words, the plan called for the marshaling of considerable manpower and equipment to dye Mt. Fuji black.