CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

INTERNMENT

Ken closes his eyes as he leans back in his oversized leather chair. Sun is sitting nearby, knitting a pair of baby booties, while Gary is perched on the edge of his seat anxiously waiting for his grandfather to continue. The laughter of several of their grandchildren playing in the backyard provides a pleasant, though slightly surreal background. Ken, now slowly stroking his beard, continues to disclose his first life.

With Kamita buried it is time for me to assimilate into the island population, just as a chameleon, except now I face an unknown future alone. I spend the night in the house by the ocean rather than risk again running afoul of the curfew restrictions. Shortly after sunrise Doctor Ito bids me farewell and good luck. Two of the men who buried Kamita are assigned to escort me to a pineapple plantation on the other side of the island. We travel via bicycle, something I have not done in quite a few years. The ride takes us several hours, but we arrive without incident. While we observe many soldiers along the way we incur no difficulties with them, though there was no shortage of staring on their part. Shortly after our arrival the two men bid me farewell and I am left with the somewhat elderly owner of the plantation, Taro, and his wife, Umeko.

Taro’s hair is completely gray and somewhat sparse. He keeps his hair very short, is clean shaven and wears black, round-rimmed eyeglasses, a white shirt and black pants. Umeko is probably not even five foot tall. Her black hair is streaked with strands of bright grey and is wearing it in a braid which trails behind her knees. It appears to me she is likely a good ten years younger than her husband. She is wearing a simple red and black floral dress with large pockets at each hip and sandals which appear to be made from a combination of leather and brightly colored cloth.

With a pleasant grin on his face, Taro looks me over, top to bottom, almost as if I was a prize. “You are welcome here for as long as you need,” he says in English. Umeko smiles and vigorously shakes her head in agreement.

“Thank you sir. With luck our invasion force will be here soon and you will be relieved of me.”

“The invasion force! I have read of such a possibility in the newspaper, but no such force has materialized. Regardless, you will be our guest for as long as it pleases you and it is an honor to be your hosts. I have been informed there is a submarine waiting to pluck you from the waters and though I have made several very discreet inquiries, I have found no fisherman who will risk the voyage. They tell me there are air and naval patrols everywhere and to risk such a trip would be suicide. So my advice to you is be patient and put away any thoughts of sailing off into the sunset.” Taro lets out a brief laugh.

“I am deeply grateful to you and will, I trust, one day be able to report your efforts on my behalf to the Emperor.”

Taro and Umeko smile broadly at my words and lead me into their surprisingly large, single-story home where I discover an excellent luncheon has been prepared. We take seats at an old dining table as their servants stand at the ready. Taro offers prayer after which we feast.

“Tomorrow,” says Taro, “there will be people coming to meet with you. They will have identification papers and information you will need to memorize. The following day we will introduce you to your role here on the plantation. We are in need of an assistant to our accountant and she will instruct you as to your duties. In such a role your contact with the other workers here will be minimal.”

“I understand. However, what is it you would like for me to do in the interim?” I ask.

“Until I know more details of your proposed new identity, I cannot risk you come in contact with anyone other than the two of us and our very trusted household help.” Taro pauses just long enough to sip some tea. “After you meet with our friends from Honolulu we can plan your formal entry into our plantation family. During these first few weeks, however, I am certain it will be best that you keep to yourself as much as possible. Everyone here has relatives throughout the islands and I do not desire to raise any suspicions as to where you have been living prior to joining us.”

“That is acceptable to me. Tomorrow I will have a new identity and we will proceed from there. For today, I will stay in the house and out of sight, so long as that suits you and Umeko.”

Umeko smiles and replies: “We have a guest room for you. Come with me.” I follow Umeko to a modestly furnished, but fairly large guest room. There is even a desk with writing utensils and an oil reading lamp. The room is much more spacious than the accommodations I experienced while aboard the I-16, which seems to have been many years in my past. I throw myself onto the cot, immediately falling into a deep sleep.

“Sir, it is time for breakfast. You slept right through the afternoon and the night. I tried to wake you for dinner, but you seemed to be sleeping very deeply and decided to allow you to sleep.”

Umeko’s words are slow to sink in. I was experiencing a vivid dream and was on the conning tower of the I-16 as she docks in Kure upon my successful return. Apparently I look confused.

“You are on our pineapple plantation, remember? We have guests arriving today who will review your new identity with you. Do you remember now?”

I blink a few times and shake my head. “Yes, Umeko. I understand. Thank you. Where might I prepare myself?”

Umeko leads me through a side door and to an outdoor shower which is situated alongside a large water tank. I plunge myself directly into a refreshing stream of cold water and soon I am both reinvigorated and very hungry. Umeko’s breakfast is simple; steamed rice, boiled eggs, steamed fish, senbei crackers and many fruits; I consider it to be a feast. Taro and I are still sitting at the table when we hear the sound of a motorcar approaching. Taro runs to a front window and carefully looks through a slot in the curtains. He turns to us and smiles.

“Our friends have arrived. Remain here while I go meet them.”

I watch Taro disappear through the front door. Soon I hear the ‘clunk-clunk’ of car doors closing, followed by a conversation in Japanese. While I cannot hear the conversation clearly enough to understand the words, I do know the tone of the conversation is light and friendly. Umeko sets a pot of hot tea on the table along with several cups and saucers.

I notice the tea pot, along with the cups and saucers are all of a design and pattern similar to that which my own mother has. I pick up one of the cups and examine the hand painted characters and it is if I am home again. I suffer a moment of home sickness, but my melancholy is quickly extinguished as Taro leads three men into the house. Two of them are clearly Japanese and are dressed in suits. The third man appears to be part Japanese and part, perhaps, Portuguese, maybe five foot seven inches tall and is dressed in overalls. The first of the Japanese to come through the door is quite tall, perhaps as tall as five foot ten inches. The second is my height. I stand to greet them.

The taller man waives his hand indicating I should remain seated. “Please, no formalities today. For that matter, no names either. It is best you do not know who we are for our own protection as well as yours. Does this meet with your approval?”

“Yes, of course.” I return to my seat as Taro takes the chair to my left. The taller man, who appears to be in charge, sits himself at the head of the table. The part-Portuguese appearing man takes a seat directly across from me while the third man has positioned himself alongside the front window and serves as a lookout. Umeko quietly slips out of the house.

The tall man places a small suitcase on the table, opens it and retrieves a file. He closes the suitcase, sets it on the floor, pours himself a cup of tea and takes a sip. The Portuguese man and Taro also pour themselves tea. I am anxious to get to business and forgo the tea.

The leader pushes the file across the table to me. “Let’s review these documents one at a time.” His tone lacks emotion and his demeanor is all business. I examine the first document which is a birth certificate for a person by the name of Kenneth M. Kida. I notice he was born within months of my own birth date.

“This is your birth certificate and is your best evidence to prove you are Nisei. With great difficulty we have managed to create death records for each of the parents listed on that certificate. Your father passed away when you were six and your mother passed away a number of years ago. You are an only child with no relatives on the island. It could not be any simpler. Should any of the authorities review your history, it will be very real, yet very brief. A nice, neat package!”

“Understand me so far?”

“Yes Sir, it is simple enough.”

“It becomes more difficult. You will find additional papers in the file. One is a graduation certificate from a grade school that conveniently burned to the ground about seven years ago. All records prior to that time were lost. However, we have several pictures of the school so you can sufficiently describe it, should you be asked. You will also find the names of three teachers you must memorize along with the classes they taught. Two of them returned to Japan and the third is deceased. Again, enough background information for you to get by, without leaving a source to dispute you.”

I review several photos depicting a single story, frame school house and a list of the teachers he mentioned and the classes they taught. Photos of the teachers are included.

“You will find photos and brief biographies of several people you would have grown up with. The persons who are deceased are noted. Two of them returned to Japan with their parents and the month and year of their departures are noted. The remaining person you might recognize as the man at the doorway.” He points in the direction of the man posted as their lookout, who, in response, turns and smiles at me.

“The balance of the file is primarily brief news stories of island events. I urge you to spend all of your time these next few days to commit every detail to your memory. And, this is critical, be in a position to immediately destroy these records should the authorities appear unexpectedly! Destroy all of them, except the certificate of birth. Always keep that with you as it may save your life! As you know we are under martial law and everyone is under suspicion. Any questions?”

My mind is spinning as I try to digest so much information. “Yes, Sir. Is there no way you can arrange transport to take me to Nihau? I can make contact with my fleet there and escape.” All three men laugh out loud.

“Nihau? You could offer one million yen and nobody would dare sail you there. Nihau? Who thought of that island as a rendezvous? It is almost deserted and inhabited only by natives, only a handful of them Japanese, at most, and a very long distance from here. Anyone sailing there would be questioned without a doubt!” The United States Navy has patrol boats circling all of the islands. He shakes his head back and forth and finishes his cup of tea, still laughing.

“Sir, clearly our intelligence felt it would be a suitable location. That not being the case, I can only wait for an invasion.” I do my best to sound slightly offended without being belligerent.

The leader looks me over, glances at Taro and then back at me. “You made it this far, which speaks well for your future chances. We would all welcome an invasion, but certainly that is an event upon which we cannot plan. What we can plan, however, is to assimilate you into life on this plantation and provide for you here as long as it takes for us to finish this war. My best advice to you is simple: Memorize each word and every detail in this file and do so without delay. Treat these documents as the life savers they will likely prove to be and when you are comfortable enough with them, burn them.”

“Yes, Sir, I will do that.” Without saying a word the leader suddenly stands and we follow suit.

“We must go for the longer we delay, the more likely we raise suspicion. Our stated purpose for driving out here today was to agree upon the delivery of a truckload of pineapples.” He reaches into his suit jacket pocket, withdraws a purchase order form and hands it to Taro.

“Please, if this is sufficient, then sign and date this order. I will have it with me in the event we are searched on our return trip.” Taro takes the form from him and walks over to a nearby desk. He removes a pencil from one of the drawers and executes the purchase order. Accomplishing that, he returns and hands the tall man the executed pineapple order.

“Signed and dated, as requested.”

“Good, then our business is complete. Thank you for the tea.” All three men proceed through the front door without saying another word. I watch from the window as they drive away in their black, two door Ford coupe. I am wondering if I could reach them should a need arise when Taro touches my left shoulder.

“Come, sit down and begin your studies, Ken. I will start introducing you tomorrow when you accompany me on my daily rounds of the plantation.” Taro leaves and I find myself alone, with much to learn and an uncertain amount of time during which I must become completely comfortable with every detail. I take the folder into my room and begin my studies, for now I must create myself anew, as Ken Kida of Kamooloa town. I consider the sound of it and am pleased as it has a good ring to it.

A few weeks have passed since my arrival. I work on the payroll and make the morning rounds with Taro. I find life on the plantation to be relatively simple and straightforward. There is not a great deal of compensation paid to the workers, but they appear to be quite happy. In addition to Japanese language periodicals which have been allowed to resume publication, two or three times a week Taro obtains a copy of one of the Honolulu newspapers and I read them to him and Umeko, aloud. I do this to practice my English, which is getting better each day. They seem to enjoy listening to me and are keen to help.

The news of the war carries with it tales of massive Japanese conquests in remote regions of the South and Southwest Pacific, even in the Indian Ocean, but only an occasional reference to any possibility that Japan will invade Hawaii. In my opinion the Americans apparently believe we intend to invade the West Coast. I think to myself how terribly far away the West Coast of the United States is. Our fleet must be even greater than I know it to be if we can be launching the dramatic effort required to invade the United States mainland! If only they would first invade Oahu so I could rejoin the fleet. I resolve to bide my time and take each day on its own merit.

More weeks pass, life on the plantation is becoming quite routine and I find myself growing very comfortable in my new surroundings. One morning I am in one of the small supply huts taking an inventory when I notice the distinctive sound of many truck engines coming up the road to the main house. I know we are not expecting any deliveries and certainly no delivery would require more than one truck. My senses alert me something is wrong. As the sound of the engines grows closer I drop my clipboard and run to the main house.

A column of six Army transports, green canvas stretched across the cargo areas, led by two jeeps is slowly coming to a halt in front of Taro and Umeko’s residence. I watch a Captain exit the first jeep and rapidly walk to the front door. Three soldiers carrying rifles are following behind. Taro opens the door just as I am rushing up in time to hear the Captain: “Are you the owner of this plantation?”

“Yes, I am the owner,” responds Taro, just as kimono-clad Umeko arrives at his side.

“By order of the military governor, Lieutenant General Delos Emmons, I’m under orders to take you” he pokes Taro on the chest with his right index finger, “and every person of Jap ancestry under your so-called employment into protective custody until such time as the FBI or the United States Army deems otherwise!” He barks out the words very loudly, clearly intimidating Taro and Umeko. From the self-satisfied look on the Captain’s face, it is clear he intends to frighten the old couple.

I cautiously approach the Captain, who is backed by another officer, as well as the soldiers, each with his rifle at the ready. Taking a deep breath, I seek to intervene. “Captain, Sir, do you intend to remove everyone right now?”

The Captain turns to face me. We are about the same height, though he is clearly at least ten years my elder and there is an unsettling fury in his eyes. Instinctively, I place my hands to my sides so as not to present an aggressive stance.

“Who the fuck are you?” He shouts. “And why should I care?” He pushes me backwards with a hard shove. I am careful not to react as the soldiers have lowered their rifles and have them pointed directly at me.

“Sir, I work for this couple. This is just a simple pineapple plantation.”

“I don’t care what the hell you say this place is. These folks have been subscribin’ to every Jap language publication they can get their yellow hands on and only God knows what they’ve been plotting. So them, and ya’ll, and everyone else who supposedly works here is under our protection as of this moment. I’m giving everyone thirty minutes to gather their possessions and report back here. After that I’ll send my men to drag ya’ll in. Do I make myself clear?”

I vigorously shake my head in the affirmative. Taro and Umeko disappear quickly into the house and I follow. I feel badly for them as they are, rightfully, very upset. Taro, in particular, appears to be more than a little disoriented. I have already burned the materials I had been provided for my new identity, save the birth certificate and it is a good thing I did so as two soldiers have followed us into the house, one staying with me and the other with Taro and Umeko.

As quickly as possible I gather a few items of clothing, my certificate of birth, some canned goods and a bag of rice. I help Umeko pack two suitcases, mostly with food and the three of us slowly walk out to the waiting army trucks. The accompanying soldiers are pointing their rifles at us the entire time.

A sergeant has managed to obtain a copy of our payroll records and is crossing names off the payroll roster, one by one, as we are loaded into the trucks. Clearly the Americans appear to be efficient. There are more than forty of us and we are not told where we are going which causes me to be all the more nervous. I consider the likelihood I am in more danger at this moment than when I was being depth charged. Patience, clear thinking and my faith in an all knowing Buddha shall be my guide.

The convoy makes several more stops at individual homes where I witness entire families being quickly and roughly rounded together in the process. Age and gender are of no consequence to the American soldiers; what we all have in common is our Japanese ancestry. I learn at least four of the men in my truck are Nisei so I realize the Americans do not seem to care where we might have been born. At least not at this point.

We spend most of the day in the truck before we finally arrive at our destination, which is a makeshift encampment surrounded by fences with barbed wire and armed guards. We are immediately split into separate areas of the camp with no more than three or four persons from a given truck allowed to stay together. Time will prove that I will never see either Taro or Umeko again.

By July, 1942, I find myself in a newly built camp somewhere near a city by the name of Oakland in the state of California. I am much more comfortable reading and speaking English and seldom slip into conversations in Japanese. I prefer to keep to myself as much as possible and avoid situations where the fact I lack a depth of knowledge regarding Oahu, let alone the United States, could be exposed. My larger problem is time; I have too much time on my hands. But the leaders amongst us have taken it upon themselves to construct numerous improvements and I join in the construction process.

Few people complain about the conditions or the confinement, at least not openly, and just about everyone participates with much more enthusiasm than I ever imagined would be possible under such conditions. I find the attitude of my fellow prisoners difficult to understand, especially after enduring sub-human conditions on the ocean crossing. We are constantly being watched over by soldiers who, in my opinion, if provided the opportunity would gladly shoot us all.

School teachers have formed classes so the children and many adults can continue with their primary education. Various religious groups from around the United States provide us with books and learning materials. While there is large-spread distrust, if not outright hatred, of us among the military I discover not all Americans are ready to condemn every person of Japanese ancestry. I find this interesting as the differences in attitude between the guards and the Caucasian volunteers are opposite one another. The volunteers understand the internees could not have had anything to do with the attack on the American fleet and appear to treat us as individuals, with what they refer to as “inherent rights.”

What is also taking me time to understand is the general lack of rebellion among my compatriots for our confinement. If we are being protected, as we are told, then why do the guns in the guard towers point inwards? Why did my fellow prisoners not join in my plan to mutiny against the crew during our ocean voyage and let me then navigate us into Japanese controlled waters? I simply do not understand the mind-set of people I have come to admire and befriend.

I have one close friend, Fumio, or at least as close as I can dare. We have worked together on numerous construction projects throughout the first year, or so, of my imprisonment. He is quite philosophical and was born in a town near the city of San Francisco. Today he has brought me a flyer published by the United States Army.

“Look at this Ken, here’s an opportunity for us to really do something!” Fumio hands me the flyer.

“This can be our ticket out of here and into the war fighting the Germans where we can definitively prove our allegiance to the United States!” He is very excited and has my complete attention. I am aware the majority of my fellow prisoners believe that polite submission to the confinement eventually will result in the American Army trusting us. Personally, I am not so sure.

Fumio’s flyer states the American Army is seeking volunteers for a second Nisei regiment and all Nisei in good health may request to join. This is very interesting as it means I can escape this camp and fight again. Of course, not against my country, but instead, against the Germans.

My only personal encounter with Germans came while I was at Eta Jima where a contingent from the German Navy spent some time with us reviewing our methods and facilities. They struck me as extremely arrogant. I could not understand such an attitude for clearly the German Navy was not even large enough to patrol the Japanese Inland Sea let alone the Indian and Pacific Oceans as our own Navy would patrol. In fact, the German navy was no more than a thorn in the side to the navy of Great Britain. So now, just maybe, I could fight against the Germans, a proposition I find intriguing.

Despite my status of being in protective custody, I have been learning much about democracy and the United States and very much like it. I do not harbor any hatred against America, but I am not so sure I can trust Americans. Yet, this proposition is interesting. I know I can never return to Japan as I am aware I have been declared a deceased war hero so I will need to consider this option, but Fumio expects a decision from me right away.

“This looks good Fumio and appears to be a worthwhile endeavor. What do we need to do?”

“I’ll come and get you tomorrow morning at ten and we’ll go together to submit our applications. You can keep this flyer as I have another for myself. Right now I need to go ask a couple more men I know about whether they’d be interested. Remember, ten o’clock!” Fumio turns around and jogs off.

I stand still for a moment as I re-read the flyer titled, “An Opportunity to Fight the Germans and Italians.” Obviously there is no way I can ever rejoin the war fighting for Japan. And with the disasters at Midway and Guadalcanal it is also apparent to me that there will be no invasion of the United States. Even my Commander-in-Chief, Admiral Yamamoto is dead. I decide to meditate and consider what the great Admiral Togo would do.

After hours of meditation I reach a decision. As a Samurai no longer with a fight of my own I decide I should do as any proper Samurai would do and ‘borrow the battlefield’ by joining the Nisei regiment. Tomorrow I will go with Fumio and seek to offer my services to what, by default, is becoming my adopted country. Finally I feel as if my life may be taking on a purpose again, something that has been lacking since my early days on Oahu.

Days pass and no word on my application when suddenly Fumio comes bursting in. “Ken! The Army’s posting a list of names.” He pauses as he gasps for air. “Everyone who’s been accepted is on the list so let’s get going!”

I jump from my chair and shout: “Let’s waste no time!”

Fumio starts running, with me just behind him. It is perhaps four hundred yards to the large announcement board where all notices are posted and as it draws into sight I see many men are crowded around it. Fumio is a bit shorter than average and successfully wiggles his way through the crowd of what must be one hundred men, all vying for position. After a few moments Fumio emerges and runs up to me.

“Ken,” he pants, “both of us have been accepted and must report to the Army’s special recruiting tent at eight tomorrow morning!” Fumio is grinning ear to ear.

I, on the other hand, am subdued. I realize I am one step closer to a new battlefield and a new country, a step which will permanently place Japan into another lifetime. I also wonder if I should accept the position and risk discovery, but I cannot tolerate the inactivity any longer. I reason if I can fight against a new enemy and for a country I have not found to be anything like the Japanese government propaganda claimed it to be then why not? Clearly my destiny includes this new endeavor or why else would the opportunity present itself to me? I must trust that Buddha’s wisdom will light my path and has, in fact, opened this door through which I must pass.

“Ken, let’s take a long walk and talk about army training and Europe!” Fumio smiles. “I have read a great deal about Europe and would like to share my knowledge with you.”

I return Fumio’s smile. “Of course, my friend. What better way to spend the day?”

Fumio and I are standing in a long line of men, all anxious to learn of our new assignments. There are eight sergeants sitting, left to right, at a series of tables set up end-to-end. Eight corresponding lines of Nisei Japanese men are slowly working their way to the tables. There is a red line drawn on the ground to keep the next person in line just far enough from the table so they cannot over-hear the conversation.

The sergeant at the head of my line appears to be about fifty years old. Though he is sitting I can ascertain he is a tall man. He has many stripes on his arm and decorations on his uniform. I wonder why the American Army does not post him in Europe where his experience would be the most beneficial and consider the possibility he is recovering from wounds. Following a thirty minute delay it is my turn to approach the sergeant who does not even look up at me.

“Name?”

“Kenneth Kida, Sir.” I respond. Now he does look at me.

“Don’t ever call me Sir! Call me Sergeant. I’m not an officer.” He pauses and stares at me, which causes me to feel in danger of being exposed. “I presume ya’ll know the difference between a non-com and an officer, right?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm.

I stiffen and respond. “Yes Sergeant. No offense intended, Sergeant.” My training suddenly snaps in and I feel as if I am a cadet once again.

The Sergeant looks me over from head to toe and removes his hat just long enough to wipe his brow with a green handkerchief.

“Good, I’ll be with ya’ll at Camp McCoy which’s where we’re sendin’ ya’ll for training. Return here at sixteen hundred hours for the swearing in ceremony and after that ya’ll get your travel orders and by this time tomorrow ya’ll be on a train. Any questions, soldier?”

“Yes, Sergeant, just one.”

“Well, what the hell ya’ll waiting for? Ask your question!”

“Sergeant, where is Camp McCoy?”

The Sergeant laughs, “Wisconsin! Y’all’s goin’ to love it there! Now take your damn orders and move on!”

I quickly exit the tent and find Fumio waiting.

“Fumio, where is Wisconsin?” I ask.

“Let’s go to the library and learn all we can about it!” Fumio always seems to have an answer and as we walk to the library I think about the fact the Sergeant referred to me as “soldier.” I realize I must readjust my mindset to that of a “soldier” and not that of a naval officer. “Soldier.” I must make myself comfortable with this new role and dread the thought of being a soldier for I have seen how the soldiers in my own army are treated and it is not nearly on the level of a naval lieutenant.

About a week later our train pulls into our final stop, Camp McCoy, Wisconsin. Fumio and I exit our rail car and line up with the rest of the men, each of us with our respective squad. There are Sergeants and Lieutenants yelling orders up and down the line. There must be a thousand of us! In less than half an hour we are marching, four across, to Camp Mc Coy. Upon arriving I notice a few buildings and what appear to be acres of tents. I do not see many manned guard towers, such as what stood over us in California which is encouraging. It more closely resembles a military installation than a prison. The next morning we are to begin what we are told is a six month training period.

Our Sergeant is a man by the name of Yates, who only somewhat disguises his dislike for this assignment and of us. He is about six foot tall, one hundred eighty pounds, bald and wears what seems to be a perpetual scowl on his heavily scarred face. Our corporal is Nisei, a member of the Hawaii National Guard and much more approachable. The corporal enters our tent and announces we are taking a five mile “stroll” before chow and we are to fall out immediately.

Sergeant Yates is silently watching as we form up for the march. He slowly walks up and down our squad without saying a word. He mumbles something to the corporal, who quickly turns to face us and yells out: “Double time!” We are off for a five mile ‘stroll’ before chow. Given that we have been on a train for days, I don’t mind at all.

Adjusting to Army food is more difficult than the physical training. However, today I discover they have included boiled rice with our dinner though I have grown to enjoy potatoes and to tolerate overcooked vegetables that are completely absent of flavor. Most of the time I am not familiar with the meats served and long for some nice fish. Any kind of fish.

As we begin the second month of training we have spent no time actually firing our rifles. It is a very impressive weapon and is quite unlike any I experienced in Japan. Today, however, we finally find ourselves on the rifle range where Sergeant Yates is yelling derogatory comments at us. It is obvious that just about every one of my fellow volunteers is unfamiliar with firing a rifle. However, Sergeant Yates remains very quiet when I am firing. I do not understand if he stays quiet because I am such an excellent shot or because he is waiting for me to miss so he can belittle me. Either way, I much prefer when he is not yelling as I do not understand half the words that come from his mouth.

The countryside around the camp features rolling hills, thick forests and numerous dairy farms. We routinely embark on hikes of up to fifty miles, carrying huge amounts of equipment. I do not recall ever seeing soldiers in the Japanese army carrying so much equipment. Some of the local civilians stop and stare as we march past while others do not appear to notice us. We have not had any opportunities to venture into the local town and I wonder how the locals feel about us.

After more than two months living in tents the new barracks are ready. Just in time too, as the nights have been growing cold. We immediately begin setting up our bunks and footlockers. Of course, now that we are in a barracks, there are daily inspections which are even more thorough than when we were living in tents and we soon discover Sergeant Yates can create many more opportunities to hand out punishments. One of his favorites is to order the performance of one hundred push-ups, especially if it is raining. Sometimes he has another soldier sit on the back of the unfortunate private performing push-ups.

Today marks the end of five months of training and results in our first serious accident. While practicing on the mortar range our corporal was demonstrating the method of dropping the mortar into the tube, but failed to pull his hand out in time. The mortar fired and cut off his thumb. We find ourselves without a corporal and with only a month of training to go, it is unlikely he will return in time to ship off with us, if ever.

“Kida!” I jump off my bunk and stand at attention as Sergeant Yates stands in the doorway. “Here, Sergeant!”

“Meet me in my office!” Sergeant Yates does not wait for me to respond and immediately leaves. I grab my hat and run after him. When I reach his office I discover he is already seated and I automatically stand at attention.

“Relax Kida and grab a seat.” I sit on the wood bench he has set in front of his desk.

“As ya know, Corporal Sasaki isn’t likely to be rejoinin’ us for some time.” He pauses as he lights a cigarette. “I’ve been watchin’ you Kida.” He leans forward as he looks me directly in the eyes. “Now let me make one thing very clear here.” He takes three puffs, while staring at me the entire time.

“I’m no big backer of handin’ rifles to ya Nips and sendin’ ya’ll off to fight alongside the rest of us. Nope. After Pearl Harbor it makes me downright antsy knowin’ ya folks have guns and that we’re bustin’ our butts teachin’ ya’ll how to use ‘em. But I can’t control what them big shots in Washington tell me to do. All I can do is train ya’ll as best I can and trust in the good Lord and General Marshall that they know what the hell they’re doin’.” He finishes his cigarette and puts it out in a tin ashtray on his desk.

“But I gotta say this,” he lights another cigarette and leans back in the chair, “last month when those compadres of yours dived themselves into that half frozen lake and pulled out them drownin’ local kids, that told me all I really need to know about y’all’s loyalty, and bravery for that matter.” I realize he is referring to an incident where three of my fellow soldiers dove into a near-frozen pond and saved the lives of two young locals.

“I’ll fight them Nazis with your kind and have a little more piece of mind ‘bout it. Mind ya now, I’m not sayin’ I’d like it, but I’ll do it without complainin’ to nobody. Yep, yankin’ them young folks from that pond tells me y’all’s eyes might be slanted, but your’e a straight shoot’n bunch of American Nips.” He returns his cigarette to his mouth and takes a huge puff, blowing smoke rings directly into my face. I really don’t understand everything he just said, but shake my head in agreement.

“So, as of right now, Kida, y’all’s the squad’s new corporal and my new right hand man. Got anything to say?”

I am completely taken by surprise. So many thoughts are running through my mind as I attempt to digest everything he just said. I am going to be the right hand man to someone who might sooner see me confined for the entire war? At least he is being up front with me, which does provide me some comfort. I know where he stands and I know he is going to follow the rules without regard to his personal opinions. I admire him for being man enough to recognize that he can’t ignore bravery. Finally, I muster an answer.

“Thank you Sergeant. You will receive only my best efforts.”

A smile actually crosses his face. He lights another cigarette. “Cigarette?” He says as he offers me one.

“No thank you Sergeant, I prefer not to smoke, if you don’t mind.” Again, he smiles.

“That’s fine Kida. After some combat experience ya’ll might just rethink that.” I hold back an answer as I have been in combat and never felt a need to smoke. Of course, he cannot know so I remain quiet.

“That’s settled so meet me back here at eighteen hundred thirty hours. I need to begin reviewin’ company procedures with ya as there’s a shitload of stuff to learn. Now get along to the Quartermaster and pick up some new stripes and get ‘em sewn on pronto!” I rise and fight back the instinct to salute him.

“Thanks Sergeant. I will return at eighteen hundred thirty hours!”

I quickly adapt to my new responsibilities as the final month of training proves to be a whirlwind. Forced marches, rifle range, hand-to-hand combat drills, live fire drills and a great deal more. There is also time for baseball which I played as a youth and enjoy very much. Rumors abound as we near the end of our training; some say we are headed to the Mediterranean where we will join in the invasion of Italy while others say we are to invade Greece, and still others speculate we will be sent to England. Fumio, as usual, seems particularly well informed. We discuss the situation as we sit under a tree near the baseball fields.

“I hear we’ll be sent to Camp Shelby in Mississippi.” Fumio sounds depressed.

“Mississippi? That makes no sense.”

“That’s what I hear, and we’re going to be informed tomorrow. Mark my words, Ken, the big brass doesn’t trust us. I think it’s as simple as that, my friend.” We both grow quiet as we contemplate still more training.

“Hey, that was a good play you made at third yesterday.” Fumio nudges me and smiles. “If only you could hit!”

“If only I could hit?” I pretend to be offended. “My uncle taught me to play when I was only eight. He even took me to see an American League All-Star team. I see no dishonor in two doubles which are more impressive than the two infield singles you managed my friend! I think the Americans call your hits ‘bloopers’” We both laugh and the change of topic helps me relax. I know Fumio has proven to be correct most of the time when it comes to what the Army plans for us. But there is nothing I can do, save to wait for my orders. My evening meditation will be more important to me than most as I expect my new assignment in the morning. Meditation is important for my soul and I recall the words of Buddha: “Just as a candle cannot burn without fire, men cannot live without a spiritual life.”

I awake to the chirping of many varieties of birds. The sky is revealing the first signs of daylight and I am anxious for the day to commence. Before anyone else in my platoon is awake I am dressed and ready for roll call. Surely, just once, Fumio could be wrong. Reveille, roll call, chow, all come and go. Still no word. Finally, Sergeant Yates makes his appearance.

“Corporal Kida!” “Yes, Sergeant!” I jump to my feet as I shout my response.

“Corporal, get over to Captain Sterling’s office, Hut B, and make it snappy!” His usual gruff voice seems to me to be softened slightly as he is wearing just a hint of a smile. That little smile troubles me as it is out of character for him.

“Yes, Sergeant, I am on my way!” Without making direct eye contact, I trot from the hut and, as soon as I am out of sight of the Sergeant, break into a full run. I slow down and compose myself as I reach Hut B. The front door is wedged open and I walk in to find a pair of Japanese/American lieutenants sitting on a desk. Surprised, I stop, go to attention and salute. They appear a bit amused as they return my salute.

“Something we can do for you corporal?” Asks one of the Lieutenants.

“Yes Sirs, Corporal Kida reporting to Captain Sterling as requested.” I remain at attention, awaiting a reply.

“Oh, so you are Corporal Kida.” Just as I am about to reply he raises his right hand and says “No need to answer that.” He is eyeing me very closely while the other lieutenant walks over to a closed door and knocks. From behind the door comes a response.

“Yes?” The voice sounds annoyed and I fear that must be Captain Sterling.

“Lieutenant Fuchida here, Sir. Corporal Kida has arrived.”

“That’s fine, Lieutenant, send him in.”

Lieutenant Fuchida opens the door and motions for me to enter. The door is quietly closed behind me.

Sitting behind a wood desk that must be left over from a turn of the century school room is Captain Sterling. He looks to be in his late twenties, blonde hair, neatly cropped, a bronze star on his shirt, along with what I believe are engagement ribbons. I am not familiar with the patch on his shoulder which is in the shape of a shield. The upper portion depicts a gold Sun on the left side and a gold star on the right, over a blue background. There are five vertical stripes starting with red then gold, then red, then gold, then red. I have no idea what it signifies.

I stand at attention and salute. “Corporal Kida, as requested Sir.” The Captain returns my salute.

“Sit down, Corporal. Like some coffee?” He motions to a steaming pot sitting on a field stove next to an open window. “Thank you Sir, but I have already had my share today.”

“Well, I seldom take a pass on a cup of joe. Bad habit, I guess.” His voice is calm and helps me relax. I watch as he walks over and pours some coffee into a large ceramic mug with the relief of a cow painted on it. He returns to his chair and opens a file lying on his desk. He sips at his coffee as he sifts through the file. Finally, he pushes it away and looks me directly in the eyes.

“Corporal, I’ve been watching you for the last four weeks after your sergeant sent us a report about you which piqued our interest. To be clear, I am referring to Army Intelligence.”

With that statement, my heart drops into my feet. My God, I have been found out! Sitting still at this moment is tantamount to punishment. I feel my blood pressure rising and focus on the image of a cherry tree in full blossom. This image calms me, but just barely.

“Ever see a patch like this one?” He points to the odd patch on his left shoulder.

“No Sir, I have not.” I can barely get the words out. Sterling notices I am nervous.

“Well, no need to worry because you’re not in any kind of trouble. For your information this patch refers to the China-Burma-India theatre where I’ve been serving for the last eighteen months.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “I see. So that is the Chinese insignia. Now I recognize it.” I reply, for in truth, I do recognize it now.

“Well, Sergeant, oh, excuse me, as I almost forgot, you’ve been promoted to Sergeant. We’ve had a great deal of difficulty coordinating air support, artillery support and the like due to a lack of interpreters over there. That’s where you come in.” Sterling finishes his coffee, walks to the coffee pot and refills his mug. He now leans against the window frame before continuing.

“I’ve put together five other Nisei soldiers with similar skills to your own from your class and they will form the basis of your squad. You can pick up the rest of your squad in Honolulu. In fact, you arrive there in about five weeks. From that point you and your squad will sail to Australia and eventually arrive in Burma. That will give you a good eight to ten weeks, perhaps longer, to get familiar with your men, study the field reports and prepare for your assignment in Burma.” Sterling gulps down the last of his coffee, places the cup on the window ledge and returns to his chair.

“You see, once there we plan to fly you and your squad over the ‘hump’ to join the Chinese. We’ll be starting a major campaign to connect our lines with the Chinese Nationals so we can carve an overland supply route from India which is critical to our success.”

“There’s going to be a critical push we’re coordinating with the Chinese and the interpretive skills for both Japanese and Chinese of you and your men may prove be critical. And that’s not to mention your superior training and discipline. In my opinion, and this is between you and me, the Chinese soldiers are brave, but poorly trained and their officer corps definitely lacks discipline.”

“You previously indicated, and we have quietly tested, you have a reasonably good command of Chinese. I see from your records you also have a decent command of Korean. You never know, that could come into play before it’s all over too. So, Sergeant, any questions?”

“Where do I meet my squad and when do we ship out? I want to get to work!”

“Good attitude. Your squad’s gathered outside the mess tent as we speak. Pick up your stripes and sew ‘em on before you meet them. First impressions Sergeant, always remember you only get one chance to make a first impression. So get your stripes on first because the men will wait. In fact, the longer they wait, the more scuttlebutt they’ll indulge in. It’ll afford you a great opportunity to go in there and set them all straight.” Sterling pauses, a smile on his face.

“Oh, I suggest you don’t choose your corporal until you have your entire squad together in Honolulu. You don’t want those fellas out there thinking they got short-changed at the promotion ladder simply because they’re in Hawaii. Got that?”

“Yes Sir. Anything else?”

Sterling stands, pulls out a sealed envelope from his center desk drawer and hands it to me. “Here’s your formal orders. Good chance I’ll see you in China sometime in the next year.”

I rise and accept the envelope. “Kida, read your orders carefully. You’ll find I have also included a brief rundown of your squad members. Unless you have any questions, that’s it. Good luck!”

I salute and just before I turn to leave, I say: “Thank you Sir. I trust I will see you in China!”

I exit and very quickly walk to the quartermaster and pick up a few sets of stripes for my shirts, jackets and helmet. The quartermaster anticipated my arrival and had everything I need including a new helmet with netting. He proves more than happy to help as he is Nisei as well. I consider the fact my father died while fighting in China and now I will be journeying there myself. Is it an omen of my own death? Tonight’s meditation cannot come too soon.