“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 fi
nd 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, j
ust 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.
Chameleons, a Novel Based Upon Actual Events Page 22