When General Joseph Stilwell learned of what some Nisei veterans were enduring at home, he exploded with anger. “You’re damn right those Nisei boys have a place in America’s hearts now and forever. And I say we soldiers ought to form a pickax club to protect Japanese Americans who fought the war with us. Any time we see a barfly commando picking on these kids or discriminating against them, we ought to bang him over the head with a pickax. I’m willing to be a charter member. We cannot allow a single injustice to be done to the Nisei without defeating the purposes for which we fought.”5
By 1948 the anti-Japanese sentiment in the United States existed only in pockets around the country, as the legacy of the 442nd became more widely known. On June 4 two men from the 442nd who had been killed in Europe, Fumitake Nagato and George Sakato’s friend Saburo Tanamachi, became the first Japanese American soldiers to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery. The cast of senior military officers attending reflected how much respect the 442nd had earned. Attendees included General Jacob Devers, the commanding officer of the Sixth Army Group in France, and Major General John Dahlquist. Pallbearers included 442nd commanding officer Colonel Virgil Miller and two of the 442nd’s battalion commanding officers, Colonel Charles Pence and Colonel James Hanley. The 141st’s commanding officer Colonel Charles Owens also attended. They had come from their posts across the country to pay homage to the 442nd three years after the war.
IN SOME WAYS, IT TOOK AMERICA FAR LONGER TO FULLY RECONCILE its treatment of Japanese American civilians in World War II and to acknowledge the legacy of the young men of the 442nd matched or exceeded that of the other millions of Americans who served during the war.
First, Americans needed to apologize to the neighbors they had sent to internment camps. In 1988 President Ronald Reagan signed historic legislation that authorized redress to the Japanese Americans for their internment in World War II. “We must recognize that the internment of Japanese Americans was . . . a mistake. . . . [T]he [442] soldiers’ families were being denied the very freedom for which so many of the soldiers themselves were laying down their lives,” said Reagan when he signed the Civil Liberties Act of 1988.6 More than $1.6 billion in reparations was distributed.
Then, on June 21, 2000, seven old men shuffled toward reserved seats inside a pavilion on the White House lawn. A large American flag framed their seating area. The deliberate and haunting sound of Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man” added a somber note as the rest of the seats were filled by family members, politicians, and the news media. Everyone waited for President Bill Clinton to arrive. It was time to correct an injustice: the repeated denial of Medal of Honor awards more than a half century earlier.
Only two Medals of Honor had been awarded to Asian Americans during the war. Dozens of nominations had been downgraded to lesser awards. After a detailed review of the record, in 1997 the Senior Army Decorations Board had recommended that twenty-one Distinguished Service Crosses and Jim Okubo’s Silver Star be upgraded to Medals of Honor. Nearly all of the Medals of Honor had been earned by men in the 442nd. But only seven of the twenty-two were still alive in 2000.
Barney Hajiro and George Sakato took their seats, not far from Jim Okubo’s widow, Nobi. Okubo had died in a car accident in 1967 when he was forty-seven years old. As each citation was read, President Clinton presented a ribboned Medal of Honor to a veteran, widow, or family member. “They did more than defend America,” President Clinton told the audience. “They helped define America at its best. . . . Rarely has a nation been so well served by a people it has so ill-treated.”7
Additional redemption and reconciliation followed the Clinton ceremony. In 2010 President Barack Obama signed legislation awarding Congressional Gold Medals to all Japanese American veterans of World War II. The nation’s highest civilian medal was presented to as many living veterans as possible, often in front of friends and grandchildren, in small ceremonies across America and in Washington in the ensuing months. In 2013 the U.S. Postal Service unveiled a stamp series showcasing twelve Medal of Honor recipients, including George Sakato. The series was expected to be so popular that that the normal print run of 30 million stamps was increased to 81 million Medal of Honor stamps.
Meanwhile, the landscape of America was changing. Campaigns were mounted to change the names of Jap Road and Jap Lane in Texas and elsewhere. In Jefferson County, Texas, a Beaumont teacher, Sandra Tanamachi, led a twelve-year campaign to rename Jap Road.b Part of the public pressure came from Company K’s Kenneth Inada, who had listened to Japanese American soldiers calling for their mothers as they slowly died in a French forest. “I can really understand the feelings of Beaumont people when they first named the street, ‘Jap Road,’ in memory and recognition of Mr. Yoshio Mayumi, a pioneer rice farmer. But with language sometimes playing a nasty social and psychological game as seen in the word, ‘Jap,’ I . . . beg you to consider the matter and simply change the name to ‘Japanese Road.’”8 The county commissioners changed Jap Road to Boondocks Road in honor of a local catfish restaurant that had closed.
Yet as America took steps to reconcile its commitment to freedom with its treatment of Japanese Americans, the scars remained deep and tender for many men of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team—as well as the 141st—until the day they died and for a few who are still alive. Some learned to share the horrors they had endured only in the final years of their life.
For others, memories were carefully locked deep inside. Yet they could surface at the most unexpected times. Martin Higgins kept his awards for valor in the center drawer of his desk at home. About the only time they came out was when his son wore them on his Halloween costume in the late 1950s. Forests unnerved 141st radioman Erwin Blonder following the war. He also had a touch of claustrophobia. Most veterans instinctively ducked when they heard a loud, unexpected noise. Some never wanted to see a war movie.
MORE THAN 1 MILLION AMERICANS WERE KILLED OR WOUNDED in World War II. The infantrymen, sailors, personnel clerks, supply officers, marines, medics, and pilots who survived came home to finish school. Others became husbands, doctors, teachers, electricians, fathers, mechanics, lawyers, or small business owners. Some made the military their life’s work. Others never fully felt comfortable in their beds at home. Nightmares riddled with screams and body parts haunted some men for the rest of their lives.
As the 2nd Battalion’s Kenji Ego recorded his war experience decades later, a dam deep inside broke. A torrent of pain surfaced in an instant.
We try to forget it, the ugliness of war. And among the things that stopped me from going to [442nd reunions] was the joking about what happened to us. . . . Now I realize it was therapy for them. It would have been therapy for me, too, if I would have joked about it. . . . I guess . . . it’s proper to be able to forget a lot of the horrifying things that go on. But if we all forget and if we don’t share the horrors of war, how are future generations to know how bad war is? Since the beginning of human beings . . . there have been wars, even to this day. What would be better for all human kind than to stop war? Have peace. I think that should be the primary goal of mankind.9
At one point Ego broke into sobs. His faced turned red as he shook his head slowly side to side. His eyes wandered away from the interviewer, off into the distance as his face grew redder. The sobs paused as he wiped a tissue across each eye, holding his glasses in his other hand. Ego’s head then rolled back, as if he was about to collapse with grief. His eyes closed, then tightened, just before he violently shook his head side to side. Hard and far to the right and then to the left. “I’m sorry,” he whispered a split second before heaving sobs returned and he wiped away new tears. As they ebbed, he was clearly exhausted as he unsteadily reached for a water bottle. For a few seconds, it was unclear if he had the strength to lift it. He managed a sip and dabbed at a final tear. He put his glasses back in place.10
Just as he had appeared to center himself, deep, cleansing breaths slowly developed. Perhaps each was a sliver of sixty-ye
ar-old pain escaping his soul as he exhaled slowly. He stared off into another decade for a few more seconds before his breathing settled and he reconnected with the interviewer. “I think we can continue.”11
The soldiers on that nameless ridge in eastern France each took a different life’s path, often in anonymity. Few shared their war experiences with their families. Coworkers had no idea. Only at reunions of their military buddies did the memories bubble to the surface, sometimes in whispers and with downcast eyes, sometimes after a couple of drinks that likely were stiffer than what they usually drank at home. Tears and shudders sometimes punctuated their stories. Others joked to mask their pain. Others never had that chance.
The day before Martin Higgins, Harry Huberth, and Joseph Kimble led their men up onto the ridge, the 100th Battalion fought its way to the outskirts of Biffontaine at a horrific cost. Itsumu Sasaoka was captured by the Germans. A month later, he arrived at a German prisoner-of-war camp. In late January 1945, he was killed by invading Russian forces. It is unclear whether he died attempting to flee the Russians or was killed inside the camp. Harry Kamikawa also became a prisoner of war. He was liberated near the end of the war and returned to Hawaii, where he became a grocery store produce manager. He died in 2012 at the age of eighty-nine. William Yamaka was also captured by the Germans and later liberated. One year and a day after George Suyama had been listed as missing in action, he was declared killed in action. His name is etched on an honor wall at the American cemetery near Epinal, France.
The 442nd’s founding commanding officer, Charles Wilbur Pence, remained in the army. His final assignment was as chief of staff of the Alaska Defense Command. Pence retired as a general in 1952 and moved to Georgia. He became a bank president and died nine years later, at the age of sixty-seven. It was said he could not utter Dahlquist’s name without trembling with anger.
Virgil Miller had helped forge the 442nd as its executive officer at Camp Shelby and then as its commanding officer when Charles Pence was injured midway through the mission to reach the 1/141. Miller served in Italy until 1947 and then became an infantry adviser in Turkey. He came to the defense of Richard Naito after the war when the Japanese American was denied membership by an American Legion post. Miller wrote an angry letter to the post’s commander, stating, “When supposedly reputable organizations such as yours violate the principles and ideals for which we fight, these young Japanese Americans are not the only ones to wonder about our war aims. Millions in Europe and Asia, too, will learn of your action and question the sincerity of American policy and ideals.”12 Miller retired in 1954 and became a professor of military science and tactics at Pennsylvania State College and Lehigh University and then was a research associate at the University of Michigan Institute of Science and Technology. He retired from academic life in 1963 and died five years later, at the age of sixty-seven. He stayed in contact with a 442nd reunion association whose members had developed a personal relationship with him and called him by a familiar nickname, Gil.
Alfred Pursall, the 3/442’s commanding officer, was on the docks waiting for the 100th in August 1946 when the battalion returned to Hawaii to a massive celebration. He took time to visit the families of men who had been killed or wounded before resuming his army duties. Pursall later served at a variety of posts, including assignments in Korea and with a military assistance group in Vietnam in the 1950s. He later retired as a colonel and died in January 1979 at the age of seventy-three.
Gordon Singles, the 100th Battalion’s commanding officer, remained in the army. Following World War II, he served in the Philippines and then in Korea. He graduated from the army’s war college in 1952 and then served as a senior training officer in Europe. Singles was an executive to the inspector general when he retired in 1961.
Singles became one of the 442nd’s most respected officers among 442nd veterans in the years following World War II. One day several years after the war, Dahlquist visited Fort Bragg, where Singles was stationed, for a parade review. At one point, Dahlquist approached Singles, offered his hand, and suggested that enough time had passed and they should put their differences aside. Presumably, Dahlquist was referring to his controversial treatment of the 442nd. In front of hundreds of soldiers, Singles signaled that the time had not yet come. Rather than shake Dahlquist’s stand, Singles’s salute remained frozen in place, as required by military protocol. His men stared in shock. Dahlquist paused and then withdrew. Singles forever became known as the Caucasian officer who refused to accept Dahlquist’s awkward attempt at reconciliation following the war.
Singles died in December 1979 at the age of seventy-three. When Singles died, Senator Daniel Inouye, a member of his battalion, wrote that in his experience, some officers were excellent trainers of soldiers. Others were fearless heroes in battle. Inouye believed Singles was both.
By the time Young Oak Kim recovered from his wounds, World War II had ended. He returned to Los Angeles, where his family had barely made a living and where he had lived with discrimination before the war. Kim started a self-serve launderette business in Los Angeles. Two years later, he reenlisted and served in the military until he retired as a colonel in 1965. By that time, he had earned awards for valor in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. He earned a college degree in history following his retirement and served on several nonprofit boards of directors until his death in 2006 at the age of eighty-six. His legacy remains a pillar of the Korean immigrant community. The Young Oak Kim Academy (a middle school) in Los Angeles is named in his honor.
Like Kim, medic Jimmie Kanaya served in Korea and Vietnam after he was liberated from a German prisoner-of-war camp in 1945. He served thirty years in the military before retiring in 1974. His last assignment was as deputy commandant of the Medical Training Center at Fort Sam Houston.
James Hanley, the 2nd Battalion’s commanding officer, was discharged in 1946. The following year, he applied for an army commission. He returned to active duty in 1947 as an army lawyer. He became the chief of the War Crimes Section, Eighth Army, in Korea. In 1953 he testified in front of Senator Joseph McCarthy on Korean War atrocities. Hanley made the military his career, retiring as a colonel in 1973. After nearly forty years as a lawyer, he then became a project manager for General Dynamics and taught business at San José State University. Hanley died in 1998 at the age of ninety-three.
Miller, Pence, Pursall, Singles, and Hanley didn’t live long enough to see the reparations paid to Japanese Americans who had been sent to internment camps or, more important, to see some of their men receive the Medal of Honor that they had recommended nearly a half century earlier.
Medic Jim Okubo’s family paid a heavy price in the war. Two brothers and a cousin also fought in World War II. His cousin Isamu Kunimatsu was killed in Italy, and his brothers returned home with war injuries. Okubo never returned to the Seattle area to resume his life after the war. He and his family settled in Detroit, Michigan.c Okubo attended Wayne State University and earned a degree in dentistry from the University of Detroit. He later was a member of its faculty and had a private practice. He was killed in an automobile accident in 1967.
Barney Hajiro, always eager to prove he was a good soldier, never fully recovered from his shoulder and wrist wounds. After rehabilitation he left a Stateside military hospital and paid his way to Hawaii. He later said he had five cents in his pocket when he arrived. He couldn’t return to plantation work. He endured racial slurs when he returned, found work as a security guard at Pearl Harbor, and then got a job at a local airport. Hajiro told his family very little about his war experience and later acknowledged he was proudest of his Good Conduct Medal. He refused to buy a Japanese-built car and died in 2011 in Hawaii at the age of ninety-four.
George Sakato also came home seriously wounded. Shrapnel had pierced his back and ricocheted into his left lung. He endured eight months of surgeries and rehabilitation in England, Washington, and San Diego.d He received his Distinguished Service Cross on his last day in the hospital and
then returned to Arizona, where he had picked cantaloupes a few years earlier. On his way home, the bus stopped in Santa Fe, New Mexico. When Sakato tried to order a meal at a local diner, he was refused service and returned to the bus hungry. The onetime lackluster student who had been held back one year and liked to ditch class had a hard time finding work. Sakato learned to be a diesel mechanic before he ultimately settled in the Denver area. At first he got a job extending truck beds in the day and also worked nights, delivering mail to the airport. He finally found a job with the Postal Service, “because there was no discrimination in the post office.”13 For decades, he suffered from nightmares of a German soldier stabbing him in the back. He believed, “Dahlquist used us as cannon fodder, no matter the cost.”14 Sakato died in December 2014. He was the last of the seven Japanese American soldiers who had attended President Clinton’s Medal of Honor ceremony.
Mutt Sakumoto remained famous as the first Nisei to reach Higgins’s men and offer them his remaining cigarettes. He suffered from the effects of trench foot in the years following the war and quit smoking. He returned to a prewar job as a mechanic with the federal government. He retired in the early 1990s. He died in 2011 at the age of eighty-seven.
Chaplain Israel Yost returned to the East Coast after he left the 100th Battalion. He taught an indigenous tribe in Papua New Guinea how to read during a two-year mission. He served as a pastor in Pennsylvania, Hawaii, and Maryland churches. Despite his travels, he remained close to many members of the 100th Battalion. All eleven of his children graduated college before he died in 2000. In the latter years of his life, the reflective Yost was plagued by nightmares in which he called out, “Medics! Medics!”
Honor Before Glory Page 23