Before he passed away in 2014, my grandpa wrote down a few short pieces about some of his memories from the years 1941-51. These were written for a cousin of mine as a way to record and share some of his stories. For most of my life he had been relatively quiet about these topics, but as he passed through his 80s and into his 90s, he opened up a bit more about it. One thing that struck me, though, was how when remembering Pearl Harbor and the entry of America into WWII what stuck in his mind 60 years later was not FDR’s speech or the horror of an attack on America. It was what America did to its own people. The stories below reflect the specific circumstances of growing up in relatively diverse rural communities in central California, and how what happened there shaped his memory of December 1941.
I think these reminiscences make for interesting reading, and I thought others may also appreciate them. Please note that these are the memories of a man in his late 80s, they are a subjective version of the events as he remembered them and not intended to be objective history. That having been said, I believe they provide an interesting account of the past and I think it is important to remember what followed Pearl Harbor and how America turned on its own people when faced with an attack from abroad. I have only done light editing from his original writings – a few fixes for clarity and to remove names of family members for their privacy. Several sections are written in present tense - my grandfather passed away nine years ago but I have chosen to keep these sections as they were, a testament to the living voice they were written in.
Helping a Friend
When WWII began I was completing my first semester of my second year at the University of California at Davis. December 8 was the first day of final exams. It was about 10:00 a.m. on Sunday, the 7th when the student who lived across the hall came in and told me to turn on the radio. This was how and when I heard about the attack on Pearl Harbor.
There were quite a few Japanese students attending Davis, one of whom, Frank Oyama, was a friend of my room mate, Luther Card. They had gone to school together in a suburb of Los Angeles. Luther had a car and Frank rode with him from Los Angeles to Davis and home again. A law was immediately put into effect that Japanese could not travel at night or for more than 20 miles from their place of residence.
Frank was stuck. It was about 500 miles from Davis to his home in the Los Angeles area. He talked about getting on a bus or a train to get home. We told him that this was a bad idea as he had no idea how the other passengers might react to his presence. As soon as finals were over Luther and I would be going home. He usually gave me a ride to and from Davis. My home was about equidistant between LA and Davis.
We pondered the problem of how to get Frank home. I decided that the best thing to do was to talk to the local chief of police and explain the problem to him. He did not have an immediate answer but said he would check and I was to come back the next day. When I returned he had worked out a possible solution with the federal authorities. Under no circumstances could Frank travel at night but if he had some place to stay, he could travel during the day. The location where he would spend the night had to be approved by law enforcement in that area and they had to be notified when he was to start, the type of car in which he was riding, the license number, and the route he would be taking. As soon as I heard the rules I phoned my family and asked if Luther and Frank could stay with us on the farm. My father asked me to stay by the telephone until he could check with the local sheriff who was a friend of his. After hearing the problem and the possible solution, the sheriff agreed to it. He contacted the chief of police who also agreed to the plan. As soon as we arrived in the area we were to let the sheriff know that we were there. He would contact the police in Davis to let them know where Frank would be staying. Before he could leave the next day, Frank had to see the sheriff and let him know that he was leaving the area. The sheriff then called the local police where Frank and Luther lived to notify them that travel was about to start and to advise him when the trip was complete.
After all the reporting was done, we drove out to our farm. My parents were most welcoming and had made sleeping arrangements for everyone. Luther went to the local gas station and filled the car tank with gas and did all the servicing needed so they could drive straight through to LA without stopping.
The next morning my mother prepared a hardy breakfast for all. She had packed a lunch for the travelers so they would not have to stop for lunch. The travelers next went to the sheriff’s office to check out and wait until he had talked to the police at their destination to notify them that travel was about to begin.
After the war, I went back to Davis as a graduate student. Frank had survived combat with the Japanese unit of the US Army. We would see each other once in a while on Campus. I completed my degree and left Davis. I never saw our Japanese friend again.
One of our Granddaughters graduated from Davis and joined the alumni association. Her father passes the alumni magazine on to me. One day, I was looking through an issue and Franks name was listed as a faculty member who had just died. He had received a PhD and was a world renowned authority on poultry diseases.
Shame!
When WWII began President Roosevelt signed a law requiring all Japanese to be removed from the west coast. There were three options: return to Japan, move at least 200 miles inland, or be removed and confined in internment camps. I only knew of one Japanese family that returned to Japan. They went to Seattle and boarded the Gripsholm, a Swedish ship bringing home Americans who had been trapped in Japan. This was a diplomatic exchange of citizens.
I was home on spring break from college. My parents and I went to Visalia to watch the movement of the Japanese leaving for internment camps. My father said we needed to go see this activity because he hoped none of us would ever see such a shameful sight again. My uncle owned a business overlooking the rail road tracks where the train would stop to pick up these people. The train came ina and looked like one of those from the old western movies. You could imagine arrows and bullet holes left from the Indians and cavalry shooting at each other.
The Japanese families were lined up in the streets – men, women, children, old and young. There were no exceptions to the evacuation order. They were allowed to bring only those possessions which they could carry. If you could not carry it, it could not go. Bundles of bedding, suitcases of clothes, bags of food, and containers of water were carried – a sad sight! Among the group there were many I had known in school. A particularly sad sight was a young man carrying a very old woman, probably his grandmother. Except for the crying of the very young children, it was a quiet and orderly procession.
When the train stopped, soldiers wearing steel helmets and carrying rifles with fixed bayonets got off at the ends of each car. No one was offered help boarding. It was difficult for many to make the high step up into the car because of age or short stature. I could not see any need for the military display. Once everyone was on board the train went rattling off.
After the war I met a young Japanese man who I knew had gone off in one of these trains. He described the conditions of the cars. The evacuation took place in late May which is the start of summer in that area. It was hot! He said the windows and curtains were fastened so they could not be opened and they could not look out at the passing country side. There was no ventilation. To get from Visalia to the destination in northern California would take 7-8 hours because of the slow speed of the trains and the stops along the way to pick up more Japanese people.
The internment camps were just being built so the people were moved to temporary quarters in various places. I know of two such sites – the state fair grounds in Sacramento, the state capital, and a horse racing track south of San Francisco. Each family was allotted a certain number of animal stalls depending on the size of the family.
How these people were fed, provided medical care etc. I do not know. I never knew how long they were confined in these “temporary” locations before being moved on to permanent camps.
This was a shameful episode on the part of the United States in the act of war. The majority of these Japanese people were actually U.S. citizens, many of whom volunteered to serve in the army units and were highly decorated. Some enlisted in the Marines as “code talkers”. However, there were a few older men who were loyal to Japan and created problems in the camps. One young man, who was my age and had formerly been our neighbor, went out each morning and saluted when the flag was raised. One day these older loyalists beat him badly. He suffered such extensive injuries that he could not enter the special Japanese military unit.
Most of the people in the internment camps eventually returned to the areas from which they were removed. They and their children continued to be good citizens of the United States.