(ps The guy Dad decked was a sailor or a fly boy…)
Very little outdoes short blurts of wisdom from a World War II combat vet. Nothing fancy-shmancy. No big words. Just good ole salty sailor speak. To the point. He earned that right.
Some of his wisdom will be shared here and there without censorship to honor his generation. You will appreciate that. “If you don’t, I don’t give a shit,” as he would lovingly say.
But there is regret. Regret that I did not video Old Man Jack more often. I have excuses. Many excuses…but they all lead to regret.
A couple of months before he secretly moved away, he was lamenting. Lamenting on apparently losing his long battle with his daughter.
In short, he wanted to live out his life in his home of 58 years. His home across the street from me.
It wasn’t to be. His daughter wanted him to move “up” to Big Bear where she lived. So she could take care of him. That was the battle.
This day, he knew he would be leaving his beloved home. He knew in his heart.
I did have my Droid and managed to turn on the darn contraption in time as we were talking. I sensed an “Old Man Jack-ism” coming. It even recorded and properly saved it. I even uploaded it properly. Amazing. It was meant to be.
He was in his beloved wife’s wheel chair… In his beloved blue plaid shirt with a pocket for his glasses. I thought he was joking about women in general but realized after he moved the significance of what he said that day.
When arguing with women, “A man ain’t got a chance.”
Gotta love this great American.
There be gold in my family. Really. Well, the Congressional Gold Medal, that is. And it is made out of gold and honors the “Nisei Soldiers of World War II”. Its on display at the Smithsonian.
In fact, my family was awarded two of them. Two Congressional Gold Medals. Pretty neat, don’t you think? Three if you include a distant relative. Four if Dad had enlisted in the Army five weeks earlier. OK. Enough of that.
It was just a miracle mom and her younger sister Eiko survived the war having lived in the heart of Tokyo where very little was left standing. My grandmother was required to train with a sharpened bamboo spear to repel the invaders that were expected to come. It’s true.
But when war ended in 1945, neither my mother nor my Aunt Eiko could have possibly thought that they – through no grand scheme – would each end up marrying an “invader” and that they would end up living in America. The country that bombed their home into ashes. But it was a brutal war. Just fact.
Even more stunning is that they would be unknowingly dovetailed with the famed US 8th Army’s Military Intelligence Service (MIS) for the rest of their lives. (I had briefly reported on the top secret MIS in an earlier short story.)
The first family member bestowed the Congressional Gold Medal is my mother and Aunt Eiko’s cousin, Taro Tanji; he is pictured above in a family portrait taken in Tokyo. He was born in Merced County, CA. Taro, like my father, was imprisoned in the camp called Granada in Colorado for being of Japanese heritage although he didn’t speak one word of Japanese.
In 1944, along with thousands of other young American boys of Japanese heritage, he was drafted out of the camp into the US Army. He was a “Nisei”. He then was assigned to the top secret US Army Military Intelligence Service Language School (MISLS) in Fort Snelling, Minnesota to learn the Japanese language.
After graduating, he was assigned to Tokyo as part of US 8th Army and became part of the Allied Occupation. Once there, he immediately sought the fate of my mother’s family.
Through the resources of the MIS, he miraculously located my grandmother – the same one who was forced to train with a bamboo spear. They had survived but were in dire straits like millions of other survivors.
Exactly as my father did for my cousin Masako in Hiroshima, Taro used whatever pay he had to buy them clothing and essentials from the PX, took them C-rations and of course, American cigarettes for my grandfather. There are many stories of other things Taro did (he was a STRONG man) which I will save for later.
A kind man, Taro became a much loved teacher in the Gardena school system. He recently passed away in Gardena, CA in 2009.
His CGM was posthumously awarded to his wife, Aunt Martha. Amazingly, neither mom nor Aunt Eiko realized Taro was part of the MIS until I told them. I determined that through research of US Army records.
My Aunt Eiko was sickly as a young girl. Indeed, it was a miracle especially for her to have survived. She hates medicine, even to this day. As a funny story, when the US Army began de-licing the surviving Japanese citizens, she ran away as she was terrified she would get sick from the powder. Well, it was DDT so she wasn’t that far off.
In 1966, she met Paul Sakuma, a Hawaiian born Nisei. While Uncle Paul told Aunt Eiko he was also put into camp on the Mainland (the article says that, too), I can find no record of his internment. However, Uncle Paul was at some time in Springfield, Massachusetts after the war started. He was “featured” in this newspaper article. Surely, the title of the article was a sign of the times.
Uncle Paul was also drafted in 1944 and was also sent to the MISLS at Fort Snelling, Minnesota. This is the only photo Aunt Eiko has of Uncle Paul in uniform. I stumbled across it last year. Frankly, Aunt Eiko also knew very little of his Army days but I noticed the building in the background (below) as being the old cavalry barracks at Fort Snelling which sparked my researching again. He was also indeed a member of the famed MIS unbeknownst to Aunt Eiko.
Uncle Paul was also immediately dispatched to Tokyo as part of the Occupation Force. He was assigned to the 720th Military Police Battalion and accompanied patrols where his translation abilities were needed. A couple of good patrol stories – ones that men would likely appreciate. Perhaps some ladies, too. No harm, no foul, as the great Chick Hearn said.
Days before my first marriage, I got a call from Aunt Eiko late at night. She was hysterical. Uncle Paul had died of a massive heart attack in 1980 in Tokyo in the new home he had just finished building for them. He had continued living in Tokyo as a civilian employee of the USAF.
Like Taro, Uncle Paul was posthumously awarded the CGM. I secured the CGM and surprised her with it. Aunt Eiko “cried for happy” as he held the medal for the first time early this year (below). She loves him greatly to this day. She said, “Even today, Paul brings me great happiness.” If that doesn’t bring a tear to your eyes, well, you’re pretty tough.
As dad volunteered in February 1947, he did not qualify for the CGM. But unbelievably, mom, too, did not know much of what dad did in the Army let alone him being a member of the MIS. Mom said dad never talked much about it except to say he did not enjoy interrogating Japanese soldiers being returned from Russia and Manchuria.
Nevertheless, mom and Aunt Eiko WERE enmeshed with the famed Military Intelligence Service although they didn’t realize it. Fate. They were surrounded by the invaders – secretly. Famous ones at that. A prejudiced opinion, of course.
I am very proud of these Americans. The Congressional Gold Medal is a tremendous honor and finally brings to public light the importance of the intelligence they secretly obtained for our United States of America amidst prejudice and discrimination.
I like to think that these Americans of Japanese heritage weathered the clouds of that time so we could have glorious sunshine today.
No scenery like this here in the concrete jungle… Sure looks inviting, doesn’t it?
Have you ever just taken a drive for the sake of seeing whats on the other side of the hill? And then the next and then the next and, oh well, what the heck, we might as well see what around that corner up there also. Oh look! Another corner/hill! Lets look just so we know! I mean, if we don’t, then we might miss something spectacular! Something that leaves us speechless. For me the speechless part is a big deal! Seriously, it doesn’t happen very often!
Jason introduced me to the art of driving just to drive early in our relationship. I remember us going out in my truck, and him pulling out onto this dirt road that we had never been down before. I finally had to ask him where we were going and he simply stated, “for a drive.”
“Ya, but a drive to where?”
” I don’t…
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We should hire the unemployed; they are eager to work.
Here’s one that I recently hired to wash my dishes. No tipping was necessary, either. Win/win situation.
Trouble is, she won’t leave after finishing and asks for even more work.
Anybody ever hear of the chemical “bud nip”?! Learn about it here…
In the 1980’s I lived on Glen Drive, in Hudson, New Hampshire with my two teens. I grew a variety of vegetables and canned high acid foods and pickled some others. Having only a front yard available for planting, the rest of the property wooded, folks in the neighborhood didn’t like seeing my little raised bed on the small hillside out front. Regardless, no one stopped me, though I was told that they didn’t like seeing it. The garden was close to the walkway and front door of the split-entry home, and well away from the street.
Why not? Was it me they didn’t want to see? Was it my makeshift gathered-from-the-woods raised bed? New England has rocky soil and digging out all the rocks became too much, so I built ↑ up. The woodchucks were happy – they moved in, under one side of the garden plot. Determined to satisfy…
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Some wise words in today’s times…
Growing up in a middle class house in America was really a blessing. We learned early on about manners and the importance of following the basic rules we would need later on in life. There were rules like
- no arguing at the dinner table
- no borrowing from your brothers things without their permission (it was assumed my sister really didn’t have much that would be useful to a boy so that rule was not needed
- wash your hands before dinner and clean up your plate after
- no wasting of food… we had enough but we knew that to waste it was a wicked thing
- no fighting in the bedroom – especially if Mom and Dad were still at the dinner table directly below our room. The modest chandelier was a dead giveaway no matter how quiet we wrestled
- no swearing… ever… about anything
- you asked permission to leave the table…
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A moving authorship…if that is a word.
Over thirty years ago. I was a child. My father took us to a cemetery to check for ancestors we had learned to be buried there. It was a country church. And in the church was a stained (still is) glass window bearing the names of great great relatives. When we pulled in to the parking lot I remember it to be empty. But there was a “man”. He was older than us children. But he couldn’t have been more than twenty or something. He was playing a guitar under a tree. And he kept looking in to something. At some point or another we managed to make our way to him. Our curiosity was peaked. I couldn’t tell you what he was playing, I couldn’t tell you if he was just learning, or already a master.
I do, however, remember and can picture his curly haired head looking…
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Yes, a small percentage of Japanese soldiers were anxious to die for their emperor.
But a vast majority was frightened of having to go to war. My opinion, of course.
Young Japanese boys were drafted from farms and fishing villages – just like we did here in the US of A during that time. Boys from Parsons, Kansas or from a sea coast shrimping town in Louisiana.
And they all had moms.
Like all Americans of my age, we were taught that the Japanese soldiers of WWII were fanatics. That they all were hell-bent to charge into a hail of Allied machine gun fire. To willingly die.
We were also taught that when a US Marine charged well entrenched Japanese soldiers with a satchel charge, he was a hero. Not a fanatic. He was John Wayne or Kirk Douglas. Was Esprit de Corps driving the young Marine to offer his life to save his buddies?
There is no intent to question our American values of valor or honor. Just a quandary.
My Hiroshima cousin Masako mentioned in Hawai’i having seen a photo of Uncle Suetaro and Grandmother. It was taken the day before Uncle shipped out for war (1944). Masako said Grandmother – having suffered a stroke the day before – was propped up by “shiki-futon”, or Japanese bedding for the picture. She felt strongly it was the last picture taken of Uncle Suetaro but doesn’t know what happened to it.
A few weeks ago, my California cousin Janice came across a number of old photos; she had forgotten about them. She said there were some family photos from Hiroshima. Her father – Uncle Suetaro’s and my Dad’s oldest brother – had apparently been able to hold on to them through the decades.
I asked Janice if there were any photos of my Dad’s two youngest siblings, Suetaro and Mieko, or of Michie (Masako’s mother). Janice then described a picture of Uncle Suetaro in a uniform and Grandmother (seen at the beginning of this story).
I was stunned. Topo Giggio meets Godzilla. It was the photo Masako vividly recalled seeing decades ago.
Is there an air of fearfulness…of fright? You can decide. But as we were led to believe, all Japanese soldiers were fanatics…yes?
War makes fright.