The Storm on Our Shores
Laura Davis was confused. In the living room of her home stood a fidgety old man, but she did not know what the visitor wanted. He talked about his grown children. He talked about his Arizona retirement. And he talked on and on about his beloved orchids and all their beauty and their fragility and their rewards. Davis had little patience for exotic flowers or idle chitchat. She was an intensive-care nurse scrambling at home with five-year-old fraternal twins, her live-in elderly mom, and an increasingly rocky marriage. She tried to be polite, but really, wasn’t it time for this guy to go?
Finally it was. As Laura walked the man outside to his car, he paused, then wheeled around. “By the way,” he told her, “I’m the one who killed your father.”
Laura reeled. Was this some kind of a sick joke? By the way? What kind of talk was that—so casual, yet so devastating? With his black frame glasses and shock of white hair, the visitor looked like a lanky grandfather, not some demented prankster. He seemed nervous, too. His face was ashen and grim.
Before Laura could ask a question, the man dropped into his driver’s seat, checked his rearview mirror, and drove away.
He left Laura so stunned she felt dizzy. She had been through a
lot—crushing childhood poverty, a life-changing move from Japan to the United States, the birth of her beloved children—but she had always had one deep hole in her life. She had never met her father. He died when Laura was a baby, before she had babbled even her first word. The little she knew about her father came almost entirely from her mother, who wasn’t saying much. Laura had been too busy raising her own family to spend time researching the past of a man who only existed as framed photographs on a wall.
With the few brief words uttered in front of a house in Sherman Oaks, California, the lives of Laura Davis and her visitor were changed forever. Laura would spend the next years scrambling to uncover her family’s past. The visitor would struggle to overcome his own past.
They would each learn about honor and courage, anger and forgiveness, the duty of a man to serve his country even if the result was a pain that would not go away. They would become enmeshed in a military battle long forgotten, on a miserable island far from civilization, a place that claimed thousands of lives but ultimately yielded no prize for its conquerors. Davis and the visitor would discover the secrets that had ruined lives and the truths that had helped to heal them. They would find fathers who soared with joy and others who shouldered burdens that grew unbearable. They would learn about scars that could heal only with atonement.
At the center of all these revelations would be the diary. In his last eighteen days on earth, when Laura’s father was doomed and knew it, he had written a diary—his final farewell to the family he had just started and the daughter he had never met. That diary had been recovered by the stranger at Laura’s door. It had been passed around to thousands of servicemen. How the diary would change hands—and change the hearts of so many who read it—would be the greatest lesson of all to Laura.
Decades later, this diary started me on the long path of reporting this story. I first found out about it while researching an unrelated book. I was chasing a story about competitive birdwatching. It turned
out that the greatest spot in North America to spot the rarest avian species of the 1990s had been amid the shrapnel of one of the most deadly firefights in all of World War II.
Attu Island was a forbidding outpost in the far western Aleutians of Alaska, a treeless crag that natives called the Cradle of Storms—the place where weather was born. In June 1942, exactly six months after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Japan invaded and conquered Attu and several other of the barren Aleutian Islands. It was the first time since the War of 1812 that the United States had lost territory in war. To win it back, more than 100,000 United States soldiers were called into an Alaskan military campaign that culminated in the ferocious Battle of Attu. By comparison, that’s roughly equal to the total size of the U.S. force dispatched decades later during President Barack Obama’s surge in the Afghanistan War.
The Alaska campaign had been a significant part of World War II. How had I grown up without hearing about any of this?
Despite their numbers, Aleutian veterans remained largely unrecognized in both the United States and Japan. In the depths of World War II, propagandists in Washington and Tokyo were not anxious to publicize a military campaign so stained with agony and blunder. While Midway, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa headline chapters in every history of the Pacific War, the location of the determining battle in the Aleutian campaign is known mainly today as the answer to an obscure clue in a difficult crossword puzzle. (Four letters, a Near Is., Westernmost USA pt—Attu.)
Though fascinated by the history and military significance of Attu, I kept coming back to the war diary of Laura Davis’s father. He was a Japanese surgeon who graduated from medical school in California and returned home to Tokyo only to be forced into a war he did not support against the United States. I was struck by his valor and dignity. His writings made many Americans think twice about the true nature of their foe in the Pacific. U.S. soldiers were told during training that the Japanese military man was a bloodthirsty savage who had engineered
the outrageous sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. The diary, however, raised the possibility that the enemy might also be a homesick father torn between his love of family and country. The writing and the situation in the diary were so heart-wrenching that it went on the 1940s version of going viral—countless copies were transcribed and mimeographed and passed among United States soldiers.
Over the years, I worked on other projects, but the messages of the diary pulled at me. I wondered how I would confront similar circumstances. Could I fight in a war I deeply opposed? What if the nation I lived in and admired had tried to kill me? If I knew my end was near, what would I write to my wife and children?
Little by little, I traced the path of the diary, as well as the soldiers and families who saved it. I followed it from the military bases of Alaska to the document depositories of the War Department in Washington, D.C., and Maryland, from family rooms in Los Angeles to kitchens and courtyards in Tucson, Arizona, and Las Cruces, New Mexico. I found people still moved by the diary in Atlanta, Boise, Boston, Dallas, Denver, Orlando, New York, San Francisco, and rural Oregon, plus Hiroshima, Osaka, and Tokyo. I learned that the first translator of the diary, a Japanese American soldier fresh off the battlefield in the Aleutians, had been so taken by the writing that he wept.
I also learned that the U.S. Army, whether by accident or design, had lost the original diary.
Nevertheless, the surviving English translations had become so popular among American soldiers that I found at least ten different versions of the document. They were filed in the cabinets of windowless rooms on military bases, the stacked boxes of the National Archives, the microfiche libraries of several universities, and the personal collections of soldiers and their families. Some had only minor spelling changes, but others featured the addition or deletion of whole phrases. As a result, the exact meaning of some key entries in the diary remains under dispute, which I point out when it is applied. Otherwise I rely heavily on the judgment of Emory University professor Floyd Watkins,
an Aleutian war veteran who studied extensively the similarities and differences in several versions of the diary.
No matter the interpretation of the diary, everyone seemed to agree on a few things: The Battle of Attu was fought by ordinary men thrust into extraordinary circumstances; soldiers on both sides were young, scared, and subjected to a relentless cascade of man and nature at their worst; and few sought glory, but many emerged as heroes, though in very different ways.
After conducting dozens of interviews and reviewing thousands of pages of letters, documents, photographs, and journals, I came away from this project in awe of the overwhelming dedication and humility of the men who froze and fought in Alaska.
I also admired the families back home who had to live with the difficult peace. The children of soldiers faced daunting problems, but the younger generation also crafted some of the most moving solutions. These American and Japanese families were linked by combat, and they toiled hard to transcend it.
All this work stretched well ahead of Laura Davis and the elderly stranger on that afternoon in front of her house in Southern California. As his car faded from view, Laura shook with worry. It felt as if an asteroid had hit. This man had come out of nowhere to reveal something about her father—something about her life—that she could not even fathom. How could someone unleash a thunderclap and then just exit?
Laura rushed back inside the house and found her mother, Taeko, who declined to talk with the man.
That man, Laura told her, just told me that he killed Father.
Her mother sat silently.
From her work as an intensive care nurse, Laura knew that people displayed their grief in different ways. Some dissolved into wracking heaves of sorrow; others stayed stoic. Laura tried to read her mother, but her own emotions blocked the way. She felt overwhelmed. Raising twins, having her mother move in with her—Laura’s life already felt
so chaotic. The startling news about her father only deepened her vulnerability.
Taeko could see the doubt on Laura’s face. She moved to reassure her daughter. Your father, she said, was a good man, a devout Christian and gifted surgeon who did the best he could for his family and his country. He believed in the Bible. He was killed in war. How exactly that happened, she didn’t know. Did Laura want to know?
Laura thought. She didn’t especially want to know how her father died. She did, however, want to know how he lived.
Growing up fatherless, she had always watched her friends with their dads and wondered what might have been. Laura’s mother had been determined and brave, and her grandparents had helped out, but there were stretches when Laura and her sister lived in third-hand clothes and went to bed shivering and hungry. They certainly could have used a father’s financial support.
But her father sounded like more than a provider. Even in her own tense marriage, Laura could see how a man could offer love and guidance. What kind of man was her father?
“The more I think about this,” Laura told her mother, “the more I want to learn about my father. What would you think if I pursued this?”
“If it brings you peace, then do it,” her mother replied.
The visitor had given his phone number to Laura. At the moment, however, her five-year-old son and daughter were squabbling in the backyard. Laura folded the sheet of paper with the man’s name and phone number, and pledged to call him later.
Eventually Laura did make that call. She set about her difficult journey of discovering the man who helped start her family, as well as the man who shattered it. The story that follows is built upon discoveries by Laura and her family, plus much outside reporting by me and other researchers.
The passage of time may have dimmed some memories, but many
important events remain vivid years later to family members, friends, classmates, and other witnesses. Whenever possible, I double-checked the recollections of these people with the recorded statements of letters, documents, and film. When the sequence of events is uncertain or disputed, I have noted that and tried to say why.
History isn’t always pretty, especially in wartime. One person’s truth may be another’s rumor or lie. Learning about the past can hurt, but it also can offer an unparalleled opportunity to heal and to grow.
The Storm on Our Shores
Paul Tatsuguchi needed a baby.
As a medical resident at White Memorial Hospital in Los Angeles in 1938, he could complete his training only by delivering a newborn. Three times he traveled to the home of an expectant mother only to discover that the reports of labor were false alarms. A fourth time, he and a nurse stayed with a laboring mother in her home for two full days. When the exhausted trio finally retreated to the hospital for the grand finale, the baby was delivered not by Tatsuguchi, but by a resident physician who pulled rank. Tatsuguchi wondered if he were jinxed. Would he ever supervise the miracle of birth?
He dreamed of becoming a doctor in California. Twelve years earlier, he had moved from his family home in Hiroshima to attend Pacific Union College in Napa Valley. He struggled with English but excelled at science, and he won admission to medical school at Loma Linda University of Southern California in 1933. He had spurned the Shinto religion native to his homeland and grew up as a Christian. He learned to love ice cream, the open road, and the Sierra Nevada. His classmates and teachers even gave him a Westernized nickname—
Tatsy. By the time he started at White Memorial Hospital, Tatsuguchi seemed as much of an American as a doctor.
If only he could find a baby to cooperate.
Tatsuguchi’s friend and roommate, Harold Stout, who also was a medical resident, took pity on him. When a promising call for a home childbirth was phoned in to the hospital, Stout rushed into his car with a nurse to handle it. Then he saw Tatsuguchi, dejected after weeks without a baby delivery and trudging up the hill to work.
It was time for a change of luck. “Tatsy,” he called, “this is your case and it sounds like a hurry-up one. Take my car and go!”
Tatsuguchi jumped into the driver’s seat and rushed away with the nurse. Together they were finally able to deliver Tatsuguchi’s first baby. Mother and newborn were fine. Tatsuguchi rejoiced. He was one step closer to becoming a full-fledged doctor.
The next day, however, the delivery nurse confronted the man who had set it all up.
“What did I ever do to you?” she demanded of Stout.
The roommate was confused. “What did I do to you?”
“You turned me over to Tatsuguchi yesterday,” she said.
Stout knew some people weren’t comfortable working with foreigners, especially ones from Japan, the source of much recent political tension with the United States. “He can’t help that he’s Japanese,” he told the nurse. “He pays tuition just like I do. It was his turn.”
“I didn’t mind that he was Japanese,” the nurse shot back, “but he had never driven a car before, and this is Los Angeles!”
Classmates loved to tell that story about Tatsuguchi, because it showed his grit and determination. A mere driver’s license would not stand between Tatsy and a required medical accomplishment.
But the same story also highlighted something darker. No matter how much Tatsuguchi shared with his new country—his medical training, his religious beliefs, his love of California—he was often viewed as different, an outsider. America might have been established on the shared ideals of the Constitution and the Declaration of
Independence, but on the streets in the 1930s, skin color mattered.
He was insulted as a Jap, a yellow, a Chinaman. Never confrontational, he let the slurs slide, except for the last one. Tatsuguchi was precise and proud. He quickly corrected the classmate who called him a Chinaman.
In his first years in the United States, the animosity against him seemed racial. As his decade overseas progressed, however, the prejudice turned political. Though he tried to spend even his free time talking about the best ways to repair internal organs, Tatsy faced uncomfortable questions from classmates about the government of his home country.
Why had Japan invaded China? Did the Japanese really believe that Asia was only for Asians? Why was Japan allying itself with the likes of Hitler and Mussolini? What should the rest of the world make of Hitler’s declaration that the Japanese were honorary Aryans?
Truth was, Tatsy could answer few of these questions. He was interested in medicine, not politics. Yes, he was proud of his Japanese homeland and culture, but Paul Nobuo Tatsuguchi loved the United States. He wore American eyeglasses and an American wristwatch, and he slept, American-style, on a mattress with sheets, not on a futon. He excelled at Western music—classmates always circled around whenever he played Mozart or Bach on the school’s Steinway piano—and he loved Hollywood movies. He had lived more of his adult life in the West than the Far East. He even had learned to cook a few basic American meals, though he still preferred the miso soup and ramen of his homeland to the steak-and-potatoes of the California roadhouses.
In fact, he had acclimated to his new country so well that one of his medical school classmates, Joseph Mudry, concluded that Tatsy “was quite an American.”
In Japanese schools, Tatsy scored in the top of his class with grades in the high 90s, but in America, the challenges of learning technical terms in his second language of English knocked down most of his scores to the 80s. He worked harder and refused to complain. When
Stout, his American roommate, lamented the difficulties of memorizing such medical terms as sternocleidomastoid, acromioclavicular, and brachioradialis, Tatsy shrugged and replied, “No different than rough, through, threw, ewe, you, yew, to, two, too, knew, gnu, new, speak, and speech.” Like the great movie star of the times, Ginger Rogers, who did everything Fred Astaire did except backwards and in high heels, Tatsuguchi was matching every move of his classmates, but in an adopted language thousands of miles from home and in a culture that would not fully accept him.
Classmates loved his wry sense of humor. While in a neighborhood Japanese grocery, his roommate found a bottle of soy sauce, at the time a rare ingredient for California cuisine, and called across the store to Tatsy: “Shall I get some of this beetle juice?” Stout had tried soy sauce once and hated it. Tatsuguchi’s tendency to add it onto so many different foods became a running joke between the roommates. Tatsuguchi responded in jest the next day by pouring the soy sauce into a glass-stoppered bottle usually reserved in the chemistry lab for nitric acid. Before placing the bottle on their tiny dining table, he added this label: SNAKE’S BLOOD.
Tatsuguchi remained acutely aware that most Americans did not know anyone Japanese, and that his actions would sometimes be seen as representative of his entire native country. He convinced himself to put on a good show. When Tatsuguchi’s roommate brought home some papaya nectar, Tatsuguchi felt obligated to try it. Not a good idea. The taste was so disgustingly sweet that Tatsuguchi ran to the sink, spit it out, and spent much time at the faucet rinsing out his mouth. The roommate chided Tatsuguchi: That papaya nectar doesn’t taste nearly as bad as the other stuff you brought home from the Japanese grocery store. Replied Tatsuguchi: “Yes, I know, but that was Japanese stuff. You ate it. So I had to, too.” To Tatsuguchi, fair was fair.
He kept in touch with life back home by subscribing to a Japanese newspaper and using his shortwave radio to tune in news broadcasts from Tokyo. He knew far more about world events than most of his
classmates, who had little reason to focus on life outside the United States. Still, he genuinely enjoyed his fellow students and medical residents, who were open and friendly and helpful. They banded together in misery under the brutal around-the-clock hours of a medical residency that left little time for much outside the hospital. White Memorial was a hectic but comfortable cocoon. Dedicated to becoming the greatest possible surgeon, Tatsuguchi centered his life around his career. No one ever disputed his work ethic.
Life outside the hospital was more complicated. Resentment of Asians in general, and the Japanese in particular, was building. Starting in 1913, fifteen Western and Midwestern states, including California, had enacted alien land laws, which banned Japanese immigrants and other Asians from owning real estate. (As a reflection of the prejudiced times, California continued enacting other anti-Japanese laws through the 1920s that, among other things, banned the leasing of farmland to Asian immigrants and even their American-born children.) In Washington, D.C., and Sacramento, race-baiting politicians warned of the rising Yellow Peril that would lower wages for whites and destroy the values of Western Civilization. Congress in 1917 had overridden President Woodrow Wilson’s veto of the Asiatic Barred Zone Act, which denied citizenship to “all idiots, imbeciles, feeble-minded persons, epileptics, insane persons”—and most Japanese (as well as most other Asians). That law was followed by a series of other anti-Asian laws, including the Emergency Quota Act of 1921, the Cable Act of 1922, and the national origins quota of the Immigration Act of 1924. When a Berkeley, California, high school graduate named Takao Ozawa applied for U.S. citizenship by claiming he was as light-skinned as any white man, the United States Supreme Court disagreed, issuing an ugly ruling saying the man “is clearly of a race which is not Caucasian and therefore belongs entirely outside the zone on the negative side.”
The anti-Japanese laws were just a symptom of the racist sentiment in the street. Japanese Americans were routinely denied the ability to rent an apartment, shop in some stores, attend certain schools, join
labor unions, and work some jobs. White mobs in Portland, Oregon, and Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, harassed and chased out Japanese railroad workers. Another mob in Toledo, Oregon, evicted thirty-five Japanese working at the Pacific Spruce Corporation. There were forced evictions of Asians in Tacoma, Seattle, and Rock Springs, Wyoming. The Anti-Alien Association railed against land ownership and citizenship for Asians. The San Francisco Labor Council organized a boycott against all Japanese-owned businesses.
Many Americans did not distinguish between Japanese, Chinese, Koreans, or Filipinos. Popular books like The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu—“the greatest genius which the powers of evil have put on the earth for centuries”—only reinforced the perception of Asians as crafty, shifty double-dealers bent on world domination.
Tatsuguchi could not ignore the contradiction: Inside the hospital he saved the lives of white people with emergency surgery, but outside in the parking lot he was persecuted as a Jap. He was winning his career dream. He was struggling to win cultural acceptance.
Many days Tatsuguchi felt like a lonely atoll in the Pacific, buffeted by conflicting winds from the east and west. He was an L.A. guy who shunned cars, a man who prized the modesty and dignity of Japan, but still craved the fun and energy of Southern California. He would never fit in perfectly in either the East or West, but he wondered who lived as more of an outsider—the Jap in America, or the gaijin in Nippon.
He longed for someone who knew what he felt, a friend who loved the best of both countries, a confidante who could join him to chart a new, wonderful, blended life.
What he longed for was a girl named Taeko Miyake.