Chet and the Prisoners - 2

Toyo

Ft Lincoln

February 12, 1942

First of all, I must say who I am, and what I am doing in this awful place, called Ft. Lincoln in the frozen north. My name is Toyojiro Sazuki, and up until a few days ago, I and my wife, Wakato and our baby daughter Chiyo lived peaceful lives on Terminal Island, near San Pedro in southern California. Our area was mainly settled by Japanese who have been in America for many years now. We are called residential aliens, because we are allowed to live and work here, but cannot become citizens. However, my wife is a citizen as she was born here. We thought this was a wonderful country, and we were so pleased we came here. And now, how we curse this place, and wish we had never heard of it.

As those who read this will know, on December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. We
were out in the sea near Los Angeles fishing for sardines on our boat Britania Maru, and on that day, had a huge catch and were considering going for a second time, when our skipper, Mananobu
Kibata, told us of the bombing and that America will no doubt go to war. As we entered San Pedro Harbour, there was a blockade and huge confusion. Eventually we were allowed to enter, discharge our catch, tidy up our boat and go home.

Nothing then happened until February 2^nd. On that day, agents from the FBI and Immigration and Naturalisation Service arrived on Terminal Island where we live for a mass arrest of all alien Japanese. By 6.30 two of my friends were arrested, and as I had no doubt I would soon be too, I sorted out my money with my wife and gave what instructions I could. At 8.30, the government agents came for me. I had to sign a document allowing them to search my house, and was told to pack a suitcase of necessities, as I would be held for at least one night. By 9.30 four of my fellow Japanese friends and I were in the Immigration Office and the interrogation had begun. We were
fingerprinted and photographed, just like criminals. Also included in this group was my father, and my father-in-law, Mr. Wada.

Later that night, I was relocated to the second floor of the Coast Guard House, and confined
with 76 other Japanese fishermen. The door was locked and we were under guard. The next few days we were interrogated again, but the process was slow as there are so few interpreters available. There were hundreds of questions relating to our personal and financial affairs an in particular what connections we still had with Japan – how much money we sent back, and who we communicated with. I speak good English as does my wife, but most have only a smattering of the
language. My mother still lives in Japan as she chose to not follow us here. So we do write to her regularly, and needed to tell about that and give her address.

On February 5^th we were sorted into groups alphabetically. We were then told to board the Santa Fe bus and as we drive off, I saw my wife and baby lined up with the others along the road to wave us goodbye. At the Santa Fe terminal, we were then put into groups of 40 which were then herded
onto a a Northern Pacific train which has been altered for our use – with heavy wire along all the blocked out windows to discourage escape and heavy padlocks on all doors. The train made periodic stops for food and water, but we were not allowed to stretch our legs outside. We were heading North and were all very aware of how cold the air has become. I had no overcoat.

On 8^th February we arrived at Missoula, Montana where 150 passengers detrained. There is another similar camp there. Later we carried on, east this time, and at 4 a.m. on the 9^th of February we arrived in Bismarck, North Dakota.

As we detrained, we were surrounded by army guards, and loaded into trucks to take us the three miles to our new home, Fort Lincoln. We were given physical examinations, and then a meal, and were assigned a bed in one of the 14 newly finished barracks which each held 25 beds. We then assembled to organise ourselves to try to make some order out of this chaos we have been put in. We elected our leader, Mr. K Shibata, (he was the captain of our fishing boat) and T Morimoto and Dentaro Tani were selected to fill other responsibilities.

Ft. Lincoln was a military base, no longer needed for that, so it was a potential area for keeping us secure, without much extra expense. There were about 435 Germans already in the camp, and their barracks were to the north of ours, separated by a ten foot wide alley between barbed wire fences, inside which the guard dogs Hooch and Waven were permitted to run lose at night to discourage fraternization between us and the Germans. However, we were allowed to intermingle in the rest of the camp.

All I had to my name is a metal framed single bed. My suitcase with all my worldly goods was stolen from me shortly after we arrived. I complained and searched, and eventually found the empty suitcase, and after more searching, I found the contents, having been put into place for someone else who claimed they were his. He was made to return them to me, and in recompense, he was told he must give me some tobacco each week.

I was so sad and alone, not having any idea what had happened to my family. My daughter was
ill before I was taken, and I so desperately wanted to know how they were now. I assumed that they would continue to live with my mother-in-law, but we just didn't know.

Our first days were very boring and empty. We were cold, many of us had never experienced
temperatures as cold as we now were living in – down to minus 40º on many nights and even some days. It seldom gets above freezing. Our barracks are very cold, with only small heaters that hardly make any impact. Our clothing is insufficient, and even our shoes cannot take the snow and ice. None of us has funds, as all our money was confiscated from us.

We eat in a wooden mess hall building – double winged – so we can be kept separate from the Germans, and there are two separate cooking and scullery areas too. Because there are so many of us, to start with all was chaos. Then we had a meeting and established how the system would work for it to be possible. The food is not bad, but so unlike what we are used to eating. For fare consists of bread, butter, milk, cereal, stew, pudding and pickled vegetables, although the portions are not
sufficient to quell our hunger completely.

So how I fill my time is writing this diary, writing letters (but we must not write Japanese characters on the envelopes, as the army people think that we might be saying something in code), Eveything  is censored, and we are never sure whether our mail gets out or not. So far I have not heard anything
from my family.

Then I have found that helping in the kitchen kills time and keeps me somewhat warmer, as the heat from the oven makes it almost warm. So I volunteer to do dishes, and prepare vegetables, and do whatever the kitchen people wish.

There are no books. There is nothing to do. Some of the people in my barracks play cards, but I do not know these games, and I think perhaps they are gambling games, and I have no money to risk.

But enough about this for now. I must tell you about how I met Chet. First of all, let me describe him to you. He is tall, much taller than we are, and he seems to tower over us when we are smoking together. He is slim, and his hair is straight and dark, but cut quite short. He has a little moustache, which makes him seem a bit older than his real age which he told me was 30. He is married to a lady called Ann, and Ann had a daughter whose father died when she was still a baby. This girl is
now 15 and is called Kathleen. He says their house is very warm, and he feels bad for me being so cold. Chet works as an orderly which is sort of like a nurse, most of the time at the State Penitentiary, which is not far from here. His wife is having a baby soon, and they lost a baby son a few years ago. So she is very worried about this coming event, and he is worried for her.

A few days after we arrived it was decided that we should all have inoculations to keep us from getting diphtheria and smallpox. We had no choice in the matter, and were made to line up in the dining hall. The doctor who works for the Penitentiary was the one doing the inoculation, and
Chet was helping. I was very nervous about this. How did I know that they might not be injecting us with some poison to kill us all off? They think of us as their enemies. So I was not looking forward
to this. I was last in the line that was having the needle, and when it stuck intomy arm, I gave a little cry, and a tear came from my eye. “It's okay,” Chet said, and gave me the nicest smile. “You might feel a bit like you've got flu for a couple days, but don't worry about that. It's normal, and this will keep you from getting something much worse.”

“You are so kind,” I said, and he was amazed that I could speak such good English. Most of us require an interpreter.

“Are you getting along okay?” he said.

“I miss my family and have not heard from them,” I replied.

“Let me make a note of your name, and I'll see what I can find out,” he said.

I didn't hear anything for several days, and thought that this tiny bit of hope that this kind man had given me, would come to nothing. But on Sunday that week, I was given a message that someone wanted to see me in the camp hospital. I at first was hopeful that perhaps I was to be transferred
out of this hell hole, but when I went there, it was this man who had helped after the shot who was there.

“Hi, Toyo,” he said, and shook my hand. “I brought you this.” He gave me a pack of cigarettes. “I tried to find out if anybody knew anything about your family, but I didn't have any luck.”

“Yes, thank you. It is most appreciated, and so kind of you,” I said. “I normally do not smoke, but chew tobacco, and someone here is giving me a packet of this each week.”

“I might be able to find out more later. I am being sent here three afternoons a week with the Doctor I work with, to help with the medical problems until you guys get a bit more sorted. So I'll be here every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, and should be able to find out more about how things work. So if I have any news, I'll get a message for you to meet me here.”

I was so grateful I didn't know how to express this to this man.

“My name's Chet, by the way,” he said.

“Shet,” I said, trying to repeat his name as he had said it.

“Boy, you'd better work on that,” he said laughing. “Not that I haven't been called worse things by the guys in the prison.”

So again we shook hands, and I now had something to look forward to each week. A chance
to talk to Chet and perhaps even get some information about my family.