Nisei Christmas

“…Men speak of them well or ill; they themselves are silent.”

– Stephen Vincent Benet, Ode to Walt Whitman

One Christmas near Granada, Colorado in 1942 two soldiers sat in a dark cafe watching the snow come down. Snow was not a familiar thing to these two who would be shipping out for Italy in a few days. There was no visible sun in the sky and the windows of the cafe looked as if they hadn’t been washed since the First World War concluded some 25 years ago. One of the soldiers, Private Thomas Okamoto, would go on to be one of the most decorated fighting men in the European Theater. The other, also decorated, would serve for two years in the 442nd Regimental Combat Team and see action at Salerno Bay, at Naples, at Cassino, and at Anzio. His name was Kiyoshi Nakamura. He was killed by a German sniper near Saverne, France in November of 1944.

It was in late December of 1943, just north of Naples, that Nakamura met my uncle Clifford, and shared the following story.

We were staring out the window onto the soggy Colorado dirt street. Private Okamoto was talking about his uncle’s strawberry garden back in California. We were not afraid to go to war but we were afraid of what may happen to our families behind the barbed wire at Granada. A tall, thin rancher stumbled into the cafe, ordered coffee and sent a bone-chilling stare in our direction. It wasn’t a hostile look, more one of astonishment, of lassitude. He turned tiredly away from us and asked the walls and ceilings if we were spies.

Then, without warning, he approached our table. We thought he must be drunk.

“Looks like snow,” he said. “How long you been in?”

Private Okamoto answered him, followed by a crisp “sir”. He sat down.

“I’ve heard a lot of you pups were joining up,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to stare but you two are the first I’ve seen in uniform. Where they sending you?”

“North Africa, sir,” I answered, “for the time being. Then Europe.”

“You won’t see much snow in Sicily either. Where are you boys from?”

“Santa Ana, California, sir. We are only here to visit our families at Granada. They were moved here in October,” I answered. “We brought them Christmas presents.”

“My name is Walters, Frank Walters. I remember spending a cold, wet Christmas at Cambrai, in France in 1917. I was at Belleau Wood as well, and with the Brits at Chateau-Thierry after the Germans broke through in 1918. I survived. A lot of them didn’t.”

“My uncle Joe was killed in the Argonne Forest,” I said. “His father and mother had only moved to the California in 1894 and they were proud of their American son. They were presented his Silver Star.”

“And now our government is involved with another war with Germany…and this time with those bastards, the Japanese,” said Walters, catching himself. He looked at the floor.

“You got a lot of family interned at Granada?” he asked.

“Most of them,” I frowned. “The others, a cousin and Private Okamoto’s brother are in the army. They are Japanese-Americans, you know.”

“I know,” breathed Walters. “Good farmers. I don’t think they deserve what they’re getting. Somebody’s up to no good but the country’s in a panic.”

“After Pearl Harbor it’s not hard to believe,” said Okamoto.

Walters returned to his previous state, not saying anything for a few minutes, just staring out the window and then to the door as if expecting a visitor.

“How old are you boys?” he asked, returning to the present.

“I’m 19 and Kiyoshi is 20,” said Okamoto.

“The same age as my Tommy,” said Walters. “He was lost when the West Virginia went down at Pearl Harbor last December. War does not discriminate, heh boys?”

We sat there in shock. After three days visiting Granada and 14 weeks training to kill Germans and perhaps even Japanese we thought we’d reached a certain sense of numbness. Now we were sitting here with a World War I vet who had lost a son to the Imperial Navy, to young men his age who looked like us.

“My name is Tommy,” offered Okamoto, stumbling over his words in some attempt to ease the pain that everyone at the table was feeling by now.

“You’re all just children,” said Walters, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “We were children too and it’s another Christmas. Children with guns and tanks and planes. Germans and Japanese and English and French. Dead because of power hungry leaders who can’t get along, or are they dead because war is the natural order of rational animals? It’s insane,” he shook his head methodically from side to side. “They put your families in camps and yet you volunteer.”

“No matter how bad things seem we must retain our honor,” said Okamoto.

“Honor,” answered Walters, gathering his emotions. “You boys had better drop back a few notches on the honor and hold on to a little common sense when you get over there,” he said. The Germans are entrenched all the way up the peninsula. It’ll be no picnic.”

“We’re not afraid to die for our country,” said Okamoto.

Walters smiled an almost shell-shocked smile and changed the subject to the wine he had drunk and the women he had met in France during his war. He then took us totally off guard and asked us to write him a letter saying that it would get to him in Lamar without an address.

“Just send it to Frank Walters,” he said.

We told him we’d send him a postcard from Rome and asked him to watch out for our families if he could.

“I’ll do that,” he said, getting up and disappearing into the snowstorm.

– Kevin Haley

 

Filed Under: Lifestyles at Risk

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