Chapter 21

CALIFORNIA, NOVEMBER 1942

PRESTON DOZED IN THE REAR SEAT of the Chrysler New Yorker. The flight into Los Angeles had been delayed seven hours by a preview of winter in Chicago where heavy sleet grounded all traffic. McCloy, in a briefing before Preston boarded a C-47 at Washington’s Andrews Air Force Base, stressed the importance of this trip. The Japanese relocation program was becoming a public relations nightmare. If he had to kick some ass to get the resettlement completed, do so.

“Lieutenant, rise and shine,” Sergeant Billy Shawn said, snapping a glance in the rearview mirror. The twenty-five year veteran intended to retire at the end of December 1941 and buy a fishing boat. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor changed his plans. Pulling the short straw among the available drivers in the motor pool, Shaw was assigned the Chrysler to drive the “snot nose” lieutenant from D.C.

Preston squinted into the brilliant warm California sun, catching a sign that read “Welcome to Arcadia.” Trying to stretch out in a booth in the airport’s bar had proven futile. The twenty-five minute nap gave him a boost of energy. He hadn’t missed anything—miles of scrub brush bisected by a two lane highway. Nothing grew in the fields but rabbits.

“Do you play the ponies, lieutenant?” Shawn asked over his shoulder. “Been coming here since they opened in ’34. I saw Seabiscuit win his last race here in 1940.”

In the distance, the outline of Santa Anita Park racetrack appeared on the horizon. The Chrysler eased off the highway and entered an area marked “RESTRICTED.”

“Not my thing,” Preston replied. He opened his leather satchel and rummaged through a pack of papers. They approached the main gate of the thoroughbred track that was considered the jewel of wintertime horse racing in the United States. Manicured azaleas formed a mural of a galloping horse.

An eight foot high chain linked fence topped with barbed wire ringed the entire complex. The Chrysler rolled to a stop at a whitewashed guardhouse. A wood railroad crossing barrier blocked the road. The baby-face that peered into the car was partially obscured by a helmet stenciled with “MP.” Preston rolled down the window and thrust his credentials into the kid’s face. Only a few years younger than the officer in the rear of the staff car, the MP’s eyes widened as he read “Office of the Assistant Secretary of War.” He managed a stammering southern drawl, “Thank you sir, and y’all have a nice day” and raised the gate.

Acquired on March 20 by the Wartime Civil Control Administration, Santa Anita became the largest Japanese American assembly center in the United States. The Chrysler turned left as it cleared the guardhouse, entering a no-man’s land that extended fifty yards to another barbed wire topped fence. Guard towers with .50 caliber machine guns covered the grounds on the four corners of the complex.

“Shawn, stop,” Preston ordered. He stepped out of the car and approached the inner fence. Four hundred temporary barracks had been constructed in the parking lot to house a population averaging four thousand. From his vantage point, milling about was the main activity for the adults. A game of touch football was being played by a group of kids in an alley between the rough sawn buildings. Preston got back into the car and tapped Shawn on the shoulder. “Go.”

Shawn hugged the inside fence, following the barbed wire to a second guardhouse and parked next to a staff car bearing the flag of a Lt. General John DeWitt.

An MP opened the left rear passenger door and stood at attention. Preston grabbed his satchel from the car. “Lieutenant, follow me,” the master sergeant said.

“I want a tour,” Preston said firmly. This MP wasn’t a kid and by the looks of his face, had been in more fights than Preston had credits from Princeton. The .45 automatic added to his no-nonsense air.

As tall as Preston, the MP looked into the young lieutenant’s eyes. “General DeWitt is waiting.”

“Sergeant Shawn,” Preston said, waiting for Shawn to get out of the car. “Take care of my case.” He handed Shawn the satchel and proceeded to walk around the guardhouse toward what was once the paddock. It now held barracks like those in the parking lot.

“The General isn’t going to be pleased,” the MP said.

“I’ll handle it,” Preston said, crossing between two rows of barracks. Plush grass had been pulverized to raw dirt. Wisps of dust rose with each of his long strides. The MP remained two steps behind. A middle age Japanese woman stood in an open doorway. Despite the conditions, her pink flowered dress was starched and pressed. “How long have you’ve been here, mam?”

“Since May,” the woman replied in impeccable English. Bitterness dripped from her every word. “Two days after my daughter graduated from U.C.L.A.”

“What did she major in?” Preston asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Education,” the woman replied. “She’s over at the center, teaching reading to fourth graders.”

“Do you mind?” Preston asked, as he stepped toward the entrance of the makeshift dwelling.

She shook her head no, pointing to Preston’s feet. “Your shoes.”

Preston looked at the shoes lined up outside all the doors. He slipped off his brogues and stepped inside. The twenty by twenty barrack was home to three families. A woman and two elderly men, who Preston assumed to be grandparents, and a man who appeared to be in his late thirties were reading on their Army manufactured beds. Each resident was given one blanket and one straw tick on arrival, having left any comforts at home except for what they could carry in one suitcase.

The younger man put his book down on the cot and sat up. “How long do you expect to keeps us here? We were supposed to be in permanent housing with private bathrooms and cooking facilities months ago.” He pointed to a chamber pot. “How would you feel if your mother had to relieve herself in front of you in the middle of the night?”

One of the elder women said, “You wouldn’t allow us to become citizens because we were born in Japan. But my daughter and son-in-law and their children were born in Los Angeles, and they are forced to live like animals.”

A child with Caucasian features, Preston thought to be three or four, ran to one of the older women and asked for his mother. “She’s at home,” the woman said as he crawled into her lap. Preston didn’t have to ask why the child’s mother wasn’t in the camp—non-Japanese married to Japanese were not permitted to accompany their families. Children of mixed couples were considered Japanese and were relocated without their mothers.

Despite the balmy weather, the barrack was uncomfortable. Small windows provided little ventilation. With perspiration dripping down his back, Preston couldn’t imagine what the conditions were like in the buildings erected on the asphalt parking lot.

“The Nazis used their Nuremberg laws to strip Jews of their citizenship and property and to move them into ghettos,” the man said as he moved his son to his own lap. “Here, my government does the same, but uses the excuse of national security.”

Preston didn’t reply, turned on his heels and walked back into the sunshine to put on his shoes. The MP, standing with his arms crossed, looked amused. “What’s over there?” Preston asked, pointing to a low row of buildings.

“The horse stables,” the MP replied. “The troublemakers are housed there.”

Preston was looking at the rear of the structures. He walked a well beaten path that cut through an opening in the center of the red painted buildings. Preston counted thirty stalls. Half of the rolling doors were open. Toddlers, chased by their older siblings, ran stall to stall. A menu of disparate music coalesced into a cacophony noise. Preston stood in disbelief. The outline of a man resting against the doorway ten stalls away looked familiar. Preston walked toward the compact figure leisurely puffing on a pipe.

“Lieutenant, be careful. That one’s trouble,” the MP warned.

“Tommy Shikiro,” Preston called out. He hadn’t seen the Princeton debating club member and engineering honors student for four years.

Shikiro smiled with his toothy grin. “Preston Swedge or should I say Lieutenant Swedge.” He hopped to attention and gave Preston a comical salute. A plum colored bruise extended from beneath his right eye to the middle of his cheek.

Inching his hand onto the handle of his nightstick, the MP ordered, “Shikiro, have some respect. Lieutenant, he’s one of the organizers of several demonstrations we’ve needed to break up.”

Preston turned to the MP. “I want some privacy with Mr. Shikiro.”

“I’ll wait at the cut through,” the MP snorted as he walked away.

“Ben-son,” Shikiro yelled in an exaggerated Japanese accent. “Fuck you!”

Preston suppressed a laugh. “Still the same old Tommy.” He examined Shikiro’s bruised face. “Slip on a bar of soap?”

“Benson and I had a difference of opinion,” Shikiro said, relighting his pipe. “Come into my humble abode.”

Preston took his place in the doorway. The space intended to house a fourteen hundred pound horse had two beds. Sunshine coming through a barred window spotlighted a vase with a single wilted rose atop an orange crate serving as a night table. A bright yellow dress was hung on a nail. “Wife?”

“Married two years ago,” Shikiro said. “Nancy is at the showers. She should be back any minute.”

“Cozy,” Preston said as he swung at several flies dancing around his head.

“Don’t hurt our pets,” Shikiro quipped. He moved a book on Constitutional law and sat on one of the beds. “Make yourself comfortable. I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but my kitchen appliances are back in L.A.” He re-lit his pipe. “Sent from D.C. to evaluate the Fifth Column threat?”

“Something like that,” Preston said. He remained close to the door. “I thought you were in Massachusetts?”

Shikiro sighed. “I was until I married Nancy. Decided to move back to California to be near our families. I got a job at Boeing. That was back in the day when being Japanese American wasn’t a liability.”

Preston didn’t have an encouraging answer. “I’ll try to get you out of here.”

“Preston, your debating skills were less than mediocre. They haven’t improved. Most of the inmates…”

“Residents,” Preston interrupted.

“As I said,” Shikiro continued, “most of the inmates are being shipped north to Manzanar. A prison camp is still a prison camp, but as Benson said, I’m a troublemaker, and troublemakers are being segregated from the subservient. Nancy and I could be here for the duration.”

“I wasn’t bullshitting about trying to get you and your wife out,” Preston said, extending his hand. “I’ve got to go.”

“The oath of a Princeton man,” Shikiro said as he stood and shook hands. “I forgot to ask, how’s that piece of shit roommate of yours?”

“That piece of shit is learning to be a pilot,” Preston said.

“If there’s a god,” Shikiro said pensively, “the bastard will fly into the side of a mountain.”

Preston laughed. “That would make a lot of Princetonians happy. I’ll be seeing you.” He walked toward the stone-like Benson standing in the cut through. “If I hear that Shikiro is harmed in anyway, you’ll be shoveling shit in Louisiana.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Lieutenant,” Benson said.

“Take me to DeWitt.”

They returned to the guardhouse. Preston retrieved his leather satchel from Shawn and followed Benson through the jockeys’ locker room to a flight of steps. “To the left are the offices,” Benson said.

“Remember what I said about Shikiro,” Preston said. Benson gave him a halfhearted salute then turned on his heels. Preston took the steps two-at-a-time. He entered the camp’s administration office where twenty bureaucrats tried to maintain essential services.

A strawberry blonde, Lana Turner look-alike manned the reception desk. Her white sweater could’ve been painted on. She raised an eyebrow as she looked at the clock. The lieutenant was due by 11:00 a.m. It was approaching 12:30. “If you’re Lieutenant Swedge,” she said in her best casting couch voice, “go right in.”

Preston checked her left hand for a wedding band, but doubted it would make any difference if she did. The brass nameplate still said “Owen Richardson.” McCloy hinted that Richardson was making five times the yearly net profit for the time that the track was closed. He rapped twice and entered. “Lieutenant Preston Swedge,” he said as he came to attention and saluted.

“You’re an hour and a half late,” General DeWitt fumed.

A bank of glass overlooked a sea of canvas tents setup on the racing oval. Richardson’s desk was moved against the opposite wall to make room for a conference table and six chairs.

Preston took a chair at the opposite end of the table from DeWitt. The general, long past retirement age, made the introductions. Preston didn’t need any. From the files McCoy provided, he recognized Milton Eisenhower, head of the War Relocation Authority and Colonel Karl Bendetsen, who was attached to the staff of Provost Marshal Allen Gullion. Eisenhower bore the striking resemblance to his brother, General Dwight Eisenhower.

The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke and burnt coffee. Preston removed a manila folder from his satchel. “Mr. McCloy,” he said, passing three identical letters to Eisenhower who in turn passed them to DeWitt and Bendetsen, “wants this place closed down. The fifteen permanent sites were scheduled for completion three months ago.”

Eisenhower paled. “In his last trip, Mr. McCloy said he understood the obstacles we face.”

Preston placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. “No longer. He’s lost his patience.”