Yoshino Mountain in Japan
Tomoko Nagumo
The Admiral’s Daughter
At Yoshino Mountain every spring, the fairy maiden flies above each cherry tree, gently blowing warm air to awaken them and spur a cascade of stunning pink splashes. The next April, Tomoko would be in Washington, celebrating the mystical cherry blossoms in that far-off city. She wondered whether her life would follow the path that her father expected or if she would be able to step off and venture into the unknown. She desperately hoped that the fairy maiden would accompany her to America to awaken the sleeping beauty.
In the cramped offices of the Japanese secret police, the man pushed his glasses up on his nose as he squirmed at his desk, studying the file. He updated it to reflect Tomoko Nagumo’s pending move and made a note to pass it on to his counterpart at the embassy in Washington. Then he slammed the folder on his desk and picked up the phone.
Jack Pearcey
The Canadian student
“What about Mr. Churchill?” Jack asked. “Is he in danger?”
“Definitely,” his father replied. “Just last year, I was reading a book written by his bodyguard. Some of the stories are quite harrowing. I’m sure it’s even worse since the book came out. Hitler is undoubtedly plotting to assassinate the prime minister.”
Jack sighed. It all sounded quite terrifying.
“While you’re in Washington, maintaining secrecy will be vital. A single slip could cost thousands of soldiers, seamen and pilots their lives. It’s a serious job son.”
Takeo Yoshikawa
Japanese spy
While pretending to be a diplomat at the Japanese consulate in Honolulu, Yoshikawa would spy on the naval base at Pearl Harbor. One day, he tried to sneak onto the base by dressing in workman’s clothes and joining a group of Filipinos contracted to paint the battleships.
The Filipino worker looked puzzled and fixed his gaze on the Japanese man, continuing to stare for several seconds. Before Yoshikawa could say anything, the Filipino rushed to the head of the line and began talking animatedly with one of the guards. The naval Shore Patrol officer, dressed in his black pea coat with the letters SP on each arm, held his night stick in his left hand. As he listened to the Filipino painter, he touched his holster, which was carrying a .45 calibre automatic pistol.
The Shore Patrol officer was staring at Yoshikawa while the labourer gesticulated vigorously.
Moments later, the guard began running towards the Japanese man, drawing his weapon at the same time.
“Stop where you are,” the Shore Patrolman yelled, pointing at the interloper.
Yoshikawa took off running. The oppressive humidity seemed to slow him down as he willed his legs to move faster. His heart pounded and he was having trouble catching his breath. The painter cap flew off and landed on the pier.
The officer raised his pistol and squeezed out a single shot.
Doris Miller
Mess Attendant and amateur boxer, the USS West Virginia
“Are you ready for the title bout tonight,” George Langer whispered to Miller.
The twenty-year-old boxer nodded. “Yeah, I have done all the training, but I am nervous about fighting a white guy. What if I win?”
Langer was almost forty and had served on navy vessels for two decades, cooking meals and doing laundry. Over the years, he had seen everything imaginable. He knew all too well the challenges of being a black man in a segregated military that was dominated by whites. He was looking forward to Miller capturing the title of heavyweight champion on the battleship.
“You’re sure to win,” Langer grinned. “But when you do, just be certain not to gloat. White people hate it when black folks gloat.”
“Got it,” Miller said as he pushed open the door to grab the next plate in the kitchen.
Douglas Wada
Naval intelligence officer Douglas Wada, one of the few Japanese-Americans in the US Navy
His assignment: Be on the lookout for spies and saboteurs at the Pearl Harbor naval base and throughout Hawaii.
Douglas Wada was sitting at his desk at the federal building in downtown Honolulu, getting ready to wrap up his day as the clock approached 6 pm. Then the door burst open. A breathless young Japanese-American woman was standing at the entrance.
“I need to report something,” she insisted as she gasped for air.
Wada rushed over, grabbed her arm and directed her to a chair beside his desk. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
She nodded and he brought her a drink. She took a few sips and started to calm down.
“What’s your name?” Wada asked.
“Susan. Susan Kobayashi.”
“I’m Lieutenant Douglas Wada. Nice to meet you. What seems to be the problem?”
She had no idea where to begin so she just blurted it out. “It’s my boyfriend. I think he’s a Japanese spy.”