North Florida’s desolate lost highways.
When we eventually arrived and I was led out of the car, I could hear the surf and feel the Gulf breeze, and I knew we were somewhere along the coast.
I walked slowly, hesitantly, fearful of falling, finding it difficult to get traction in the sand. The guy behind me shoved me often and I stumbled forward, nearly but never quite tripping and falling.
As the blindfold was removed and my eyes adjusted, I could see we were standing inside the natural barrier formed by a group of sand dunes, the sea oats atop them waving in the wind.
The full moon shimmered across the surface of the black sea and cast shadows on the sand.
At first it was just me and the two Japanese men who brought me here, as we waited for Bunko Matsumoto’s arrival.
For a while neither of them said anything, the incoming tide and billowing breeze the only sounds swirling around us, but then one turned suddenly toward the Gulf.
“Look … there …” he said, pointing out past the beach toward the water slightly down from us. “There’s another one.”
The second man, the one with the gun, turned to look, and I followed the gazes of both men.
It took a few moments, but eventually I saw it too.
There, bathed in moonlight, like a black monster cresting the dark waters of the Gulf, a German submarine could just barely be seen.
It was interesting the visceral response seeing the U-boat had on me. Instantly, I felt exposed, vulnerable, and was overwhelmed with the feeling that I needed to report it, to find one of the lookout towers that had been erected every twelve miles along the coastline and make sure they too had spotted it.
By contrast, the two men with me were nonchalant, finding the sighting only mildly interesting.
Of course I knew the German sea wolves were trolling American shipping lanes—and finding what they were looking for, taking out vessels at a rate of two per day—and I had heard many fishermen claim to have seen them in our area, not far from shore. But to see one this close to land, to my hometown was a surreal experience.
Eventually, Bunko Matsumoto arrived and the sub submerged and wartime life went on.
“I’m sorry for the way you have been treated,” she said with only the slightest hint of an accent, “but we can’t take any chances. Your government is at war against us.”
“Y’all started it.”
“Not Japan. American citizens. I’m an American citizen. So are all those imprisoned in the internment camps. You saw the German sub out there a few minutes ago? You have far more to fear from it than all the Japanese-Americans combined. Where are the German relocation camps?”
I had nothing for that so I let it go.
From her sharp monotone voice and appearance, and the rigidity of her pinched expression, it was obvious that Bunko Matsumoto was not a woman to be messed with. Her no-nonsense glasses and haircut and clothes were all utilitarian and unattractive. There was no question she was imposing and strong-willed, but there was also something overly earnest and humorless about her, and I wondered was it a result of the circumstances under which we were meeting or her natural state.
“We blindfolded you so you wouldn’t see the way to our hideout, but at the last minute we decided to bring you here to the beach. We are all wanted by the police, by the government. For what? For being of Japanese descent. That is our only crime.”
She carefully withdrew a worn and wrinkled Western Union telegram from the inside of her coat pocket. She started to hand it to me then remembered my one arm was tied down to my waist.
She then said something in Japanese and the guy behind me removed the rope holding my arm down.
“Do you know where I was when I receive this telegram from our government that my husband had been killed fighting with the United States Army for his country? I was in prison. My country, the one my husband died for, had taken everything from us except what I
When we eventually arrived and I was led out of the car, I could hear the surf and feel the Gulf breeze, and I knew we were somewhere along the coast.
I walked slowly, hesitantly, fearful of falling, finding it difficult to get traction in the sand. The guy behind me shoved me often and I stumbled forward, nearly but never quite tripping and falling.
As the blindfold was removed and my eyes adjusted, I could see we were standing inside the natural barrier formed by a group of sand dunes, the sea oats atop them waving in the wind.
The full moon shimmered across the surface of the black sea and cast shadows on the sand.
At first it was just me and the two Japanese men who brought me here, as we waited for Bunko Matsumoto’s arrival.
For a while neither of them said anything, the incoming tide and billowing breeze the only sounds swirling around us, but then one turned suddenly toward the Gulf.
“Look … there …” he said, pointing out past the beach toward the water slightly down from us. “There’s another one.”
The second man, the one with the gun, turned to look, and I followed the gazes of both men.
It took a few moments, but eventually I saw it too.
There, bathed in moonlight, like a black monster cresting the dark waters of the Gulf, a German submarine could just barely be seen.
It was interesting the visceral response seeing the U-boat had on me. Instantly, I felt exposed, vulnerable, and was overwhelmed with the feeling that I needed to report it, to find one of the lookout towers that had been erected every twelve miles along the coastline and make sure they too had spotted it.
By contrast, the two men with me were nonchalant, finding the sighting only mildly interesting.
Of course I knew the German sea wolves were trolling American shipping lanes—and finding what they were looking for, taking out vessels at a rate of two per day—and I had heard many fishermen claim to have seen them in our area, not far from shore. But to see one this close to land, to my hometown was a surreal experience.
Eventually, Bunko Matsumoto arrived and the sub submerged and wartime life went on.
“I’m sorry for the way you have been treated,” she said with only the slightest hint of an accent, “but we can’t take any chances. Your government is at war against us.”
“Y’all started it.”
“Not Japan. American citizens. I’m an American citizen. So are all those imprisoned in the internment camps. You saw the German sub out there a few minutes ago? You have far more to fear from it than all the Japanese-Americans combined. Where are the German relocation camps?”
I had nothing for that so I let it go.
From her sharp monotone voice and appearance, and the rigidity of her pinched expression, it was obvious that Bunko Matsumoto was not a woman to be messed with. Her no-nonsense glasses and haircut and clothes were all utilitarian and unattractive. There was no question she was imposing and strong-willed, but there was also something overly earnest and humorless about her, and I wondered was it a result of the circumstances under which we were meeting or her natural state.
“We blindfolded you so you wouldn’t see the way to our hideout, but at the last minute we decided to bring you here to the beach. We are all wanted by the police, by the government. For what? For being of Japanese descent. That is our only crime.”
She carefully withdrew a worn and wrinkled Western Union telegram from the inside of her coat pocket. She started to hand it to me then remembered my one arm was tied down to my waist.
She then said something in Japanese and the guy behind me removed the rope holding my arm down.
“Do you know where I was when I receive this telegram from our government that my husband had been killed fighting with the United States Army for his country? I was in prison. My country, the one my husband died for, had taken everything from us except what I
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