It is Sunday, December 7, 1941. It is chilly and gloomy outside, warm and cozy inside. I was in Dick’s House, admitted three days earlier with fever and flu. There was no more golf and tennis and I was looking forward to indoor squash. Winter months are closing in, exams are forthcoming, and Christmas is in our thoughts. There are six of us in our ward, we are just lolling around, and I am reading the sports pages of The Boston Globe. The New York Yankees had routed the Brooklyn Dodgers in the World Series in October. And then—boom—it happens! An exciting voice hollers, “Turn on your radio!” An announcer says, “…Pearl Harbor under attack by Japanese dive bombers!” None of us knows where Pearl Harbor is. As we gather around the radio, we hear, “Pearl Harbor is the U.S. Navy base in Hawaii, outside of Honolulu.”

The first bombs and tornadoes exploded at 7:55 a.m. in Hawaii. Twenty-two minutes earlier, radar reported unidentified objects to headquarters. Headquarters had thought they were a squadron of new B-17 bombers flying in from the mainland and did not sound the alarm. To me, 22 minutes is a lot of time to prepare to repulse an enemy air attack. Pearl Harbor was a complete shock: 2,335 American servicemen died, 19 Navy ships sunk or damaged, 325 Army and Navy aircraft lost, the vast majority lined up wingtip to wingtip on their designated air strips. On that traumatic afternoon, I just could not believe the news. Here I was in the junior class, the only Nisei on campus, with my parents in Japan. As I looked around, I saw all eyes on me, suspiciously, no doubt. I realized that my life on campus had changed instantly and drastically. One patient, a senior, told me, “Don’t worry, George, we know you’re an American.” A nurse added, “We also know you’re from Tokyo. We also know, from all reports, that you’re more American than lots of others here in Hanover.” I thought, “I am lucky I am a junior. Everybody knows me and my roommate, Nobu Mitsui. If we were freshmen, it might have been a different story.” Every one of us wondered, “What now?” I was especially worried about my best friend, Mary Yamamoto, in Los Angeles. America’s entry into World War II would change our lives forever.

Note: Mary and I would later marry—on April 2, 1943—while I was at the Army’s Military Intelligence Service Language School at Camp Savage, 15 miles outside of Minneapolis.

—George Shimizu, 2140 Sepulvida Ave., Milpitas, CA 94595; (408) 930-2488; marymariko@comcast.net