A Superior Private, a historian remembers

  • Published
  • By Chief Master Sgt. Vicki M. Graham
SAN ANTONIO (AFPN) --  It was a rather typical workday for 20-year-old Joe Muratsuchi. After rising, he swept the shop where he worked as a bookkeeper. It was a good job, and he liked the work, mostly because he was good at numbers.

At certain hours of the day, he and a young co-worker would turn on the radio for the latest stock market quotes, listening especially for the current price of silk. But instead of market news, the first thing they heard this day was the national anthem, followed by an announcement from headquarters.

That typical day was Dec. 8, 1941, and Joe Muratsuchi -- American citizen -- was working not in his native Idaho, but for a company in Gifu, Japan.

"I knew something was going on, but didn't pay much attention, because I didn't speak Japanese very well," Mr. Muratsuchi said from his office at Hickam Air Force Base, Hawaii, where he now writes history for the Pacific Information Systems Division. "I could pick up a few words and phrases if they were spoken slowly, but that was all. I asked a co-worker what had happened, and that's when I found out the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor."

The following month, he received a pink slip-a draft notice-for induction into the Japanese Army.

"There was no escape," he recalled. "They wouldn't let me leave the country. The recruiting officer, a full colonel, told me, 'You're in Japan, your parents are Japanese, therefore, you are considered Japanese, too.' It didn't matter that I was a U.S. citizen."

If he refused to serve the emperor, Mr. Muratsuchi was faced with two choices: a harsh stint in a Japanese prison or death by firing squad.

Little did he know that when he arrived in Japan three years earlier as a 17-year-old graduate of Twin Falls High School, that he would one day serve a foreign government's army, especially during wartime. Born in Kentucky, Idaho, the American teenager had to travel to Japan with his parents so his ailing father could spend the last few years of his life with the brothers and sisters he had left behind nearly two decades earlier.

"My father became ill with diabetes at 55, and the doctor said he had only about two years to live if he retired and took it easy," Joe remembered. "The family encouraged him to sell our farmland and equipment and return to Japan, where he could live comfortably in retirement."

Young Muratsuchi knew a little Japanese, but not enough to read or write or continue his education. So he took a day job as a bookkeeper and attended language lessons at night. Curious about the country, Joe felt like a tourist on an extended visit. "We slept on straw mats and ate different foods than I was used to. I enjoyed it because everything was strange and new."

Shortly after he began work, a man in civilian clothes came to visit Joe's boss. "At the time, I didn't know he was there to find out about me," recalled the father of two. "He wanted to know about my attitude toward Japan and my work habits."

The mysterious man visited several times, then one day asked to see Joe. "That's when I found out he was with the Thought Police--the political arm of the Japanese military police. It was his job to keep track of my actions and movements."

Soon, the Thought Police asked to see the letters Joe had received from his stateside friends. Before long, he was required to visit their offices regularly to show them the contents of letters he planned to send.

"Each time, they became more insistent and began censoring my mail," Mr. Muratsuchi continued. "I heard they could be tough, so I did exactly what they said. I was told when I reached 20 I'd have to report for a physical. Those who passed would be drafted. "

He ended up Class A, the most likely to be called.

"That's when I told them I was an American and didn't understand why I should be drafted," Mr. Muratsuchi said, reliving the memory. "But it was no use. They said I'd have to report or face prison or a firing squad. Some choice!"

Three months after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Joe resigned himself to the reality of his ironic predicament and donned the uniform of a Japanese soldier. Still unable to speak the language well, he learned the hard way.

"And fast!" he added. "I didn't know what the words meant at first; I just tried to mimic everyone." A wrong response brought verbal abuse and beatings. At night, he asked fellow soldiers to say slowly the words of the Soldier's Code, which he was required to memorize. He wrote down phonetically the sounds he learned. The same for marching orders and other instructions.

"I learned quickly not to say 'I don't know' or 'I forgot,' " Mr. Muratsuchi said. "That was worse than a wrong answer and only brought on more beatings."

Basic training, which lasted six months, began with eight weeks of close-order drill. After that, trainees spent part of the day in drill and the rest learning their jobs, a combination of tech school and basic training. Joe was placed in a class of future truck drivers.

Living conditions were crude. "We slept on cots made from rice straw," he said. "We had no trunks or lockers, but stored our belongings on a shelf over out cots. Just for fun, some of the senior troopers would sneak in during the day and clean off our shelves with one sweep of a stick. When we came back at night, tired and dirty after working all day, we'd have to rearrange everything perfectly or face more punishment.

"Clothes were to be folded and stacked in a square," said the 66-year-old civilian employee, chuckling. "We used two pieces of wood to press the edges into a square. Have you ever tried to make a shirt look like a box?"

Uniforms were plain and practical. Solders were given one set of old uniforms and instructed not to launder them.

"They didn't want us wasting time cleaning them, since we wore the same uniform every day," Joe said, holding a finger to his nose. Trainees also received two undershirts, two pairs of pants, a "wheel" cap, a baseball cap, shoes and socks, and one dress uniform to wear during ceremonies or when parents were allowed their monthly visit.

During the last week of basic, trainees were instructed to get out their brushes and soap and scrub the caked-on mud and grease from their smelly uniforms. When they passed inspection, the hand-me-down wool uniforms were re-issued to the next crop of conscripts.

Wages were a paltry 5 yen a month, but when Private Muratsuchi transferred to overseas duty in China, his pay soared to 8.5 yen a month. Pay was low to be sure but the frugal could make it stretch till payday.

The Hickam-based historian spent the majority of his Army hitch driving trucks in China. When he was discharged four years later, he wore the rank of Superior Private, the highest private rank in the Japanese Army.

He stayed home for a month to rest and during that time, learned the occupation forces were looking for interpreters. So the young American, who learned to speak Japanese by trial and error, landed a job with the liaison forces. He later transferred to a government team to help solve legal and educational problems, and in 1947, he married his Japanese sweetheart. Soon after, he switched jobs again, this time working as an interpreter for Army intelligence.

That's when he discovered he could try to clarify his citizenship status. Since he had served the enemy, Mr. Muratsuchi was uncertain if he would ever be able to return to his U.S. home. He spent countless hours tracking down the mysterious man from the Thought Police and the recruiting colonel to obtain statements that would prove his allegiance to America.

"Luckily, they were still alive." Joe said, moving aside a stack of historical documents that seem to overrun his office. "The recruiting colonel was reluctant to cooperate at first, because he knew I worked for Army Intelligence. He thought I was there to investigate him for war crimes. When I finally convinced him of my reason for visiting, he said he was glad to see me and happy that I'd survived."

During his visit with the man from the Thought Police, Joe discovered that officials knew he was coming to Japan even before he arrived. "They started a file on me when my parents applied for my visa," he explained, still astonished they would be so interested in a young kid born in Idaho.

When he finally collected the needed statements in 1951, they filled a three-inch-thick folder. It had taken four years, but the former Japanese soldier was determined to prove he wasn't a traitor.

"Rather than apply for citizenship, I was advised to apply for a U.S. passport, since there was some confusion over my status," Mr. Muratsuchi said. If his passport were denied, it meant he had lost his citizenship and would have to apply for reinstatement first.

Upon arrival at the passport office, officials opened his bulging folder. On top lay a pink slip of paper similar to his now infamous draft notice. On it were the words, "drafted under duress." A few minutes later, Joe Muratsuchi walked out with his previous U.S. passport.

When the Army intelligence office closed at Nagoya in 1958 he transferred to Tokyo, and became a clerk in the history office at Camp Zama, Japan. Seven months later, the history office closed, and Joe moved to Hawaii as an editorial assistant, becoming a historian in 1963.

His father slowed regained his strength and health and lived not only two years, but another 20. Joe's son is an Army major in the Corps of Engineers, and his daughter is a certified public accountant in Hawaii.

The dentures he wears are a grim reminder of the beatings Private Muratsuchi suffered when he didn't respond correctly to orders from his Japanese superiors.

But Joe understands and bears no grudges and has no regrets. The man who once needed a co-worker to tell him about the attack on Pearl Harbor believes he was given new life as an interpreter, even though he learned most of the language as a soldier serving the Japanese empire.

Today, he occasionally travels to Japan, where his mother still lives. In a way, his life has come full circle. Most of his days are spent only a few miles from the Arizona War Memorial, a reminder of the fateful day in 1941 that eventually helped turn American-born Joe Muratsuchi into a Superior Private.

Note: This article reprinted from Airman magazine, December, 1987.