Japanese POWs in Wisconsin Were Served White Rice — They Thought It Was a Death Row Meal…
On a bitter cold morning in February 1944, a train carrying 183 Japanese prisoners of war pulled into the station at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin. The temperature had dropped to 14° below zero, and frost covered every window of the passenger cars. Inside, Lieutenant Commander Teeshi Yamamoto pressed his face against the frozen glass, watching the endless white landscape roll past. He had expected many things when he surrendered to American forces in the Aleutian Islands 6 months earlier. Interrogation, hard labor, perhaps even execution.
But he had never imagined snow like this, stretching as far as the eye could see. As the train shuddered to a stop, Yamamoto turned to his fellow officers and whispered words that would prove tragically ironic. Whatever happens here, we must die with honor. What these men could not have known was that their deeply held beliefs about enemy treatment, shaped by years of military indoctrination were about to collide with a reality so unexpected that it would fundamentally transform their understanding of the conflict they had been fighting.
The prisoners filed off the train in formation, their breath forming clouds in the freezing air. Most wore only the tropical uniforms they had been captured in, supplemented by whatever blankets American forces had provided during their journey across the Pacific. Yamamoto noticed that the American guards waiting on the platform carried weapons, but their faces showed none of the contempt he had been trained to expect. Instead, they looked almost concerned as they watched the shivering prisoners descend into the bitter Wisconsin cold.
This way, gentlemen, called out Captain Robert Henderson, the camp’s liaison officer. He spoke through an interpreter, a Japanese American sergeant named Henry Tanaka. We have warm buildings waiting. As they marched through the camp gates, Yamamoto took careful note of everything. The barbed wire fences stood 12 ft high with guard towers positioned every 200 yd. Machine gun imp placements were visible at strategic points. This was clearly a secure facility. But something puzzled him. The guards in the towers were wearing heavy coats and seemed more focused on staying warm than watching the new arrivals with hostility.
The prisoners were led to a series of wooden barracks, each heated by coal burning stoves that filled the rooms with blessed warmth. As the men crowded around the stoves, rubbing their frozen hands, American soldiers brought in heavy wool coats, thick socks, and insulated boots. Yamamoto watched his men’s faces as they received these items. Confusion was written across every expression. In the Japanese military, they had been taught that prisoners were treated as less than human, unworthy of even basic consideration.
“Why are they giving us these things?” whispered Enen Hiroshi Nakamura, a young pilot who had been shot down over Atu Island. What do they want from us? I do not know, Yamamoto replied quietly. But accept nothing as kindness. This may be a trick to make us lower our guard. That evening, after the prisoners had been assigned to their bunks and given time to settle in, an announcement was made that dinner would be served in the mess hall.
The men lined up cautiously, still uncertain of what to expect. As they entered the large dining facility, they saw American soldiers setting up serving stations with large metal containers of food. The smell that filled the air was unmistakable. Rice, but not just any rice. As Yamamoto reached the serving line, an American soldier ladled a generous portion onto his metal tray. The rice was perfectly white, each grain distinct and gleaming. It was the kind of rice that in Japan only officers and wealthy civilians could afford regularly.
For most of his men, who had grown up eating mixed grains or rice stretched with barley, this represented luxury beyond their normal experience. The color drained from Yamamoto’s face. He turned to Nakamura, who stood behind him in line, and saw the same realization dawning in the young man’s eyes. In Japanese culture and military tradition, condemned prisoners were traditionally given a final meal of white rice, red beans, and fish, the finest foods, before their execution. The practice dated back centuries and was considered a final gesture of respect before death.
“They are going to execute us,” Nakamura whispered, his voice trembling. “This is our last meal,” the murmur spread through the line like wildfire. Within minutes, every prisoner in the mesh hall understood what they believed to be their fate. Some men began to weep quietly. Others stood rigid, determined to face death with the dignity expected of Japanese servicemen. A few tried to eat, forcing down mouthfuls of the rice that they were certain marked their final hours. Yamamoto, as the senior officer present, knew he had to maintain order.
He stood up and addressed his men in Japanese, his voice steady despite the fear he felt. We knew this day might come when we were captured. We will face what comes with courage. Eat the meal they have given us. Do not give them the satisfaction of seeing us break. The American guards and staff watched in growing confusion as the prisoners ate in near total silence, many with tears streaming down their faces. Some refused to eat at all, sitting with their heads bowed in what appeared to be prayer.
Others ate mechanically as if forcing themselves through an ordeal. Captain Henderson approached Sergeant Tanaka with concern. What’s happening? Why are they so upset? Tanaka spoke quietly with several of the prisoners, then returned to Henderson with a stunned expression. Sir, they think you’re going to execute them. They believe this is their final meal before death. Henderson’s jaw dropped. What? Why would they think that? The white rice, sir. In Japanese tradition, condemned prisoners receive white rice as part of their last meal.
They’ve never seen prisoners of war treated this way. They think the white rice means they’re going to be taken out and shot. For a moment, Henderson could not speak. Then he let out a long breath and ran his hand through his hair. My god, we need to fix this immediately. Within the hour, every officer at Camp McCoy who spoke any Japanese along with all the interpreters were gathered in the messaul. Henderson stood before the assembled prisoners with Tanaka beside him.
Gentlemen, Henderson began, waiting for Tanaka to translate. There has been a terrible misunderstanding. You are not going to be executed. The white rice is not a final meal. This is simply what we serve at this camp. You will receive white rice at every meal along with meat, vegetables, and bread. This is standard treatment for all prisoners of war under the Geneva Convention. The prisoners stared at him in disbelief. Yamamoto stood up slowly. You are saying we will eat like this everyday?
Yes, Henderson replied firmly through Tanaka. Every day, three meals a day. The Geneva Convention requires that prisoners of war receive the same rations as our own troops. Our soldiers eat white rice, therefore you eat white rice. A Japanese lieutenant named Kenji Sato, who had been a school teacher before the conflict, raised his hand hesitantly. In our country, we were told that prisoners in American hands would be tortured and worked until they died. We were told that surrender meant dishonor and death.
Henderson nodded slowly. I cannot speak to what you were told. I can only show you how we actually operate. You will be treated according to international law. You will work, yes, but at fair tasks and for wages that will be credited to your account. You will receive medical care when needed. You will be allowed to write letters home once we establish the proper channels. And you will eat the same food as American soldiers. The mesh hall remained silent as the prisoners processed this information.
Then slowly Nakamura began to laugh. It started as a quiet chuckle, but built into something more hysterical. The laughter of a man who had been certain he would die and had just learned he would live. Soon others joined him, the tension of the past hours breaking in waves of nervous laughter mixed with tears. Over the following days and weeks, the reality of Camp McCoy continued to upend everything the prisoners had been taught to expect. They were assigned to work details, maintaining camp facilities, cutting timber in the surrounding forests, and working in the camp’s agricultural programs.
But they worked 8-hour days with breaks, not the brutal labor they had anticipated. They were paid 80 cents per day in camp script, which they could use to purchase items from the camp store. The camp store itself became a source of wonder. It stocked cigarettes, candy, writing materials, and even musical instruments. Yamamoto, using his accumulated script, purchased a small notebook and began keeping a detailed diary of his experiences. His entries from those early weeks reveal a man struggling to reconcile his previous worldview with his current reality.
February 23rd, 1944, Indi wrote in careful characters, “Today we received our third consecutive meal of white rice, also beef stew with carrots and potatoes, “The portions are generous. No one is hungry.” I do not understand this. At Rabul, our own troops were eating rice mixed with anything we could find, roots, leaves, insects. when we could catch them. Here in an enemy prison camp, we eat better than we did when serving our emperor. This troubles me deeply. As winter gave way to spring, the dynamics at Camp McCoy continued to evolve in unexpected ways.
The prisoners were allowed to organize their own internal governance structure with Yamamoto serving as the elected representative to camp leadership. They formed educational classes, teaching each other English and various academic subjects. They created a baseball team that occasionally played against the American guards who turned out to be remarkably good-natured about losing to the prisoners. Enen Nakamura, who had artistic talent, was given art supplies and began painting scenes from the camp and the surrounding Wisconsin countryside. His watercolors captured the strange paradox of their situation.
Enemy combatants living in comfortable captivity while a brutal conflict raged across the Pacific. Medical care proved to be another source of astonishment when a prisoner named Ichiro Tanaka developed appendicitis in April of 1944. He was immediately transported to the camp hospital. An American army surgeon performed the operation, assisted by American nurses who treated Tanaka with the same professional care they would give any patient. The surgery was successful and Tanaka received a private room for his recovery along with pain medication and careful monitoring.
“They saved my life,” Tanaka told Yamamoto afterward, still weak from the surgery. “The doctor told me through the nurse that the appendix would have ruptured within hours. In a Japanese camp with our limited medical supplies, I would have died. Here, they operated on me as if I were one of their own wounded soldiers. Perhaps the most profound change came in how the prisoners viewed their captives on an individual level. Captain Henderson made it a point to walk through the camp regularly, greeting prisoners by name and asking about their welfare through interpreters.
He organized educational programs where prisoners could learn about American history and government. He arranged for the showing of Hollywood movies carefully selected to avoid conflict themes, which became a popular entertainment. One evening in May, Henderson joined a group of prisoners, including Yamamoto, for an informal conversation. Through Tanaka’s interpretation, they discussed their lives before the conflict. Henderson talked about growing up on a farm in Iowa, attending the state university, and becoming a teacher before being commissioned in the army.
Yamamoto described his career in the Japanese Navy, his wife and two daughters in Yokohama, and his love of poetry. Do you miss them terribly? Henderson asked. Your family. Yamamoto nodded. Everyday. I do not know if they even know I am alive. The last they heard, my ship was in the Illusions. They may believe I died there. We’re working on establishing a letterw writing program through neutral countries. Henderson said, “It’s complicated, but we’re trying. I think you should be able to send word to your family within the next few months.” That night, Yamamoto wrote in his diary, “Captain Henderson asked about my family today.
He seemed genuinely concerned for my pain at being separated from them. How can I reconcile this man’s kindness with what I was taught about the Americans? We were told they were devils, barbarians without honor. Yet Henderson treats us with more consideration than many of our own officers showed their subordinate troops. I am beginning to understand that we were lied to about many things. As spring turned to summer, the camp’s agricultural program expanded. Prisoners worked alongside American soldiers to plant and tend extensive vegetable gardens.
They grew tomatoes, beans, squash, and corn. The produce supplemented the camp’s food supply, and the prisoners were allowed to keep a portion for their own use. On warm evenings, they would gather outside the barracks, grilling vegetables on improvised hibachi style cookers they had built with permission from camp authorities. Lieutenant Sato, the former school teacher, organized English classes that became hugely popular. Many prisoners were eager to learn the language of their captives, driven partly by practical concerns, but increasingly by genuine curiosity about American culture.
The English language is very different from Japanese. S explained to his students one afternoon. It lacks the formal levels of politeness we use. Everyone speaks more or less the same way regardless of rank. At first I thought this showed lack of culture. Now I see it differently. There is a kind of equality in how they speak to each other, even between officers and enlisted men. In July of 1944, the prisoners received news that a mail system had indeed been established.
They would be allowed to write letters of no more than 100 words to family members, which would be reviewed by sensors and then transmitted through the International Red Cross. The letters would take months to reach Japan, if they arrived at all, but it was still a connection to the world they had left behind. Yamamoto labored over his letter for days, writing and rewriting the brief message. Finally, he settled on simple words. I am alive and well. I am being treated fairly.
Please tell the girls I think of them everyday. I hope this conflict ends soon so I can see you all again. Please take care of your health. With deepest affection, Teeshi. When he submitted the letter to the sensors, the American sergeant who reviewed it had tears in his eyes. This will go out, commander, he said through Tanaka. I promise we’ll do everything we can to make sure it reaches your wife. The summer also brought an unexpected development.
A group of prisoners requested permission to construct a small Shinto shrine within the camp. After considerable discussion with camp leadership and army headquarters, the request was approved. The prisoners built a modest wooden structure and dedicated it with appropriate ceremonies. American guards attended the dedication out of curiosity and respect, removing their caps in recognition of the religious nature of the event. In all my years of service, Yamamoto told Nakamura after the dedication, I never imagined I would practice my faith freely while being held prisoner by the enemy.
Yet here we are in the middle of Wisconsin, maintaining our traditions with the blessing of our captives. As 1944 progressed, news from the Pacific filtered into the camp through newspapers and radio broadcasts. The prisoners learned of American advances through the islands. Each victory bringing the conflict closer to Japan itself. The news brought mixed emotions. Pride in their comrades who continued to fight, but also growing concern for their homeland and families. In September, a new group of prisoners arrived at Camp McCoy, bringing fresh perspectives.
Among them was Commander Yoshiro Fuja, who had been captured after his submarine was forced to surface. Fuja was shocked by what he found at the camp. This cannot be real, he told Yamamoto during their first conversation. You are well-fed, healthy, even content. This must be some elaborate deception. Yamamoto smiled sadly. I said the same thing when I arrived. I promise you this is simply how they treat prisoners. You will see. Give it time. Fuja’s transformation mirrored what many prisoners had experienced.
Within weeks, his suspicion gave way to confusion, then to reluctant acceptance of the reality around him. By the winter of 1944 to 45, Camp McCoy had evolved into something remarkable. The prisoners had organized a small orchestra, published a camp newspaper in Japanese, and held athletic competitions and poetry readings. Lieutenant Commander Yamamoto had become a bridge between the prisoner population and camp leadership. During one meeting in January of 1945, Henderson shared troubling news. Commander, the reports coming from the Pacific are increasingly difficult.
The fighting is intense and casualties on both sides are very high. I know many of your men worry about their families in Japan. Yamamoto nodded gravely. We hear the radio broadcasts. We know the American forces are approaching our homeland. We know what this means. I want you to understand, Henderson continued, that regardless of what happens in the Pacific, your treatment here will not change. You are prisoners of war under the Geneva Convention. That protection continues until the conflict ends, no matter how it ends.
As the winter months passed, the news from the Pacific grew more grave. For Yamamoto, the contrast between his comfortable captivity and the suffering he knew must be occurring in Japan created a profound sense of guilt and confusion. “I eat white rice three times a day,” he wrote in his diary in March of 1945. While my countrymen fight and die, while my family endures hardships I cannot imagine. What have I become yet? I cannot say I regret surviving.
Is that weakness? or is it simply being human? Then came August. On August 6th, 1945, news reached Camp McCoy of a massive new weapon dropped on Hiroshima. The details were unclear at first, but within days, the scale of the destruction became apparent. On August 9th, another such weapon fell on Nagasaki. The prisoners were devastated. Many had family in or near these cities. Camp leadership made the decision to be as transparent as possible with the prisoners. Captain Henderson met with Yamamoto to express his own horror at the weapon’s destructive power.
Commander, I know that words are inadequate, Henderson said. I want you to know that we will do everything possible to help you get information about your families. The Red Cross is working on this. On August 15, 1945, the prisoners were assembled to hear an important announcement. Through interpreters, they learned that Japan had agreed to end the conflict. Emperor Hirohito himself had addressed the nation accepting the terms of surrender. The reaction among the prisoners was complex and varied.
Some wept openly, mourning Japan’s defeat. Others felt relief that the fighting would finally stop. Many experienced a confusing mixture of shame, grief, and hope. Yamamoto stood before his men and spoke with characteristic thoughtfulness. Our nation has endured a terrible defeat. Many of us have lost family members and friends. Our cities have been destroyed. This is a dark day for Japan. But we are alive. We have survived. And perhaps from this destruction, something new can grow. We have seen here in this camp that our former enemies can be honorable and humane.
Perhaps this is a lesson we should carry forward. The weeks following the surrender brought dramatic changes to Camp McCoy. The facility was no longer holding enemy prisoners, but rather displaced persons awaiting repatriation. The restrictions eased further and the relationship between the former prisoners and the American staff evolved into something approaching friendship in many cases. Commander Yamamoto was scheduled to return to Japan in November of 1945. As his departure date approached, Captain Henderson hosted a small farewell dinner with several of the prisoner leaders and American officers.
Commander, Henderson said as the evening wound down, “I want you to know that your dignity and leadership made this work. You helped your men adjust to a situation that must have been bewildering and frightening. That took wisdom and courage.” Yamamoto bowed formally. “Captain Henderson, you showed me that my enemies could be men of honor. You challenged everything I believed about Americans, about this conflict, about the meaning of duty and humanity. I do not know what I will find when I return to Japan, but I will never forget my time here, or the kindness shown to us when we expected only cruelty.
The train that carried Yamamoto and his group away from Camp McCoy in November passed through the same snowy landscape they had arrived in nearly 2 years earlier, but everything had changed. Yamamoto continued his diary during the long journey. His final entry before sailing captured the magnitude of his transformation. Tomorrow we return to Japan. I do not know what we will find there. The destruction must be terrible. The rebuilding will take years. But I am bringing something valuable back with me.
The knowledge that the world is more complex than our military leaders told us. I learned that enemies can show kindness, that strength can include mercy, that honor exists in many forms. Most importantly, I learned that I was wrong to believe death was preferable to surrender. Life gave me time to think, to learn, to grow. When Yamamoto’s ship docked in Yokohama Harbor in early December, he found a city transformed by destruction. Entire neighborhoods had been reduced to rubble, yet life was beginning to reassert itself.
The Japanese spirit of resilience was already at work. Yamamoto made his way to where his family had lived. The building was damaged, but still standing. When he knocked on the door, his wife, Ko, answered. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, unable to believe it was real. Then she was in his arms, and both were crying. His daughters, now 9 and 12 years old, hung back shily at first. They barely remembered their father. But as the days passed, they began to know each other again.
Ko told him about the hardships they had endured. She had received only one of his letters from Camp McCoy, but that single message had given her hope when she needed it most. Now hearing his stories of the camp, she struggled to believe what he was telling her. “White rice everyday,” she said incredulous. “While we were eating rice mixed with sawdust and counting ourselves lucky to have it.” “Teshi, how is this possible?” “I know,” he replied. “The guilt of eating well while you suffered was almost unbearable.
But Ko, I learned things there that I believe can help Japan now. The Americans are not the demons we were told they were. In the years that followed, Yamamoto became involved in Japan’s reconstruction efforts. His understanding of American culture, gained during his time at Camp McCoy, proved valuable as Japan navigated its new relationship with its former enemy. He maintained correspondence with Captain Henderson for years. In one letter from 1952, Henderson wrote, “I often think about that first dinner at Camp McCoy when your men thought the white rice meant they were going to be executed.
In a way, that moment contained everything about the misunderstandings that made the conflict possible.” Yamamoto shared his story with many people, particularly young Japanese, trying to understand their nation’s past and future. He always emphasized the danger of dehumanizing your enemy and the importance of questioning what you are told. Ensen Nakamura went on to become an artist of some renown in Japan. His paintings from Camp McCoy were eventually displayed in exhibitions. One painting titled The First Meal showed prisoners staring down at trays of white rice, their faces a mixture of fear and resignation.
Lieutenant Sato returned to education. He became a professor of English and American studies using his experiences to teach students about cross-cultural understanding. Camp McCoy itself continued to operate as a military installation. In later years, a museum was established documenting the camp’s history. Among the exhibits is a replica of a mess hall from 1944 with a display explaining the white rice incident. The story of the Japanese prisoners at Camp McCoy illustrates the profound human capacity for both cruelty and kindness, the power of preconceptions to shape perception, and the possibility of transformation even in conflict.
In 1985, several former prisoners, including Commander Yamamoto, returned to Wisconsin. They were joined by American guards and staff, including Captain Henderson, now retired. Yamamoto gave a speech that brought many to tears. When we first saw white rice in the messaul, he said in fluent English, “We thought it was our final meal before execution.” That misconception taught me more about the nature of conflict than any battle. We had been taught that our enemies were inhuman. Instead, we found men who followed laws, who showed mercy, who saw us as human beings.
What makes this story particularly powerful is how a simple meal became a lens through which to view much larger issues. For the Japanese prisoners, the white rice represented everything they feared. The reality upended their worldview in a way that no propaganda could have done. The transformation took weeks and months of accumulated experiences. Each meal of white rice, each act of basic decency, each moment of fair treatment added to evidence that could not be dismissed. This gradual transformation illustrates an important truth about how humans change deeply held beliefs.
When confronted day after day with evidence that contradicts our expectations, our beliefs begin to shift. The story also highlights the importance of how we treat those in our power. By treating prisoners well, by following the Geneva Convention, American personnel created conditions in which former enemies could begin to see each other as human beings.
The white rice incident has become a touchstone story in discussions about cultural misunderstanding. It is taught in training programs and discussed in peace studies courses. In 21st century Japan, Commander Yamamoto’s diary has been published and has become a classic. His honest reflections on his changing perceptions resonate with readers decades later.
