“Three Times Bigger Than Japanese Men”—Japanese POW Women Compared American Cowboys to Soldiers Back

September 15, 1944, saw 17 Japanese women prisoners of war, captured months earlier in the Aleutian Islands, transferred from a military transport truck to an unfamiliar world. They had been told they were being sent to a temporary detention facility, but they quickly realized that what awaited them in West Texas was something far from what they expected. These women had been forced into service as civilian administrators and nurses for the Japanese military. Now, in a dusty, sun-baked corner of America, they were about to face a reality that would challenge everything they had been taught about their enemies.

The camp they arrived at was far from the inhumane conditions they had imagined. Unlike the dreaded prison camps in enemy territory they had been warned about, the Henderson Ranch was an active cattle ranch, with barbed wire fencing hastily erected to create a compound. But there was something about the sprawling fields and open pastures that felt almost alien to the women, used to Japan’s crowded cities and intricate gardens. They stepped into the dry Texas heat with apprehension, only to be greeted by a bewildering sight: Americans who seemed to possess an overwhelming physical presence and yet a distinct lack of the brutality they had been prepared for.

Among these women was 24-year-old Ko Tanaka, a former school teacher from Hokkaido, who had been recruited to serve as a translator for Japanese military operations. Now, on foreign soil, she was surrounded by men—American guards—whose towering frames, broad shoulders, and rough-hewn appearance were unlike anything she had encountered in Japan. The American ranch hands, including the foreman, Tom Sullivan, seemed to possess a raw physical strength that was far greater than anything she had seen in Japanese soldiers. But it wasn’t just their size that struck her—it was their mannerisms, their gentle actions, and their unexpected kindness.

Lieutenant James Crawford, tasked with overseeing the prisoners, was equally taken aback. A seasoned officer who had been reassigned to oversee POWs after taking shrapnel during the Italian campaign, Crawford had expected to guard hardened men. Instead, he found himself in charge of women—young women who seemed to defy every preconceived notion he had about the enemy. Raised with the unshakable belief that women should be protected, not guarded behind barbed wire, Crawford felt an unsettling discomfort at the situation.

What followed, however, was even more unexpected. As the women were led to their sleeping quarters—a converted barn that had been adapted for their use—the American ranch hands treated them with a level of care that baffled them. The women were assigned beds, received basic necessities, and were expected to perform labor on the ranch, which they did with quiet precision. What struck them was that, unlike the harsh treatment they had been led to expect, these Americans did not treat them with the disdain and contempt typically reserved for prisoners. There was no cruelty in the air, just a kind of discomfort born from the fact that the guards were unsure of how to treat them.

One evening, as the women gathered for a meal, they began to speak in whispers, observing the strange dichotomy before them. Fumiko Sato, a 19-year-old clerk, was the first to voice an observation. “Have you noticed how large they are?” she asked. “Not just tall, but their shoulders, their hands. Everything about them is so much bigger than our soldiers back home.” The others nodded, sharing in the astonishment. It wasn’t just the physical size—it was how different the American ranchers seemed from the soldiers they had expected to meet. These men, who seemed as strong as oxen, also displayed a gentleness they had not expected. It was a paradox they couldn’t yet explain.

Tom Sullivan, the ranch foreman, had been one of the first to greet them. He towered over them, his sun-weathered face etched with years of hard work. Yet, when he encountered a small bird that had been injured, he bent down gently to pick it up and return it to its nest. For the first time, the women began to question everything they had been taught about Americans. The propaganda they had been fed about ruthless, merciless soldiers who would show them no mercy was slowly crumbling, piece by piece.

As the days passed, the women began to notice more of these small, unexpected acts of kindness. Billy Martinez, a young ranch hand, would hum quietly as he worked, an unfamiliar melancholy in his voice. When one of the women fell ill with the sudden Texas cold, the ranch workers took it upon themselves to ensure she was cared for. The thought of a Japanese prisoner receiving such attention—being treated like a human being, not an enemy—seemed absurd. Yet, here they were, receiving warmth and care from the very people they had been taught to fear.

One day, after an unexpected cold front swept through, the women found themselves in a life-or-death situation. Michiko Yamamoto, a frail 20-year-old, was showing signs of hypothermia, her lips turning blue, her body shaking uncontrollably. In a rare display of urgency, Yuki Nakamura, a nurse, immediately called for help, her thick accent thick with fear. Within minutes, Billy Martinez and Lieutenant Crawford arrived, taking immediate action to save her. Tom Sullivan’s wife, Margaret, made sure that Michiko was brought into the ranch house, wrapped in quilts, and warmed by the fire.

In that moment, Ko Tanaka and the other women saw something they could not deny. The men who had once seemed so threatening—so massive, so foreign—were now their saviors. They had been taught to view these Americans as enemies, but what they were seeing before them was something far more complex: kindness, humanity, and the kind of strength that came with restraint.

As the women adjusted to life on the ranch, they began to develop new perspectives on the world around them. They were no longer just prisoners of war—they were becoming people with a future, with purpose, and with the potential to create new identities beyond the roles they had been forced to play during the war. As Ko worked alongside the ranch hands, learning to mend fences and care for cattle, she realized that this harsh land, this unfamiliar culture, had begun to offer her something more valuable than freedom—it had offered her the chance to define herself, not as a prisoner of war, but as an individual.

But the most striking transformation came when the women began to reflect on what they had been taught about themselves. Their own culture had taught them that strength was measured by domination, by aggression. Their soldiers had been taught to subdue the enemy, to conquer at all costs. But in Texas, they saw a different kind of strength. The men here were not interested in dominance. They wielded their power with restraint and with kindness, protecting those who were weaker, offering help when it was needed most.

In the weeks that followed, the women began to understand that what they had been taught about America, and about their enemies, was wrong. The American men they had encountered on the ranch were strong, yes, but they were also compassionate. They valued hard work, integrity, and respect. They were not monsters; they were human beings, just like them.

By the time the war ended, and the women were repatriated to Japan, they carried with them something far more powerful than military strategies or combat skills. They carried the lessons they had learned from the ranch—the lessons of kindness, of strength in restraint, and of the humanity that transcends borders and conflicts. They had learned that true strength is not about dominating others but about protecting and understanding them.

The story of these 17 women, who had once been enemies of America, serves as a powerful reminder of the transformative power of compassion, and the strength that comes from seeing people not as enemies, but as human beings. It is a story of how, in the most unlikely of places, understanding and redemption can emerge, even from the most brutal of wars.