James Swanson’s story begins in Evanston, Illinois, in 1926, during the Great Depression. Growing up as the son of a minister who moved the family across Montana, Oregon, and Iowa, James learned resilience and adaptability early on. One lasting childhood memory was the awe he felt watching Navy battleships dock in Portland’s harbor.
“I was always quite interested in the Navy,” Swanson recalled.
As World War II came to the nation, Swanson’s life, like many others, was affected. Hearing the news of Pearl Harbor while washing the family car brought home the war’s sudden reality. Although his father’s farming was deemed essential wartime work, which granted James a deferment, he contributed by working at an ordinance plant that produced bombs.
When his deferment ended in 1945, he entered the service, embracing his path with a sense of adventure, though he later called it “a little selfish.”
At his induction center in St. Paul, Minnesota, Swanson was given a choice of service branch:
“Did you say Navy? I’ll take the Navy,” he said.
Boot camp at Great Lakes Naval Station thrust Swanson and hundreds of new recruits into a strict, unfamiliar military life. He described the symbolic moment of mailing away his civilian clothes and receiving the uniform as a definitive break from his past:
He reflected, “That was kind of a shock… I was no longer a civilian. I was definitely Navy.”
The physical challenges and discipline of training were tough. Swanson and his fellow recruits were mocked for their bright yellow leggings, signature of newcomers, with taunts of “New boots! New boots!” but they scrabbled to scrub off the yellow and improve their marching skills. The drill master’s efforts gradually transformed the raw recruits into a disciplined company. The day the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima was a pivotal moment. Swanson and his company had been training for a feared invasion of Japan.
“We were being trained for it, and we were scared… We knew Japan was ready for us, and it was going to be a bloodbath like history had never seen,” Swanson said.
The news of the bomb brought relief and hope:
Following boot camp, Swanson served at Treasure Island near San Francisco before assignments took him back to Iowa for recruitment work, and later to California aboard an LST (Landing Ship Tank). Though he hoped for a yeoman’s clerical role, he began as a paint chipper and soon became an electrician’s striker, maintaining ship systems. The work was steady but uncertain, as the ship was scheduled for decommissioning.
Swanson’s naval journey continued on the troop transport ship General William Mitchell, sailing the Pacific with roughly 900 crew members. He maintained the ship’s large electric compass system, which was a critical tool for navigation. One memorable moment came during the ship’s stop in Guam. Swanson, eager for adventure, briefly slipped off the ship to set foot on the island, just enough to tick a personal checklist box. The ship eventually returned to San Francisco amid fireworks and family celebrations.
In 1946, Swanson participated in the historic Operation Crossroads nuclear tests at Bikini Atoll. Though offered a chance to stay on board during the blasts, he declined. He described the devastating effects of the bombs on ships and sailors nearby, saying, “One of the fellows that was out… was on deck when the bomb went off. The flash was so bright, he had his hands over his eyes, and he could see his bones.”
Swanson reflected on the long-term consequences of the tests: “The sailors involved in that test are dying from cancer at a much faster rate or younger rate than they should be,” He stated solemnly.
He also recalled a sailor who carried a radioactive souvenir rifle: “He was very badly irradiated and is probably not alive today.”
After his discharge, Swanson took a unique journey home that included a flight on a DC-3 and visits to Portland and Canada. Using the GI Bill, he went to college and later spent four decades as a high school teacher.
Swanson passed away in spring 2025, but is remembered not only for his military service but also for his kindness and warmth. His decades of reunion gatherings with fellow veterans and willingness to share his stories preserve the living history of World War II.
When our interview ended, James gifted me a 1943 steel penny, a small but meaningful token reflecting his generous spirit.
