Code Talker (13 page)

But we were determined. When we got a break from training, we practiced close-order drill commands. The purpose of the drills was to get us to react quickly and to work well together, as one seamless entity, not many. Gradually we became comfortable with the routines.

The discipline at boot camp reminded me of those harsh days at boarding school. But I understood the reason for the strict Marine training. Soon our lives would be at stake. It wasn't like school, where the meanness had seemed arbitrary.

My buddies and I worked hard at learning everything we were supposed to learn. It paid off. The Marine Corps
Chevron,
the Marine newspaper in San Diego, carried an article about our platoon, number 382. It was kind of embarrassing, but at least it let us know that we were doing okay. An excerpt:

Platoon 382 won over even the most crusty drill instructors. Every man in the platoon worked hard. The instructors bragged about our rapid progress. I'd always been pretty easygoing, and I began to feel confident about my place—and my buddies' places—in the Marines.

We recruits became good friends with our instructors. The drill sergeants got a huge kick out of commanding us to “count cadence in Navajo” as we marched. On the parade grounds, the heads of surrounding troops snapped around, everyone curious about what was going on. What was that strange cadence?

I especially liked the rifle range. It was like a game, with everyone competing. We men took turns setting up targets and recording the results of each recruit's practice volleys.

“Damn!” The instructor pored over our score sheets. “I've never seen anything like it.” He shook his head. “Where'd you guys learn to shoot?”

We felt pretty comfortable on the rifle range and with our pistols, and Platoon 382 earned one of the highest scores in marksmanship of any Marine platoon in history. We graduated with one expert, fourteen sharpshooters, and twelve marksmen in our ranks. That got us another write-up in the Marine Corps
Chevron.
I was qualified as a pistol sharpshooter.

Eventually, my fellow recruits and I could handle handguns, 30-30 lever-action guns, and hand grenades without fear. The weapons still inspired a sense of awe and danger, but we knew how to use them safely. Hand-to-hand combat practice with bayonets resulted in some bruises, but added to our self-assurance.

Grenades were especially heavy and cumbersome. We graduated from dud grenades to live ones, and I felt my throat tighten when I pulled the pin. Just as they'd taught us, I held the trigger in until I was ready to throw. Chest-high trenches protected us from the explosions. I threw from one deep trench into another—my arm muscles as taut as a stretched rubber band.

The supervising instructor nodded. “Good.”

I scrambled from the trench, and the next recruit took his turn.

Survival training was also quite intense. We'd march for miles across the desert, with limited amounts of food and water. Often we spent the night out in the open, staying in improvised shelters. It was like herding sheep all over again.

The fieldwork was pretty demanding, but there was classroom work, too. We learned about the various weapons in detail. By the end of training, each of us could disassemble and reassemble his rifle while blindfolded, meeting or beating a specified time limit.

We all attended communications school, learning Morse code and semaphore, which utilized flags. We also learned to fix radios and to take them apart. At the time this seemed to be just one more required skill. We were not told what a large part these radios would play in our future in the South Pacific.

There were plenty of women in the Marines. They didn't go into combat back then, but we often saw women in the motor pool, women who trained as nurses, women who handled the food service. Although I never met any of them, they were a constant reminder of why we men were preparing to fight.

When we completed our seven weeks of basic, Platoon 382 stood final inspection. It was June 27, 1942. Colonel James L. Underhill, base commanding officer, addressed the troops. He gave us Navajo men high praise, and was quoted in the Marine Corps
Chevron
the following week:

The article also carried pictures of Platoon 382. And one headline tried to give all of us swelled heads:

The intense training had built up our confidence. By the end of basic training, I felt satisfied that I had learned everything I needed to know to stay alive in combat.

CHAPTER TEN

Unbreakable Code

Platoon 382, all twenty-nine of us, eagerly anticipated a ten-day leave. After they completed basic training, our white Marine buddies took off to see their families. But an officer pulled us Navajos aside, explaining that our mission was very critical. The men of Platoon 382 could not be spared for ten days.

While those other Marine recruits sat around dining tables with sisters, brothers, and parents, I sat in the barracks trying to compose a letter. I pictured Grandmother, Father, and Grandfather at home on the Checkerboard, enjoying the sunny, warm days of summer. My family thought I was still living at the school in Tuba City. I wasn't sure how to tell them that I had joined the Marines or that I was going to war. Finally I just wrote the facts flat out and sealed the envelope.

It was our second day at Camp Elliott, near San Diego, our home for the next thirteen weeks. Riding out there on the bus, we had speculated about our “critical mission.”

A Marine officer strode with a no-nonsense gait to a classroom building, and we followed. He opened the locked door and marched to the front of the room as we piled in behind him. Standing tall, his uniform spotless, his expression unsmiling, he waited for us to sit. Then he spoke. I felt a small knot tighten in my stomach.

The officer wasted no time. He looked around the room at each of us, the twenty-nine carefully selected Marine recruits, and told us we were to use our native language to devise an unbreakable code. I read expressions of shock on every face. A code based on the Navajo language? After we'd been so severely punished in boarding school for speaking it?

For starters, you'll need a word for each letter of the alphabet, the officer told us.

The officer locked the door as he left, telling us we'd be released at the end of the day to get dinner. Someone would bring lunch to the room. Other than that, we were on our own, forbidden to speak to anyone outside that room about our task. And if we needed to go anywhere, we had to go in pairs. We were to practice the buddy system at all times. Anyone caught alone would be punished.

Hearing that door lock click closed, I again felt my stomach tense. The windows of our classroom were protected by security bars. Now what?

After some discussion, we began to see the wisdom in our assignment. Navajo was a very complex language. And, since it was not written,
²⁸
the Japanese could learn it only from a Navajo or from one of the rare non-Navajos who had lived on the reservation and learned to speak the language. To be honest, I don't think they could have learned the language even then. It was just too complicated.

Still, apprehension set in. How could we, twenty-eight of whom had never worked with the military, develop a code robust enough to be used in battle? One that could be responsible for sending life-or-death mes-sages? The task loomed ahead like a black unmapped cavern. Where to begin?

We stared at the locked door of the room in which we sat. One of our men, Gene Crawford, had been in the reserves. He had worked with codes before, and he offered to share his knowledge with all of us. There were certain things that were important. The code words chosen must be clear when spoken on the radio. Each word must be distinct from other words chosen, in order to avoid confusion. The officer who'd locked the room was correct: a good way to begin was to select a word to represent each letter of the alphabet.

Gene Crawford and two other men from among the twenty-nine, John Benally and John Manuelito, played a strong part in setting the direction for our group as we developed the new code.

On that first day, we decided to use an English word—generally an animal, a plant, or an object that was part of our everyday world—to represent each letter of the English alphabet. Those words would then be translated into Navajo, and the Navajo word would represent the English letter. As Gene had suggested, we chose Navajo words that could be easily distinguished on the radio, words differing clearly in sound from other selected words.
A
became “red ant,” not the English word for ant, but the Navajo word, pronounced
wol-la-chee. B
became “bear,” pronounced
shush
in Navajo.
C
was “cat” or
moasi. D
was “deer” or
be.
Thus a double encryption was used. Each letter became an English word beginning with that letter, and the English word was translated into a Navajo word.

We tried to make the letter equivalents easy to remember. And we discussed pronunciation—since emphasis on the wrong syllable, a slight change in tone, or a glottal stop could totally change a word's meaning in the complicated Navajo language. Any differences in dialects between us men had to be resolved into one firm code. In the heat of battle we could afford no ambiguities.

Although Navajo is spoken less and less frequently today, the boarding schools in the 1920s and '30s had—happily—failed in their efforts to erase the language from the minds of their students. We men in that locked room were articulate in both Navajo and English.

Navajo bears little resemblance to English. When a Navajo asks whether you speak his language, he uses these words: “Do you
hear
Navajo?” Words must be heard before they can be spoken. Many of the sounds in Navajo are impossible for the unpracticed ear to distinguish. The inability of most people to hear Navajo was a solid plus when it came to devising our code.

The Navajo language is very exact, with fine shades of meaning that are missing in English. Our language illustrates the
Diné
's relationship to nature. Everything that happens in our lives happens in relationship to the world that surrounds us. The language reflects the importance of how we and various objects interact. For example, the form of the verb “to dump something” that is used depends upon the object that is being dumped and the container that is being utilized. If one dumps coal from a bucket, for instance, the verb is different from the verb used to describe dumping water from a pail. And the verb again differs when one dumps something from a sack. Again, in Navajo you do not simply “pick up” an object. Depending on what the object is—its consistency and its shape—the verb used for “to pick up” will differ. Thus the verb for picking up a handful of squishy mud differs from the verb used for picking up a stick.

Pronunciation, too, is complex. Navajo is a tonal language with four tones: high, low, rising, and falling. The tone used can completely change the meaning of a word. The words for “medicine” and “mouth” are pronounced in the same way, but they are differentiated by tone.
²⁹
Glottal and aspirated stops are also employed. Given these complexities, native speakers of any other language are generally unable to properly pronounce most Navajo words.

But the complexities of the Navajo language provide a wonderful tool for spinning tales. Our speech does not simply state facts; it paints pictures. Spoken in Navajo, the phrase “I am hungry” becomes “Hunger is hurting me.”
³⁰