Code Talker (19 page)

In this place, with its constant fog, heat, and more than one hundred inches of annual rain, I pictured the dry sunny days, the crystalline clarity, of New Mexico. Guadalcanal's mountains, their highest peaks as tall as eight thousand feet, reared up as a natural barrier between the northern and southern coasts of the ninety-mile-long island. So there were no sweeping views like the ones at Grandma's place, unless you looked out at the ocean. And vegetation, much more dense than that of New Mexico, covered most of the flat areas of the South Pacific island. Clumps of kunai grass, taller than a man, with edges that cut like hacksaws, grew like lethal weapons in the high meadows. When we tramped through that grass, we crossed our arms over our chests, under our jacket or T-shirt.

Still, I saw in my memory the oak trees and piñons of home.

Sitting in a soggy foxhole, wondering always where the Japanese were and whether they'd attack that day—or worse, that night—my fellow code talkers and I endured. During our first weeks entrenched on Guadalcanal, the war news was mixed. The Japanese and American navies traded victories. And after that, the battles shifted in favor of the United States.

 

 

The Slot shipping lane between Guadalcanal and the neighboring Florida Islands had become a supply corridor controlled by the Japanese. The task of resupplying their soldiers could only be accomplished by ship, since the United States controlled the single airfield on the island. And the Japanese were masters of Naval battle. Soon, however, the Americans developed their own skill at sea.

In mid-November 1942, the United States made up for the heavy losses they'd suffered in August, early in the Guadalcanal campaign, before we code talkers arrived. The three-day Battle of Guadalcanal, fought off Tassafaronga Point and Cape Esperance, resulted in the American Navy sinking thirteen Japanese ships: two battleships, a heavy cruiser, three destroyers, and seven transports. That battle was fought in a portion of the Slot that came to be nicknamed “Ironbottom Sound” because of all the sunken ships that lined the ocean floor there. The United States damaged nine other enemy ships. Aircraft from Henderson Field destroyed another four Japanese transports. American losses came in at two light cruisers and seven destroyers, with nine other ships damaged. The United States was making a dent in the Japanese Naval mastery of the South Pacific.

On November 30, Americans sank another Japanese destroyer near Tassafaronga while losing a cruiser and taking on heavy damage to three other cruisers. Despite the major damages that the U.S. fleet had sustained, the Japanese Navy withdrew from Guadalcanal, taking with them troops and supplies that they had been unable to land. After that, the Allies gained confidence in their ability to rout the Japanese seagoing forces. Our enemies, who preferred transporting supplies in the dark of night, were unable to adequately resupply their troops on Guadalcanal.

Meantime, the Marines on the island, and with them we code talkers, fought the more than twenty thousand Japanese troops. After three weeks or so, even with the bombs and bullets flying, I began to feel at ease. I felt sure of myself. I knew what I was doing out there, just behind the front lines. Most of the Marines I was with knew we had a special job, using our own language. They treated us well. I never experienced any bad treatment. We all got along, and it was important, knowing that our buddies were there at all times, looking after us and us after them. In the throes of combat, especially, everybody looked out for one another. We did our best to see that everyone was safe.

Many Japanese soldiers fled to the chain of mountains that bisected Guadalcanal from west to east. These mountains dominated the land, leaving only a narrow coastal region on the east, south, and west, with a wider strip of sea-level land to the north where the American troops had landed. Heavily forested Mount Austen, actually the summit of a group of steep ridges, provided shelter for many of the enemy, becoming a key Japanese stronghold. From Gifu Ridge, abutting Mount Austen to the southwest, the enemy could look out over Henderson Field.

We Marines had to take Mount Austen.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

We Must Take Mount Austen

The entire 1st Marine Division fought two enemies: exhaustion and the Japanese. Battle-weary guys shuffled along like they'd lost everything. In heavy, prolonged combat, we all felt like we were losing our minds, our memories. We moved with our eyes about to pop out, looking straight ahead, not really focusing on anything, dragging ourselves around like scarecrows. After a while, we didn't even look up when fighter planes flew overhead—even though they might be dropping the bomb that had our name on it.

During a lull, we could look around and see the guys who weren't going to last. They began talking to themselves in a steady stream, and their eyes focused where there was nothing to see. It was sad and really scary. I prayed to the Navajo Gods and to the Anglo God when I saw those guys. Prayed for them, and prayed that I wouldn't end up like them.

By the time Mount Austen became the hot spot on Guadalcanal, hiding thousands of Japanese troops in caves that pockmarked its rough terrain, days and nights followed each other in a sleep-deprived blur. It was lucky we worked in pairs, helping each other with the translations into and out of code. Exhausted as we were, I think any man working alone would have collapsed under the pressure. We listened to each other's transmissions to be sure that no mistakes were made, helping our partners through the long days. Muggy heat brought near-continuous rain. Men, many weakened by malaria, fought on the sword edge of exhaustion. Too many died. Tractors assigned to bury the mangled bodies couldn't keep up with the number of corpses piling up on the beach.

In a rare few hours of quiet, Roy and I sat with several other Marines in a multiple-man foxhole. Stout protective coconut logs spanned the roof of the shelter. We men ate cold K-rations. We each held a small bottle of beer, and most nursed it slowly. The Marine brass had okayed the beer because it helped us relax. Some Marines from the deep south had even set up a still, producing homemade liquor. They shared with everyone, but right then their supplies were depleted, and beer was the only alcoholic drink available.

“You think we'll ever get off this island?” I asked.

“Soon,” said Roy. “We're almost done here, don't you think?”

Another Marine, not a Navajo, dropped a Vienna sausage, brushed the sand off it, and took a bite. “I heard we're going to be relieved. Another regiment of the Second Marine Division is coming.”

“You sure?” I asked him.

The man shrugged. “That's what I heard.”

Speaking Navajo, I turned to another code talker, asking him what he thought. Face hollow and eyes exhausted, my buddy answered in Navajo, “I hope it's soon.”

“Hey, talk American, Chief.” The Marine wiped fat flies from a miniature hot dog, took another bite, and grinned. “No offense.”

I switched to English. “I hope those reinforcements come soon.” Then I smiled, not minding the Marine's request for English. “English. Just like boarding school. English all the time.”

The other Navajos groaned. “
Ouu,
boarding school,” several said at once.

I leaned forward, feeling that sinking feeling that thoughts of boarding school always brought, even there at war. Then I looked up at the others. “Without boarding school, we wouldn't be code talkers.”

It was a good thing, serving our country. I couldn't argue with that. Elbows propped on knees, I looked around at my buddies. I just hoped the war would end soon. Before my life and their lives ended.

 

 

It was December of 1942. We men of the 1st Marine Division looked at one another in disbelief.
Finally,
our tired eyes all seemed to say. Then someone cheered, and bedlam erupted.

Official word had come. Relief. Major General Alexander Patch was ordered to take command of the Guadalcanal effort. The 2d Marine Division, soon to be joined by their Sixth Regiment, would stay on Guadalcanal. General Vandegrift's battle-weary 1st Marine Division, most of whom had been fighting on Guadalcanal since August 7, would go for R&R (rest and relaxation). I couldn't wait.

I celebrated with the other men of the 1st Marine Division. I looked around at the torn, pockmarked landscape we would soon be leaving. Worn out mentally and physically, I said a prayer of thanks for the coming relief:

Australia was a country few of us Marines had ever visited. But when R&R was scheduled there, spirits soared. A Marine slapped me on the back. Aping an Australian accent, he said, “We'll get a side of Aussie beef, mate. Grill it up and eat it all in one sitting. Yeah.”

With relief from battle imminent, I let myself relax a little. The sights and sounds of war had become familiar, and although they would never feel normal, at least I was able to cope. I knew there were still other islands to be taken, but pushed that thought to a back compartment of my mind, telling myself to think about R&R, to forget the battles waiting just beyond the horizon. At least, now, I felt reasonably sure that I would not let my country or the Marines down.

The corporal in charge of communications gathered us men. “Good job,” he said. He singled out us Navajos. “Far as we can tell, the Japs haven't decoded one of your transmissions. Not one.”

One of the Navajo men laughed. We others, even though we didn't know what was so funny, couldn't keep from joining in. Finally, holding his sides, the man gasped out, “What would the matrons back at boarding school think?”

“Yeah,” said Roy. “Bars of brown soap for everyone.”

Rain poured over the island in thick sheets. Nothing new for soggy Guadalcanal.

Roy and I sat in our shared foxhole. He wrung a pair of socks between his hands. “Darn things won't dry. Seems like I haven't had dry socks for weeks.” He looked down at his feet, raising one from the water in the hole. “Look at these feet. They're going to rot.”

I nodded. My feet were soaked, too. “Better put your socks and boots on. Wet is better than nothing.”

Roy tugged the wet socks onto his feet, then pushed his feet into soaking boots. “When we get out of here, I'm going to hang socks outside the hogan every afternoon. Put them on when they're all hot. Hot and dry.”

Roy and I prepared to leave Guadalcanal along with the rest of the 1st Marine Division. But at the last minute, a lieutenant pulled ten of us code talkers aside, Roy and me among them.

“Men, you've done an excellent job.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “I'm afraid we can't afford to let you go. You are vital to the success of this campaign. The Second Marine Division still needs you men here.”

Heavy silence settled over us. This was war. Any argument was useless, and we knew it. I looked across the beach, littered with the broken and worn-out equipment of war. I felt just as worn out as those useless vehicles and broken-up gun emplacements. But a used code talker couldn't be replaced by a new model off the factory floor. And there were too few of us to expect replacements the way other infantrymen could expect them. It was a crushing disappointment, not to be leaving with the rest of our division. We'd made good friends on the battlefield, where everyone depends on his buddies. It would be hard to see them leave while we stayed with the 2d Marine Division.

But we had no choice. We got ourselves squared away. We resolved to keep fighting.

On December 9, we watched as the other Marines from the 1st Division boarded transports for Australia. Many of the embarking men suffered from dysentery and malaria. They were emaciated, too weak to climb the rope nets on the sides of the transports. Sailors swarmed down the nets to help, and lines were dropped. The sick men were lifted bodily aboard the ships.

We code talkers waved good-bye to the friends we had made in the 1st Marine Division—some of whom were best buddies—and tried to prepare ourselves mentally to forge new bonds as the war continued.

 

 

Part of what was so hard on Guadalcanal was thinking that no one back home even knew what we Marines were doing. Or where we were fighting. And men were dying there. Thousands of men. We were all so tired and wrung out that we couldn't think straight and could barely speak—except when we had no choice, sending the code.

In actuality, we 1st Division Marines had been on the front pages of all the papers back home. And everyone had heard of Guadalcanal, an island none of us even knew of before the war. And when the rest of the 1st Marines reached Melbourne, Australia, they were met with cheering and ticker-tape parades. The Australians, whose port city, Darwin, had been attacked by the Japanese just as Pearl Harbor had been, loved the Yanks.

We were heroes back in the United States. But I don't think any of us, struggling as we were to keep going and to do our jobs, could have felt less like a hero.

 

 

As promised, General Alexander Patch arrived on Guadalcanal the same day the 1st Marine Division left us, December 9. We ten code talkers worked alongside the 2d Marine Division men who remained on the island. More than twenty thousand Japanese still infested the island, most of them in the ridges and mountains. Until the Sixth Marine Regiment arrived to round out the 2d Marine Division and the Army infantry troops who still remained, Patch assigned us to clean up hot spots around the jungle perimeter near Point Cruz and in the series of hills just west of Point Cruz.