Code Talker

by Joseph Bruchac

  We quietly crept up and peeked through the door. A tall, broad-shouldered white man wearing a neat, well-pressed uniform sat at a desk. He seemed very serious. He sat with his back straight, writing something on a pad of paper. Perhaps it was the recruiting speech that he was about to give.

  We were perfectly quiet. I am sure he did not notice us peering in. He was impressive to see, but what was even more impressive were the things hung on the walls around him.

  “Look at that,” Jesse Chee whispered, pointing with his chin.

  We looked. There hung a beautiful sword in a silver case. Just below it was a fine rifle. To either side of the rifle and sword were posters that showed Marines standing tall in their full dress uniform. One of them, in the most colorful poster of all, looked much like the recruiting sergeant himself. However, the uniform of that poster Marine was much more striking than his.

  That uniform! Ah! It was so beautiful to behold. The coat and trousers were made of cloth that was as shining and blue as the sky. The cap and gloves were white as clean new snow. The leather boots were as black and polished as jet.

  “Did you see the uniform in that picture?” Tommy Nez said after we were back out in the street. “Boy, that was sharp! I’d sign up just to have a uniform like that one!”

  The three of us decided to hang around until that straight-backed white Marine gave his talk at 11:00 A.M. It was quite a speech.

  “My name is First Sergeant Frank Shinn,” he said in a loud, clear voice as he stood on the steps of the tribal offices, looking out at the crowd of people who had gathered around.

  Looking back on that day, I wonder what he thought of those Navajos gathered there in front of him. Some in the crowd, like my friends and me, were short-haired and dressed much like any white man would dress. Only the brown of our faces gave away the fact that we were something other than the usual people who would hear such a recruiting speech. But there were also many in that small crowd who were far different from those he was probably used to seeing. There were men with blankets over their shoulders and rifles in their arms, men wearing headbands or tall black hats, women in long colorful dresses with shawls. The glitter of silver and the glow of turquoise shone out from that crowd in the shape of necklaces and bracelets and earrings on the women, belt buckles and hat bands on the men. No one stared up at the first sergeant, yet there was complete silence as he spoke.

  “I’m a Marine and proud to be one,” First Sergeant Shinn continued, his voice echoing down the street. He looked around the crowd, as if daring anyone to contradict him. “The Marines need a few good men. There will be real opportunity for you if you enlist. It will be better for you than staying here on the reservation. As a Marine, one of the proud and few, you will have the chance to travel, learn new skills, and meet interesting people.”

  Of course, he did not mention that some of the interesting people you would meet might be holding guns and sharp samurai swords, shouting Banzai! and trying to kill you. If he had, I still do not think it would have frightened away any Navajo recruits, even though some who enlisted that day and in the days following figured that they were heading for some kind of desk job and not into combat.

  It seemed to me that this Marine recruiter was telling us the truth. We Navajos have listened to white men speak for a long time and we have learned to tell when one is trying to deceive us. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he speaks and the way he carries himself. Looking at First Sergeant Shinn, I could see that this was indeed a man who believed in what he said. I was ready to believe it, too. I wanted to become one of the proud and the few.

  But there was a problem. They were only accepting men between the ages of seventeen and thirty-two. I was still only fifteen years old.

  Yes, grandchildren, this was quite a problem. But right away I thought I saw a solution. In those days, none of us had birth certificates. Nearly all of us were born at home and not in hospitals, with only our families and a midwife present. As a result, the only way the bilagáanaas knew the age of any Navajo was based on what age that person or the person’s family said. If my parents claimed I was old enough, I could enlist. I went home and told my parents what I wanted them to do. They listened carefully.

  “Son,” my mother said, “wait outside while your father and I talk of this.”

  I did as they asked. As I sat leaning against the wall of our hogan with the warm sun on my face, I could hear their soft voices speaking, but I could not understand what they were saying. A lizard ran up to my feet, stopped, bobbed up and down, and then ran off again. Finally my parents called me back in.

  “Son,” my father said, “we are proud of you. What you want to do is a good thing. However, your mother and I both think that you are not yet old enough. You are still too young to become a Marine. Wait through another winter. If this war is still going on, then we will give you our blessing to join up.”

  I was disappointed, but I did as they asked and went back to school. So it was that I was not part of the first Navajo platoon, those twenty-nine men who developed our secret code.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  New Recruits

  Meanwhile, the interviews to find that first group of Navajos for “special duty” were going on. Two weeks passed before they had finally chosen all of the men they wanted for that first group, twenty-nine in all. Each man was physically examined at Fort Defiance Public Health Service and carefully questioned to be sure he was really able to speak both Navajo and English fluently. Each man’s age was checked, too. No one over thirty-two or under seventeen was supposed to be accepted. But one of those chosen, Carl Gorman, was actually thirty-five—although he listed his age as thirty-two. Another man, William Yazzie, was only sixteen, but said he was a year older.

  All through this period of selection, no one was told what the special duty would be. Early on the morning of May 4, 1942, those twenty-nine men of what would be the first all-Navajo platoon, the 382nd, boarded a bus at Fort Defiance. Some of their friends and families watched as that bus headed southeast in the direction of Tsoodzit, Mount Taylor, the sacred peak that marks the southern boundary of Dinetah. Then they were gone, vanished. It was as if they had fallen off the face of the earth, for no word was heard from them. Not a single letter was received by any of their families who had been left behind. A month passed and then another month.

  Now their families back home were getting worried. Some knew a little bit about the armed forces from having served in World War One. After six weeks of boot camp, new recruits are always given a ten-day pass. But not one of those twenty-nine men came home on leave and there were still no letters. Wilsie Bitsie’s father was a schoolteacher. His son had promised to keep him informed of how he was doing. Carl Gorman’s father was influential in the politics of our tribe and a successful businessman. Both Mr. Bitsie and Mr. Gorman decided to do something. They wrote directly to the Marines and complained to the Indian agent. They expected answers, but when those answers came, they were not very satisfactory. All they were told was that their sons were doing well. But they were on special duty and could not communicate with anyone.

  After a while, when no one had heard anything from those first twenty-nine Navajos, people began making jokes about what must have happened to them. One joke was that the white men must have eaten them. When someone said that to me, knowing how much I still wanted to be a Marine myself, I had an answer for them.

  “Well,” I said, “I have always wanted to see what it was like in a bilagáanaa kitchen.”

  Those jokes finally stopped four months later when one of those twenty-nine men suddenly reappeared at Fort Defiance. When he had left, we had simply known him as Johnny Manuelito. He had graduated from Navajo High School several years before and was still remembered there as a serious and hardworking student. Now he was a different man. He was Corporal Johnny Manuelito of the 382nd and he wore the bright, impressive uniform of a U.S. Marine. The other Navajo men of the first twenty-nine had been sent on assignment o
verseas, but he and John Benally, another member of the Navajo 382nd, had been given a different job. They were staying on as instructors for the next group of Navajo recruits.

  Johnny Manuelito’s duty was to recruit from our eastern half of the big Navajo reservation. He did so in style, wearing his spotless new corporal’s uniform as he spoke on street corners and in chapter houses. People were impressed, not just by his words but by how he looked. Those who had known him before said that he truly seemed to be a different person. He looked to have grown taller during the short time he was gone and he carried himself more like a white man than an Indian. When he came to our high school and spoke to the student body, his words reverberated in my mind like drumbeats.

  “The Marines,” he said, “are the best of the best. We are always the first to fight. Our motto is Semper Fidelis, always faithful.” He looked like an eagle staring down from a high mountain crag as his eyes swept over his audience of awed young Navajo men. “Soon you may be called up to fight by the draft. If that happens, you will not be able to choose which branch of the armed forces to join. If you make your decision now, you can be sure that you will join the proud and few and become a Marine.”

  I was thrilled by his words and by the way he looked. I had never seen any Navajo who stood up so straight in the presence of important white men like our principal and several businessmen who sat behind him on the stage as he spoke. They were intent on his every word. He carried himself with such self-assurance and pride that even those big bilagáanaas were impressed.

  When his talk was over, I quietly made my way up to the front to listen to more of what he had to say. I did not ask him any questions, but listened closely as he spoke. He believed that any Navajo joining up would have a better chance of getting through boot camp than your average bilagáanaa. His own platoon had been the first ever all-Indian platoon in the history of the Marines and his instructors had not known what to expect. But the Navajos had surprised them all.

  “In Boot,” Johnny Manuelito said, “a good many of those average men who hope to be Marines can’t stand up to the physical challenges.” He swung his hand to one side in a dismissive gesture. “They wash out. It’s too hard for your average man to get used to marching long distances and carrying heavy packs, to running and climbing obstacles. It is too difficult to be brave in the face of gunfire. In most recruit platoons, there are even men who have never held a gun.”

  When he said that, some of us turned to look at each other. It was hard to believe that anyone, man or woman, could grow up to adulthood without ever having used a gun. Every one of us carried a rifle when we hunted to provide food for our families or when we were out at sheep camp and had to protect our herds from creatures that might hurt them.

  “Do you know how many of the twenty-nine men in our platoon washed out?” Johnny Manuelito asked us. “Not even one!”

  I was not surprised. Those things that he said a Marine recruit needed to learn were part of our everyday Navajo life back then. We were used to walking great distances over hard terrain while carrying things. We would stay out with our herds of sheep overnight and in the worst weather. Going for two or three days without eating was not unusual for us, even those of us who had gone off to boarding school.

  I did not sign up that day, but my mind was made up. Even though I was now sixteen and even though I was still small for my age, I knew in my heart that it was my time to serve as a warrior. I would wear a beautiful uniform and go to see strange places. I would wait no longer. Soon, very soon, I would finally become a Marine!

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Blessingway

  Once again, I went to my parents.

  “I have done as you asked,” I told them. “I have waited a year. Now I want to go and be a warrior to fight for our people. I ask your blessings to become a Marine.”

  My parents were sad, but they saw that I was determined. I had kept my promise. So, even though it was not yet the end of the school year, they gave me their permission. However, there was one thing I had to agree to before I went to enlist. I had to go with my parents to a singer who would do a ceremony for me. With the protection of “the Blessingway,” I might be kept safe when I went into danger. I was glad to do that. The Blessingway is done for all that is good. That is its only purpose.

  The singer we went to was Big Schoolboy. That was his Navajo name, Olta’i’ Tsoh. He was also known as Frank Mitchell, although I always addressed him as Hosteen, our Navajo word that is a term of respect. He and my uncle were good friends, having gone to school together at Fort Defiance. My uncle had worked with him over the years when Big Schoolboy ran a freighting business, carrying goods back and forth by horse-drawn wagon between his home in Chinle and Gallup. Big Schoolboy also belonged to the Catholic Church, as did most of the members of our family now, especially those of us who had been to mission schools. By the time I reached high school, I was no longer the only one of my family who had been sent off to school. My three younger brothers, my baby sister, and quite a number of my cousins had followed my lead. Although my parents knew less about Catholicism than their children did, they had been baptized and went with us when we attended church. But being Catholic did not mean we would forget the Holy People and our Navajo Way.

  It was an honor to have Hosteen Mitchell do the protection ceremony for me. He was a widely respected man—not just a singer, but also a former member of our tribal council. I was also glad because I liked him very much. Respected and important as he was, he was a very modest person, and wise. Best of all, he was fun to be with.

  Whenever we were together, he made me laugh. I saw him often when I was home for the summer because I would sometimes help him out with his work. Although he no longer ran a freighting business full-time, he still moved some goods and welcomed my assistance. Even though I was still quite small, by the time I turned sixteen I had grown very strong. I could easily lift bags that weighed more than I did. Because of that, he sometimes called me Wóláchíí’, which means “ant.” I took that as a joking compliment, as everyone knows that ants are powerful, despite their tiny size.

  Since we had both been to mission school, he would tell me stories about his own school days. One of my favorites was about something said by the old priest, Father Duffey. I was riding beside Hosteen Mitchell on his wagon one day when he turned to me and held one finger up to his lips. I knew what that meant. He was about to tell another of his stories about school.

  “You know,” Hosteen Mitchell said, “it is hard for anyone to speak our language unless he has known it since birth. However, some of the priests thought they could speak Navajo and would try to include it in their sermons. As a result they sometimes said things that were hilarious without meaning to. I am sure you know what I mean.”

  I nodded, but did not say anything. I did not want to break into his story with my own memories about some of the mistakes I’d heard white men make while trying to talk Indian. I waited politely. A story is better if you have to wait a little bit for it to be spun out.

  Hosteen Mitchell gently flicked the reins to encourage the horses as they pulled us up the hill. When we reached the top, he continued his tale.

  “There was this one old priest. Father Duffey. He tried to use our Navajo word for people: Bila’ Ashdla’ii, ‘the ones who have five fingers.’ He meant to say that all human beings are alike. But instead of saying that all people have five fingers, he said that we all had five of something else.” Hosteen Mitchell chuckled. “People tried not to laugh, but every Navajo in the church was just choking as he or she attempted to keep quiet.”

  Hosteen Mitchell also liked to talk with me about the similarities between our Indian beliefs and those of the Catholics. He did so the day after my parents agreed to allow me to join the Marines. “You know, Wóláchíí’,” he said to me, tapping his lip with his long forefinger, “that Golden Rule and those other things that Jesus Christ said people needed to live by?”

  I nodded.

&nb
sp; “Well,” Hosteen Mitchell continued, “that Golden Rule and those other things he did makes me think that maybe Jesus was a Navajo.” Then he laughed. “If any of those Christian white traders behaved the way their Bible tells them to live, they would all go broke.”

  “I think that we do not need to worry too much about that,” I said. Then both of us laughed even harder.

  I was eager to go and sign up for the Marines, but I knew I would have to be patient and wait for Hosteen Mitchell to tell us when he could do the Blessingway. Perhaps it would be weeks. I wanted to ask him when he would be free to do the ceremony, but since my parents had already requested that he do it, I knew it would be impolite for anyone to ask again. Not a word was said about it when we came back to our hogan that evening. Somehow, I managed to hold my tongue.

  Finally, he climbed up onto his wagon to leave. Hosteen Mitchell must have known what was on my mind and had been teasing me by saying nothing. Just before he shook the reins, he lifted his finger up to his mouth as if he had just remembered something.

  “Do not forget,” he said to my parents, “I will be doing Blessingway next weekend for my big friend Wóláchíí’.” Then he winked at me.

  Some of you, my grandchildren, have had Blessingway sung for you. Some of our chantways have been forgotten, but Blessingway is as strong as ever. So you know what it is like to have so many family members and friends and well-wishers gathered around the hogan, all of them putting their minds together to wish success and goodness for you. You know what it is like to be the One-Sung-Over, to be washed in the morning with soapweed, your clothing piled there in front of you on the blanket as the Bathing Songs are sung. You know what it is like to feel the beauty of the sunrise touching you and giving you strength as the corn pollen is sprinkled on the earth into crosses where you kneel. Then you, too, are blessed with that pollen, and you carry the memories of the goodness of Blessingway with you.