Code Talker

by Chester Nez

  Total madmen, the Banzai terrified U.S. troops all through the war. Each Banzai was a one-man suicide mission, intent on getting himself killed while taking out as many enemy combatants as possible. The Banzai adhered to the Japanese doctrine of blind obedience to authority, even when it meant their own death. The suicidal Japanese always attacked the foxholes after dark and before dawn. The random nature of the attacks kept us Marines awake in our foxholes. And if we managed to sleep, we knew we could wake with a Japanese sword slicing our throat.

  After a few minutes, when the Banzai didn’t move, one of the non-Navajo Marines dashed toward the body. He bent down and took the Japanese sword. “Souvenir,” he said, turning back toward us and scrambling back under cover in his foxhole. If the brass found him with that sword, they would confiscate it. It was against rules to take anything from an enemy’s body.

  That particular prohibition wasn’t needed for most Navajos. Our religion taught us that you didn’t touch property belonging to the dead. However, there were some Navajos willing to risk touching the dead in order to acquire pieces of clothing or hair to be used back home in ceremonies. I wasn’t one of them. Those dead Japanese were in no danger from me. I would have avoided the dead altogether if I could have.

  Things were quiet. I found it eerie how some days could feel almost normal, how men walked around almost as though we weren’t engaged in war. It was morning, and I had managed a few hours of sleep the night before. Roy and I and a couple of the other code talkers sat among the endless thickets of palm trees and vines, eating military rations—Spam, and corned beef out of a can, and crackers.

  “Just like Grandma makes,” joked one of the men.

  “At least there’s plenty of it,” I said, forking a large bite of Spam.

  “Yeah,” Roy said, “When we have time to eat.” He stuffed a packet of crackers into his shirt pocket.

  A man held his nose as he chewed.

  “Tough to eat with the smell of rotting bodies, enit?” someone said.

  I said, “What’s tough is knowing what that smell is.”

  Roy glanced back toward the beach, although we could only smell it, not see it, from where we ate. He had that faraway, combat-veteran look in his eyes. “All those men. Theirs and ours.”

  The stifling smell of decaying bodies permeated the moist, hot air. Soldiers driving bulldozers tried to cover the bodies with sand when they could, but often they were thinly covered or totally exposed.

  A Marine picked his way through the underbrush with his dog, a German shepherd, close by his side. Heads turned and we watched the pair pass by. Those dogs were impressive. They sneaked up on the Japanese, hunting them as a soldier would. When we came upon an enemy bunker, the dogs could tell by the smell whether it was empty or occupied. They also located snipers, high up in the trees. And even at night they could sniff out hostiles. Their handlers would turn them loose, and they’d range back and forth across the area. Their tails stood up when they had found an enemy combatant, and their ears stood up at attention, their nose pointing. The dogs never attacked the Japanese, though. They were too valuable to be put at risk, which is kind of ironic, when you think about all the men who were lost. The dogs were really smart, and it made me feel good knowing that one was on patrol while we ate.

  My feet were covered with blisters, huge things that were always growing larger, so full of fluid that they felt like they could explode. I took out my knife—my Ka-bar—and popped the blisters to relieve the pressure, then spread a butterlike substance provided by the corpsmen over them. I stood and pulled my socks from the branch of a bush where I’d hung them to dry, then brushed sand from my bare feet. I tossed a second pair of socks to Roy.

  “Here. Dry.”

  He sat down to pull on his boots, raising each and shaking it first to make sure a scorpion hadn’t crawled inside. We’d been warned to dry our feet and socks whenever we could in order to avoid foot problems, like toenail fungus. Any scratch could become an open sore, and sores festered in the tropical climate. Some of the men developed fungal infections and ringworm. Almost everyone got sores that ulcerated, festering like chicken pox. We called them “jungle rot.” They itched so much that you couldn’t help scratching, and that made them worse. The corpsmen gave us a salve to heal the sores, but we seemed to keep getting them. Dysentery, with extreme dehydration, was also a common complaint. So was typhus, which was caused by jungle insects. Corpsmen handed out various pills to all of us. Used to these daily doses of medicine, Roy and I swallowed them dry. Malaria-carrying mosquitoes arrived like fleets of fighter planes, attacking in swarms, especially virulent at night. For that, we were given small, bitter yellow pills—atabrine—and were administered various shots at least once every week or two.

  “Hear that?” I asked.

  “What?” said Roy.

  “The bells. Like the sheep.”

  “No sheep here,” said one of the men.

  Another said, “It’s prayers. Someone back home is praying for us.”

  I had noticed the bells before, usually around noon. Even thousands of miles from home, in conditions I could never have imagined, it was comforting, the sound of the sheep and goats coming in. Even though I had not been able to attend, my family had performed a protection ceremony for me, a Blessing Way, after basic training. I felt sure they continued to pray for me and burned sage or chips of cedar, fanning the smoke over their bodies. Their prayers were carried across the miles as the pure, bright chime of the bells. The clear tones told me that I was still in good faith.

  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 maj
or 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

  December 1942 to February 1943: Guadalcanal

  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:

  In beauty I will rest my heart.

  In beauty all will be in balance.

  In beauty all will be restored.

  “You ever been to Australia?” Roy asked me.

  I laughed and shook my head.

  “Me either. Never left the reservation until I joined the Marines.”

  “Ouu.” I grinned. “But Australia is exactly the place I want to go.”

  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 goi
ng to hang socks outside the hogan every afternoon. Put them on when they’re all hot. Hot and dry.”

  “Ouu.”

  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.