The next night I read a few more letters, and the next a few more. Soon my nights fell into a routine. After tucking the kids into bed, I put on my pajamas and fuzzy purple slippers. I shimmied a notebook off of the overstuffed bookshelf next to my bed, and sat down on the sofa with a cup of spiced tea. Carefully turning each thin page, I became immersed in the story unfolding before me. With each letter I read, I learned more about the man my father was in his younger days. And although I didn’t realize it then, with each letter I came closer to discovering secrets my father had buried for decades.
CHAPTER THREE
Between the Lines
Had to work a little today. Went into an office and stapled sheets of papers together for three hours. What a life. Wonder if I’ll ever see a radio any more.—January 15, 1945
As vivid as my father’s descriptions in his letters were, I found myself wanting to know more. So, after reading the first few letters, I stopped by my parents’ house. Dad looked up from his throne, a burgundy recliner. He put a scrap of paper in the book he was reading and balanced it on a pile of others. Looking at what was in my hand, he raised his eyebrows.
“What do you have there?” he asked.
“Your letters,” I said.
“Why are you carrying those old things around?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve been reading them and—” I started.
“Why would you want to do that?” he interrupted.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Read them. Why would you want to read them?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess because they’re a part of our family history.”
“That’s not history,” he argued. “That’s just a bunch of old letters.”
“Dad, this is history,” I countered.
The quiet of the room encircled us. I leaned forward and nervously tucked one foot under me. I looked around. My mother, who had greeted me at the door, was gone. She hadn’t offered her usual hospitality, a piece of last night’s dessert or a chocolate she’d kept hidden from my father.
“Dad,” I said. “Reading your letters made me curious about some things and I have a few questions for you.”
“It’s been too long,” he said.
He rested his head on the back of the recliner and closed his eyes.
“I don’t remember anything,” he said.
Silence ensued. I waited. Stick to the facts, I told myself.
I took a deep breath.
“How far was Farragut from Dayton?” I asked.
“What?” he asked.
He opened one eye and then closed it again.
“You were in boot camp at Farragut Naval Base in Idaho, right?” I continued. “So how far was that from your parents’ home in Dayton?”
Dad opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling.
“About a four-hour drive I guess,” he said. “Of course we didn’t have the fast cars and the nice highway that they have now.”
He paused.
“I was one of the lucky ones though,” he said. “Boot camp was close to home for me. Most guys were sent halfway across the country. But I was stationed close to home. Then when boot camp was over, I got to do my training there too. Did I ever tell you about my first day of radio school?”
I shook my head. I felt like a little girl again, hearing one of his stories. But this time, I wasn’t looking for the nearest exit. This time, I hoped the moment wouldn’t end.
In the classroom that first day, the instructor quickly tapped out a simple Morse code message. My father already knew the code, having just left his job as a railroad telegrapher. So while his classmates worked feverishly deciphering the message, Dad watched a bird perched on a branch outside the window. The instructor thought he’d caught him off task.
“What was the message I just sent?” he barked.
When my father was able to tell him the correct answer, the instructor stood dumbfounded. After class, he excused my father from the rest of the course.
Each subsequent class that day would follow the same pattern; the instructor would give students a pre-test, never expecting anyone to pass it. But my father passed time and again. By the end of the day, he was excused from six of the seven daily classes. The only one that remained was Navy Procedure, a mandatory class for all radioman candidates. Dad now had only a one-hour course each day, and seven hours with nothing to do, so when a Chief Specialist pulled him aside and asked him if he wanted to learn a different kind of code, just for fun, my father was happy to have something to do to pass the time.
It seemed informal enough, just one serviceman to another. The code was one based on the Japanese language. It was called Katakana or Kana for short. They sat across from each other in a classroom filled with communications equipment. People walked by now and then but paid no attention. Neither teacher nor student shared any personal information, other than what they’d done in their civilian life; the student had worked for the railroad and his teacher had worked for the FBI.
Day after day, my father learned the complicated code that had about 125 characters, versus the mere thirty-two he was used to. At first he struggled a bit, but soon he caught on and he even found that he was good at it. But when radio school ended, so did his one-on-one lessons. It was all just for fun and he was glad he’d had something to fill the long hours.
After graduating from radio school, he spent a few weeks at home before his parents drove him to the airport, travel orders in hand. He flew to San Francisco and then took a bus across the Bay Bridge to Treasure Island, a small island between San Francisco and Oakland. He knew—everyone knew—that if you were sent there, you were going overseas.
He lived on the military base for a few weeks before receiving further travel orders. This time, he wasn’t told where he was going, only that he would travel by ship. He left the sunny California shore aboard a ship with about twenty of his classmates from radio school and hundreds of other servicemen.
Dad continued to write letters to his folks, though now he was ordered not to tell his family where he was going or how he was getting there. All outgoing correspondence was censored, but he quickly learned the tricks to getting around those censors.
His family and friends had received letters first from Farragut Naval Base, and then from Treasure Island, California. But letters coming to him were slow. The mail was always behind, following him from one new address to another.
It was at this time that he made a promise to himself. Having left his small farming town behind, he was now homesick for the first time in his life. He vowed that when he finally did begin receiving letters, he would write back within twenty-four hours.
At home that night, I thought about the story my father had told me. Perhaps he had told me this story before, but it had never seemed so vibrant, so real, as it had this time. It was a small thing perhaps. But it was a start.
I began reading his letters again, this time with a better understanding of who he was then and how he ended up so far from home.
CHAPTER FOUR
Across the Years
Arrived at about 1730 yesterday, got skinned alive. In other words, my wavy locks are almost a minus quality.—April 28, 1944
As I made my way through the next batch of letters, I was struck by the enthusiasm in my father’s writing after he got his orders to ship out.
January 9, 1945
Dear Folks,
Well, here we are but where are we going? That is the question. So darned many things have happened since my last letter that I don’t know where to start. In fact everything is censored so can’t say much of anything. We can say that we had an uneventful trip but not as smooth as the plane trip to Frisco. In fact I was very squeamish all the way. The minute we sighted land tho I came right out of it and went on deck. Aside from being a little weak I’m feeling like a million. Oh yes, we can also say we are at [cut out by censors]—Just get all the books you can on the Hawaiian Islands and you’ll know as much about it
all as I do.
I’m just bubbling over with enthusiasm for the place. That’s sure not like my Navy career prior to this time. But it’s just like another dream—off that darned ship and on this plane. We have everything around us here you ever read or heard about the islands. I’ll try to send some souvenir booklets. You know, I’d like to visit or even live here in peace time. Here it is January and during the day it’s just like spring at home. Just a little on the warm side, but seems like a light breeze blowing most of the time. Then at night it’s real cool. Use just one blanket but I don’t really need it and sleep like a log. This place is just like a rest cure. It’s sure not a disappointment from what I’ve ever heard of the islands. Everything’s green and fertile. You never see any brown dirt. It’s all a brick red color and tracks into everything. Really is fertile tho. Seems like everything grows in it.
We have the best food here since I’ve been in the Navy. And plenty of it. We have nice clean barracks—all kinds of facilities for entertainment, even an outdoor theatre where you sit on a grassy bank and watch the show.
I’m still swaying around as if I were still aboard ship. Sure hope I can get an island base somewhere. Haven’t had any work to do yet and did nothing aboard ships. I’m beginning to think we just wasted our time in school. Nothing to do with radio yet.
Well, we lost some more of the gang yesterday. Some of them went on from here on the transport. Took us off alphabetically to the Mc’s and so that cut us in two again. Won’t be much of the original gang left when we get to our final destination.
Haven’t had any liberties yet but don’t care at all except maybe to see a couple of the cities. It’s so nice and green and quiet right here that I don’t even care to see a city for awhile.
Keep writing and often. Use this new address until further notice and either send airmail or V-mail. Send all the fotos you can get your hands on. Maybe when I get settled a little I can send for the whole album.
Well, you know right about where I am, how I am, and all about Oahu now, so everyone should be happy—including the censors. Of course still have no idea where or when from here except doubt very much if we go east (fat chance).
Write and tell everyone else to. Lots of Love, Murray
I laughed to myself. I found it funny that with a war in full swing he was talking about the green grass. You see, my father had always had the most plush and green lawn in his neighborhood. He was obsessed with having the greenest, thickest grass. I don’t know if he was competing with the neighbors or only with himself. As kids we could never leave anything on the lawn for fear that it might leave a burn mark, which in southeastern Washington with temperatures often in the nineties was a real possibility. He studied the best times to water and timed his waterings perfectly. He even invented a lawn mower.
Yes, I was the only kid I knew whose friends came over to watch her dad mow the lawn. He had built an electric lawn mower, long before they were produced and sold. It was low to the ground and required no handles. Operated by remote control, a long, thick electrical cord followed it across the yard. It mowed a long strip and then quickly turned to do the next. He’d sit on the front porch, elbows resting on his knees, and mow the lawn.
It was amazing to me, as I read the letters, to see pieces of the father I knew in this young man who in other ways seemed so different. I dove back in, wanting to know more.
Jan 15, 1945
Dear Folks,
Just a line tonite—seems funny to be writing just as if I were in Helix or somewhere else. Nothing more going on here than there either. Of course it’s all settled after the little bout three years ago [the bombing of Pearl Harbor]. Lots of Orientals all over the place mixed with soldiers, sailors and marines from all over the world. It’s quite a place but I can see it would get tiresome after a while.
Had to work a little today. Went into an office and stapled sheets of papers together for three hours. What a life. Wonder if I’ll ever see a radio any more.
Well I have my choice of three movies, a stage show, or a boxing match—think I’ll see the stage show.
Still no mail—saw one guy get 31 letters all at once the other day. Hope I do the same soon. I doubt if they get the mail forwarded from Treasure Island for quite a while.
Guess I better take off and see a show. Goodnight. Love, Murray
After reading the letter, I paused. Something seemed different. In the course of six days, he went from wanting to live on Oahu during peacetime to feeling it could get tiresome. The hopefulness of his first few letters was quick to fade. Was that because of the war or simply because he was away from home?
Jan 22, 1945
Dear Folks,
Just a line or two—finished first day of school. It’s just a refresher course in everything we had before, mostly just to pass the time I’d guess. The instructors don’t hang around much and nobody studies much.
Weighed myself in Waikiki the other day—guess what? I weighed 150 pounds. This climate must agree with me. I eat meals and between meals continuously. Even the gang are beginning to have hopes for me.
They announced we could send laundry to the officers’ laundry today, so I bundled up all my dirty clothes and sent them off.
Also my address is Ad.Com.Phib.Pac., which is merely an abbreviation for Administrative Command Amphibious Pacific—which is just what we wanted to stay out of. However seems like the entire Navy including larger ships come under amphibious forces now so nothing to get excited about.
Better get busy. Write. Love, Murray
With this letter though, there was no denying the change; he seemed more listless, less forthcoming about everything he was experiencing. The last paragraph of his letter made me think for the first time about my grandmother, who was receiving the letters. My father was in Amphibious Forces, but he seemed to be trying to soften that fact.
A quick Internet search revealed the reason. The Amphibious Forces, or Amphibs for short, had a very high mortality rate. If your submarine was hit, you wouldn’t survive. He was, I figured, trying to spare his mother unnecessary worry.
I wondered, though, if my grandmother saw through my father’s words as I had. And if she had, I knew she would have been overcome with the same feeling I had now: that something about his letters wasn’t quite right.
I sat in the dim light of the living room and looked across the street at my neighbor’s house. Their children tucked in hours ago, only the faint glow of perhaps a nightlight crept across the walls of the sleeping house as I finished reading my last letter for the night. Up the street a bit was a place in the road where there was too much distance between streetlights. It was a piece of darkness that seemed out of place. I sat alone with my thoughts and alone with the unanswered questions. I struggled to understand. Had my father purposely kept the letters a secret? And if so, why?
Over the years, I’d read magazine articles about veterans who came home from the various wars unable to cope. Plagued by terrible memories, they’d never been able to resume any semblance of a normal life. That wasn’t true for my father. He came home from the war and went on with his life, seemingly unaffected.
But then, less than a year ago, at the age of eighty, something changed. My mother first noticed it shortly after the tragedy of September 11, 2001. He was distant and disengaged from the life that swirled around him. He was reading WWII books and watching hours of war movies.
She was concerned and so was I, so I started to ask questions. He responded to each one with a slightly different variation of the same answer. The war stories he told were the same ones I’d heard all my life. They were about the adventures afforded young men away from home. He told us about going on liberty and goofing off with friends. He told us about Mary’s Steakhouse and the Waikiki movie theater. This was my father’s war. He served his country from behind a desk. It wasn’t an exciting story to tell, but it takes all kinds of soldiers and sailors to support the war effort. But if it was so simple, why hadn’t he shared
the notebooks full of letters when I’d first started asking questions? Why had he kept them a secret in the first place?
“Who are you?” I whispered looking down at the letters. “Who were you?”
Had his experiences in the Navy shaped who he came home to be, even years later, as a husband and a father? Or was I just overthinking this, reading something into it that wasn’t there? I’d had a happy childhood; I had no complaints. So why was I questioning everything now?
Wishing I could just pull out a reference book on Murray William Fisher, I came up with the next best thing. Perhaps if I made a list of what I knew about my father, something would shake loose, some revelation. Maybe I knew something but didn’t realize it. That was possible, wasn’t it?
“OK,” I said. “What do you know about your dad?”
I grabbed my son’s spiral notebook from the coffee table and tore out a page. “What I Know,” I wrote at the top. I listed everything I knew about my father: where he was born, where he worked, how many siblings he had, how many children and grandchildren. I added his likes and dislikes. When I couldn’t think of anything more, I’d only filled one page.
I glanced out the window and then back at the page. Everything on the list was so general, so generic. I read each item again, trying to expand on them, but couldn’t. How could I be my father’s daughter and know so little about him?
“This is nothing,” I said frustrated.
Breaking the Code Page 2