Code Talker (14 page)

The conjugation of verbs in Navajo is also complex. There is a verb form for one person performing an action, a different form of the verb for two people, and a third form for more than two people.

English can be spoken sloppily and still be understood. Not so with the Navajo language. So, even though our assigned task—developing a code—made us nervous, we realized that we brought the right skills to the job.

Several white Marines who'd grown up on the Navajo Reservation and knew quite a bit of Navajo later applied to code talker school. But there were always words or syllables they could not pronounce correctly, so they didn't make it as code talkers.

 

 

There was no dissension among us in that locked room. We focused. We worked as one. This was a talent long employed in Navajo culture—many working together to herd the sheep, plant the corn, bring in a harvest. When we were children, distant relatives visited for weeks at a time, strengthening the bond of family. Neighbors cared for one another's livestock when someone was sick or had to travel, knowing their friend would someday do the same for them. The ability to live in unity, learned on the reservation and the Checkerboard, proved invaluable to our current assignment.

Day one ended, and the fledgling new code had already begun to take shape. We twenty-nine Marines had come up with a workable structure. When I looked around, relief showed on every face. We slapped each other on the back, and joked to let off steam, feeling good about our work. The impossible-seeming task suddenly looked possible. We would not let our country or our fellow Marines down.

An officer arrived to unlock the room. He collected the working papers we'd generated that day and locked them in a safe. Hearing that safe slam shut, I was again impressed by the seriousness of our mission.

 

 

It was Saturday, three-thirty in the afternoon, after a long week of code work. Roy Begay sat on his bunk in the barracks, his blanket pulled tight like a drum, military style. He grinned at me as I sprawled on the adjacent bunk.

“Spell ‘beer,'” Roy said.

I chuckled,
“Shush dzeh dzeh gah.”

“Good,” said Roy. A smile lit up his face. “Let's find the other guys and get some
shush dzeh dzeh gah
. Now.”

I swung my legs over the side of the cot.
“Ouu,”
I said.

I liked how things were “wide open.” The other code talkers and I were generally released from our work in late afternoon, around four or five o'clock. And on weekends we were free. Not tied to duties like sheepherding, we spent our leisure time exploring San Diego. I was happy about being in the Marines, being in San Diego, and having a secret mission. I felt as though I'd stepped up out of my old life into a new, exciting world.

Everyone in San Diego asked us questions. About being Indian. About being Marines. After a few beers, it was easy to converse with people who were so different from us, and visiting bars became a popular pastime. Many of my Navajo Marine buddies had never tried beer, or any alcohol, before. I had, and I didn't much like the taste, but did like the way it warmed my insides, relaxing me.

We often wound up at a favorite watering hole, a sort of enlisted men's club on base we called “The Slop Chute.” There they served food in addition to alcohol, so we could have a meal and a drink or two without getting sloppy.

When we left base and ventured into San Diego, we arrived at bars wearing our Marine uniforms and were served with no questions asked. But many Navajos worked in San Diego's factories. When Native Americans arrived out of uniform, they were told that Indians would not be served alcohol. The popular idea was that a drunk Indian was a bad Indian. That was just the way it was. We all accepted it.

Tijuana, Mexico, just across the border from San Diego, was another popular destination. One bar at the border had a white line drawn on the floor. On one side of the line was the USA, on the other Mexico.

Mexico was wilder, and behavior there was less restrained than in the United States. Military men returning from Mexico were assumed to have gotten into trouble. Often medical checkups, performed by the military, were required at the border.

Military Police watched over us Marines in San Diego as we drank, and anyone who appeared inebriated was sent to the barracks. On weekends, my group had to be back at barracks by early evening, around seven-thirty. We took our new job seriously and always returned on time. We never got so drunk that we had to be brought to the base by other Marines.

Even though we were watched by our fellow military men, the sense of freedom, of having days off, was like a rebirth for me. On the Checkerboard there was always work to be done, never a day off. Now we were unencumbered by the duties and obligations to family that had filled our hours at home. In San Diego, we discovered thousands of lights, noisy crowds of people, endless blocks of buildings, thousands of vehicles, and the ocean.

Most of the men had never seen the ocean before. Normally an event as big as seeing the ocean for the first time required a blessing. An even more serious blessing was needed before swimming in the ocean. The blessings helped us to maintain a balance with nature. But things in the military were different, and we just came upon the ocean all of a sudden during basic training. We all practiced jumping into the water and running on the beach. Landing in the South Pacific, in combat, would mean swimming and wading through the water. We had to be ready.

Every night we quizzed each other on the code. As part of our task, we devised phonetic English spellings for the previously unwritten Navajo words. This was all top secret, as was the rest of the code. The new phonetic spellings allowed us to review and study the Navajo words that became part of the new code, words that needed to flow like water in the midst of battle. It was impossible to study too much.

We practiced writing. We decided that everything should be printed, no script. Each word had to be legible, and most of us wrote in upper case, each man's letters the same as all the others. I still print today, out of long-ingrained habit.

It took about five days for us to devise Navajo word equivalents for the full alphabet. The code pleased all of us with its unique words and the ease with which it could be memorized. The most difficult letters were
J
and
Z
. We finally settled on “jackass,” code word
tkele-cho-gi,
and “zinc,” code word
besh-do-tliz.

We quizzed each other, spelling messages until we knew the Navajoword equivalents for the English alphabet without a flaw. If someone had trouble with the memorizing, we all quizzed him until he got it. We knew that the strength of the group made us all sharp. And in combat, the code would only be as strong as both men using it—the one on the sending end and the one on the receiving end.

Despite the efforts of boarding schools to repress it, Navajo oral tradition remained strong. Stories were still told around the campfires at home, memorized, and told again . . . and again. Memorization, for each of us, was second nature.

And, again despite the efforts of boarding schools, from the time of their birth, Navajo children in a traditional environment were exposed to the exacting and complex thought processes required by the Navajo language. This helped contribute to their ability to deal with decisions and complexities in their lives. Certainly it contributed to the abilities required to be a code talker: learning quickly, memorizing, and working under extreme pressure. I am thankful that my father and grandparents taught me my Navajo language well.

We knew that the Navajo code words would be spoken, but never written, when utilized in battle. English messages were to be encrypted
orally
into Navajo and sent by radio. When a message was received, it would be orally decrypted from Navajo back into written English. In the heat of battle, not one of us could afford to be rattled. We studied till we were exhausted, then studied some more.

Certain military terms would be used frequently—so frequently that we didn't want to waste time spelling them. Those words needed direct translations. We men, barely off the reservation, were not familiar with military terms, the names and capabilities of various ships and planes, types of artillery, and other equipment. Words like “echelon” or “battalion” stymied us. We also had to figure out a way to indicate various officers—“captain,” “major,” “brigadier general,” “colonel,” “first lieutenant,” “second lieutenant,” “major general.” How were we supposed to find equivalents for all of those? We asked for three Navajo-speaking military men to help us. Felix Yazzie, Ross Haskie, and Wilson Price were pulled from their Marine duties and assigned to help us with the code. These three men fit in, becoming one with the rest of us, indistinguishable in my mind from the original twenty-nine. After we developed the code together, they went into battle with us. I don't know why historians insist on separating them from the original twenty-nine. For me, it was the original thirty-two. They deserved credit for the code just as much as any of us did.

Of course, even after we compiled a comprehensive list of military terms, there was still a problem. In Navajo, no equivalent for words like “fighter plane” existed. We chose animals and other items from our everyday world that resembled the military equipment. So “fighter plane” was represented by the quick and maneuverable hummingbird, code word
da-he-tih-hi
. The huge transport planes were represented as an eagle who carried prey,
atsah
. A battleship was a whale, code word
lo-tso,
and a destroyer was a shark, code word
ca-lo
. A cruiser was a small whale, code word
lo-tso-yazzie.
In choosing each code word, we talked about how the animal chosen lived and hunted, and we did our best to link it up logically with a piece of military equipment. Sometimes we used non-animal items to represent certain things. A hand grenade was a potato, or
nimasi.
Bombs were eggs or
a-ye-shi.
Japan was slant-eye or
beh-na-ali-tsosie.

There is no Navajo equivalent for months of the year, since we did not divide our calendar into twelve chunks. Instead, we used concepts to describe each month. January, a cold month, was “crusted snow” or
yas-nil-tes
. The month of April, when spring sprouts begin to grow, was “small plant” or
tah-chill
. June, when much planting is done, became “big planting” or
be-ne-eh-eh-jah
-
tso.

In addition to the alphabet, we devised nearly 220 terms for various concepts and diverse types of military equipment. A code name,
Ne-he-mah,
was chosen to represent the United States of America.
Ne-he-mah
translates to “our mother.”

Living the Right Way, we men knew that things must be in harmony. We didn't compete with each other. We continued to help any of our buddies who needed help. As traditional Navajos, we had a bond of understanding. In our new roles as Marines, we continued to work together.

We thirty-two were an interesting blend of personalities. Eugene Crawford was husky and real smart. He had a good sense of humor. Wilsie Bitsie was short and chubby. He, too, made us laugh. Felix Yazzie, one of the three men assigned to help us original twenty-nine develop military code terms, was tall and lean, another joker. Charlie Begay, a tall, skinny man kept us laughing, too. He was good to be around. Those four joined Carlson's Raiders at some point. I think we were on Guadalcanal when that happened. Their officer, Lieutenant Colonel Evans Carlson, was a strong leader. He appreciated the code talkers and was good to us. And the raiders were real brave. They'd go behind enemy lines under cover of dark—or even sometimes during the day—to raid Japanese camps or airfields and to clean up hot spots. Dangerous work.

Then there was Samuel Begay, who had a good sense of humor like Charlie Begay. Cosey Brown was quiet, another tall, thin man. John Chee, again tall and skinny, was intelligent. He knew a lot about all kinds of subjects. David Curley was well educated. He often talked about school. Ross Haskie, another of the three men assigned to help the first twenty-nine, was a big guy who looked kind of like a white man. Alfred Leonard was just the opposite—short and skinny and, like so many of the others, very funny. William McCabe was another well-educated member of the team. Lloyd Oliver was very serious, tuned in. I liked to hang out with him. No matter where we were, he always knew what was going on. John Benally was a little guy, very sharp, with a complexion so light he looked like a white man, not a Navajo. He learned the code perfectly, later staying on at Camp Elliott as an instructor who trained the new code talkers. Oscar Ilthma was one of the older guys, also light-complexioned like a white man. John Brown was a very good guy, smart, with a dry sense of humor, kind of like Jack Benny. Wilson Price, the third of the men who came into the classroom at Camp Elliott to help with military terms, was quiet and very serious.

Lowell Damon was a real nice guy, my best buddy. He was fairly tall and skinny, serious about our assignment. I always wished he could have accompanied Roy Begay and me when we went overseas together. George Dennison was funny, kind of tall also. James Dixon was funny, too, one of the older guys. Jack Nez was also a good buddy, not related to me, although his name was Nez, like mine. Frank Pete was a small guy, and quiet. Balmer Slowtalker, who changed his name to Joe Palmer after the war, was a joker, with a fun sense of humor. Nelson Thompson kept to himself. Harry Tsosie was tall and quiet, and he didn't socialize much. John Willie, a small guy, was quiet, too. Johnny Manuelito kept to himself. He also ended up being a code instructor. Benjamin Cleveland was funny and short. Carl Gorman, at thirty-five, was the oldest of the original code talkers. He liked to talk and to joke. He was a very good guy. William Yazzie, who later changed his name to William Dean Wilson, was about my size, quiet and gentle. Allen Dale June was a good guy, about my height, and husky.