Code Talker (22 page)

I manned the microphone and nodded toward a large tree. “There,” I said.

Francis, attached to me by the umbilical cord of the radio, ducked behind the tree with me. When I'd caught my breath, I peered to the left of the thick trunk. Was it safe to resume our dash? As I turned back to the right, a sniper's bullet whined by my head.
Shit!
I reached to touch the medicine bag in my pocket. It was there, safe, protecting me.

Francis's eyes rounded out like marbles. “That was close.”

We continued running toward the front, hearts beating like drums. We zigzagged as we ran, keeping close to one another. The sniper who had targeted me was shot by one of my fellow Marines.

Finally in heavy foliage, Francis and I cut our way through with machetes. The foliage was tough to plow through, but it provided good cover. The long, thin cord connecting the headset to the radio became tangled in the vegetation. I unhooked my headset. Almost immediately a beep and a flashing red light warned of an incoming message. I plugged back in.

Considerably larger than Guadalcanal, Bougainville held thirty-five thousand Japanese troops and was well fortified, especially in the north and the south. The island was 125 miles long, dwarfing Guadalcanal's 90-mile length. Two active volcanoes pushed up from Bougainville's interior. A narrow strip of beach ran around the border of the island, and huge areas of swamp connected the beaches to the overgrown interior.

Despite the inhospitable conditions on Bougainville, the 3d Marine Division and 37th Infantry Divisions, under Admiral “Bull” Halsey, proved indomitable. We drained swamps and slashed roads through the jungle. The American Seabees, Navy construction personnel, somehow built three airfields at Torokina while suffering intermittent air attacks from Rabaul and artillery fire from ridges like Hellzapoppin that overlooked Torokina and Empress Augusta Bay.

Christmas approached and the men were called together. We sang songs and devoured cookies and coffee. It sure didn't feel like home, but it was a nice change from being involved in battle.

Then, on Christmas Day 1943, the Marines, aided by air cover, managed to scale the steep slopes of Hellzapoppin and take the ridge.

As long as we had good cover, Francis and I felt fairly secure. Now that we had taken Hellzapoppin Ridge, the fighting on Bougainville had pretty much stopped—temporarily. Everyone worried about air attacks, but even those had abated. Star shells occasionally floated down at night on small parachutes. The light attached to them lit the landscape in eerie white and cast shadows that moved with the movement of the parachutes. Our riflemen would try to shoot them, causing them to burst above us and preventing them from hitting the ground near the troops and exploding.

The island—like most of the tropical islands we fought on—was covered with beautiful flowers, with red and white blossoms as big as the tops of barrels. These bloomed at sunrise, and they smelled wonderful. We occasionally used petals plucked from them for underarm deodorant!

The way we smelled after a prolonged battle was in sharp contrast to those fabulous flowers. We could smell ourselves and everyone else. I remember dirty sweat rolling down my back, arms, and legs, collecting wherever my uniform made contact with my body. During heavy fighting, when we had no access to showers, I looked forward to rain so I could rinse off a bit.

Still, our smell couldn't begin to compete with the stench of dead bodies. In the heat, bodies began to decompose within a couple of hours, and despite liberal sprayings of DDT, the flies and maggots had a field day. Of course, the flies and maggots didn't limit themselves to dead bodies. They'd attack the dead skin around a wound, too.

The tropical birds were noisy and brilliantly colored, with dazzling yellow and red feathers. The palm trees were lovely, like a travel poster, and the whole tree—trunk and fronds—swayed in the breezes. Unfortunately, many trees were bomb-blasted, and we had to slash our way into the jungles with machetes, cutting vines and flowers. I always hated the feeling that we were destroying something really beautiful. Sometimes, when I was resting, I'd see monkeys come down from the trees. We men would feed them. During quiet periods, I often thought about those wonderful animals and flowers and wondered how they were going to survive the war. As a Navajo, I'd been taught to respect the earth, and the devastation made me feel sick.

We found we couldn't really trust this period of relative quiet. That was one of the toughest things about war; you could never really relax, not even for a few moments. Even after an island was secured, there was always the possibility of the Japanese trying to win it back. And Bougainville wasn't yet secured.

One morning, Francis and I had just loaded our breakfast trays when someone yelled, “Incoming!” Japanese Zeros whined and their sirens sounded. That familiar ominous clicking made our pulses race. We grabbed our trays and ran for cover in a roofed foxhole, not losing any of the food. Bombs exploded as we downed our breakfast.

Enemy ground troops had received very little in the way of reinforcements. General Hyakutake, the Japanese commander on the island, made no attempt to attack the Torokina area. The Japanese general was, at first, convinced that the Torokina landing was a mere diversion. After we Americans began airfield construction and took Hellzapoppin Ridge, he finally realized that he had to pull troops from the northern and southern coasts of the island and attack Torokina.

It was slow going for the Japanese troops, slashing their way through dense jungle to Torokina, dragging heavy weapons. We military men took advantage of this time, creating a U-shaped defense line manned by heavy artillery, mortars, and antitank guns. American troops mined the swampy approaches to our fortifications.

Hyakutake and his men arrived in March 1944. Suddenly the quiet island erupted. Ferocious attacks tore up the beach and the surrounding swamplands. In constant demand, we code talkers manned our radios.

For seventeen days, the battle raged. When men ran out of ammunition, many of them fought hand-to-hand using the bayonets affixed to their rifles. Combatants dodged from one tree to another. Japanese troops emitted terrifying screams. Everyone refused to give up. It was—if such a thing were possible—worse than being fired upon by artillery.

But the Japanese, who had traveled overland, abandoning their heaviest weapons along the way, were definitely outgunned. We Allies prevailed, maintaining control of the three new airfields we'd constructed at Torokina.

That long, bloody battle decimated Japanese troops. By the end of April 1944, the Americans secured Bougainville, although skirmishes continued throughout May.

More than one thousand Americans and over seven thousand Japanese died on Bougainville.

With Bougainville secured, we code talkers with the 3d Marine Division figured we would finally get some R&R somewhere, far from the sights and sounds of battle. We joked and talked, went out to the ship to have our hair trimmed to a Marine brush by military barbers, changed into clean fatigues, and read mail from home. We washed our clothing, especially socks and underwear, knowing it would have ample time to dry without attracting enemy bullets. Dry underwear was a luxury. Dry socks were, too. Several Navajo men packed up their well-worn combat uniforms and sent them home, where families would use the clothing as personal items in ceremonies designed to keep the men safe.

A couple of us discovered that the Naval Construction Battalions (Seabees) had great food. None of the rice spiced with worms that we sometimes ate as Marines. Instead they had things like ice cream, excellent steaks, and delicious bread. Word spread quickly, and frequently we code talkers lined up with the Seabees for rations. Seabees built airfields, bathrooms, and anything else that needed building. They set up the tents that housed hospitals and cafeterias. Their facilities were superior, and they were happy to share with other fighting men. They'd fill our canteens with fresh, sweet water and fill our plates till they couldn't hold any more, then invite us to come back for seconds.

In addition to sharing their good food, we often used the Seabees' showers. A shower was a luxury after bathing in the streams and pools that dotted the island—streams and pools shared by crabs and crocodiles.

When not joining the Seabees, we often used small camp stoves as cook fires. We'd remove the cloth cover from our helmets, rinse them out, and cook our dinner in them. Large cook fires were prohibited, because Japanese soldiers were still hiding on the island. The resolute Japanese took any opportunity to skulk in and take potshots at us Americans.

I pulled a couple of sardines from a can. The Marine sitting next to me had sunken blue eyes, blond hair, and bony shoulders. I handed him a sardine, keeping one for myself, then took a pull on a bottle of military-issue beer.

“What was it like at home for you guys?” the sunken-eyed Marine asked.

“It was good. Peaceful,” I said. “Mostly we herded sheep.”

“Did you have houses like ours?” The Marine stirred something that had been warmed in his mess kit, probably spaghetti with meatballs.

“Just summerhouses, branches and twigs, at first. Pretty rough. But then, when I was ten or twelve, we built a hogan from tree trunks and mud.”

“Tree trunks and mud? That still sounds rough.”

“Nah,” I said. “It was home.”

We Marines all enjoyed a special camaraderie. I had trusted my life—over and over—to this Marine and to others. They, in turn, had entrusted their lives to us and our critical transmissions. After fighting alongside the men of the 3d Marine Division, I felt at home with them, just as I had with the 1st Marine Division. War makes buddies of strangers pretty darn fast, and we had become buddies.

We were generally tight with the officers, too. I never saw a Marine, Navajo or otherwise, question the orders of an officer, although I know there were times when we weren't happy about what we'd been commanded to do. Generally, the officers were good, and they treated the code talkers with respect, as though we were also officers. Our skin color didn't work against us in the military. Our leaders took care of us. We men counted on them just like they counted on us.

Bougainville had been secured for a few days when suddenly the signal lights on the TBX radios lit up. We code talkers relayed an unwanted and unexpected message to our fellow Marines: the Japanese were returning to the island by ship, in an attempt to wrest it back from the United States.

Immediately, a code black was issued. A code black (or condition black) differed from a code red, which was issued in the thick of battle. During a code black, all weapons were readied for use, but we weren't actively engaged.

Francis and I sat in our foxhole on the beach near the tree line and waited, armed with grenades and extra ammunition for our rifles. Radio equipment at the ready, we were poised to resume vital communications in the heat of battle. The other Marines maintained a state of readiness as well, with weapons poised and night-vision binoculars within easy reach in case our wait extended into the dark hours.

It was noon. Seconds ticked by.

“What I don't get,” whispered Francis, “is why these Japs are so eager to die.”

I shook my head. “Makes no sense to me either.”

“I mean, when they're surrounded, with no hope, why can't they just surrender? Any sane person would.” Francis shifted in the foxhole, tried to stretch one leg. “Why do they have to fight till we kill them?”

“It's all about honor,” I said. “If they surrender, they're shamed for life.”

Francis shrugged his thin shoulders. “I'm glad we're Americans, not Japs.”

“
Ouu.
Those Japanese are scary.”

For a while we both remained silent. Tense minutes passed slowly. Then I spoke, again in a whisper. “You think we'll get off this island soon?”

Francis looked out at the ocean. “Sure as hell can't swim out.”

“Where would you go, if you could?” I asked him.

“Guadalcanal, I guess. It's safe there, now.” He chuckled. “And from there, home.”

I saw a movement from the corner of my eye. I reached down and grabbed a black, eighteen-inch lizard, flinging it out of the foxhole. I turned back to Francis. “Remember how it used to take us days walking back from boarding school?”

“You walked?” asked a Marine in the next foxhole.

“
Ouu.
The school truck dropped us off near Gallup, at Manuelito.”

“How old were you?” he asked.

“Eight the first time. My sister was five.” I stopped for a minute, thinking. “There was no way to contact our families. No phone.”

“Damn! What did you eat?” the Marine asked.

“The truck driver handed us each a stack of sandwiches.”

“And water?”

I shook my head, although, from his foxhole, the man I spoke with couldn't see me. “The walk took, maybe, three days. We had to find water along the way.”

“But I thought you lived in the desert?” said the unseen Marine.

“Yeah,” I said, “but some years weren't so dry.”

The Marine let out a low whistle. “Jesus! Eight years old. You Indians are tough.”

I liked thinking about home in that hellhole of a place. The school truck driver dropped me, Dora, and a handful of others west of Gallup. He handed us peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches, or sometimes hot dogs, and told us to walk the rest of the way. We drank from snowmelt and rainfall that, if we were lucky, created puddles in the arroyos. Confident from our years herding sheep, we followed horse trails across arroyos and mesas. Sometimes people we encountered along the way invited us to spend the night inside a shelter. Otherwise, we slept out in the open. It was usually not too cold in May.