by Chester Nez
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Foreword
CHAPTER ONE - Guadalcanal Invasion
CHAPTER TWO - Sheepherding, Back on the Checkerboard
CHAPTER THREE - The Great Stories
CHAPTER FOUR - Shipped Off to Boarding School
CHAPTER FIVE - Bullies and Religion
CHAPTER SIX - Building Grandmother’s Hogan
CHAPTER SEVEN - Sweat Lodge
CHAPTER EIGHT - The Great Livestock Massacre
CHAPTER NINE - Marine Recruit
CHAPTER TEN - Unbreakable Code
CHAPTER ELEVEN - New Caledonia
CHAPTER TWELVE - The Secret Code Passes Muster
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - We Must Take Mount Austen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Bougainville
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Onward to Guam
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Peleliu and Angaur
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - No Hero’s Welcome
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Singing, Boxing, and the Korean War
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Wedding and White Man’s Work
CHAPTER TWENTY - Children
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - The Secret Is Out
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Celebration
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Legacy
Acknowledgements
AUTHOR’S NOTE
APPENDIX - The Navajo Code Talkers’ Dictionary
BIBLIOGRAPHY
INDEX
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nez, Chester.
Code talker / Chester Nez, with Judith Schiess Avila. p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN : 978-1-101-55212-4
1. Nez, Chester. 2. Navajo code talkers—Biography. 3. World War, 1939–1945—
Cryptography. 4. World War, 1939–1945—Personal narratives, American. 5. World War,
1939–1945—Participation, Indian. 6. United States. Marine Corps—Biography. 7. Marines—
United States—Biography. 8. Navajo Indians—Biography. I. Avila, Judith Schiess. II. Title.
D810.C88N49 2011
940.54’5973092—dc23
[B]
2011023701
Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.
In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers;
however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the authors’ alone.
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated to the 420 World War II Navajo Marine code talkers—men who developed and implemented an unbreakable communications system that helped ensure the American defeat of the Japanese in the South Pacific.
When the war ended, other combatants were free to discuss their roles in the service and to receive recognition for their actions. But the Marines instructed us, the code talkers, to keep our accomplishments secret. We kept our own counsel, hiding our deeds from family, friends, and acquaintances. Our code was finally declassified in 1968, twenty-three years after the war’s end.
This book may be my story, but it is written for all of these men.
May they and their loved ones walk in beauty.
FOREWORD
by Senator Jeff Bingaman
The memoir that follows is the most recent example of courage from Chester Nez. Long ago, he and his fellow Navajo code talkers were brave enough to leave the homes they loved to support a country that often spurned them. With intelligence, skill, and courage they were a significant factor hastening the Allied victory in the Pacific.
Employing the Navajo language for secure communication was a masterstroke that was successful only because Navajos themselves were recruited to serve as Marine Corps Radio Operators. Using the Navajo language, they developed and transmitted the code, which proved unbreakable. When the war was over, they continued to protect the code—and their part in the victory—until it was declassified twenty-three years after the conclusion of World War II. Deemed TOP SECRET for decades, it is appended to this memoir.
Only in 1968 did their contribution become known. In 2000, the Congress of the United States, in an effort to recognize and honor the heroic contributions of the code talkers, authorized that the Congressional Gold Medal be struck in their honor. In July 2001, in the Rotunda of the Capitol, the presentation was made, and long-delayed thanks expressed.
Chester Nez, one of the twenty-nine original code talkers, offers this memoir of his American life before, during, and after World II. It is a treasure, and so is he.
Jeff Bingaman
United States Senator for New Mexico
Senator Bingaman and Senator Daniel Inouye of Hawaii sponsored the “Honoring the Navajo Code Talkers Act” in 2000.
NAVAJO NATION
PROLOGUE
“I’m no hero.” Chester Nez chuckles. “I just wanted to serve my country.”
I just wanted to serve my country. To appreciate that remark, you need to know a little modern Native American history. In Chester’s home state of New Mexico, Native Americans were still denied the vote when he volunteered as a Marine in World War II. Nevertheless, the military called upon Chester and fellow Navajos to devise a code that many analysts believe assured the United States’ defeat of Japan in the South Pacific.
Chester, eighty-six years old when I met him, now ninety, is the only living “original” code talker. These were the twenty-nine men who first devised the famous Navajo code and took it into battle against the Japanese.
I try to picture this soft-spoken man in battle, an image that is alway
s elusive. Instead I see the vast expanses of his grandmother’s land in New Mexico, with Chester, a tiny figure in the sunbaked landscape, herding sheep. Or I see the little boy who, at boarding school, was punished for speaking his native Navajo language, the very language that led to the famous code.
When Chester, his son Mike, and I first met, we did not know that we’d create this book. An interview was what Chester and Mike had in mind. But talking for a couple of hours wasn’t enough. I have never been in the military, and I am not Navajo. I did not know what to expect. So, like a fisherman I cast my questions into vast unknown waters and pulled in an assortment of remarkable narratives. I first learned about Chester’s role as a World War II code talker. The saga of the devastating war, over before I was born, captivated me. Then, hearing of his childhood in the Checkerboard Area in New Mexico, where a difficult life made him strong, pulled me back even further into a rich history. Everything began to fit together, each piece a necessary part of the whole.
After thinking about it for a couple of days, Chester agreed to let me write his biography. But early on he expressed some concerns. What if his story wasn’t long enough to fill a book? He hadn’t done any more than so many other men, so why were we writing about him? What if he forgot something important, or remembered something incorrectly? What if his story wasn’t exciting enough?
Readers of this memoir will realize—I hope—that Chester’s fears soon proved baseless.
Chester grew up on the Checkerboard. His family’s land sat side by side with spreads owned by Anglo-Americans, Hispanics, and other Navajos, not far from the huge Navajo Nation—commonly called the Navajo Reservation—that straddled the borders of Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah, and bordered on Colorado.1 Life in the Navajo Nation was difficult when Chester was a child. Life on the Checkerboard was even more difficult.
“We could go for three or four days without eating,” Chester recalls. “Everything always comes last to the Checkerboard. My sister Dora’s house is wired for electricity, but she still has no power. They say it is coming soon.”
That was in 2007. Dora’s house is located on the Checkerboard land where Chester grew up. She died in 2008, still with no electricity.
The account of Chester’s life is important because it tells of a people whose deeds have too often been overlooked. I believe this is the first book to tell of the full life experience of a code talker who grew up as most Navajos then did—herding sheep, attending boarding school, eking out a day-to-day living. This is significant. In Code Talker, the memoir of World War II Navajo Marine Chester Nez, Chester takes a close look at his childhood, a childhood that, in broad strokes, represents the formative years of an entire generation of Navajos. Code Talker examines the courage and spirit that imbued the Marines in World War II who developed and utilized the famous, unbreakable Navajo code. In doing this, it highlights a significant contribution made by an indigenous culture. The multifaceted Navajo language enabled that code to be developed, demonstrating how the diversity that defines our nation—diversity of color, of background, of language—contributes to our strength.
There are some things Chester remembers that don’t jibe completely with history as read in a textbook. That is to be expected, especially concerning the wartime events experienced by the code talkers. The code talkers were such a well-kept secret that their very existence was classified for twenty-three years following the close of hostilities in World War II. In 1968, when their contributions to the war effort were finally declassified, their history was available to be recorded for the first time. Much of this history relied on memories that were nearly a quarter of a century old.
This is Chester Nez’s saga. We record here his recollection of events. Where his memories diverge from accepted history, his memories take precedence. We have worked hard to accurately depict the wealth of information Chester remembers.
Also, some of the practices and events that Chester recalls diverge somewhat from traditional Navajo practices. We have striven to footnote these divergences throughout the book, but once again, we have recounted things as Chester remembers them. It is impossible to neatly label and codify the customs of the Navajos, now numbering more than a quarter-million people. Divergence is inevitable.
As our interviews progressed, I began to write. But something was wrong. It wasn’t Chester; it was me.
I’d finished Chester’s biography before I realized that his story wasn’t mine. It was his. Chester is alive, and this book needed to be his memoir, not a biography written by someone else. So I listened to the tapes again. By then we had recorded more than seventy-five hours.
The calm, modest voice on those tapes reminded me that, traditionally, Navajos are private people. They don’t seek praise or applause when one has simply done his duty. In the telling of his story, Chester’s desire is simple: he hopes that those readers who are not Native American will appreciate and understand something outside their own experience, and that those who are Native American will find a source of pride in their heritage.
I listened. Chester’s voice was strong, his multifaceted story riveting.
Here it is.
Judith Schiess Avila
May 2011
CHAPTER ONE
Guadalcanal Invasion
November 4, 1942: Approaching Guadalcanal
Nothing ever dried. My damp combat uniform chafed at the back of my neck. Water ran down my forehead and into my eyes. A trickle meandered down my back as I stood on deck in the dark. The railing of the transport ship dripped with rain, but in the tropical climate, its wet surface was warm to the touch. The ship rolled slightly in the South Pacific waters, a constant unsettling movement that, just weeks ago, would have made me queasy. But my stomach held steady.
Born to the Navajo Nation, now a Marine—Private First Class Chester Nez—I’d never even seen the ocean before enlisting.
It was good, being able to sail without feeling squeamish. I tried to concentrate on that, and not on where I was heading. But thoughts seeped into my brain like seawater. Like other traditional Navajos, I’d always believed in the “Right Way.” Balance must be found, not only between individuals, but between each person and his world. My hands gripped the rail. The ship’s steady progress brought me inexorably closer to Guadalcanal. For three months, battle had raged there. How could I find any balance in that?
I reminded myself that my Navajo people had always been warriors, protectors. In that, there was honor. I would concentrate on being a warrior and on protecting my homeland. Within hours, whether in harmony with this world or not, I knew I would join my fellow Marines in the fight.
Belowdecks, machine guns, earthmovers, and other heavy equipment filled the ship’s belly. The items we were likely to need first had been packed last so that they would be easily accessible upon landing. Aircraft carriers had preceded our troop ships, carrying dive-bombers to blast Guadalcanal’s beach prior to the Marine landing.2 The transport ship I sailed upon was accompanied by destroyers, cruisers, battleships, and additional transports.
I squinted. A battleship was barely visible through the gloom off the port side of my transport. A shiver—pride? relief?—ran through me. Battleships and aircraft carriers were the largest vessels in the U.S. fleet. On the huge ship’s deck, I caught glimpses of a triple gun turret, wielding guns that fired sixteen-inch-diameter shells. Its dark bulk appeared and disappeared in the predawn murk.3
We thirteen code talkers traveling with the fleet were late-arriving members of General Vandergrift’s 1st Marine Division. Several regiments of the 2d Marine Division sailed with us in the transport ships. Our briefing had told us that the capture of Guadalcanal, an island in the Solomon chain off the northeast coast of Australia, was the first stepping-stone to an eventual attack on Japan. At Guadalcanal, the Japanese enemy waited.
I could have stayed in high school, I thought. Maybe I should have. But, as a warrior, how could I ignore the fact that my country had been attacked?
&
nbsp; I’d volunteered for the Marines just seven months before, in April 1942, only a few months after the Japanese strike against Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Until joining up, I had never left Navajo land, except for a few hours en route to boarding school. My wiry frame barely met the Marines’ minimum weight requirement of 122 pounds, but I knew I was strong. I straightened and shoved trembling hands into my pockets. I was a man now.
The ship would not reach Guadalcanal for a couple of hours. I walked below several levels to the mess hall, where the taut faces of the other twelve code talkers aboard ship greeted me. We were all dressed the same. Our combat uniforms were a gray-tan color, a bit grayer than the color now commonly called khaki. They consisted of a short jacket and trousers, with a darker brown T-shirt. We carried a poncho that reached almost to our ankles. We had been issued two pairs of thick socks, supposed to keep us from developing blisters on the march, and two sets of underwear. Our helmets were a tan-gray color with a cloth covering that had blotches of faded green, tan, and dark gray. Those blotches helped them blend in with the terrain—camouflage, the Marines called it. Our boots, boondockers, were made of thick leather. They came up to just above our ankles.
I liked the smell in the galley area, although lots of Marines complained about it. I guess I’ll always be drawn to the aroma of cooking food, after spending my early years in boarding schools where I was never able to eat what I wanted, when I wanted, or as much as I wanted. We lined up and joked with the guys who were serving, asking them to give us plenty of chow. Sometimes we got slabs of steak too big for a dinner plate. We placed our trays, loaded with sausage, corned beef, steak, and scrambled eggs, on a long, narrow counter and stood to eat. Every time the ship pitched or rolled, the trays slid, moving from one guy to the next and back again. We’d wait for our own tray to slide back, then resume eating.
