Breaking the Code

by Karen Fisher-Alaniz

  All of the times their names had been skipped on drafts were not by mistake but by design. Each man at the table had been left on base while their comrades were sent out into the war for a very important reason.

  My father and Mal would be part of a small and elite group. The team’s mission: to copy and break a top-secret Japanese code transmitted in Katakana.

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Such a simple question had led my father to share this new revelation. I dared not ask a question, for fear that I’d break the spell and never know what secrets he harbored.

  When they’d met, both men wondered if there was a glitch in the system. Now their question was answered. There wasn’t a glitch in the system at all. The system was working just fine. In radio school, months earlier, when the former FBI agent taught my father Katakana just for fun, plans had been set in motion.

  As they sat in class that day, my father learned that unlike him, each of the other men, five in all, had been sent to code-breaking school. They were told that from now on everything they were told during these special sessions was top secret. They were not to reveal it to their tent mates or anyone else. They would be watched at all times to ensure they hadn’t revealed anything. Their mail would be censored. They were not to talk about it in letters home, to family or friends. Even a hint would be reason for court martial.

  At the end of the day, five separate vehicles took the men back to their tents. The driver was different from the one who’d brought him that morning. This time, my father didn’t speak. He didn’t ask any questions as the sailor drove in a roundabout way, finally dropping him at his tent.

  As he lay on his bunk that night, he mentally went through all that had happened, beginning at Farragut where he’d learned the code. He hadn’t been told any of the logistics of the mission: when, where, how. In a way, he was as much in the dark as he had been when the jeep pulled up that morning. But he liked code breaking. He liked copying code and he was glad he’d get to use what he’d learned. He went to bed that night wondering about what was to come.

  The next morning, he was surprised when a military green car pulled up in front of the tent at a different time than the day before. Again, a sailor asked for “Fisher, Murray.” Again my father gave his ID number. He got into the car and the sailor took a different route, again, winding through the brick-red dirt roads.

  If my father was expecting to arrive at the same building as the day before, he was mistaken. It was a different building. A different driver. A different vehicle. A different instructor. The only thing that remained the same was the group of men that gathered in the training room. At the end of the day, he was taken back to his barracks via a different route.

  Several days in a row followed the same routine. The only thing that was routine about it was that someone would pick him up, take him someplace, and he would learn something then be taken back to his tent by someone. His chauffeurs were never the same. The vehicles he was picked up in changed. The instructors changed often, though a few returned a couple of times. The location changed each day. Some days the room was in a seemingly abandoned building. One day it might be an office; the next, it could be an equipment storage room.

  As the days went by, something was changing in him. He’d been happy-go-lucky and even nonchalant about the war before, but now he was suspicious. He watched everyone around him. He held the secrets close, his mind reeling at even the most mundane of questions from his comrades.

  The only thing the soldiers could count on staying the same was each other. Of the team of five, my father and Mal gravitated toward each other most. Mal was younger than my father, just nineteen years old, and Dad began to feel protective of him. But he also marveled at how brilliant Mal was; he was so young to be a part of this code-breaking team. They talked a little about their hometowns during short breaks, but they never revealed very much. Every part of the team seemed to be afraid of developing any kind of closeness with their team members. And yet, they had become like an estranged family reunited by a common goal. Each was the one constant in the other’s life. At the end of the day, they were each sent their separate ways and didn’t see each other on base at all. Looking back, my father wonders if that was by design, too.

  Classes ranged from subjects like the technical aspects of radio communication to the technicalities of submarine submersion. But no instructor ever seemed to know what the other had taught. And even the students didn’t know enough to piece it together. They were just given pieces to the puzzle. As hard as they tried, it seemed the pieces didn’t fit the same puzzle at all.

  One day, after a few weeks of the secretive classes, a sailor with sidearms came once again to my father’s tent. He wove through the base, but this time the destination was different, very different: the base airport. There, a small airplane—barely big enough for its handful of passengers, which included my father and his new friend, Mal—awaited them. A short time later, they were on the island of Maui.

  For weeks before, the base on Oahu had been alive with activity but then had turned eerily calm. With servicemen being sent out in large groups, the base was all but deserted. After all this time of waiting and wondering, he was standing with the small group of men on the island of Maui. What did it mean?

  Like a dream or maybe a nightmare, he found himself beneath palm trees and in the bushes, learning things like how to slit the enemy’s throat without him making a noise. This is what was called jungle warfare training. The men were shown an example and then practiced on each other.

  “Come up behind him,” the instructor said. “OK, now shove your forearm in his mouth and slit his throat with the other hand.”

  They practiced for hours, as their time on Maui would be short.

  “Now, this is how to break a Jap’s arm, rendering him defenseless,” the instructor continued.

  My father went along with the training. They all did.

  When they weren’t outdoors training, they were in the classroom, where they were taught Japanese. If they should be captured, hopefully these short lessons would come back to them, and they’d be able to understand what their captors were saying. After spending so much time on the base while others were sent out, the war was suddenly very real for my father.

  Mal and my father were now part of a top-secret code-breaking team. Each person had a specific and crucial job to do. But without each other, the job couldn’t be done at all. My father and Mal were both Katakana code specialists; they copied the code. The rest of the team consisted of the cryptanalyst, who deciphered the code; the technician, who kept the communications equipment working; and an officer who oversaw the whole operation.

  After a few days on Maui, they were flown back to Oahu and told only that they would be leaving the island soon. They were ordered to start writing letters to their family. My father followed the orders, post-dating letter after letter, sealing and addressing the envelopes. But instead of mailing them, the letters were given to someone else who would send one every day or two while he was gone. His parents would never see a break in the frequent letters they were so used to getting and wouldn’t suspect he was off the base.

  The team was kept in the dark. No one knew where they were going. Would they be sent, as so many had, to the initial invasion of Iwo Jima?

  The special classes continued on Oahu but took on a more sinister tone.

  “What you will be doing is top secret,” the instructor said one day. “We will have people watching you wherever you go. If you go to a restaurant, you can be assured we will have someone there watching you. If you are sitting at a bar, the guy next to you could be one of ours. If you talk, if you say anything about what you are doing, we will know about it.”

  The air in the classroom was already thick with fear, but what the sergeant said next brought a chill to the room.

  “If you reveal anything about what you are doing, you will be sent to solitary for the remainder of the war. If what you revealed compromises securit
y, you will be shot, without court-martial.”

  With fear and suspicion swirling around them, my father and Mal found comfort in being in each other’s presence. The only people they could trust were each other. Anyone could be a spy. Anyone, of any class or rank, even a civilian, could be the one who was watching.

  One day, they ran into each other outside of class. Though their friendship was one of few words, they decided to go off base to Nimitz Beach to relax a little. They sat on the beach, talking and watching the waves crash against the shore. When they got too hot, they swam way out in the surf, enjoying the warm water. Beyond the last waves, clear ocean water surrounded them as far as they could see in all directions. Treading water, my father asked Mal, “So do you think it would be safe to talk out here?”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Mal said.

  My father agreed.

  And with that, the foundation of their friendship was set. It was a friendship that had its own protocol. Back at home in civilian life, he would have gabbed with friends about the ups and downs of the job, of family and leisure time activities. But now, he and Mal could talk of nothing in the past and nothing in the future. Their communication was stunted as each worried about where even a casual conversation might lead. It was easier to not talk at all than to censor each word.

  Still, they were in this together. They knew the secrets they must keep. Their friendship grew despite being deprived of sunlight. Somehow it thrived without words. They signed a contract with their silence. It was a vow they would never break.

  In a few days, they were aboard a four-motor amphibious plane. Finally, they were told their destination: Iwo Jima. But first, they had stops to make, island hopping to refuel at Johnson Island and Guam, among others. Finally, a Navy ship in sight, they landed on the water and transferred to a small rubber craft with their communications equipment.

  The ship was huge and those on board barely noticed when the men climbed aboard with the waterproofed equipment strapped to their backs. A few officers seemed to know who they were and what they were there for.

  They changed ships twice, going first from Guam to Saipan and then from Saipan to Tinian. And then there was one more transfer, to yet another rubber raft in the middle of nowhere. My father recalled being grateful that the day was clear, the ocean calm. It was in stark contrast to what was to come.

  I stared at my father as he leaned back, clearly finished with his story for the day. He looked exhausted.

  “Wow,” I said. “I had no idea, Dad.”

  “Well, that’s because I didn’t tell you,” he said.

  “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “And now, it’s time for a nap,” he announced.

  “I think I need one too,” I said.

  He laughed a little and then stood up wearily. But this time he didn’t wait for me to leave. He walked past me and slowly up the stairs to his bedroom.

  Back at home, although it was the middle of the day, I curled up on my bed next to my kitty, covering myself with a knitted blanket my aunt made me when I was in high school. Somehow his story had exhausted me. I could only imagine how he must have felt. My imagination ran away with me. I could see the whole story replaying in my mind. The last thought I had before falling asleep was, He must have been so scared.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Searching for Answers

  I sent another snap of yours truly yesterday. You probably have it by now. Notice the clenched fist and dirty look I was giving the camera man. Had made up my mind to resist his sales talk but glad I changed my mind. Think it turned out better this time.—February 18, 1945

  I awoke with a start, surprised I’d slept so well. Cocoa hadn’t moved and as I stirred a little, she started to purr. I lay there for a while, petting her. Then my eyes rested on the WWII reference book I’d bought months earlier. It was oversized and sat on the shelf closest to the floor. I stretched as I got up. Cocoa did too. As my mind awoke, the conversation of a few hours before came back to me. He’d shared so much information that I hardly knew where to start. And even though he’d stopped mid-story, what he’d said finally gave me a place to start.

  Until now, until my father told me about jungle warfare and the training before Iwo Jima, I hadn’t known what I was looking for in the letters. The stories I grew up hearing didn’t include Iwo Jima. They didn’t include breaking a code called Katakana. And they didn’t include any kind of intrigue or danger. But now? Now I knew there was something more. If I could find the letters he’d been ordered to write ahead of time, maybe then I could figure out what was going on.

  I opened my dog-eared WWII reference book to the page that said Iwo Jima. The initial invasion was on February 19, 1945. To the best of his recollection, he was there a few days before that. So February 14 seemed like a good place to start in the letters.

  “There has to be a clue here,” I whispered.

  I read with new resolve. He’d told me that because all outgoing mail was censored, he hadn’t written home about what he was doing. So I was looking for other clues.

  I opened the notebook to the letters written during that block of time. Wouldn’t it be amazing if I discovered something right here in his letters? I thought. Something that led me to the truth that was buried so deep within my father that even he couldn’t find it? Maybe a clue here would lead me to something I could use to help him find peace. Although he’d been told not to reveal anything about what he was doing in his letters, I knew my father. He was clever. If there was a way to secretly reveal something in his letters, he would have found a way to do it. So while I read each word, each sentence and paragraph, I also searched between the lines.

  Feb 16, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Just back from noon mail-call. No mail. I know now I have some coming tho as one of the mailmen said he saw some for me at my other address. Should get forwarded soon. I’m having quite a time with my mail.

  Finished some washing a little while ago. Dad and Gerry can skip these details. Have a new system now. I just send my white blouse and trousers to laundry. They are a little slow so I wash all the other clothes myself. I have a five gallon can with top cut out and wire handle attached. I fill it with hot or cold water and put in some Rinso powdered soap and about a cup of Purex and mix well. Then put all my underwear, handkerchiefs, mattress cover, pillow case and towels in. Then begins the fun. I have one of the more modern methods for washing. Have a short broomstick with a red rubber suction cup on the end. By inserting this in the basket and vigorously working it up and down, the clothes seem to come out nice and white. I hang them on the line in back of the tent about 10 a.m. and by 5 p.m. they are good and dry and ready to bring in. Quite a system huh? When I get married I’m going to buy a wash board I believe. I think that would be much easier on the wife.

  Studied more on my course—should finish first lesson tonite. I really enjoy it. Sure is going to make things easier and more understandable even on an agency job .

  Well guess I’ll close for now. Love, Murray

  Feb 18, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Lots of mail today so I’ll have some to answer at least. No use you guys getting flustered ’cause I don’t get my mail—about the time I start getting mail again, yours start arriving with sympathies etc. It really doesn’t matter too much as it’s all bound to catch up sooner or later anyway.

  Nope, didn’t hear of Japan’s earthquake. All the news we get is what we hear on the radio and in papers. Just as well be in the middle of Tennessee as far as getting news is concerned. Every now and then the earth shakes like jelly but usually someone doing some blasting or anti-aircraft fire practice.

  Glad you’re getting some visitors. There are plenty of folks you take for granted until you get away from them.

  Got a two page letter from Ray that was really newsy. He said it was the first letter he’d ever written that was over one page.

  As for a birthday present—it sure won�
��t be long now. Not a single thing I could use, except a good pen and pencil set. Just deposit a couple bucks or war stamps for me in your sock. Say, would you like me to subscribe to a Honolulu paper for you? Doesn’t cost much and they tell a lot about our activities here that would be quite interesting to you. Of course the news and funnies would be quite old. Let me know. I can get it to you very easily. Might just try it for three months or something.

  Went to church this morning. Have a real swell, down-to-earth lieutenant for a chaplain. He looks more like a run down section foreman than a Chaplain tho.

  Sent my first traffic lesson in and starting on second today.

  Better get a line off to Ray. Haven’t received the foto album nor radio yet but it’s probably in my old mail and will come in a bunch one of these days. Write—Love, Murray

  Feb 19, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  ’Twill be something new to get a V-mail from me. If you get it. Nothing new today. Got a valentine card today. That was all. Got to get ready for “Arsenic and Old Lace” in town pretty quick. We all meet at the transportation office and get on a couple trucks and ride in and back. Should be a good show. I’ll tell you if it is or not later.

  Get kind of lonesome with Jonesy up at the hospital. I can’t visit him very often and all by myself in the tent. Of course he isn’t sick at all so he doesn’t especially need comfort. They have him in a bed with a solid board under a thin mattress. Says he feels worse than he ever did as far as back is concerned.