Breaking the Code

by Karen Fisher-Alaniz

  Hooray—Received both radio and foto album yesterday. Both in excellent condition. Been just sitting looking through the album and listening to the radio. Didn’t get any mail (letters), for the first time in about two weeks. With the album and radio I won’t holler too much tho.

  I really don’t know what I’m going to find to write about if I keep this letter a day business up—may just cut it down to a page or two instead of three. Don’t know what I’d do with my time if I didn’t write letters.

  Been up to see Jonesy. He’s no worse or any better. I take him magazines and cigarettes and anything else he pays for. Still has no idea whether he will get out or stay in for a while. Doc says he doesn’t know what to do with him. Jonesy says he could suggest something.

  Saw “Gypsy Wildcat,” with Maria Montez and Jon Hall last night. Had seen it in Spokane a long time ago but still, it was good. I see a different show every night.

  One thing you might be interested in—all the stores carry all the advertised brands of goods that you see in the states. A lot are produced here in Honolulu with same trade name. Also have practically all the chain stores such as Safeway, Newberrys, Kresses and Sears.

  Tomorrow is my liberty day. Didn’t go on any extras this week at all. Kind of tired of going so often when it’s such hard work to get to town and back. I’m allergic to work by now (Quiet Gerry).

  By the way—You could kind of guess what my military location is—remember what happened a little over three years ago? Right. You’d sure never know it tho. You can’t see a thing that would tell that the Japs bombed probably right on the spot I’m writing.

  Just about thru a lesson on railroad freight classification. So far it’s just a résumé of all the railroad procedure. Course seems to be a lot of study of tariff and reasons for various rules and orders. Just what I always wanted to study. Have a long way to go yet tho. It’s really thorough.

  Say mom, I may take over your job for that 90 days when I come back. Wouldn’t want to go to Helix and mess things up at first. Wouldn’t matter at Dayton—they’d just blame it on the labor shortage and women.

  By the way—I suppose you noticed the tube almost striking thru on the Fiats spare tire. Want to sell it yet Gerry? If so, don’t you dare without first consulting me. I’m going to have one when I come back if I have to go buy one from Mussolini in Italy.

  Write & rush those fotos of the Fiat. Love, Murray

  My father’s reference to Pearl Harbor made me think of a new direction to go with my questions. Since he hadn’t actually been there on December 7, 1941, when Pearl Harbor was bombed, it was probably something he’d talk about. I waited until the next Wednesday to bring it up.

  Mr. Ed’s had become our touchstone. The former burger restaurant still had some of its original A&W appeal—large vinyl booths with telephones for ordering that were no longer connected. When the chain restaurant folded, Elvis moved in—quite literally. An eight-foot sculpture of Elvis, complete with guitar and swayed hip, was the first thing you saw when you entered.

  After sitting down, you slowly began to notice that there was most definitely an Elvis theme throughout. Memorabilia was everywhere; every little nook and cranny had an Elvis something. The only variation was when, on the first day of a holiday month, seasonal decorations joined Elvis, from eggs and bunnies for Easter to Santa and his reindeer for Christmas, and everything in between.

  But whether you were a fan of Elvis or not, it was the people who worked at Mr. Ed’s who brought you back. Every employee, from the waitresses and busboys to the cooks, just had a way of making you feel like you just stepped into your grandmother’s kitchen after a hard day’s work. Still, Biby (pronounced bye-bee) was our favorite waitress. Every week the twenty-something girl greeted us like long-lost friends. Dad took a liking to her and he didn’t like it when, for some reason, she either wasn’t there or wasn’t working our table. Still, she always made a point of giving him a hard time about one thing or another. She was the kind of waitress who would plop down beside you when she had a moment, just to see how life was going for you.

  We always ordered the same thing: eggs Benedict. In fact, that’s how we got our own bit of fame there, something Biby revealed to us. One day we had come in and Biby wasn’t there. Dad complained half-jokingly to the waitress who took our order. The next day the waitress mentioned to her that “the Benedicts” had been there. Biby said she had to think for a bit to figure out who in the world the Benedicts were, and then she laughed.

  After she told us this, every now and then, we’d hear someone joke about it. “Hey, Biby,” they’d say, “the Benedicts are here.”

  The parking lot at Mr. Ed’s was nearly full that morning, but I parked as close to the door as I could. Dad held the heavy door for me. There were two tables available, one in the center, by the fireplace, and one by the window.

  “Which would you like?” Biby asked with a broad gesture.

  “How about an ocean view?” Dad asked.

  “You’re so funny!” she said.

  She looked out the window at the familiar view of the street, with the Blue Mountains in the background.

  “So, which ocean are we lookin’ at?” she teased.

  “Oh, how about the Pacific? This is Hawaii, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Hawaii? Sure it is. You look like you’re ready for Hawaii, with that shirt and all,” she said.

  Dad loved Hawaii. He wore a button up Hawaiian shirt every spring and summer day, switching to plaid print flannel for the fall and winter. His brother Gerry had lived in Hawaii with his wife for many years. But for Dad it was more than just visiting his brother. He really loved the island and its people, a fact that seemed even more intriguing to me now.

  We first went there in 1979, when I was a teenager. My sister Kathy and I were teenagers and my sister Susan was in her twenties. At the time, I don’t think it even registered with me that we were standing on the very soil my father had been on during the war. I’m embarrassed by how out of touch I was. I was almost sixteen at the time, old enough to at least ask a few intelligent questions. But like most teenagers, I imagine, my memories are not of the cultural or historic places my parents took us to. My most vivid memories are of my sisters and me walking to the beach and spending hours there, in our bathing suits, in the warm ocean.

  But there was another side to our trip: the extravagant and much more grown-up side. My Uncle Gerry, publisher of The Beach Press, was someone who it seemed everyone wanted to impress. We had valet parking, something I didn’t know existed. In restaurants, we were seated at the table with the best view. At luaus and other activities, we never waited in a line. There were even VIP seats for us at the popular island attraction, The Polynesian Cultural Center. And I was only slightly embarrassed when some random family accidentally sat in them and was politely asked to move for us. Our small town in the Pacific Northwest afforded no such luxuries. After the family trip to Hawaii, my parents didn’t go again until they retired.

  Biby returned with a carafe of water.

  “The usual?” she asked. “Two half Bennies and extra sauce for you?”

  “Yep,” my father said.

  I poured water into the red plastic glasses.

  “So, Dad, you were at Pearl Harbor a few years after its bombing, right? What was it like then?” I asked.

  “Well, it wasn’t like you’d imagine at all,” he said. “By the time I got there, it was three years after the bombing. People didn’t talk about it really. It was just a regular base to us.”

  “When we went on the Pearl Harbor tour when I was a teenager, I remember, we could still see oil leaking from the Arizona,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, we could see it during the war. They call it the black tears of the Arizona, or something like that now. You know, most of the guys who died down there were never taken out to be buried. They’re still down there. Every time some group cries about environmental concerns or whatever, one veteran’s group or another cr
ies out louder. I’m sure the Arizona will never be brought up or moved.”

  He thought for a moment before continuing. “Well, not until we’re all gone anyway. Then they’ll just do whatever they want.”

  He paused, taking a drink of water. He’d said it so matter-of-factly. But his eyes betrayed him. The thought made him sad. He moved on before I could say anything—and before he could feel anything too deeply.

  “One of my jobs while I was there was to get the mail,” he said. “Security was pretty strict, but I had a jeep pass, so I had a jeep at my disposal all the time, parked right outside our barracks. It was supposed to only be used for official business. Anyway, another guy and I would hop in our jeep and then drive across Pearl Harbor to a landing that handled the mail. We’d pick it up in these canvas sacks and then drop it at the post office for the amphibs. But the best part of the whole deal was that the only way to get to Ford Island was by boat. So, instead of a regular jeep, we had an amphibious jeep assigned to us.”

  “An amphibious jeep?” I asked. “You mean it was part boat and part jeep?”

  “Well, sort of,” he said.

  He pulled a pen from his pocket and started to draw on the paper placemat.

  “It was like a regular jeep in the guts of it,” he explained, “but the body was more like a boat that slopes on both ends. There was no top but it did have a windshield, and it had a propeller in the back. All I had to do was drive down a ramp into the water, pull a lever to engage the propeller, and away we went.”

  He drew tiny details on what appeared to be the dashboard.

  “All of the controls were pretty much like a car except it wouldn’t go fast at all,” he said. “It steered by just turning the wheels. The action of the wheels against the water made it turn, but slowly and with difficulty at times.”

  “So you weren’t going to win any races?” I joked.

  “No, but we had a great time with it. We used it all over the base,” he said. “In fact, the Arizona still showed quite a bit above water at the time. They had ropes all around it to try to keep people away. When we were bored, we’d go over there and duck under the ropes and lean right up against the masts and turrets. We’d hang on to something and peer down into the water to see if we could see anything. I guess that sounds morbid now. But it’s just what we did. There were other ships too that we looked over but none as famous as that one. They were still working on salvaging them. I always wished I had snuck a camera in with me and taken pictures but they were very strict about cameras. I always thought it would be fun to own one of those amphibious jeeps right now and run it around town and in parades and so forth. Maybe I will start looking for one!”

  “I think you’d better check with Mom on that one,” I said.

  “Why would I want to do that? She’ll just ruin all my fun,” he said.

  “Da-ad…” I mock scolded.

  He laughed. We both did.

  I’d been right. Talking about the part of the war he wasn’t involved in was easier. These memories came easy. I was able to enjoy what he was telling me—not worrying about what I may be unknowingly unearthing. In fact, these stories were reminiscent of those I’d heard growing up. It had been a long, long time since I’d heard one of those stories. And now I could see that when he told them, his countenance was different, lighter. He was enjoying remembering. And that made me smile.

  Biby returned with our steaming plates.

  “You drew all over your placemat,” she teased. “You want a new one?”

  “Well, what do you mean? You don’t like my art?” he asked.

  “Oh, sure I do, sweetie,” Biby said. “It’s beautiful. I just thought maybe you’d want to save it for later. You know, put it up on your fridge or something.”

  My father laughed. And for the first time in a while, I felt warm inside.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Iwo Jima

  A mob of new guys came in last night and chow line is about a mile long.—March 6, 1945

  As the weeks went by, I often gave my father updates on my progress with the letters by telling him the date on the most recent letter and a few details about its contents. But a few months had passed since we’d talked about them in depth or I had asked him any questions.

  My mother and I now checked in with each other regularly. She would let me know if Dad was having nightmares, or if she’d noticed his mood change. Likewise, I would share if we’d been talking about something that seemed to upset him. Sometimes there seemed to be a direct correlation. Other times, I couldn’t see a link at all.

  So when I would update him about the letters, I was careful not to include anything that might trigger nightmares for him. The problem with our system was that I didn’t always know what the trigger was. Something that seemed benign could be something that wasn’t at all benign. I was very careful with what I talked to him about.

  But one Wednesday, as soon as we’d ordered our usual breakfast, he caught me off guard by asking me a question.

  “So, how are the letters coming?” he asked.

  For some reason, I didn’t even think to filter things like I usually did. Maybe it was because it was he who asked the question, instead of me offering. Maybe I was just tired—maybe we both were. Whatever the case, the words Iwo Jima came tumbling out of my mouth.

  “The letters I’m transcribing right now were probably written at about the time you went to Iwo Jima,” I said.

  As I had researched Iwo Jima, I had learned what a huge part of WWII it was. It made me wonder if Dad’s military records might hold some information that might be helpful. Maybe they would offer information that would lead me more quickly and efficiently to something of benefit to my dad. Or maybe I was spinning my wheels and trudging through all of this and I didn’t need to.

  “Dad, have you ever thought about sending for your military records?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “There wouldn’t be anything in them.”

  “You never know,” I said.

  “You don’t understand.”

  He hesitated, looking out the window at the morning traffic, which in Walla Walla meant a line of three or four cars in succession. His eyes scanned the horizon. He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and slowly cleaned his glasses. He put them back on and again looked out the window.

  “In one of those instructional sessions on Oahu, we were told we’d be traveling with no orders. See, usually whenever you went out to sea, you went with a manila envelope which had your orders in it. That’s how they kept track of who was sent where and what they did. But when our group was put aboard that amphibious plane at Ford Island, there were no such orders. So I know there aren’t any records of what I did.”

  He looked down at his hands.

  “It’s like I was never there,” he added.

  I didn’t know what to say. Of course he was there. I knew the kind of mind he had. I knew he couldn’t have made this up or been mistaken. Still, a lack of firm acknowledgment seemed to be eating away at him.

  “Anyway,” he said interrupting my thoughts. “We were transferred at sea to a submarine. We never saw a name or number but were told it would be the Sailfish. That particular submarine had become famous because it was originally the Squalus which was re-commissioned the Sailfish after a terrible accident at sea. I looked it up the other day on the Internet. It’s amazing the information you can get now. I looked up all of the patrols. And there weren’t any that went to Iwo Jima. So I just don’t know. All this makes me feel like I must be crazy or something. All these years, I believed I was on the Sailfish. And it turns out I wasn’t. Maybe they just told us that. Or maybe I imagined it all.”

  He squinted as he looked out the window again.

  “Dad,” I said. “You didn’t imagine it. There has to be documentation of what you did. I think you should send for your records. So tell me…” I said, changing the subject slightly. This time I knew exactly what I was doing. Months ago, he’d left off with
he and his comrades boarding a ship in the middle of the ocean. If he was having nightmares recently, my mother hadn’t noticed them. And his emotions had returned to an even kilter. And since he seemed open today in a way I hadn’t seen in a while, I decided to push forward.

  “What was it like once you got on the submarine at Iwo Jima?”

  He didn’t hesitate in answering. In fact, when he began speaking, he seemed to gain resolve to remember what he had to tell me. When he started to talk, I could hear determination in his voice. He wanted to remember. He wanted to share.

  “Well,” he said, “I can’t exactly remember when we boarded but it was before the initial invasion on February 19. Our sub sat on the bottom of the ocean and shot up an antenna that was attached to the top of the sub. We called it ‘the football’ because it was shaped like one. It was a top-secret thing at the time. See, usually you had to surface to receive messages but with this thing, most of it stayed below the water. The only part that was above water was an antenna, which of course couldn’t be seen by the enemy. If you just picture this vast ocean with a little antenna, you can see why. Anyway, we just sat there copying code day and night. The code could only be copied a short distance, or line of sight. But if you were on a high point or across an uninterrupted surface, that could be extended a couple hundred miles. I suspect we were copying stuff from Chichi-Jima, but I don’t really know.”

  “Did you ever decode things that were really critical?” I asked.

  “No. Probably not,” he said. “I saw a lot of the decoded messages and they related to supplies and personnel being moved by the Japanese. We just never knew what was important and what wasn’t. We just passed the messages on to the cryptanalysts and they figured it all out. But I did get to where I could read what I was copying. And sometimes I read it but mostly there just wasn’t time. And we did surface a bit too. The one I remember most vividly was when we surfaced and I could hear cheering. I made my way to the deck of the sub and off to my right I could see the American flag. It was erected on Mount Suribachi. It was quite a sight but, of course, we didn’t know how famous that moment would be.”