Breaking the Code

by Karen Fisher-Alaniz

  “So you were there when the flag was erected?” I asked, shocked. “That’s amazing, Dad!”

  “Yeah, I was thinking about it the other day and wondering if I’d seen the first or second flag. You know, they put up the first one and then replaced it with a bigger one a while later,” he said.

  “Yeah, I remember reading about that,” I replied.

  “I must have seen the second one,” he said. “We were quite a ways out there, so there’s no way we would have seen the smaller one. Anyway, a few days after the initial invasion, we were flown back to the base. When we left Oahu, it was virtually deserted. But when we returned, the men were coming back in large groups.”

  So he had been there! It slipped out so easily, so quickly. He didn’t even seem to know that he’d told me something I hadn’t known before.

  My father had been in the war, despite all the times he’d said he hadn’t. The stories he’d told when I was a little girl were a very small and very censored part of his experience during WWII. He’d been on a submarine during one of the most important battles of the war.

  I tried to fathom what he’d just revealed. The ripples of this one revelation reached so far that I couldn’t even think about it all at once. He’d been copying a top-secret Japanese code—at the bottom of the ocean. My father was more than just a sailor who’d sat behind a desk during the war. He and his team had played a very important part in it. My mind spun with the possibilities of what might have happened to him. He’d kept this information hidden for so long. Why? And if he’d successfully kept this a secret for more than fifty years, what more might there be?

  My father seemed content with the story he’d shared, oblivious to the fact that it had opened up a ton of new questions for me. He took another sip of his water, and then slid across the booth to leave. He handed me the check and a $20 bill.

  “I’ll meet you at the car,” he said.

  As I pulled into his driveway, I tried one more time.

  “Dad,” I said. “You have to send for your records.”

  This time he didn’t argue.

  March 6, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  It’s not mail time yet so no new mail since yesterday.

  A mob of new guys came in last night and chow line is about a mile long. Also the show is packed so I’ll have to get there early.

  Had to be a messenger for three hours one afternoon a couple of days ago. That’s the only work I’ve done so far. And didn’t do a thing then except wait for something to turn up. Just before quitting, one of the officers sent me for his hat—such a war. Rest of time I read a railroad magazine and studied for my course.

  After watching that marimba player Sunday, I’ve about decided that’s for me. They are a little hard to put in your pocket tho.

  You know I’m sure glad I don’t get letters like most of the guys do. I’ve seen a lot of them off and on. Jonesy’s wife is always way down in the dumps and the letters are so sad that it almost even makes me want to cry too. Don’t see how he could stand them. Guess they are better than nothing tho and maybe he even enjoyed them. Think I got the best assortment of mail of any one in the Navy.

  All the immediate family—you, Ray & Iris always give me the latest good or bad—in such a way that it’s always fun to read ’em over and over. And you should see Kenny & Lois’s. She writes one paragraph & he the next always arguing. I really get a kick out of them instead of missing everyone so much. Don’t believe I have anyone that writes sad or dry letters. That’s sure something I can be thankful for.

  By some freak of radio waves—I can pick up Honolulu main police station on one end of band on my radio. When nothing interesting is on the two stations I just tune it over there and get the latest on stolen cars and bad men in general.

  Well, nothing to answer so guess I’ll close.

  Write. Love, Murray

  Two weeks after the most harrowing and exciting experience of his life, my father’s letters revealed nothing. I was still looking for something, anything, that he’d snuck past censors to confirm what he was now remembering. But there was nothing—not one word.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Katakana

  We saw the university campus too. It was really nice—lots of grass, which was something neat to see. Camp is all just dirt and tents.—February 9, 1945

  The covered parking at Mr. Ed’s, a leftover from its A&W car-service days, was half full. Dad had started using a cane on and off. But even with age finally catching up to him, he never failed to pull the heavy door open for me or anyone else coming or going. We followed the same routine each week. Routine was comforting, I’d decided—it was something my father had realized long ago.

  We sat at our favorite table, a booth next to the gas fireplace that was rarely going.

  “Dad,” I said before our breakfast was served. “Can you explain exactly how you broke the Katakana code?”

  “Well, sure,” he said without thinking. “Well, at least, I think I can.”

  He’d hesitated for just a moment—long enough for me to predict that he was going to say he didn’t remember. But my prediction was wrong.

  He unwrapped the paper ring around his napkin, then he folded the napkin carefully into a triangle next to his paper placemat. He lined up his silverware on the napkin, using the tips of his fingers to make the line perfect. I watched quietly as he took the four-color ink pen from his shirt pocket and began drawing letters and symbols on the placemat. His explanation quickly went over my head. But after many questions, he was able to explain it in a way I could understand—at least on a basic level.

  In the small communications room aboard the submarine, my father sat at a desk with a Teletype in front of him and earphones on. His job was to copy the code, which meant that he listened and then typed. The Japanese language could be heard coming across in a form of Morse code. It was heard in pairs of letters and then a space and then another pair of letters. A combination would come in and my father would simply type the letters he heard. He got so that he could copy and type the code pretty fast. And in fact, to most people the code would have sounded like a very fast drumroll, with no distinguishable differences. But to someone who was trained, it sounded entirely different. Next, a long, thin strip of paper with small holes punched in it came out of an adapted Teletype machine. He would feed the paper into the machine of the cryptanalyst who sat next to him.

  “And then, miraculously,” he added, “English would come out of the cryptanalyst’s machine. I was so close that I could lean over and see what it said. Sometimes it was about the movement of troops, but mostly it was about the movement of supplies.”

  “But even the movement of troops could be critical, right?” I asked.

  “I suppose so,” he said. “If a message said they were sending ten thousand Japanese troops to a certain island, that meant they were gearing up for battle. But we never knew what was important and what wasn’t. We just passed it on to our superior and he made those decisions.”

  He thought for a bit, while he clicked his pen, adding details to his drawing in blue, red, green, and black.

  “Even something as mundane as sending two thousand cans of beans, though, could mean something to someone who knew what to look for,” he said. “Like maybe it meant that a lot of troops were holed up in a certain place. Or maybe our guys knew that beans actually meant something else. I don’t know. It boggles the mind to think of all the ramifications. But we didn’t have to think of any of that. We just did our job.”

  As I listened to my father, asked questions, and then listened some more, I realized that he simply did what he was trained to do. He didn’t try to analyze it. That wasn’t his job. He didn’t try to figure out what happened to the data he copied. And he didn’t try to figure out what his small part was in this enormous system. That would come many years later. But during the war, he just did as he was told.

  What struck me even more so was that all of these years later, he seemed
to be considering the importance of what he’d done during the war for the first time in his life. He had opened himself up enough to finally consider that what he did wasn’t just a job—it was critical. And yet, because of the secrecy he’d been sworn to, it was unsung. He’d sworn his oath of secrecy five decades ago, and by doing so, he’d silently agreed to never be recognized for what he did. My father and his team had gone their entire lives without a single person thanking them or recognizing them for their heroic contribution to the war.

  My father was currently in his eighties. The rest of his team would now be that age too. I was suddenly hit by the realization that it was possible, even probable, that he was the sole survivor. His comrades may have all died by now—without any recognition for their wartime heroism. I hoped I could somehow change that for my father.

  As I continued to read his letters, I could see a pattern that began during the war and continued to this day. My father had come back from Iwo Jima to Hawaii. He stepped off of the ship and somehow was able to put it all behind him. He compartmentalized the code breaking, leaving it with those who could be trusted. His letters highlighted this. He went back to Waikiki and to the life of every other sailor.

  On liberty, he ate his way through Waikiki: ice cream, cheese sandwiches, chocolate cake, and even lobster. He wandered through town amongst his fellow servicemen, never speaking a word about what he really did.

  March 12, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Had a nice time yesterday but didn’t seem to enjoy it as much as last Sunday for some reason. The newness wore off I ’spose.

  Didn’t get in town until about 10 and had a dish of ice cream & a cheese sandwich at U.S.O. then caught a station wagon out to the Methodist church and arrived a little late. Sat way up in the galley. Enjoyed it all tho, especially the choir (with civilians). I’m enclosing the program.

  After that walked back to town in kind of a roundabout way thru a residential district. Enjoyed that too, as it was away from the hustle & bustle of the city itself. Then got a cab out to Waikiki and ate lunch at my favorite joint. Had lobster salad, iced tea and chocolate cake & ice cream. Then wandered around the Royal Hawaiian Hotel for a while & then caught a cab back to the main U.S.O. in Honolulu again.

  Of course couldn’t get any mail yesterday so should have about 5 letters and the Chronicle Dispatch today. Have an hour yet to mail call time—I can hardly wait. It’s going to be terrible if I get aboard a ship and get mail only once a week or month or something. Then I’ll begin to appreciate the fast service I’m getting now. It will be the same your way too—so don’t be surprised if you don’t get any for two weeks or so. I’ll write often anyway—but then I’m not gone yet. Should get my glasses for sure this Friday and from then on no one knows what. Probably hang around to try ’em out and if they’re no good start all over. Personally it’s OK with me.

  Well, haven’t read any good books or anything so dunno what else to gab about.

  The radio is really a life-saver. We get really good programs all the time. Since I got my fonograph I hardly ever listen to any of the programs. Now I’m catching up again.

  Also the foto album is swell company. Say, if you can—I mean if materials are still available—wish you would go thru some of those old negatives and find some I don’t have and have them printed & send to me. Pictures are almost next to being home even if they are old ones.

  S’long for now. Write. Love, Murray

  My father was back to his usual life. He walked around the base and around town, and nobody around him knew a thing. But he wasn’t the carefree sailor he’d been before. As he would tell me, the words of the sergeant often came to mind. No matter where he went, he knew that someone could be there to spy on him, watching to see if he’d reveal the military secrets he’d sworn to keep. And so he kept silent, and slowly began to bury the memories of what he’d done.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Women Folk

  All my old gal friends are pitching in and really writing nice letters. They’ll probably all be lined up at the depot and make me take my choice when I get back.—May 31, 1945

  In his letters, my father often talked about the work his mother and other women were doing. They planted Victory Gardens and viewed the rationing of things like coffee, butter, and sugar, as their patriotic duty. My aunt Iris shared a story with me that exemplified just how deeply held patriotism was, even to the everyday citizen. She remembers her sacrifice of not wearing pantyhose, since nylon was needed for the war effort. The nylons that were fashionable back then had a seam that ran up the back of the leg. Without nylons to wear, Iris and her girlfriends came up with an ingenious solution: they took turns using a dark pencil to draw the line on each other’s legs, giving the look of nylons without wearing them.

  There has been no generation quite like theirs. World War II pulled our country together in a way that may never be seen again. It was the good that came from the bad. I found numerous Internet sites that had nothing but page after page of information on what women did during WWII. The most famous, of course, was Rosy the Riveter, who exemplified that women could be strong and do the jobs of men. In communities all over the United States, women stepped in wherever they were needed.

  Regardless, my father remains old fashioned when it comes to women. He holds the door open for women. He offers women his seat and, even in his eighties, he feels guilty if there’s a pregnant woman in the room and he is sitting in one of the few seats.

  The attitude toward women in his letters made me laugh. It was such a different time. I just had to hear more. So I shot off a quick email to my father with seven little words, “Tell me about women during the war.” The following Wednesday, it was the topic of our conversation.

  My Grandma Ruby, he told me, went to work at the railroad for her part during the war. My grandfather had worked for the Northern Pacific Railroad as an agent-telegrapher for years. So, when jobs there were suddenly left open, my grandmother went to work. It was a brand new role for her but she learned fast. She took over the bookkeeping. She taught herself to type and do the shipping and bookwork for the station. My father was clearly proud of his mother’s efforts—a bit baffled that she could actually do it, but proud nonetheless.

  My father too had worked for the Northern Pacific Railroad before he left for boot camp. Much to his chagrin, he even had to train his replacement. Her name was Ruth. He recalls that she seemed to feel as lost about taking over as a telegrapher as he did about going off to war. While still in training, he was close enough to leave the base on weekends. He used his time to go home to Helix to check on how she was doing. Things were always in a shambles which infuriated him and pleased him all at the same time.

  March 15, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  I still just count the hours until mail time.

  Say mom you sure are going to town on your typing—I suppose it’s just old stuff now. When you get so you don’t try yourself out on a speed test every hour or so, you’re an old hand at it.

  Gerry, keep away from my glove compartment. That’s the place everyone who rode with me used to grab for when they first got in the car. That’s where my assortment of grand pianos and drums were kept. If they could get that locked first everyone breathed a sigh of relief and settled down to a pleasant trip with no music.

  Sure doesn’t seem to me like it’s almost five years since I got out of High School but then again, a couple of years at Helix and almost one in the Navy. One nice thing about it is my seniority still going on. Have three years & four months in five more days (As usual I can figure out an anniversary out of almost everything).

  I don’t think Ruth is doing much of a job of bookkeeping in Helix. She really had a mess when I was there and didn’t know what to do next. She’ll just let things ride until an auditor begins to get a lot of complaints and tries to straighten her out. You know, things can ride for a long time down there and get in quite a tangle before any one discovers it. If I go
back to Helix, I’m going to look things over first and if they aren’t in pretty good shape to start with, I’ll send for an auditor to clean things up so I can at least have a good start.

  I was a little afraid the new seats would be left pretty large for the Fiat but as long as they are comfortable I guess it’s OK. Ought to be really swell for two people or even three now. Maybe you could rig up some “jump” seats in back to fold into the sides in back so you could haul a little coal or a bale of hay around. Sure would give a lot to be working on it. I think it’s the ideal rig to tinker with. Not as big and heavy as a standard size car so one man can handle everything pretty well. By the way, what did the seats cost you—or is it a military secret?

  You guys will be mechanics yet. Necessity is the mother of invention you know. My start was having an old wreck (more than one) and no dough to hire the repairing done.

  Write. Love, Murray

  March 20, 1945

  Dear Folks,