Breaking the Code

by Karen Fisher-Alaniz

  “Well, just for fun every now and then, we’d wait until the ship rolled so one side was higher than the other, then unclip and roll across the deck to the other side. Within seconds the ship would roll to the other side and the other of us would unclip and roll across to the other side. So we switched places that way. It broke up the monotony and it was kind of fun.

  “One day, for some reason, when Mal and I changed places, I got out of my chair. I can’t remember exactly why, but sometimes we did that. I was sitting on a wooden crate. Well, right after we’d switched places, a kamikaze hit close and a piece of shrapnel hit right between my legs; it was imbedded into the crate. I instinctively reached down to pull it out and it was hot. It burned my finger.”

  He opened his hand and looked down at his finger.

  “Right there,” he said. “It’s the darndest thing. See that?”

  I looked at his finger to see a half-inch long scar of sorts. Actually it looked more like a tattoo. It was blue and in the shape of an elongated c. I remembered it well. When I was a little girl, I would run my tiny fingers across the scars on his hand. But the blue scar was my favorite. It wasn’t raised like the others. It was smooth like the rest of his skin.

  “You know, a few years ago I tried to get it out,” he said. “I took my pocket knife and tried to dig it out.”

  I cringed.

  “And it hurt…a lot,” he said with a little laugh. “So I decided to leave it be. So anyway, it was some time after that—maybe hours, maybe days, I just can’t remember—that Mal and I were on the deck again. But this time we were in those rolling chairs. We had just changed places when this Kamikaze hit the water close by. For some reason, I looked over at Mal and saw that he’d been hit. I unstrapped and ran over to him. I cradled him like a baby. And Mal looked up at me and said, ‘Oh, Murray.’

  “Then it’s kind of a blur. I remember I was holding on to him so tight that someone, a sergeant or something, ordered someone to get me off of him. They had to pry my fingers away from his shirt one finger at a time. Then I remember standing up and brushing my shirt with my hands trying to get the blood off. It’s the craziest thing, right? I was trying to brush blood off with my hands. Then I remember that same sergeant telling someone to take my shirt off of me and they did. The next thing I remember was waking up in Aiea Naval Hospital and seeing a pretty blonde nurse. Anyway, so that’s the story.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I said, finally finding my words.

  “Oh, lots of guys had it way worse than I did,” he said. “You know, if Mal and I hadn’t switched places, I would have been the one gone and he would be the one with kids and grandkids.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. I didn’t know if it was the right thing to say or not.

  I went home and took a reference book off the shelf.

  “Okinawa,” I whispered.

  Turning the pages, I learned that the initial invasion began on April 1, 1945. I opened my father’s letters and started reading.

  Just as before, I looked for clues about what had happened at Okinawa. But this time I wasn’t so hopeful. I had come to understand that there would not be neat answers that fit into a box. I read each letter staring with those dated a week before the initial invasion. Since he wasn’t there for the initial invasion, I stopped on March 30. That was the time, roughly, that my father was there. But after hours of reading and rereading, the only possible clue I uncovered is the fact that there was a break in the letters. He went just shy of a full week without a single letter. On each end were letters dated March 23 and March 30 that sat as brackets around a blank space.

  March 23, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Nothing new has been added in the past twenty four hours. One thing—I bought a bottle of pop. That was exactly my doings for the day. Saw the show “Winged Victory” last night. It was really swell. You should see it if you want to see about what we went through to get over here. It’s about the A.A.F. but the training was about the same (except for the gold bar when they finished).

  We get all the popular programs all right, on the radio but they aren’t direct—they are always transcription thru the two local stations. All but one are in excellent English too. They have American (stateside) announcers and it’s just exactly the same as listening to KHQ or something, in Spokane.

  Write. Love, Murray

  March 30, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Before I forget—sent a package a couple of days ago first class mail (not air-mail). Inside is one of my amphibious insignias—in case you didn’t know. It goes on the left arm sleeve at the top. That’s what I’m attached to so I’m entitled to wear it. In the Navy there are just a few branches that wear those special insignia. The Amphibs, Seabees, and P.T. crews, the rest of the service don’t wear any specialty designation. Also that overseas bar is all mine too—American theatre and Asiatic Pacific theatre. Everyone here is overseas so you never see any one wearing an overseas ribbon. Thought you might hang ’em on my star in the window or something with that rating badge I sent before just for the novelty of it.

  Still have a lot of new guys around. They come and go but I stay on. Will see the doc Monday and got an appointment for eye exam. If no change I’ll be set any day after that to catch a draft. If a change is required that will probably mean another month or more. As far as I’m concerned they sure need changing all right.

  Go on liberty Sunday and sure hope I arrive in time to go to church and think I’ll take in the dinner afterwards this time too.

  Write. Love, Murray

  As I read, I wondered if these letters were among those written ahead of time and mailed while he was at Okinawa. How strange it seemed that his mother received such a glowing report of her son’s wartime experiences while he was going through such a trauma.

  But even if the letters themselves didn’t reveal anything, did she notice that he didn’t write for almost a week? And what about that break? Was that during the time he spent in the hospital? Had he been treated for his wounds—physical and mental?

  One thing was certain, physical wounds heal, but the place of pain will always have a scar. Maybe it was the same for emotional wounds. Maybe a place where the pain was at one time unbearable could never be the same, no matter how good it looked or how well-healed it appeared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Remembering

  Some of the pessimistic ones say, “Golden State in ’48—Bread line in ’49”—mostly cause it rhymes well I think.—April 24, 1945

  “I love the first barbeque of the season,” I said.

  “Me too!” Caleb shouted.

  The smell of barbecue wafted in from the backyard where Ric was cooking. I spread the blue-and-white checkered cloth over the dining table and put a stack of plates at the end. In the kitchen, I started pulling things from the fridge.

  “Here,” I said handing the kids bowls of chips, salsa, macaroni salad, and condiments.

  “Grandma and Grandpa will be here in a few minutes,” I said. “And you know Grandpa; he’s never late when food is being served.”

  “Hello?” Dad hollered as he and Mom came through the front door. “Anybody home?”

  The kids laughed. I did too.

  “I was just saying that you are never late if food is involved,” I said.

  “Well, that’s the truth,” my mother said.

  Dad was already at the table nibbling on chips when Ric came in from the backyard with hamburgers and hotdogs stacked on a long white serving dish.

  “Dinner’s served,” I announced as the kids swarmed the table.

  “Sorry it’s not steak, Dad,” Ric said glancing at me. “Karen insisted on hamburgers.”

  “Well, I love a good hamburger,” Mom said. “There’s nothing better than the first barbequed burger in the spring.”

  Dad and Ric exchanged glances. They liked their steaks.

  After dinner, the boys went out to play while Danielle and Gra
ndma sat on the porch swing. Clearing off the table, I made trips back and forth to the kitchen. I was so focused on getting the food off the dining table before Cocoa decided to make a meal of it that I hadn’t noticed Dad. As I pulled the tablecloth off, I saw him.

  Instead of following the family outside, he’d made himself comfortable in the living room, sitting in the recliner. Finding a quiet moment in our house was rare. As I moved into the room, he asked a question before I even had a chance to sit down.

  “You didn’t find any clues in my letters about Okinawa, did you?” Dad asked.

  “No,” I said.

  A few weeks had passed since we’d talked about his breakdown. And to be honest, I’d been avoiding the subject of Okinawa altogether. This time I hadn’t told him about rereading the letters surrounding that period of time. I was surprised that he was the one to bring it up. I didn’t think he had even thought about it. I was wrong.

  “I didn’t find anything,” I said.

  “Your mom said it figured that the first thing I remembered after waking up in the hospital was a pretty blonde nurse,” Dad laughed.

  I laughed too.

  “She doesn’t know the half of it,” he said in a soft voice. “I remember lots of things. It comes back in bits and pieces.”

  “Like what?” I asked, taking the pillow beside me and hugging it.

  “Well,” he started, “I remember that when I woke up I was in a hospital room. And there was this nurse who was sitting in the corner reading something. I can’t remember if I said something or what, but she looked at me and rushed out into the hallway and called the doctor. The doctor came rushing over to my bed. He asked me if I remembered what I had been doing before coming to the hospital. I told him that I had been copying code on a ship off of Okinawa. The doctor was about to ask another question but these two marines were at the door. They had sidearms, pistols in holsters, and they pulled them out.”

  “Oh my gosh,” I said. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. I’m not kidding,” Dad said. “They didn’t wave them around or anything, just kept them pointed at the floor. Anyway, one of them told the doctor that I could not talk about what I’d been doing. The doctor said that he was just trying to see if my mind was okay. So then the doctor took out his stethoscope and started to do a regular exam and they put their guns away. The marines stayed outside my door all the time, but from then on, the doctor only asked me how I felt for the rest of the time I was there.”

  He seemed to be thinking, so I didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, and my hand was all bandaged up,” he said. “The nurse unwound that ball of gauze ’round and ’round, and when she was done, there were just a bunch of scrapes and scratches. A lot of bandage for nothin’.”

  “How long were you in the hospital?” I asked.

  He looked down for a bit and then looked around.

  “I just don’t know,” he said.

  “Do you think it was like a few days or a month?” I asked.

  “Probably not as long as a month. I just don’t know. Maybe a few days or a week. I just don’t know.” His frustration was visible now.

  “What else do you remember?” I asked.

  “Well, I remember that this guy—I can’t remember if he was a doctor, or what, but he kept telling me that I wasn’t going to remember any of this. He said it over and over, and I felt like he was trying to brainwash me into believing it. It made me try even harder to remember. Then one day someone came to me and said I was going back to the barracks and to my old job. A Navy car came and picked me up. I just went back to a normal life, like nothing had ever happened. I had just started a new job right before I was sent to Okinawa. So I went back to that job.”

  “Did you ever see the guys you worked with at Okinawa again?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “And I didn’t care to either. My mind was pretty much blanked out because of what happened to Mal. I was with him when he died. I should have contacted his folks. I should have told them that he didn’t die alone. But I never did. I regret that.”

  He looked out the window.

  “Looks like rain,” he said.

  Just then, Caleb ran in the house.

  “Mom,” he said excitedly. “There’s a storm coming. Come on, come on!”

  Caleb jumped up and down and finally pulled me by the hand.

  “Come on, Dad,” I said. “You get to experience what the Alaniz family does when there’s a storm.”

  I pulled the blankets off the back of the couch and joined the rest of the family outside under the cover of the porch. Snuggled on the porch swing and the wicker chairs, we waited for the pounding rain and silently wished for a show of lightning. Bolts of lightning caressed the blue-gray sky and thunder brought shrieks of awe. Then something caught my eye. It was Dad. He hadn’t followed us to the porch. He stood on the other side of the picture window. His eyes were locked on the horizon in the distance. The storm came and went and he never moved.

  The letters I was reading now, after he was sent back to base, were so far removed from the trauma he’d experienced. That could mean one of two things: either he was faking every letter, making it sound like everything was great, or his mind had already begun the arduous task of burying what was too painful to bear. I suspected it was the latter.

  April 6, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  I’m an early bird today. I went to breakfast a few minutes ago—for first time in a couple of months. Had soft bacon, scrambled eggs (powdered), and bread with butter and jam, plus coffee & cereal if you want it and figs for dessert. It was all too much for me.

  Rain is pouring down now—looks like an all day siege but may let up. What I hate about this rain is that the mud is so bloomin’ sticky. Just like glue—you can’t shake it off or hardly scrape it off. Guess I’ll just stay in today & write & study a bit more. Supposed to muster (roll call) about now but it’s raining so hard I expect a “delay muster” call in a minute. If not we’ll all float over I guess—it’s just outside my tent anyway.

  Got paid 36 bucks yesterday. That’s about what I usually get—$72 a month clear. Getting my overseas pay now. That’s not bad money. Sure can’t seem to save any tho. Things are so expensive if you want to do much that it runs into money sometimes on liberty. A cab is usually $1.50 out to Waikiki—of course you can start up on a jammed bus for a dime if you want to stand in line. Then a steak with all the trimmings for a real meal amounts to two bucks—on the other hand for 50 cents you can eat a couple hamburgers and a glass of pineapple juice which is just as filling. All depends on the person—what you spend I guess. Wanted to save enough to have the flivver painted but may yet—I’m still here.

  That’s all for now. Write.

  Love, Murray

  April 9, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Well I didn’t get on liberty today—kind of got changed around in my set-up here. About 20 of us unassigned men got assigned to various jobs around the base just to keep us from loafing too much. My job is helping in the storeroom. That is my permanent job as long as I’m here. And I don’t like it. As far as work I don’t do any more than I ever did. Can come back to my tent (about half a block away) any time I want to wash clothes or something. But doubt if I’ll be able to get off Sundays like before, unless my liberty day just happens to fall on that day. Do have a little better liberty set up. Get out once every six days instead of eight as before. All in all the change doesn’t amount to anything—doesn’t change my status any as far as future goes. Anyway—now I go on liberty tomorrow. They seem to kind of leave it up to me about my glasses so guess I’ll see if can get an appointment again about next Thursday or Friday. Never do today what you can put off ’til tomorrow.

  Show tonite is “Dr Wasaill” with Gary Cooper. Think it’s kind of gory—may not go. Well a hard days work has made me hungry. Better hunt for the chow line.

  Love, Murray

  April 11, 1945

  Dear Folks,

/>   Well, back from liberty again—which is the only new thing that’s happened and ever does happen. Did nothing of importance except got a new pair of shoes in town ($7.35). They are softer than the regular Navy issue and thicker leather sole. A little different design but then it doesn’t matter about that and it’s a bit of a change at least. Really got in to town in a hurry this time—then of course on Sundays will really have a reason to get there early—things are jammed and I can’t get there in time for church ever—still up to my old tricks. I hop on a trolley and ride to the end of the line and back. Still have a few new ones to see yet. Really can get around the island now. It was sure a mess at first but now I’m practically an old timer.

  Most of the working class natives talk sort of a pidgin English that’s hard to understand at first but you get used to it.

  You know—one thing that amazes me is the price of houses around here. You never see one advertised in the pages under ten thousand and they run usually around twenty to thirty thousand and many a lot more, and not really nice houses either. I saw one something like yours yesterday (they show pictures quite often) for $18,500!