Breaking the Code

by Karen Fisher-Alaniz

  August 16, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Well, a lot has happened in the past two weeks. A month ago I thought I’d be coming home in about a year. Now it looks like two years. The place really went wild the evening after V-J day was declared official. You’ve probably read about it all from in the paper. I didn’t do a thing except go to my tent and slept from about 7 p.m. until noon the next day. And I’m still sleepy. Back on the old schedule again.

  Now the Navy point system has come out, which finds me sadly lacking. You’ve probably figured mine up. They come to a miserable twenty out of the needed forty-four. Of course most of the boys in the comm. school here are old timers who have been in a long time. Think I have about the lowest score in the staff. The next one to me is twenty-two. The majority seem to have around 30 to 40 and about six have the 44 and this morning they were filling out forms for discharges.

  As for me, you have as good a guess as I have. Of course there aren’t too many in the 44 point bracket so they are sure to lower the points right away. But it’s a long long way to twenty points. No one has any idea what will happen to the rest of us now. Whether they are going to make a receiving station out of the school as rumored or just drop it like a hot spud like they are doing all other places. Then they could send us as a unit to the states or farther out. Your guess is as good as mine. Anyway don’t kill the fatted calf just yet. According to Uncle Sam that duration plus six months doesn’t start until the president or congress gets good and ready. In the last war I think someone said it was set at eight months after the armistice but congress didn’t ratify it and it dragged on until 1921. That doesn’t sound so hot. Personally it looks to me like everyone who wants to be a civilian again, will be out within a year anyway. But you never can tell.

  What the guys are griping about most out here is the bill they are trying to get thru congress to stop the draft completely. That’s just like a stab in the back to us. It doesn’t seem very fair to stop drafting the men when we are still out here. If more new ones came in we would be going home and out much sooner. Well, that’s about all of that.

  We hear most of the rationing has been lifted in the states, including gas. That would have been more welcome news to me than the declaration of V-J Day. Here it doesn’t mean a thing, to me. It’s been stopped here too but who cares. You know another thing about the point system—I think it’s about the fairest they could get. Of course the boys here with lots of battle stars and medals and months of hazardous overseas service really think it’s terrible. Especially one guy whose been here just a little while but went thru Iwo and Oki and he has way less points than a boy who works in the post office and has his mother dependent on him, but he hasn’t been out in a combat zone at all. Personally I’ve always thought, even if I’m overseas myself, that it isn’t very fair to give extra credit for things like the above when the individual hadn’t a thing to say about where he went or how much action he saw.

  The base has changed around a lot. Everything at one end is being taken over by civilians, and the offices on the base and everything else is being moved down to one end. Just means I’m going to get even less exercise than before. Everything is within a couple of blocks of my tent now.

  Oh almost forgot, as usual I’m late—this couldn’t possibly get there in time, but a happy birthday to you mom. Have a birthday present for you and Ray both—not the same thing but just couldn’t seem to get time to send it. I’ll send it first class mail so will probably be there about the fifth of September.

  Write. Love, Murray

  P.S. Woe is me…I’ll be glad when this is all over. They announced that all men with 44 points or more were on standby status and to lash their gear. What a lucky break—for them.

  The war was over, but he didn’t get to go home. I’m sure my grandmother was relieved. She knew her son had survived the war. If it were my son, I’d probably have been thinking of ways I could get to him. I bet my grandmother considered that too. But travel wasn’t as easy as it is today and Hawaii was barely known at that time—known to most only as the place where Pearl Harbor was bombed. So once again, she turned to his letters as a source of comfort.

  My father too must have been frustrated. I’m sure he would have agreed to any mode of transportation to anywhere just to get closer to home. It must have been bittersweet to see his comrades leave, happy for them and yet wondering when his day would come.

  Dad and I had been through this journey together in a way. We’d started at boot camp. I’d watched as he dealt with tragedy and now the end was near. But this experience with his youngest daughter hadn’t been the source of any kind of closure for him. He continued to have periods when he was agitated and angry, almost always aimed at my mother.

  But there was something more than that. He was so down. Sometimes when I’d drop by to visit, he’d barely speak two words to me. Even when I asked about his newest project, he gave a minimal amount of information. There were times when he seemed upbeat, but they came less and less. There was no sparkle in his eyes.

  In the telling of his secrets, he’d lost himself. He derived no peace from the experience. I’d hoped it would be cathartic. But it wasn’t. He still remained as far away as ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Finding the Words

  Then for some more news, which will also be a surprise. Remember when I first landed on the island and was up for draft a couple of times and got taken off? Well, I really wasn’t taken off the draft.—September 2, 1945

  In all of the time he had been at war, my father’s letters were censored by the army. So I never expected to find any direct information about his code-breaking work in them. Even after the war ended, I assumed he’d leave that out of his letters.

  “I was thrilled when they lifted all censorship,” he’d told me. “But I still didn’t tell my folks exactly what I’d done during the war. I told them part of it, but I didn’t want my mom to worry, so I figured I’d just tell her when I got home. Plus, I knew there were still things I couldn’t talk about. Whenever you work in intelligence, the military will let you know in writing when you are free to talk about your work. And I hadn’t received anything in writing.”

  But then, I came to a letter that changed everything.

  September 2, 1945

  Dear Folks,

  Well, this should be the letter to end all letters. All censorship has been lifted as of today so here goes nothing. First of all things happen fast when they get started in the Navy, as you already know. Yesterday someone called and wanted five radiomen to act as volunteers to be in the V-J Day parade today in Honolulu. Only it wasn’t exactly in the parade—you see they wanted to put on a demonstration of radio communications between the airplanes and ground at the reviewing stand in down town Honolulu. One each of us radiomen hopped a fast boat over to Ford Island a few steps from here and got our radio gear aboard five B-24’s and took off on a few practice sessions. That in itself is surprise enough I guess, that is for us land going sailors. But then…anything is a surprise. Then today we got aboard again for the final test before the parade and everything went off perfect. They had loud speakers in front of the reviewing stand and also broadcast parts of our conversations over the two local radio stations. Of course they had equipment. Ours was portable you wouldn’t know it if you heard it but it’s the model 610 which is a small portable set—it’s called the “walkie talkie” but not as small as what the public calls the walkie talkie. It can be carried by one man on a pack board in a pinch but is really two man gear. The little tiny two way hand phone is really called the “handie-talkie.” Now you should be more mixed up than ever. Anyway that shows it was as much a surprise to me as to you. There were a few hundred planes in the air all at once—as far as you could see in every direction were planes of every type—Army, Navy and Marine. Really had a turnout at the parade, on the ground too, according to the papers. It was all quite an experience.

  Then for some more news, which will a
lso be a surprise. Remember when I first landed on the island and was up for draft a couple of times and got taken off? Well, I really wasn’t taken off the draft. On account of I could copy the Jap Katakana code, they transferred me to Naval Intelligence and right away I and a few others caught a plane for east points. Up to now of course couldn’t breathe a word but guess it’s OK this time. At the time, we had no idea what was up, but went by PB2Y I believe it was—anyway a four motor sea-plane thru the Johnson Islands and on down to Guam and then thru Tinian and Saipan where we stopped for almost a day—getting equipment and orders. Then went to another small island along the route and caught the sub “sailfish” which you’ve probably read about by now. It used to be called the Squalus you know and was rechristened. Anyway the whole thing was practically a repetition scene for scene of the sub “Copperfin” in that movie “Destination Tokyo” only we went toward Iwo Jima. Of course then, it didn’t mean a thing at all to us. It was supposed to be occupied but no one had any inkling as to how heavily. This was all on D-Day minus four, or four days before the American invasion by the fifth marines. All five of us hunted up this Jap frequency that was sending coded messages and copied it (all was in the Jap Katakana). And one of the other officers who was a cryptograph specialist, got out his machines and tried to break it down, and succeeded right away. We worked on the sub all the time in pitch black night for about 18 hours and never a patrol plane or ship came within sound of our radar. Then we got back out of sight and headed back along the same route and sent out the messages we had broken down, only in our own codes back to HQ at Guam. Really very dull which was very much to our liking. So far they warned us never to breathe a word to our closest friend or relative. The only one here who knows about it is my commanding officer at the school.

  We did the identical same thing at Okinawa on D minus three. All this took place in a grand total of 8 days from start to finish, so out of my eight months overseas today I haven’t had a bad deal at all. Of course now all the fighting is over so all I have to worry about now is getting a ship, which I’m not going to like at all. That is, I don’t think I will. By the way, if you’ve recovered yet. I wouldn’t have Pink and Pat put in the paper or anything. It’s OK to tell anyway you want to, but people have been court marshaled for letting out information ahead of time and I really haven’t permission from intelligence to have it published. They always give permission in a written form for special missions, like that. Anyway, I’m proud of it, because I really think we did a lot of good. That’s about all the story. I’ll tell you the details when I get home. Well so far this hasn’t been much about recent happenings. Went on liberty Sunday and went to church. I didn’t go to the dinner afterwards tho—had quite a crowd due to V-J day worship so decided to keep out of the road. Didn’t do much else except to go to a show at Kaimuki Theatre.

  Murray

  I couldn’t believe it. My father had written about his code breaking. Over the course of our journey, he’d convinced me that there was no use looking for it. He was sure he hadn’t written about it. But there it was.

  I marveled at his memory. The stories he’d told me months ago, decades after the war, were identical. The only thing that was missing was Mal. He’d written about everything surrounding Mal’s death, but Mal himself wasn’t anywhere to be found. I continued to read his letters, but Mal’s name never came up.

  My father continued to write letters home on a regular basis. But there wasn’t much to write about now. The war was over, and his family anxiously awaited his return. Just as predicted, the office was almost completely cleared out when he finally had enough points to go home.

  After two years in the service, and finally on his way home, he walked into a diner, ordered a meal, and looked around. He was struck by one thought: no one knew what he’d been through. The family sitting at the table next to his was eating their dinner, never knowing they were sitting next to someone who was just back from the war.

  When he got home, he hung his uniform in the closet, and his memories stayed there too. There wasn’t a huge celebration. Like most soldiers, he simply wanted to get back to the life he’d left. And after a home-cooked meal and a quiet celebration at home, he did just that.

  Ironically, the job he worried would be taken by the woman who’d replaced him during the war was taken by a veteran who had more points and seniority. So instead, he was given a railroad job in Walla Walla, Washington.

  A few years passed before his mother gave him the two notebooks full of his letters. He stored them away like any other book on the shelf. And that promise he’d made to his folks, that he would tell them more when he got home, never happened. It just didn’t seem important anymore.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Intentional Time of Remembrance

  After so many years of war, it’s hard to believe the fighting is all over and peace is here again.—August 10, 1945

  I knew Dad would be at his men’s Bible study, so I walked over to talk to my mom. She heated a cup of coffee for herself and made me a cup of tea. I leaned against the kitchen counter while we waited for the hot water.

  “I’m still worried about Dad,” I said.

  “I know. I am too,” she said.

  We sat at the kitchen table. Just outside the window, below the fence, was the top of a twenty-foot retaining wall. Below, Mill Creek ran wildly. Whenever temperatures were unseasonably warm, run-off from the Blue Mountains would cause the creek to overflow. If we’d opened the window, the roar of it would have made it impossible to hear each other.

  We sipped our hot drinks without talking. Then Mom broke the silence.

  “You know,” she said. “A few years after we got married, in maybe 1951 or 1952, I looked out the window and saw these two guys coming up the walk. They wore black suits and white shirts and stiff ties. They were FBI men. They asked for your dad. When he came to the door, they told him that he was now released to talk about what he did during the war.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  She wrapped her hands around the coffee cup and stared at the raging water below.

  “Yes,” she said. “And that was the last we heard of it.”

  “Did he have nightmares or anything back then?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “He didn’t,” she replied. “I do remember that once I startled him and he said never to do that again. That was out of character for him. But other than that, I never saw any signs that anything was wrong.”

  “So many veterans talk about being jumpy or hitting the ground when they hear a car backfire,” I said. “But for him, I think it was just put on a shelf, like the notebooks.”

  She looked at me then.

  “And those notebooks,” my mother said. “You know they sat on that same shelf all those years. I knew they were there. But I just moved them every now and then, dusted, and put them back.” Her demeanor changed.

  “You didn’t have any reason to think any more about them,” I tried to reassure her. “Why would you?”

  She looked down.

  “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” I said. “I feel like the timing was just right. You know? This was meant to come to the surface now.”

  She nodded.

  As a child I hadn’t really wanted to listen to his stories. Then I went to college, got married, and had three children. If he’d hinted at something or mentioned it in passing, my life was so crazy busy that I probably wouldn’t have caught on. If there was a right time for things like this, then this was probably it.

  “Yes,” my mother said. “God’s timing is perfect.”

  “You know, Mom,” I said, “this whole thing has really tested my faith. There are times when he is hurting so much and I just don’t understand. If God is so good, why would He allow Dad to remember such painful things so late in life? I mean, why not just let him live out his life in peace?”

  It seemed cruel, unfair. He had lived for decades without being haunted by this. But now, when h
e was the least able to deal with the nightmare he’d lived through, there it was. It didn’t make sense to me.

  “But he never was at peace,” my mother said. “Even before this, there was always something wrong. I could sense this wall he’d built up around himself. And through the years it got higher, thicker. He never let anyone get close—until now.”

  “But he’s not at peace any more now than he was before,” I said. “It seems like all of this was for nothing.”

  “It wasn’t for nothing,” she said sitting up straighter. “It wasn’t for nothing. Maybe this is just a piece of it, this telling of his story. But there is more to come. I just want him to find peace. I want him to die in peace.”

  Unlike my father, my mother talked often about her own mortality. She gave things away and got on a list for a retirement home. She worried about the three of us girls having to go through the process of cleaning out the house when they were gone.

  Dad was on the opposite end of the spectrum. He’d have nothing to do with talk of death or dying. I wondered if it was possible for him to change now.

  “I told the men at my Bible study about Mal,” my father said the next Wednesday.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We were ready to leave and I asked if anyone knew what PTSD was. No one did, except for our minister, Chuck Hindman. So then I shared the whole story. You could have heard a pin drop,” he said.

  It was the first time he’d shared the story with his friends.