by Bob Mayer
“The reason the Mormons took the children is they claimed that they can give them a proper education. That my people have no schools. They are wrong. Our schools are our families. That has always been the way. The elders tell stories and the youngsters listen. Some are coyote stories. The good coyote and the bad. It teaches a path to take in life. A moral code. The Flint Boys were not told these. As a child I, and my fellow Navajo, had to memorize these stories. Not just the concept, but word for word. Exactly. That is why we were so good as code talkers.” He tapped the side of his head. “Our memory. We have over six hundred code words. They had to be spoken exactly. The code talking wasn’t just about the language it was about the words. We came up with a shorthand for everything needed. Only we knew what it meant. Even if they captured a Navajo, if he was not a Code Talker, he wouldn’t know what we were referring to. The code was never written down. I do not think the white man’s school can produce that.”
“Most likely not,” Kane agreed. “I had a hell of a time learning Morse code and that’s only the alphabet.”
“What is your problem with the Flint Boys?” Kinsman asked Kane.
“They’ve taken out some sort of revenge oath on me,” Kane said. “Blood for blood.”
Kinsman frowned. “’Blood for blood’? Never heard of that.”
“Vengeance,” Kane said. “Hurt one of them, they hurt you back.”
“What kind of hurt?”
“The fatal kind,” Kane said.
Mac looked at Kinsman, then at Kane. “I’m here, but I ain’t hearing nothing,” Mac said. “Don’t worry about me. Everyone thinks my brain is swiss cheese anyway.”
Kane hesitated but given what Yazzie had said, he didn’t think it was an issue. “I’ve had encounters with three.”
Kinsman’s eyebrows arched. “Three? You’ve been busy. And either very skilled or very lucky.”
“The first one attacked me,” Kane said. “Then the other two came after me as part of the blood thing. They said it was part of being a Navajo. A custom.”
“Bullshit,” Kinsman said. “Think about it. If that was part of our culture, no one would be left alive. Where would it end? It’s part of the false stories Crawford fed those boys to bind them to him. He got them young, pulled them away from what family they had. From their tribes. If he’s sent them after you, they’ll keep coming unless he calls them off.”
“The oldest, Yazzie, says he’s done with it.”
Kinsman sat up straighter. “Ah! Yazzie. He is the son of my friend. Everyone called his father Yaz.”
“Do you know him? The son?” Kane asked.
“Never met him,” Kinsman said. “He was born just after we shipped out for the Pacific. Yaz never got to see his son. Not even a picture.” He paused, introspective. “After the war I tried to see him. To tell him the story of his father, but by then Yaz’s wife had died, the extended family was a mess, and Yazzie was part of Crawford’s household. I knew better than to say anything. That was cowardly of me.”
“Why?” Kane asked.
“Crawford is a bad man,” Kinsman said. “He destroys everything and everyone he touches.” Kinsman fell silent for a few moments. “It seems odd that Yazzie would turn against his father and brothers.”
“He’s not turning against them,” Kane said. “He said he’s not interested in pursuing the vendetta.”
“That is turning against them,” Kinsman said. Morticia slid by, topped everyone’s coffee off, got a sense that this was a conversation that didn’t warrant interruption and glided away. Kinsman leaned forward. “How did this start?”
“It’s complicated,” Kane understated.
“But it revolves around Crawford?” Kinsman asked as he poured sugar into his coffee and began stirring it.
“Yeah.”
Kinsman sighed and gave Mac another look. “Listen, my friends. Crawford and Makin Island are two things I’ve never spoken of to anyone. Not even my daughter. There were two hundred and twenty-one of us on the mission. We took eighteen KIA and twelve unaccounted for. We still don’t where they all are. We did learn after the war that nine poor souls who were left behind in the confusion were taken to Kwajalein and beheaded by the Japanese.” He shook his head. “Kids. Most of us were just kids. Eighteen. Nineteen. Some of those boys, they’d never been away from their home town until they went off to boot camp. It was my first time off the reservation. My mother had to give her thumb print for me to enlist. Then I was blessed by the medicine man before getting on the bus.”
“I don’t want to intrude on—” Kane began, but Kinsman cut him off.
“One thing for certain, it was everyone’s first time under fire.”
Kane recalled his baptism of fire on Hill 1338 in the Central Highlands in 1967. It had been Ted’s first and final.
“But if you are in a blood feud with Crawford and those poor boys, you need to know the truth about him. At least as much of it as I do. Because Makin is where Crawford--” he tried to figure out how to phrase it—“started his ascent to power.”
Kinsman retrieved a pouch on a leather string around his neck from inside his shirt. He pulled some paper out of a pocket. Then tapped tobacco from the pouch in it. He expertly rolled a smoke. He lit it with a lighter that had the Marine Corps insignia on the side and took a deep drag.
Kinsman showed them the old, scarred Zippo. “Funny thing that’s not so funny. The smoking lamp was lit most of that trip to Makin Island on the sub. You’d think they wouldn’t allow that, but the skipper knew everyone was on edge and you can’t tell a smoker, never mind a Marine smoker, not to light one up for eight days. But when we got there, just offshore, and the skipper brought the sub up to periscope depth, and lit the lamp, there wasn’t enough oxygen for matches or lighters to work.” He chuckled. “Guess we were all breathing too hard.”
He put the lighter back in his shirt. “August of ‘42. Second Battalion was split up on two subs, the Nautilus and the Argonaut. Me and my friend, Yaz, along with Crawford as our liaison, were the only non-Raiders, which didn’t make us popular. We thought the eight days from Pearl to Makin was gonna be the worst by the time we arrived. We just wanted to get the hell off.”
That reminded Kane of combat equipment jumps when they were loaded with 48 pounds of parachute and reserve, with a rucksack weighing over one hundred pounds also attached to the rig along with web gear and weapon that once they stood up all they wanted to do was go off the ramp. But that was only six minutes.
“They crammed us in those subs. We bunked in tiers with only twelve vertical inches between bunks, which were just canvas stretched between two by fours. Four guys to a row out to the hull. The sweat from the Marine on top soaked through and hit the guy below, which doubled up and dripped onto the one below and so on. The poor sap on the bottom was pretty much soaked. But we didn’t sleep much. It was too hot, too crowded and we were scared.” Kinsman looked Kane in the eyes. “I am not embarrassed to admit I was scared. We had no idea what we were going up against. Intel said there was anywhere from fifty to three hundred Nips on the island. It was their island, and they were dug in. Plus, they could reinforce fast, by plane or ship. There was no reinforcing for us. Get in, get out.”
“What was the mission exactly?” Kane asked.
Kinsman snorted. “In brass speak? Destroy whatever we came across, primarily a seaplane base; recover any documents or intelligence related material; and bring back some prisoners for interrogation.”
Kane raised an eyebrow at the last one. “Prisoner snatch is a tough mission.”
“Truly,” Kinsman said. “Plus, where were we going to put a prisoner when we had every available spot taken by a Marine or Swabbie?” It wasn’t a question he expected answered. “We knew the brass was thinking there’d be empty space due to some of the Marines being dead. But even the officers agreed: we weren’t taking prisoners. Really, it was a PR stunt. If it worked. If it didn’t, we got the feeling no one would ever know it was attempted.
”
Kinsman took a deep drag on the smoke, the paper burning and curling. His eyes had taken on the look Kane had seen before: distant, lost in the memories that are burned into the brain. For most men who’d been in combat it was the most intense experience of their life. Nothing again in their life would ever match it.
“I was a crapper cop,” Kinsman finally said.
Mac, no stranger to World War II Marine lingo, had no clue what he was referring to. “A what?”
“When they removed most of the torpedoes and stripped the crew down to the bare minimum to fit us on board, the powers-that-be didn’t really understand the logistics,” Kinsman said. “They thought of space, of food, weapons, the rubber boats which we crammed into the torpedo tubes, but they didn’t think of shitting.”
Mac laughed. “Fucking Navy. How many heads?”
“There were enough heads,” Kinsman said. “That wasn’t the issue. The problem was that flushing underwater took eleven steps and the Navy didn’t trust us jarheads. They trained a few of us to do the job. Of course, I got picked, not being a Raider. That was my assignment on board. Sit by the crapper and when it was full, flush.
“The Raiders, the enlisted, didn’t know why I was on board. The Code Talker thing was classified. I hadn’t trained with them and I was a different color. Some of them thought I was some kind of super scout who was going to sniff out the Japs for them. All sorts of scuttlebutt. The only thing I was sniffing for eight days was shit. They even made us practice our sign and countersign at the head. Not that it something you could easily forget. I’d say ‘Hi, Raider,’ and the reply was ‘Gung Ho’. And the guy would take a shit. Silly stuff.” He glanced at Mac. “But you know how the Marines are.”
“Yeah,” Mac said. “A lot of what we did never made sense. I heard a lot of scuttlebutt. The captain and his top officers were really worried about even finding Makin after traveling two thousand miles from Pearl. It’s a big damn ocean and it was just a tiny dot in the middle. The maps they were using were from National Geographic. That’s how unprepared we were that early in the war.” He paused as Truvey came over.
“I just wanted to thank you for last night,” she said to Kane. “I’ve got an audition to get to. You think I’ll be okay?”
Kane nodded. “Yeah.” He didn’t want to tell her there were several more Flintboys. He doubted they’d try to go after her in daylight and he knew he was the priority target. “But come back here before dark, okay? Get a key from Thao in the kitchen.”
She leaned over and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “You’re the best.” Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
“She’s—” Mac was at a loss to describe her—“more than a handful, and I ain’t talking about, you know.”
“Yeah,” Kane agreed. “She’s something.”
The diner was beginning to clear out of the breakfast crowd.
Kinsman was looking around. “You own this joint?”
“Thao and I own it,” Kane said. “He’s the guy behind the counter.”
“He seems like a good man,” Kinsman said. “That waitress is a little odd, though, ain’t she?”
“I heard that,” Morticia said from the far end of the counter.
“She’s got good hearing,” Kane said.
Kinsman laughed. “Didn’t mean it in a bad way, hon.”
“I didn’t take it in a bad way,” Morticia said, bringing everyone another glass of water. “Sure you guys don’t want anything?”
They all demurred and Morticia went back to work.
“Crawford was on your sub?” Kane asked.
“Yeah,” Kinsman said. “But it was the Marine in command on our sub who was the important one.”
“Carlson?” Mac asked.
“No, he was on the Nautilus. We had the Raider executive officer on board. Major James Roosevelt. Son of the President.”
Kane experienced the faint tingling in his gut, not quite the same as just prior to walking into an ambush, but a warning. Before Kinsman could go on, the Washington Street door opened and Riley walked in with the bruised and slightly limping Kid.
“Hold on a second, guys,” Kane said. “I have to talk to these boys.”
“Sure thing,” Kinsman said.
Kane met them halfway and led them into the kitchen. Thao was scraping the grill surface and paused, facing them.
“Report,” Kane said to Riley.
The Kid intervened. “I don’t want any more trouble, Mister Kane. Seriously.”
Before Kane could answer, Morticia entered the kitchen and stood to the side of the door, arms crossed, as if daring Kane to tell her to leave.
Kane ignored both her and the Kid.
“What happened?” he asked Riley.
“Some guys from a chop shop in Hells Kitchen think Ryan ratted them out. They got raided a couple days ago by the cops. Some of their people were arrested.”
Kane took a deep breath. “You didn’t do that,” he said to the Kid, not a question, but he took it as one.
“No, sir, I—”
“I know you didn’t,” Kane said, “because I have a good idea who did. You’re just collateral damage. Is this a one-time thing or will they be coming back for him?” he asked Riley.
The Kid tried to answer. “They won’t—”
Riley cut him off. “They’ll be back.” He glanced at the Kid. “He told me what happened. They were beating the crap out of him, but got interrupted by some of his friends. They didn’t want witnesses so they split. He’s been hiding from them ever since.”
Kane faced the Kid. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I can take of myself,” the Kid tried.
Thao spoke up. “The evidence is to the contrary, Ryan. We are your friends here.” He glanced at Kane. “We will help.” He didn’t toss it at Kane as a question.
“Are these guys connected?” Kane asked Riley.
His young cousin shrugged. “I just know where they’re at. But they’d have to be, wouldn’t they? Running something like that?”
“Yeah,” Kane said. “What’s the address?”
Riley told him.
“Let me make a call.” Kane pushed open the door as Morticia went over to the Kid and gave him a hug, murmuring the ‘don’t worry’ stuff women always said even though they had no idea whether there was something to be worried about or not.
Kane nodded at the two old men in his booth, held up a finger for them to wait, then retrieved Sophia Cappucci’s card from his notebook. She answered on the third ring.
“What?”
“It’s Kane. Got a question for you.” He waited for a response.
“Well, fucking ask it,” she finally said.
“There’s a chop shop.” He gave her the address. “Who is it connected to?”
“I don’t know off the top of my head,” Sophia said. “You at the diner?”
“Yeah.”
“Give me a couple of minutes.” The phone went dead.
Kane went back into the kitchen. “Dave,” he said to his cousin, “you stay with Ryan wherever he’s been hiding out for another day. Thao and I will take care of this.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” the Kid repeated, but he allowed Riley to escort him through the outer kitchen door onto the street.
“What is the plan?” Thao asked.
“I’m waiting on some information,” Kane told him.
Thao nodded and turned back to scraping the grill. “I will be here when you are ready.”
“What are you going to do?” Morticia said.
“You’re the one who came in here when you weren’t invited,” Kane said. “I’ve told you before. Some things are best not known.”
“Don’t hurt anyone,” she said.
Kane gave her a look. “Really? Did you see his face? You think people who do that are going to stop with a scolding?” He went back to his booth. “Sorry. Some business.”
“Looks like that young man walked into some fists,” Ki
nsman said.
“He’ll recover,” Kane said. “Why the hell was the President’s son on this raid? Seems kind of stupid to put him at such risk of getting killed or, worse, captured.”
“That’s what the brass thought,” Kinsman said. “Admiral Nimitz insisted Roosevelt not go. But he was over-ridden.”
“By the President,” Kane said.
“Yep. I picked up that the Raiders had mixed feelings about Roosevelt. He’d gotten a direct commission in the Marines as a lieutenant colonel before the war and that rankled a lot of them. He took a bump down in rank to go active duty after Pearl Harbor. But still. He didn’t look like much either. Kind of skinny and he wore glasses.”
Mac snorted. “Hey, can’t judge a guy like that. Colonel Edson was pretty much a runt. You see him standing with his officers and he was the smallest guy. But no one else I’d rather follow through the gate of hell.”
“The other thing,” Kinsman continued, “is that he didn’t wear boondockers because he had flat feet. He wore sneakers.”
Kane cut to the chase. “Did Crawford make a connection with Roosevelt?”
“A ‘connection’?” Kinsman said. “I’ll tell you what happened and you judge the connection for yourself. And you can figure out what kind of man Crawford is.” He rolled another cigarette. Then resumed his recollection.
“The skipper let whoever wanted take a peek through the periscope once we arrived. At least we thought we were at Makin. When I took a look for my twenty seconds, I didn’t see anything I recognized from the intel briefings, although there wasn’t much to that. I could see a beach, the tops of some palm trees. That was it. But it was land. We were more than ready to get off that tin tube.
“Of course, that didn’t go as planned. The way we’d rehearsed made sense. Get the rubber boats out of the torpedo tubes, up on deck, inflate them, top off the small engines, everyone gets in and the sub submerges leaving us floating in perfect formation to head to shore. Except that night it was storming and the boats wouldn’t stay on deck. We tied them off and Marines held on tight to keep them from floating away. It was pitch black, fifteen-foot waves, the sub was rolling and you could barely stand.” He shook his head. “I had a radio in my backpack and I knew if I slipped and went into the water, I probably wouldn’t come back up. I did some praying, not just to the spirits I was raised with but even the white man’s God.”
