Code Talker (30 page)

Boxing was a tough sport, and I realized that. But it was a sport where real determination could result in an athlete being recognized.

But boxing wasn't my only interest. Alone in my single room, I imitated Bing Crosby, Al Jolson, Perry Como, and Nat King Cole. I had a decent voice, and the very act of singing made me feel free somehow.

I looked at the notice, cut from a newspaper, that sat on my table.
Ted Mack's Amateur Hour,
a popular radio show, was looking for talent. They'd be holding an audition in Topeka.

It was a very un-Navajo thing to do—trying out for a competition like that. Several of my friends told me I shouldn't do it. But I had made up my mind. I would audition.

The audition in Topeka attracted many contestants. I waited to sing my favorite song, not even feeling particularly nervous
.
Facing the Japanese had changed my perspective on life. After that, facing the audition judges couldn't be half bad.

I stood in front of the judges, and the pianist played an introduction. I launched into “I Love You for Sentimental Reasons,” singing into a microphone. My voice was broadcast to Topeka, Lawrence, and Kansas City.

Ted Mack approached me backstage.

“Where were you born, son?” Ted asked.

“In New Mexico,” I told him. “I grew up near the Navajo Reservation at
Chichiltah
.”

“And what are you doing here in Kansas?”

“I've already fought in the war. A Marine. Now I'm getting an education.”

Mack continued to talk with me for a quarter hour or so, asking about my life and my military service. I could not speak about my code talker past, but spoke in generalities about the war.

Although I was not selected to be a finalist on the show, I felt pleased that at least I'd given it a shot. After my experience as a Marine, I expected to fit into mainstream America. Trying out for Ted Mack was only the beginning. I continued to sing at parties and high school events.

I graduated from Haskell, and moved on to the University of Kansas at Lawrence.

The University of Kansas was a Native American school, famous as the home of Olympic triathlete Jim Thorpe. I lived in a dorm at my old high school, Haskell, where I worked at various jobs like window washing and cleaning to pay for my room and board. I commuted to the nearby university by bus. There, I majored in fine arts. I planned to become a commercial artist.

The assignments in college fascinated me. I created “storyboards” for advertisements and learned about human anatomy in “life” classes. I utilized many different media—watercolors, oils, pastels, pencil. My favorite subjects were landscapes. Each class taught me something new and expanded the horizons of my artistic knowledge. I studied great artists of the past like Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, learning how to manipulate color, shadow, and light.

We students had to defend our paintings in front of the entire class. I felt that stomach-churning feeling that I'd experienced back in my boarding school days. But I reminded myself that I was a Marine. I relaxed. My southwestern landscapes with powerful skies—done entirely from memory—were well received.

A group of my Native American friends gathered frequently for cookouts, where we prepared and served traditional foods like mutton and fry bread. An intriguing young woman, Ethel Pearl Catron, often accompanied the group. She, too, was Navajo, with jet hair curled and parted in a popular style.

I approached Ethel. She had a lovely smile.

As we talked, I soon learned that she was in trade school, training to become a boarding school matron, like her mother. I couldn't help thinking how matrons had changed since my school days. She and I went to the movies and went dancing together. Ethel was easygoing with a ready laugh. But she knew how to be serious as well. She had definite plans for her future and took her schoolwork seriously.

With Ethel, there were always things to do and things to talk about. And we could talk in Navajo. I was lured by the prospect of continuing to use my native language, which had played such an important part in my life. Although I'd had two other serious girlfriends, one from Wisconsin, a member of the Sac and Fox tribe, and a young Navajo nurse whom I'd known in grade school, I felt Ethel was the woman for me. I was in love.

But after two years at the University, thoughts of a personal life or further education were blotted out by world events. I had joined the Reserves while at Haskell in order to earn some extra money, and I was called to take part in another war.

I sat outside the hogan at
Chichiltah
. I had received my orders to report for duty in the Korean War. But as I looked at the faces of my family, I didn't have the heart to tell them.

I stayed for a few days, helping with anything that needed doing, talking with Dora and Father, but never revealing my call to war. The man who owned Cousins's Trading Post (not the same trading post my father worked for), Bob Cousins, drove me to the train, stopping to buy me a big steak dinner.

In Albuquerque, I met the other reserves who'd been called to active duty. There were men from the Navy, the Army, and other branches of the service. We men boarded a troop train that delivered us to California.

On September 14, 1950, I returned to my old stomping grounds, Camp Elliott near San Diego. This time a new menace, Korea, threatened my country.

It was a tough time. Although North Korea's aggression against South Korea dominated the news, I had convinced myself that the United States wouldn't enter into a full-fledged war there. I knew I'd done my duty in World War II and had hoped that would be the end of it. But my country needed me again.

At Camp Elliott, I met quite a few World War II veterans. There were some Navajo Marines, and even a couple of code talkers, although none were the men with whom I had developed the code. It was good to be able to discuss our experiences in the war, and even to compare notes with the other code talkers. We were allowed to discuss the code with one another, although not with outsiders.

We were assigned work detail while waiting for transport to our official assignments. I was placed with the other communications men, although I don't believe my superiors knew about my code talker service. The other communications personnel and I were issued M1 30-30 rifles and new uniforms.

“I haven't told my family yet,” I confided to one of the other Navajo men.

“Me either,” the man replied. “Couldn't face it.”

“We'd better write to them before we hit Korea. Who knows what it will be like over there.”

I wrote to my family, knowing that Father would resume the ritual he'd begun when I fought in the South Pacific. He prayed three times per day—morning, noon, and evening—for my safe return.

After five days at Camp Elliott, I shipped out to Hawaii!

Not a bad assignment. I admit, I had been worried about being assigned to combat in Korea. After the things I had seen in World War II, that would have been difficult duty to face. But my luck was holding. It didn't look as though that was going to happen.

In Korea, I knew that autumn would be chilly and winter would be cold with deep snow. Hawaii, with its temperatures in the high seventies to the mideighties, was heaven. It rained a lot more than it did in New Mexico, but I didn't live in a foxhole, so that was no problem. The barracks in Pearl Harbor were dry and warm.

I turned in my M1 rifle and was given a pistol, which the brass felt was easier to carry. I alternated between performing guard duty and unloading transport ships. The physical work of unloading ships was a tension-free job that proved particularly relaxing. And the beaches were warm, clean, beautiful—and free of dead bodies.

My next assignment was Pocatello, Idaho.

In Pocatello, as in Hawaii, I performed guard duty—this time at a depot that sent supplies to troops overseas. It was an “all service” base, one that consolidated supplies for the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard. I patrolled on foot at times, but mostly by Jeep, with a partner. The depot was huge.

The war ended in 1953, but I was allowed to go home in late 1951. My discharge papers, dated November 1952, acknowledge my promotion to Marine corporal. After World War II and its bloody Pacific island battles, the Korean War was easy living for me. Our secret Navajo code was never used. Later, we code talkers learned that officers believed the war would end quickly, and they didn't want to risk the code unless it was absolutely necessary. The frantic pressure we lived with during World War II was not present in my role in the Korean War. The bodies of dead buddies and enemies never surrounded me. After my fighting in the Pacific, the Korean War seemed kind of forgotten.

After being discharged, I stood by the side of the road in Pocatello, a Marine in uniform, and stuck out my thumb. A car stopped immediately.

I was heading home.

When my ride dropped me off, I again held out my thumb. Right away, another car pulled over to the side of the road. “Where you headed, son?”

It was like that for two days and one night. Everyone wanted to know about my service in Hawaii and Pocatello and about my part in World War II. Even though I could not divulge my history as a code talker, I enjoyed the conversations.

After two days on the road and the intervening night in Salt Lake City, I arrived at Coolidge's house in Albuquerque much more quickly than I had dared to hope. I thanked both God and the Holy People that my part in the Korean War had held none of the gut-wrenching fear I'd experienced as a Marine fighting the Japanese in the Pacific.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Wedding and White Man's Work

Back from the Korean War, I couldn't wait to finish college and to get married. I returned to the University of Kansas, where I again spent a lot of time with Ethel.

I, of course, had inquired about Ethel's clan. She belonged to the “Where Two Waters Meet” people. This was significant, because I could only marry into a clan not related to my own Black Sheep clan or my father's Sleeping Rock clan. The clan is a big part of your identity. When two traditional Navajos meet, they shake hands—avoiding the impolite practice of looking into each other's eyes—and tell each other their clan and also their related clans.

Each clan had three related clans.
⁴⁹
For Black Sheep people, the related clans were the Salt people, the Canyon people, and the Corn Pollen people. My father's clan, the Sleeping Rock people, also had three related clans into which I could not marry.

I remember a girl, back when I was a young kid. I really liked her. But Grandma told me that we were related through our clans, so I'd better not entertain any romantic ideas. That would be incest, as strong a taboo in Navajo culture as it is in Anglo culture. So that's where everything stopped.

Marriage was a very solemn event back then, not to be taken lightly. It's changed a lot nowadays. You can marry your clan half sister. Or she might be your auntie or she might be your grandma through the clan. It doesn't seem to matter now.

At any rate, Ethel's clan, the Where Two Waters Meet people, was not related to my parental clans.

Ethel and I spent every moment we could manage together. After she graduated from her matron's training course at Haskell, she returned to Window Rock, Arizona. I visited her at her sister Flossie's house. There, I asked Ethel to be my wife.

She smiled. “You'll have to talk to my mother.” This was traditional among us
Diné
.

We bought tickets on a Greyhound bus to Chilocco, Oklahoma. Ethel's mother worked there, as a matron in a boarding school. All during the trip, I worried about the mother. After all, she was a matron. And my memories of matrons were not good.

When we arrived, Ethel's sister and brother joined us for dinner. The food was good. Mrs. Catron made an effort to make me feel comfortable. I took a deep breath and looked around the table at Ethel's family. I knew it was time to ask for permission to marry her. My jaw clenched as I tried to disconnect Mrs. Catron from the severe matrons in my memory. My heart beat so loudly that I wondered whether the others could hear it.

Finally, I addressed Ethel's mother. “I would like to have your daughter as my wife.”

“There she is,” said Mrs. Catron, pointing at Ethel. Then she smiled. “I think that's a very wise decision,” she said. “You should set a date.”

When I completed the year—my third—at the University of Kansas, my GI Bill money ran out. My old friend and eighth-grade teacher from Fort Defiance, Freddie Richard, again helped me. He suggested that I apply to the Navajo tribal administration in Window Rock, Arizona, for a loan. I applied, but the tribal leaders informed me that they had no money to lend.

I continued to do farmwork while contemplating my next step. Ethel was working in Window Rock. We kept in touch by mail and had set a date for our wedding: that summer of 1952. I would need a job. Perhaps Albuquerque was the best place for me. I moved there.

I found a little house on Marquette Avenue in downtown Albuquerque. It backed up to an alley, giving me access from the rear. I rented the back half from Mrs. Ross, a widow. We shared the bathroom. Lew Wallace Elementary School sat just across the street. I figured that would be handy when Ethel and I had children.

We decided on a half-Anglo, half–Native American wedding. The modern ceremony was to take place in St. Michaels, Arizona, not far from the New Mexico border. One of Ethel's sisters drove Ethel, who was by then living in Chinle, Arizona, to Albuquerque. The rest of Ethel's family arrived in Albuquerque, staying with me in my little house for a few days. Then we all headed out for St. Michaels.