Code Talker: The First and Only Memoir by One of the Original Navajo Code Talkers of WWII by Nez Chester & Avila Judith Schiess

Author:Nez, Chester & Avila, Judith Schiess [Nez, Chester & Avila, Judith Schiess]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: PTO, USMC, ebook, War, Biography, History, WWII, Native Americans
ISBN: 9781101552124
Goodreads: 12306055
Publisher: Berkley Books
Published: 2011-09-06T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

We Must Take Mount Austen

December 1942 to February 1943: Guadalcanal

The entire 1st Marine Division fought two enemies: exhaustion and the Japanese. Battle-weary guys shuffled along like they’d lost everything. In heavy, prolonged combat, we all felt like we were losing our minds, our memories. We moved with our eyes about to pop out, looking straight ahead, not really focusing on anything, dragging ourselves around like scarecrows. After a while, we didn’t even look up when fighter planes flew overhead—even though they might be dropping the bomb that had our name on it.

During a lull, we could look around and see the guys who weren’t going to last. They began talking to themselves in a steady stream, and their eyes focused where there was nothing to see. It was sad and really scary. I prayed to the Navajo Gods and to the Anglo God when I saw those guys. Prayed for them, and prayed that I wouldn’t end up like them.

By the time Mount Austen became the hot spot on Guadalcanal, hiding thousands of Japanese troops in caves that pockmarked its rough terrain, days and nights followed each other in a sleep-deprived blur. It was lucky we worked in pairs, helping each other with the translations into and out of code. Exhausted as we were, I think any man working alone would have collapsed under the pressure. We listened to each other’s transmissions to be sure that no mistakes were made, helping our partners through the long days. Muggy heat brought near-continuous rain. Men, many weakened by malaria, fought on the sword edge of exhaustion. Too many died. Tractors assigned to bury the mangled bodies couldn’t keep up with the number of corpses piling up on the beach.

In a rare few hours of quiet, Roy and I sat with several other Marines in a multiple-man foxhole. Stout protective coconut logs spanned the roof of the shelter. We men ate cold K-rations. We each held a small bottle of beer, and most nursed it slowly. The Marine brass had okayed the beer because it helped us relax. Some Marines from the deep south had even set up a still, producing homemade liquor. They shared with everyone, but right then their supplies were depleted, and beer was the only alcoholic drink available.

“You think we’ll ever get off this island?” I asked.

“Soon,” said Roy. “We’re almost done here, don’t you think?”

Another Marine, not a Navajo, dropped a Vienna sausage, brushed the sand off it, and took a bite. “I heard we’re going to be relieved. Another regiment of the Second Marine Division is coming.”

“You sure?” I asked him.

The man shrugged. “That’s what I heard.”

Speaking Navajo, I turned to another code talker, asking him what he thought. Face hollow and eyes exhausted, my buddy answered in Navajo, “I hope it’s soon.”

“Hey, talk American, Chief.” The Marine wiped fat flies from a miniature hot dog, took another bite, and grinned. “No offense.”

I switched to English. “I hope those reinforcements come soon.” Then I smiled, not minding the Marine’s request for English.

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