Breaking the Code: A Father's Secret, a Daughter's Journey, and the Question That Changed Everything

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CHAPTER ONE

Healing Waters

Well, here we are but where are we going? That is the question.—January 9, 1945

He stood at the end of the pier watching the petals drift out to sea. He leaned on his cane. No longer the young sailor he’d once been, he was an old man now, something his comrade, his friend, never got to be. The red and white petals followed an unseen path, becoming tiny specks in a vast ocean—an ocean that, during the war, held only sorrow and loss. But now those same waters were a place of healing.

Never good-bye, he said softly. Never good-bye.

CHAPTER TWO

A Line in the Sand

It’s sure tough alright but it’s going to be worth it. I’ve learned more about the Navy in the past two days in the barracks room lecture than in two months at home.—April 28, 1944

I always knew my father had been in a war. But as a child it was of little importance to me. I had bicycles to ride, friends to play with, and trees to climb.

He would tell us stories about the war. He was in the Navy and stationed at Pearl Harbor a few years after it was bombed in 1941. He spent his days working in an office. On liberty, he went to the movies or exploring with friends. These were the stories he told, which were never terribly interesting. And although he didn’t tell them on a regular basis, during our childhood years, my sisters and I heard each one many times.

It would always begin the same way—with something that sparked the memory—and then the retelling would begin. The details never changed. His memory never wavered. Each story had a beginning, middle, and end.

My sisters and I, all born years after the war, must have had some innate sense that these stories were important, even sacred. Following my mother’s lead, we stopped whatever we were doing to listen. We didn’t interrupt or ask questions. We never informed him that we’d heard this one before.

When he got to the end, he would simply go back to what he’d been doing. Then weeks, months, and even years would pass without a single story being told. If I’d ever written them down, I’m sure there would have been only eight or ten stories overall. New stories were never added.

In my teens, my patience for the repeated stories ran out. When I heard a story coming, I looked for the nearest exit. I rolled my eyes or sighed loudly, hoping he’d get the hint. He never did. Once the story began, nothing could stop him from finishing it. To me, the stories were just that: stories, ancient history. I filed them away with the stories of my grandfather walking to school in a blizzard. They were irrelevant, intangible. As I got older, he told them less and less.

What I didn’t know then was that the stories he told weren’t the whole story at all. They were an abbreviation. He told the version that fit comfortably into his middle-class life—the version where everyone lived happily ever after. But more than anything, he told the version that didn’t hurt and didn’t require answering questions. The rest of the story, the whole and true story, would have remained untold. But one day, many years later, in a single moment, everything I thought I knew about my father’s war was turned inside out. We didn’t know it then, but it was the first step on a long journey we’d take together.

April 27, 2002, was my father’s eighty-first birthday. We gathered at my parents’ house—the small, but sunny home I’d grown up in—for the party. Our family is small and most of us live in the same small town. When we’re all together, we take up the three comfortable chairs (recliner reserved for Dad), one sofa, and the hearth in front of the fireplace; a few kids sit on the carpeted floor. Although the house has gone through many transformations, one of which was the floor-to-ceiling brick fireplace, my father never seemed to change.

He had looked virtually the same all of my life. The only thing that changed was the color of his now gray hair, and probably the prescription for his eyeglasses. He was one of those people that you go to high school with and then see thirty years later and they truly haven’t changed; they’ve just gotten a little older.

After dinner, as everyone settled into comfortable conversation, Dad slipped away. A few minutes later, I looked up to see him in the middle of the room. With a nod of his head, he gestured away from the crowd. I looked around to see who he was nodding at but quickly realized he was looking at me.

No one seemed to notice when, in the midst of his celebration, we went to the sunroom just two steps down from the living room. The cathedral windows that let light pour in from three sides, coupled with my mother’s abundant house plants, made it feel more like an atrium. Dad sat on the curved sofa that hugged one corner of the room and patted the seat next to him. When I sat down, he placed two binders on my lap, one black and one blue.

What’s this? I asked.

Letters, he said. I wrote them to my folks during the war. You can throw them in the garbage or burn them if you want. I don’t care.

Dad! Why would you say that? I asked.

He didn’t answer.

I opened one of the two-ring binders to find letters written in my father’s notoriously tiny handwriting. I skimmed them and asked a few questions. But no matter how general the question, my father had no answer. I read aloud, a line or two at first and then a whole paragraph.

I wrote that? he asked. I don’t remember writing that.

With that, he quietly but firmly drew a line in the sand. He was on one side; I was on the other. My questions unanswered, I wanted to implore, "What is this? All these years you’ve had these and you didn’t tell me? Why? Tell me now. Tell me everything." I stepped over the line cautiously, looking into his eyes, but then I backed up in silence, deafening silence. I retreated to the other side of that line. And then he bowed his head and walked away.

Alone that night, my family sleeping peacefully, I sat in near darkness. Only a small table lamp with beaded fringe illuminated the notebooks on my lap. I ran my hand across the weathered notebooks and cried. I cried for what I didn’t know. I cried for all the times I didn’t care and didn’t listen. And I cried for the years those letters remained tucked away. Why had he kept them a secret for more than fifty years? There had to be a reason.

About six months prior to his birthday, he had become depressed. He seemed to be driven to watch war movies that were more and more graphic. Bookshelves were filled with WWII books he’d read, often in one day. It was then that I began asking him questions about the war. All he told me were the same stories I’d heard before. But now I wondered about these letters. Was there something in them that he wanted me to know?

I opened the notebook and began reading. The first letter was from boot camp in Farragut, Idaho. Every letter began with the same salutation, Dear Folks.

4/28/44

Dear Folks,

First of all, please send about 10 airmail stamps (8 centers) and a couple of small packages of writing paper with envelopes, a pad would be best. So many things happening I can’t even start. Arrived at about 1730 yesterday, got skinned alive. In other words, my wavy locks are almost a minus quality. Have two stripes on my lower sleeve but guess they are just saving time as we all get that when we graduate from here. The traveling kit is just what the doctor ordered but could only have one bottle in it—that’s OK tho. We are all in the United States Navy Reserves now. I passed the physical again with 100% so I am resigned to the fact that I’m OK. Spent most of the day at physical exam and getting clothes, shots etc. The shots were the very least of the trouble—didn’t even notice when they did it, but tonite left upper arm’s sore. But at that not so bad as when Gerry or Ray [brothers] swats me one on the shoulder. It’s sure tough alright but it’s going to be worth it. I’ve learned more about the Navy in the past two days in the barracks room lecture than in two months at home. Will Write. Write real soon, Murray

My father was a good writer. I don’t know why this surprised me, but it did. In the short letter home, he’d managed to paint a picture of boot camp that danced vividly in my imagination. And his quirky sense of humor was there too. I went to bed that night hopeful and excited. It was as if I’d boarded a plane and would be told where I’d be going mid-flight; I didn’t know the place, but was excited to experience it.

The next night I read a few more letters, and the next a few more. Soon my nights fell into a routine. After tucking the kids into bed, I put on my pajamas and fuzzy purple slippers. I shimmied a notebook off of the overstuffed bookshelf next to my bed, and sat down on the sofa with a cup of spiced tea. Carefully turning each thin page, I became immersed in the story unfolding before me. With each letter I read, I learned more about the man my father was in his younger days. And although I didn’t realize it then, with each letter I came closer to discovering secrets my father had buried for decades.

CHAPTER THREE

Between the Lines

Had to work a little today. Went into an office and stapled sheets of papers together for three hours. What a life. Wonder if I’ll ever see a radio any more.—January 15, 1945

As vivid as my father’s descriptions in his letters were, I found myself wanting to know more. So, after reading the first few letters, I stopped by my parents’ house. Dad looked up from his throne, a burgundy recliner. He put a scrap of paper in the book he was reading and balanced it on a pile of others. Looking at what was in my hand, he raised his eyebrows.

What do you have there? he asked.

Your letters, I said.

Why are you carrying those old things around? he asked.

Well, I’ve been reading them and— I started.

"Why would you want to do that?" he interrupted.

Do what? I asked.

Read them. Why would you want to read them? he asked.

I don’t know, I said. I guess because they’re a part of our family history.

That’s not history, he argued. That’s just a bunch of old letters.

"Dad, this is history," I countered.

The quiet of the room encircled us. I leaned forward and nervously tucked one foot under me. I looked around. My mother, who had greeted me at the door, was gone. She hadn’t offered her usual hospitality, a piece of last night’s dessert or a chocolate she’d kept hidden from my father.

Dad, I said. Reading your letters made me curious about some things and I have a few questions for you.

It’s been too long, he said.

He rested his head on the back of the recliner and closed his eyes.

I don’t remember anything, he said.

Silence ensued. I waited. Stick to the facts, I told myself.

I took a deep breath.

How far was Farragut from Dayton? I asked.

What? he asked.

He opened one eye and then closed it again.

You were in boot camp at Farragut Naval Base in Idaho, right? I continued. So how far was that from your parents’ home in Dayton?

Dad opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling.

About a four-hour drive I guess, he said. Of course we didn’t have the fast cars and the nice highway that they have now.

He paused.

I was one of the lucky ones though, he said. Boot camp was close to home for me. Most guys were sent halfway across the country. But I was stationed close to home. Then when boot camp was over, I got to do my training there too. Did I ever tell you about my first day of radio school?

I shook my head. I felt like a little girl again, hearing one of his stories. But this time, I wasn’t looking for the nearest exit. This time, I hoped the moment wouldn’t end.

In the classroom that first day, the instructor quickly tapped out a simple Morse code message. My father already knew the code, having just left his job as a railroad telegrapher. So while his classmates worked feverishly deciphering the message, Dad watched a bird perched on a branch outside the window. The instructor thought he’d caught him off task.

What was the message I just sent? he barked.

When my father was able to tell him the correct answer, the instructor stood dumbfounded. After class, he excused my father from the rest of the course.

Each subsequent class that day would follow the same pattern; the instructor would give students a pre-test, never expecting anyone to pass it. But my father passed time and again. By the end of the day, he was excused from six of the seven daily classes. The only one that remained was Navy Procedure, a mandatory class for all radioman candidates. Dad now had only a one-hour course each day, and seven hours with nothing to do, so when a Chief Specialist pulled him aside and asked him if he wanted to learn a different kind of code, just for fun, my father was happy to have something to do to pass the time.

It seemed informal enough, just one serviceman to another. The code was one based on the Japanese language. It was called Katakana or Kana for short. They sat across from each other in a classroom filled with communications equipment. People walked by now and then but paid no attention. Neither teacher nor student shared any personal information, other than what they’d done in their civilian life; the student had worked for the railroad and his teacher had worked for the FBI.

Day after day, my father learned the complicated code that had about 125 characters, versus the mere thirty-two he was used to. At first he struggled a bit, but soon he caught on and he even found that he was good at it. But when radio school ended, so did his one-on-one lessons. It was all just for fun and he was glad he’d had something to fill the long hours.

After graduating from radio school, he spent a few weeks at home before his parents drove him to the airport, travel orders in hand. He flew to San Francisco and then took a bus across the Bay Bridge to Treasure Island, a small island between San Francisco and Oakland. He knew—everyone knew—that if you were sent there, you were going overseas.

He lived on the military base for a few weeks before receiving further travel orders. This time, he wasn’t told where he was going, only that he would travel by ship. He left the sunny California shore aboard a ship with about twenty of his classmates from radio school and hundreds of other servicemen.

Dad continued to write letters to his folks, though now he was ordered not to tell his family where he was going or how he was getting there. All outgoing correspondence was censored, but he quickly learned the tricks to getting around those censors.

His family and friends had received letters first from Farragut Naval Base, and then from Treasure Island, California. But letters coming to him were slow. The mail was always behind, following him from one new address to another.

It was at this time that he made a promise to himself. Having left his small farming town behind, he was now homesick for the first time in his life. He vowed that when he finally did begin receiving letters, he would write back within twenty-four hours.

At home that night, I thought about the story my father had told me. Perhaps he had told me this story before, but it had never seemed so vibrant, so real, as it had this time. It was a small thing perhaps. But it was a start.

I began reading his letters again, this time with a better understanding of who he was then and how he ended up so far from home.

CHAPTER FOUR

Across the Years

Arrived at about 1730 yesterday, got skinned alive. In other words, my wavy locks are almost a minus quality.—April 28, 1944

As I made my way through the next batch of letters, I was struck by the enthusiasm in my father’s writing after he got his orders to ship out.

January 9, 1945

Dear Folks,

Well, here we are but where are we going? That is the question. So darned many things have happened since my last letter that I don’t know where to start. In fact everything is censored so can’t say much of anything. We can say that we had an uneventful trip but not as smooth as the plane trip to Frisco. In fact I was very squeamish all the way. The minute we sighted land tho I came right out of it and went on deck. Aside from being a little weak I’m feeling like a million. Oh yes, we can also say we are at [cut out by censors]—Just get all the books you can on the Hawaiian Islands and you’ll know as much about it all as I do.

I’m just bubbling over with enthusiasm for the place. That’s sure not like my Navy career prior to this time. But it’s just like another dream—off that darned ship and on this plane. We have everything around us here you ever read or heard about the islands. I’ll try to send some souvenir booklets. You know, I’d like to visit or even live here in peace time. Here it is January and during the day it’s just like spring at home. Just a little