Though Ned Begay is unwaveringly committed to the U.S. effort in World War II from beginning to end, he never glorifies war. He describes the terrors of the battlefield, the loss of friends, and most of all, the traumatic aftereffects of war in soldiers’ minds, which he believes can only be healed through an intentional effort to restore spiritual balance. As one example of the imbalance wrought by war, Ned describes his struggles to come to terms with the humanity of the Japanese enemy, who remain all but invisible to him except through their victims. By portraying Ned as a committed yet compassionate and spiritually sensitive warrior, Bruchac argues that war is never a good thing in itself, and that everyone—soldiers, victims, and civilians—must strive to heal from the wounds of war and ultimately to achieve peace.
War itself, though necessary, throws the world—and the individual soldier—out of balance. Ned explains that during reprieves from combat, some Marines, including some Navajos, begin to drink heavily in order to forget what they experienced during combat. Sometimes this drinking continues long after the war, as dark memories persist in the veterans’ minds: “Never think that war is a good thing, grandchildren. Though it may be necessary at times to defend our people, war is a sickness that must be cured. War is a time out of balance. When it is truly over, we must work to restore peace and sacred harmony once again.” Ned means that war must not be glorified—just because it is sometimes necessary doesn’t mean it is good. When war is over, people must actively seek balance again in order to heal.
Periodically recalled to Hawaii for additional training, Ned gets a preview of the trauma that will linger after the war: “At times […] I felt as if the things around me were not real. It was too quiet and beautiful. There were no guns being fired, no shells exploding around me, no muddy foxholes […] I should have been happy, but instead it made me feel ill at ease.” At such times, he says, he relives violent memories and worries about future battles. In other words, Ned sees that even outwardly beautiful, peaceful things are thrown out of balance by the trauma of war. War steals happiness and invades quiet times with painful memories and fearful anticipations.
Ned’s cultural memories also give him insight into the cruel aftermath of war: Some soldiers “had kept going forward until not just their bodies were worn out but their spirits. They hadn’t been physically wounded, but now were unable to do anything. Some just stayed in bed and cried. […] Others just stared off into space. […] Navajos understood it well. Our ancestors saw what war does to human beings. When we must fight other humans, injure and kill them, we also injure a part of ourselves.” Again, while sometimes unavoidable, war has consequences even for those who fight honorably. From his people’s history of battle with oppressors, Ned recognizes that war causes emotional ailments as well as physical ones, which can only be healed after an intentional process of restoring the spirit.
Such spiritual “injury” manifests itself in imbalanced relationships with other human beings, making it difficult to remember enemies’ humanity. From the beginning, Ned struggles to humanize his enemies. Because so much of the Japanese defense is waged from hidden foxholes and caves, Ned experiences the eeriness of seldom laying eyes on a physical enemy: “As I drifted off to a fitful, exhausted sleep […] I thought about what was the strangest thing of all that first day of combat. All that fighting had happened without seeing even one Japanese soldier.” In this sense, the Japanese people remain a mystery to Ned and his fellow soldiers for much of the war.
However, Ned quickly learns to distinguish between the Japanese military and civilians, who have often been placed in a cruel position. He is grieved when a friend describes the situation on Saipan: "The Japanese women and children ran from the Marines in terror. They’d been told that Americans were devils who would kill and torture them. […] They climbed to the tops of cliffs and threw their children off before hurling themselves onto the rocks below. Hundreds jumped from the cliffs […] before our shocked Marines could reach them. There were tears in Wilfred's eyes as he remembered it.” Ned shares his friend’s compassion, recognizing that the Japanese people themselves cannot all be viewed as the enemy.
After describing how the Japanese mistreated the Chamorros (natives of Guam who were U.S. citizens and refused to cooperate with the occupiers), Ned reflects that “for a long time even after the war, it was hard for me to have any good thoughts about the Japanese. What troubled me the most was the way they treated the native people of the islands they conquered. […] Never forget, grandchildren, that we must always see all other people as human beings, worthy of respect. We must never forget, as the Japanese forgot, that all life is holy.” As happens elsewhere in the story, Ned’s own experiences of being treated in dehumanizing ways by a majority culture make him especially compassionate to other mistreated minorities. He recognizes that such mistreatment stems from a failure to recognize others’ humanity. At the same time, he acknowledges that his anger at such mistreatment inclines him to forget the humanity of the Japanese, too—even their lives must be regarded as “holy.”
Ned himself finds healing by immersing himself in his community after the war. He fulfills his dream of becoming a teacher and he works for educational reform on the Navajo reservation. Finally, telling this story of being a code talker (a marine who used a top-secret Navajo code to send messages during battle) is itself an expression of restoring balance to the world—the code talkers’ mission had remained classified for decades, but now Ned can speak freely of the realities of war, thereby encouraging others to pursue peace.
War, Healing, and Peace ThemeTracker
War, Healing, and Peace Quotes in Code Talker
For most Navajos, though, the possibility of war was very far away. Caring for their herds and trying to make ends meet was all they had time to think about. But our Navajo Tribal Council passed a special resolution in June of 1940. I liked their words so much that I made a copy of them on a piece of paper to carry with me in my wallet. I’ve kept those strong words all these years, though I have had to recopy them several times when the paper they were printed on grew worn from being folded and unfolded or when it was soaked by the salt water as we landed on those beaches. It is often that way, you know. Strong words outlast the paper they are written upon.
[Gene-gene] took me by the arm and led me to a big rock near the ocean. We sat together there for a time without saying anything. Then he bent over, pressed his palm on the ground, and lifted his hand up to rest it against his chest. I understood. He was telling me this land was in his heart. I knelt down on one knee and did the same, then swung my hand in the direction of the rising sun. Gene-gene nodded. He understood that the land of my own heart was there, far across the wide ocean. He placed his left hand on my chest and I did the same. We stood there like that for a while feeling each other's hearts beat with love for our sacred homelands. It was one of the best conversations I ever had.
At times, while I was back on Hawaii, I felt as if the things around me were not real. It was too quiet and beautiful. There were no guns being fired, no shells exploding around me, no muddy foxholes. […] I should have been happy, but instead it made me feel ill at ease. […] Never think that war is a good thing, grandchildren. Though it may be necessary at times to defend our people, war is a sickness that must be cured. War is a time out of balance. When it is truly over, we must work to restore peace and sacred harmony once again.
I was not one of those who tried to forget through drinking, although I was tempted. […] What helped me through those times of uncertainty were thoughts of my home and family. It comforted me to know that my family was praying for me during those times. I felt close to them when I rose each morning and used corn pollen at dawn. In that way, even when I was sad and afraid, I kept it in mind that the Holy People would not forget me. Being a Navajo and keeping to our Navajo Way helped me survive not just the war, but all those times of quiet and anxious waiting that were not yet peace.
I also hear clear voices when I remember that time. I hear those voices and my own heart grows calm again. They are Navajo voices speaking strongly in our sacred language. Speaking over the concussions of the exploding shells so close that the pressure in the air made it hard to breathe. Speaking above the deadly whirr of shrapnel, the snap of Japanese rifles, and the ping of bullets bouncing off our radio equipment. Speaking calmly. Speaking even when our enemies tried to confuse us by getting on our frequency to scream loudly in our ears and bang pots and pans. […] Even when our voices grew hoarse, we did not stop. Our Navajo nets kept everything connected like a spider's strands spanning distant branches. […] As the battle for Iwo Jima raged all around us, our voices held it together.
During the taking of Iwo Jima, I lost some of my white buddies, too. I have not said enough about how many of the white men who fought in the Pacific became my pals. I had many friends–too many friends. I say "too many" because having a lot of friends during war can be a painful thing. It is not like having friends here at home in peacetime. If you have a good buddy, grandchildren, do you not look forward to seeing him when each new day dawns? […] It is different in war. Another friend is another person you might lose at any instant. Each new day, each minute, may be the last one when you will see your friend.
As soon as the first flag was down, Joe Rosenthal began to take pictures of the Marines putting up that second one. One of those pictures became the most famous photograph from World War II. Ira Hayes, a Pima Indian friend of mine from Arizona, is the one farthest on the very left. You can see him reaching for the flagpole but not quite touching it. He and the other five became famous because of that one photograph. It embarrassed some of them, because they all knew it was a replacement flag.
Although I had changed, the things that had made me feel sad and ashamed when I was a child in boarding school had stayed the same. It didn’t matter that I had fought for America. It didn’t matter that I had made white friends who would have sacrificed their lives to save me when we were at war. In the eyes of those prejudiced bilagáanaa in that bar, I was just another stupid Navajo.
But I did not walk away thinking that things were hopeless. […] I had learned to be self-confident as a Marine, to believe that I could succeed even in the hardest battle.
It was not easy and I did not do it quickly. For one thing, I still had to be healed. Those of us who came back to Dinetah from the war were all wounded, not just in our bodies, but in our minds and our spirits. You know that our Navajo way is to be quiet and modest. So when we Navajo soldiers came back, there were no parties or big parades for us as there were for the bilagáanaa G.I.s in their hometowns. We Navajos were just expected to fit back in.
Finally, in 1969, we were told that we could speak about being code talkers. […] Books were written about us and we were invited to speak at special events. We were invited to the White House by one president after another. We were given medals like this one.
All of that was good, grandchildren. But more important than any praise was the fact that we could now tell this story. We could tell our children and our grandchildren about the way our sacred language helped this country.