How One Navajo Soldier’s ‘CRAZY’ War Cry Made 52 Germans Think They Were Surrounded

On October 15, 1944, in the dense fog of the Voj Mountains in eastern France, Lieutenant James Morrison led his platoon through a treacherous landscape that had become a battleground in World War II. The morning mist clung to the trees, creating an atmosphere of uncertainty and tension. Morrison’s platoon, consisting of 42 weary men, had been advancing for days, pushing through territory that had been occupied by the enemy for years. Little did they know that a moment of ingenuity from one of their own would turn a dire situation into a remarkable tactical victory.

The Standoff

As the fog began to lift around 8 a.m., Morrison’s worst fears were realized. Instead of encountering a lightly defended position, they found themselves staring at a well-fortified German defensive line. Spread across the hillside were at least 52 German soldiers, entrenched and prepared for battle. The Americans were outnumbered, outgunned, and completely exposed on the slope below.

Sergeant William Chen, a seasoned soldier who had fought through North Africa and Sicily, crouched beside Morrison, assessing the dire situation. “Lieutenant, we need to fall back,” he whispered, his eyes scanning the tree line. Morrison knew Chen was right. Retreating across the open slope would be suicide, but staying put meant certain death. They were trapped, and the Germans were aware of it.

Private First Class Robert Kowalski, a young factory worker from Detroit, lay flat against the cold earth, his mind racing with thoughts of home. He had written letters predicting the war would be over by Christmas, but now, as he faced the grim reality of battle, he wondered if he would ever send those letters. His fingers trembled as he checked his rifle, feeling utterly inadequate.

Meanwhile, on the German side, Hedfeld Veber, a battle-hardened commander, surveyed the American platoon through his binoculars. Having fought in Poland and endured brutal winters on the Eastern Front, he knew the Americans below were at their mercy. “They have nowhere to go,” he told his subordinate, 19-year-old Gerright Hans Becker. “We wait for them to make the first move, then we finish this quickly.”

Desperation Breeds Innovation

The standoff lasted only minutes, but it felt like hours. Morrison’s mind raced through options, each one leading to catastrophe. A frontal assault would be met with heavy fire, retreat meant death, and surrender was not an option. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, Private Beay, a 23-year-old Navajo soldier from Arizona, stepped forward.

Beay had been serving as a radio operator and scout for six months. His experience in the rugged terrain of the American Southwest had given him a unique perspective on sound and communication. With a calm demeanor that contrasted sharply with the panic around him, Beay approached Morrison. “Lieutenant, I have an idea,” he said, his English tinged with a slight accent. “It’s unconventional, but it might work.”

Morrison listened intently as Beay explained his plan. It relied entirely on psychological warfare, creating an illusion of strength where there was only vulnerability. The idea was audacious, perhaps even insane, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Do it,” Morrison said, knowing they had nothing to lose.

The War Cry

Beay moved to a position where his voice could carry up the slope toward the German lines. Taking a deep breath, he thought of his ancestors and the traditional Navajo war cries that had echoed across the desert canyons for generations. Then he began to call out, his voice rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern that seemed to come from multiple directions at once. The sound was unlike anything the Germans had ever heard in combat.

As Beay varied his position behind trees and rocks, he created an acoustic illusion that suggested the presence of many soldiers. He used techniques he had learned as a child, calling across vast distances in the Arizona desert, producing different vocal patterns that seemed to come from all around. The natural acoustics of the forest amplified and distorted his cries, creating an eerie and disorienting soundscape.

In the German positions, the effect was immediate. Becker’s head snapped toward the sound, confusion etched on his face. The cries suggested that the small American platoon they had observed was merely the forward element of a much larger force. Veber felt a stir of doubt; he had fought across Europe and recognized that these sounds could indicate indigenous troops or specialized units he had not encountered before.

“How many are there?” Becker asked, his voice tight with tension. Veber didn’t answer because he didn’t know. The acoustic confusion made it impossible to determine how many men were producing the sounds. The psychological advantage began to shift as Beay continued his performance, adding variations that simulated the sounds of men moving through the brush and equipment being positioned.

The German Retreat

As the Germans began to show signs of confusion, Morrison witnessed the extraordinary transformation. Heads appeared above the entrenchments, looking not at the exposed Americans but into the forest, searching for the source of the unsettling sounds. Sergeant Chen recognized the opportunity and acted without orders, moving his squad in patterns that suggested larger numbers. Kowalski, despite his fear, understood the game and played his part, revealing himself briefly to suggest multiple squads maneuvering simultaneously.

The German soldiers were becoming increasingly anxious. Veber had experienced encirclements before, and the memory of that nightmare was visceral. The sounds and apparent movement on the flanks suggested they were surrounded. “We’re being encircled,” a young German soldier cried out, panic creeping into his voice.

Realizing the precariousness of their position, Veber ordered a controlled withdrawal to secondary positions. The German soldiers, many of whom had been contemplating the same decision, moved quickly through the forest, abandoning positions they had spent days preparing. They were driven by the sounds that suggested an enemy force many times larger than the 42 Americans actually present.

A Tactical Triumph

As Beay maintained his vocal assault, varying the sounds and directions, the forest fell silent. Morrison rose slowly, hardly believing what he had just witnessed. Where moments before there had been an impregnable defensive line, there were now only abandoned entrenchments. His men, who had been on the brink of disaster, now held the high ground without sustaining a single casualty.

Chen cautiously approached the German positions, confirming they were indeed abandoned. He returned to Morrison, a mix of relief and disbelief on his face. “They left everything,” he gestured to the abandoned supplies and equipment. The realization of their impossible salvation began to dawn on the platoon. They had been saved not by superior firepower or tactical brilliance, but by one man’s ingenuity and the power of acoustic psychology.

Morrison found Beay sitting against a tree, catching his breath after his extraordinary performance. “That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever witnessed,” Morrison said, sitting down beside him. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Beay smiled slightly, recalling the red rock country of his homeland. He explained how sound traveled differently in the desert than in forests, how his people had developed methods of communication across vast distances. His grandfather had taught him that the smartest warrior is the one who wins without creating more widows. “Today we did that,” he said, his voice steady.

The Aftermath

The strategic importance of what had occurred became clear in the following hours. The position the Germans had abandoned was a key point in their defensive line. Its capture, achieved without the expected casualties, allowed American forces to advance through a sector that intelligence had predicted would cost dozens of lives to secure. The ripple effects of that morning’s acoustic deception would influence the campaign for weeks to come.

Word of the incident spread through American units, and the story became increasingly embellished with each retelling. Some claimed Beay had single-handedly driven off 100 German soldiers; others suggested he had used supernatural powers. The truth was remarkable enough without embellishment, but Morrison understood why the story had captured the imagination of troops facing overwhelming odds.

For the German forces, the experience remained a source of confusion and embarrassment. Veber filed a report honestly noting their withdrawal in the face of what appeared to be a larger force. His superiors accepted the report at face value, unaware of the acoustic deception involved. The incident became a footnote in German tactical assessments, one more example of American forces employing unexpected tactics.

Legacy and Reflection

Thomas Beay returned to the Navajo Nation after the war, living into his 80s and rarely speaking of his experiences. The dramatic morning in the Voj Mountains became one of many stories he kept to himself, sharing them only with family and close friends. Lieutenant Morrison resumed teaching in Pennsylvania, never forgetting the lesson Beay had taught him about the diverse forms of intelligence.

Sergeant Chen returned to San Francisco and opened a small restaurant, where he became known for sharing stories of the war. His favorite tale was always about the morning when a single voice drove away 52 entrenched soldiers, a story he recounted with growing appreciation for its improbability.

Kowalski returned to Detroit, taking a job in the same factory where his father had worked. He married and raised four children, using Beay’s story to teach them that courage comes in many forms and that the most powerful weapons are sometimes invisible.

The historical record of that day exists primarily in unit reports and personal memoirs. Morrison’s report noted the capture of a strategic position with zero casualties through unconventional methods. The German report described their retreat under apparent threat of encirclement.

Decades later, military historians studying the campaign would occasionally encounter references to the incident and puzzle over the discrepancy between German force strength and the American unit that displaced them. Only those present understood the full story, and many never spoke of it in detail.

The incident in the Voj Mountains illustrates the nature of warfare and human ingenuity. Throughout history, military forces have sought advantages through technology and numbers. Yet, time and again, individual creativity and cultural knowledge have proven capable of overcoming conventional advantages.

Beay’s improvisation was not the result of military training or technological innovation; it was the application of traditional knowledge adapted to an immediate crisis. The irony of his success was not lost on Native Americans who served in the war—knowledge that had been systematically suppressed became a tool for victory.

As Thomas Beay passed away in 2004, his legacy lived on. At his funeral, veterans from his unit traveled to Arizona to pay their respects, sharing stories with his grandchildren and ensuring that the tale of the war cry would be passed down through another generation. In a world often focused on the grand narratives of history, Beay’s story reminds us that the most significant victories can come from the most unexpected sources. It is a testament to the power of cultural heritage and the ingenuity of the human spirit, demonstrating that sometimes, the greatest strength lies in our ability to adapt and innovate in the face of overwhelming odds.