Although I’ve never had a wild desire to be a 21st Century Mata Hari, I admit to a certain admiration for espionage … at least when it is conducted by the good guys. I also have a special fondness for the oddballs, eccentrics, and patriots who broke the Nazi Enigma code during World War II.

More recently, I have learned about the Navajo code talkers.

They also came into being during World War II, when the Marine Corps was looking for a way to communicate tactical information in a code that would be undecipherable to the Japanese. Philip Johnson, who had grown up on a Navajo reservation, suggested the Navajo language, because it has no alphabet, no symbols, is extremely complex, cannot be written, and was only spoken by those who lived on Navajo lands or in the American Southwest. In other words, it was perfect.

Eventually, a code, including a dictionary for military terms, was created. The Marines recruited over 200 Navajos. This group were known as “code talkers” and, according to Major Howard Connor, 5th Marine signal officer, “Were it not for the Navajos, the Marines would never have taken Iwo Jima.”

The Japanese, please note, never cracked the code.

Which sort of got me to musing about how long it has been since I last saw a secretary whip out a steno pad, cross her legs, and respond to a boss’s request to, “Take a letter, Miss Jones.”

And THAT brings me the subject of age and experience. In truth, I have witnessed many circumnavigations of the sun, and I am old enough to remember when carbon paper was used to copy letters … when the opposite end of a lead pencil (and not a delete button) erased mistakes … and when booking a flight to Paris meant calling a travel agent, instead of clicking an icon on a computer. I can even remember mimeograph machines and Ko-Rec-Type.

Most importantly, I remember Gregg Shorthand.

When – as an exuberant young thing – I was on my way out the door to become the next O. Henry, my wise mother said, “Just in case you don’t write a best seller within your first two weeks in New York, you might want to learn to type. A secretary can always get a job.”

So, that is what I did. I went to secretarial school, I learned to type, and I became the fastest typist in the world. My course curriculum also required me to learn Gregg Shorthand, at which I did NOT excel. I became the worst stenographer ever born.

Despite that personal failure, I have always envied stenographers. They can scribble exotic symbols; they can eavesdrop on and record furtive conversations; and they can communicate in a secret language known only to themselves.

All of which are aptitudes that – had their skills not been recognized far and wide – would have made them perfect … spies.

Twenty years ago, Gregg Shorthand was ubiquitous. Now, computers are ubiquitous and shorthand, to all intents and purposes, is a dead language. Its scribbles and scrawls are meaningless to just about everyone in the world.

Which brings me to my … I think brilliant …suggestion. That the big kahunas in charge of military intelligence should gather together a bunch of us old gals, give us a few tubes of dark red lipstick, paint our nails Vibrant Magenta, and transform us into espionage agents. First, train us to write Gregg shorthand in invisible ink. Then show us how to press our ears against tent flaps hiding madmen who decapitate journalists and mutilate babies. And lastly, teach us how to transmit our findings back to Mission Control for decoding.

If military minds could use ancient Navajo symbols to encode messages during World War II, then surely, a select group of highly trained stenographers can vanquish bad guys today.

To defeat terrorists and defeat evil, just give us a can of Aqua Net Hair Spray. Then we’ll take out our steno pads, demurely cross our legs, and outmaneuver James Bond.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com