Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [44]
“Boy, Zamp, I’m glad it was you,” Phil said softly. That sent an immediate and affirming message. Phil still believed I had most of the answers. The whole time I’d kept my eye on the second raft. We needed it not only for the emergency supplies and tools but as a place Phil could lie quietly. I shoved the oars into the ocean and gave chase. Rowing was painful, an absurd struggle with three men aboard. Fortunately we were going with the current and I finally got close enough to grab the parachute cord.
Those cords saved our hides, plain and simple.
Parachute cord is nylon and very tough. I used one length to lash the two rafts together, through the topside grommets. Then I retightened the saltwater compress on Phil’s head, and Mac—who, miraculously, was uninjured—and I transferred Phil to the second raft and told him not to move.
“Zamp,” he said, as we made him comfortable. “You’re the captain now.”
“Sure,” I said, trying to reassure him. “Don’t worry. Take it easy. We’ll be picked up soon.”
THE LIFE RAFTS were standard issue: sturdy inner tubes inside canvas covered with yellow rubber. Each one had two sections, meaning a separate inner tube and valve on each side. That was smart for safety reasons. If one side went flat, you’d still float. Each raft was about as big as a desktop inside, maybe three feet wide and six feet long. Two seats cut across the width, both molded in and filled with air. Underneath each seat was enough room to shove your legs in case you had to lie on the bottom during a storm to maintain a low center of gravity and keep the raft from turning over.
A supply kit came with each raft. After checking Phil again I started an inventory but was interrupted when Mac suddenly screamed: “We’re gonna die. We’re all gonna die!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Are you kidding? We’re not gonna die.”
“Yes, we’re all gonna die! You know we are.”
Though we never had time to radio a distress call, I absolutely believed we’d be saved. Our failure to land at Palmyra was itself a signal. The other B-24 on the search mission—it had split off to cover another area—was probably already on the ground in Palmyra, waiting for us. “Hey, we’re gonna get picked up today or tomorrow,” I said with certainty, looking at Phil instead of Mac. “Don’t worry. We’re not gonna die. We’ve rescued plenty of guys and now they’re out searching for us. We’ll be eating dinner with the marines tonight—or tomorrow night.”
But Mac kept screaming. I tried reverse psychology. I threatened to report him when we got picked up. Neither worked, so I did what I had to do: I cracked him across the face. Mac flew backward, surprised yet somehow content. He regained control and, for the moment, kept his fears to himself.
Look, no one wants to crash, but we had. I knew the way to handle it was to take a deep breath, relax, and keep a cool head. Survival was a challenge, and the way to meet it was to be prepared. I’d trained myself to make it. I was in top physical condition. Except for his head gash, Phil was in good shape, too. We played three or four sets of tennis almost every day at the officers’ club. Mac was also young and healthy, but his mind didn’t seem ready to take the kind of great punishment that might await us. I worried about him.
I noted the time and location of the crash, the ocean currents and the trade winds. Then I returned to the inventory. I found the patch kits—the same stuff you’d use to fix a bicycle tire: sandpaper, patches, rubber dope. We had air pumps that came in their own little cases. We had a flare gun, and dye to mark the water so planes could find us. Also a mirror made of chromed brass, and a pair of pliers with a screwdriver handle. That’s all. Not even a net to catch fish.
And I couldn’t find the most important item.
Where was the knife?
Frustration began to eat at me.