Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [58]
On the second pass the boat got close enough to land the rope and haul us in. Then they reached down, grabbed us, and lifted us aboard. I tried to push myself up from the first hard surface I’d felt in almost two months, but I couldn’t stand. I could barely crawl.
A crewman salvaged our raft from the sea and threw it on the deck. What a mess. The yellow rubber had turned to gum and was ready to pop. Phil and I might have lasted another two weeks; the raft maybe two days.
Although the Japanese clearly had nothing to fear from us, they tied us to the mast, and a big fellow who wanted to prove his authority or vent his anger hit Phil across the face with a pistol. I knew I was next, but my mind was sharp and I had a trick up my sleeve: I kept my head forward. When he swung the pistol, I threw my head back. The gun missed me, but I nearly knocked myself almost unconscious when I smashed the mast with the back of my head. That seemed enough to satisfy our captors, and they acted more civilized. Someone gave us water and a few hard biscuits. Despite intense hunger, I ate slowly and maintained my self-control in front of the enemy.
TWO HOURS LATER the boat dropped anchor at Wotje, an island in—just as I’d predicted—the Marshall group. The idea that we’d actually drifted about two thousand miles and survived was mind-boggling.
We were taken ashore, blindfolded, in a barge. I knew we’d landed when I felt coral scrape the metal bottom. A soldier threw me over his shoulder. Another carried Phil. They dumped us in a truck and drove to their outpost. There they put us on a scale. Thirty kilos didn’t mean much to me, but I later learned it meant that I weighed about sixty-seven pounds—and that I’d lost a third more than that, nearly one hundred pounds.
On Wotje Phil and I were treated well by a kindly Japanese doctor, and got food and water, which we managed to keep down by eating carefully. A few of the Japanese officers spoke English. They quizzed us about what had happened.
“We were on a rescue mission in friendly waters,” I said. “We had motor trouble and crashed at sea.” Soon the conversation turned to other topics, including where I’d gone to college and my running career. Our rescuers/captors were most intrigued that we were still alive. They listened to our tale, clearly sorry for us, not at all like enemies. Our sharpness also astounded the Japanese; perhaps they’d expected two delirious, mushy-headed dummies who’d lost their brains, but only our bodies had wasted away, not our minds.
After taking our wallets and putting them into a container, one soldier counted forty-eight bullet holes in the raft. Everybody came by to inspect the damage and wonder about all those holes in the rubber and none in us. I told them, “On the twenty-seventh day one of your pilots strafed us. It was a Sally bomber.”
“Oh, no,” they said. “Japanese don’t do that.”
I pointed at the raft. “There are the holes.”
They still didn’t believe me.
Two days later Phil and I were put aboard a merchant vessel. The detachment commander said, “You will be taken to an island called Kwajalein. But,” he added, ominously, “I cannot guarantee your life after you leave the ship.”
The trip due west took almost twenty-four hours, and again we were well treated. The captain came to visit more than once. In almost perfect English