Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [60]
During the battle, sixteen marines died. When Carlson left, he said to the native chief, “Here’s fifty dollars. Will you bury the marines?”
Evidently, nine other marines didn’t get back to their beachhead on schedule and make it safely to the submarines, which took off right on time, perhaps believing their comrades were also killed.
Those marines were captured by the Japanese and imprisoned on Kwajalein. At least one of them had lived in the cell I occupied and carved his legend on the wall so those who followed would never forget.
I carved my name underneath theirs, and the date of my arrival.
SOMETIME DURING THE first day, a Kwajalein native had poked his nose through the hole in my cell door and said in surprisingly good English, “Are you Louis Zamperini, the USC track star?”
“What?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Are you Lou Zamperini, the runner, the Olympian, from USC?”
“Yeah,” I answered, confused. There I was, way out in the middle of nowhere, and people still knew me. I shouldn’t have been surprised. In those days, between radio, newspaper, and newsreel coverage, international sports figures were as popular as movie stars.
The man—I never got his name—worked for the Japanese, probably as a laborer. He said he was a Trojan fan and began to tell me about my track records. “I follow all USC sports.” He knew every football player. Every score. We discussed the Rose Bowl, even the Olympics. He knew more than I did. Then he said, “My time is up. I am glad to meet you.”
“Before you leave,” I said, “tell me about the nine marines.”
“They were all executed,” he said, shrugging. “Decapitated with the samurai sword.” He fell silent for a moment, watching for my reaction. Then he spat out the rest. “This is what happens to all who come to Kwajalein.”
Later I learned that the marines whose names were listed in my cell had been awaiting transport to a mainland POW camp in October 1942, when the former Kwajalein commander, Captain Yoshio Obara, claimed he was directed by Vice Admiral Koso Abe, commander of all bases in the Marshall Islands, to execute the men. Abe said that he had received orders for this action via a dispatch from Truk Island, originating with the central authorities in Japan—but his claim was never proved. Abe also said that Commander Okada, from Central Command, who was on Kwajalein in 1942, had made the following statement to him: “From now on it will not be necessary to transport prisoners to Japan. They will be disposed of locally.”
I felt so rotten at the news of my eventual execution that my first thought was, Well, so what?
THE GUARDS DAILY taunted me and Phil. They jabbed us with sticks, spit on us, tossed hot tea in our faces. Sometimes they made us sing and dance—as if we could—for their amusement. Worst of all, they took great delight in drawing their thumbs across their throats, or slicing their flattened hands across their Adam’s apple and making a sound to remind us of our inevitable fate.
I wanted to live and I hoped I’d live, but the kind of faith I’d had on the raft had disappeared. I believed my date with death was set. Each morning I’d wake up and think, Is this the day? Where will they put my bones? What could I do? I just had to wait until they decided.
ON THE SECOND day, guards led me to the interrogation building. I hadn’t yet been fed, the better to make me vulnerable. On the way I passed two somber young girls, very out of place in a combat zone. They shuffled and stared at the ground.
I was shoved into a large room to face six dignified-looking Japanese officers, big shots dressed in white uniforms with gold braid and combat medals. They sat at a white table as if they were kings of the earth. A guard told me to sit facing the officers but far enough away that my