Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [61]
I braced myself, not knowing know what to expect. I could never have predicted the first question: “Lieutenant Zamperini. How many girls do you have on your islands to satisfy your military personnel?”
What? Their icebreaker question was about sex? Was that really what these arrogant pipsqueaks wanted to know? I decided to contain my disgust and play along.
“We don’t have them,” I said.
“How do the men get satisfied?”
“They use their willpower and wait until they get home.”
My questioner chuckled and I’m sure he thought I was either a liar or a fool. Smugly, he continued. “Japan provides girls on every island to keep our men happy.”
The two girls I’d seen, obviously conscripted against their will, now made sense. The informalities over, the panel got down to business.
“What model B-24 you fly in?” one asked brusquely. I knew they had more than one of our crashed bombers, so it was no big deal to say, “B-24D.” The Green Hornet was borrowed; our regular plane was a B-24F model.
They produced a picture of a B-24E. “Where is radar on the plane? Draw a picture.” Again, a pointless question; they had the plane. They already knew. What they really wanted came next. “How do you operate the radar?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “That’s the radioman or engineer’s job.” I really did know, but it was my way out. They were not happy. I returned to my cell without a snack, drink, or cigarette.
A NEW GUARD asked my name. “Louie Zamperini,” I told him.
“Ruie Zamperini-ka.”
“No, just Louis Zamperini.” The L was a tongue-twister and the ka a quotation mark.
Another guard said, “Ohio.”
I said, “California.” I knew ohio meant “good morning,” but why should I give them the satisfaction?
I STARED OFTEN at the marines’ names carved into the wall. I memorized each one in case I had to recite them later for Allied intelligence. It was my small way of keeping hope alive. I considered these men my cell mates. I took a name each day and wondered about that person’s life. I asked myself, What did he look like? Where was he from? Did he have a girlfriend, or was he married? Did he have children? How would his family take the news of his death? I contemplated each man’s fear or emotions or resolve as the samurai sword came swiftly down, sending his head rolling. Was he buried on the island or taken out to sea? How soon would I join them?
ONE MORNING I heard a commotion and many voices. Suddenly soldiers lined up in front of my door. Was this it? My last day? Luckily—or unluckily—no. This was a submarine crew in for refueling, supplies, and shore leave. On a sub you never see the enemy; what a treat when they heard two POWs were on the island. Perhaps eighty men lined up as if at a movie theater. Phil and I were the feature. As each sailor passed, he cursed us, spit, threw rocks, jabbed us with sticks, and treated us like caged animals. I thought I was already in the worst shape of my life, but this dehumanization and torment proved me wrong.
THE NEXT DAY I was again taken to the interrogation room. I found everyone chatting and grinning. My face was still caked with blood from the free-for-all. I’m sure the ranking officers considered this a clever, strategic move. After the submarine crew had humiliated us, perhaps our spirits had broken.
The new topic: the number and location of airfields on Oahu. The Japanese unfolded a large map and asked me to mark the locations and the number and type of aircraft at each. They already had the major fields circled, a result of reconnaissance during the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Again, my reward for cooperating would be food and drink. My face and body may have been battered but my mind was sharp. I figured maybe I could put one over on these self-righteous son of a guns.
Part of our strategy in the Pacific was to build phony air bases. We’d already