Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [62]
Finally, I went, “Well, uh…” and they thought they had me. With a bit more pushing, I “broke down” and said, “Okay, okay. There’s one here”—I showed them on the map—“one here, one there, and one there.” Boy, were they happy. They looked at each other like, “Ah, we finally won a victory over this guy.”
The victory was mine. I tricked these educated men and earned a biscuit and a little glass of soda in the bargain. More important, I proved to myself that I hadn’t lost my mind on the raft.
The panel dismissed me, satisfied. But before I could leave, an officer decided to show me my place. “Well, Mr. Zamperini, big track star, you got much publicity when you were missing in action. I want you to know that when you entered USC in 1936, I was graduating.”
I bowed humbly, mocking him.
A WEEK LATER a new guard came on duty. He motioned me to the door and whispered, “You Christian?” I nodded yes, dully, expecting the worst. He smiled and repeated himself. “You Christian. Me Christian!” His name was Kawamura, and he gave me a handful of rice and his ration of sugar candy.
Kawamura’s English was poor, but I managed to understand a few words about Canadian missionaries. Also, that he assumed all Americans were Christians. But the following morning another new guard took his pleasure by jabbing me with a stick until blood ran down my face. When Kawamura’s shift began he asked about the blood. Taking a chance, I told him who was responsible. Kawamura made an angry fist. I didn’t give it much thought. After all, I was their enemy.
I didn’t see either guard for three days, but when Kawamura returned he opened my cell door and pointed to the other guard, about fifty yards away. A bandage covered his head. Kawamura had beaten him. If not for his kindness, I might not have survived my “rescue.”
ONE MORNING THE guards took Phil and me to the infirmary porch and told us to lie down. Two doctors came out and injected us with a smoky fluid. “Tell us when you get dizzy,” one said. He scribbled notes, while the other held a stopwatch.
It took about five seconds. The disorientation and nausea were accompanied by the rapid appearance of red, itchy pimples. Had they injected us again I would have passed out. Instead I went back to my cell, where in addition to the usual discomforts my body burned throughout the night.
They repeated the experiment the next day.
Soon Phil and I came down with dengue fever.
Dengue fever is caused by one of four related viruses transmitted by mosquitoes in tropical and subtropical regions. It comes on quickly, with a high fever, severe headaches, joint and muscle pain, nausea, vomiting, and a rash. The illness can last up to ten days, but complete recovery can take two to four weeks. Afterward, you’re immune to the specific virus but only partially protected from the other three. Dengue is commonly confused with other infectious illnesses such as influenza, measles, malaria, typhoid, and scarlet fever.
The good news about most dengue is that it rarely causes death; the bad news is that I felt so terrible I wished I was dead.
The first week was intense. I was already mentally, physically, and emotionally shattered. The fever made it worse. And yet, it was in one way a small blessing: disorientation made the time pass more quickly and made the fear of decapitation more tolerable. I just thought, Well, so I’m going to die. Now or later. Accept it. It was as if a guy had come up and said, “I’m going to shoot you in the head,” and I’d said, “So, shoot me.”
The fever lasted three or four weeks, during which another submarine crew arrived and we had to go through more of the same barbarous treatment. I just didn’t seem to