Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [66]
What didn’t add up, then, was why I’d been brought to Ofuna in the first place.
SET IN THE foothills at the junction of two valleys, Ofuna in September was much like New York in the winter, layered with thin crusts of snow and cold, very cold.
The camp was built of flimsy wood and consisted mainly of three plain, crackerbox structures called One, Two, and Three—Ichi, Ni, and San. The layout looked like the letter E. Each barrack was set apart from the other by twenty yards; all were connected to a main building that housed the officers’ headquarters, the latrines, and the kitchen.
Inside, each cell was as wide as the tatami mats on which we slept. My blanket was made of paper; we got two and had to learn how to fold them—tightly, to get layer after layer—for maximum warmth. The pillow was straw. I slept in my clothes and shoes. All I had was the uniform I’d crashed in, now a sleeveless khaki shirt and torn pants. A Norwegian named Thor Bjorn Christiansen, a crewman on a captured merchant ship, went through his belongings and gave me his extra coat. Without his kindness I’d probably have frozen to death.
Despite the icy temperatures, the guards wouldn’t let us stay inside during the day. I spent every hour of sunlight outside, huddling against the elements. Fortunately, we’d worked out a system in which we lined up and walked slowly, wound around like a serpent. The men on the outside moved inside, got warm, and moved out again.
Our cells had small square windows with wooden bars through which anyone could easily escape; but then what? Japan was not like Europe, where most people looked alike. What’s more, the guards made it clear: “If you escape, we line up ten men and shoot.”
Frank Tinker, a captured pilot who’d gone to the Juilliard School of Music, and I had a plan anyway. We could always hear airplanes, and they didn’t sound too far away, maybe two or three miles from Ofuna. I said, “Can you fly a Japanese plane?”
“Louie,” he said, “I can fly anything with wings.”
I thought we’d sneak to the airport and grab a plane. Of course, we wouldn’t know if the fuel tank was full, if we’d end up flying to China or crash in the Sea of Japan. Still, we plotted for several weeks, then decided to abandon our crazy idea.
One guy did escape, though, but within twenty-four hours got caught hiding in the hills. Luckily, everyone knew he was crazy, even the Japanese, so they didn’t shoot him or anyone else.
Not everyone was so fortunate. When men left the camp I often watched them exit. If they turned to the left, that usually meant they didn’t live. If they turned to the right, that meant they went to another camp. Every time, other men arrived to take their place.
RUNNING THE LENGTH of each barrack was a long, narrow walkway about four feet wide and made of smooth wood that we had to mop continually. The cells, on either side, were one step up from ground level. My day began at sunrise when the guards rang the morning bell. Sometimes I’d do calisthenics. Then, after going to the head, I’d sit on the step below my cell, my feet sticking into the walkway, and wait for breakfast. Utensils clanging in the kitchen became like music to me. Sometimes I’d smell the food on the wind and salivate. Even today, I can’t kick that habit.
Two prisoners, Duva and Mead, worked in the kitchen doing the serving and cleanup. Duva had survived after the Japanese crippled his submarine. Mead flew for the navy and was captured after his plane ran out of fuel during the battle of Midway. Both were strapping fellows and impressive physical specimens—and stayed that way because on kitchen duty they could always sneak an extra mouthful.