Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [70]
Sometimes I told Sasaki about the men’s hopes for better food and less punishment. “Oh, Louie, you know him,” they’d say. “Tell him what’s happening here.” Sasaki would say, “Well, we’ll see what we can do.” Then he’d leave and a couple of days later we’d all be beaten. The next time I’d see him I’d complain about the beatings, and he’d say, “Well, they have to keep rigid discipline in the camps, but we’ll see what we can do.” That was always his way. Never “I,” but “we,” meaning it was always “unfortunately” out of his hands. Sasaki never had to take any responsibility for what happened. Or didn’t.
BOYINGTON RELAYED THE information he brought back from his frequent interviews with Sasaki to two prisoners. The first was Geoffrey Lempriere, an Aussie lieutenant captured in the jungle near Rabaul, or New Britain Island in Papua New Guinea. A wealthy wool merchant in his private life, Lempriere hustled around the camp in a ragged black coat, acting as official chaplain. The second was my close friend Lieutenant Bill Harris, the six-foot-ten son of marine general Fielding Harris, who ran the marine air corps. They had captured Bill in the Philippines several years earlier, but he’d remained mentally sharp by reading every scrap of paper available and conducting vigorous memory exercises. As a result, all information, including newspapers that we could occasionally steal from the guard shack, we rushed to Bill. He had a photographic memory, could look at a map and sketch it later with complete symbols for the rest of the group.
BY SPRING I’D gained a bit more weight but was still weak and, as usual, hungry. I constantly thought of ways to pilfer rations, though I was aware and afraid of the terrible consequences; stealing food in wartime was punishable by death.
Sometimes Duva and Mead would walk by my cell after dinner and throw me a rice ball, knowing the serious trouble they’d catch if caught. Mead called the Los Angeles area home, so he knew about me from my USC running days. However, his kindness had little to do with special treatment. Because of my ordeal, I most needed the food. (As did Phil, when he was still at Ofuna. I’d always split my rice ball with him.) Otherwise, everybody was in the same boat. We all pulled together. When you’re trying to survive, you cooperate.
Eventually my desperation overcame common sense. I knew I had to take a chance, even with my life. I studied the patrol habits, and one night at about 1 A.M. the camp was asleep except for a single guard, who had all three barracks to cover. The main passageway tying all the buildings together went through the kitchen. I snuck in and quietly stuffed my face with Japanese navy food. I lost track of the time until suddenly I sensed a presence to my left. I turned slowly, and there stood a guard we called Shithead. He was the worst of the bunch, a sneaky pipsqueak always trying to catch us at fault so he could report us and impress his superiors. I knew I was in deep, deep trouble.
He held his rifle at his side, butt on the floor, stepped out of the shadows, and faced me. I waited for him to raise the weapon, but he didn’t move. He just stared. It was bizarre. So I inched slowly away, our eyes locked together, figuring he’d take me out any moment, saying I had tried to escape. He certainly looked like he wanted to shoot me, but I kept backing up anyway, my eyes glued on him until he was out of sight.
The next day I waited, nervously, to suffer my fate. No one called me out. I’m certain he had reported my crime—it had to be Shithead’s greatest trophy—but for some reason the commandant ignored or dismissed it. Why?
WHEN THE WEATHER warmed, the commandant began to take his morning tea under the cherry tree in front of the barracks next to the road. He also read his newspaper there. An old gentleman, he only held a warrant officer’s rank. We called him “the Mummy.” His world was spare and he seemed detached.
One morning, while I swept the yard around him, I noticed him studying his paper, the Mainichi