Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [77]
I stood up again, angry. I have Italian blood, and revenge was written all over my face, not because of my physical agony but because I’d been humiliated. The guards at Ofuna punished us hard but impersonally. The Bird focused on me. He knew I could only cry, not act. But I wouldn’t cry. Not for him. Not for anyone.
My best revenge was to take secret comfort in knowing that Watanabe had mental problems. Even the other guards called him a sadistic psychopath. Once, the Bird sent for ten officers—including me—who worked in a makeshift leather shop. By the time we put away our tools and walked two hundred yards to his office, five minutes had elapsed—too long for Watanabe. He came after us swinging his belt, the heavy buckle whipping through the cold air. He struck everyone more than once across the face.
Sometimes the friendlier guards whispered to us about Watanabe’s life, explaining that when he had first come to Omori he hadn’t fussed much, just observed and did his job. Tom Wade knew more. As he wrote in his book:
Watanabe was the spoilt son of a wealthy family. As he’d told us, he had a beautiful home with a swimming pool in the hills behind Kobe, unlimited money, an adoring mother and he had led a dissolute student’s life. Watanabe went to school at Waseda University in Tokyo, then worked for Domei, the Japanese news agency. When called up by the army, he had immediately taken the examination for a commission. When he failed he resented it deeply, as his brother and brother-in-law were officers. So the army made him a corporal (later a sergeant), spared him service overseas and settled him at the age of twenty-seven, in a safe berth at Tokyo Headquarters Camp.
Although the wrong rank, Watanabe was a typical member of the “Young Officers” clique, believers in Kodo, the Imperial Way—an extreme, patriotic association that dominated Army and then national policy. [Watanabe] was proud, arrogant, and nationalistic, while sheltering an inferiority complex over his failure to become an officer.
In other words, the Bird hated officers because he couldn’t be one, and given a camp full of high-ranking men he acted like a jealous god, abusing his power. If we defied him or hesitated, he’d beat us. A favorite punishment—even more than the belt—was making our own enlisted men beat us. We’d line up while each noncom was forced to walk down the line striking an officer with his fist. After each punch, the Bird shouted, “Next!” It became a maniacal chant: “Next-next-next…” When our men hit easy he’d club them on the head. We’d whisper, “Look, hit us once. Hard.” Then we’d go down and Watanabe was satisfied. So were we, preferring to be hit by our own men than by anyone Japanese.
AS AT KWAJALEIN, one Omori guard was Christian, and he quietly performed many acts of kindness for which he could have been severely punished. His name was Kano. Sometimes he would slip us his tobacco rations, and if a man was ill, he brought him candy for the much needed sugar. Kano also risked his life to help anyone unfortunate enough to be tossed into “the barn,” a room with holes in the wall, cold and miserable at night, where men caught stealing were forced to remain for days wearing only their undershorts. Kano would wait until the other guards were asleep and cover the prisoner with a blanket, then arrive an hour before sunrise to reclaim it.
AFTER MY BELT lashing, the Bird shouted for everyone to go outside. We lined up on the compound, and he paraded stiffly before us, as always.