Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [89]
Had it been me, I’d have chosen to die. I’ve always been germphobic. I couldn’t have done what he asked, but those men did. I don’t know how.
AT NIGHT HUGE rats would run over those of us sleeping up high. If you made any attempt to knock them away, they were certain to attack with a vengeance—and no one wanted to be bitten by these filthy, aggressive creatures.
On the other hand, we had to do something. One night I prepared myself with a wooden paddle fashioned from a piece of driftwood. I lay it across my chest and was about to doze off one night when I felt a large rat stand on my blanket, between my knees. I slowly clutched the paddle and gave it all I had. I didn’t dare miss.
I heard a sickening thud from the impact and then the loud rattling of metal as the rat landed on our hanging kitchen utensils. The entire barracks burst out with laughter.
Then someone turned on the barrack’s lights and said, “Is he dead?”
An Australian soldier said, “Nah, nah, the blighter is limping back to his hole.” Everyone cracked up again.
Laughter was just the medicine we needed.
The next day I was in the paddle business.
WHEN TWO ENLISTED men stole a piece of dried fish from the coal ship, someone snitched. (Desperate for food or better treatment, some men informed. We sympathized; we all suffered. But we couldn’t condone ratting.) Back at camp, the Bird indulged in his favorite form of punishment: having the enlisted men beat the officers.
Occasionally he was more creative. When the Bird and Kono got a book on American boxing they lined up everyone in the yard and assigned us numbers. They’d call your number and you’d step forward. They’d consult their book, then they’d hit you. The Japanese usually hit with the inside of a closed hand; they didn’t know about knuckle punching. Still, Watanabe expected us to go down. If not, his obnoxious little assistant made sure we fell with his kendo stick. Nobody could take more than two blows, and then you went out like a light.
And yet, through it all, we hated the punishments less than being treated like nonentities, as if we were less than human. I could take the pain and the blood. That didn’t bother me. But to have fewer rights and less respect than an animal? That really stripped me of my dignity.
SUMMER FINALLY ARRIVED, bringing with it oppressive heat and legions of vermin. They dripped from the rafters and ceiling and crept through the floorboards of the old bunkhouse at night, leaving our bodies covered with welts. The sand fleas were so thick that the earth itself seemed to be crawling, undulating like waves. I tried to sleep outside but gave up, exhausted and, frankly, indifferent. Bugs were the least of our torments.
Only our hope for a speedy end to the war kept us going. We knew Germany had surrendered, and I’d heard that B-29s had finally firebombed Tokyo almost beyond recognition. To continue fighting was clearly pointless, yet the Japanese wouldn’t give in. Their willingness to prolong the war seemed senseless, but they insisted Japan would win because whatever God they believed in was on their side.
This faith was deeply rooted in their history. In the year 1273, Kublai Khan had landed on the shores of Japan with a large fleet of ships and a horde of Mongol warriors. The situation was hopeless as the invaders overpowered the populace. As a last resort, the Japanese prayed to their god and suddenly a typhoon blew in and destroyed the entire Mongol fleet.
In 1281 Kublai Khan tried again, with double the number of ships. Another typhoon destroyed