Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [94]
OKINAWA, WHERE WE fought one of our last great battles in Pacific, was only 350 miles from Japan. We’d sent 168,000 troops ashore to assault 100,000 defenders who had spent a year digging sixty miles of caves, tunnels, and underground positions. The cost of victory was dear. We lost thirty-two ships and took over 10,000 casualties. Fourteen hundred kamikaze planes (kamikaze means “divine wind” in Japanese, named after the typhoon that destroyed the invading Mongol fleet in 1281) sank twenty-six ships, and claimed 3,000 American lives. The battle lasted fifty-one days, from April 1 to June 21, 1945.
Now Okinawa served as a staging area for returning troops, POWs, and occupation forces headed for Japan. At the temporary shelter they ushered us into big tents with cots and told us to bunk down for the night. The next morning, bright and early, I lined up for more medical treatment. The routine of being reabsorbed into a free society felt weird, but like a patient who has to see the doctor, I submitted. I got three different shots in the arm, then an orderly told me to go into a room at the end of the building. I had noticed, while standing in line, that the door to the room was always closed; a sign on it read: LAST SHOT. When my turn came I opened the door and stepped hesitantly inside to find a colonel sitting at desk covered with shot glasses full of whisky. I broke out in a wide grin. “Welcome home, soldier,” the colonel said. I drank my shot without hesitation. It went down nice and warm.
I lined up for a breakfast meal ticket at the mess hall, but an orderly, scanning a list of names on a clipboard, turned me away. “Sorry,” she said. “This food is only for prisoners of war.”
“But I’m a prisoner.”
“You’re not registered as a POW.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. That was the first I’d heard of it, officially. “Maybe so, but I’m still a prisoner. I’ve been one for more than two years. Ask anyone.”
“Sorry. Your name’s not on the list.”
Unbelievable. They thought I was just trying to get a free meal, and the pity was that a good look at me proved that I desperately needed one. It’s like if you don’t have an appointment with a doctor, you say, “But, Doctor, look at me, I’m dying.”
“Well, yes, you are. Come on in.”
I tried again: “I’m skinny. I’m hungry. I’m a prisoner of war.”
She wouldn’t budge. “Sorry. No I.D. You’re not listed.”
Rather than argue, I went to the Red Cross tent and put two and two together on the way. At Ofuna, the secret interrogation camp, the Japanese hadn’t registered me as a POW—and apparently had neglected to correct that after transferring me to Omori. Even so, I thought that after my broadcast proved to the army that I was alive—certainly I was well known enough that if anyone with any clout had heard, it would make the news—someone would have added me to the POW list. Obviously not. It was assumed that I was already on it. That brought up another problem: without the proper I.D. I wouldn’t get new clothes either.
Fortunately, the Red Cross girl was very nice. “Help yourself,” she said, pointing at the snack food. I grabbed a couple of Snickers. “Why aren’t you with the others?” she asked as I wolfed them down.
“I’m a prisoner of war but I’m not registered, and they wouldn’t let me in the dining room with the rest of the guys.”
As I told her my story a lieutenant walked in. “Here’s a man who can help you,” she said. So I told him my story. “I’m the general’s adjutant,” he said. He took me to see