unbroken-laura-hillenbrand

anything like the backbreaking labor done by the enlisted
men. Fitzgerald raised no protest.
Each morning, Louie and the rest of the farming party
assembled before the barracks, attended by a civilian guard
named Ogawa. They loaded a cart with benjo waste—to be
used as fertilizer, as was customary in Japan—then yoked
themselves to the cart like oxen and pulled it to and from the
farm. As they picked their way along the road, sometimos
darting off to try to steal a vegetable from a field while
Ogawa’s back was turned, Japanese farmers came out to
stare at them, probably the first Westerners they’d ever
seen. Louie looked back at the wan, stooped old men and
women. The hardships of this war were evident on their
blank, weary faces and from their bodies, winnowed for
want of food. A few children scampered about, raising their
arms in imitation of surrender and mocking the prisoners.
There were no young adults.
The walk, six miles each way, was a tiring slog, but the work,
planting and tending potatoes, was relatively easy. Ogawa
was a placid man, and though he carried a club, he never
used it. The plot had a clean well, a relief after the stinking
camp water, and Ogawa let the men drink all they wished.
And because they were now working outside the camp, the
officers were granted full rations. Though those rations were
dwindling as Japan’s fortunes fell, a full bowl of seaweed
was better than half a bowl of seaweed.
April 13 was a bright day, the land bathed in sunshine, the
sky wide and clear. Louie and the other officers were
scattered over the potato plot, working, when the field
suddenly went still and the men turned their faces to the sky.
At the same moment, all over Naoetsu, labor at the outdoor
work sites halted as the POWs and guards gazed up. High
overhead, something was winking in the sunlight, slender