Devil at My Heels: The Story of Louis Zamperini (26 page)

I forget what I said. I was so overcome that I couldn’t manage much.

Pete held me at arm’s length and said, “Let me get a look at you.” He took all of me in. “Hey, boy, you been living on cream puffs?” he joked, only he wasn’t joking.

“I know, I have to go on a diet. Give me a chance. All I did was dream about eating for two years.” Then I took a good look at Pete, and my grin slipped a little. Hair that had been as thick as mine was now sparse and thin, more gray than brown. Weariness lined his face; his body seemed gaunt and weighed down. “What’s happened to you, old man?”

“Boy, you got no respect for your elders,” he said, punching me lightly on the arm and changing the subject. I later learned that his transformation had lots to do with his worrying about my fate. That was Pete. He was my mentor, my advisor, my coach, my guardian. We were so close.

The day after Pete arrived, we were in midconversation in the hospital visiting room when the news media blew in, grabbed him, and mistaking his slim figure for a man who’d starved for two years, tried to interview him as Lou Zamperini, prisoner of war. We talked fast and straightened out their mistake.

Pete stayed for five days in a nearby motel. We talked about Dad and Mom, my sisters, track and field, his navy work in San Diego. The subject of my incarceration or what had appeared in the paper rarely came up, not because I didn’t want to talk about it but because we both felt the family was most important. Family first.

Finally, General Arnold, whom I never met, sent a special B-25 to San Francisco to fly Pete and me to Long Beach, and together we went home.

THOUGH IT WAS
a very different moment, when my family met me as I stepped off the plane I couldn’t help think of the time I’d come home from the Olympics. I immediately ran up and hugged my mother. She had never lost faith that her boy was alive, and now she was beside herself. I guess most mothers are the same way, though many sons and husbands never came back. I hugged my dad and sisters, too. Everyone cried with joy, and I knew that my brother was the inspiration behind my parents’ determination to never give up hope. Even Chief Strohe of the Torrance Police was there, his police-car siren wailing in the background. But on the ride home there was more awkward silence than exuberant chat. I told no exciting stories of talented teammates, fine food, or stealing a Nazi flag. My only accomplishment had been staying alive.

We turned onto Gramercy Street and stopped in front of 2028, the white frame house I remembered so well. When I wasn’t having nightmares about strangling the Bird, I had dreamed often about relaxing on the living room sofa while my mother’s heels clicked on the blue-and-white checkered kitchen linoleum, and of watching as she prepared dinner.

Suddenly, I tensed up and shivered; none of it seemed real. I wanted to go in but I was afraid. What if the reality didn’t match up with my dreams? Would the house be the way I’d left it? Pretty much, I discovered, except for the fireplace. “An earthquake shook it to pieces,” my mother explained. But the bed in my room was freshly made, waiting for me.

Soon the phone rang and rang, and the house filled with friends, city officials, and photographers. Every time I turned around a flash-bulb blinded me. Voices rose and fell like ocean chop. My body grew numb and my mind disoriented.

What’s the matter, Louie? You’re home. There’s Mom, crying—stop crying, I’m here, it’s okay, that death certificate you got is not worth the paper it’s printed on, don’t worry…why don’t I feel anything?

I heard a voice in my ear: “Look in the kitchen, Louie.”

Another voice: “How about a picture, Louie?”

I sleepwalked through it all, dimly aware of the expectant grins on the faces that constantly surrounded me. In the kitchen I saw a dinner of gnocchi and ravioli, steak, risotto, sosole, and biscotti cooking on the old green-and-white Roper stove—all of which I’d described time after time to Phil and Mac on the raft. I also recalled painful memories of so many meals taken at the huge white table Dad had made with his bare hands, my head bent over my plate in sullen silence. Now fancy bottles of every description covered the table. Liquor—that was fine.

My mother picked up one bottle and showed it to me. “The man across the street brought this one the day you were declared missing,” she said. “He said he didn’t drink but he’d have a drink with you, from this bottle, when you came home.”

Many bottles, all expressions of faith that I was alive, were labeled with the name of the donor. “Even after the death certificate arrived,” my mother cried, “the bottles kept coming.”

I looked away and on another kitchen counter saw cookies baked by my sister Sylvia, in the form of letters that spelled
WELCOME HOME LOUIE
.

In the living room, more pictures and flashbulbs and voices. Finally, I broke away and wandered aimlessly through the house and out the back door to the garage. To my surprise, I found my 1939 Plymouth convertible inside. At least my parents hadn’t sold it. As I ran my hand over the smooth wax job and patted the hood, my reserve gave way and the dam burst. I rushed back inside, crying. Soon, everyone was in everyone else’s arms.

At dinner I was too nervous to eat everything my mother had prepared, but I devoured the risotto to the last grain. Afterward we had coffee, and I noticed everyone looking at one another with expressions that seemed to ask, “Now?” My mother nodded, and everyone trooped out of the living room and returned moments later with armfuls of brightly wrapped packages. These were presents, tagged
CHRISTMAS 1943, CHRISTMAS 1944, JANUARY 26,
1945 (my birthday), and notes that read: “Thinking of you on your birthday, wherever you are,” and the like. Here was the full proof that my family had never given up hope, had never stopped believing I was alive, and it struck deeply, not only reaffirming their love but revealing to me—despite
all our previous differences—just where I’d come by the indomitable spirit that had kept me going on the raft and in prison camp. And to think that this was the family I’d often ignored, the mother I’d once, years ago, accused of loving Pete more than me. I was ashamed and overcome.

My family and friends didn’t try to get me to talk about POW camp or my war experiences except to say, with obvious satisfaction at the positive outcome, that monthly checks from my life insurance had arrived at the house for almost a year and been deposited in the bank, where they lay untouched—another symbol of their faith in my return.

I didn’t want to talk about the war either. When someone comes home from prison you don’t immediately say, “How was it in the big house?” You take him out to dinner and talk about other things—how it feels to be back, going hunting and fishing, running again, what kind of job he wants to get. Otherwise it’s like reminding someone they had cancer. Besides, I’d told it all to Trumbull, my parents had read it, and every paper in the country had copied it.

My parents also did interviews. One paper quoted my father as saying, “Those Japs couldn’t break him. My boy’s pretty tough, you know.” My mother tearfully offered another perspective: “From now on, September ninth is going to be Mother’s Day to me because that’s the day I learned for sure my boy was coming home to stay.”

Both hit the nail on the head and summed up my feelings exactly. Well, almost. What I told the papers about being home again completed the sentiment: “It’s just like Christmas, only better.”

I
stayed with my parents for a few days, living in my old room, before being ordered to Birmingham Hospital in Van Nuys for a month of observation. There they fed me pills to finally kill the intestinal parasites and any other bugs I’d brought back from the war. The regimen often made me sick all night, but at least the doctors warned me in advance, saying, “You’ll be fine in the morning.”

I had to stay in the hospital the first week, but then I could put on my uniform and go out if I came back at a decent hour. Wherever I went, publicity followed. Whatever I did after the war was news. Today, if Tom Cruise drove down the street in plain sight, people would yell and wave. I’m no Tom Cruise, but that’s about how famous I was after the war. The exposure cost me my privacy, but after what I’d been through, I didn’t mind the glory. The other guys in my ward couldn’t resist kidding me relentlessly: “Hey, we saw you in the paper with a cute chick, Zamp. An actress. You’ve gone Hollywood, Zamp.”

The coverage and attention kept building as everyone tried to get into the act. In early November the Los Angeles chapter of the Military Order of the Purple Heart honored me, along with Lieutenant Will Rogers, Jr., and Commander Edward Dockweiler. I was happy to be there, as my parents had received my Purple Heart for “wounds resulting in my death” in May 1944.

(A few years later, Will invited me to be on his radio show to talk about the Bill of Rights. His other guest was a B-movie actor named Ronald Reagan. At the time a couple of big oilmen wanted to groom me for the state legislature. I declined. When Reagan found out, I remember him saying, “It’s interesting that you’re going into politics. I was
born
for politics.” His remarks made me scratch my head; he was just an actor.)

Newspapers dug out my old track records, gave them new importance, and speculated about my competitive future. Sports editors—even those who had openly expressed disappointment with me before the war—again filled their columns with my exploits. Radio commentators and luncheon groups extended invitations to appear. I made a broadcast with my old coach, Dean Cromwell. I officiated at track meets. I even handed out gold cups to horse-race winners at the Santa Anita racetrack.

In 1944 Torrance had renamed its army airstrip Zamperini Memorial Field, but when I came back alive they changed it to just plain Zamperini Field. A couple of Academy Award actresses and generals from Washington came down for the big luncheon and ceremony.

In February 1945 a track meet in New York had begun featuring the annual Zamperini Memorial Mile. They changed the name on that one, too.

I also joined the Sea Squatters Club, whose ranks were open only to “United Nations airmen forced down at sea who used a rubber life raft, no raft, or stayed with their plane and survived.”

Jack and Harry Warner—they ran the movie studio—told the
Los Angeles Times
, “When Louis gets home, we’re throwing an all-studio party for him.” They held it at the John Ford ranch. I danced with Maureen O’Hara and other lovely young actresses.

Many Warner stars belonged to the Lakeside Golf Club near the studio, and that soon became my hangout. I didn’t play golf; I just walked around the course with the celebrities, and they seemed to like it. One day I stood at the bar with Dennis Morgan, Jack Carson, Forrest Tucker, and Bob Hope when a guy ran out of the dressing room and said, “Captain Zamperini, Oliver Hardy wants to see you. Come with me.”
I found Hardy, one of my heroes, in the shower. He walked out stark naked and hugged me. Then he started crying. “Louis,” he said with a sniff, “I prayed for you every day you were missing.” Hardy was Catholic; I’d been Catholic Athlete of the Year the year after DiMaggio got the award. Later Hardy told Lakeside’s manager, “Whenever Zamperini comes in, all the food, liquor—whatever he wants—is on my tab. Unlimited.” I’m not sure why, but I never took advantage of his generosity.

Nightclubs around town also threw open their doors to me. Of
that
I took advantage, in part because I didn’t know how long it would go on. Postwar celebrations were everywhere, and my old college friend Harry Read and I could be found almost any night of the week at the Florentine Gardens in Hollywood, at the world-famous Earl Carroll Theater and Nightclub on Sunset, or in any of the area bars. (Carroll’s place opened in 1938 and included technical innovations like a sixty-foot-wide double revolving turntable on the eighty-foot main stage, three swings that lowered from the auditorium ceiling, an elevator, a revolving staircase, and a rain machine. Out front was a twenty-foot-high painting in neon of Beryl Wallace, one of Carroll’s “most beautiful girls in the world,” and Sunset Boulevard’s Wall of Fame, preserving, in cement, the personal inscriptions to Earl Carroll of more than 150 of Hollywood’s most glamorous stars.)

Sometimes Phil joined us and we did the town. The war was over and we kept the nostalgia to a minimum—though occasionally we shared a private look full of amazement and gratitude that even though we’d lost two crews, and gone through hell, we’d still survived.

Once, Fred Garrett and his wife joined Harry and me at Earl Carroll’s. Fred had been fitted with a prosthetic leg. Recalling how he’d anticipated yet dreaded his homecoming, I looked first at Mrs. Garrett’s face, then searched Fred’s. I knew Fred hated the Japanese so much that he would never let rice touch his lips again, and depression followed him like a lost dog. Of course, I had both my legs, so although I hated the Japanese, too, I couldn’t honestly compare our treatment in the war. All I knew was that hate was as deadly as any poison and did no one any good. You had to control and eliminate it, if you could.
Fred, who went on to work for years in the control tower at Los Angeles International Airport, intercepted my glance, grinned from ear to ear, and lifted his glass high. “Welcome home, Zampo,” he said, and I knew he meant it.

ME? I FOUND
my own way of “controlling” the hate that had revealed itself as recurring nightmares about the Bird. I’d had the same angry dreams in prison camp, but there I also had to deal with the horrible reality of his presence, meaning that awake or asleep I couldn’t get away from Watanabe.

Even after my release, when I was caught up in the excitement of going home, the dreams didn’t stop. I kept hoping they’d pass, but when they didn’t, my solution was alcohol. I thought if I got drunk enough, I’d sleep like a baby.

A common dream usually began with the Bird’s eyes glittering in a gray emptiness and his clipped voice shouting, “Look at me! Why you no look at me? Look at me!” As he raised his arm I tossed and twisted, helpless to avoid the heavy belt buckle swinging in slow motion at my face. But the metal always struck again and again while the Bird rhythmically screamed, “Next! Next! Next!” with each blow. When I couldn’t take it another second, I sprang at him, grabbed his thick neck, and crushed it until I knew he was dead.

Sometimes I found myself bobbing on the raft, only this time a grinning Jap pilot in the Sally bomber blew me full of bullet holes on his strafing run, causing unimaginable agony.

Other times I got caught stealing in prison camp and suffered beatings so horrible that when I woke up my body hurt and my hatred rose in my throat like a bad meal.

To dull the pain and memories, I roamed from bar to bar accepting drinks on the house or from bighearted strangers. I told my stories and wallowed in the term “war hero” until I actually believed it myself.

“It’s a miracle you’re still alive,” people generous enough to buy my drinks would say.

“Miracle?” I scoffed. “There’s no such thing as miracles. I was in
better physical condition because I’ve always believed in good food and plenty of exercise! That’s what pulled me through. Nothing else.”

That certainly sounded wonderful, but no matter how fogged my brain, the irony of my extolling clean living as my fingers curled around my fourth or fifth damp tumbler of brown liquor did not escape me. I must have been a ludicrous sight, but no one seemed to notice or care, except to say, “Have a good time, kid. You’ve earned it.”

I LEFT BIRMINGHAM
Hospital but didn’t go back to Torrance because it was too far from the action. Instead I moved in temporarily with a friend, the man who owned the Florentine Gardens. His place was huge and decked out like a palace. Another perk: he was in the girl business, by which I mean beauty contests. Miss South Dakota and Miss Chicago also lived in two of the six bedrooms. Surrounded by such dreamboats, I felt like a little kid in a candy shop; but as the only man allowed to stay there, I believed I had to behave myself.

Naturally, I was tempted. A young actress guest who’d won a part in the new
Cisco Kid
movie caught my eye. My host said, “Louis, she’s got two weeks before they start shooting, and she’s never been on a horse. It’s up to you to teach her how to ride. She doesn’t have to ride too well, just ride.”

I happily gave her lessons. A few days later, as I sat in the living room reading, she groaned and purred at the same time, and said, “My whole body is stiff, Louie. Would you give me a massage?” Before I could object she took off most of her clothes and lay facedown on the living room couch. I obliged her with my best massage—but that was it. When our host came home early and walked in on us, he nodded approvingly at my virtue. I knew I’d acted appropriately. Oh, well.

ON THE SURFACE
I looked like I was having the time of my life, but the laughs were more and more a cover-up for the conflicts and tensions I’d brought home from the Pacific. After being confined to a raft, then a makeshift dungeon, and finally a series of prison camps, I was less and less able to sit still or tolerate a quiet moment. The sec
ond I awoke I called Harry to figure out what we’d do next. I became a social drinker who drank too much but not enough to become a “stupid” drunk or admit I had a problem.

Too often I embarrassed myself. Sitting at the bar in the Sunset House one night, lost in an alcohol reverie, I was startled by a sudden shout. Before I could stop myself I leaped off the stool and snapped to attention, shaking. Everyone stared. Mortified at my instinctive reaction, I covered my face. What I’d imagine to be a prison guard ordering me to snap to was only another customer boisterously punctuating a wild story.

Sometimes it only took a car-exhaust backfire to remind me of being caught in bombing raids like on Funafuti, where the explosions were so close that it’s lucky my eardrums didn’t burst. Or in Omori, where I had watched four hundred planes drop sixteen tons of bombs apiece on Tokyo.

“Have another drink,” the bartender urged. “On the house.”

“Yeah…yeah, thanks,” I mumbled. It took three to finally calm me.

At home I stayed up later and later, dreading sleep, yet drinking more and more while still believing I could numb myself enough to pass out and stay out. Even when I did, the dreams still came and their grip on me tightened.

I also liked to fight at the drop of a hat and got into scrapes at the slightest provocation. Some guy would say, “Yeah, you prisoners of war. That was a good way to get
out
of the war, sitting back and getting free meals.” I’d pummel jerks like him to the floor. I was on edge all the time.

The remedy? Drink to dull
those
impulses.

I should have reread my
Coming Home
pamphlet, which described my symptoms exactly. Memories of war kept running around my head. I couldn’t concentrate. I tossed all night. And yet I had so much nervous energy I couldn’t slow down. The section on fear was especially relevant—in my case fear of what to do with my life, of personal failure, of not being able to run again, of the media sobering up long enough to realize that despite my running trophies, war medals, and headlines, I was just a guy who’d done nothing more heroic than live.

IN FEBRUARY
1946 Madison Square Garden invited me to be the starter for the renamed Zamperini Mile. Actually, they insisted; seven of the world’s greatest runners would compete. Unfortunately, I was afraid I wouldn’t get to New York on time because the planes leaving the Burbank airport were full. (LAX then wasn’t even an international airport.) TWA had a waiting list, but the chances I’d make the cut didn’t look good. I needed some leverage, so I called Paul Zimmerman, the
Los Angeles Times
sports editor, to ask him to phone the TWA public relations man and give him a breakdown on my sports and war experience and say I
had
to get to New York, and could they do me a favor.

Zimmerman was on vacation.

When you’re desperate you get crazy. I found a phone booth near the TWA desk. I called the airline, told them
I
was Paul Zimmerman, and asked for the PR department. When the publicist, whose office was right across from where I stood, picked up, I said, “Lou Zamperini, you’ve heard of him, right? Forty-seven days on a raft, Olympian, all that.”

The PR guy said, “Oh, yeah, yeah.”

I said, “Well, he’s flying to New York, going back to start the Zamperini Mile, and I wanted to talk to him before he left. When he comes in, have him call me.”

Meanwhile, I could see the PR guy writing down every word I said. Ten minutes later I walked to the counter, told the gal my name. “Oh, just a minute!” she said, and called the PR guy, who came out and told me that Zimmerman had called and left a message.

“Okay, I’ll call him,” I said quickly, “but it’s essential that I be in New York by tomorrow night, for the Zamperini Mile.”

The counter agent shook her head. “Sorry, the flight’s full.”

“Hold on just a minute,” the PR guy said, and hurried down a hallway. Three minutes later he came back and said, “Mr. Hughes wants to see you.”

He meant Howard Hughes. I admired the guy for his flying ability but didn’t know much about him then except that he owned TWA.
His office was quite plain, and he was very nice. “I read about your episode in the Pacific,” he said, and we chatted about flying in the war. Then he added, “I understand you have to be in New York.”