Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [103]
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 second I awoke I called Harry to figure out what