Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [139]
I’d always finished the race.
The Olympic spirit is like the wind. We don’t see it coming or going, but we do hear its voice and feel the power of its presence, and we enjoy the results of its passing. Then, it becomes a memory, and echoes of our Days of Glory.
In Nagano I didn’t set any records.
For once, I didn’t need to.
AFTER WHAT I’VE lived through it’s easy to understand that it’s almost impossible to get the better of me. Yet on April 10, 2001, when my flight from Hawaii to Manila landed for a routine refueling stop on Kwajalein chills went up my spine and it was tough to control my emotions.
Even though I’d forgiven the Japanese long before, any mention of Kwajalein was still like hearing the name of someone who had killed my entire family. The thought of going back to that hellhole, even after fifty-eight years, was almost unbearable. It didn’t matter that the island was no longer the Kwajalein I remembered, the place where, to put it as plainly as possible, I’d been treated like a sewer rat and spent the most miserable days of my life.
By the way, Kwajalein today is not on any regular tourist itinerary. Set a few degrees north of the Equator and about fifteen hundred miles east of Guam, the island is a seven-square-mile U.S. military installation, home to a “Star Wars” intercept launch site that’s part of our antimissile defense program. Huge antenna dishes track the skies, and the entire area is highly restricted. None but the handful of security-cleared passengers who already lived and worked on the island would be allowed off the plane.
Except for me. And as much as I had hated the place, I’d come of my own accord.
A few months earlier, a woman who attends my church told me that her sister worked on Kwajalein. When she came to Los Angeles to visit, she discovered that I’d been imprisoned there and saw a video of my life story that aired on CBS’s 48 Hours. The sister left me a Kwajalein magazine and her phone number. I called, and she told me that she’d shown the tape on the island and everyone was very excited. The colonel in charge invited me to return to speak at a Veterans Day ceremony. I didn’t want to, but Cynthia told me I should go, and she’d come, too. As usual, she made sense.
We’d planned to go in November 2000. Unfortunately, Cynthia began to lose her battle with cancer. I canceled the trip, and a few months later she died. Everybody who loved her—and there were many—came to the service in her honor. It was a beautiful day, with beautiful words about Cynthia offered both in private and from the podium. I miss her terribly, but I have faith I’ll see her again someday.
Now ground workers rolled a huge staircase up to the jet door, and over the intercom the pilot said, “Mr. Zamperini will be the last one to leave the ship.”
Cissy—she’d come with me in Cynthia’s place—smiled and said, “Daddy. They’re going to have a greeting for you.”
I stepped out of the plane and stood at the top of the steps. The day was perfect. Balmy trade winds ruffled the American flag. I could see homes and buildings in the distance. Someone took my bags. A pipes-and-drum band marched on the field. The commanding officer and his assistant stood at attention, as if I were royalty. Suddenly I felt sheepish. Real sheepish. I folded my hands in front of me and thought, I’m eighty-four. I long ago forgave the Japanese for what they did to me, not only on Kwajalein but during the war. It’s just that I never wanted to come back to this place,