Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [37]
We stopped.
HOW EERIE THE sudden silence. I jumped out and gave the cross signal, and the marines raced out to help us. One marine was way out in front of the others, and when we came face to face I shouted, “Art!” and he shouted, “Louie!” It was Art Redding, a USC champion half-miler and pilot. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. (Later, poor Art crashed off Funafuti and was eaten by a shark.) We hurried to evacuate the injured, but the marines, graciously, would not allow me to help. I went ahead to meet the doctor. He introduced himself as Dr. Roberts, which was an odd coincidence since I’d taken my first advanced first-aid course at USC from another Dr. Roberts.
Wanting to be with my crew, I asked Roberts if I could help. He said, “From what I’m looking at I can use all the help I can get.”
Ambulances hauled seven men to the hospital for emergency operations. Afterward the doctor said, “If it wasn’t for the proper medical care you gave the injured, three would have died. You saved two, and the copilot saved another.”
Later, Phil and Cup attended the briefing where Brigadier General Landon and Major General Hale evaluated the mission’s success. They discussed the tragedies that struck our first flight over the target. They knew we’d encountered fierce opposition. We were in the lead flight because, as in the marines, the best go first. We spearheaded the raid to knock out enemy antiaircraft nests and Zero fighters, thus paving the way for the trailing flights and providing them with uninterrupted bomb runs on the phosphate factories. It was months before they’d be able to resume production. What’s more, the Japanese had been duped into sending out their available fighters against our flight, leaving the coast clear for the rest to shuttle in and out of the target area at will. We heard that there was scant antiaircraft fire to bother the later flights, and only two Zeroes, which, seeing their heavy losses, decided not to mix it up.
Both generals credited Phillips and Cupernell with a miraculous performance in bringing the badly damaged Superman back without a crash, and on April 21 they said so to Charles Arnot, the war correspondent for the Honolulu Advertiser. General Hale then came to the hospital to pin the Palm Leaf on our wounded crew members.
Our B-24 was put on display, the center of attention. The marines and airmen swarmed around counting cannon and bullet holes. General Hale said we had the worst-shot-up B-24 that ever limped back to the base: 4 cannon holes, 2 heavy antiaircraft hits, 500 shrapnel holes, and 150 7.7-millimeter bullet holes. The nose and upper turrets were useless. The right tail was gone. We had truly made it on a wing and prayer.
I went to General Hale to give him a breakdown of our mission. I told him of Phillips’s and Cupernell’s skill and courage. I told him of the gunners who had delayed medical attention to keep on shooting. I recommended a commendation for these men, but the general didn’t seem to be listening, so I stopped talking and went back to the hospital.
Arnot had just returned from checking out the damage to Superman and found me there. He asked how it felt when I was faced with the task of patching up the wounded. I said, “It was the toughest race of my life.”
In the interview I gave Arnot and a marine major, who was also a pilot, a blow-by-blow description of our engagement with the enemy. The major said, “After examining your bomber and from what I saw in the hospital, I would say that besides a batch of Purple Hearts, your crew most certainly earned the Distinguished Flying Cross.”
Like all flyers, I knew the Cross stood for “heroism and extraordinary achievement in aerial flight,” but I said, “Just being able to help is reward enough for me.”
Just then Dr. Roberts came in and said, “Lieutenant Zamperini, your radioman, Brooks, just died.” Sad. Mentally, physically, and now emotionally worn out, I went to my tent and fell asleep.
I SLIPPED INTO my bunk that night not knowing that one of our pilots