Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [6]
MY TRANSFORMATION INTO a rebel with a chip on his shoulder was soon complete. But even though we were poor and I’d had it tough in some ways, I couldn’t claim “I never had a chance.” No one had beaten me into sullen defiance or ignored me entirely. My father didn’t use his paycheck for liquor instead of food. My mother wasn’t a shrew or a slattern or an ineffectual drudge. I had no dissolute background; I just acted like I wanted to even though I loved my family, even though when my dad beat me I knew I deserved it and respected him for disciplining me. I was just a social misfit, the proverbial square peg who couldn’t fit into the round hole like the rest, or appreciate what he had. Over the years I’ve seen it happen to other kids; they’re raised immaculately, and then at a certain age, boom, here comes trouble.
I USED TO go to the Catholic church, often barefooted. The church was about eight blocks from home, and one time I came in late because I’d been goofing off on the way. The place was jammed. I found an end seat and sat down. To my surprise, the priest stopped, walked off the altar and right to me, grabbed me by the ear, and twisted it. He said, “You go home and get a note from your mother about why you’re late.” I got so mad, I wanted to strike him. Instead, I stalked out in a huff.
At home I told my mother, “I’m never going back. I’d rather die.” Afterward, I always avoided the priest. It was a small town. When I’d see him coming down the street, I’d go down another street. I didn’t want him to bawl me out again, to domineer me. Instead I went to the Baptist church with a buddy. My mother and dad thought that as long as it was a church, it was good, so they’d give me a dime. I was supposed to put it in the offering plate, but I’d keep it and ride the roller coaster at the Redondo Beach pier.
My parents didn’t go to church. They weren’t really devoted. Plus, we were too strapped to give anything when the priest came to the door, so they’d just act like no one was home until he gave up and left.
EVENTUALLY I GOT mixed up with older troublemakers, and that pushed me over the edge. They knew my reputation and wanted to get me involved in all sorts of mischief. I let them lead me by the nose until I was well groomed in the art of disorder and started my own gang. John, Billy, myself, and even a girl were social castoffs with one desire: to get even with anyone who looked at us cross-eyed. And if it involved protecting my family, my thirst for revenge was all the more keen.
We were an unruly bunch, but everyone agreed on one point: they took their orders from me. My nickname was “the Brain.” I came up with the ideas. Stealing was our sport; nothing else was as exciting. I loved outwitting others, destroying property, and the thrill of being chased—as long as we escaped. We swiped everything from chocolate bars to auto parts, and when we ran out of trouble to cause we roamed town egging other gangs into BB-gun wars or brawls. If we got caught, indignation consumed us until we could gather our wits and avenge ourselves.
Because I trained constantly with my weights and punching bag, I no longer hesitated to defend myself in a fight, much less to attack. I never hit a man when he was down, but I had no problem bludgeoning someone who stood up to me.
I didn’t care how long it took, I’d wait until I could get my revenge for wrongs real or imagined. For weeks I lay in wait for a boy from the neighboring town of Lomita. I’d stolen some pies from his bakery truck, and he’d squealed to the police, who made me pay for the goods. Every day I boiled over with resentment and visions of retribution. One night I spotted him walking out of the Torrance theater with a friend. I followed them to a dark street and challenged him.
Both were older and heavier, but when they laughed at me I went wild. I knocked down the friend, who ran off, and then I went for the stoolie. I punched and pummeled him and didn’t stop until he rolled limp into a ditch. I left him there.
Back home, I