Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [93]
“Maybe,” I said. “Sounds pretty sentimental to me.”
He shrugged, and then I heard a trace of the bitterness we all felt in what he said next. “I just don’t want any more problems. Let the world treat me nicely for a change.”
A SOLDIER GOT on the train at the stop before Yokohama to tell us what would happen next. My ears perked up when he explained that in a building near the station the Red Cross would give us Coke, coffee, and donuts. “You can have all you want,” he said with a knowing smile. “The nurses and Red Cross girls are ready to serve you.”
Naturally, everyone wanted into that building immediately. The minute we stopped moving, manic, salivating soldiers poured out of the train cars and headed for the sweets and the sweeties. As I waded into the crowd, I heard a voice hollering over the din, “Who’s got a great story? Who’s got a great story?” My POW buddy Frank Tinker grabbed my shirt, pointed at me, and said, “Hey, this guy’s got an incredible story!”
I didn’t want to talk to anyone; I just wanted the goodies. But the guy who yelled stopped me as I tried to get by and said, “What’s your name? What’s your name?”
“Hey!” I said. “They told me that when I got off the train I could go into that building and get all the Coke, all the coffee, and all the donuts I wanted.
“You will,” he said, “but your friend said you had a good story. What’s your name?”
“Lou Zamperini,” I snapped. “Okay? I’ve got to get—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said. Somehow I’d stopped him cold. “Lou Zamperini? Impossible. He’s dead.”
That stopped me cold. “I know who I am,” I replied, “and I’m not dead. I’m Lou Zamperini.”
“I’ll need some verification, okay? I can’t print a story without proof.”
I didn’t want to verify anything, or be anyone’s story. I wanted a Coke and a donut. But I tried to be as graceful as possible under the circumstances. “Maybe after I get some food, all right?”
He shook his head, unwilling to let me go. “How can you prove you’re Zamperini?”
“The Japanese took everything I had but my wallet.”
“Yeah?” he said.
“But they emptied that, except for eight dollars in American money hidden in a secret compartment, and my USC Life Pass.” Only athletes who lettered three years in a row got the sterling silver pass, engraved with their name. I was number 265. Reluctantly I dug out my wallet and handed him the pass.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, after a moment, “but that’s good enough for me.” He introduced himself then. “I’m Robert Trumbull of the New York Times.”
“Like I said, I’m Lou Zamperini, and I want something to eat and drink.”
Trumbull told one of his buddies, “Go get something for Louie.” So I waited, half-furious, trying to think of what to say as Trumbull peppered me with questions and pulled out every detail I could remember, including some I didn’t want to. The more I spoke, the more his face settled into a mask of almost permanent astonishment.
His friend never came back with the food.
When Trumbull finished I walked into the Red Cross building, famished. I couldn’t get at the food right away because I had to stand in a line so some guy with an air blower could cover me with white sulfa drug powder. (Years later we learned the stuff was toxic. The manufacturer had dumped some in the ocean between Catalina and Palos Verdes, and the cleanup costs went into the billions. Ruined the fishing, too.)
By the time I got deloused or whatever, all the food was gone. I was so desperate for a taste of anything American that I scoured the floor searching for crumbs.
The next day, while waiting at the Yokohama airfield for a plane to Okinawa, I saw a table by the quartermaster’s window stacked with extra rations. I grabbed all I could hold. To have enough food was wonderful; to have more than I needed was pure joy.
“Hey, hey, Lieutenant, take it easy,” a sergeant said, obviously familiar with this type of behavior. “Don’t worry about food. You’ll get all you want where you’re going.”
“That’s what they told me when I got here,” I said. “I’m taking no chances.” I shoved the booty into my shirt until