Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [95]
Afterward he asked, “Are you in a hurry to get home?”
“Not really,” I confessed. “I’d like to stay if I could. I’d like to fatten up. I don’t want my mother to see me like this.”
The general got on the phone and called Dr. Eli Lippman. He was in charge of medical services on Okinawa and ran a hospital in part of the underground fortifications the former tenants had dug. Lippman took me in tow and made sure I got my food and clothes.
That night, as I lay sleeping, a typhoon struck. I was safe enough inside the tent, but I had to use the head because I still had a touch of dysentery. Fortunately, someone had tied a rope to the tent pole and strung it to a post by the outhouse. I grabbed ahold and followed the rope, made it through the wind and rain, and sat down. But just as my bowel emptied I felt a big explosion as the storm lifted the outhouse into the air and blew it over the side of the hill. I was only able to make it back up through the mud and muck by hugging the ground.
The next day no one could believe the devastation: ships turned over, planes upside down on top of other planes. We could hardly find a place to eat, and when we did, the roof leaked rainwater onto our dishes.
After the weather cleared, Dr. Lippman said, “Well, Louie, I found out that your outfit’s here, the Eleventh Bomb Group.” He drove me to their headquarters, and man, was I glad to see them! I guess the feeling was mutual because they decided to throw a party for me.
We had only one problem: a short supply of liquor. Dr. Lippman said, “Don’t worry about the drinks.” He mixed five gallons of his alcohol reserve with distilled water and cola syrup and made “bourbon.” The party was fun, and emotional in a military sort of way, because everybody had thought I was dead. Later the nurses wanted to throw another celebration for me. I even took a jeep ride with a beautiful nurse. I was a good boy, though. In fact, not too long ago I got a letter from her, asking if I remembered that night. Beautiful!
My buddies drove me all over the island and showed me the different military installations. At one a guy said, “You’re from ’SC? Bobby Peoples is here.” Peoples was the school’s champion javelin thrower and a football player. When I saw him he said, “Hey, guess what? Dutch Wilcox is here.” Wilcox was an official at USC. “Let’s go find him. He’ll be thrilled to see you.”
I said, “You go in first and say, ‘Hey, I just met a guy who’s run a four-oh-six mile and he wants to go to USC.’” It was Dutch’s job to recruit guys like that.
Peoples went in and then I heard Wilcox say, “Send him in!”
Dutch was leaning back in a chair when I stepped in, and the minute he saw my face he fell backward. Nothing like a man you thought was in heaven walking in to say hi. Then Tyrone Power, the actor, came in and we all had lunch.
I also ran into Major Pearce, from my old squadron, who showed me my own obituary, cut out of the Minneapolis Star Journal. It felt great to be remembered so well, even if they’d exaggerated.
I STUCK AROUND Okinawa, gaining weight, watching the POWs fly in and out. The general called and said the occupation troops had also arrived from the States and were eager to get to Japan, but would I talk to them first? He explained that the men were so mad about Japan’s behavior in the war that he was afraid they’d destroy property and abuse the women. He wanted me to keep them from overreacting by letting them know that not all Japanese were bad. “If you can help minimize their anger…,” he said.
“I can not only minimize, I can tell the truth,” I assured him. Soon I stood on a stage in a huge canyon before the largest audience I’d ever seen. “We had Japanese soldiers, guards, who were kind to us, helped us, and saved lives,” I told the men. “One saved my life at Kwajalein.”
About halfway through my stay, USC tried to get me to come home to speak during halftime at a football game.