Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [98]
The crew knew about me and invited me to fly up in the cockpit. That’s when I learned that Robert Trumbull’s story about me had broken on the front page of the New York Times and had been syndicated, running in newspapers from the Honolulu Advertiser and the Detroit Free Press, to the Catholic Digest and my hometown Torrance Herald. Later my story made Time and Newsweek and countless other publications. Although I’d enjoyed the spotlight when I ran, now I couldn’t have cared less about being in the New York Times. Trumbull did a good job, but in Yokohama he had taken from me what was most precious: Coke and donuts. I know it sounds crazy, but to a POW those priorities make perfect sense.
I told the crew some stories until we landed on a small island to refuel. When we got out to stretch our legs, the pilot said, “How do you like this island?”
“Well, there’s not much here,” I said.
“Not now,” he said. “This is where you spent forty-three days. This is Kwajalein.”
“Where are all the trees?” I asked.
“Leveled by naval gunfire. There’s only one tree left.” He took me to see it, and that was that.
HAWAII WAS UTOPIA. First I got a long-overdue promotion to captain. Then friends introduced me to the legendary waterman Duke Kahanamoku, who welcomed me into the Outrigger Canoe Club and even took me out himself. Hawaii was wide open and jubilant because the war was over. When the civilians saw us in uniform, they all wanted to buy us a drink. The place was awash in booze and girls and activity. Ignoring the future and the past, I drank and danced and gorged myself, and forgot to thank anyone, including God, for my being alive. Best of all, I did this while being made to “stay” in the hospital because I still had a touch of some tropical bug that didn’t really need any special treatment. Again, I felt no hurry to get home.
Fred Garrett, the POW whose leg had been amputated on Kwajalein, was at the same hospital. We bummed around together and got physically fit by wrestling on Waikiki Beach. People thought I was nuts, wrestling a one-legged guy, but Fred was big and strong and wanted to show he had no handicap.
Of course, I got busted for having too good a time. I was a bit of a celebrity, the “hero” returning home and all, and someone in General Arnold’s office found out I was goofing off, boozing and partying every night. Beset by queries from my family, friends, and reporters, Arnold sent a red-letter order: “Get your ass back here with every available dispatch,” meaning: come home, even if you have to row.
I left immediately, wondering what I’d done wrong other than try to make up for a few years of hell.
ON OCTOBER 2, 1945, I flew straight to San Francisco and went to Letterman Hospital, where I got another physical, found out I still had a touch of something tropical, and agreed to spend a week under loose observation. In the meantime Fred Garrett and I shared a room and tried to see as much as possible of the city.
Because of Robert Trumbull’s story of my return from the “listed dead,” I was constantly hounded by a gaggle of reporters. I quickly understood the pressures that had forced General Arnold to put a halt to my island holiday, as well as that once again the army could make public relations hay from my reputation and adventures. The limelight was bright. Phone lines were jammed with interview requests and calls from well-wishers. Organizations wanted me as an after-dinner speaker. What a pain. Of course, I quickly decided it was better to love the attention than to hate it. I’d been here before, and it felt good being back.
To control the situation, I met the press in the hospital lobby. The reporters were generally nice, and the interviews weren’t too extensive, though it could get overbearing. If an interview is ten or fifteen minutes, that’s fine, but if they want to hear your whole story, well, hey, you got a month? I told them to read the Trumbull