Devil at My Heels: The Story of Louis Zamperini (27 page)

“Yeah,” I said, “but from what the girl says the flight is full.”

“I’m on that flight,” he said. “You can have my seat and I’ll go later, or I’ll fly my own plane.” His exact words.

TWA used four-engine Constellations. The trip would take all day, with a fuel stop in St. Louis. I got to sit with Frank Sinatra and two of his bodyguards. I didn’t know much about Sinatra either, except that in Omori Duva had told me, “He’s the top singer in America. The bobby-soxers are rolling in the aisles.”

In those days the flight attendants checked in each passenger by name after takeoff. When ours got to Sinatra, he gave her a look and said, “Russ Colombo.”

The woman knew who Sinatra was, but she had to maintain protocol and wasn’t about to give in. “Sir,” she said patiently, “I want your real name.”

“Russ Colombo.” Real snotty. I thought it unbelievable for a grown man to treat the hostess like that, trying to get her to say, “Oh, that’s okay. I know who you are.” I felt like punching him in the nose, and I might have, but she went to the captain instead. He sauntered up and told Sinatra, “Fella, one more disturbance and you’re off the plane in St. Louis.”

Sinatra turned red and told the attendant, “Frank Sinatra.” She wrote it down and didn’t give him a second look.

Frank’s buddies were nice guys and talked to me during the flight. I wore my uniform, and without really knowing much about me they wanted to hear my war stories. “You survived
two
plane crashes during the war?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Every time I get in a plane something seems to happen.”

I was just kidding, of course, but they got all excited: “Hey, Frank. Frank!”

Frank turned to me and said, “I tried to get in the service but I had a punctured eardrum.”

“So did I,” I said. When I was a kid someone shoved me off a
twenty-foot platform at the Redondo Beach saltwater pool, and I hit the water sideways. My ear swelled up for a month or two. I had to wear an earplug forever. If the army noticed at my physical, they didn’t care, and I wasn’t about to remind them.

Sinatra thought I was being clever at his expense and just clammed up.

After we left St. Louis, I had my own run-in with the flight attendant. I don’t know why, but the number-three motor on the Constellation sometimes leaked oil and caught fire. I looked out the window and spotted oil trailing.

I said, “Uh-oh.”

Sinatra said, “What’s wrong?”

“She’s got an oil leak. And this is a Constellation.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he said.

“Well, the Constellation has had problems with the number-three motor.” They called the attendant, and she bawled me out for getting the passengers aroused. I didn’t care. “Young lady,” I said, “you better call the captain right now.”

“Sir, you’re disturbing the passengers.”

I said, “You better get the captain, or I’ll get him.” This time he came to see me. When I pointed out the problem, he ran like mad back to the cockpit, turned the ship around, and flew back to St. Louis. TWA put us in a hotel for the night. The next day I took another flight. Sinatra and his group took a train.

THE ARMY AIR
Corps gave all returning prisoners of war two weeks of free R&R. I had no complaint about the nightlife and good times in Hollywood, but I thought a change in scenery might shake off my nightmares. We could select from a list of four approved resorts. One was Hawaii, but I’d just returned from Hawaii. Another was Miami Beach. I’d never been there. They also said I could take a guest. A family member would curtail my activities, and I had no steady girl, so I asked the ideal companion: my fun-loving buddy Harry Read.

We checked in at the beautiful Embassy Hotel in Miami and in the room found a long list of optional activities for soldiers on the loose. For instance, every day Ron Rico Rum held a party. You went to their
headquarters—beautiful layout and bar—and let them mix you one fancy iced or frothy drink after another, sometimes with an umbrella in it. Or we could go deep-sea fishing. Take tours. Visit the zoo. Attend air force parties and dances.

“What do you want to do first?” I asked Harry.

“Let’s check out some of the private clubs,” he said with a wink.

“Perfect,” I said, and ripped up the list. Rest and relaxation? No, we’d knock ourselves out.

The air hostess on our flight had mentioned the McFadden-Deauville Club, owned by Bernarr McFadden. He was a big fitness buff, my era’s Charles Atlas, who’d gotten rich after starting
Physical Culture
magazine and would go on to found
True Story
and
True Romance. Time
and
Newsweek
wrote about him, and at the sight of a press camera he would strip to his underwear to show off his muscles. He sometimes gave interviews standing on his head.

We had to climb the wall to sneak in. Luckily, we found the flight attendant in the lounge and the three of us sat at a table, surveying the room as if we had every right to be there. I had my eye on a flashy girl sitting at the end of the bar. When our hostess friend left to meet a date, Harry said, “Look at the dolls.”

“They look friendly,” I said, leaning back expansively. “You know, this is the life. Single, no responsibilities, free to pick and choose. Can you see being here with a wife?” Harry didn’t have to answer. “I once said I’d be a bachelor for the rest of my life,” I continued. “That goes double now. Variety, that’s…”

My sentiment suddenly hung in the air as my head turned and my voice trailed off. Harry followed my gaze.

“Did you see her, Harry?” I whispered.

“Which one?”

“The tall one with the long, golden hair and the face of an angel. She was here, now she’s gone.”

“Can’t say I did.” He shrugged, scanning the room for other prospects. But I could only think about the girl who had just glided through, head high, looking straight ahead. I consoled myself by deciding that she wasn’t the type to hang around a bar while a crew of eager beavers like us ogled her.
Harry tried to revive the carefree-bachelor conversation, but I’d lost interest.

THE NEXT DAY
we dressed for the beach and climbed the McFadden-Deauville wall again. Harry spotted two unaccompanied girls lying facedown on towels in the sand and spread our blankets as close to them as possible. I ignored our neighbors but Harry couldn’t resist. Soon I heard him telling the story of
my
athletic career, and I heard one of the girls say that although she was only eleven at the time she remembered seeing the newsreel of me winning the NCAA mile race. “How could I forget a runner sitting on a table with four large bandages on his leg?” she said.

I sat up to join the conversation and to my total shock found myself staring at the beautiful girl I’d seen the day before.

She smiled when our eyes met, and I all but froze. I could talk to anyone, but I’d never been that good at making the usual inane conversation meant to captivate and entrance women—especially with one who captivated and entranced me. But I meant to try. We said hello and introduced ourselves; her name was Cynthia Applewhite. When I stumbled and slipped, trying to keep breaking the ice, she took over.

“Where you from?”

Before I answered, this is what went through my head: I like skinny girls, and she’s skinny. She’s beautiful, looks intelligent. Nice personality. The kind of girl I always pictured meeting one day. My type, definitely.

Here’s what came out of my mouth. “Uh, Torrance…but staying in Hollywood.”

“I lived in Los Angeles once,” Cynthia said brightly, “right near Cathay Circle.” She went on about her life there as a young girl, and about living in St. Louis, New York, and finally Florida. Cynthia was nineteen, a debutante (also voted a Sweetheart of the Deauville), and the only daughter of a well-to-do family. She’d been educated at exclusive girls’ schools and even attended the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York. In other words, our life experiences
couldn’t have been more different, but I found telling her about myself much easier than I could have hoped for. I wanted to keep talking, just to be near her, and asked her out for that evening.

“Sorry. Taken.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Taken.”

Cynthia’s popularity slowed me down for a moment, but when she saw my disappointment she told me her afternoons were free. We arranged to go deep-sea fishing.

“And by the way, Captain Zamperini,” she added, “you don’t have to sneak in here anymore. Just tell the desk that you’re guests of my family and use our cabana.

CYNTHIA GOT SICK
on the fishing boat and caught only a green face as the army launch rolled in the heavy sea. To make good, I asked if she’d see me the next afternoon and she said yes. Unfortunately, we ended up at the Ron Rico Rum place and I drank more than I should have. I apologized and we made another date to go to the movies.

Pretty soon I fell madly in love. I told her so on the beach as the sunset’s dying glow warmed the water with oranges and pinks, and a pale moon hung in the sky—just like in a movie. I put my arm around her and kissed her a few times, and then, even though emotion has always been tough for me and mushy moments were never my style, I said it.

“I love you, Cynthia.”

I’d never told any other girl I loved her, and the words that had been moments ago stuck in my mouth felt weird and wonderful once freed. I tried not to make it sound as if I were pleading with her to say it back, or as if I didn’t know what my declaration would mean to a person as naturally sincere as she. I’d known Cynthia only a week, but I knew she was the gal.

Believe it or not, I forget exactly what she said in return, but the meaning was the same—and clear. That night she called her two other boyfriends and canceled their dates, leaving her free to be with me in the evenings. For the next few days we walked on the beach, went to
movies we never actually saw, and allowed ourselves to be overwhelmed by the realization that we were in love.

Harry returned to Los Angeles, leaving Cynthia and me a last night alone. As we sat on the beach under a summer moon, I said, as casually as possible, “You know, Cynthia, one of these days we’re going to get married.” She hesitated, and suddenly I felt lost, like another over-heated flyboy who had mistaken some friendly moments for forever. “Ah…maybe it wasn’t such a good idea,” I mumbled.

“Oh, no!” she said. “I think it’s a fine idea. But when?”

“When?” I felt a stab of fear, and for a moment I thought of backing away while I still had the chance, but when I looked at her I knew I’d never want to change my mind. “Soon,” I said. “As soon as we can.”

“Dad and Mother are going to take this awfully hard, Louie,” she said. “You know, the proper things, the family name…”

“I guess they’ll try to talk you out of it,” I said.

“Maybe,” she said evenly. “But they won’t. I have a mind of my own, Louie. Besides, you’re what I’ve always wanted. The other boys I know are like children.”

I knew she meant every word, and I prayed that she’d never discover that I had feet of clay.

THE NEXT DAY
Cynthia brought her mother to meet me at the Embassy Hotel. We sat on the front porch, under the awning, while Mrs. Applewhite more or less conducted a cross-examination. Afterward Cynthia saw me off at the airport. I had six weeks of speaking engagements around the country, and then I’d be back in Los Angeles. We made plans for her to visit me after I got settled.

In the interim, in one of many letters, Cynthia told me her mother
had
tried to talk her out of marriage. “You’re marrying below yourself,” Mrs. Applewhite had said. As part of a family whose name had been honored for generations in Carolina history, her mom was quite society-conscious. I was Italian; she’d made it clear they don’t have Italians in American high society. Italians were pushcart peddlers or cheap-restaurant owners. Why, I could even be part of some Mafia family. Apparently many stormy fights followed, along with threats of
Cynthia’s being sent away to school in the Northeast, like some of her friends. Her parents were understandably protective, since hordes of soldiers roamed Miami’s beaches and streets and didn’t exactly have marriage in mind but would say so if it helped them. Nothing new there. Yet with us it was different.

Back home I moved in temporarily with Harry Read and his mother and resumed my life. After the war nobody really expected much from my running career. They figured I’d had a rough time and it was all over—until I opened my big mouth and told them different. So now I got up every morning at five-thirty and worked out in the arroyo nearby. My body tested out okay as I ran up and down the little canyon, again and again, and managed to clock a 4:18 mile in heavy tennis shoes, which meant I could probably run a 4:13 in competition. I’d have to press harder to get into world-class shape, so I doubled up my workouts.

At night, instead of carousing as usual with Harry, I sent him off alone. Sometimes he’d try to set me up, but I wasn’t interested.

One morning, out of the blue, Harry’s mother said, “Louie, how come every day I see the same car parked in front of my house, with the same guy in the car?”

Good question. Later I found out that Cynthia’s father wanted to catch me misbehaving and discourage the relationship, so he’d hired a private eye to see if I went out with other girls. (When I told Cynthia about the stakeout, she laughed too hard to be mad. “Well, I wouldn’t put it past my father to have
me
watched,” she said.)

When Cynthia and I couldn’t stand being apart any longer, she told her parents that she planned to visit me in Los Angeles. Naturally they forbade it and refused to give her the money. Only when Cynthia threatened to get a job and earn her fare did the Applewhites finally understand their daughter’s determination.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” her mother asked. “You know we only want you to be happy. I’ll buy your plane ticket and you stay out there for a week and find out about his family. You know, there could be insanity or something.”