Devil at My Heels: The Story of Louis Zamperini (21 page)

I’d added the part about my gun so that if my family heard the broadcast, they would know it was authentic. I also mentioned Pete Hyriskanich’s name so his folks would know he was still alive.

Before returning to Omori I brought up the prisoners’ complaints about the Bird. I thought, Whoever these guys really are,
they have authority to take me out of prison, so maybe they can help us. I explained that I’d never talked about this to the Red Cross for fear of a beating. They said, “Oh, well, we’ll see what we can do about it.”

“We” again. I should have known better.

ONLY DAYS AFTER
my broadcast, the United States government sent my parents a telegram reading: “Following enemy propaganda broadcast from Japan has been intercepted”—with the text of my statement. They refused to confirm it had been my voice; that would have to wait. But at least the telegram made official what my parents had already been told by their friends who’d heard the program and recognized my voice. Of course, not that long ago the army had also advised my parents that I was also officially dead. It was nice to be sure.

My parents would later tell me that they’d never lost hope, but ironically, as part of their effort to support the war,
the day after my broadcast
they had been interviewed at their house by producer Cecil B. DeMille for a coast-to-coast live broadcast on CBS Radio. Hollywood had from the beginning signed on to support the war any way it could, and this was part of the Sixth War Loan Drive—a bond drive. Here are a few selections from the script sent to my parents:

DEMILLE:
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Cecil B. DeMille and I’m speaking to you tonight from a modest American home where a gold star hangs in the window. This is the home of Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Zamperini and their children. They are a typical American family. In this home live the things our soldiers are fighting for.

One member will not return to this family because he treasured the simple and sacred rights of this home—more than his life. There are many mothers who wear gold stars in their hearts, mothers who have paid a price perhaps as high as that given by their fighting sons themselves. One of those mothers—I want you to meet—the hearthstone of this home—Mrs. Anthony Zamperini. Mrs. Zamperini, when did you learn that your son, Louis, was lost?

MRS. Z:
Last Sunday. But Louis had been listed as missing in action since May of 1943. He was just twenty-five, Mr. DeMille.

DEMILLE:
Your son was one of the first to enlist, wasn’t he?

MRS. Z:
Yes, Mr. DeMille. He sent in his enlistment early in 1941, before Pearl Harbor. He had been to Berlin as a member of the Olympic Games team and he saw what was coming before we did.

And later…

MRS. Z:
Louis did win many medals for his sports activities, Mr. DeMille.

DEMILLE:
I know he did, but I’m sure that of all his medals you are proudest of his Oak Leaf Cluster and the Air Medal he won for gallantry in battle.

MRS. Z:
That’s right. He won the Air Medal for giving first aid to five other wounded boys while their damaged bomber was returning from a raid.

And finally, after my sister Sylvia told how our dad came from Italy but owed much to America…

DEMILLE:
That is a thrilling tribute to America, Miss Zamperini. Everyone in America is a European—or the descendant of a European. We become Americans when we leave behind us all the ancient prejudices and manners of the Old World and when we accept new ones from the way of life in the New World. Here, individuals of all nations are melted into one race of man…. Your brother has given his life so that America will remain free. We won’t ever forget that. We are on the front and have a job to do…. Thank you for letting us come into your home this evening to speak to you. The people of the United States have seen the gold star in your window. You and your family are America.

My family, especially my mother, would never give up hope that I’d come home. After the war I found out she’d even written General Hale—the same one who hadn’t reported accurately about the Nauru raid—asking him to search for me. His reply was, “It’s better you give him up like we have.” A tart letter from a callous person, as far as I’m concerned. It made her furious. He’d tried to dim her hope, but when my brother found out he helped restore her faith. “I still believe my son’s alive,” she wrote to the general. Then, when I made my radio broadcast she said, “I know there was a lot of static. But there are things he said that make me sure it was Louie.”

TWO WEEKS AFTER
my visit to Radio Tokyo, three men came to Omori and asked me to make another broadcast.

“You have a beautiful radio voice,” they said, with obsequious and encouraging smiles. “You did such a good job that we want to let you do it again.” Well, I thought, why not? I’ve got more to say to my parents.

To brave the icy weather they gave me a new, heavy, U.S. Army overcoat they’d confiscated after some battle. I wore it to the station, savoring each moment of warmth because I knew from their blatant, graceless patronizing to be very wary.

At the station we ate in the cafeteria again, and then they said, “By the way, we want you to meet three nice fellows.” They introduced me to one American and two Australians.

All three shook my hand, but not one met my eyes. They stared at the floor instead. I got the message: “Hey, I’m sorry I got into this mess. They tortured me. I’m ashamed. Don’t you do it.”

I understood but still couldn’t condone their actions. I’d suffered, too—daily; from their look I wasn’t sure these guys had had it rough in some time. Yes, prison camp was rotten, but the Japanese had just found the right guys to give in.

Before I could speak up my chaperones hustled me to a nearby office. Seeing paper and pencils on the desk, I asked, “Do you want me to write another broadcast?” Even if they didn’t, I knew I could speak off the cuff.

“No,” said one, handing me a typewritten sheet of paper. “We already have something written for you. Make broadcast with this.”

They stood silently while I read.

After a few sentences I knew it stunk.

The speech was casual and in what the Japanese supposed was an offhanded American vernacular, but it still had the unmistakable smell of propaganda; if I read it, it would be the beginning of a career I’d regret. The third time would be even stronger, and I’d get stuck like those guys I’d met in the hall. Once you join the Mafia, you can’t get out. (After the war I heard that the American serviceman I’d met at Radio Tokyo was thrown overboard on his way home; men who knew he’d made propaganda broadcasts lay in wait for him.) Plus, I was familiar with the Tokyo Rose broadcasts and their aim of demoralizing the enemy. The Japanese imagined themselves samurai warriors, aggressive fighting men dedicated to the death. They figured Americans were weak, so they always picked on guys on the front lines: “Do you know where your girlfriend is today? Is she in the arms of somebody else? Is she faithful to you?” If you could make a man go into battle worried and not concentrating, he’d get killed. The Japanese considered the poor soldiers on the front lines akin to morons, easily influenced.

“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t read this.”

“But you must read it.”

“Nah. Besides, it doesn’t sound like me. No one in America will believe it’s me.”

I shouldn’t have said that because they just offered to change the words.

“No, sorry. I just can’t do it.”

“You are a great athlete,” one man said, taking the tone he might take with a child. “Do you want to eat in the cafeteria and have a nice clean room?”

I gave them an emphatic no.

They spoke in Japanese and walked into another room to confer further. I looked at the desk and saw four or five copies of the speech just lying there. I stuck my hand in my overcoat pocket and stood close to the desk. Then I slipped my hand through the slit all overcoats
have in the pocket so that you can put your hand into your pants pocket without opening the coat—and snatched a copy of the speech. I quickly folded it with one hand and prayed they wouldn’t miss it, because then I’d really be in trouble.

The men returned and asked me again to cooperate.

“No. I positively can’t do it.”

That seemed to make up their minds. “Because you will not read this, I think you go to punishment camp.” Those are the exact words he used:
I think,
meaning a moment of hesitation in case I wanted to change my decision.

I didn’t. I’d taken an oath as an officer. What’s more, my immediate thought was, Great. This will get me away from the Bird. I couldn’t stand to be around that guy.

But then, they knew that.

By the way, here’s what they wrote, exactly as typed.

Yes, how about that? I don’t think it sounds like me at all.

BACK AT OMORI,
I hid the pilfered speech in the wall and later gave it to the War Crimes Commission.

Of course, the Bird and his guards were mad. I guess I’d made him look bad. They beat me for a week.

Around Christmas, Bill Harris arrived from Ofuna, with some other prisoners I knew. Now my friends were all in one place: Harris, the Scots, Lempriere, Lieutenant Green, who flew for New Zealand, and others. Suddenly, I wanted to stay instead of be transferred to the punishment camp.

For the holiday, the Bird distributed Red Cross packages from America. Actually, he allotted three packages for every five prisoners. Typical. I was hungry, as always, but I gave my part to Harris. He was still haggard and sick and in the infirmary with a temperature of nearly 105. “You’re a fool,” he said, when I handed it over. “Your life depends on that box.” Ever since his pummeling at Ofuna, Harris had been slightly off. He didn’t know that he needed the nourishment more than I did. I also convinced the Royal Scots to donate some sugar, and Harris pulled through.