Devil at My Heels: The Story of Louis Zamperini (31 page)

I waited. And then, true to His promise, He came into my heart and my life. The moment was more than remarkable; it was the most
realistic
experience I’d ever had. I’m not sure what I expected; perhaps my life or my sins or a great white light would flash before my eyes; perhaps I’d feel a shock like being hit by a bolt of lightning. Instead, I felt no tremendous sensation, just a weightlessness and an enveloping calm that let me know that Christ had come into my heart.

WHEN I FINALLY
opened my eyes and looked up, my counselor said, “Do you know you’re saved?”

“I know it,” I said.

“How do you know it?”

“You said that ‘whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be saved.’ I called upon his name, and I’m saved.”

“Do you really believe it?” he asked.

“I don’t have to believe it,” I said. “I know it.”

He held up a pencil and said, “Now that you’re a Christian, that’s you. If you try to stand alone, you’re going to fall. The Lord says, ‘Cast all your cares upon me’—in other words, lean your entire weight on me—‘and I will uphold you with the right hand of my righteousness.’ Always remember, that pencil is you, and once you get away from the Lord, you’re going to fall.”

I prayed for another fifteen or twenty minutes, and the counselor walked me back out front. “I’ll be praying for you,” he said.

“Thank you so much,” I said.

I found Cynthia waiting in the audience, and she threw her arms around me. I looked at her and knew in my heart, as if it had always been so, that I was through drinking, through smoking, through with everything. My lifelong desire for revenge had disappeared, including
my need to get even with the Japanese and the Bird. I didn’t know what the future held—would I be rich, poor, whatever?—but that didn’t matter. “I’m through with my past life,” I told Cynthia. “I’m through.”

She smiled, lit with the light of the miracle she knew had occurred.

THE BIBLE SPEAKS
of the Word of God as a seed. Sometimes it’s planted by the wayside, and nothing grows there. Sometimes it’s sown among the thorns and represents the person who makes the decision and then goes back to his old life of bars and chasing women or whatever. A third seed is sown among the rocks. There’s sand and dirt between the rocks, and when it rains you’ll see a stalk of green coming up. But on the first day with sunshine it wilts because there is no room for roots.

The fourth seed is planted on fertile soil, and finally it takes hold and has a chance to grow and live. That’s what happened to me.

I had a lot of liquor at home. My father-in-law was an importer, and once he’d accepted my marriage to Cynthia he’d given me a three-hundred-year-old bottle of cognac. A collector’s item. Also Clicquot champagne. Pommery wine. I poured it all down the drain—except the cognac, which I returned. (I still had my senses!) I threw my cigarettes in the trash. Cynthia and I talked and prayed. When she saw me emptying the bottles into the sink, she was on cloud nine. She knew I’d undergone a real conversion.

“Now I’m not going to get a divorce,” she said.

THE NEXT MORNING
I woke up and realized I hadn’t had a nightmare about the Bird. And to this day I’ve never had another. It was as if a doctor had cut out that hating part of my brain. I remember the facts, but the violent emotions are gone. I never even had to resolve to “work on it.” Before, as much as the hate poisoned me, I think it gave me a kind of satisfaction. I believed hating was
the same
as getting even, but those I hated didn’t even know my feelings. All I did was destroy myself with my hate.

After breakfast I told Cynthia I had to be alone. I took my army Bible, a New Testament that all servicemen had by order of President Roosevelt, and walked half a mile to Barnsdale Park. I’d tried to read it before but threw it aside, not understanding. I sat under a tree, said a prayer, opened up the Bible to John 1:1, and started reading:
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God
…

For the first time in my life the beautiful story made clear sense. I began to cry, overwhelmed by the emotion. For many years the Bible had been a mystery to me, but now it was an open book. This was the clincher: how could I suddenly understand the Bible when I never could before? How often had I picked it up and put it down because I couldn’t make heads or tails of what it was all about? But with the Holy Spirit as my interpreter, the meanings were obvious.

I sat on that bench all morning and thanked God for my life from the day I was born, for all that I’d been and been through, all that I’d lost, all the times I’d tried to change and failed, all the times I’d prayed to survive and had. Otherwise I’d never have known Christ. All things work together for the good. The Lord had seen to it that I’d made it through every life-threatening situation and lost in every business venture because that’s what brought me to the tent. Now I knew that God’s hand had always been upon me and had prepared me for this moment.

VERY FEW PEOPLE
really understand the difficulties of accepting Christianity. The picture painted by the well-meaning is that after a conversion God gives the new believer a steady diet of happiness and all is immediately well. Nothing of the sort is true. On the contrary, like every other sincere person who is striving to believe in spite of having so long lived another way with a mind conditioned to cynicism, I had to go through a period of despondency, doubt, and painful self-examination. Often I’d sit in the apartment for hours, without speaking to anyone. This was my trial period, during which I descended from the elation and satisfaction into the valley of despair. And unlike the war, when I had faced obstacles and overcome them, this time I
did not have the same self-confidence. Then I’d taken survival-training courses, knew I was in great physical shape. Now I was simply a baby. That’s why they call it being reborn.

The Christian life is not easy. You’ll always get a guy who stands up and says, “Ever since I became a Christian, my life’s been a bowl of cherries.”

I’ve always turned to that guy and said, “You know what you need? You need Christ. Christian life isn’t about a bowl of cherries. It’s a struggle, and that struggle keeps you dependent on Him.”

Cynthia stood faithfully by waiting for me to rebound, and as my new humility took hold, I went to the Veterans Employment Service downtown and applied for honest work. No more “deals” for me; I’d dig ditches if necessary.

I didn’t know it, but that wasn’t God’s plan. My experience best fitted me for a different job.

FIVE NIGHTS AFTER
my conversion I went back to see Billy Graham and met him and Cliff Barrows, the choir director, platform emcee, and radio-TV program director who started with Dr. Graham that year in Los Angeles. I told them my story and confirmed, “Yes, I’m converted.” I could tell by the way they looked me over that they had some scheme in mind—and I could guess it pretty well—but I said, “No man will ever get me on the platform preaching like Billy. I’m just going to be a regular Christian.”

The next week Barrows bought me a train ticket to Modesto and convinced me to give a testimony. I couldn’t very well say no. “What do I say?” I asked.

“Just tell them your war story and how God put you through this and that, and what happened to you at the tent.”

He sent me to his dad’s church, but the church had burned down, so they erected a tent. My first testimony was in a tent, under Cliff Barrows’s father.

The very week I found Christ, two other well-known men did the same. Jim Vaus, the wiretapper for mobster Mickey Cohen, and Stu
art Hamblen, the singing cowboy and owner of the famous racehorse El Lobo. They joined me in spreading the Word.

When publishing baron William Randolph Hearst, who owned the Los Angeles
Herald Examiner
and many other papers, heard of these high-profile conversions, he was so impressed that he called
Examiner
editor Joe Pine and said, “Blow up Billy Graham,” meaning do a story and give him front-page publicity.

Until then evangelism hadn’t been news, more of a dirty word. That coverage made Dr. Graham famous overnight.

Later I spoke to a big crowd of
Examiner
carrier boys and their families at the Biltmore Hotel. Joe Pine was there. He said, “We’ve got Jewish people here. We’ve got this and that. But Louis, when you get up and talk, be sure and give them the gospel.” Joe Pine was, evidently, a Christian. He also said, “You have many friends on the paper”—originally the sportswriters—“and we knew you were having a problem. When Hearst called me and said to blow up Billy Graham, it was the best news I could have received.”

“Boy, am I glad Mr. Hearst talked to you,” I said.

“Who do you think talked to Mr. Hearst?” he countered, meaning God.

When the
Examiner
splashed Billy Graham, the
Los Angeles Times
did, too. Then it hit
Life
magazine and went worldwide, and I got invited to speak everywhere, expenses paid. I could also collect an offering. I made a few bucks here and there, but getting around was difficult, since I had defaulted on my loan and lost my car. Then, at a meeting, I met a guy who had a little hamburger joint in Glendale. He said, “I’m getting a new car, Louis. I’ll sell you my DeSoto coupe for a hundred and fifty bucks.” A bargain. It had good tires and ran like a top. Now I had a way to get to more meetings and soon I found myself back in the spotlight like in the old days—only altogether different. Some friends later accused me of accepting Christ for the new publicity it brought, but they were dead wrong. It was thrilling to know I was on the right side for a change. Had I cravenly sought publicity, I certainly wouldn’t have thought or planned to kneel and cry in the sawdust in a dingy tent to find it.

I FORGAVE THE
Japanese, I quit drinking, I quit smoking. My only struggle was when I went to parties with my friends. Most of them didn’t think my new religion would last.

I was at a Hollywood get-together at the house of some guy who invented backache pills. My friends stood around drinking with their usual enthusiasm, and they kept urging me to join them. I said, “No way,” but they had trouble accepting my new resolve. I understood. When you’ve known someone so well for so long and suddenly he turns his life around, you’re tempted to look for a practical, understandable answer first. No one considers the spiritual answer off the bat. I didn’t expect my transformation to go down easy, but as the Bible says, a smooth sea never made a good sailor. I believe that to this day.

Later I sat on the floor with the actress Jeanne Crain and some of her eminent show-business friends and witnessed to them—meaning I told about my conversion and answered their questions. They all listened because Billy Graham had made the headlines. Some gave me their cards and asked me to call and tell them more about my experiences privately. Then I went into the backyard, where my old cronies implied I was “chicken” if I didn’t drink. I left then, feeling rather low.

Later that night one of my buddies called and said that the guys pushing me to drink was just “a trick” to see “if that religion of yours was real or just a gag. I know they were pretty rude, but when you left, several of the same guys said, ‘Man, I wish I had the guts to do what he did.’”

I knew that along with their natural curiosity they had doubts about what had happened to me—was it real? would it last?—and his news gave me new strength and vigor. I decided then that while I’d continue telling my story to whoever would listen. Rather than preach I’d just plant the seed, live an impeccable life so people could see the difference in me, and let God grant the increase.

It was all in His hands now—as it had always been.

A
fter my first talk in Modesto, offers to share my story poured in. I knew my journey from delinquent to Olympian, from POW to drinking, from nightmares to conversion—my testimony—was an attention getter—“And then what happened?”—so I accepted the invitations as evidence of God’s plan and an opportunity to test my new faith by following it.

I drove to most engagements, sometimes took the train or flew. Now and then Cynthia and Cissy came with me. When invited to speak, all expenses were paid and an honorarium provided. God knew my needs and took care accordingly. I also faithfully gave 10 percent back to the church.

ONE NIGHT, AFTER
speaking in a little church in Burbank, I saw my old friend Harry Read standing in the back, behind the last pew.

“I thought I’d drop by and see what all the fuss is about,” he said.

His visit was a great surprise, and not just because my old college buddy was in a church, of all places. Harry had entered a boat race eight months earlier and had moved to Hawaii. I didn’t know he was in town.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said.

On the ride to Hollywood he recalled the months he’d spent in the islands. “I tried to charter my boat but couldn’t do it, so I had lots of time on my hands. I filled it with the easy life: parties, beautiful gals, drinking—you know the routine.”

I did. But Harry sounded more puzzled than happy.

“You know, Louie, despite the good times and beautiful scenery, I got bored. I wasn’t…happy. Something’s wrong, but I just can’t figure it out.”

I could have spoken then, but I let him ask a few questions about my new life instead and hoped he’d get the message on his own. Besides, I couldn’t tell from his expression whether what I’d said in church had impressed him or revolted him, or if he’d even heard me.

A week later Harry attended another meeting—not mine—and when the preacher extended an invitation to accept Christ, Harry stepped forward. Later he told me, “I just wasn’t sure, Louie. Knowing you the way I do, I just couldn’t believe it. But I’ve watched you and that convinced me.”

Harry threw himself into his new life. He moved to Oceanside, where he had an equipment-rental business, and sometimes we’d get together. He married a beautiful model and asked me to teach them running so they could stay in shape. Years later Harry got kidney cancer. When he had only a week or two to live, I drove to see him and we prayed together.

THE GREAT COMMANDMENT
is that we preach the gospel to every creature, but neither God nor the Bible says anything about forcing it down people’s throats. If you go to the door and get rejected, you’re supposed to kick the dust off your shoes and move on, not try to kick down the door. Back when the Jesus freaks roamed Hollywood Boulevard accosting passersby, I thought their pressure tactics gave Christianity a bad name. I believe what the Bible says: many are called, few are chosen. That’s one of today’s big problems: we’ve got too many die-hard fundamentalists the world over. You can see the hate in their eyes when someone doesn’t agree with everything they say. A dangerous few go to terrible lengths, even violence, to spread their
beliefs. I’ve met many people who rejected Christ, yet it’s always some guy trying to
spread
the Word who gets mad and madder because he believes he
has
to score a conversion, like it’s a game he has to win.

In the beginning I struggled with my own eagerness to spread the Word and sometimes tried too hard. But after a few frustrating and occasionally embarrassing encounters, I finally accepted the truth: the Bible says you can’t convert anybody. All you can do is plant the seed and water it, and God will grant the increase according to His will.

IN MID-1950
I attended a huge annual Christian conference at Winona Lake, Indiana. Every night I stood on the dirt-floor auditorium and listened enthusiastically to the messages of missionaries and evangelists from around the world.

Only when Bob Pierce, who established World Vision and had just returned from the Orient, spoke did I have reservations. Bob had become a war correspondent and had a radio program that dealt with the problems of Japan and other Asian countries.

“Why,” he asked, in his forceful way, “are no missionary teams going to Japan? You’ve scheduled many teams for Europe”—I was part of one, ready to leave within twenty-four hours—“yet only one team for the Orient! We need more.”

Pierce was very upset, and I couldn’t stop feeling that he was speaking directly to me. Whether or not he was, it made sense; if anybody ended up in Japan, I’d be the one. Not that anyone had asked—and if anyone did, I already knew I definitely
didn’t
want to go.

A few years earlier I’d made that much clear to
Time
magazine when I’d said, “I’d rather be dead than return to that country.” I couldn’t stand Japan. The war memories—like the times we had to fertilize the potato and carrot crops with our own human dung, and then eat the result—just made thinking about a return trip worse.

In Japan poverty was still a way of life. I wanted to do missionary work where my surroundings were more Americanized, more democratic. I had friends all over Europe and knew I’d have a good time there. Had I not become a Christian, I might have eventually gone back to Japan just to find the Bird, if he was alive, and make him pay
for what he’d done to me, but since I’d forgiven everyone, the country no longer held my interest. At least that’s what I told myself.

When Pierce finished I snuck out before anyone could talk to me. Yet walking back to my hotel room, I could not escape the conviction that until I had actually faced the Japanese again and seen the reflection of my supposedly new self in their eyes, I would never know for sure whether or not I had dispelled the past. So I got the idea that perhaps I should come face-to-face with some of my former captors, now interned at Tokyo’s Sugamo Prison, and forgive them. Only then would I be complete.

In the lobby I met some buddies who wanted to have a prayer meeting. When it was my turn, I said, “Lord, I feel this terrible conviction that I have to go back to Japan, but I’m not sure. It’s burning in my heart.” Then I came up with a clever way to shift the responsibility for the decision elsewhere: “Being a new Christian, Lord, I’ll need a good swift kick in the pants to understand your will.” In other words, show me an unmistakable sign—and quickly—or I’ll leave with my team for Europe, as planned.

On the way to my room I walked by a conference room just emptying. A young minister, a complete stranger, stopped me. “My name is Eric Folsom,” he said. “I’m an evangelist from Tucson. I heard you speak. Perhaps you’d tell your story at my church?”

“Certainly,” I replied, handing him my card. “Write me when you get back and let me know when it’s convenient and we’ll work it out.”

“By the way,” he said, “Did you hear that challenge on Japan?”

“I did. But I’ve got to get to my room and—”

“It thrilled me to hear Bob Pierce’s message.”

“Me as well,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve got to get to bed…”

Folsom put his hand on my arm. “Just a minute, Louie.”

“What’s the matter?”

“As we’ve been talking, God has burdened my heart to give you five hundred dollars to start you on your way back to Japan.”

I didn’t know whether to hug him or hit him, but the truth was inescapable: I had asked God to give me a sign, and He had obliged me. Folsom explained that he didn’t actually have the money, but he
promised to send it to me in California the moment he got home. (I found out later that he went back to Arizona and sold his car!)

Less than a hour later, a singing group of about six people knocked on my hotel-room door and said, “We heard that challenge on Japan, and you’re the logical person to go back there. We want to give you our tithe money.”

Another sign.

Before turning in for the night, I wrote a letter to Cynthia and Cissy:

In Los Angeles, Youth for Christ International’s vice president said he’d help me make the money I needed to fully finance my trip to Japan, and he booked me on a speaking tour up and down the West Coast. I also became the director of their juvenile-delinquency program. In Washington State I met a team of young evangelists bound
for the Orient, and we agreed to travel together for two months. They also raised money for me.

My non-Christian friends said, “Well, I sure wouldn’t do it. It takes a lot of guts.” The Christians understood. At least this time no one thought it was a publicity stunt.

I flew on a Northwest Airlines clipper prop plane to Hawaii, where we stayed overnight, and then to Wake. I’d bombed Wake and knew its every nook and cranny but had never actually set foot on the island. During the trip I had severe second thoughts about going and spent most of my time resenting my decision to return. I just couldn’t accept the reality of what was happening. But my confusion didn’t matter. The trip was God’s will, and I knew it. God doesn’t say we have to be happy in His will, He just says that we should be
obedient
to His will and joy will follow.

For the moment, I had to take that—and all else—on faith.

I STEPPED OFF
the plane at Tokyo’s drab airport on a cool, gray October day in 1950, and was immediately reminded of hundreds of similar days when I’d been imprisoned, not knowing how much longer I’d have to endure to survive. Again I asked myself, What am I doing here? Again, I knew the answer. I just didn’t like it.

I cleared customs and met my missionary hosts and interpreter. A team from
Life
magazine’s Tokyo bureau stopped me in the terminal. They’d learned that I wanted to visit Sugamo Prison, where many of the men who’d guarded and mistreated me—along with the other war criminals—were held. They wanted to get inside for a story but had been denied. After hearing their report I didn’t know if I could get in, either, but I promised to talk with the chaplain at the army’s General Headquarters on their behalf, and mine, and keep them posted.

Driving into Tokyo, I could immediately see that the city had changed. Where I remembered charred building skeletons and pitiful, hungry people, a bustling metropolis now grew, with wide boulevards and residents seemingly full of energy and enthusiasm. I saw open-fronted stores filled with huge daikons, hanging meats, and jars of colored candy. Vendors pushed carts through the streets. Little shops sold
paper and tea. New factories stood next to the firebombed ruins of the old, and swarms of small houses covered areas the B-29s had once left in cinders. The city appeared infused with hope instead of hate. I wanted to feel that way, too, and remained inwardly watchful for any trace of bitterness and enmity, especially when I thought of those who had beaten me with their fists and worse.

My schedule was full. Various Christian organizations had arranged meetings and public testimonials. Military chaplains asked me to visit their installations. Universities and civic groups arranged lectures. Newspapers donated reams of print to my arrival and appearances.

All I had to do was manage my money well. After buying my plane ticket I had only a few dollars left, which, when supplemented with some donations collected during our layover in Honolulu, totaled about fifty dollars. Fortunately, fifty dollars then was like five hundred dollars today. I could get a steak dinner for twenty-five or thirty cents, and usually we were fed in Japanese homes or at communal meals with church groups. Because the army had neglected to collect my official I.D. card when I separated from the service in 1946, I could even go to the PX, where food was cheap. Sleeping accommodations were another matter. We slept where we slept, often on pads at cheap hotels. However, between the hospitality and the anticipation of my public appearances—I had no idea I’d be so well received—I slowly began to enjoy my stay.

FROM MY MANY
postwar appearances I had long ago established my standard talk. I had learned to condense the story to thirty minutes because most people don’t want to listen for longer than that. Even though I’d recently made a decision for Christ, I didn’t change the content of my lecture much or load it up with the Word of God. I believed then, and still do, in going very light on Scripture, saving that for the end, and letting listeners take from my total experience what they need and what works for them.

The only difference was that I’d never told my story to a Japanese audience before, and I wondered how they’d react. Could they handle the harsh detail and my memories of hate and anger? I decided to do
what I did when I spoke to the occupation troops on Okinawa: just tell the truth—about Kano, the good guard; about the Bird; about my life being spared on Kwajalein and how I’d never been able to figure out why.

Whenever I finished a talk, my group passed out tracts and pamphlets, and we were struck by the eagerness with which people accepted them. In America much of our material was tossed on the auditorium floor, left for the janitor. The Japanese discarded little.

One afternoon I was about to leave my hotel for a speech at Waseda, one of Tokyo’s biggest universities, when the school president called and said he had to cancel my appearance. “I’m sorry,” he explained, “but there’s a little trouble on campus.”