Hundreds of thousands of Americans endured experiences during World War II that are unimaginable by our modern standards. Louis Zamperini explains how people thought about recovery at the time. From Devil at My Heels:
TO HELP POWS readjust, the army passed out a small red pamphlet published by the Army Air Forces Headquarters, at the command of General Hap Arnold, for “distribution to AAF returnees.” Titled Coming Home, it had simple graphics and straightforward, friendly language. Here’s how it began:
Good? Bad? Mixed up? Or can’t you tell? That’s O.K., though. It’s exactly the way thousands of men have felt who have come back ahead of you. Some of them wanted to talk it over. But some of them didn’t even want to think about their feelings. If that’s the way you feel right now, it’s perfectly all right; don’t turn another page. We suggest that you stick this away in your flight bag or some other place where you can get at it later. It may come in handy.
The story followed a typical soldier, John Brown, through his home-coming, through the fear, the strange feelings of having changed, of being treated differently, and gave tips on how to go along and get along. The advice pretty much came down to this:
No matter how much help John Brown got, though, in the final analysis it was up to him. The real, permanent solution, he found, lies with the individual man himself. But it sure is a big help to understand what is going on inside and why.
Zamperini doesn’t recovery well at first:
ME? I FOUND my own way of “controlling” the hate that had revealed itself as recurring nightmares about the Bird. I’d had the same angry dreams in prison camp, but there I also had to deal with the horrible reality of his presence, meaning that awake or asleep I couldn’t get away from Watanabe. Even after my release, when I was caught up in the excitement of going home, the dreams didn’t stop. I kept hoping they’d pass, but when they didn’t, my solution was alcohol. I thought if I got drunk enough, I’d sleep like a baby.
To dull the pain and memories, I roamed from bar to bar accepting drinks on the house or from bighearted strangers. I told my stories and wallowed in the term “war hero” until I actually believed it myself.
ON THE SURFACE I looked like I was having the time of my life, but the laughs were more and more a cover-up for the conflicts and tensions I’d brought home from the Pacific. After being confined to a raft, then a makeshift dungeon, and finally a series of prison camps, I was less and less able to sit still or tolerate a quiet moment.
I should have reread my Coming Home pamphlet, which described my symptoms exactly. Memories of war kept running around my head. I couldn’t concentrate. I tossed all night. And yet I had so much nervous energy I couldn’t slow down. The section on fear was especially relevant— in my case fear of what to do with my life, of personal failure, of not being able to run again, of the media sobering up long enough to realize that despite my running trophies, war medals, and headlines, I was just a guy who’d done nothing more heroic than live.
It turned out to be Christianity, as explained by Billy Graham, that enabled Zamperini’s recovery. The forgiveness process was complete within five years following the end of the war and Zamperini returned to Japan to forgive his tormentors and spread the word about Christianity.
[at a prison for war criminals] I gave my usual talk but never with more conviction. When I came to the part about how I’d been treated in Japanese prison camps, I again thought to temper the details and emotions so as not to appear too angry, but I didn’t because otherwise my forgiveness would lack true meaning. Afterward, I invited the men to become Christians and asked for a show of hands. Sixty percent raised them high. “This will in no way shorten your sentence,” I explained. “I am not a part of the army and not part of SAC headquarters. It will not help you that way in the least.” Then I asked for hands again. Some who had been tempted or misunderstood withdrew, but many others in search of a new life persisted. The colonel said, “Those of you who were Louie’s guards and heads of his prison camps, he’d like to speak with you. You may come forward if you wish. Without hesitation they did. The moment had finally arrived. I waited onstage, watching men walk down the aisle and faces emerge from the mists of memory. I recognized each vividly: Sasaki, Admiral Yokura, Conga Joe, Shithead, Weasel, Hata the cook, Kano, and others. But not the Bird. Without even thinking I jumped off the stage, ran to the group, and threw my arm around the first guard. He pulled back at my friendliness; I don’t think he understood my intention. My sign of affection was unfamiliar in Japanese culture. It was probably also the last reaction he expected from me. The colonel ushered us into a small room. There I continued to press the issue of salvation, and a few made a decision for Christ, but others didn’t understand or rejected my invitation, particularly the Quack, the medic from Ofuna who had so badly beaten Bill Harris. He remained a committed Buddhist. During my talk I had praised guards like Kano, who had treated us kindly, like human beings. And yet here he was in the room, a prisoner. I couldn’t understand why. When I asked, he explained that despite letters written by former POWs attesting to his kindness, he had been confused with the sadistic Kono and sentenced to several years. I told him I would try to help.
Admiral Yokura’s file indicated he was a kind, personable guy. I’d met him at Ofuna and again at Omori. When I read the transcripts of his trial, it shocked me. The evidence showed him innocent of every accusation. On the next-to-the-last page it said, “Innocent”— and yet the final page read, “Sentence: 10 years.”
Zamperini on old age:
EVEN THOUGH I no longer ran, I made it my priority to stay in shape. Today [2003, age 86] I’m still in great condition. I fly planes, ski doublediamond runs, trail-bike, and climb, though I gave up skateboarding a few years ago, just to be on the safe side. To this day, people ask me how, after all I’ve been through, I managed to do it. It’s a valid question. I say I eat right and exercise— both are necessary and true— but really, it’s all about attitude. The war, the raft, prison camp, drinking— they took ten years off my life. I simply made up my mind to get those ten years back.
What I’ve learned is that the more you help people, the longer you live. The good feelings are a healing process. If you’re madly in love, the same thing happens. I could go into depth about this, but let’s just say that you get flooded with white corpuscles and it boosts your immune system. You’ll even get over a cold more quickly. I haven’t been sick for twenty years. Call my life charmed, and I would agree. At almost ninety-four years old I am an example of the blessings of a beneficial lifestyle that is a combination of exercise, diet, cheerful attitude, and charity.
Today [2011, age 94] I am licensed, accomplished, or an expert in eighty-four fields: Scuba diving and skiing instructor. Lifeguard. Glacier climber, skier. Flier.
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