Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [82]
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