I said the same when I used to speak on cruise ships. I knew there were veterans aboard, and some senior citizens, some of whom had gone to war—didn’t matter which one—and I didn’t want to make myself any more special than they were.
I wasn’t.
Whatever I did in the war, I did for myself and my fellow soldiers. I did not do it because I wanted to be heroic, but because that’s what I was trained to do. I did my part without question. I remembered my family rules: You have to work for the betterment of everyone. If I know I can do something, why should someone else risk their life?
Once, while talking to an old soldier about the war, he kept knocking his wooden knee. I knocked it—respectfully—and said, “Where’d you leave that?”
“I left it in Palau,” he said, referring to an island in the Pacific.
He’s a hero. I’m just a survivor.
Attitude Is Everything
Forgiving former prison guards in Japan, 1950.
You Must Have Hope
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There’s the soldier who says, “Ah, the war’s gonna be over in three months.” If he keeps saying that, no matter if he’s right or wrong—and if he isn’t in the wrong place at the same time as a bullet or a bomb—he has a good chance to survive mentally intact.
But the guy who sits back and says, “Yeah, you guys are a bunch of optimists. The war’s never going to end,” has less of a chance.
I had a friend just like that in prison camp. He’d sit in the yard and stare at the ground. He wouldn’t talk to us. When we’d quietly trade gossip we’d heard—“The Normandy invasion is taking place. The war’s going to be over before Christmas”—he refused to participate.
After the war, the Army sent me to Florida for my rest cure. That’s where I met my future wife, Cynthia Applewhite. One day we were sitting around at the beach club with a bunch of Air Corps guys, discussing how the human mind functions in war—and suddenly I see that very guy from my prison camp come in. He sat by the pool. He stared at the ground. He hardly talked. Nothing had changed. He may have made it home alive, but to me, he didn’t make it.
This can happen in any stressful situation. It’s not just about the war.
You must have hope. It rejuvenates your whole being. You can’t allow negative thinking—even if you know your chances are slim. I’m not saying that it’s easy to do, but the ability to envision the road to successful completion is what keeps you alive.
Hope provides the power of the soul to endure.
Don’t Ask Why, Ask What’s Next
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I’ve been blessed with a long life of good health as a result of a beneficial lifestyle—a combination of exercise, diet, charity, and cheerfulness. At my age the best exercise is walking. The family got me a wheelchair a year ago. I understand. But I still insisted on walking as much as possible. Around the house. To the car. I have to walk because it keeps my blood circulating. Walking keeps my legs powerful. Walking is probably the best type of moderate exercise there is. I’ve fallen a couple of times, but I can’t afford to quit. When I need to I’ll use a cane to give me a third point of contact. But I still try to walk around the house as much as I can without the cane. People shouldn’t give up walking!
Now, I’m ninety-seven years old. Am I surprised that I’m still here when most of the people I knew are gone—most of my friends, buddies from the war? Sure. But I don’t feel guilty. And I’m not lonely. My attitude is to just accept it. It is what it is. Instead of getting all caught up in asking why, I ask, what’s next? That’s all you have to know.
Whenever I’ve had to go to the hospital, and the doctors tell me how long I’ll have to stay, I always try to get better sooner. So far, it’s worked. Why? I help heal my body by—again—accepting the situation. I let the doctors do what they can, but in the meantime I also use the healing powers of cheerfulness. When I leave early, the doctors always credit my attitude.
If you can’t control your attitude, forget it. You’re going to heal slowly or die young.
A side benefit of my cheerful attitude is that the nurses fight over me. They’re used to having a bunch of guys who grimace and complain. This isn’t to say that they don’t accept each patient and their particular needs for who they are; sometimes groaning and grimacing is all you can do. But I cause less stress for everyone, including me.
The nurses come in to talk, and end up lingering. I remember one tall and beautiful blond nurse who said, “Oh, Louie, you’re a Trojan! I also went to USC.” We talked about football. About her. A little bit about me. Finally she got around to the reason for her visit. “I came to give you a shot,” she said. “In the buttocks. So roll over.” After she accomplished her mission, she said, “I’m sorry, Louie. I’ve gotta leave you now.”
“You’ve gotta leave me now?” I said. “You know that you’re the first woman who ever said that to me!”
She came back later and brought six other nurses to meet me. When I left the hospital there were nine nurses waiting to have their pictures taken with me.
Having a positive attitude pays off in ways that you can’t even imagine, yet stay forever in your memory.
You Choose How to View Your Fate
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Conventional wisdom says that if you’re marooned like Tom Hanks was in the movie Cast Away you’ll go stir-crazy, or batty. I have the opposite opinion. I think that guy had it made! He wasn’t in solitary confinement in a tiny concrete cell. He didn’t lose his freedom like a prisoner of war. Yes, he missed his family and friends, but wouldn’t you rather be free on an island, with fish to catch, fruit to eat, and nice beaches to walk along than to be someone’s prisoner? I’d rather be alone there for the rest of my life than spend one minute caged.
Why? It’s a beautiful life. Everything you’ll have to do to survive is an accomplishment. You figure out how to catch the fish: What an accomplishment! What a thrill. You figure out how to get food: What an accomplishment! You figure out how to build a hut. Great. That’s why Boy Scouting was so exciting: Every time I won a merit badge, I had accomplished something.
On a deserted island, a castaway should be the happiest guy in the world. Even if he is—at that moment—the only guy in the world.
Maybe the toughest part of being a castaway is readjusting to society after you’re rescued. You no longer get to do everything your way.
I’m not saying being alone on an island is a better life than being in your own home, with your family and friends and familiar things. I’m suggesting that you can choose to view your fate in a more positive fashion. You just have to be willing to try.
The Secret of Contentment
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When the Apostle Paul was imprisoned, he said, “Whatever situation I find myself in, I have learned thereby to be content.” In more modern words, it means that while you can’t always control what happens in life, you can control your reaction to it.
To be content, you have to accept everything. If you can make that attitude part of who you are then nothing can bother you. It might be tough at first, but soon it becomes a habit.
When my bomber crashed into the Pacific Ocean, I didn’t want to be stuck on a raft in the middle of nowhere. But there we were. We expected to be rescued shortly, but weren’t. Now we had to do everything to survive. I didn’t argue with what had happened, or imagine “if only” alternatives. I accepted our situation and let my training take over. I was in control of myself because I accepted things; to begrudge them was a waste of time and energy. Acceptance made it easier for me to deal with what I had to do to stay alive moment by moment, day by day. You must work willingly with what you have. Why make it tough on yourself and others by having a bad attitude?
All my life I’ve been a positive person—even when I was a troublemaker as a kid. It makes sense: I was positive I could get away with whatever mischief I was up to. If I didn’t, I was positive I could talk my way out of trouble—and most of the time I did. I live
d in the moment and dealt with the rewards or the consequences later. Same on the raft: I took advantage of my situation to learn whatever I needed to learn in order to live another day, to avoid being a shark’s afternoon snack.
If you think that no one in my situation could have been cheerful, you’re missing the point. Acceptance creates cheerfulness, which in turn creates contentment.
ANGELINA JOLIE, WHO directed Unbroken, has come to visit me many times. I’ve never met a woman like her. She’s a human dynamo. She takes up any challenge that comes along. Her desire is to overcome. She doesn’t brag. She gives instead of takes. She has a sweet and charitable heart for the underdog. She’s a doll. She loves me and I love her. She brought me chocolate for Valentine’s Day, and always a great bottle of wine.
She even lives in my neighborhood. We can wave to each other.
When Angelina got back from filming Unbroken in Australia she showed up at my house and said, “Louie, now I love you twice as much.” We hugged and held hands.
That was nice to hear. I said, “You’re lucky I’m not twenty-one.”
Brad was also there. I shrugged my shoulders. I love Brad, but what else could I do?
One time Angelina kissed me on the lips. Man! I know there are millions of men in the world who probably wished they were me at that moment.
Again, what could I do? I had to accept the situation cheerfully.
Like the Apostle Paul says: “Whatever situation I find myself in I learn thereby to be content.”
Angelina kissing me? I was content.
Attitude is everything.
This is the secret.
After the War: Still Lost
The Flyaway before the storm, 1948.
You Can’t Run (or Sail) Away from Yourself
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LOS ANGELES TIMES, front-page lead story
DATELINE: Monday, March 8, 1948
HEADLINE: ZAMPERINI, L.A. WAR HERO, MISSING ON BOAT AT SEA
SUBHEAD: Craft Last Heard From on Feb. 28
Louis Zamperini, former SC track star who survived 47 days on a life raft in the Pacific during the war, is one of a crew of 10 aboard the 60-foot schooner Flyaway, unheard from since Feb. 28.
The U.S. Coast Guard yesterday released a marine broadcast to all ships asking for information on the Flyaway and sent an inquiry to officials of Acapulco, Mex. for information …
I came home from the war to find myself a celebrity, a war survivor, and well-known athlete who, because I’d been housed for a time in a secret interrogation camp, had been presumed dead. But even after my family learned I was alive, no one knew if I’d actually make it back. When I did, the true story broke in the New York Times, made headlines everywhere, and I was interviewed constantly and in demand as a speaker.
After marrying Cynthia in 1946, we were invited as a couple to many social functions: new theater openings, movie premieres, and sophisticated parties. For instance, we were at the opening of the gangster Bugsy Siegel’s Flamingo Casino in Las Vegas. There I met Siegel’s girlfriend, or as they say in the movies, his moll: Virginia Hill. She was gracious and gorgeous and we got on like old friends.
The high life was fun but I needed to get established and settle down. Edwin W. Pauley, the oilman (UCLA’s Pauley Pavilion is named after him), wanted me to run for the California state legislature. “I want you in Sacramento,” he said. I didn’t understand why—and the job only paid eighteen hundred dollars for two years. But then I noticed that three guys on the state legislature whom I’d met had beautiful homes and a boat in the harbor. Hey, this is great, I thought.
I started going to various political functions and informal gatherings. One was at a bar in downtown Los Angeles, owned by a guy named Joe. He also owned a bowling alley. We met there at least once a month, sometimes twice a month. The dinner was always venison cacciatore. Joe would pour drinks for us, and one for himself, and say, “First one today!” Probably the hundredth, but he’d always say it was the first. I asked him about the venison, and he said a couple of city officials went into Griffith Park with a .22 rifle and got him all the deer he wanted.
Everybody drank, but I didn’t want to get drunk around these folks. I wanted to listen. What I learned was that to the people in charge I would be just a vote. There was talk about passing a law that all the oil rigs—and there were many all over Southern California in those days—had to have fences around them. It would cost millions. My job would be to vote against that, and I’d get paid under the table. I started putting two and two together: That’s how these guys were able to afford those nice houses and boats. You couldn’t get them by being honest; or at least not as quickly. I probably could have been elected, but then I’d have had to vote the way they wanted. That just didn’t seem right, both morally, and personally. I moved on.
WHEN YOU GET down to it, your reputation and character are all you have. I valued mine and I had to remain consistent. Otherwise, how would I make money to support my family and the kids we planned to have?
Although I wasn’t interested in being a political pawn, I still thought it would be a good idea to get rich as quickly as possible.
My first venture was war surplus. I bid on twenty or thirty Quonset huts and sold them to the movie studios, who wanted all they could get for storage. Next I went into repairing and selling wartime ice boxes. They needed hinges and lids. I fixed and moved a bunch of those.
Then in the beginning of 1948 an irresistible opportunity came along. Two USC buddies, one from El Salvador and the other from Los Angeles, said they had some large D8 Caterpillar tractors in the Philippines and seven thousand dollars would hold them for us; then we could have them shipped to Los Angeles and turn a tidy profit. My buddies had both majored in business in college, so I depended on them. They introduced me to their contact from Hawaii, who said, “No problem. I’ve got control of everything,” just before he left for home to close the deal. He just needed the $7,000 earnest money. I went to the bank and got him a cashier’s check. Then we waited. And waited. Occasionally we’d get a letter: “Everything’s going great.” And waited some more.
The delay was making me crazy. I needed something positive to happen and I couldn’t just sit around counting the seconds.
Maybe, I thought, a change of scenery would relieve some of the pressure. I could relax and refocus.
I needed that. I was also suffering from what we now call post-traumatic stress disorder. I drank, fought, and had terrible nightmares about the Bird. It was as if the war were still going on in my head. If I was in horrible shape I couldn’t be of use to myself—or anyone else.
I had known for some time that there was trouble in paradise, by which I mean at home. Although Cynthia often went to parties and other functions with me, she grew to dislike the lifestyle. The postwar celebrations went on for a long time and she got fed up with it. She refused to go to from bar to bar, or from party to party, with booze all over the place. Instead she stayed home or went to a movie or spent time with friends. But it was pretty rough on her. We were still in a small starter apartment in East Hollywood, not much more than a room. With everyone back from the war, housing was tough to find.
One night my car got stolen, or so I thought. I got drunk at a place called Nickodell, a restaurant with a big bar. I was there with a couple of Olympic buddies. All I had was a couple of beers, and then I said, “I’ve got to go see somebody about war surplus.” But I felt very woozy driving to his place, and worse when I got there. I remember leaving, but nothing after that. What I discovered later was that I was so drunk that I blacked out and drove aimlessly through the Hollywood Hills. Finally I parked the car and got out to relieve myself against a tree before going to my apartment. But it wasn’t my apartment and I ended up walking in circles for hours until I found my street. Before going out that night I’d put on a brand-new pair of shoes. When I got up in the morning, my heels were run-down.
When I woke up in the morning, I couldn’t remember anything. An
d when I went outside I couldn’t find my car. I reported it stolen. Two days later the police found it two miles away.
Another disappointment: I wanted to run again. There’d been no 1940 and 1944 Olympics, and it was a long time since I’d competed, but I decided to go for it for the 1948 games. I went down to the LA City College track to work out. I had to take it easy at first, but I worked hard and finally got in what I called good shape. Then I bore down, running for six weeks wearing heavy tennis shoes. When I thought I was ready I had Cynthia join me at the track. I gave her a stopwatch and asked her to call out my lap times. I settled into my starting stance and took off. I felt light. But when I passed Cynthia she called out “sixty-eight!” That couldn’t be right. When I came around again she yelled, “two-seventeen.” What? I couldn’t be slowing down. So I pushed harder, and when I did I felt something go wrong in my ankle and searing pain in my calf. These were old injuries. I ignored them. But by the final lap I had nothing left. My trademark kick was gone. I collapsed on the infield grass. I’d run a 4:28. Way out of competition. Cynthia tried to be supportive, even weathered my anger, but she knew better.
My dream died there and then. In addition to all I’d been through, I became a victim of the war in the one pursuit that had always meant the most to me: running.
I had quit drinking to train. Now I had no reason to deny myself.
MY USC BUDDY, Harry Read, and I cooked up a plan to take an adventure cruise. Harry had always had money, a beautiful car, and his own sailboat—a 34-foot yawl, the Kummel, which had unfortunately capsized in a hurricane off Lower California in 1936. His father owned lots of real estate, and his mother made sure Harry got a nice check every month.
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