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This episode of Against the Odds contains explicit language and depictions of violence. Please be advised. It's late December, 1969, and American prisoner of war John McCain's opening up a present. It's a small one, actually sent months ago, but it's John's most precious possession. John's been at the infamously brutal prison dubbed the Hanoi Hilton for just over two years. In all that time, he's only received three letters from his wife, Carol.
He's sure she's sent more, but he also knows that guards don't pass anything along. So when a guard appeared at his tiny concrete cell with a small tin, John was confused. It must be a trap. He opened it immediately and found inside a bottle of vitamins, handkerchiefs, a few cans of vitamin-rich baby formula, and a tin of candy. God, he loves his wife.
John threw up the baby formula almost immediately. His immune system was still very weak. The vitamins were okay, but what got John most excited was the candy. He decided to ration them out, one a day. John's never had a huge sweet tooth, but these chocolate and vanilla candies are the best thing he's ever tasted. He pops one in his mouth, and he closes his eyes. He savors the flavor, and just as he bites down, his tooth hits something hard. Are you kidding me? Has this chocolate already gone bad?
He pulls it out to discover a tiny capsule inside. What the hell? He grabs a shard of bamboo to pry it open and discovers a rolled up thin piece of plastic with a message on it. "I hope you are well. Your family is fine. The liner of this can works like invisible ink. Place it over your letters. Press a hard object on it. It will write secret messages.
John starts to laugh. He can't help it. He's overjoyed. This is the first time anyone from the Navy or even his own country other than his wife has ever reached out to him. He figured they knew he was here, but they couldn't do anything about it. Now they're asking for his help. They want him to send Carol letters and use the can liner to write secret messages. He assumes they want to know how his fellow POWs are doing, maybe provide intel on the prison.
Of course he wants to help, but he just knows it won't work. The cat and the other guards run a very tight ship. They watch him constantly. He'll never be able to get a letter out, let alone one with secret messages. Still, it's nice to know they're trying. More importantly, it's nice to know that Carol's playing a role. He misses her and the kids. All he wants is to be home with them right now.
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Progressive Casualty Insurance Company & Affiliates. Price and coverage match limited by state law. From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. In our last episode, the Vietnamese Army offered prisoner of war John McCain to be released early if he gave in to their demands. He said no. Irate with his decision, his captors tortured him until he considered suicide. Eventually, they forced him to sign a false confession note.
It decimated him. It went against everything John and his father and grandfather stood for. But he soon found strength in the friendship of his fellow POWs, and his spirits and health started to return. But things at the fabled Hanoi Hilton prison are never easy, and on the other side of the planet, his wife Carol had just been in a car accident that threatened her own life. This is the fourth and final episode, Greater Than Himself.
It's late December in 1969 and Carol McCain is waking up. She's confused. This isn't her bed. It's a hospital bed. She looks around the quiet room and sees a number of cords plugged into her. Her arms and her legs are in large casts. Groggy, she tries to remember how she got here. The last thing she remembers was dropping the kids off at her parents on Christmas Eve and then driving down the lonely country road.
Her car hit a patch of ice and... "Can you hear me, ma'am? She's still breathing. Let's get her in. Now." A doctor arrives and explains that she was just taken out of intensive care yesterday. Her car crashed into a pole and she was thrown from the car, fracturing both legs and breaking her arm and pelvis. After hours of surgery, the internal bleeding has mostly stopped. She's lucky to be alive.
Carol can't help but think about her husband John in the prisoner of war camp in Vietnam. She imagines his injuries are just as bad as hers, if not worse. And at least she has the American healthcare system to take care of her. Who's been helping him these last two years? She fights off her tears. She knows she needs to be strong for her kids and for John. But while doing so, she shakes her head. Why does life have to be so difficult for them?
It's January, 1970, and John McCain's being escorted by guards to something he hasn't seen in years. A hotel room. Two days earlier, the camp commander of the Hanoi Hilton, a man referred to as the Cat, asked John if he'd be willing to meet with a Spanish delegation. John said he's happy to, but he's not going to give any sort of anti-war or pro-Vietnam statement if that's what's expected. The Cat shook his head, saying he just wanted John to speak with him. That's all.
An hour ago, the cat returned, escorted by guards. They put a hood over John's head and threw him into a vehicle. As they drove, John could hear the sounds of a city around him. John was freaking out. Where exactly are they taking him? They eventually stopped, and he was brought into the hotel. His hood now off, John looks at the hallway. Not much to speak of. The paint's peeling and the thin carpet has holes in it. It's better than prison, but not by much. The two guards reach a door. And...
Come on in. John's escorted in, and a thin-bearded man greets him. He introduces himself as Dr. Fernando Barral, a psychiatrist and journalist. He offers John a coffee and a cigarette, which John accepts. Fernando starts asking John questions, and John quickly realizes Fernando isn't a journalist. He's a propagandist and a wannabe psychiatrist. And he's not Spanish. He's Cuban.
This man just wants to trick John into saying something that could be interpreted as anti-war and use it to demoralize Americans. John shakes his head. Do they think I'm that dumb? After the forced confession from last year, he knows what not to do. Do you hope to go home soon? No, I think the war will last a long time, but the U.S. will eventually win. Do you feel any remorse for bombing the Vietnamese? No, I don't.
Fernando realizes John's not going to give him anything to use, and he ends the interview. But not before John takes a few more cigarettes. Hey, he might as well while he can. A few days later, John's in his cell when The Voice of Vietnam, a daily propaganda broadcast, crackles over the loudspeakers. John laughs as he recognizes the voice. It's Fernando, the propagandist. McCain has the attributes of a psychopath.
John smiles. Fernando's talking about him. But psychopath? Wow. The man must really be upset John wouldn't play ball. I believe that he bombed densely populated places for sport. I noted that he was hardened, that he spoke of banal things as if he were at a cocktail party. John shakes his head. He was beaten into recording a confession. But now that he's learned how to properly fight back, they don't like it.
Psychopath? Hardened? John pumps his fist. His father would be proud. And it means he's frustrating his captors. Maybe, just maybe, he's starting to win this battle against the guards. It's February, 1970, and John is tired of sitting down. Three days ago, the cat asked John to meet another journalist to talk about his experiences at the camp. John was a little surprised, especially after how the interview with Fernando the Cuban went.
Not just surprised, annoyed, so he told the cat to fuck off. The cat looked like he wanted to kill John right then and there. But he didn't. The next day, guards rushed into John's cell and grabbed him. They took him out into the middle of the courtyard and forced him to sit on a stool. John did, and quickly closed his eyes. He expected to be punched or smacked with a bamboo stick. Instead, a guard chuckled and said something to him, translated by another guard.
Don't move off this chair or you'll be sorry. John's now been sitting for two straight days. Guards have been watching him every minute. And John knows that if he so much as falls off, he'll be beaten within an inch of his life. It's cold, embarrassing, and John's in complete pain. But he's not going to move. Not because he's scared. No. He wants to be able to tell them all to fuck off.
John shivers, he's wearing a thin, tattered smock, and his red and gray striped pants aren't in any better shape. His back is killing him. He can't feel his legs, but he refuses to move. A guard comes by and smirks. The man sees John's in pain, that he wants to fall off to the ground. The man holds out his hand, offering to help John lie down.
John shakes his head. No thanks. He's been through torture. He's been humiliated. But sitting there, he's realized what's most important to him now. Beating them. For the first time during his stay, John feels not only like he'll survive, but that he'll win. He'll sit in this chair as long as it takes. Three days, four days, a week. Bring it. He can handle anything now.
It's December 25th, 1970, and as John is being dragged out of his cell, he thinks to himself, what a shitty Christmas. He was woken by the sound of jangling keys as the guards approached his cell. He'd been looking forward to the Christmas service for the past few weeks. It's one of the few times he has any sort of opportunity to see the other POWs, and was hoping to share a laugh with some of them. Now, he's being forced to walk across the courtyard on his bare feet, through the mud.
The wind blows through his ratty smock, and he has no idea what's happening. As they turn a corner, he realizes they're headed towards a section of the camp where he's never been before. Are they putting him in solitary? Again? What for? He spent three straight months in a cell by himself earlier this year. It wasn't as bad as it had been when he first arrived, but it's still not something he'd like to do again. The guard marches John towards another building and unlocks the door. John's pushed into the doorway, and he hits the ground.
John lays on the cold concrete floor. He's out of breath and can feel a big bump on his forehead. "John?" John pauses. He recognizes that voice. "Bud?" John looks up, and standing there in front of him is his old cellmate, George "Bud" Day. Bud, along with Norris Overley, help bring John back from the brink of death when he first arrived. He hasn't seen Bud since, what, almost three years? Bud looks like he's lost weight, but his broken arms look stronger.
Welcome to Camp Unity, stranger.
John can't believe it. Even though their cells were next door, they rarely saw each other. Maybe only a dozen times. But Bob's chiseled face isn't easily forgotten. How long has it been? At least a year. Bob and Bud explain that this is where the Vietnamese are now putting their healthier prisoners. Looks like you're one of us now, McCain. Within minutes, Bob's cracking jokes and everyone's trading stories. Are the Vietnamese putting them all together for some sort of public relations reason?
Is the war close to concluding? Did someone shame the guards into moving them all in together? The men stay up talking the entire night. They sit there and share stories about the guards, making fun of most of them. They tell each other jokes, and because they know each other so well, some are able to finish the other person's jokes as well. They talk about what they want to do when they get back home, and it almost feels like they're a bunch of guys hanging out at a bar.
John looks around. He was only married to Carol for two years before leaving for Vietnam. He hates to say it, but in some sense, he spent more time with these guys. He is closer with these guys. They're family, and always will be. It's the best Christmas John's ever had. It's the morning of Sunday, February 7th, 1971, and John's attending the most tense church service he's ever been part of.
John and his cellmates have gathered another dozen men or so just outside their cell to host a small Sunday service during their yard time. The plan is for the men to sing hymns and read some passages from the Bible. It's nothing threatening, but the Vietnamese have warned them that any gathering of more than six is strictly forbidden. But the Americans are standing up for what they believe in.
As John and the rest of the assembled men begin to sing, the Vietnamese guard known as "The Bug" rushes towards them. The short man usually holds a constant scary expression, but at this moment, he looks terrifying. Bug angrily gestures for them to stop singing,
But the Americans ignore him. Bug yells louder, and the guards come and grab some of the men, taking them away. Stop! You can't do this! John watches, unsure of what to do. Bud stands up, a look of determination in his eyes.
And before they know it, every man starts singing the national anthem at the top of their lungs. John sung the national anthem thousands of times in his life. But as he sings these lines, especially the ones about being brave, he realizes how proud he is of his country and what it stands for.
A dozen more guards have joined, angrily waving weapons. They get to John and the men and push them all to the ground. John and his fellow POWs take the blows, but never ask for mercy. They don't need to. They just proved to the Vietnamese they're not afraid. They can't be pushed around anymore. They are the brave.
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Well outgoing commander, he's aboard the Oriskany to participate in the change of command ceremony, transferring his role to his successor, Admiral Noel A.M. Gaylor. His quick speech completed, Jack sits down on the stage and looks over the deck of the ship. It's sometimes hard to believe that it's been five years since his son John flew off and didn't return. Five years of John being held by their enemies.
But hopefully, something will happen soon. For the last four years, Jack has pressed US President Richard Nixon to change his war strategy in Vietnam. Jack constantly pushed for sending in more troops and for the strategic bombing of Hanoi and Haiphong Harbor. Jack faced opposition at every turn from Nixon, Henry Kissinger, and the rest of the Department of Defense, frustrating Jack with their half measures. But slowly they came over to Jack's side. Soon Admiral Gaylor will be sending in more bombers.
Jack stands, watching Admiral Gaylor accept this new position. I would like to commend Admiral McCain for all that he has done for the forces here. Jack feels like he could have done more, wishes he had done more. But now his term is completed. As the ceremony finishes and people head off the ship to the base, Gaylor shakes Jack's hand. You will do a fine job, Noel. I'll bring your boy back, Jack. Just do a fine job. That's all I ask.
While Gaylor goes over to the captain of the Oriskany to oversee last-minute preparations, Jack wanders to the deck's edge. He's requested that the change of command takes place on this ship, and Gaylor was happy to oblige. Jack looks out to the water. His son is still over 6,000 miles away, but hopefully that'll change soon. Jack closes his eyes and feels the breeze coming from the west blow across his face. Yes, hopefully John will be home again soon.
Ha! You would be a horrible shortstop, McCain. It's early December, 1972, and John McCain's playing catch with his friend Bob Cranor. Well, not exactly catch, but they are throwing around a ball. It's a small, rubber one, and they only have 10 feet distance between them. And yeah, John is horrible at this. Well, maybe if my throwing hand wasn't broken. Excuses, excuses.
"Still think you're Ted Williams?" "Ha, well no one's as good as the kid, but I could have been great if I hadn't joined the army." Just as he says it, Bob misses the ball and it goes bouncing off to the other side of the cell. "Ladies and gentlemen, the next Ted Williams!" "I'll get it." John and Bob were recently reunited in their Camp Unity cell. John had been taken to another cell back in the spring, but was returned in the fall. Thank God. He missed hanging out with Bob, Bud Day, and the rest of the men here.
One of the other cellmates shushes everyone, and they all stop what they're doing. "What is it?" The cellmate points to the sky. "Do you hear that?" "Hear what?" Silence. And then, "You know what that is?" John closes his eyes, concentrating. "Is that… holy shit! A bomber somewhere in the distance! It's gotta be one of ours!" And then, in the far distance, a bomb explodes. It's nowhere close to them, but John knows that it means the Americans are finally taking the fight to their enemy.
And so do the others. They cheer the offense on. And at that very moment, the cell door opens and two Vietnamese guards enter. The guard gestures at them to be quiet, but the POWs ignore him. What's he gonna do anyway? We are not afraid anymore! The guard screams in English and cowers in the shadow of the cell block. The man's scared shitless. The guard jumps at the sound of it, and he and the others rush out.
John and the others have never understood why American leaders have been so tentative during the war. They have more firepower and strength than the Vietnamese, but for some reason have been reluctant to use it. But now, maybe things are changing. And maybe that means things will soon come to a close. John and Bob exchange nods. For the first time in a very long while, John starts to feel like he may be getting out of this hellhole after all.
It's January 28th, 1973, and John and all the other POWs stand shivering in the courtyard. Sure, it's not that cold, but each of them has lost dozens of pounds and are all still injured. It adds up. The men were told to appear in the courtyard, just stand there and wait. For what? They don't know. At the front of the courtyard are a number of guards, as well as a camera crew. The cameramen look a little nervous. What do you think, McCain? Is it happening? I don't know.
What John doesn't want to say out loud, none of them do, is that it might be related to the peace talks currently taking place between the US and Vietnam. They've heard rumors that something's happening, but no one wants to jinx it. It could be great news, or it could be horrible. John remembers how brutal the guards were when Ho Chi Minh passed away three years ago.
He has permanent cuts on his back from the beatings. They were desperate then to show they were still strong, and John fears that may be going through their minds again right now. The camp commander, the cat, and other top guards march towards the courtyard, accompanying a Vietnamese military officer in full formal uniform. The thin, well-dressed man moves in front of the group and starts to read from a piece of paper. "With a view to ending the war and restoring peace in Vietnam,
John and the other prisoners' dreams have just come true. The war is over. A ceasefire shall be observed throughout South Vietnam as of 2400 hours GMT on January 27th, 1973. But John doesn't smile. None of the prisoners smile. They all just stand there, completely stone-faced. The guards are confused. So are the camera crews.
John hides a chuckle. Last week, all the prisoners spoke to the senior ranking officer, the highest ranking POW, who ordered them to refrain from showing any sort of emotion. No way in hell they'd give their captors any sort of satisfaction. The military officer ends his reading of the peace accord and tells the men that they will be released over the next two months. Still, no reaction or emotion. The guards look around, bewildered.
The men are dismissed and head towards their cells. John and his cellmates stare at each other, still straight-faced, and wait a few minutes. They peek out the window, see the camera crew finishing packing up the equipment, and leave. The guards also head back to their chambers. Then, and only then, John laughs out loud and hugs Bob Cranor, Bud Day, and the others. They're going home. Can you believe it?
Five and a half years of beatings, torturing, yelling, malnutrition, dysentery, inedible food, and fear, John's finally going home to the country he swore to protect, that he spent every moment here trying to serve. Soon, he'll be a free man.
It's January 28th, 1973, and Carol McCain is gathering her three children in her home in Jacksonville, Florida. The kids are stuck inside because of the rain. Days like this, it's nearly impossible to get them to pay attention. Even if you have something really, really important to tell them. Turn that off, please, Andrew. Twelve-year-old Andrew shrugs and goes over to the television, disappointed.
Twenty minutes ago, she received a call from her father-in-law, Admiral Jack McCain. Carol thought Jack was calling to say hello to his grandkids, but immediately knew he wanted to speak with her. She knew about the peace talks happening in Paris, and every night she prayed it would mean John would finally be released. She went to her room after the call to process the news. It's been a very rough couple of years, especially after her accident. Recovery was slow, and it was hard. Not that she would ever admit it to anyone.
Even when she was in unbearable pain, she refused help. After a few minutes, she came back in and called the kids into the living room, where they now sit. Little Sydney squirms on the couch. Six years old, she already reminds Carol of John himself, a little troublemaker. It pains Carol to think she's only seen her father a handful of times, and that John's been a prisoner since Sydney was only nine months old. "I have something to tell you. Your daddy's coming home soon.
Doug, 14 years old, stares at Carol, and then over to his brother Andy. They had really gotten close to John, their stepfather, before he left for war. But over the last five years, they'd wonder if they'd ever see him again. Andy's the first to break into tears, and Doug quickly follows suit. Carol hugs them, happy to share this joy with them. Sidney's staring at them, though, a little confused. "But where is he going to sleep?"
Carol breaks out in laughter. With me? Sidney still looks confused. And what will we feed him? Carol laughs again and goes to hug her daughter. Yep, Sidney reminds her so much of John. John, her husband. The man she's been praying to see every day for the last five and a half years. The man who's coming home to them. It's a perfect day.
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It's March 12th, 1973, and Jack McCain's phone is ringing. Jack officially retired from the Navy a few months ago, but still spends his time in his office poring through maps and reading reports from the war. So much so that his wife Roberta sometimes teases him, "Isn't it time you moved on and found a real hobby?" But Jack will be a Navy man until he dies.
"Hello?" "Jack, it's Noel." It's Admiral Noel Gaylor, Jack's successor at the head of the Pacific Command. Since assuming the position last year, the two have been in constant contact. Jack's always viewed transition as important and assists Noel whenever he can. "John's gonna be released in three days, Jack." Jack sits back in his chair. Since the late January conclusion of the war, he's known his son would be released, but the exact date wasn't clear.
Jack's gaze falls on a photo on his desk of him and John standing together, smiling. It was taken what? Like seven years ago? Eight? Back then, Jack still thought of John as an immature young man. Now he's a survivor. He's a hero. At Clark's?
Clark is a U.S. Air Force base in the Philippines, the closest to Vietnam. It's where the earlier rounds of released POWs had been sent to before the long flight home. Jack knows the base quite well, and is friends with many of the people there. He likes it there. It would be great to be there. Are any of the other parents of the prisoners being invited? No, that would be against protocol. Technically, so is inviting Jack. Yes, he's an admiral, but it's still a personal favor, and would be taking advantage of his position.
"Thanks for the invitation, Noel, but it just wouldn't be right." After a few other words, Jack gently hangs up the phone. He looks down and finds Clark Air Base on a map. He puts his finger on the spot and measures out the distance between it and Hanoi. He imagines John getting off the plane. His son would have lost a lot of weight, and God knows what his injuries must be like after all these years. Still, he can imagine the look in John's eyes as he takes in the fresh air as a free man.
He wishes he could be there to greet his son. He'd love to shake his son's hand and tell him how proud he is for everything he went through to serve his country. He wants to tell him how proud his grandfather would have been as well. But he knows John will understand why he's not there and how proud he is of him. So very proud.
John McCain looks out the window of the C-141 military transport plane as it roars into the air. It's March 15th, 1973, and he, along with a number of other American prisoners of war, are headed for Clark Air Base. The plane is small, seating is cramped, and it's loud. But John and the others, they don't care. The excitement level in here is really high, but everyone knows they shouldn't celebrate until they're out of the Vietnamese airspace.
Until then, well, the last time he was up here, John's plane was shot down. Oh, I thought of another. An ice cream sundae. A good one, good one. John's good friends, Bob Cranor and Bud Day, are sitting beside him. For the last hour, on the drive to the airport, and then as soon as they sat on the plane, they've done nothing but list off all the things they're going to eat when they get back home. John savors the thought of a sundae. No,
Let's not get ahead of ourselves. He's learned that lesson. No, no, no. I've changed my mind. A Sunday float with root beer. John smirks, even though this day has been one of the best of his life. He knows it's going to be sad when they get to Clark. It's going to be tough to say goodbye to these guys.
Bud helped save John's life when the Vietnamese left him for dead, and Bob brought John's spirits up after the guards forced a confession out of him. The three of them have been through a lot together, and it's going to be odd not to see them every day. They vowed they'll stay in touch, though, and John knows they'll keep their words. They're family now. Why root beer? Just go for the real thing. Beer, beer, beer. How about you, John?
Just as John's about to chime in, he prefers regular beer to root beer, the pilot addresses the passengers. Okay, everyone, we're feet wet. They're in international airspace, and John's now officially free from the North Vietnamese. While everyone's celebrating around him, John closes his eyes and says a little prayer. He looks outside at the clouds. He realizes how much he missed being up here, flying planes.
It's where he felt most comfortable, most like himself. Now he's returning home a changed man. He had a conversation with his father Jack many years ago. Jack was telling John about something his own father, John's grandfather, had said to him. "Son, there is no greater thing than to die for a cause greater than yourself." Back then, John pushed back against anything his father would tell him about duty or responsibility.
John secretly desired his father's approval, but until he got it, he would always fight him. But now, after spending five and a half years in hell, he fully understands what his father meant. He survived because it was for a cause greater than himself, and that will drive him for the rest of his life. As John looks into the radiant sky, he smiles. He feels like the luckiest guy to ever live.
It's October 2008 and the sun is rising in Washington, D.C. It's a cold day, but the talk through the city is heated. It's only weeks before a presidential election and it's all anyone can talk about. But at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, it's quiet. A long black granite wall, 10 feet high, extends for almost 250 feet, bearing the names of the members of the U.S. Armed Forces who died or went missing during the Vietnam War almost 40 years ago.
This early morning, there's only one man visiting. He walks very slowly along it, looking at some of the names. The visitor is John McCain. It's the last place anyone would expect him to be, especially since he's in the middle of running for president. But though he's down in the polls, he knows that you need to have hope to survive.
John returned home to the United States in 1973, a celebrity, honored by President Richard Nixon and given the silver Bronze Star and Distinguished Flying Medals. It finally allowed him to come out from underneath his father's shadow, and the proudest moment for him was at a dinner when Jack McCain was introduced as Commander McCain's father.
John returned to the Navy, but knew his physical disabilities from his time in Vietnam would hinder his activity. He retired a few years later and eventually went into politics, first as a congressman for Arizona, and then a longtime senator, and then a candidate for president, though he lost to Barack Obama. John remained in the Senate until his death in 2018, becoming a maverick and a hero to many Americans.
Every week he was in Washington, he visited the Vietnam Memorial. Visiting it gave him an opportunity to reflect on his experiences in Hanoi. The friendships he made, the lessons learned, the losses along the way. His five and a half years as a prisoner of war would define him. Not in a political branding sort of way, though it helped. Rather, it made him a man who believed in his faith, his country, his fellow citizens, and most importantly, himself.
John McCain, the man who resisted his path towards the Navy during his youth, then discovered adventure as an aviator, had his entire life torn apart that day in 1968 when his bomber was attacked. In prison, John was broken by his captors, but slowly rose again to become a new man with purpose, a higher calling in life. A large security guard walks up to John, holding a cell phone. Excuse me, Senator, but it's time to go.
John's due at a breakfast event, but before going, he reaches out and touches the wall, thinking about his time at the Hanoi Hilton. Okay, let's go. He walks away from the wall towards the SUV waiting for him. The car pulls away, taking John McCain, an American hero, to his next stop. But in some sense, he'll always be by that wall, alongside those that he served with.
My great privilege was to serve in the company of heroes. I witnessed a thousand acts of courage and compassion and love, and it was a spiritually uplifting experience for me in many ways. And those that I love most and respect and admire are those that I was there with. This is the final episode of our four-part series, John McCain, Prisoner of War. If you like our show, please give us a five-star rating and a review.
Follow Against the Odds on Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, the Wondery app, or wherever you're listening right now. And a quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend John McCain's autobiography, Faith of My Fathers, co-written with Mark Seltzer.
The book John McCain, An American Odyssey by Robert Timbert. And the HBO Max documentary John McCain, For Whom the Bell Tolls. We also recommend Lessons from the Hanoi Hilton, Six Characteristics of High-Performance Teams by Taylor Baldwin Keelan. And I'm your host, Mike Corey. Anthony DelCalle wrote this episode. Davey Gardner is our producer. Our editor is Maura Waltz.
Taylor Keelan is our consultant. Brian White is our associate producer. Our audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Sound design is by Rob Schielinger. Our executive producers are Stephanie Jentz and Marshall Louis. For Wondery. Hey, it's Guy Raz here, host of How I Built This, a podcast that gives you a front row seat to how some of the best known companies in the world were built.
In a new weekly series we've launched called Advice Line, I'm joined by some legendary founders and together we talk to entrepreneurs in every industry to help tackle their roadblocks in real time. Everybody buys on feeling, Guy, like everybody. So if you don't give them the feeling that they're looking for, they're not going to buy. A lot of times founders will go outside of themselves to build a story. And
and you can't replicate heart. You know, I think we all have a little bit of imposter syndrome, which isn't the worst thing in the world because it doesn't allow you to get overconfident and think that you're invincible. Check out the advice line by following How I Built This on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to How I Built This early and ad-free right now on Wondery+.
