We're History

My book review of Herman Wouk's The Winds of War

Click on this link if you want to hear me narrate my essay:

I first picked up The Winds of War, Herman Wouk’s 900-page, 1971 best-seller, for selfish reasons. I’m writing a historical fiction piece which includes the same era—the years leading up to the bombing of Pearl Harbor—and thought it might help with research. But as I listened to the audiobook, I found myself thinking less about my project and more about the world around me. Wouk’s portrayal of the rise of fascism in Europe struck an eerie chord with what I see happening in the United States today. The way he tells world history through the story of one American family, the Henrys, reminded me how our personal lives often mirror national struggles—and vice versa. My own 18-year marriage unraveled during the 2007 housing crash. Coincidence? Maybe. But reading Wouk made me wonder just how interconnected we really are with the broader sweep of history.

The Winds of War audiobook—narrated masterfully by Kevin Pariseau—transforms what many would call tedious History (with a capital H) into something immediate and human. Wouk follows Naval Officer Victor "Pug" Henry, his wife Rhoda, and his three grown children as they become unwitting witnesses to the unfolding catastrophe in places like Germany, the US, the Soviet Union, and Pearl Harbor. Through Pug’s diplomatic and military assignments, we meet Roosevelt, Hitler, Churchill, Mussolini, and Stalin—not as abstract icons, but as men whose decisions reshape the world.

What struck me most is how Wouk blends the personal and political. Pug navigates the rise of fascism while also managing a crumbling marriage, a talented but undisciplined son, a headstrong daughter, and the allure of a young journalist named Pamela. These human dramas play out against the backdrop of global collapse, and the effect is sobering: history doesn’t pause for personal crises; it tears right through them.

One of the most compelling arcs belongs to Natalie, a young Jewish American researcher working with her uncle in Italy. Both she and her uncle initially underestimate Hitler. But a chilling scene at a Nazi-controlled border crossing shatters that illusion. German officers politely ask the diplomats to identify group members with Jewish heritage. The Jews are calmly separated from their fellow countrymen, even those with passports. The scene feels uncomfortably familiar in today’s world, where people with student visas and green cards are kidnapped, and constitutional protections often seem negotiable.

Later, when Natalie’ uncle is tasked with delivering photographic evidence of Nazi atrocities, the images are dismissed by the U.S. State Department officials as likely fakes. Some claim the photos are Jewish propaganda, designed to drag peace-loving Americans into a foreign war. The echoes are unmistakable. Today, we see images of injustice or protest and immediately hear cries of “fake news.” Wouk’s novel reminds us that denial has always been a form of defense - for individuals and for nations.

Wouk’s depiction of Hitler’s rise is disturbing not just because it happened, but because it feels possible again. The Germany he portrays is desperate for a leader—someone bold enough to reject the humiliation of the Versailles Treaty, confident enough to speak dangerous truths out loud. A former Nazi general in the novel describes how Hitler voiced the antisemitism others only whispered, weaponizing hate to energize the public. Germany, exhausted and disillusioned after World War I, chose belief over reason. Sound familiar?

In one scene, a friendly Nazi official encourages Pug to speak to President Roosevelt on Germany’s behalf, offering a generous financial reward and reminding him of Germany’s rich culture, its technological genius, and its potential to replace the waning British Empire. When Pug questions Germany’s attack on the Soviet Union instead of Britain, a chilling explanation emerges: Hitler was after uranium. A new kind of weapon was being developed.

It’s not hard to draw lines to our present. Today, we’re still fighting over resources, still watching truth bend under the weight of propaganda, and still hearing arguments that dissent must be suppressed for the sake of unity or federal funding. The tools of authoritarianism have become more advanced, but the blueprint is the same: fear, distraction, and control of the narrative.

Wouk never simplifies these dynamics. He shows us how seductive power can be on a personal level too. Rhoda Henry, Pug’s wife, is drawn to Germany—not just the language and culture, but the confidence of its officials. She charms the Germans, flirts easily with powerful men, including Pug’s wealthy friend Kirby, whose company stands to gain from government defense contracts. Meanwhile, Pug—steadfast, but emotionally distant—is tempted by Pamela after a brush with death in Moscow. War, loneliness, and uncertainty open cracks in even the strongest relationships.

Maybe democracy is like a long marriage: comforting, but easy to take for granted. Rhoda isn’t just bored—she’s restless, disillusioned, ready for something that feels alive. So were many Germans in the 1930s. So, perhaps, are many Americans now.

The bombing of Pearl Harbor changed everything. Suddenly, isolationism became impossible. Pug’s eldest son’s plane is shot down in the Pearl Harbor attack but he survives—and instead of retreating, he immediately volunteers to fly again. Inspired by his son’s courage, Pug joins the fight, commanding a destroyer. Wouk even entertains the notion that Roosevelt may have known the attack was coming but used it to galvanize a divided nation. While he ultimately dismisses that theory, Wouk makes one thing clear: America needed a wake-up call. And Pearl Harbor delivered it.

I can’t help but wonder—what will it take for us to wake up now?

Are we waiting for our own version of Pearl Harbor—a catastrophe so undeniable, so immediate, that we’re forced to confront the authoritarian creep in our own institutions? Or are we too fragmented, too distracted, too demoralized to respond?

Wouk’s brilliance lies in reminding us that history is never “over.” It lives in us—our choices, our apathy, our beliefs. The Henrys are fictional, but their dilemmas are painfully real. Just like them, we struggle with doubt, loyalty, ambition, and fear. And just like in the 1930s, it’s tempting to assume “that could never happen here.”

But it did. And it could again.

After finishing The Winds of War, I keep asking myself: Will it take a modern-day version of Pearl Harbor to unite us? Are we willing to wake up before it’s too late? Wouk shows us that history isn’t some distant, dusty subject—it’s lived, felt, and shaped by real people. Today, it happens in bedrooms, on battlefields, in private heartbreaks, and on social media. The choices we make in our personal lives—what we pay attention to, what we run away from, what we stand up for—are deeply connected to the health of our democracy. If you don’t have time for a 900-page novel, try the 1983 television miniseries. But if you do have the time, read the book. It might just change the way you see both history and yourself.