A Flood of Memories

A number of years ago, on a Veteran’s Day, my father, was asked to talk to our church in Chicago about his experiences during World War II. I sat with my family in the front row amidst a number of other veterans and their families, most in their 70’s and 80’s. In front of us on the floor sat the congregation’s youngest members, children ranging in ages from 4 to 10.

This was before my father was reunited with his watch but I had heard many of my father’s story about his wartime experiences before and I confess that too often that day and on other days of worship, my mind wandered to the afternoon’s activities in my yard and my plans for the coming week. Unfortunately, I’m certain that many of my friends with busy lives were also at least partly pre-occupied with next Thursday or some upcoming event that was so very important.

But as I looked to my immediate left and right and to the floor before me, I couldn’t help but notice that the very young and the very old, those nearer to the entry and exit ramps of life, were immersed in my father’s tale. I thought for a moment about one of my father’s admirable traits, the ability to focus on what was in front of him at any given point in time and appreciate each moment for what it is. Perhaps this is because, as a result of his experiences, he feels in part that every new day is a true gift for him, one more that others won’t ever have; one more that he came so close to missing. Maybe he feels he owes it to those who didn’t return from the war to live each day as best he can and worry less about next week or month or year.

All of us in the congregation were brought back to the moment as my father finished his talk by describing his return from the war and sailing into New York Harbor past the Statute of Liberty. We joined him as he fought back tears explaining how that national symbol was so important to him, at that moment in 1945, because it represented something that at one point in his life he thought he might never experience again, freedom. Tears streamed from the faces of those around me who had also fought and known those who died in World War II. The children were transfixed as they pictured the image in their minds. And the rest of us, for a brief time at least, let the importance of next week’s business slip away.

In one instant, on May 17, 1943, my father’s life changed forever. He was 22 years old at the time and on his first mission. He describes this day best in his own words.

The Nieuwe Waterweg River, Holland - May 17, 1943, 10:55 AM

Our B-26 Marauder was flying less than 50 feet above the North Sea to avoid German radar. At this altitude things happened fast at over 200 miles an hour. As our plane passed over the Dutch coast what looked like a massive 4th of July fireworks show loomed before us. Ahead to the left, our lead plane was hit and in an instant was gone, snap rolling and crashing upside down into a sand dune. The shock of my friends’ certain deaths swept over me but a burst of tracers brought me back to our own problems.

Our radio operator, was shouting and our pilot frantically yelled for me, the plane’s bombardier-navigator, to find out what was happening in the rear of the plane. I crawled back from the nose and an enormous blast stunned me as flak ripped into the side of the plane.

The pilot shouted for us to get ready for a crash landing. I quickly strapped our radio operator into his seat, opened the ceiling escape hatch and fell to the floor bracing my back against the pilot’s bulkhead. I didn’t know of a single survivor from any B-26 crash. Yet I felt strangely peaceful. My only regret was for my parents, as I pictured them receiving the inevitable “missing in action” and, later, “killed in action” notices.

The plane smashed into the Nieuwe Waterweg River at 250 miles an hour and split in half on impact. The front section sank like a submarine in a few seconds and I was underwater. I was underwater but able to stand on the plane’s floor and push our radio operator out of the hatch ahead of me. We struggled to the surface for air. In a moment, our pilot and co-pilot burst to the surface and the four of us swam towards shore. Our turret and tail gunners never made it out of the Marauder.

When we reached the river’s bank, a young German officer was waiting. He pointed his rifle at us and in perfect English stated the obvious, “For you I think the war is over.” On a hill behind us twenty more German soldiers pointed their weapons at us. We had no idea what would happen next. I glanced at my wrist to check the time but my watch was gone.

Evanston, Illinois, USA - August 27, 2003, 6:30 AM

The ringing woke me at 6:30 am. At 82 years old, I wasn’t usually up at this hour. I reached for the telephone and fumbled with the receiver, “Hello.” “Is this Jim Hoel?” the distinctly British voice asked expectantly. “Yes,” I replied, confused. “Did you fly in a Marauder airplane in the war?” I again said yes though I hadn’t thought about the Marauder for some time. “We’ve got your watch,” the caller said excitedly. I was ready to hang up and go back to sleep but asked “Just what watch are you talking about?” My watch was sitting on my bed stand. “The one you lost when your airplane crashed in 1943.” I was stunned. All of a sudden, 1943 seemed like yesterday.