Pearl Harbor Changes Everything

Our father's decision to enter the military was made that Sunday evening when his family listened to reports of Pearl Harbor. Again, his decision is best described in his own words.

Right after Pearl Harbor, almost immediately, the Air Force reduced its requirement of two years of college to only a high school diploma. I had a year and a half of college. I went and immediately enlisted in the Cadet Program, passed the exam and was accepted just that fast. The Cadet Program was designed to train pilots, navigators and bombardiers. It was quite a program because first of all, it paid $75 a month, which was absolutely staggering compared to a Private's pay in the Army, which was only $21, and the food was better and the accommodations were better, so it was a pretty good deal in training.

Then, once one graduated from Cadet Program, as either of the three, pilot, bombardier or navigator, you were commissioned a Second Lieutenant in the Army. That paid $150 a month and that was absolutely sensational. That was a big hunk of dough in that time. Also, if you were a flying officer, you got paid half of that again in flight pay. It was $150 salary and then $75 flight pay. So it was a total of those two. So that's what we signed up to do.

Within a matter of weeks, I was notified to report to the Chicago Post Office to be transported to Santa Ana, California. I went on the appointed day in January of 1942 and there were approximately 350 of we boys from the total Chicago area; all of us just as brimming with enthusiasm and fun as you could imagine. We were looking forward to a great adventure. Needless to say, some of them didn't come back alive, but nevertheless, at that time we all felt it was a great adventure.

We were told to bring a small bag with a change of underwear and that's all-no big suitcases. We were taken from there down to the railroad station and we got onto Pullman sleeper cars. I think they were probably the same cars that were used in World War I to transport troops around; real old Pullman cars. We were assigned two guys to the lower bunk and one to the upper bunk. Again, as we went across the country on our way to California (it probably took us 3 days to do it); it was just a lot of fun and great enthusiasm.

The train was an old, old sleeper train and there was no provisions for any food of any kind. Many years before, when the railroads were built, all the way to the West Coast there were Fred Harvey Restaurants built in towns right beside the railroad track and these were designed for trains because they didn't have the kind of diners that we know of in some trains. Every time that a meal was to be had, the train stopped, everybody got off the train and went into the Fred Harvey House.

They were reputed to be a very innovative kind of thing, I don't know when, in the 1800's sometime, and they featured the Harvey Girls. These were young girls who came from all over the country to work in these restaurants. I was reminded of this a little bit because Howard Johnson in the East started sort of the same kind of arrangement when motor touring was relatively new, I suppose in the 1920's or thereabouts. They built them along the highways with the same concept. At any rate, that's where we would stop, have a meal and get back on the train and get going.

Eventually we got to Southern California and the weather was beginning to warm up all the way along the route. We came on the train from the South of Los Angeles into the city. To describe this, it's difficult for you to imagine it. Today you have a city sprawl for hundreds of miles up and down the West Coast. Well, what we came into with the train going north, sort of near the coast, was countryside. It was just open country and then we come to a little town and then the open country again. And along the way in that particular area there were almost all solid orange groves and the oranges were full size at that time, the sun was out, the train was going very slowly and going from one little town, through the town, then the next town, and eventually into LA.

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.