Subscribe
Jobs
Cars
Real Estate
Apts
Classifieds
Shop
The anniversary of D-Day, celebrated last weekend, was commemorated in its usual way. Politicians spoke, praising the heroism of the men who stormed the beaches on June 6, 1944, marking the beginning of the end of World War II in Europe.
As usual, the media and much of the public focused on the famous people on hand – the presidents, princes and prime ministers – causing one veteran to lament in an Irish newspaper report that the atmosphere was more like that of a rock concert than the commemoration of the soldiers who fought and died there 65 years before.
Indeed, to the world, many of the aging veterans of that event who were on hand for the anniversary were anonymous.
Take the pale, aging man in the background of a photograph that centered on President Obama singing the national anthem. The man wore a red military cap and can be seen saluting in a crowd of other veterans, old, stooped, some in wheelchairs.
The man wasn’t identified in any photo captions, but his name is James W. Hoerner, 90, a D-Day veteran.
By the end of the war, many would consider Hoerner a hero for the awards he received: the Distinguished Service Medal, the second-highest award a soldier can get; three Silver Stars for heroism in battle, the third-highest award the Army has; two Bronze Stars; three Purple Hearts; awards from Great Britain; and France’s highest award.
Hoerner, who now lives in Grand Rapids, Mich., is originally from Fort Wayne. The only son of a widow, he grew up on East Butler Street, graduated from Central Catholic High School and went to work at Dime Savings Bank a few years into the Depression.
Hoerner, who went into business after the war but remained in the Army Reserve and rose to the rank of brigadier general, did gather some attention at the ceremonies June 6. In a brief interview on National Public Radio, he explained that he was a second lieutenant on D-Day in charge of 39 men. When asked how many of his men survived that first day, he answered bluntly, “None.”
The interviewer gasped.
When thanked for what he had done, he responded, “It’s thanks to all of us,” and to God.
Another interesting part of Hoerner’s story, though, isn’t about his exploits on the battlefield or that he emerged from the war what many would call a hero with a pile of medals. It’s that he never claimed to be a hero.
In the words of his daughter, Patti Hoerner, he just did what he had to do and then came home, got married, went to college, had kids, went into business and lived his life.
Though he had accomplished enough as a soldier that he had every right to boast, he never did.
In fact, his daughter says, he never talked about it at all. Not even his children and his wife knew what he had done in World War II.
“Who knew, as kids growing up, that over our heads (high in a closet) was a box full of testimonials to his gallantry,” that he had been awarded all those medals for bravery, that he was the second-most decorated soldier from Indiana in the war, Patti Hoerner said.
“He was just Dad, the guy who made hamburgers in the backyard and made us wash the car on Saturday,” she said. “But that’s the way it should be.”
Even when he was inducted into the Officer Candidate School Hall of Fame at Fort Benning, Ga., his family didn’t know the whole story.
It wasn’t until Stephen Ambrose started writing about World War II veterans, and schools and libraries started interviewing veterans for so-called oral histories, that Hoerner’s family learned how highly decorated he was. That was only about seven years ago, Hoerner said.
Even today, though his children now know about his numerous honors, they have no idea why he was given them, what he did to earn them. He doesn’t tell war stories.
It’s typical of veterans of that war. Most veterans had no desire to tell stories or show off or be somebody, Hoerner says.
Hoerner says only that: “I earned them. They’re mine.”
But he adds, “very truthfully, it’s better forgotten.”
Hoerner quips that part of the reason he received medals is that “when you’re the only one standing alive, they have to give the medal to someone. … A lot of men did a lot of high-powered things and got nothing.”
Every couple of years Hoerner returns to Normandy to visit friends he has there, the children of people who were killed in the war, and he always visits the cemeteries, where he ponders the realization that the average age of those in the thousands of graves was 21. “How many scientists, how many college professors, doctors, lawyers, how many presidents of the United States are buried there?” he asks.
“I just did my job,” is all he’ll say of his experiences in the war. “I dwell on saying how happy I am to be here.”
