I posted this a while back on ARFCOM, but thought here on Memorial Day I should post it here for the SW crowd.
I once volunteered at a local museum that sometimes served as the repository of last resort for executors or relatives who didn't know what to do with their loved one's mementos but knew they were too historically valuable to simply throw out. These often took the form of veteran's service records, medals, insignia, and correspondence that had been sent in or dropped off at the front desk without supporting information. My job was to sort the material, arrange it in archival housing, describe it and put it in a database.
John Arthur Hildebrand, 1922-1941
These packets of memories were often photos taken in shattered European towns and snapshots of exotic ports in the Pacific, clippings, letters from sweethearts, and often, the dreaded, much folded and tattered telegram that began, "The Secretary of War has asked me to express his deep regret…." One of the most poignant, most emotionally laden of these mementos of young lives lost that I encountered was a simple set of keys on a chain with a fob that identified the owner, John Hildebrand, a Fireman First Class on the USS California.
A photo of Hildebrand and his set of keys.
John Arthur Hildebrand, Jr. was born May 3, 1922, in a tiny town in Augusta County, Virginia. Maybe to escape the Depression-era mountains of Virginia and wanting to see the world, Hildebrand took the train to Richmond in the summer of 1940 and enlisted in the U.S. Navy very soon after turning eighteen. He was assigned to the USS California. One of his last letters home to his parents expressed the hope he could get some leave and be back in Virginia by Christmas, 1941, but that was not to happen.
The California was a battleship, commissioned in 1921. Armed with a formidable battery of twelve 14-inch guns, for many years she was the flagship of the Hawaii-based U.S. Pacific Fleet.
On the morning of December 7, 1941, the California was among the U.S. Navy assets tied up on "Battleship Row" in the extensive Navy base called Pearl Harbor. She was hit by two Japanese torpedoes and an aerial bomb that morning that did extensive damage and forced the ship to be abandoned, after which it gradually sank over the next two days.
The burning and sinking California, December 7, 1941.
Rushing to his station that bloody morning, Hildebrand jammed a set of keys in his pocket. They were padlock keys and may have had to do with securing equipment or tools in his work area. Their importance to his job was emphasized by a clip on the chain so the keys could be secured to his belt or clothing, and on the chain was also a fob that had pressed into the metal, "U.S.S. Cal. - John Hildebrand – B Div."
As a Fireman, Hildebrand's duty station would have probably been below in a lower compartment when the ship was ripped up by explosions, starting with the two torpedo hits. We can only imagine Hildebrand's last moments or hours in the confusion, flame and darkness deep in the torn and burning battleship. He was one of 102 sailors who died on board the California that day.
The California wasn't patched, pumped out and raised from the water of Pearl Harbor until March, 1942, at which time Hildebrand's body was recovered and presumably identified by this key chain in his pocket. This was the same set of keys that were the only personal effects returned to his parents since everything else he had was in the sunken California for four months. His body was first buried in Halawa Naval Cemetery which was hurriedly established the day after the Pearl Harbor attack. Hildebrand's remains were eventually brought back to Virginia, where he is buried beside his parents in the town cemetery of Staunton. A family member donated the keys and letters and photos of the young smiling sailor to the museum.
The enormity of this little set of keys was crushing. The last gasp of this poor nineteen-year-old kid, the keys that may have been the most important thing on the last day of his short life and a memento of such immediacy of this pivotal moment in American history sat on my desk in front of me. It made me think about all the young Americans whose lives ended so violently and so soon in the service of our country, and just for a minute and against all dispassionate museum norms, policies, and good practices, I sat quietly and held the keyring between my hands and felt tears well up in my eyes.
The grave of John Hildebrand in Staunton, Virginia.
So, look on the photos of John Hildebrand's smiling face and look at the keys retrieved from his pocket so many years ago, and remember it was kids like this that ensured the world we live in today. We live in an imperfect country, sure, and one with a lot of problems, but I know, as did John Hildebrand, it is still the best place in the world and sometimes worth fighting for and sometimes worth dying for.
Here's to you, John Hildebrand, and all your brothers and sisters in arms who defend us today as you did in 1941.
I once volunteered at a local museum that sometimes served as the repository of last resort for executors or relatives who didn't know what to do with their loved one's mementos but knew they were too historically valuable to simply throw out. These often took the form of veteran's service records, medals, insignia, and correspondence that had been sent in or dropped off at the front desk without supporting information. My job was to sort the material, arrange it in archival housing, describe it and put it in a database.
John Arthur Hildebrand, 1922-1941
These packets of memories were often photos taken in shattered European towns and snapshots of exotic ports in the Pacific, clippings, letters from sweethearts, and often, the dreaded, much folded and tattered telegram that began, "The Secretary of War has asked me to express his deep regret…." One of the most poignant, most emotionally laden of these mementos of young lives lost that I encountered was a simple set of keys on a chain with a fob that identified the owner, John Hildebrand, a Fireman First Class on the USS California.
A photo of Hildebrand and his set of keys.
John Arthur Hildebrand, Jr. was born May 3, 1922, in a tiny town in Augusta County, Virginia. Maybe to escape the Depression-era mountains of Virginia and wanting to see the world, Hildebrand took the train to Richmond in the summer of 1940 and enlisted in the U.S. Navy very soon after turning eighteen. He was assigned to the USS California. One of his last letters home to his parents expressed the hope he could get some leave and be back in Virginia by Christmas, 1941, but that was not to happen.
The California was a battleship, commissioned in 1921. Armed with a formidable battery of twelve 14-inch guns, for many years she was the flagship of the Hawaii-based U.S. Pacific Fleet.
On the morning of December 7, 1941, the California was among the U.S. Navy assets tied up on "Battleship Row" in the extensive Navy base called Pearl Harbor. She was hit by two Japanese torpedoes and an aerial bomb that morning that did extensive damage and forced the ship to be abandoned, after which it gradually sank over the next two days.
The burning and sinking California, December 7, 1941.
Rushing to his station that bloody morning, Hildebrand jammed a set of keys in his pocket. They were padlock keys and may have had to do with securing equipment or tools in his work area. Their importance to his job was emphasized by a clip on the chain so the keys could be secured to his belt or clothing, and on the chain was also a fob that had pressed into the metal, "U.S.S. Cal. - John Hildebrand – B Div."
As a Fireman, Hildebrand's duty station would have probably been below in a lower compartment when the ship was ripped up by explosions, starting with the two torpedo hits. We can only imagine Hildebrand's last moments or hours in the confusion, flame and darkness deep in the torn and burning battleship. He was one of 102 sailors who died on board the California that day.
The California wasn't patched, pumped out and raised from the water of Pearl Harbor until March, 1942, at which time Hildebrand's body was recovered and presumably identified by this key chain in his pocket. This was the same set of keys that were the only personal effects returned to his parents since everything else he had was in the sunken California for four months. His body was first buried in Halawa Naval Cemetery which was hurriedly established the day after the Pearl Harbor attack. Hildebrand's remains were eventually brought back to Virginia, where he is buried beside his parents in the town cemetery of Staunton. A family member donated the keys and letters and photos of the young smiling sailor to the museum.
The enormity of this little set of keys was crushing. The last gasp of this poor nineteen-year-old kid, the keys that may have been the most important thing on the last day of his short life and a memento of such immediacy of this pivotal moment in American history sat on my desk in front of me. It made me think about all the young Americans whose lives ended so violently and so soon in the service of our country, and just for a minute and against all dispassionate museum norms, policies, and good practices, I sat quietly and held the keyring between my hands and felt tears well up in my eyes.
The grave of John Hildebrand in Staunton, Virginia.
So, look on the photos of John Hildebrand's smiling face and look at the keys retrieved from his pocket so many years ago, and remember it was kids like this that ensured the world we live in today. We live in an imperfect country, sure, and one with a lot of problems, but I know, as did John Hildebrand, it is still the best place in the world and sometimes worth fighting for and sometimes worth dying for.
Here's to you, John Hildebrand, and all your brothers and sisters in arms who defend us today as you did in 1941.
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