In an understatement not unusual for a veteran of World War II, Pharmacist’s Mate Second Class Timothy E. Hubert characteristically referred to one of the bloodiest and most costly battles in United States history in casual terms when composing a letter to his younger brother from a hospital ship, not far from where the “skirmish” continued to rage for over a month.

Tim had already earned his Purple Heart on D-Day, and was recovering from the temporary paralysis that had gripped him when he and others from Company A, Fourth Medical Battalion, Fourth Marine Division were hit by a mortar shell while treating wounded Marines in and around a large shell crater, just three hours after sinking their feet into the sand and ash that blanketed the landing beach on Iwo Jima:

“I knew I was hit but I wanted to lay down flat in case of another one, but to my dismay I couldn’t move my legs out from under me, try as I might. About that time another burst and I felt a sail into my shoulder high up near the neck. Well, there I was, half-paralyzed and not even in a foxhole.”

Realizing he needed some sort of shelter to survive, the wounded corpsman tried to dig himself a hole with his hands; because of the inability to move his body from the waist down, the consistency of the sandy terrain and the activity of the ongoing battle surrounding him, his attempts proved futile. Hours later, two Marines (identified only as “good Samaritans” in Tim’s letter to his brother) came by and took the time to dig a trench and put Tim in it; there he remained for six hours awaiting evacuation, while shells continued to rain down around him.

He was one of the fortunate ones, a fact for which he didn’t have to look far to find evidence.

A young man from Statesboro, Georgia – Hospital Apprentice First Class John F. Darley, Jr. – lay just a few feet away, wounded fatally by the same blast that had paralyzed Tim. Prior to the explosion, the pair had engaged in an affable exchange regarding which of them would take the forward position on a stretcher they were about to pick up on their way to make a retrieval. Each young man lobbied to go first, volunteering to presumably make himself the initial target for a potential hail of gunfire. Finally, Tim took the forward position, and was moments later knocked on his face while crouching down with the stretcher in one hand and an entrenching tool in the other.

The willowy, fresh-faced Darley, barely out of his teens and already a veteran of the D-Day invasion at Normandy, had earlier in the day refused evacuation for a “million dollar” injury to his left arm. To the men in their unit, young John Darley’s bravery made him one of the heroes of Iwo Jima – one corpsman telling John’s grieving parents in a letter that he had “never seen a fellow with greater courage and more faith” than their son.

John, Tim, and the others on their medical team had carried out their life-saving mission in the face of a violent barrage of mortar and artillery fire; now, with the explosion of one shell, three of the six lay injured. A fourth - the boy from Georgia who had chosen to remain on Iwo Jima to help his buddies - was dead.

In his pocket, Tim carried with him a now blood-stained letter he’d received during the war from his new bride, who was home surviving the winter of 1944-45 in Wisconsin with the couple’s first child, Toni Jo. Charlotte Hubert couldn’t have imagined the physical and mental challenges her young husband was facing; she didn’t even know where he was.

Early each morning before sunrise, Charlotte donned her own set of dog tags and boarded an old school bus equipped with cold metal seats for the thirty-six mile, two-hour ride to work at the Badger Ordinance ammunitions plant in Baraboo. She left Toni Jo in the care of her mother, just as the couple had done earlier in 1944 when Charlotte accompanied Tim to Camp Pendleton. In California, Tim had received training with Charlotte nearby; the day he was shipped out to Camp Maui with the Fourth Marine Division, she was not allowed to send him off.

For her twelve-hour days while employed at Badger Ordinance, Charlotte was presented with a medal - the Army-Navy Production Award Emblem - while half-way around the globe her husband, whose whereabouts remained a mystery, was earning a medal of his own. 

The young corpsman from Wisconsin lay paralyzed in the hot sand and ash of Iwo Jima for nearly an entire day, with fourteen shrapnel wounds of various sizes and shapes – one nearly as large as a baseball – peppering his body and rendering him unable to move his legs. Fighting to remain conscious and reasoning that in his position he might be assumed dead, he made the effort to exchange words with numerous corpsmen throughout the day as they hurried by him on their way to treat others with more serious wounds – an order of priority he well understood. Several promised to return for him, but as the hours passed, it seemed no one would be able to. 

Close to eight hours after feeling the impact of the first explosion that had penetrated his flesh, he was finally picked up and taken to the area where casualties were evacuated from the island – with Charlotte’s letter still in his pocket, and a newly-formed hole in his helmet:

“On my way I had to vomit so I took off my helmet for a receptacle, only to discover it wouldn’t hold it because it had a nice hole about the size of a finger right through the top. There was a corresponding hole in the liner but there wasn’t a corresponding hole in my head – thank God.”

Even the brutality that was Iwo Jima did not suppress a sense of humor in many of its temporary occupants.

Tim, like many other veterans, suffered hearing loss from his experience on Iwo Jima. This was particularly inconvenient for him, because he was an accomplished guitarist - performing in the service with many celebrities and accompanying fellow sailors in groups like Corona Naval Hospital’s Easterners; in fact, he would spend the remainder of his life as a professional musician, appearing with a diverse resume of entertainers, from The Lennon Sisters to Louis Armstrong.

After recovering from his wounds, PhM2c Timothy E. Hubert was honorably discharged from the United States Navy on December 4th, 1945, carrying with him the vivid memories of the sights and sounds of Iwo Jima and their physical manifestations - uncomfortable souvenirs he would live with for over fifty years. He also carried with him a keen sense of the miracle of his survival.

Finally settling in Mauston, Wisconsin, Tim and Charlotte soon had a second child, who was named Timothy Raymond. The younger Tim’s middle name was chosen to honor a young man in the Fifth Marine Division, 28th Regiment who was gunned down on Iwo Jima while helping his wounded commanding officer to safety on D-Day+12. Like John Darley, he was just twenty years-old. Like Tim Hubert, they shared the same last name.

Corporal Raymond J. Hubert was Navy Corpsman Tim Hubert’s first cousin, also from Tim’s central Wisconsin hometown of Tomah.

Trained first as a paramarine and then to use a flamethrower, Ray Hubert had survived other battles in the Pacific, but he was not to survive the battle for the tiny island of Iwo Jima. 

Tim was not only musically talented; he was equally talented in the visual arts. In Mauston, he started a sign business and remained in that business until his death. Among his many long-time clients was a young lawyer from Elroy, who would eventually become Secretary of Health and Human Services in the administration of President George W. Bush – former Wisconsin governor Tommy G. Thompson. Residents and visitors of Wisconsin may remember the Kickapoo Oil Company, and the face of its signature Kickapoo Indian in a colorful headdresswhich was seen on billboards in numerous communities across the state; most do not know that the Indian was a creation of Tim Hubert, and that the former Navy Corpsman painted each one by hand, until he trained his employees to assist him in the task.

Those who knew Tim well would describe him not only as an extraordinarily talented individual, but also as a man of unwavering integrity and faithfulness, whose example was an inspiration to many with whom he came in contact. There is little question that his experience in the Pacific war impressed upon him the value and fragility of life itself. Active in his church, humble to a fault and generous beyond his means, he led a full and exemplary post-war life, never seeming to credit himself for what a personal and professional success he had been.

If he saved anyone’s life or limb on Iwo Jima – which is likely - he never mentioned it. Like many of his fellow corpsmen, as far as he was concerned, he was just doing his job.

The Huberts were married for over fifty years, raising five children. Charlotte, an accomplished jazz vocalist with a warm and wonderful voice, worked beside her husband throughout their lives. They were at home together when he died on July 6th, 1996.

In a touching gesture of respect, then-Governor Thompson, who had been touring the state on business, interrupted his trip and drove many miles out of his way to say goodbye to his friend – the sign painter, musician, and veteran of Iwo Jima.

Tim Hubert’s body is buried in St. Patrick’s Catholic Cemetery in Mauston, Wisconsin.