By Jack Houvouras
HQ 108 | WINTER 2020
I would like to think our cover story this quarter on Hershel “Woody” Williams, the sole surviving Marine from World War II to wear the Medal of Honor, would have pleased two very important people in my life.
The first was my father, Andrew J. Houvouras, whom I lost on Sept. 10, 2003. A gunnery officer in the United States Navy during WWII, his tour of duty saw him take part in several campaigns in the Pacific, including, interestingly enough, the invasion of Iwo Jima. It was there, on the beaches of that small island, that Corporal Woody Williams would distinguish himself through uncommon acts of valor, and later be awarded America’s highest military decoration. My father held Williams in the highest regard and thought everyone in Huntington should hear his story.
The second person was my lifelong friend, Marc Jacobson, whom I lost on Jan. 27, 2020. Marc and I grew up across the street from each other and were teammates on the YMCA swim team in high school. In college, we worked together one summer in a manufacturing plant before he joined the United States Army to serve his country. When Marc was deployed to the Middle East in 1990 as part of the Gulf War, I was frightened for him. I wrote him a letter and promised to put him on the cover of my fledgling magazine if he made it home alive. He did, and I gladly kept my word.
Marc retired from the military after a distinguished 22-year career that saw him earn numerous awards, including the Bronze Star for meritorious achievement in combat. He worked in the private sector for several years before returning to Huntington in 2010.
While here he looked after his aging parents and worked at the VA Medical Center. But sadly, just nine years after his return, Marc was diagnosed with terminal colon cancer. He was just 55 years old when the cruel disease took his life.
I admired Marc for many reasons — he was smart, kind, funny, loyal, outspoken and strong. When he found out he had cancer, he refused to undergo chemotherapy, having seen firsthand what it did to his mother in the final months of her life. He met the disease head on; and when the pain became unbearable, he checked himself into hospice care. Six days later, he was gone. He did not want a funeral. Instead, his final wish was to be buried in a private ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C.
The best way to sum up Marc’s life is to say that he marched to the beat of a different drummer. He was an individualist who lived life on his own terms.
To say that I will miss him is an understatement. I take a modicum of solace in the fact that we shared some quality time in his final months. Each Sunday I would have him over to my home to watch football. I’d fix him pizza (which I burned) or wings or chicken soup, and he would laugh at my poor cooking skills. And while I am crushed by his loss, I know he would never want that for me. Marc would tell me to pick myself up, drive to a bar, have a drink and remember our good times together.
I’ve never considered myself particularly patriotic, but when I reflect on the lives of men like Marc, my father and Woody Williams, I am humbled by all they sacrificed. Each of them was a proud veteran who served his country with distinction. Each of them made a difference in the world. They were three patriots whose lives should never be forgotten.
