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the orland park prairie | November 7, 2019 | 7
WWII bombers, Manhattan Project, recognition
the bombers as a backup pilot,
his main role was that
of an engineer, doing what
he could to patch up planes
at 30,000 feet.
“The irony of the thing
is instead of me shooting
down the Japanese, the
Germans were shooting
me down, as it turned out,”
Nicholson said.
Everything goes black
As an engineer on a
bomber, Nicholson said
every day was “an adventure.”
Any given run might
mean flying all the way to
Berlin, getting shot up to
such a degree that the plane
had to crash-land in France
but getting no credit for it
because they failed to drop
a payload on the target.
“It was never normal,
but you got oblivious to
the whole thing,” Nicholson
said. “You did what
you had to do. You almost
went through the motions
without giving it too much
thought.”
Whether credited or not,
Nicholson was regularly
airborne in turbulent skies,
the worst of it over Berlin
and the Ruhr valley, which
were heavily fortified, especially
as the Germans
pulled back their anti-aircraft
guns to defend those
locations.
“The Germans had so
many guns in some of these
targets, and they were controlled
by radar,” Nicholson
recalled. “They could
have 100 guns, all pointed
at the same spot in the sky
— or 1,000. And they just
go boom, boom, boom,
boom, like that.
“It would wind up like a
cube, above you and below
you, left of you, right of
you, in front of you, to the
back of you. The whole sky
would just turn black, just
explode all at one time, not
one shell but thousands at
“I made it through several single
incidents where I should have
been killed long ago.”
William “Bill” Nicholson — Orland Park resident,
on his service during World War II
one time.
“Nothing comes out of
that cube. We were behind
that one time, where right
in front of us it occurred.
We flew right through all
of the black smoke from
the explosions. You looked
ahead [and] you could see
from the bottom of that
cube, wheels and wings
and airplanes, people falling
out, all just blown up.
When we came out of that
cube on the other end, there
was a big space between us
and the next airplane, way
up there. It just wiped them
all out, took them all out.
… They’re no longer there.
The ones right in front of
you just disappeared.”
Nicholson never stopped
long enough to think about
it at the time.
“It never bothered me,”
he said. “What could I do
about it? It’s just another
day. This is what happens.
We’re lucky; they weren’t.
“I made it through several
single incidents where
I should have been killed
long ago.”
The hazards in the sky
were endless.
“You’re on oxygen,”
Nicholson said. “Oxygen
gets shot up, you die. You
don’t have anything to
breathe. The heated suits,
they get shot up, you freeze.
Besides, the Germans were
shooting at you all the time
anyhow.
“There were a few things
you had to overcome.”
Still, Nicholson kept getting
on the planes.
“I was always positive
we’ll make it through,” he
said. “This may sound silly
— and I thought of this
several times since — I was
never scared. I was never
afraid. I was comfortable
flying in aircraft.”
Part of that comfort came
from having a crew Nicholson
described as “family,”
which helps to explain
why he was upset to be
pulled from it at one point
to be given a gig as a flight
instructor, away from the
action, where he was seen
as more valuable. But even
there, Nicholson encountered
dangers, flying “war
weary” planes — aircraft
too battered to be effective
on a mission, sent back for
training — with green recruits.
“I’m going to be flying
with green guys with
equipment that’s terrible,”
Nicholson said. “I’m taking
a big chance.”
Nicholson learned six
weeks later that the crew
from which he was taken
was shot down over the
Adriatic Sea. All on the aircraft
perished.
“That was an early, early
miracle — an angel that I
had on my shoulder,” Nicholson
said.
Nicholson stopped complaining
about his role after
that but still longed to be
back on a crew.
“The colonel kept warning
us, ‘You screw up, and
you’re going to get on a
crew the next day,’” Nicholson
recalled. “I wanted
to go. So, myself and one
other guy didn’t quite steal
a Jeep, but it’s like stealing
a Jeep. We took the
sergeant major’s Jeep from
the noncommissioned officer’s
club, and I took it and
drove it around the base
for about 20 minutes, passing
MPs. We thought the
warning would be out and
they’d be looking for us.
Nobody bothered.
“So, we agreed, me and
this other guy, we were going
to have to wreck this
Jeep a little bit. We put it in
low gear, and we ran it into
a light pole — very lightly,
didn’t do much damage,
hardly anything. And then
we just sat there and waited
for the MPs.”
They found themselves
in front of a colonel who
berated them and then put
the duo on a crew together
as punishment — just as
they had hoped.
“In four weeks we were
on our way east,” Nicholson
said. “I had to steal a
Jeep to do it. I don’t brag
about it. It is kind of goofy.
I could have been put in
a jail, dishonorable discharge.
I was put on a crew.
That was the worst thing
you could threaten a guy
with — you’re going to go
get shot at. And that’s what
I wanted.
“I don’t know why I’m
alive.”
Putting down roots
While serving, Nicholson
worked to keep his
mind fresh in math, physics
and chemistry, with textbooks
offered by the Army.
He rose to the rank of technical
sergeant. And when
he was discharged, he went
to the Illinois Institute of
Technology.
“Boy, did we learn,”
Nicholson said. “It was the
hardest work I ever did in
my life.”
He started seeing Loretta,
the two married and ultimately
had five children,
passing on Nicholson’s
passion for engineering.
“I’m the first one in my
huge family to go to college,”
Nicholson said. “I
feel like I might have inspired
somebody, motivated
them.”
Nicholson continued to
work, spending years in
Geneva, Switzerland, for
his last job, with Amoco,
manufacturing and marketing
chemicals to all of Europe,
the Middle East, Africa
and several Communist
countries. When that
wrapped up, he and Loretta
decided to put down their
roots in Orland Park, where
they lived years prior.
They arranged for a
home to be built, moved
back in 1988, and the rest is
mostly history.
But almost three decades
in, Nicholson received a
notice that anyone with an
in-ground sprinkler system
has to have a backflow
valve inspected and recertified
annually. Nicholson
called Chicago Backflow
Inc. of Alsip for prices, and
it ended up being the start
of a special relationship.
The company sent inspector
John Keating to
Nicholson’s home for a survey.
The two started talking
about old war stories, and
the inspector went back
to the office and told CBI
President Doug Eisenhauer
of Nicholson. Eisenhauer
told Keating to go back and
do the job, no charge.
“I just couldn’t believe
it,” Nicholson said. “Why
would anybody do that for
me?”
The relationship continued
when Chicago Backflow
invited Nicholson to
its Christmas party, “a hell
of a Christmas party,” according
to Nicholson.
“We just formed a relationship
in that sense,”
Eisenhauer said. “Everybody’s
thrilled every time
his name comes up.”
The icing on the proverbial
cake came when Chicago
Backflow, season ticket
holders with the Chicago
Blackhawks, asked if they
could nominate Nicholson
to be honored at center ice
as Jim Cornelison sang the
national anthem during a
Sept. 25 game. The company
ended up getting tickets
for Bill, Loretta and more
of the family, with children,
grandchildren and greatgrandchildren
ultimately
seeing him honored. Chicago
Backflow sent a limo
to pick them up and four
employees who helped
them get around. CBI also
treated them to dinner.
“Now, that’s generosity,”
Nicholson said. “No one’s
ever done that for me.”
Those moments on the
ice were hard to describe.
“It was awesome,” Nicholson
said. “I was almost
paralyzed.
“The whole thing was
kind of like a blur. I was
proud, a bit emotional. ... It
was a night to remember.”
For Adamo, who took an
Honor Flight with her father
a few years ago, it does
not get much better than
seeing him recognized.
“He deserves all the recognition
he’s getting and
more,” Adamo said. “He’s
served his country well.
He’s a real patriot.”