In an article published in 1943, this publication declared Harold to be among those who could lay claim to be “the luckiest man in New Guinea”.
The Weekly first met Pte. Harold Herman when he was recovering at the 2/5 Australian General Hospital from combat wounds he suffered while serving in PNG.
Harold’s unit had come under heavy attack in the New Guinea Highlands while on the campaign to take Salamaua on the country’s north coast. Harold took a bullet to his left leg during an exchange with Japanese fighters and the story goes Harold lay all night hugging a grenade, determined that he would not be taken prisoner. Luckily the next morning he was found by Australian troops and evacuated down the track and eventually onto a hospital ship. However by then gangrene had set in and his leg was amputated just below his torso.
Close to death, Harold, who was named after his uncle killed in WWII in Gallipoli in 1915, received 31 litres of blood during 63 transfusions and he swore that as soon as he was able he would donate back every drop and more.
Despite the loss of his leg after the war Harold went on to live a full life. In 1946 he married the woman who would become his wife of 50 years, Norma and the couple went on to have and had three sons, bringing them up in Sydney’s Eastern suburbs.
Harold also went on to honour his promise to donate every drop of blood back to the Red Cross. So appreciated were Harold’s efforts to repay the debt that in the early 2000s he became something of a poster-boy for the organisation encouraging others to give.
After 70 years spent on one leg and at the age of 92 Harold Herman passed away.
On Monday the great-grandfather was farewelled by his family and friends at a funeral service in Woollahra but true to form, attendees were asked not to send flowers but instead donate blood if they were able.
Harold’s passing not only gives us an opportunity to reflect on the great sacrifices made by diggers, who sacrifice so much so we can enjoy the freedoms we have today, but also celebrate a man who lead a full life dedicated to setting a terrific example.
So with his legacy in mind The Weekly would like to encourage all who are able to donate blood that will save lives, just like it saved Harold’s way back when he needed it most.
To find out where you can donate visit the Red Cross website.
Below is Alice Jackson’s article from The Weekly which featured, among others, Pte. Harold Herman in December 1943.
The Luckiest Man in New Guinea
Every soldier in hospital lays claim to the title, ‘Who is the luckiest man in New Guinea?’
I talked to many who claimed the title, but was never able to decide which had the best rights to it.
Cheerily battling their way back to health in the hospital wards, they told me in the most matter-of-fact way stories which, in pre-war days, would have featured in every newspaper in the world.
Here heroism is so common that any man whom you think labelled a hero would think you’d just “gone troppo” to entertain such a wild idea.
Him a hero! Forget it. He’s only “the luckiest man in New Guinea!”
Among the “lucky” men I met was a young officer, always smiling in spite of his broken arm, always cheery as he talked through the plaster clenched teeth of his broken jaw.
“Having a glorious time,” he gritted with a grin.
“They’re wonderful here. It was worth it all just to get such a marvellous break. No pun intended,” he assured me with a whimsical smile.
“How did I come by these impressive trappings? Why, I’m the luckiest man in new Guinea.”
“He was in an air crash,” the sister explains.
“So I was,” he said, “but the pilot got killed, poor chap – and here am I practically wallowing in luxury.”
“Tell me about it,” I urge.
“Nothing to tell,” he says. “We crashed – and next I knew I was sitting in a creek spewing petrol.
“Eventually I go to a C.C.S. (casualty clearing station), and they flew me in here – nothing to it, really.”
“It was seven days before they found him,” sister puts in.
“What did you get to eat?” I demand.
“Oh, I had a pawpaw and a bit.I didn’t feel like eating, anyway” – and the luckiest man in New Guinea waved me a gay farewell with his free arm.
Eleven transfusions
Then there was Pte. Harold Herman, who was sitting up in bed putting the finishing touches to a black felt dog he was making for his mother in Bellevue Hill.
Pte. Herman simply radiates good cheer. The uneven bulge in the sheet of his cot tells the story of an amputated leg.
“How did it happen?” I ask.
“Oh, I stopped a bullet in the left leg. They did the operation here – and are they good! I’ll say they’re marvellous.”
“He had eleven transfusions,” sister murmurs to me.
“How are you feeling, Pte. Herman?”
“Me? Oh, I’m feeling number one – luckiest man in New Guinea, really.”
And there is Pte James Rolan Fisher, from Talbot, Victoria.
Most of his friends had just gone to the mainland on long home leave.
You could see he was counting the days till he’s join them, but his chin was well up.
Perhaps Pte. Fisher IS the luckiest man in New Guinea. It is a miracle he is still alive and well enough to take a short walk outside and sit for a while in the shade.
His was quite a common story.
You hear plenty like it, simply told by men who are just plain Australians who would die rather than admit they have shown superb courage, incredible endurance, miraculous spirit.
“We were out for six days near Salamaua. The [Japanese] led a party of us into a bit of a trap.
“They let us go forward, and then closed in on us.
“We couldn’t get back, and 40 or 50 of us were wounded. I’d collected gunshot wounds in the stomach, but I didn’t reckon I was too bad.
“One of my mates bandaged me, and I and two other chaps decided to try to get back to our own lines to get word to them about it, so they could send a party in for the really badly wounded.
“We took off our boots to deaden the sound, and crawled through the [Japanese] lines and ran right into them.
“We got into a bit of a hole, and the [Japanese] were so near we could have touched them. So we crawled out into the grass.
“We kept on for six days. We hadn’t anything to eat really, though we chewed a few leaves. We sweated a lot, but we didn’t get too weak because we got water.
“We got through to our chaps, but actually we don’t reckon we did anything, because a couple of days after we got out. our men broke through again and picked up the wounded. Still, I’m glad we gave it a go.”
“And how are you now, Private Fisher?”
“Well, when I saw all my mates getting evacuated home I felt a bit blue, but I’ve got nothing to complain about.
“I’m the luckiest man in New Guinea really. The doc. reckons what I’ve been through would have outed most men.”
You can count in their hundreds the Private Fishers and Hermans and the smiling young officers who claim the proud title of “Luckiest Man in New Guinea.”
You can see why I failed to decide just who really had the fairest claim to it.
To find out where you can donate visit the Red Cross website.
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