The Story of Jim McQueen
In just three more years this story will be fifty years old. Most of the principle characters have left this life and won’t mind if I use their names. Those who still live aren’t going to read this anyway, probably.
By the time I was drafted into the US Army in 1965, I was already experienced in auto mechanics, especially carburetors, since (thanks to my cousin Jim Russell) I had worked for months on a carburetor rebuild assembly line near San Jose, California.
As soon as I finished Basic Training, I was assigned to the 185th Engineer Company HM as a Fuel and Electrical Specialist (MOS 63 Golf). Military types will know what I’m talking about--the rest of you will have to pick it up on your own. There isn’t enough space here to explain all the military abbreviations.
This Engineer unit was set up to overhaul vehicles for the Army. Jeeps, trucks, tanks, etc including engines, transmissions, and accessories. In our shop in Granite City, Illinois, we had separate assembly lines for teardown, cleaning, repairing, assembling, and testing. I was immediately assigned to a Clayton 250 dynamometer when the shop officer found out I had run one before. He had three dynos and only one person qualified to run one. I was a buck Private, and I was given a Specialist 4th Class for my assistant.
The Spec 4 wasn’t too happy being assigned to a Private as an assistant, but I pointed out that there was one more dyno needing an operator, and if he stuck with me for a while, I could get him qualified for his own machine, which is how it worked out in a few weeks.
We tested mostly six cylinder 82 HP Dodge engines for 3/4 ton weapons carriers, but sometimes we would do a tank engine just to see if we could. The dynos were rated for 250 HP and an M-60 tank engine (air-cooled V12 cylinder diesels) put out around 1200 HP. So we could test them at partial throttle only. Basically we just made sure they had oil pressure and didn’t make any unusual noises.
I was at Granite City Army Depot from June of 1965 to September of that year. Across the Mississippi River in St. Louis they were building the stainless steel arch. They were working up from both sides with a bridge connecting the two pillars until they met at the top. But we never got to stay for the finish.
We got orders in September that the whole company was being shipped overseas. The destination was a secret, but we all knew that President Johnson was sending many thousands of Marines, soldiers and sailors to Vietnam as he prepared to widen the war effort there. Our company, with all of our equipment, was loaded onto a special train in downtown St. Louis to travel across country to Oakland, California, to board a troop ship headed west across the Pacific ocean.
When I realized that I was on the Santa Fe tracks, I wrote a note to my mother and another to my girlfriend, taped them to a brand new can of shaving cream, and threw it across the road into my mother’s yard at 1430 E. Santa Fe Dr. in Merced, CA, at about 10:00 PM as the train flew by.
Before we go to sea, though, let me introduce you to my friend, Jim McQueen. I met him on a lazy Sunday afternoon as he had just been assigned to the company. He was about 6’ 8” tall, wore size 14 boots, he was very black, and had been a star wrestler in High School. After introductions, we found out he had joined for the training in mechanics school and had just finished training in Fuel and Electric Repairman. I welcomed him and told him we would be working together in the shop.
Somebody challenged him to a wrestling match, so some blankets were tossed on the floor, and he was soon winning against all comers. I sat back and watched, realizing that he was using his strength to overcome his opponents and not technical skills. He was tiring visibly, so after several others had lost, I got in line to try my chances. It was actually a close match, and nobody was gaining until finally Jim ran out of wind and I was able to pin him with one arm held down by my legs and the other stretched out by my arms. His arm span wasn’t much less than my total height. We became good friends after that. I promised him a rematch someday when he was fresh, but we never got around to it.
The train pulled up next to the troopship on the dock at Oakland Army Terminal, and we marched off the train, across the dock, and onto the USS Gen. J. C. Breckenridge. The ship had been used in the First World War, the Second World War, the Korean War, and now had been taken out of mothballs for the Vietnam War. The ship belonged to the US Army, but was operated by a US Navy crew of about 27 sailors. As we went under the Golden Gate Bridge at dawn there were about 5000 soldiers and Marines onboard the 600 ft. ship. Every square inch was occupied, including the brig, and we were told that anybody causing trouble would be thrown overboard. I think they meant it!
The cruise took two weeks, most of it pure boredom, except for a storm near Midway where we were all put below decks, with the propellers coming out of the water on the swells and rattling the whole ship.
Also somewhere halfway across, all our orders were opened, and we found out we were headed for Okinawa--at least the 185th Engr. Co. On the ship as a whole, 3000 got orders to Vietnam, and 2000 to Okinawa or the Philippines. Those going into combat areas got their white socks and skivvies changed to OD, and their gold brass and insignia changed to black.
The ship docked at Naha harbor and we marched off the ship, across the Navy Base and near the front gate we were loaded onto buses. We were unloaded right in front of our barracks at Machinato, an airfield for the Japanese in WWII, but converted into a maintenance base. It had been unused since the Korean War, but we got to cut off the locks and seals and open it back up.
We soon had our equipment moved into the large hangers, and were rebuilding and testing engines again. I was taken off dynos and put on a carburetor test engine, to check and adjust the carburetors as they were rebuilt. We had two engines for test beds--one a large Chrome-Moly GM truck engine for big carburetors, and a smaller six cylinder engine for little carburetors. The officers were talking about getting separate engines for every type of carburetor and when I overheard the conversation, I asked why we don’t use adapter manifolds for the engines we have.
They said they didn’t have any and didn’t know where to get any, so I offered to draw up plans that the machine shop could use to make some for us. I drew up three different manifold plans--one four barrel to two barrel, one two barrel to single barrel, and one with a 90° bend for the side draft M-151 Jeep carburetors. My one year of Mechanical Engineering at Walla Walla College finally got put to use!
The machine shop cut and welded these adapters together, and we could test any carburetor the Army had on just our two engines. They gave me a Zero Defect award for the idea. I still have the Zero Defect Certificate with my middle initial wrong! Oh, well, that’s the Army way!
Our shop was a cozy little family for about a year, with a lot of respect for each other and our various skills. Then came COSTAR.
Some time in 1966, someone in the Army had the bright idea of having the shops become the company unit. One the surface it seems like it might work, but it was a morale killer. Instead of being the 185th Engineer Company, we became the 555th Maintenance Company. Our shop officer was from a Signal unit (radios and electronics), some of our NCOs were from Ordinance units (guns and bombs?), and I ended up being one of the few Engineers in the shop, along with Jim McQueen and another good buddy, Al Williams.
Our Officer in Charge was CWO4 Gregory, who was from Georgia. He was very competent in mechanical knowhow, with auto mechanic experience prior to his Army service, but we soon started having personality clashes. I never did knuckle under to strict military discipline, expecting some respect for my knowledge and skills, as well as my rank. CWO4 Gregory went strictly by the book. So I went to the library and studied the book.
Orders came down from the Base Commander that soldiers were not looking military enough coming back to their barracks after work, so henceforth all personnel would march back to their barracks in company formation. The first day after work a Signal Captain ordered me to fall into his Signal unit and march back with his men. I complied with the order, but when I was dismissed at my barracks, I went directly to my First Sergeant and told him I had been forced to march with a Signal unit. I knew that was against regulations, and it was sweet to hear the First Sergeant call up the officer and chew him out for messing with his Engineer soldier.
It was good to learn that a sergeant can give an officer hell when he’s done something wrong. The next day I marched back behind the Signal unit, one file wide and one rank deep. Called myself to attention, commanded myself to forward march, and looked damned military doing it. The officer would not look at me.
As the war intensified, our schedule changed to 10 hours a day, six days a week, and then soon to 12 hours a day, seven days a week. Soon everyone was suffering from sleep deprivation and fatigue.
I found an Army regulation that required commanders to release the troops for one hour each Sunday for worship services if requested. So even though my dogtag listed my religion as agnostic, I requested an hour off each Sunday, and spread the word. The next Sunday we all showed up at the chapel to hear a sermon by the Chaplain. Some of us took advantage to nap a little, but we tried to pay attention, and I’m sure he was gratified at the sudden interest in his services.
Even with that, I got caught by the Shop Officer dozing off between carburetors, and he kicked my foot and told me to not let him catch me asleep again. Two soldiers climbed up the fire escape onto the roof and were caught sleeping by a passing helicopter, who called back to the base to report them. Morale was getting pretty bad.
One evening after work Jim McQueen asked me to come into the Platoon Sergeant’s room. Sgt. Stroman was a big black man, my Squad Leader, and a friend. They told me that CWO4 Gregory had filed court martial charges against McQueen for inefficiency! Inefficiency! It was obvious that Mr Gregory’s southern background was coming out. Jim McQueen was the only black in the shop, and Mr. Gregory* intended to make his shop lily white.
CWO4 Gregory had sat at his desk all one day watching Jim McQueen and noting time and duration for every time he talked to his buddy next to him, got up to go to the bathroom, got a drink of water, or stopped twisting his screwdriver as he tore down carburetors and rebuilt them. Then he filed the charges for court martial.
After a lot of discussion, we decided to file counter charges, stating that all of us in the shop would be inefficient if subjected to the same scrutiny, and his real motive was to remove the last black man in his shop. After we composed the letter, Sgt. Stroman typed them up and we all signed them. Sgt. Stroman filed the paper with the court the next day.
As I remember, the trial was set for a week later. A couple of days later Sgt. Scoggins, who I just barely knew (he worked in the office with the Shop Officer) came over to me at work and asked if I could check the power steering out on his Ford. He said he had gotten permission for me to take the car off base that after noon and drive it around to see if I could find the trouble. That seemed a little strange, but hey, an afternoon off work driving around town wasn’t something to pass up, so after lunch I drove off base and toured the island.
The only trouble I found was it was a little low on fluid, and I readjusted the belt a little tighter, but there really wasn’t a thing wrong with it. When I took the car back that evening and explained that it seemed good to me, he said something noncommittal like “I thought so” and thanked me.
The next morning my buddy Al Williams told me that while I was gone, they had held a shop meeting and CWO4 Gregory explained the charges he had filed on McQueen. Spec 5 Williams warned me that CWO4 Gregory would probably try to get me to pull my counter charges. About ten o’clock that morning he came out and said he wanted to talk to me.
There were several rows of engines crated in steel boxes nearby, and he led me in between the rows so nobody could see or hear us. He told me that his charges were true and that he wanted me to rescind my papers. I said no, that I knew his charges were true, but they were true for all of us, and I thought Jim had been singled out for his color.
He denied the racism charge, and pointed out that he had awakened me when I fell asleep, implicitly threatening me. I told him he just made my point, and that to be fair he should charge me too, as well as all of us who worked in his shop. We were all inefficient, because nobody could work those hours and not be inefficient some of the time. He excused me to return to work, and turned on his heels and left for his office.
When I returned to work my buddy Al Williams asked how it went, so I told him I had asked for a court martial myself and refused to retract my papers. He quietly spread the word around the shop, and we waited to see what would happen.
After work, when I returned to the barracks, I was met by Spec 4 McQueen, Sgt. Stroman, and another black friend of theirs from another company. They were in high spirits as they informed me that all charges against Jim had been withdrawn, and there would be no court martial. They proposed that we all go out on the town and celebrate.
We all piled into a skoshi* cab and rode to Koza, Okinawa, a town just behind Kadena Air Force Base which pretty much consisted of bars and brothels. They took me to B C Street, which was lined with bars on both sides. Interestingly, there was an unspoken understanding that the bars on the left side were for whites and the bars on the right side were for blacks.
I became nervous when they got out on the right side, paid the cab driver, and towed me into the Kentucky Club. Inside the dark interior I could see scores of eyes following me to my seat. My black friends went from table to table telling the story of why we were there, and soon there were lots of smiles and handshakes for me, and I had a lot of drinks that night but didn’t have to buy even one for myself.
In spite of all the whiskey I drank, I still remember that night vividly. I was surprised to see a couple of Native American soldiers in the bar and I realized that they shared bars with the black soldiers. That had never occurred to me before, but it made sense. Most surprising, though, was the uneasy feeling I got being the minority person for one of the few times in my life. Even though I knew I was among friends, and we were having a great time, there still was a feeling of being out of place, of not really being part of the group.
I make it a point now of being the first to welcome the new guy into any group I’m in, especially if he is in a minority group. I was nervous being in a minority temporarily--how much harder to always be the different guy, always on the outside.
To his credit, CWO4 Gregory never mentioned it again to me, and no reprisals or other persecution came my way. A week or so later somebody put some spark plug cleaner abrasive in his gas tank, but he spotted some around the opening, drained and cleaned the tank, and no harm was done. I was under suspicion at first, but I had no axe to grind anymore, having won the battle, and since he lived off base, I really had no opportunity if I had wanted to. Which I didn’t.
After I got out of the Army in 1967 I lost track of all of my buddies. Al Williams briefly met me in Southern California on his way back to Steubenville, OH, his home town. We haven’t seen each other since.
Shortly afterward, the US Army Records center in St. Louis burned down and many of my official records were lost. Luckily I kept copies of most of them in a folder and was able to prove my service later to get a Veterans loan on a house.
The 185th Engineer Company HM* never returned from duty on Okinawa. The unit was disbanded, and I can’t find any records that it ever existed now.
At the time, I was sure I hated the Army for interrupting my life, but later I came to realize that I was changed by my service, mostly for the better. For sure I went in a boy and came out a man, with far more self assurance and confidence. Most importantly, I developed a healthy disrespect for authority. If you want my respect now, be prepared to earn it!
- Warrant Officers are technical ranks between Non Commissioned Officers (Sergeants) and Commissioned Officers (Lieutenants and up) There are four levels, and all are addressed as Mister rather than Sir.
- Skoshi cabs were small taxis, mostly Toyota Coronas, which were ubiquitous on the island of Okinawa. The word comes from the Japanese word sukoshi, meaning “little”. I developed a real appreciation for how tough these Toyotas were, and bought several after I returned to the states.
- HM for Heavy Maintenance, as opposed to Combat Engineers. The unit was part of the 2nd Logistical Command, a third echelon support group based on Okinawa.
June 2, 2013
Don Rogers
