Brother Fish (97 page)

The air had suddenly became quite cool. ‘My goodness, it's getting late. Jack, do you mind if we continue this at some other time?'

I'm sure I could have happily listened to her all night, but I nodded – the autumn sun was beginning to set and a slightly chilly breeze was blowing in from the sea. I couldn't believe I'd been listening for nearly two hours. ‘Thank you – but you will promise to tell me more, won't you, Countess?'

‘Of course – if you wish, Jack. I've come this far. There is simply no point in keeping the remainder from the two of you.'

CHAPTER TWENTY

Jimmy at the White House

Jimmy wrote several more letters before his return but despite his gregarious nature he didn't really care to talk much about himself. I dearly wished I'd been with him when he received his decoration – not just to share the moment with him, but so I could have picked up all the bits'n'pieces that make such occasions unique. Anyway, over a long period I think I've got most of it in place.

What Jimmy had hoped would be a couple of weeks on the road turned into four months touring with the army press unit, visiting almost every small town north of the Mason-Dixon line. America was in need of a lot of healing, and the media – small-time and big – were insatiable. By the time Jimmy got back to Queen Island it was early spring. He was literally exhausted and not at all eager to talk about the medal ceremony at the White House, which by then seemed such a very long time ago. It took several months for me to piece the story together because when I asked him he'd usually say, ‘I's talked out, Brother Fish. It weren't no big deal. Dat occasion it for da Medal o' Honor an' dey done tag me along.'

In fact, this wasn't all that far from the truth. The President of the United States doesn't as a rule present military awards other than the US Presidential Citation, the award 3RAR had received for Kapyong, and the Medal of Honor, the American equivalent of our Victoria Cross. But President Dwight D. Eisenhower had been a soldier himself and was no doubt deeply concerned about the way the American press was dealing with those prisoners of war accused of collaborating with the enemy. Although this is pure speculation on my part, I don't suppose it would have been difficult for the Pentagon or the brass in charge of public relations to prevail upon Eisenhower to include Jimmy and the other two prisoners of war in the ceremony. One of these was Chuck Ward, the tail gunner who'd lost his feet to frostbite and who had endured his parlous state with great courage when less badly wounded men would have given up in despair and died. The other was a soldier named Jesus Fernando Garcia. Perhaps another reason the president wished to include Jimmy was the fact that Jimmy's regiment, the 24th Infantry Regiment, had fought with great distinction in the assault across the Han River in Korea in 1951.

Jimmy had flown to Washington from the west coast, where he'd barely had time to splash his face in a San Francisco Airport washroom before his American Airlines plane left for Washington. He was weary and dull-eyed from the journey, but coming into the capital he perked up. From the aeroplane window he watched as they crossed the Potomac. While American history, like most of his education, had been somewhat neglected, he knew a little bit about the Civil War. The fighting between the Union Army of the Potomac and the Confederate Army of North Virginia had been one of the more decisive encounters and he seemed to remember Negro soldiers had been involved, fighting, they believed, for the promise of freedom from slavery.

‘I done look down at dat river, Brother Fish, where mah brothers dey been once fightin' foh der freedom from slavery. Abraham Lincoln he done give dem der freedom on a piece o' paper, but dat all it been, man! Negro folk in da South dey still not free. Cain't sit in no white part o' da bus, cain't use no white washroom, cain't eat in no white res-too-a-rant, cain't go to no white school an' iffen yoh want to vote, da Ku Klux Klan dey come make yoh a visit an' yoh ain't doin' no votin' no more iffen yoh want to live to see who da next governor or president gonna be.'

The plane landed at the rather quaint colonial-style Washington National Airport and, as he mentioned briefly in his letter, a weary Jimmy stepped into the terminal to find three military policemen waiting for him, one of them holding a sign with his name on it. ‘Brother Fish, I think I done need to change mah pants! Dey gonna a-rrest me. Da muth'fuckers dey done lured me back stateside so dey can put me in jail foh AWOL. Dat judge he done send me to Korea so I got me to stay outta jail an' now I back in America two minutes an' dey gonna a-rrest me an' I's goin' straight to where I been goin' in da first place before I gone to Korea! I think maybe I can run foh it, yoh know, get da fuck out. But den I see da colonel who standin' to one side an' first I gotta salute him 'case dey catch me an' den I got me more trouble foh in-sob-bord-nation. “Welcome home, soldier, and congratulations,” I hear dat colonel say. I jump to attention an' I salute. Now it too late to run. He smilin' and den he walk forward an' he gonna shake mah hand. The provosts done do da same. “I is honoured to be your escort, Private Oldcorn,” one o' dem, a Negro, says.

‘“We'll use a side entrance where my driver's waiting,” the colonel says. “Your arrival hasn't yet been announced to the press. This is Washington and there are newspaper reporters stationed in the airport. We don't want one of them spotting you and asking awkward questions.” He grinned. “That's the reason for the provosts and my standing to one side. If one of them thinks there's something going on, then these three will say you're being arrested for going AWOL. You'll be billeted at Fort Myer.”

‘I like dat word “billeted”. It don't sound like no jail.' Jimmy laughed at the thought, then grew serious. ‘You know, Brother Fish, I been con-dishin' all mah life, so when I step off dat aeroplane I think, maybe when dey see I's a nigger dey gonna be embarrassed an' dey gonna apologise, say dey done make a mistake an' point to where is da bus to da nearest military e-stab-lishment so I can get me mah discharge an' vamoose out da military forces, amen!'

For the next week Jimmy was debriefed, fitted with two new uniforms and taken through his publicity schedule, which began at the presidential ceremony where, afterwards, he was interviewed by the press. Then it was off to New York to appear on Ed Murrow's CBS program ‘See It Now'. Thereafter he completed his press and small-town tour throughout the eastern seaboard. ‘One time I ask why dey don't send me to da South, and da press officer, he say, “Private Oldcorn, this is a celebration – not a lynching.”'

But first Jimmy was put through media training at Fort Myer, which had its own small TV studio where top brass were trained to respond to what was at the time still a new medium. ‘Dey done teach me how I gotta re-spond to da TV cam-era. I gotta look always into da camera like it a person. I gotta smile, be modest, I don't gotta wave mah hands. I gotta call Mr Murrow “Sir” and in da other TV interviews, iffen it a woman I gotta say “ma'am”. No Christian names – always sir or ma'am. On and on it go – say dis, don't say dat. “Remember yo' a soldier, don't let America down, son. Don't salute da president – he ain't no more the general of da whole of da world in da Secon' World War, he now a civilian.” Imagine, a soldier don't salute da president! Dey think, cause I Negro, I got to be some idjit dey got to coach all da way 'case I disgrace da mil-i-tary. Den dey teach me how to speak. Dey don't say, “Jimmy, you speak like some dumb mule-drivin' nigger from da South.” Dey say, “Private Oldcorn, the requirement for TV is that your words are pronounced clearly and succinctly.” Den my “dis and dat” turn into “this and that” an' dey amazed when, after 'bout one hour, I can say all dem honky words perfect like some chump who done gone to dat Harvard school.'

The big day arrived, where the highlight, as far as Jimmy was concerned, was meeting up with the brave and true Chuck Ward again. ‘Hey! Dat one brave soldier – remember, Brother Fish?' I nodded, remembering.

‘“Jimmy,” Chuck Ward says to me, “I've asked the colonel if you can be the soldier to push me in my wheelchair up to the president.” Hey, man, who'd have ever believed it? Buddies, brothers in arms, on da way to meet da president! He got dese artificial feet – he can stand but he cain't walk too far, so I gonna push him up to da dais, den he stand hisself an' get his medal.

‘He em-barr-ass me 'cos he tellin' everyone I save his life. “Dat not true, dis da bravest dude yoh evah seen – he save his own life wid his own courage, man!” I tell dem. I feel ashamed, dey done give me da Soldier's Medal an' he got da next one down, da Army Commendation Medal! Far's I concern, he
da man!
It got to be da other way aroun'.'

At eleven a.m. hours the four soldiers to be presented to the president left Fort Myer in army staff cars for the short trip to the White House, Jimmy and Chuck Ward in one car, the other two soldiers in another. Jimmy was always at pains to point out that the ceremony was for Master Sergeant Stanley T. Adams, who'd been wounded three times leading thirteen members of his platoon in bayonet charge against an enemy that vastly outnumbered them, routing them and providing cover for his battalion to pull back.

They entered the White House and followed the great curved driveway to the north portico where the ceremony was to take place. I've seen the north portico, a huge columned porch that forms the north entrance to the White House, which looks like it has been transported direct from ancient Greece. The platform and lectern with the presidential seal were well to the back, with a dozen impressively sized American flags flanked by soldiers in dress uniform immediately behind them. Several hundred chairs faced the dais. These were for generals from the army and air force and admirals from the navy, as well as the congressmen and members of the Senate, past Medal of Honor winners and their families and, of course, the families of the recipients for that day. The press reporters and photographers and TV crews, who had come in some numbers, stood to one side. This was part of the political plan – there was no doubt the press would roll up for a Medal of Honor presentation, whereas they may not have bothered attending a ceremony for something less. Eisenhower would have an ideal opportunity to get his message across without it appearing to be a blatant set-up.

The four soldiers, Jimmy pushing Chuck Ward, stood to the side of the dais just a few steps away, where an army captain gave them a final briefing and once again emphasised to the two of them in uniform, ‘Do
not
salute the president!' The theory, of course, is that you don't salute the man, you salute his military rank.

Then the congressman from Kansas, representing Master Sergeant Adams' home state, announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.' The audience stood as President Eisenhower entered from the back of the portico and came to stand behind the lectern.

The moment of truth had arrived for the twenty-four-year-old Jimmy Oldcorn. Left on the doorstep of the Colored Orphan Asylum, where he'd been found by Sister Mary Pentecost, he now stood within the north portico of the White House to meet the President of the United States. He'd come a long way – the orphanage, the Kraus farm, the streets of the Bronx, Elmira Reformatory, the United States Armed Forces and a Chinese POW camp – to finally stand before the president to be honoured by his nation.

The president asked the army chaplain to say a prayer, and then the proceedings began. The president thanked the military brass, the senators and congressmen and women and the past recipients of the Medal of Honor and their families, and began the oration to Master Sergeant Stanley T. Adams. ‘We are gathered here to represent America's gratitude to this young man for the almost unbelievable feats of courage that have won our highest award, the Medal of Honor,' he began.

He then went on to describe the master sergeant's valour, leaving nothing out, so that the speech went on for some time. Finally he stepped down from the dais, took the medal and placed it around the neck of Adams, who stood silent (protocol did not allow him to thank the president as it was he who was being thanked by a grateful nation).

The president then returned to the dais and the microphone and said, ‘I have another pleasant duty, one that I have personally elected to do. I ask Master Sergeant Adams to indulge me. The Medal of Honor is the only individual military decoration usually presented by the president and, of course, it has no equal. However, occasionally a soldier performs extraordinary deeds when
not
in battle and such is the case with Private James Pentecost Oldcorn of the 24th Infantry Regiment, who was a prisoner of war under the North Koreans and Chinese for almost two years. He was severely wounded in the leg and was on crutches for the first year. Yet so outstanding was his leadership in the various field hospitals, and in the POW camp where he spent most of his time in captivity, that Private James Pentecost Oldcorn has been awarded the Soldier's Medal with silver oak leaf.' He paused and looked up. ‘For those of you not in the military, this means we have awarded him this medal five times for five separate occasions where he showed outstanding leadership and risked his life as a consequence. There has been a lot of publicity about a very few men taken prisoner in Korea who did not live up to the highest ideals of their country. But, may I remind you all, there were also men such as Private James Pentecost Oldcorn who make me proud, both as an ex-serviceman and a president, and who represent the true spirit of the American soldier. I now ask my naval aide to read just one of these five separate citations.' The aide then read the citation.