Black History: Integration first on Korea's frontline


Retired Sgt. Maj. Gary Beylickjian


WASHINGTON (Army News Service) — In mid 1952, a call from H Company Command Post: "Sergeant GGB, come off line, your time in hell is over. You're going home!" The welcomed voice belonged to the company's often-heard, but little-seen first sergeant.

At this point in my tour, I was chief of the machinegun second section (two squads in a section), and acting as an interim platoon sergeant. I had been through enough, done my share, got some "enemy metal" in my body a few times and desperately needed a change of scenery and assurance I'd live another day. The time had come for me to "pull a Hank Snow."

Hank Snow wrote and recorded a country and western hit during 1950; it was played over and over and over on a mobile AFN radio station serving our corps area; the station was known as Radio Vagabond. And we listened to it on our issued Zenith Transoceanic radio. The song: "I'm Moving On." For us Yankees, country music was becoming highly addictive. In fact, I was beginning to like it a lot, and I was a big-band fanatic.

The song was so popular, we used it as part of our front-line lingo. When time came to rotate home, we would pass the word: "I'm pulling a Hank Snow; I'm moving on, returning to the 'land of the big PX.'" The good ole U.S. of A.

I left Korea, spent my 30-day furlough at home in Boston and reported to Fort Devens, Mass. Back then, most soldiers, when in large numbers, often moved to various Army posts when possible by rail — several cars of a passenger train were often used to transport troops. We often called them "troop trains."

My orders: Camp Rucker, Ala., via Fort Jackson, S.C., for processing.

The journey south was new to most of us. The majority of the soldiers heading there had roots in New England, New York state, Pennsylvania and New Jersey.

As northeasterners, most of us spoke alike, liked things alike and almost thought alike. Going south would be a great experience, one we were looking forward to, and we said so. Also, most of us had served in Korea with soldiers from the south, and got a kick out of hearing a southern drawl, listening to stories about beautiful southern belles, fried chicken and trying to visualize what grits really were. We heard words like "tobackee" or going "down yonder" or "up yonder" and "hell's fire!" But that was the extent of our experience with anything "southern." But, we would soon be educated.

Our first stop was Fort Jackson where we would be processed and joined with other soldiers headed to Alabama.

We stayed at Fort Jackson only a few days and headed to our destination. On the way, the train stopped to drop off and pick up civilian passengers. During one stopover, we decided to take a "latrine break," stretch our legs and smoke outside.

I smoked cigars, cigarettes and pipes - the gamut. (The dangers of smoking back then were rarely considered or discussed.) When we got off the train (I had no idea where we were), we looked first for rest rooms; we saw two: one said something like "whites," the other, "coloreds." Without a second thought, we headed toward the one with the "colored" sign by it. Big mistake!

Our thinking was that a "colored" rest room meant it was decorated or painted inside in an array of colors. We all had used white rest rooms; we knew what they were like!

Just as we were about to enter the rest room, we heard a calamity: several station workers and others on the platform were yelling at us to stop. Puzzled, we stopped, looked at the screamers and asked what was wrong?

We learned the facts of "southern" life all in a few brief seconds. We stood there — in uniform, wearing battle badges and ribbons — staring at the sign by the entrance, looking at each other and shaking our heads in disbelief at what we just heard.

To our astonishment and confusion, we learned the "colored" sign did not refer to color of the walls or ceilings, but to the color of skin. And, among our group were several Korean War veterans from the north, who weren't white. They, like us, stood there shocked.

We were taught in a brief moment some history of the south and what segregation meant. The year was 1952.

Life for us on and around Camp Rucker wasn't bad, but as we journeyed further away from the camp, we encountered racial problems when we traveled with our black friends. Name-calling was one, the other: we couldn't share a café table, a counter or other facilities. We sat together in my automobile, but once outside we couldn't. This new-found reality about a southern assignment didn't sit well with any of us. We kept asking: "Are we really in the U.S. of A?".

We were, but in a different part of the U.S. of A. In Korea we — blacks, whites, browns and yellows - fought together, lived and died together, shared food and water together, slept in holes together, cared for each other, laughed and cried together, hugged each other and genuinely expressed concerned for each other, but now that we were home safe in the United States; none of that mattered one iota.

We became different men in the same Army.

During my stay at Camp Rucker, I taught machinegun "nomenclature and tactics," and I truly enjoyed doing that. A few friends with whom I served with in Korea were in nearby units, and we'd get together at a nearby Service Club and exchange war stories and enjoy ourselves. Yet, I wanted out, a transfer because of what I saw and heard what black soldiers, fellow Korean War veterans, faced when going off post; my conscience was bothering me.

I, like my white friends, felt hurt and troubled. Why is this going on, we'd often ask? Many of us had no idea how to counter what is known today as racism. No serious problems on post; there we integrated; off post we segregated. But, before long, even men of our group began to go separate ways. I saw less of my black friends. And shared even less our friendship.

I didn't belong here, and I knew it.

By November 1952, the company told me I could apply for a transfer, and one sure way out would be to re-enlist. I agreed. About a week or so later, the first sergeant came to me while I and several other NCOs were having chow in the mess hall; he looked bothered, uneasy, unlike him. He carried some papers in his hand, and my first thought was that the transfer had been turned down, yet I was going to re-enlist anyway. Perhaps I'd go to Germany. I was to receive mustering out pay. (Mustering out pay was $360.00 — same as what veterans of World War II received when they re-enlisted or departed the Army. There was no re-enlistment bonus back then.)

The first sergeant placed a piece of paper in front of me and everyone stared at it. "The old man (the company commander) wants to see you, GGB. But, read what's on the paper first." I didn't. I expected the worst, and I didn't want to see it in print.

The company commander, Capt. Greene (can't recall his first name) told me with sadness in his voice, I would be going back to Korea after I re-enlisted. He thought the move was highly unusual and expressed surprise. He thought someone in Korea may have asked for me by name or that the Army needed combat veterans badly. It was rare then that the Army would send a soldier back for a second tour to a combat unit if he had been wounded in action and was the sole surviving son. He volunteered to write to my family and explain.

"No need, sir," I said. He thanked me for my performance and sharing knowledge of machineguns and tactics. After we finished our chat and shook hands, I saluted, did an about face, and left his office with a smile on my face. As I passed the first sergeant, I heard him tell his clerk, "Did you see that? He's going back to the war in Korea and he's smiling!"

Yes, I said to myself, I'm smiling because I'm going back to where I belong!