Jack McDowell was enjoying a beverage at a long-forgotten San Francisco drinking establishment in 1965, when a tall Negro (as they were known then) Marine Captain, resplendent in his service “A” olive green and khaki uniform, walked in. McDowell, dressed in civilian clothes, was himself a seasoned NCO (non-commissioned officer) who helped desegregate the Corps as a member of the original Montford Point Marine contingent. But African American commissioned officers like this man were about as rare as hen’s teeth. His curiosity aroused, McDowell ambled over to the newcomer, asked him what he was drinking, and bought him a shot of Johnny Walker “Black” (Scotch Whiskey).
Over the next few decades, McDowell, who retired from the Corps as a 1st Sgt., and Frank Emanuel Petersen, who was a major, forged a friendship that would last well past each man’s ETS (End Term of Service) date. When retired Lt. Gen. Petersen died this past Aug. 25, McDowell made the expedition eastward to Maryland, where he spoke at the funeral of a military careerist who, starting as a Naval Seaman Apprentice, rose to the pinnacle of his beloved Corps, overcoming the specter of racism that shadowed his every step.
Anchors aweigh
“Petersen, my boy, the Navy has opportunities for guys like you. My God, man, what a great steward you’d make.”
—Frank Petersen’s naval recruiter, quoted in the Lieutenat General’s autobiography, “Into the
Tiger’s Jaw”
During the early and middle 20th century, Black and Filipino sailors in the U.S. Navy were relegated to the job of mess men or stewards, a low-prestige occupation that consisted of cooking and serving food and maintaining officer’s living quarters. Like all recruits, Frank Petersen’s initial entry into the armed forces necessitated him taking a standardized test to judge his suitability for military occupations. His pass with flying colors peaked the curiosity of the petty officer administering the exam, and Petersen was asked to retake it, the inference being that he might have cheated.
His hometown of Topeka, Kan., (later the site of the landmark Brown vs. Board of Education Supreme Court desegregation lawsuit) was similar to most of America in that era in terms of its racial sensibilities, and like many of his peers on the verge of manhood, Petersen was eager to explore the possibilities of the outside world.
Young Apprentice Seaman Petersen, high test scores notwithstanding, was slated to continue the subservient tradition of kitchen duty, until family intervention and the cajoling of his father enabled him to secure the guarantee of a slot at the Navy’s electronics technician school.
As he learned the art of diagnosing the intricacies of electronics, a tragedy took place in the skies over Korea, where the first installment of the proxy war (in which Russia and the United States never directly engaged each other, but relied instead on satellite countries within their sphere of influence to manifest their political intentions) that became known as the Cold War was being played out.
Ensign Jesse L. Brown, the first African American naval aviator, was shot down and killed while supporting Marine ground forces. His misfortune reawakened the aspirations of flight Petersen had harbored in his childhood. The next day, he took the first step toward realizing this dream by applying to become a Naval Cadet.
Successful entry into this haloed group was only his first step. Formidable tasks like landing a 5,000-pound airplane on a pitching aircraft carrier were exacerbated by the constant harassment focused on the few Blacks enrolled in the flight school at the base in Pensacola, Fla. As many of his peers “washed out” for one reason or the other, Cadet Petersen’s resolve was shaken to the core.
A chance meeting with then Captain (and later the first four-star General of color) Daniel “Chappie” James of the Army Air Corps boosted his spirits, as the veteran flyer cancelled a scheduled flight to console the downtrodden Petersen for two solid hours.
“Just don’t give up,” his new mentor said. This encouragement helped the neophyte pilot overcome the travails of a flight school in the heart of Jim Crow Dixieland.
Combat: In the Wild Blue and on Terra Firma
In short order, the newly minted Second Lieutenant was placed on an airbase in western Korea, flying close air support missions as part of Marine Fighter Attack Squadron-212 (VFMA-212), the “Devil Cats,” in a F-AU Corsair similar to the one piloted by his role model, Jesse Brown. In the course of his tour on the Korean Peninsula, 2nd Lt. Petersen won three Air Medals and the Distinguished Flying Cross by his 21st birthday.
Following this baptism by fire, the 1953 armistice marked the end of hostilities, and a return to the relative calm of peacetime. Petersen’s existence as a Black man wearing the coveted uniform of a Marine officer, however, ensured that a substantial amount of drama would follow his military existence.
Today of course, racial friction dominates the news with the ongoing drama between law enforcement and the Black community being played out in headlines across the country. Still, the state of intolerance that was part and parcel of the American landscape of the 1950s was a fact of life. Hot tempered by nature, Petersen rebelled against the standard practice of relegating Black passengers to the rear of public transit buses while in flight school, until a sympathetic White Shore Patrol officer advised him to “cool it” until he finished his training.
Cross-country travel was a trial in and of itself, remembers Petersen, as Black motorists could count on an absence of motels and hospitable accommodations to offer a respite from the rigors of long distance driving, as well as the absence of the option of eateries willing to serve patrons of color.
Racial hostilities did not end when he walked on to the sanctuary of a military outpost. The presence of an officer of color was such an anomaly that White enlisted personnel would ignore, or simply refuse military courtesies such as saluting him.
Marriage and starting a family aggravated his circumstances, because when it was necessary to find suitable housing when facilities on-post were unavailable, he and his wife faced the task of shielding his children from the ubiquitous presence of racial intolerance in all its many manifestations.
On a personal level, Petersen was regularly accused of impersonating an officer, and once was placed on house arrest for entering an officer’s club. His abiding love of flying, and the support of lower enlisted Marines of color, who took pride in his achievement as an accomplished African American, became a long-standing source of refuge from these indigities. When circumstances made it impossible or inadvisable to “let his hair down” and enjoy leisure time with his peers in the officer class, he often socialized with the enlisted, as Retired Master Gunnery Sgt. Robert “Moon” Mullins recalls.
Dressed in civilian attire, Petersen would be clandestinely brought into enlisted clubs to enjoy himself in the fraternity of the “Brothers,” who were protective of their “guest.” The combination of alcohol and machismo often resulted in manifestations of physical violence, and in turn, the intervention of the Shore Patrol. In these situations, they took care to remove him from scenarios that might impact his career.
Signs of an impending brawl would thus be preceded by a directive delivered by subordinates to their senior officer, in the form of an admonition: “okay Colonel, it’s time for you to go!”
The Cold War heated up in earnest with the escalation of hostilities in Southeast Asia, and the Vietnam War. This brought home the fact that the United States was fighting a parallel and just as divisive conflict over the question of race. In tandem with the well-documented unrest in America’s inner cities were incidents on ships and posts adjacent to the theater of war.
Race riots broke out throughout the military, including the prison at the Long Binh Stockade near Saigon in 1968. This facility was comprised of predominately Black inmates. These uprisings culminated in dual riots at the Naval facility in Subic Bay, the Philippines, and on board the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Kitty Hawk in December 1972.
As a ranking Marine, Lt. Col. Petersen was not only tasked with administrating the air war, as the first Black commander of VFMA-314, the “Black Knight” Squadron, but also quell mounting ethnic discord among the lower enlisted ranks of his unit.
In September of 1968, his F-4B Phantom was hit with 37mm antiaircraft fire over the Demilitarized Zone, forcing Petersen and his radar intercept officer to eject from their aircraft. They were quickly plucked from the jungle by an air rescue helicopter, but the injuries he sustained in the process of “bailing out” plagued him for the remainder of his career.
Upon his return to the U.S., Petersen continued the campaign for racial cohesion in the Marines and throughout the Armed forces as he continued his climb up the Marine hierarchy. At various points, he was assisted in this mission by MSgt. Mullins, who served as an equal opportunity instructor at the institute set up for that purpose in San Diego, and enlisted-man-turned-officer Captain Edward Q. Hicks.
His aviation career was again challenged with the introduction of the McDonnell Douglas AV-8A Harrier Jump Jet, an airplane distinguished by its ability to take off and land vertically like a helicopter, then perform like a regular jet fighter. The technology required to enable these capabilities also made this an unforgiving craft to fly.
Informally dubbed “the widow maker” (the L.A. Times attributed some 45 Marine deaths to the aircraft in 2003), its reputation was so ominous that higher-ranking field grade officers (majors and colonels) manipulated their way out of flying the temperamental machine. Captain Hicks recalls the wives of junior grade officers creating an uproar over this unfair burden and safety hazard to their husbands. As a newly promoted full colonel and commander of the Air Group that deployed the Harrier, Petersen squashed the controversy by qualifying in the problematic jet, and directing that everyone under his command be mandated to fly it, regardless of rank.
With all these accolades, detractors still dogged his career progression. He narrowly avoided a court-martial on charges he’d falsified official documents to receive flight pay he was not entitled to. The charges where later dismissed.
Naysayers and Gossipmongerers
“… you may wear the stars, but you will NEVER be a Marine Corps General in our eyes.”
—from a letter by an anonymous Marine Corps senior officer, September 26, 1987.
As the nomination process began for his promotion to Flag Officer status and the reception of his first star, the cloaked presence of racism again manifested itself in the form of innuendo and slander. Accusations of character flaws like chronic fornication and inebriation were topped off by the delivery of hate mail, anonymously written by “a senior officer,” excerpts of which he published in his 1998 autobiography “Into the Tiger’s Jaw: America’s First Black Aviator.”
Upon his retirement in 1988, Frank E. Petersen had won 17 Air Medals in addition to the three he earned in Korea, as well as a Purple Heart for the injuries he suffered when he was shot down in Vietnam. With 38 years of service, he held the titles “Silver Hawk,” denoting the senior ranking aviator in the Marines, and “Grey Eagle,” the senior ranking pilot in Naval Aviation.
Along with his aerial heroics, Petersen shaped a more level “playing field” for minorities within the Corps through his participation in the realm of equal opportunity and his presiding over incidents including the second trial of Black Marine Corporal Lindsey Scott, convicted in the rape and attempted murder of a White woman. He was acquitted in1988.
MSgt. Mullen organized a caravan with 15 other retired Marines, who traveled from the southeast to attend the ceremony at the U.S. Naval Academy Chapel in Annapolis, Md.
“It really bothered me that there was no national recognition (for his death and distinguished service),” he said. Several days before this article appeared, General Petersen was permanently interred at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia. The tributes included a fly over by military aircraft. He is survived by his wife Alicia, and four children.
