After nearly 28 years, a Brother is Home...
Now playing "Amazing Grace" in Remembrance of Lt. James R. McQuade
A Promise Kept,
From left, Lt. Jim McQuade's sister Judi; brother, Jeff;
Eulogy by fellow Blueghost, Mike Austin "Twenty-eight years ago, I was a young helicopter pilot in the U.S. Army, assigned with F Troop, 8th Cavalry Regiment in Vietnam. F Troop was known by its call sign as the Blue Ghosts. It was there I had the honor of serving with Jimmy McQuade, as well as two other distinguished gentlemen who are present here today. "I'd like them to stand now and be recognized: Our former commanding officer, Jack Kennedy... And long time friend and fellow Blue Ghost pilot, Skip Baebler. It's good to see them again. "Jimmy and we served there near the end of the Vietnam War, when most of our ground troops had already come home for good, and the scarce aviation units left, like ours, were in high demand to perform vital missions to help our South Vietnamese allies in the struggle to keep the Communists from taking over their country after the Hanoi government launched a massive invasion against us on March 30, 1972. "As an air-Cav unit, our mission was primarily reconnaissance: Finding the enemy as far away from our bases as possible, which meant hunting for him in the thick jungled mountains of northern South Vietnam. The Scouts were our eyes, flying low and slow over the jungle in search of our hidden adversaries. Scouts have long been the elite of the Cavalry, whether on foot, horseback or helicopter, ever since this nation was first forged out of the fire of war with Great Britain."
"I remember it was a warm afternoon June 11 as the aircrews mingled at Camp Eagle, near the ancient capital of Hue, pulling standby duty that day as another group of Blue Ghosts flew the mission. It was our responsibility to react at a moment's notice should they get into trouble. When word came by radio Cpt. Arnold "Dusty" Holm had been shot down with three souls on board, Jimmy requested to fly out and look for any survivors. We watched him hover off the helipad and quickly disappear over the low hills to the west, at full speed, on his heroic rescue attempt in the face of a large and concentrated enemy force. "We were devastated once again when we received the call that Blueghost 10 Jimmy and his gunner Specialist Jim Hackett were also shot down and presumed killed. In light of our back to back losses of five men, the decision was made to call off any further recovery attempts to prevent even more losses. It was a painful decision for us to leave them behind, but it was also the only logical choice considering the overwhelming odds F Troop faced on the battlefield that day. "Our losses were indeed great that day, but paled in comparison to the pain experienced by the families back home, like the McQuades. Our hearts ached for you, even though we didn't know you at the time... "Despite the fact we entrusted our lives with each other on every mission, we sometimes knew very little about each others backgrounds before we found ourselves in combat together. It wasn't until 1987, at the dedication of the Washington State Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Olympia, that I saw his name on the monument and realized he was raised here. "In an effort to search for surviving family members, I called the local newspaper, only to find John Hughes right in the middle of writing a Memorial Day article about Jimmy even as we spoke. We were both thunderstruck by the shear timing of the call, and his subsequent eloquent article in turn caused Jim's mother, Patricia, to send me the first of many letters we would exchange over the years. I finally met John in person for the first time today, though I feel I've known him for a long time already, and owe him a debt of gratitude. "My correspondence with Patty eventually led to a meeting with Jim's siblings Judi, Jack and Jeff in January 1999. It was my third introduction to the McQuade family and their wonderful friendship has brought untold joy to me and my wife, Lynn. "Finally on Memorial Day of last year very appropriate we all gathered together at our house in Graham, Washington, for a barbeque and I finally met Patty in person for the first time. It was a moving, magical event, and we agreed to do it again soon. "Sadly, Patty McQuade passed away not long after, but not before knowing her first son's remains were tentatively identified and would be coming home. Finally. "Last Friday, the co-mingled remains of Jimmy and his fellow crew member, Jim Hackett, were buried with full military honors in our National Cemetery at Arlington, Virginia. It was appropriate they shared the same casket, as they had died in the same small aircraft. "And today, we are honored to welcome Jimmy's personal remains to his home town finally and forever. Thank you for joining us today as we celebrate the return of a true American hero and friend.
Jimmy's home, forever young The Daily World -- Sunday, May 14, 2000 -- Pg. A4 Dear Reader: "Closure" is a good word that's suffering from overuse. A man who was reunited with his long lost class ring told a TV reporter that it had brought him "closure." Real closure is when a brave young man comes home, 27 years and 11 months after he perished when his helicopter was shot down over the jungles of South Vietnam. Real closure is when, thanks to DNA tests and a St. Christopher Medal, his F Troop air cavalry comrades, including his commander, voice choking with emotion, can stand in the church where he received first communion and tell his family and friends about his courage and heroism in the face of withering danger. Real closure is when a beam of sunlight, filtered through the stained-glass windows high above, comes to rest on his casket as the retired colonel who had to write the "I-regret-to-inform-you" letter calls him "the bravest man I've ever known." Real closure is when a long-grieving mother is reunited with her son -- their remains commingled beneath a lovely green knoll at Sunset Memorial Park, high above the Harbor, on the day before Mother's Day. And so it was that U.S. Army 1st Lt. James R. McQuade, my friend -- friend to hundreds, "Jimmy" to his mom -- was laid to rest with full military honors by a squad of handsome, ramrod straight, never wavering young men and women, all born long after his life ended at 23. I sat right behind them in church and watched several gulp back tears. Jim McQuade, a mischievous but thoroughly lovable kid, grew up next door to my wife and her family and graduated from Hoquiam High School in 1967. Once upon a time in America there were real neighborhoods, not just rows of houses. A neighborhood was an extended family. Queets Avenue was like that. Everyone knew everyone, and there was a ton of kids. Jim, Jeff, Judi and Jack. Patsy, Mike, Dan, Teresa, Sally and Scooter. Rob, Kathy and Debbie, to name a few. In real neighborhoods, there are few secrets, hardly any lies and huge reservoirs of Kool-Aid, Tang and empathy. In real neighborhoods, grief shared is grief diminished and joy is infectious. Jim was every mother's son -- not just Pat's; every father's wild-hare joy; every sister's knight in shining armor; every brother's hero and a friend to remember. Despite the painful changes we've endured on the Harbor and across America -- the fracturing of families and erosion of neighborliness -- Hoquiam still has a lot more family feel to it than most towns, which is why Jim's funeral was also a "welcome home" party. The kids from Queets Avenue now have kids -- even grandchildren -- of their own. They're gray-haired; thin on top, thick around the middle, crinkly around the eyes; gravity is setting in. Although we had tears in our eyes Saturday, there was laughter in our hearts because the good times with Jim were so vibrant. Because he's finally back home. Because he will always be 23. Dan Descher, my brother-in-law, and I are Bob Dylan fans. We tried to get him to listen to "All Along the Watchtower," but he was a Beach Boys kind of guy. Genius though he is, Brian Wilson never wrote anything to equal this:
Case Background Information Dec 99: Forward by Blueghost 23 Mike Austin Folks, Well, the news is officially out after Reuters published an account earlier this week of the return of 11 of our MIA's, including Jim McQuade's. In response, a reporter from Jim's hometown called that evening asking for information and I was only too happy to help him out. He was young and asked lots of general questions about our involvement in the war to gain better understanding. Given his lack of knowledge and imposing deadline, I thought he did a marvelous job on the tribute and wanted to pass it on. The only correction I have to Ryan's fine tribute is that two crew members, not three, perished with scout platoon leader Cpt. Arnold Holm (Wayne Bibbs and Robin Yeakley) when the first LOH was shot down June 11, 1972, which brought on McQuade and Hackett's rescue attempt. We lost a total of 5 souls and 2 aircraft in less than half an hour that day. Considering the short time Ryan had to prepare, I thought it was a fine account.
The war is finally over for Lt. McQuade - December 14, 1999 By Ryan Teague Beckwith - Daily World Writer It's been 27 years, but 1st Lt. Jim McQuade's St. Christopher medal is back where it belongs. His younger sister Judi had bought the inch-long silver medallion for him at Kneipp's Jewelry Store in Hoquiam in 1971. After having it blessed by a priest, she gave him the medallion on Sept. 8, 1971, at his graduation from Army helicopter flight school at Fort Rucker, Ala., just before he shipped out to Vietnam. It was the last time she would ever see her big brother. Eight months later, while flying a risky mission to check for survivors of a downed helicopter, Jim McQuade was blown out of the sky by North Vietnamese troops. For nearly three decades, his St. Christopher medal lay among the twisted remains of an OH-6A Light Observation Helicopter in the jungles of South Vietnam. Then, on an October Saturday at Judi's home in West Seattle while Jim's two younger brothers, Jeff and Jack, and an Army buddy looked on, an official from the Mortuary Affairs Office pulled a small plastic bag out of his briefcase. Inside was Jim's St. Christopher. Its long silver chain was burned, but the inscription on the back - "James R. McQuade. Sept. 8, 1971. Love, Mother and Judi." - was still readable. Along with dental records and a DNA test, that inscription provided the evidence that the Army needed to take Jim's name off the rolls of the 2,032 soldiers, sailors and airmen missing from the Vietnam War. Twenty-seven years after he died fighting on behalf of his country, the war is over for Jim McQuade. James Russell McQuade was born June 3, 1949, in Montana. His parents, Patricia and Wayne McQuade, were staunch Irish Catholics who had met while working as railroad telegraphers after high school. They had three other children by the time they moved to Hoquiam in 1959, where Wayne McQuade took a job in the real estate business. Growing up, Jim attended the parochial school at Our Lady of Good Help Church, then Hoquiam High, where he quickly became known as the handsome, happy-go-lucky kid next door. He could concoct a practical joke, romance your sister or pretend he was Mario Andretti - whatever the occasion called for. "I remember him as being the cut-up of the neighborhood," says Dan Descher, who grew up next door to Jim on Queets Avenue. "He was the kind of guy who didn't seem to take life too seriously - at least growing up. He was the one who would hop into his dad's car and spin a doughnut in somebody's front yard." Lean but strong, just over 6-feet tall, McQuade had an agility that helped him win a varsity letter in swimming. Irene Elway, who briefly dated Jim during high school, remembers him having the grace of Steve Martin when it came to physical comedy as well. "We were out at a cabin at Lake Quinault waterskiing and Jim decided to get behind some skis," she said. "He just went out there all arms and legs akimbo like he didn't know what he was doing. Finally, after he'd gone around the lake three times that way, we realized that only a really good skiier could have pulled that off." Jim was very smart but no academic, dropping out shortly after starting at Grays Harbor College. In conversations with friends and irreverent, inventive letters he wrote after he went to Vietnam, he revealed a deeply thoughtful person who cared a lot more than he let on. Starting in 1969, the U.S. government had instituted a draft lottery that inducted eligible men into the service based on a chance drawing of their birthdates, though full-time college students could still defer, or postpone, their military service. After his abortive attempt at college, McQuade had been working odd jobs around the Harbor - graveyard shift at a mill, grocery store clerk and driver for the local 7-Up distributor. He did not have a deferment, like some of his friends. When his draft number was called, Jim opted to sign up for a longer stint in the Army. His father had served in the South Pacific during World War II and Dan Descher's dad next door was a major in the Air Force Reserves. He told Jim the military offered real opportunities. As a bonus for an extended hitch, Jim was allowed to go to flight school and train to be an officer. Friends say Jim was ambivalent about the war, which had then been going on for nearly seven years. On the one hand, he was attracted to the danger and excitement of flying helicopters in a war zone. But after basic training, Jim returned home for a visit. As he walked out of his grandmother's house, also on Queets Avenue, he ran into Dan Descher. Standing on the curb on a beautiful sunny day, the two talked about the war. Jim would soon leave to help fight it, and he was wearing his uniform. Descher, who had a dangerously low draft number of 165, was taking classes at Grays Harbor College. "He spoke with me about staying in school," says Descher, now a technology specialist for the Hoquiam School District. "I'm not sure he was real excited to be in the position he was in." The two talked for five or 10 minutes before Descher hurried on, though he doesn't remember where he was heading now. "When you're young and you're talking with somebody you've basically grown up with," he notes, "you don't ever think that's the last time you'll ever see them." The Easter offensive In March of 1972, 120,000 North Vietnamese regulars stormed across the border into South Vietnam, supported by Viet Cong guerrillas. Called the "Easter offensive" by the Americans, the invasion spelled the beginning of the end of U.S. involvement in the war. American ground troops had begun withdrawing from the country, leaving their air support with a lot more ground to cover - and a lot less help in doing it. F Troop, 8th Cavalry, of the 196th Light Infantry Brigade, the chopper unit based at Marble Mountain on a six-mile stretch of water called China Beach, suddenly found day-to-day missions a lot hotter. F Troop had handled tough situations before. Its scout and gunship helicopters had helped recapture Fire Base Bastogne near Hue, a crucial fire support base that had been overrun by the North Vietnamese in April. For their work in clearing and preparing the landing zone for troop carrier aircraft, several members of F Troop had received the Distinguished Flying Cross. Two were helicopter pilots, Mike Austin and Jim McQuade. Writing home to his friend, Tim Wandell, who was studying dentistry at the University of Washington, Jim made a joking reference to the medal, which had been featured on a hairy chest on the poster for the 1970 movie version of "Catch-22," Joseph Heller's novel about the horrors of Air Corps crews during World War II. "I got a DFC the other day - for Bastogne when we took it back - you know, the one on the front jacket of Catch 22," McQuade wrote. "I didn't strip down for it, tho." In another part of the letter, McQuade apologized to "Doc," his high school buddy, for missing his upcoming wedding. Though he had signed up for leave to make the June 17 ceremony, McQuade was bumped after his platoon lost a couple of pilots and another pilot signed up for leave first. McQuade made several offers of cash - up to $75 - to trade leave days with the other pilot, but it was nothing doing. The best he could do instead was June 24, and McQuade was disheartened at missing his friend's wedding. "I'm thinking of taking a leave around the 1st of July," he wrote. "I don't know, though. I was really counting on going back in June and now that I can't I've sort of lost interest. Fourteen days watching the bridge revolve isn't my idea of escape." It didn't matter. Six days before Tim and Cathie's wedding, Jim McQuade's helicopter was shot down by North Vietnamese troops. On standby Like just about every other day, June 11, 1972, began before sunrise for the members of F Troop. Mike Austin and Jim McQuade were slated for "standby" duty that day, which meant that they had the day off - sort of. Instead of flying the day's mission, they were to wait behind with the other pilots at Camp Eagle, an old stronghold of the 101st Airborne near the northern border of South Vietnam. While playing cards, taking naps and checking out their helicopters, the men listened to their radio to make sure that nothing went wrong with the mission. At a moment's notice, they had to be ready to fly in if they were needed. Around midday, Austin recalls, the pilots got a call. The scout helicopter piloted by the platoon's leader, Capt. Arnold Holm, a close friend of Jim's, had taken a mid-air hit. Holm and his three crewmen had gone down. "There was no question that we had stumbled onto a major North Vietnamese Army contingent west of Hue," Austin says. Though it wasn't likely that anyone survived the ensuing crash, the troop was still obligated to check out the site with the standby scout helicopter piloted by McQuade. His commanding officer told him that he didn't have to do the job, but McQuade was unfazed. "He walked in among that ... group and said, "OK, let's go see if he's alive,' " Jim's commanding officer said in a letter to Mrs. McQuade. Jim took off in his OH-6A helicopter with Specialist James Hackett of Bradenton, Fla. "None of us was happy about seeing them go alone," Austin says, recalling how McQuade hovered out of camp. No one saw what happened next except for the North Vietnamese soldiers on the ground. Over the radio, though, Austin heard enough to guess that McQuade's helicopter had been shot down by a surface-to-air missile, a relatively new weapon at the time. With two helicopters down already and an enemy of unknown size with shoulder-held missiles, F Troop decided to pull out. "We did the only prudent thing we could do," Austin says. He remembers that McQuade "always" wore his St. Christopher medal. "In the showers, outside his T-shirt, whatever. Everybody had something - a good luck charm or whatever you want to call it - that they felt compelled to take with them." A devastated family The McQuade family was notified that Jim was missing in action just over a week after his 23rd birthday. Within a few weeks, his status was changed to killed in action. The close-knit family and Jim's many friends were devastated. Pat McQuade's coworkers at The Lamb-Grays Harbor Co. say she suffered from major depression after that. "She was never the same after she lost that boy," recalls Isabelle Lamb, who worked with Mrs. McQuade for years. "She never got over it." Judi McQuade, who now works for a shipping company in Seattle, remembers being nervous about her brother Jack, who had joined the Marines and was serving in the Near East. But she clung to memories of Jim driving around town in his navy blue 1965 Pontiac Catalina convertible. In particular, she always remembered the last time she had seen him at his graduation from flight school. As Judi and her mom were rushing to the airport gate to return to Hoquiam, Jim pulled out a pair of plane tickets - to New Orleans. He had made hotel reservations for the French Quarter for his sister and mother and arranged the whole thing from Fort Rucker. "I always looked up to him," Judi says. A full house On Jan. 16, 1975, as Judi and her brother Jeff looked on, an officer from Fort Lewis presented a Distinguished Service Cross to Pat and Wayne McQuade for their son Jim before a full house in the Hoquiam High School gym. His commanding officer had applied for a Medal of Honor for McQuade, but the higher ups had opted for the second-highest award instead - a decision that Austin still disagrees with. But Judi thinks an even better reward came much later in the form of a friend. An amazing coincidence In May of 1987, two men watched as Gov. Booth Gardner and other state officials dedicated a green and black granite memorial to the Vietnam War on the Capitol Campus in Olympia. John Hughes, editor of The Daily World in Aberdeen, had been watching on television. Swearing that he would make it out to see the monument to Washington state's 1,078 missing or dead soldiers, he sat down to write one of his weekly columns. Back in Olympia, Mike Austin had been surprised to learn that his old Army buddy Jim McQuade had been from Washington. He resolved to call up somebody from Grays Harbor when he got home and track down some of Jim's relatives. "Although it's cold comfort compared to having Jim alive and well and 15 years older with kids of his own, I'm glad his name is now etched on the Vietnam War Memorial at Olympia," wrote Hughes, a former U.S. Air Force air traffic controller. Jim was just one of the many friends he had lost to Vietnam. "I wept watching the dedication on TV." Hughes had married into the Descher clan and knew McQuade well. Drinking Heinekens in the Deschers' back yard a few weeks before Jim headed to Vietnam, he had told him to be careful. "I'm always careful," McQuade had said, grinning as they clanked bottles in a toast. As Hughes typed, his phone rang. On the other end was Mike Austin, who had called to see if the local newspaper knew of any of Jim's relatives. The coincidence was beyond eerie. Hughes finished off his column with Austin's account of that tragic day in June of 1972. Pat McQuade had not talked much about her son's death and usually left the monthly newsletters and other mail the Army sent her unopened on her desk. But when she read Hughes' column, she decided to send a letter of thanks to Austin. "I wrote her back and we essentially became pen pals," Austin said Monday from his home near Puyallup. The letters did not always focus on Vietnam, though for the first time Pat opened up and occasionally asked questions of her son's former troop mate. In 1992, Austin's wife Lynn even took Pat McQuade out to coffee. But even after a dozen years of writing letters, Mrs. McQuade was still nervous about meeting her son's friend, fearful that it would dredge up terrible memories. That all changed earlier this year. Some new leads While visiting her mother in 1997, Judi McQuade picked up some of the unopened mail that the Army had sent and read it. In one letter, she was surprised to learn that the Repatriation and Family Affairs Office had some leads on the whereabouts of her brother's remains. She made inquiries with military officials and contacted Austin to see if he could help. Having been through repatriations before, Austin said he would see what he could find out and offered to meet with her. Then, earlier this year, they received a preliminary report. Austin read over the material and decided he'd heard enough. Though the Army was not yet willing to confirm it, he decided that the remains had to be Jim's. On the Sunday before Memorial Day, he invited the McQuade family to a picnic at his home in Graham. Over smoked salmon and potato salad, Austin finally met Pat McQuade in person, along with Judi and her two brothers. At one point, he and Mrs. McQuade walked alone to see his pygmy goats. Just a matter of time "At that time, we knew the Army was working on identifying the remains," Austin said. "I told her "There is no question that they found him. It's just a matter of going through the formalities.'" Judi McQuade says the family finally felt some sense of closure that day. Now her 18-year-old son Scott wants to get a tattoo honoring the uncle he never got to know. "It's been a really good thing because we've got to think about him again," Judi says of Monday's news that it's final. Through Mike Austin, she says she learned about other Vietnam veterans and knows a lot of people are thinking about the kid who is frozen in time - 23 forever. "We didn't realize that all these people existed that cared so much. We just thought it was our little family." Jim's dad died in 1997, but he had heard the preliminary reports that they might have identified his son's remains. Pat McQuade didn't live to see the Army's formal decision in October. She died in July, long before the official public announcement yesterday that the remains of her son had been found. And she never got to hold her son Jim's St. Christopher medal in her hands as Judi now does. But thanks to his former troop member, she knew that it was only a matter of time before 1st Lt. Jim McQuade would be coming home to America. [End] F/8 Cavalry Blueghost 41/23 '71-2
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Jim's Probably Wearing Those Driving Gloves [John Hughes is the Editor of The Daily World in Aberdeen, Washington] Dear Reader: Ryan Teague Beckwith, at 25 already one of the best reporters I've ever known, looked up from his Internet connection and asked, "Did you know a guy named Jim McQuade?" twenty-eight years evaporated in an instant. Suddenly, I was in a lawn chair in my in-laws' back yard on Queets Avenue in Hoquiam (the Deschers), working my way through a half-case of Heineken with the blond-haired boy next door, the kid with the laughing eyes who thought he was invincible. "He was a friend of mine," I said. "He died in Vietnam in 1972. His helicopter took a surfact-to-air missile." "They've just made a positive ID on his remains," Ryan said. "Incredible," I said. "Go after that story like there's no tomorrow." Ryan worked until 2:30 a.m., got a couple of hours of sleep, and was back at it before sunrise. The 70 inch story he produced for Tuesday's paper was newspaper writing at its very best. Even if you didn't know Jim or Jim's family -- and thousands of us did -- you knew someone like Jim, or a family like the McQuades. And even if you didn't know them personally, you knew them in your hearts when you read the news that their son wasn't coming home -- or coming home in a box, as Country Joe and the Fish sang in "The I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die Rag" at Woodstock. In 1972, Cheryl Barrett and I, because we were young and because we knew a lot about Vietnam, were the reporters the editors sent out to interview families who had received the "I regret to inform you" telegrams. I couldn't go with her to that interview. It was more than I could bear. But when I came home that night, Wayne and Pat McQuade were in my living room, talking with my wife and mother-in-law. It was one of the worse moments of my life. Sheer panic. I stammered out how sorry I was as my eyes filled with tears -- the way they are right now, 27 years later -- and I fled, lying about a meeting to cover. Nothing I learned in Sunday School or Confirmation Class had given me enough faith, wisdom or strength to stay. But most of all I was so incredibly mad at my country for the seseless sacrifice of Jims and Jacks in a stupid war we never should have gotten into in the first place and, in any case, weren't trying to win, that I didn't know if I could keep my big mouth shut. I also felt guilty about being alive. My wife didn't come to grips with why I did what I did for years after that. I'm still not certain she understands. I lost a lot of friends in Vietnam. Young and foolish, I wanted to go there, too, in 1964 at least. Anything I reasoned, would be better than Tacoma. Hell, I joined the Air Force to see the world. Then they sent me to Bermuda. Life is not like a box of chocolates. It's a crap shoot. McQuade loved that story. "Bermuda!" he declared, tipping his chin back to laugh at the sky. "you gotta be (bleeping) me!" I (bleep) you not. So I'm alive and reasonable well at 56, with two teen-agers, two cars, a bad back but a decent HMO, and 1st Lt. Jim McQuade's life ended at 23, 27 years ago. Apology unnecessary In 1987, when I called Pat McQuade to tell her about a troop mate of Jim's who had called me, (Mike Austin) I apologized for leaving the house so abruptly that day. And she said these words: "I could read your eyes, John. You have nothing to apologize for. The worst part of grieving is knowing that people want to tell you they're sorry, and you feel sorry for them because they don't know what to say to make it better. Nothing makes it better. I'll never get over losing that boy." She never did, as her former coworkers at the Lamb-Grays Harbor Co. recalled this week. She could still be the same delightful, witty, fun-loving Pat everyone liked, but there was a palpable depression too. Everyone hurt for her. Before she died last July, Pat had a strong inkling that the Army had at long last recovered Jim's remains. But it's clear that she didn't share that news with many people. When I called Isabelle Lamb Monday to tell her the stunning news about Jim, she said that had Pat lived to see this day, "She would have forgiven her country. She always thought they could have done more to find her sons remains." "She was a great gal. She worked for us forever as a management secretary, but she was never the same after she lost Jim. He was some kid." He sure was. Irish to the core. "A wildhare kid, but a good kid," as his mother put it in 1972 when she talked with Cheryl. A thousand stories It seems like every time my phone rang this week it was another friend of Jim's saying that Ryan wrote a great story, "but did you hear about the time that Jim..." Many -- especially the ex-GIs -- marveled at the 1971 photo we featured of McQuade in dress uniform, complete with black bow tie, pilot's wings and gilded epaulets. He sported a long, wavy forelock, and his sideburns would have done Elvis proud. How Jim pulled this off, even in the Vietnam-era Army, is a matter of considerable speculation. He had to have pushed the hair code to the outer limits, disguising length with a ton of pomade, before coming home on leave, then waited to the 29th day of furlough to have the photo taken. Bill Quigg recalled how Jim nearly got him kicked out of Our Lady of Good Help parochial school because he was shooting spit-wads with such skill and stealth that the nuns thought the culprit was Bill, not Jim. The nuns had Bill murmuring 10,000 Our Fathers on his knobby knees and called in the priest to lecture him on the virtual certainty that spid-wad shooters faced eternal damnation. A worse fate awaited at home, Bill says: Father Quigg. "All because of Jim." Bill said, laughing. The best part about the Jim stories is that they're invariably true. Ray Pumphrey, now Hoquiam's assistant fire chief, graduated from Hoquiam High School with McQuade in 1967. "He was a genuinely nice guy, but frankly he like to live a little bit on the edge," Ray says. "Whenever I think of him I can't help but come back to the time we were in Jim's dad's VW bug, heading toward Hoquiam on the Port Dock Road. I was in the front, while Gil Stork and John Estes were jammed in the back. "Jim's doing 45, when all of a sudden he decides he's gonna hang a right without hitting the brakes. Of course, he doesn't make the corner. He slams into a 10-inch curb, and the rear end of that Bug comes way up in the air. I'm not hurt, and Gil and John in the back seat are topsy-turvy but OK. Jim, however, had put his teeth through his lip when he hit the steering wheel. We were all laughing, sort of realizing how lucky we were. "The accident totally screwed up the front end of that VW. I don't remember whether we pushed it or pulled it back to his house, where Jim had to break the news to his parents. "I think Jim really wanted to be a race car driver, complete with driving gloves." "He's probably wearing them now." Stork, now a painting contractor, recalls that the incident as if it were yesterday. He says they were in fact able to drive the Bug back to Queets Avenue, but the steering was cattywampus and the lights were at a 45-degree angle toward the pavement. He also remembers hosting a party for Jim before he went to Vietnam. It was at Gil's parents' place at Tokeland. A lot of the guys told Jim it was dangerous over there. A guy could get killed. "But he was very gung ho about the whole thing. He really enjoyed being a pilot. It was a dream. "Jim was real sharp." Stork says. "Fun-loving, but never a screw-up. However, he was a practical joker. I remember one time he pulled out an electric razor, plugged it into the cigarette lighter and started shaving in the rear view mirror while we were driving down the road. "Ray's right: Jim always fashioned himself as a sports car driver. He had a '65 Pontiac Catalina convertible that he just loved to drive around in the winter with the top down. IF it wasn't raining, the top was down. That was Jim. He loved life." That's the way I want to remember him: top down, surf up, gloves on. He's probably wearing them now. [End] John Hughes can be reached at 360 532 4000 ext 112
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A Special Thanks: Pam and I were honored to attend the services in Hoquiam for Lt. James R. McQuade on 13 May 2000. Our special thanks to the McQuade family, fellow veterans Mike Austin (Blueghost 23), Col. Jack Kennedy (Blueghost 6), and John Hughes for sharing a promise fulfilled of bringing a fellow Washingtonian, Lt. James R. McQuade "Home."
As Army helicopters flew over Sunset Memorial Park Saturday, We also extend our personal thanks to the Ft. Lewis Honor Guard and the Army pilots and aircrews who provided the flyover of the OH-58 Kiowas at the cemetery. And our personal thanks to Col. Pete Holmberg, another former Vietnam Scout pilot, for his assistance in providing the Honor Guard and flyover. As we stood at attention offering a hand salute to a fallen American hero, the sounds of the OH-58s and the smell of JP4 brought back many memories. This was a day of mixed emotions. Of tears shed by Pam and I when we entered the cemetery with ten of our country's flags proudly marking the way, of the main flag at half-staff in honor of Jim, of joy knowing that a promise was fulfilled - that one of our fallen comrades from a war so long ago, was "home" on America soil where he belongs and reunited with his loving mother, Pat McQuade. And I could not help but to reflect on the members of my own unit who were KIA-BNR inside Cambodia: Lt. Thomas William Knuckey, Sgt. Phillip Charles Taylor, Sgt. Gregory Alfred Antunano and Sp/4 Randall David Dalton. The pictures at the reception of Jim from birth, his childhood years, fishing, playing high school basketball, Jim "standing tall" in his Army dress uniform, receiving medals at a Awards and Decoration ceremony in Vietnam, a U.S. Army flight helmet, a Blueghost album, a copy of his Distinguished Service Cross citation, letters from Jim to his family from Vietnam, etchings from the Wall in D.C. - combined they showed all who had the honor of attending the life of one of America's best and brightest, Jim McQuade. And we cannot thank enough the McQuades for having the courage to allow fellow comrades to be involved and participate. It is not only a healing experience for the family members but brings closure to those who served with Jim. And this is why Pam and I have encouraged families to share such events with the veterans' community. Such closure IS very, very important. God Bless the McQuades... Rest in Peace Jim. It was a proud day for America. A time to rejoice! A proud day for a small community in southwest Washington. A proud day for the brave men and women of JTF-FA who recovered the remains of James McQuade and James Hackett. A proud day for all families, veterans and activists that have helped bring the POW/MIA issue to the forefront and have made such recoveries possible. A proud day for all of those, like myself, who served with an Air Cavalry unit in Vietnam and could represent all those from the 3/17th Air Cavalry Squadron at Jim's funeral. Jim, as a fellow Scout, holds a dear place in my heart. It was an honor for Pam, who entered the U.S. Navy in support for her twin brother, Chris and worked on Operation Homecoming. Another "brother" had come "home." After the service as we were returning to Aberdeen, a sign at a local business next to the highway said it all:
===================== Contact the Family If you would like to send Jim's sister, Judi, a personal email, please contact her at: ===================== For more on the Blueghosts, see:
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