It recently came to my attention that this is 73rd
anniversary of the US Army’s issuance of a request for proposals that
culminated in the manufacture of the venerable jeep. This brought back personal memories, as well
as an opportunity to mention a forgotten cocktail that did not achieve the fame
of its namesake.
As a young man, I passed through a stage of life in which I
was enamored of 4 wheel drive vehicles, particularly “jeeps”.
I had always liked old pick-up trucks. My first love was a green, two-wheel drive, 1951 Dodge truck,
fresh from a farm. This truck came complete with “three on the tree,” half-moon hubcaps, bald
snow tires, a rotted out wood bed and rust in the running boards and
fenders. It did have a working radio and
heater. What could be better than that? Only something as reliable, as sexy as a sow,
and with 4 wheel drive – obviously a Jeep!
The military variants of the jeep are no more closely
related to the modern civilian toys than the Wright brothers Flyer 1 is to a
Boeing 777. The basic construction,
power train, and hardware were incredibly simple and lent themselves to easy maintenance and field expedient repairs.
On one occasion, when the fuel pump failed on an M38A1, I
rode 20 miles on a dirt road in the Gila Wilderness, sitting on the cowl, while pouring gas into the carburetor.
After removing the windshield, a friend drove while I poured the gas
from a canteen cup, into an improvised aluminum foil funnel that was wrapped
around a piece of rubber tubing. The
tubing was jammed onto the carburetor fuel line, which we had bent upward. The other passenger refilled my canteen cup
from a 5 gallon jerry can sans spout. Gasoline was splashed everywhere. When we finally got to civilization, I had a
pretty good chemical dermatitis on my hands and torso, and smelled like a
refinery. I don’t recommend trying this
at home, as it was clearly a case of God protecting “fools, lovers and
drunkards.” Unfortunately, we were the former rather than the latter.
My unrequited lust
for a 4WD vehicle was turned into reality by my father-in-law, Al. When I told Al that I would like to buy a jeep
from a surplus yard in El Paso, but was short the money and mechanical talent
to restore it, he offered up the needed funds and the mechanical know-how. Al was a retired Army mechanic who had been
raised on a poor farm in Michigan. Though
a functional illiterate, he could fabricate, restore, or otherwise return to
life damn near anything. While a
difficult person, his “can do” belief that everything broken could be fixed, and
that everything needed can be made or found, augmented by a staunch refusal to
accept otherwise, is still a wonder.
This life lesson has stood me well, and I have tried to pass it on to my
children.
The first jeep we rebuilt was a 1955 Willys M170 Frontline
Ambulance.
It had a Hurricane F-head engine
with an accursed Carter YF carburetor, a T-90 3-speed transmission (which I had
to tear down and rebuild a second time after finding an omitted synchronizer
ring in a rag), Dana transfer case and axles, and a super heavy duty suspension
since the jeep was designed to handle a driver, passenger, and three litters. Best of all, it had features that would make
any vehicle a dream. Ample storage
compartments in both wheel wells and under the passenger jump seat, canvas covered
wheel well bench cushions, which along with the front seats that were resistant
to foul weather. The passenger jump seat could be hung from a bar on the dash
to make room for a third stretcher – or camping gear, and the spare tire was
carried vertically in a wheel well next to the passenger. All this, plus it still had the original
military paint and insignia. It was as if all my adolescent dreams had come true.
Recollections of the
M170 are bittersweet.
It was rebuilt the year we were married, and I spent more time with my father-in-law building the
jeep, than with my wife—something she has reminded me many times over the last
four decades. I was oblivious to
everything except the jeep project.
From the first, the M170 was so much more useful than the 1964
VW that it had replaced. Once, parked in a dirt lot, I returned
from class and found my “jeep” hemmed in on all sides. No problem!
I engaged the 4 wheel drive and pushed the car in front of me out of the
way so that I could leave.
Yes, I was a
jerk.
The following year I went into the Army and the M170 stayed
with us. We struggled through a blizzard in Raton Pass to get to my first duty
station, Fitzsimmons Army Hospital, Denver Colorado. Later, it easily, albeit slowly climbed the mostly
dirt and gravel road up Pikes Peak, while newer automobiles sat overheated at
the side of the road. I fondly recall
watching my very pregnant wife, in the short dresses of the early 70’s, stepping
high over the spare tire to get to the jump seat and, on a later trip,
complaining about oil dripping from the oil pressure sending unit onto her
stockings (imagine a time when women wore stockings everywhere, even in a
jeep!). I told her, quite seriously,
that it was “clean oil.” A very poorly
received comment. Young men can be such boors.
Serving in the military, vehicle parts were amazingly easy
for an enterprising soldier to acquire – Korean War vintage run-flat tires from
Rocky Mountain Arsenal, fuel, oil and water pumps from sundry Army Reserve units,
assorted parts as needed from military cannibalization points, and litters from
the hospital (the litters were also our first bed, until we could afford used
furniture, at my next duty station). It
was a first rate vehicle, fit to pass any inspection. When it broke down, it
was usually a minor problem that, with what I had learned from Al, was repairable
with basic tools and bruised knuckles.
The most persistent, and annoying, problems were vapor lock and a
sticking carburetor float.
The last trip we made in the M170 was truly epic. Keep in mind this was our family car, not a
beater used for hunting and fishing. In
1973, on a two week leave, we travelled from San Antonio, Texas to New York City,
by way of Jacksonville, Florida, then back.
We started with $50 cash and a gas credit card. This would be a journey of over 3800 miles. I planned to drive long days and minimize
expenses by staying with relatives along the way.
Now, for those of you driving those pimp-mobiles that pass
for a modern Jeep, the drive may sound a little long, but not particularly
difficult. Try it in hot weather,
without air conditioning but with engine heat radiating through the firewall,
an incredibly stiff suspension - not so wonderful now, run-flat tires so hard
you felt every pebble in the asphalt, a top speed of 55 mph – the very
definition of “getting nowhere fast”, hard rubberized horse hair seats which,
by the end of the day, felt like sitting
on sandbags, a 6 month old child in a bassinet, and
a German wife ready to point out any shortcomings I might have missed. Also,
there was no radio to break the monotony or drown out heat and fatigue inspired
tirades. Trip safety planning meant
taking my 9mm FN Hi-power, a fire extinguisher, an extra fuel pump, water pump,
and oil pump, and a few hand tools. Seat
belts and air bags were not part of the picture. Thinking about it still makes
me tired.
The trip was a series of minor adventures. Somewhere outside Houma, Louisiana we broke down. It was a simple problem, once found. A loose distributor ground, repaired with a
minimum of snarling. My main memory of Houma
is the suffocating heat. It was hotter
than the hinges of Hades and the humidity had to be 110%. In Tuscaloosa,
Alabama, we were rear ended by a lady driving an Olds 88, slightly damaging our
left rear quarter panel. We ran out of
gas in Quincy, Florida late at night. I hitched a ride to a gas station, with
some teenagers, while my wife and child stayed in the car. My spouse remembers that night slightly
differently. She recalls being alone and afraid, in the dark, with the baby. Days later, safely arriving in New York, we were
just in time for rush hour traffic. My wife was incredibly tense and annoying
as a “backseat driver.” I felt great driving the only cool vehicle
on the road in New York City. No lack of
hubris in that other me of long ago.
Ultimately, this trip
was the death knell of the M170. Getting
home, we were all tired and sore. I could
barely tolerate having to use the jeep to go to work at Brooke Army Medical
Center. Within weeks of returning, I
sold the M170 to a fellow sergeant for $400, along with plenty of spare parts
and GI manuals so generously provided by Uncle Sam. Sadly, when sold, I told him that I thought
the oil pump was failing and to install one of the spares. Lazier than even I, he failed to do so and,
ignoring the oil pressure gauge, seized up the engine two weeks later. While
the M170 was followed by a Jeep Commando and two M38A1’s, none were so loved,
nor so traveled, but all have their stories.
The drink I choose to pair with this blog, is called “The
Jeep.” It comes from the 3 Bottle Bar by H.i. Williams, 1943. No,
the little “i” in the second initial is not a typo. Born Harney Isham Williams,
he went by “H.i.” in credits, or when he signed his name.
The drink, the author says, is “Designed for rough sledding, the Jeep has a three power drive with a
pick up robust enough to pull even the weariest wayfarer out of the deepest rut.”
My wife and I find
the drink quite tasty.
In older bar books, when gin was not otherwise specified
as "dry," "Plymouth" or "Holland," an Old Tom was the choice inferred. Old Tom gins, sweeter and generally milder
tasting, are harder to find now, but very pleasant to the palate in a mixed
drink or cocktail. I used Brothers Old Tom Gin, made here in New
Mexico by the Left Turn Distillery of Albuquerque. For “whiskey”, I used Old Overholt rye, an American classic, as
I personally find rye whiskey more pleasant and less “boozey” in mixed
drinks. The wine was a nice,
inexpensive, California Beringer Chenin
Blanc. The juice came from two tiny
Cutie oranges. Cheers!
