Some people live long, quiet lives; others burn hot and leave a crater of stories behind them. Fred B. McGee was one of the latter—a kid from Steubenville, Ohio, born on Memorial Day in 1930—who, on a single June day in Korea, turned cold steel and raw courage into a shield that let the rest of his squad walk away alive. His actions on June 16, 1952, earned him the nation’s highest award for valor — the Medal of Honor — decades later and, as with many righteous delays, long after he’d already gone home.
From Steubenville, Ohio, to Korea
McGee came into the world on May 30, 1930, in Steubenville, Ohio, the sixth of eight kids born to Spanish and Perrie McGee. There were six boys and two girls in the brood, and before Fred turned two, the family packed up and moved to Bloomingdale, Ohio. It was the kind of small-town America that feels like a Norman Rockwell painting—wood-frame house, rolling fields, and a close-knit family that stuck together through thick and thin. His mother told him from the start he was born gifted, and his father—Spanish McGee—was living proof of what grit and brains could accomplish.
Spanish had escaped indentured servitude in Alabama, taught himself mechanical engineering, and went on to invent and patent a snow tire chain tough enough for the U.S. Army to use during World War II. Watching his father solve problems that most folks wouldn’t even try—like figuring out how to get a truck up an icy hill—taught Fred the kind of resourcefulness you can’t buy.
Life in Bloomingdale was about as wholesome as it gets. Fred spent winters sledding with his brothers and sisters, summers on the baseball diamond, and most days in between learning how to think and work with his hands. The McGees carried a family legacy of service—Fred was a direct descendant of Henry Dorton, an African American who fought in the Revolutionary War—and that kind of history runs deep. By the time he was a young man, Fred was already known for his kindness, ambition, and natural athleticism. He wasn’t merely good at baseball; he was good enough to get a tryout with the Kansas City A’s.
But when the Korean War came calling, Fred answered. In May 1951, at 21 years old, he enlisted in the U.S. Army. He joined the 17th Infantry Regiment, which had only recently been desegregated, and before long, he was on a troop ship headed across the Pacific. Whatever innocence was left from those small-town days in Bloomingdale would be burned off on the rocky hillsides of Korea—but those same lessons in perseverance, loyalty, and toughness would carry him straight into the history books.
The Short, Bright Violence of June 16, 1952
On June 16, 1952, near a place in Korea called Tang-Wan-Ni, Fred B. McGee showed the kind of grit and guts that you just can’t fake. He was a light machine gunner, laying down heavy fire to keep his platoon moving while enemy machine guns and mortars tore into the hillside. Every time the fight shifted, he picked up his gun and hauled it to a new spot—out in the open—just to keep that support going.
When his squad leader and several others were hit, McGee didn’t hesitate. He took charge, pushed the squad even closer to the enemy, and knocked out a machine gun that was chewing up another platoon trying to advance.
The fight kept getting hotter. His replacement gunner was killed, so McGee grabbed the weapon himself and kept firing. He told his squad to fall back while he stayed behind to get the wounded and dead out. Somewhere in the chaos, he took shrapnel in the face and a bullet in the leg, but it didn’t slow him down. He even stood up under heavy fire to try to save the company runner, and when that didn’t work, he helped another wounded man make it back through a storm of mortars and artillery.
That’s more than simply doing your job—that’s going far beyond it. Every move he made that day was about protecting the men around him, no matter the cost to himself. That’s why his name is now etched alongside the few who’ve worn the Medal of Honor, and why his story still makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
After the War
When Fred B. McGee came home from Korea, he moved on from the war. He built something even bigger. He married Cornell Lewis, and for 65 years, they were a team in every sense of the word. Folks in Jefferson County knew him as the guy with the warm smile, the easy laugh, and that signature whistle you could hear before you saw him. He fished, hunted, and spent his best hours with family and friends, always showing up when someone needed a hand. He was the kind of man who made you feel like you mattered just by being in the same room.
McGee stayed connected to his brothers-in-arms, throwing himself into veterans’ groups and local causes. His dedication earned him a place in the Ohio Military Hall of Fame for Valor, the Purple Heart Hall of Fame, and in 2019, the title of Jefferson County Veteran of the Year. Sadly, he only lived three months into that honor, passing away in January 2020.
But long before that, people had been taking note. In 2009, the Congressional Medal of Honor Society gave him the “Above & Beyond Citizen Honors Award” for his service and courage as a civilian. Back in 2003, his name was entered into the Congressional Record, sealing his story into the nation’s archives.
Proud of his heritage, McGee was also a member of the Sons of the American Revolution, carrying on a family legacy that stretched back to an ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War. Those who knew him will tell you he was a class act—steady, generous, and full of integrity. In uniform or out of it, Fred McGee never stopped serving. His story isn’t just about one day on a hill in Korea—it’s about a lifetime spent showing what real honor looks like.
Recognition That Came After the Smoke
In January 2025, more than seventy years after he stared down death on a Korean hillside, Fred B. McGee finally received the Medal of Honor. The catch? He’d been gone for five years. Back in 1952, his bravery was recognized with the Silver Star, but that wasn’t the full measure of what he’d done. For decades, his family—led by his daughter, Victoria Secrest—pushed, prodded, and fought through a maze of red tape to set the record straight. They dug through files, corrected the paperwork, and enlisted veterans’ groups and local officials to press the case. It wasn’t just about medals; it was about making sure the country told the truth about what happened that day.
The delay was bureaucracy doing what bureaucracy does worst. As with other long-overdue awards to Korean War soldiers of color, there’s a strong suspicion that racial bias in the 1950s played its part in keeping McGee from the recognition he’d earned. Still, persistence paid off. On the fifth anniversary of his death, in a White House ceremony that was equal parts pride and heartbreak, his family finally held the medal he’d never get to wear. It was a full-circle moment—proof that history can be set right, even if it takes a lifetime—but also a reminder that sometimes a nation takes far too long to thank its heroes.
What Makes McGee’s Story Stick
There’s a simple nobility to this: the mechanics of bravery are not cinematic grandstanding, but stubborn, incremental choices. Move the gun. Fire. Hold the line. Let others live. That, in the end, is what McGee did. He also stands as another figure in the long, slow arc where the nation finally corrects its omissions — recognizing acts by African American soldiers whose valor was too often obscured by history’s fog.
Beyond the medal, McGee’s life is a reminder that heroism is not always headline-screaming; sometimes it’s a life that loved well and returned from a nightmare to the slow redemption of spending quality time with friends and family.
Closing Shot
The raw truth is this: Fred McGee didn’t seek a medal. He sought to do his job and to see his friends off that mountain.
History, belated and fumbling, finally decided to give him the highest honor it could.
He left a family, a town, and a story—small, stubborn, and unflashy—that will outlast the press releases.
And somewhere in that quiet, you learn the old soldier’s lesson: courage is habitual, not theatrical.