Some Experiences With Colored Soldiers
I
IN July, 1918, I was with a regular army regiment, in command of an infantry platoon. We took part in some very heavy fighting in the drive which closed up the Soissons-Rheims-Château-Thierry triangle. At the end of the month, when we were recuperating, there came a call from General Headquarters for officers with trench experience. I was put on the list, being one of the few officers accustomed to trench routine, as I had served in the Argonne with the French during the spring.
It was hard to go; one learns to love the regiment with which one has shared bitter but tremendous experiences; and my dismay was great when I found myself transferred to a famous colored regiment, then in sector in the Champagne region. I had known little or nothing of negroes. Smiling, dark-skinned porters had brushed my clothes on Pullman cars and pocketed my quarters; on great evenings I had dined at the Parker House in Boston; and once, when I was a boy, I heard Booker Washington speak. But such experiences do not make for large knowledge of the colored man. I had the typical Northern feeling that only a Southerner could work with him. Thinking over my friends from the North whom I have seen leading and understanding their brother of another race, I am convinced that this idea of the mysterious bond between the Southerner and the negro is too much dwelt on. For my part, looking back at my own small corner of the war, I am very glad to have had the experience of going over the top, first with white, then with colored American troops.
The battalion to which I was assigned was in what is called the intermediate position, in trenches and dugouts, two kilometres behind another battalion which held the front-line trenches. The captain gave me an orderly, who showed himself almost immediately devoted and willing, whereas my former (white) orderly had spent some time sizing me up, and had served grudgingly at first. Colored soldiers are generally proud to be orderlies, and in this capacity are most faithful.
As this was a machine-gun company, the first thing to do was to visit the two sections of my platoon, stationed at strong points half a mile apart, to talk with the sergeants and inspect the guns. I found these fine Hotchkiss guns all in first-rate condition, and the ammunition oiled. Though it was hard to keep our men looking respectable even behind the lines, and though our kitchens required rigid and wordy inspections, these men had been well taught to keep their guns clean, as their first duty. They treated them with reverent care, always managing to find oil somehow, although the supplies were scanty and far apart. Most of them knew the nomenclature of the guns well enough. They were quick and handy at stripping and assembling, besides knowing a good deal about possible jams. In fact, they were decidedly good machinegunners.
It was a strange country that I found myself in — very different from the wheatfields and groves of our July fighting. In the Champagne, the white clay is everywhere turned up by the lines of trenches and by the craters where shells have exploded. The effect is of the bones of a country, exposed. The skeleton of the land protrudes on dreary hills and in desolate valleys. On moonlight nights, the high parapets of clay are ghostly white, as if men had tunneled in enduring snow.
Aside from the shelling, which we avoided by staying in our dugouts and by wasting no time when moving in the trenches, my first real experience in this sector came a few days later, when we moved up to relieve the battalion in the front-line position. Making a relief in the trenches is always nervous work. In the regular trench parallels that stretch across the line of fire, there is good protection against hostile artillery; but in the long boyaus that lead toward the front, there is very little shelter. Moreover, the guns of the enemy are carefully registered on these communication trenches. All movement must be at night, and accomplished quietly; for if the Germans suspect that a relief is in progress, there will be slaughter among the long lines moving out or in, in single file.
The night of this relief was clear and still; the German guns were silent for once. Rumor was afloat of a tunnel which the enemy were building toward our lines. There is something unpleasant about the idea of tunnels, suggesting sudden explosions of hidden mines. We were half a mile behind the front line, moving slowly up the boyau, or communication trench. I was in charge of a column of seventy-five men, walking behind them, according to my orders, in case there should be stragglers. At the head of the column were a poilu guide whom the boys did not know and one of our own sergeants. We crawled along, each man bent on not losing sight of the man in front of him. Sometimes, as soldiers hesitated at a mudpuddle, a gap would open in the column, to be closed by a sprint that passed like a wave to those behind.
We were half-way to the front lines when suddenly there was a shout, a rush; and I was knocked flat by my detachment moving to the rear at triple time. I have never seen living men move faster. They threw off their packs, they threw away their guns. I got up blaspheming, with my face full of mud, tried to stem the rush, and was borne back by it, wondering frantically if I ought to use my pistol. I pursued my small command and found it scattered over the country half a mile back. Knowing almost no names, and bewildered by the dark, I spent a nightmare half-hour, cursing and cajoling them to get into line again. This time I took care to go ahead, and we moved forward, picking up the guns and packs, relieving the troops in the front line two hours later than we should have.
What had happened was this: the column had come to a gully with a bridge across it; the bridge had a roof. It looked like a dark hole. Some one at the head of the line had probably whispered, ‘Ma Lawd, dat am de Boche tunnel!’ then — stampede. The Germans had not fired a shell; the hole which they had seen was innocent of sound or movement — and these were seasoned troops! As for the blunder of having no officer at the head of the files, there was another lieutenant who should have been there, but who lost himself in the labyrinth of the trenches, showing up very wild-eyed next morning. This I did not know, and had obeyed my orders.
Such an introduction to a new outfit was naturally disquieting. I talked much with the other officers of the battalion, who had been longer with the regiment, and here are snatches of what they told me: that the men were good boys, but always boys; that they must always be shown the way, and shown how; that everything they did should be most carefully checked up, nothing taken for granted; that, provided a man kept his dignity, he could mingle more freely with these boys than with men of his own color, because there was always the color-line; that a laugh, a friendly word, eating in the same dugout with them, went a long way; that they were the greatest mimics in the world.
‘Bawl them out when they need it,’ said my captain, ’but always keep your sense of humor!’
I did my best to work along these lines, and found good results. The men responded gratefully to kindness, and they were willing workers. How a cheerful man lights up the drudgery of trench work, where the long hours of tense watching are relieved by sleep in a foul, crowded dugout; where the meals are irregular and generally cold, and where, just as the night-watchers turn in, the German barrage descends and all must jump to their stations!
Colored men are wonderfully good company. Their ridiculous chaff, their comical bewilderment and excuses when they have counted the ammunition wrong or left a rifle to be rained on, are very endearing.
’Doan yo’ heah what de man say, yo’ lazy dood?’ In speaking of an officer among themselves, our men seldom said lieutenant or major; it was generally ‘de man.’ And generally the men were ‘de doods.’ Sometimes, from a corporal in a fit of irritation, one would hear, ‘Yo’ big black nigga’; but let an officer use that word, said the captain, and good-bye to his influence! The thing he needed most was a transfer to another regiment. I have never tried it, nor have I heard it tried. Good workers, cheerful humorists, heartwarming children are these soldiers. But beware the time in the cold gray of morning when the big shells come and every eye must be clear and nerves steeled for the expected raid. Make sure that you move and talk like a paladin who minds eighty-eights no more than flies, whatever your feelings may be. And if you are visiting an outpost at night, know the countersign, and curse, and ring the bell whose handle hangs by the chicken-wire gate — hard. Even then, be ready to drop flat at any moment, for their nerves are on hair-triggers, and they love to throw grenades.
Thinking of what had been said about the colored man being a good imitator, I looked round for a chance to give him something to imitate. It came very soon. The platoon held two machine-gun positions in the front line, where the wire was rather thin. Two nights running, a dozen or so ‘hedgehogs’ (egg-shaped, criss-cross tangles of wire that one man can handle) were sent out to us to fill in with. I waited till there was light enough to see by, and then went over the top. No man was allowed to come up; they merely handed out the wire while I walked back and forth with it and jammed it into the holes in our wire proper, sometimes connecting two or three of the prickly eggs with small pieces of wire that we had on hand, so that the ’hedgehogs’ could not be kicked out of place. This happened for two mornings; but lest I appear to be blowing my trumpet, let me say that it was perfectly safe. The German lines were at least half a mile away; their patrols which came near us at night always retired well before dawn; and there were no observation balloons up. This I knew perfectly, but the men did not. They rolled their big eyes as I came in. My little piece of stage-play worked admirably, raising my reputation with my men. It was the right move with these troops, but in a white regiment it would have been better to take a detail over with me.
All this time we were in what might be called an average sector. There was plenty of healthy artillery activity and frequent raids, but no fighting of the intensity that characterized the sectors farther to the west. The raids were often unsuccessful. When we took a prisoner or two, we were very happy. As for losing prisoners, we never did. Several times our men were taken. Such, however, was their dread of what would happen to them behind the German lines, that their captors could never hold them. Agile as panthers, and with the same hair-trigger quality that caused my downfall the night that someone saw a Boche tunnel in a harmless bridge, they always broke away and got back to our lines. I believe it is true that this regiment, though serving in the trenches as long as any National Guard regiment, has never had a single soldier taken and kept prisoner. Moreover, in these same trenches during the month of July they withstood success fully a terrific bombardment and a strong attack.
II
On the twenty-sixth of September, 1918, we took part in the great drive that swept the Germans back all along the line. I did not last long, as my skull was slightly fractured by a machine-gun bullet on the first day; yet I have a few vivid impressions. I recall, just before the attack, a solemn, determined group emerging from the dugout, only to plunge back again and yet again for some forgotten piece of equipment. They always forget something. Again, I see myself (while watching for the signal to attack and trying to place some lost infantry stragglers who had wandered into our position) handing over to my sergeant, with most fervid injunctions, the important job of making sure that we took all our sixteen boxes of ammunition. He was almost scornful in his confidence of accuracy; yet we turned up at the jumping-off place one box shy. Again, when we were well into No-Man’s Land, and our familiar trenches seemed far away, I remember two boys rolling on the ground, crying, ‘I ’se got de gas bad!’ when no gas was there, and other boys laughing at them. When we took prisoners, boys again! Nobody wished to take their sullen captives away somewhere and cut their hearts out — they were much too happy. The proud soldiers escorting the detachment to the rear were as good as a brass band. Their march among the shell-holes was nearly a cake-walk.
How willingly they followed their officers among the shattered wire and the ruin of the German trenches, shouldering the heavy guns or carrying the still more cumbersome ammunition! When I was wounded, how tenderly and deftly a big corporal bandaged my head! My most important impression, however, is one which was not over-clear at the time, but which now seems to mean more. When, after being hit, I had done my best for an hour with a head that turned round and round, I was ordered to the rear. I remember saying, ’Sergeant—, you are now in char ge of this platoon.’
He was my best sergeant, one of the finest we had. He looked at me first in bewilderment, then in dumb resignation. He seemed to say, ‘I’ll do it, though I don’t believe it can be done,’ like a boy whose family is suddenly blotted out and who finds himself with no means of support, facing a great world.
This episode gathers significance by contrast. In the July fighting, half a battalion of raw white troops, resting for half an hour on the battlefield, after their first attack, were suddenly struck by artillery fire. It was from a battery of seventy-sevens, I think, getting their target by means of an observation balloon. We saw the balloon, but it was so far away that none of us thought of the danger. Such things are learned only by experience. It was a shattering surprise to exhausted men. Three officers who were sitting under a tree were struck by a shell, which killed two of them and wounded the third desperately. I was the only one left, having the luck to be at a neighboring spring, quenching my thirst. There we were, overwhelmed by shelling, and it looked like a counter-attack. I had to call up my non-commissioned officers and make them acting officers for the emergency. How magnificently they responded! Each man looked me in the eye and answered with the confidence of a budding general. They did the work of preparation and made many useful suggestions. With their help the position was securely arranged and held, till a superior officer arrived. The difference between the two attitudes is striking, bringing out again the boylike quality of the colored soldier.
There are other random observations that may throw light on these men. The best of them are very efficient at liaison work, than which there is nothing more important. The messenger must often not only run through hell with his message, but get through. Besides courage and endurance, they had a marvelous knack of finding their way in the infernal tangle of an old trench-system which had changed hands several times. Our best man was one who in ‘civil life’ had been a distinguished ‘gun-man.’
Sickness has a very depressing effect on the negro: a boy who suffers with rheumatism is sure that it is going to his heart; a cold brings thoughts of an early grave, though they are really very rugged. We had expected much sickness with the cold weather, yet found, for the most part, nothing worse than imaginings and low spirits. They dropped away fast in the hospital when we were waiting at Brest to go home; but so did their white officers.
Of the gratitude and loyalty of the colored boys, let me give an instance. When we were behind the lines, a private, whom all considered spineless and good-for-nothing, was severely reprimanded at two inspections for the condition of his rifle. After the second inspection was over, an officer came up to him and pointed out in a friendly way how he could get the rust out of that shocking barrel. A week later they were in the trenches, a heavy barrage was bursting all along the parapet, and it became necessary for this officer to run through and find how an outlying position was making out. He stood outside the dugout and called for a volunteer to go with him, since, if he were hit, someone must carry the news to battalion headquarters. The men were clustered on the stairs and in the doorway. As the officer spoke, a shell nearly got him. For a moment no one moved. He called again, and the despised soldier whom he had befriended wriggled through the crowd in the doorway and rushed forward.
Many of them are deeply religious. The censors know this well from their letters. They have been spared, they say, and they thank God for it. It is a long, hard trail, but Jesus Christ will see them through. I remember well our old mess-sergeant, a very dark negro, his close-curled hair shot with white, often coming up to me in quiet times, placing his hand on my shoulder and talking to me of the goodness of God in sparing us through the horrors we had seen. Indeed, God has been good to us. Through the years before us, may all who have been in that fiery furnace remember that they always represent the dead who lie in Flanders fields, and work with strength and vision.
Colored soldiers are splendid ‘hikers.’ They have fine endurance, with a sunny disposition that keeps them from complaining. When a man falls out from fatigue or illness, their sense of humor asserts itself. Among white troops passing the sufferer, there would generally be muttered comments of sympathy on having been sent to France to be marched to death. The colored soldier who falls out, however, receives no mercy. Every man in line feels that he has proved himself a better walker than the unfortunate, and struts along the road, jollying his footsore comrade as he passes. Watch the change as the column, marching at route step, swings into some small French town where children and an old woman or two observe the passing army. The command of ’Attention!' is not necessary. Every man swings into step, shoulders are thrown back, and extra distances between ranks close automatically. Some one is watching them. There was one comedian who stowed somewhere about him for these occasions a battered silk hat. We let him wear it — in small towns! The inhabitants stared at him and laughed. He was happy and made the whole company happy.
In their drilling they are like sensitive plates, responding to the tone of the officer in charge. No troops will do well under a slipshod drillmaster, but the colored man will deteriorate and become slack more quickly than the white. He responds immediately, however, to snappy commands and a soldierly appearance. He will snap through the manual of arms and march perfectly in close-order drill, with a slight, irresistible swagger. Let a superior officer come out to see such an exhibition as machine-guns going into action in competition, and they will tear down the field as if the guns they carried weighed nothing. They will almost burst their hearts with exertion, happy all the time because they are observed.
The colored soldier is generally a splendid physical specimen, with great powers of endurance. He is tireless, cheerful, and loyal, and wall follow like a dog through artillery barrage and the wind of machine-gun bullets. On the other hand, he has an extraordinary nervousness, does not like the dark, and lacks will and initiative. This last appears most clearly in the case of non-commissioned officers. Many will handle their men very creditably behind the lines, while to an officer some of them are full of intelligent suggestions (too full, if encouraged!). In hard conditions, however, the best of them, though showing no apparent fear, seem to be struck dumb. They do what they are told, but move as if bewildered. I think they lack the free, independent spirit that stirs in the breast of the white; that rises within him when the shells are falling thick and says, ‘I am a better man than any—Boche, and I am coming through.’ Of course, you find the same spirit in some negroes, but it is rare. They are boys. They do not grow up, even under shell-fire.
If I were to join the army again, I should like to serve with colored troops. They are so cheerful and willing, and they march so well. They enjoy the theatrical effect of their drill. They are extremely good with animals. Have you ever seen eight black boys hustling a wary old mule up into a freight car? All eight are clustered round his stern, lifting, pushing, shouting, laughing, while the mule braces all four feet on the sloping gang-plank. They do not fear his kicking, and in a moment the most obstinate of brutes is safe aboard.
Among themselves they are full of humor, tolerant, and kindly. The officer who, while with them, would not grow young again is indeed a slave to dull care. What a simple lovable people are these dark-skinned brothers of ours!
If I were to go fighting again, I should like to serve with them, too; but it must be realized that this is a very different proposition. I should like to have the power to raise a body of negro troops. They should be picked men, and then picked again. To get non-commissioned officers for a company, those of a battalion would be combed over, and these sergeants and corporals, when chosen, would be under close observation. In fighting qualities the average of the colored race is not as high as that of the white; but given the picked men and their thrice-picked leaders, with officers who understand their weakness and their strength, the result would be a body of troops that would shed great glory on their race. They should have a gradual training in war: that is, they would hardly be the men to throw into a terrific encounter as their baptism under fire. Such was to some extent the experience of the colored regiment with which I served. They had the advantage of a long training in the trenches before they took part in a big attack. They came through with a fine record. And let me say, with pride in the officers with whom it was my privilege to be associated, that they were well led.
I have said nothing about colored officers, because I have not known them; but this much I think is true: black still turns naturally to white for leadership, just as on the Southern plantation the slave turned questioning eyes to the planter. All the more credit to the colored officers, many of whom have led their men well.
Men of the South who face the racequestion bitterly, and men of the North who wash your hands of it, remember that races develop slowly! A few years ago, these men were slaves in the cotton-fields. A few years before that, they were children in the jungles of Africa. They are children still. The race-question is a topic far beyond the scope of this paper; yet, in considering it, let the white citizen remember the lovely traits of his colored brother. We have so much in power, prestige, and development which they have not. We inherit an independent spark, fostered through ages of war and upward groping. Let us hold out our hands and open our hearts to these wonderful boys who move among us, remembering that white and black lie side by side in the fields ‘over there.’