Non-Combatant Troops
THERE was little difference in the spirit of those who went to France as welfare workers and those who went as soldiers. Both felt the urge of the hour—both desired to be stationed where they could give most—serve most. Hence it was not strange that we reached the Y headquarters in Paris hoping to be forwarded to some one of the fighting units, and that during the ten days of preparation for the camp, we were looking wishfully toward the front. Indeed, one of us had come from Illinois, and had already been adopted as the daughter of the 370th Regiment. The other had come from the Metropolis, and somehow felt the whole responsibility for the welfare of the “Fifteenth New York” and the “Buffaloes” resting upon her weak shoulders. It is easy then to imagine our disappointment when we were assigned to the S. O. S., or Service of Supplies Sector. It was just at this point we found it necessary as members of the American Expeditionary Forces to learn one of the most important lessons of the army—that of obedience.
On the Way to the Docks at St. Nazaire
SERGEANTS DUNN, TAPSCOTT AND JONES AT THE PORT
But it was a most kind Providence that sent us away from the scenes of devastation and death for our first service, and placed us where we could come into a comprehensive knowledge and appreciation of our non-combatant forces. Seven months of continuous service and daily contact in the camp with these men warrant our writing with assurance certain definite impressions left upon our minds by them. We take it that the 20,000 soldiers whom we served, those visited at Brest and other S. O. S. points and those who rested with us in the Leave Area from Bordeaux, Marseilles, and other camps were typical of the one hundred thousand or so men who formed the non-combatant group.
These men were known chiefly as stevedores and labor battalions. Somehow a widely circulated report gained credence that they had been gathered indiscriminately, and had been landed on foreign soil, a mere group of servants for the white soldiers. We do not know who first sought to thus humiliate these soldiers by such unjust and undeserved rating. One might easily believe, of course, because of the constantly unfair attitude of some of their officers toward them, that there was some such assumption to that effect. But the world has learned now, that in spite of all handicaps, there could be found nowhere in the army stouter and braver hearts, or more loyal and self-sacrificing spirits. Subjected to a stern discipline; with discriminations, cruel in their intent and execution; long hours of toil; scant recognition for service or hope of promotion, they still kept their faith. Throughout the war they wrought as weavers who are given to see only the wrong side of the glorious pattern they are weaving. Indeed, through these men we came into an abiding belief that the colored man was in the war to justify his plea for democracy. The first day we entered that busy military port of St. Nazaire, we saw a colored lad standing under the ancient clock in the center of the square. He had M. P. (military police) on his arm band in large red letters, and in his hand a stick with which he quietly directed the tremendous traffic of that town. Auto-trucks, auto-cars of officers from the highest to the lowest rank, auto-busses for welfare workers, sidecars, bicycles, used so constantly by French women as well as men, and the typical French voiture made a constant noisy stream. And this colored lad, who had come from a rural district of the far South, stood there calmly pointing his stick, now left, now right, or holding it up in demand for a pause. Surely he was there by Divine Thought.
The very first group of colored soldiers to leave for France in the autumn of 1917 were stevedores and labor battalions. Another group reached St. Nazaire, by way of Brest, Christmas eve of the same year. Time and time again in camp they told us the story of that first winter of hardship. Christmas day found them cold and cheerless, with hard tacks and beans for their rations. All that winter they worked, poorly equipped for their severe task. In the dark hours of the night and the morning, they plunged through the deep mud of the camp and city, without boots. On the dock they handled the cold steel and iron without gloves. But they were soldiers, and so they worked without complaint.
When the first American Forces reached the Continent, the French were calling loudly for help. All seemed chaos for a little, as thousands of troops began to reconstruct the ports of France. These quiet ports, many of them centuries gray, became centers of throbbing activity. Hundreds of warehouses, most modern in their construction, rose as if by magic. From the south where Marseilles looks out on the blue Mediterranean, to Brest at the entrance to the English Channel, our own stevedores, labor battalions and engineers, have rebuilt much of the water front of France, thus making a real epoch in the history of French navigation. During the last year of the war, these thousands of men were at work in the S. O. S., connecting it with the great battle front. System and efficiency, with the greatest possible haste, were required in speeding the supplies to combatant troops. All of this these soldiers comprehended and ever they responded with a decisive and soldier-like spirit. The incessant tramp of many feet through the city street, the constant rush and rumble of auto-trucks kept the camps of these ports closely linked with the docks.
All who were at work in France well remember that “Race to Berlin” contest, upon which the last great forward move of our troops so largely depended. The world looked out only toward Metz, where our great combat army was centering, but just as often, anxious eyes were upon the rear where our men were toiling like mad that peace should not be delayed through any failure of theirs. With feverish haste and anxiety they battled with great bulks of ammunition and supplies. For weeks at Marseilles, Bordeaux, St. Nazaire, Brest and other ports they worked with almost superhuman strength. Those serving these men during this contest labored with the same feverish spirit that possessed the men themselves. How they tried to cheer, encourage, and entertain our determined heroes as they contested for the honors! If by chance you see somewhere a soldier wearing the emblem of the S. O. S., with an arrow running through it and pointing skyward, you will know that he belongs to those service battalions at Brest who by their inexhaustible reserves of energy and endurance, won in the “Race to Berlin.”
Although these men were not called upon to face the shot and shell at the front, they paid their toll in death from accident, cold and exposure. No more at the rear than at the front did they pause to consider personal danger. They were truly heroes, carrying not bayonet and gun, but connecting the wonderful resources of their own country, three thousand miles away, with the greatest battlefields the world has ever known.
There went to rest in the land of light and peace a short time ago, one of the world’s poets whose divinest gift was her great human understanding and sympathy. Long and well did Ella Wheeler Wilcox write to lift the souls of men from the sordid things of earth to the purer realms of sympathetic knowledge and co-operation. She was given entrée to the heart of the war, and saw the grim conflict in all its various settings. Riding along the coast one day, looking out upon the long lines of warehouses, hearing the hum of the thousands of men at work, she said: “I have gained with the years a growing appreciation and love for the colored people, and I have seen nothing in France finer than the work of the stevedores. I have written and dedicated a poem to them.” That afternoon, after she had spoken for a few minutes to the thousands of swarthy soldiers, assembled to pay her homage, her companion read the poem as follows:
We are the army stevedores, lusty and virile and strong.
We are given the hardest work of the war and the hours are long.
We handle the heavy boxes and shovel the dirty coal;
While soldiers and sailors work in the light, we burrow below in the hole.
But somebody has to do this work, or the soldiers could not fight
And whatever work is given a man, is good if he does it right.
We are the army stevedores, and we are volunteers.
We did not wait for the draft to come, to put aside our fears.
We flung them away on the wings of fate, at the very first call of our land,
And each of us offered a willing heart, and the strength of a brawny hand.
We are the army stevedores and work as we must and may.
The cross of honor will never be ours to proudly wear away.
But the men at the Front could not be there,
And the battles could not be won
If the stevedores stopped in their dull routine,
And left their work undone.
Somebody has to do this work, be glad that it isn’t you,
We are the army stevedores—give us our due!
MEN OF THE TWENTY-FIRST DEPOT COMPANY
But this wonderfully revealing poem goes hardly far enough to give full appreciation of the whole life of the colored stevedore in France. So often in addition to this “hardest work of the war,” was added treatment accorded no other soldier. While white American soldiers were permitted to go freely about the towns, the great mass of colored American soldiers saw them for the most part, as they marched in line to and from the docks. Passes for them were oftener than otherwise as hard to secure as American gold. Always they were aware of some case of cruel injustice for which there seemed absolutely no redress. We found in our camp a young college student, who, believing that war spelled opportunity, was among the first to enlist. His education placed him at once in the office of his company, and he went to France a sergeant. He did not find that war meant for him what he had dreamed it would, but he kept loyal; his work commanded respect, and, for a time, all went well. But a company commander came who resented the pride of the colored boy, and then began a series of humiliations that took away rank, sent him to the guard-house and dock. Retribution is rather swift at times, and so this officer’s downfall came soon. He never knew, however, that the fond mother back home was the only thing that stood between him and death. The young man has since told us how happy he was to return home with his honor maintained, rank restored. But in camp his face hurt us as often as we looked upon it, so full it was of the endurance of an outraged manhood.
Even a short outing might be robbed of its pleasure. For how well we remember a company that had been granted a week-end leave as a reward for exceptional work. They were going to a neighboring summer resort—a miniature Coney Island. It had been arranged for them to tent on the beach. Just like children, they made us listen to all their enthusiastic plans and dreams of this outing. They went, but came back dumb in the despair of outraged truth and justice. A runner had preceded them, and the French restaurants and places of amusement had been warned not to receive them, since they were but servants of the white soldiers. Later the French knew better, but at that time it required more time and spirit than this company had, to convince the French people of the injustice of it all.
Always there was the knowledge that for them, loyalty, devotion, and energy, led to no higher rank, no possibility of promotion. True, orders were often issued that for the moment, seemed to include the colored soldier in their opportunity for advancement, but just as soon as he attempted to make himself a part of these orders, some subterfuge would be used to deny him the privilege of the army of which he was a part. Well for the colored soldier in France, well for all, that he possessed the far-visioned faith and the endurance of his fathers!
Another misleading idea relative to the non-combatant organizations was to the effect that they were totally illiterate. While the percentage of illiteracy was high, on the other hand hundreds of men were of fair intelligence, while other hundreds had been given fine educational advantages. Not only could there be found large numbers of students and graduates of our colored schools, but there were many from the largest and best known universities and colleges of the United States. It was not unusual to have a man in fatigue uniform, as his working clothes were called, volunteer for some needed educational work, modestly announcing himself a graduate of Dartmouth, Iowa, Yale, or some other large university or college. Two of the best-trained physical directors of our race were discovered over there doing their “bit”—one as a stevedore on the dock, the other busily cutting wood with an isolated labor battalion. For every variety of profession or trade there was a representative. One had but to require the service of a stenographer, dentist, doctor, lawyer, electrician, plumber, draughtsman, pianist, illustrator, or what not, to find him at hand. Once in the palmy days of Camp One, St. Nazaire, an educational exhibit was held in the Y Hut and it was far more interesting, varied, and unique, than any one school could have possibly produced.
Labor battalions were to be found not only at the ports of France, but more than any other class of soldiers, they were spread over all France. Whether near the Belgian or Swiss border, or in “No Man’s Land,” one would be sure to find these indispensable troops. Oftener than otherwise these battalions would be split, and a company or two would be at Verdun or some other important center, while another company would be found in some woods cutting trees. The 608th Labor Battalion was the only organization regularly stationed at St. Nazaire, that had its own colored Sergeant-Major. So clean cut, intelligent and forceful was Sergeant Major Thomas, that he might have been a Major quite as well. His men were much like their leader, and we found it not only a pleasure but comfort to count them among “our boys.”
At Romagne we worked side by side with the 332nd and 349th Labor Battalions. There with the Pioneer Infantries, they were grimly fighting through to the end. To the Leave Area came these men of the labor units in large numbers, and we have many pictures of them and with them. We have, better still, recollections of their faces, earnest and often sad—their eyes aglow as they related the story of their adventure in France. Always they had suffered but always they knew
“That Freedom’s battle once begun
Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son
Though baffled oft—is ever won.”
Hundreds of men among these non-combatant troops were so thoroughly fine that to mention a few of them in a special way seems hardly worth while, except as they represent types. We think of Charles Wright from Ann Arbor, Michigan, who not only performed his office work with thoroughness, but who, through all the long months, first at St. Nazaire, and later at Camp Montoir, gave himself with deep earnestness as a volunteer teacher for his less fortunate mates. Many others gave help in much the same manner for the educational, religious, and athletic activities, or for library or canteen service. There were Charles Wilkinson of the Medical Corps, Sergeants Farrell, Dunn, Jones, Ward, Armstrong and Tapscott, Corporal Henry Smith, Electrician Powell, all so faithful as to seem a part of the regular staff of Y workers.
There was one special group within this group for whom we had great sympathy and deep respect. They were the regular army men, who had seen real fighting, who were still in their prime, and longing for the opportunity to go “over the top.” There were men who had seen service in Russia, the Philippines, Hawaii, heroes of the Spanish American War; men who had known the hideousness of Carrizal, all kept in the S. O. S. But they were soldiers and they knew how to hold their peace and obey. One had to but look at men like Sergeants Blue, Banks, Clark and Dogan, to know that even without the bars on shoulders, they were finer soldiers than many who wore them.
1. “A Canteen Man.” 2. An Old Soldier—Sergeant Banks, 10th U. S. C. 3. Playing Ball at Camp No. 1, St. Nazaire. 4. Our Military Policeman. 5. An Electrician.
These non-combatant troops challenged the very best in those welfare workers who could appreciate the tremendous undercurrent of their lives and their rigid determination to be loyal to the country they served. Always during our days and nights with them, the urge and desire to serve was so keen as to make us forget the loss and strain of physical strength. Our greatest effort was centered in keeping constantly before them this truth so beautifully expressed by James Weldon Johnson:
That banner which is now the type
Of victory on field and flood,
Remember its first crimson stripe
Was dyed by Attuck’s willing blood.
And never yet has come the cry,—
When this fair flag had been assailed
For men to do, for men to die,
That we have faltered or have failed.
We’ve helped to bear it rent and torn,
Through many a hot-breathed battle breeze;
Held in our hands, it has been borne
And planted far across the seas.
Then should we speak but servile words,
Or shall we hang our heads in shame?
Stand back of new-come foreign hordes,
And fear our heritage to claim?
No! stand erect and without fear,
And for our foes let this suffice,
We’ve brought a rightful sonship here,
And we have more than paid the price.
The Engineers
No group of men had a deeper baptism of pain and loneliness in France than the Corps of Engineers. Although classed as non-combatant troops, they might, in an emergency, as at Chateau Thierry, become combatant. There, in the crisis of a struggle, they dealt the German invaders the decisive blow that not only sent them reeling to defeat, but caused the world in general to attach a new importance and appreciation to the work of the engineer.
The colored engineers, however, although sometimes trained with arms in the United States were, for the most part, not permitted the use of them in France. A corporal of the 546th Engineers writes, “Although some of us worked quite close behind the lines, within range of shot and shell, we did not see arms except such as lay discarded about the woods and in the fields.”
There seems to have been little difference between the work done in France by the colored Engineers and Pioneer Infantries. Both were largely engaged in road building and general construction. However, the non-commissioned officers of the Pioneers were largely, if not entirely, colored and in many regiments, they retained their arms, while the engineers were rarely accorded rank beyond that of corporal and, as previously stated, rarely carried arms. But the colored engineers were a part of that far-visioned phalanx of dark-skinned men who went to France to fulfil a trust and who remained true to the end.
An Engineers’ Camp in France. Representatives of the Engineer Corps.
Their work, too, was lightened by their ability to sing in the midst of thunderous guns. Many of the war songs were made into parodies of the shovel which the engineer jokingly made his emblem. The following is a parody of the song, “Mother”:
S is for the soup they always give us
H is for the ham we never get;
O is for the onions in the gravy,
V is for the victory we’ll see yet.
E is for the end of our enlistment,
L is for the land we love so dear,
Put them altogether, they spell SHOVEL
The Emblem of the Engineer.
Wherever troops were fighting, the engineers could be found hard by and their faithful and efficient service won for them praise. For instance, the 37th who served as a part of a French Corps and afterwards with the First American Army Corps was cited for the high efficiency of its work.
The 546th spent many months in various parts of the forest of the Argonne and were also commended for their meritorious service; the same might be said of the 505th and many others.
But viewing their record as a whole we might sum it up in the following lines of Paul Laurence Dunbar:
Thou hast the right to noble pride
Whose spotless robes were purified
By blood’s severe baptism.
Upon thy brow the cross was laid,
And labor’s painful sweat beads made
A consecrating chrism.
HOMING BRAVES
There’s music in the measured tread
Of those returning from the dead
Like scattered flowers from a plain
So lately crimson, with the slain.
No more the sound of shuffled feet
Shall mark the poltroon on the street,
Nor shifting, sodden, downcast eye,
Reveal the man afraid to die.
They shall have paid full, utterly
The price of peace across the sea,
When, with uplifted glance they come
To claim a kindly welcome home.
Nor shall the old-time dædal sting
Of prejudice, their manhood wing,
Nor heights, nor depths, nor living streams
Stand in the pathway of their dreams!
Georgia Douglas Johnson.