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.