OVER THERE.
HENRY JOHNSON AND NEEDHAM ROBERTS--THE TIGER'S CUBS--NEGRO FIRST TO GET
PALM--JOHNSON'S GRAPHIC STORY--SMASHES THE GERMANS--IRVIN COBB'S
TRIBUTE--CHRISTIAN AND MOHAMMEDAN NEGROES PALS--VALOR OF 93RD
DIVISION--LAUGHTER IN FACE OF DEATH--NEGRO AND POILU HAPPY
TOGETHER--BUTTE DE MESNIL--VALIANT AND HUMOROUS ELMER McCOWIN--WINNING
WAR CROSSES--VERDICT OF THE FRENCH--THE NEGRO'S FAITH.
A most conspicuous Negro hero of the war, and for that matter of any
race serving with the American army, was Sergeant Henry Johnson of
Albany, N.Y. His exploit was shared by a company mate, Needham Roberts.
For pure bull dog grit and tigerish fighting, the exploit has seldom, if
ever, been equalled in the annals of any war. It resulted in the War
Crosses for each with a special citation, and the whole French force in
that section of the Champagne lined up to see them get the decorations.
Across the red and green ribbon of Johnson's decoration was a golden
palm, signifying extraordinary valor. Johnson was the first private of
any race in the American army to get the palm with his Croix de Guerre.
Here is the story as told in Johnson's own words after his arrival back
in New York:
"There isn't so much to tell", said Johnson with characteristic
modesty. "There wasn't anything so fine about it. Just fought for
my life. A rabbit would have done that.
"Well, anyway, me and Needham Roberts were on patrol duty on May
15. The corporal wanted to send out two new drafted men on the
sentry post for the midnight-to-four job. I told him he was crazy
to send untrained men out there and risk the rest of us. I said I'd
tackle the job, though I needed sleep.
"German snipers had been shooting our way that night and I told the
corporal he wanted men on the job who knew their rifles. He said it
was imagination, but anyway he took those green men off and left
Needham and me on the posts. I went on at midnight. It was
moonlight. Roberts was at the next post. At one o'clock a sniper
took a crack at me from a bush fifty yards away. Pretty soon there
was more firing and when Sergeant Roy Thompson came along I told
him.
"'What's the matter men' he asked, 'You scared?'
"'No I ain't scared', I said, 'I came over here to do my bit and
I'll do it. But I was jes' lettin' you know there's liable to be
some tall scrappin' around this post tonight'. He laughed and went
on, and I began to get ready. They'd a box of hand grenades there
and I took them out of the box and laid them all in a row where
they would be handy. There was about thirty grenades, I guess. I
was goin' to bust that Dutch army in pieces if it bothered me.
"Somewhere around two o'clock I heard the Germans cutting our wire
out in front and I called to Roberts. When he came I told him to
pass the word to the lieutenant. He had just started off when the
snippin' and clippin' of the wires sounded near, so I let go with a
hand grenade. There was a yell from a lot of surprised Dutchmen and
then they started firing. I hollered to Needham to come back.
"A German grenade got Needham in the arm and through the hip. He
was too badly wounded to do any fighting, so I told him to lie in
the trench and hand me up the grenades.
"'Keep your nerve' I told him. 'All the Dutchmen in the woods are
at us, but keep cool and we'll lick 'em.' Roberts crawled into the
dugout. Some of the shots got me, one clipped my head, another my
lip, another my hand, some in my side and one smashed my left foot
so bad that I have a silver plate holding it up now.
"The Germans came from all sides. Roberts kept handing me the
grenades and I kept throwing them and the Dutchmen kept squealing,
but jes' the same they kept comin' on. When the grenades were all
gone I started in with my rifle. That was all right until I shoved
in an American cartridge clip--it was a French gun--and it jammed.
"There was nothing to do but use my rifle as a club and jump into
them. I banged them on the dome and the side and everywhere I could
land until the butt of my rifle busted. One of the Germans
hollered, 'Rush him! Rush him!' I decided to do some rushing
myself. I grabbed my French bolo knife and slashed in a million
directions. Each slash meant something, believe me. I wasn't doing
exercises, let me tell you.
"I picked out an officer, a lieutenant I guess he was. I got him
and I got some more of them. They knocked me around considerable
and whanged me on the head, but I always managed to get back on my
feet. There was one guy that bothered me. He climbed on my back and
I had some job shaking him off and pitching him over my head. Then
I stuck him in the ribs with the bolo. I stuck one guy in the
stomach and he yelled in good New York talk: 'That black --------
got me.'
"I was still banging them when my crowd came up and saved me and
beat the Germans off. That fight lasted about an hour. That's about
all. There wasn't so much to it."
No, there was not much to it, excepting that next morning the Americans
found four German bodies with plentiful indications that at least
thirty-two others had been put on the casualty list and several of the
German dead probably had been dragged back by their comrades.
Thirty-eight bombs were found, besides rifles, bayonets and revolvers.
It was Irvin Cobb, the southern story writer, who first gave to the
world a brief account of the exploit of Johnson and Roberts in the
Saturday Evening Post during the summer of 1918. He commented as
follows:
"If ever proof were needed, which it is not, that the color of a
man's skin has nothing to do with the color of his soul, this twain
then and there offered it in abundance."
Mr. Cobb in the same article paid many tributes to the men of the 369th
and 371st serving at that time in that sector. Among other things he
said:
"They were soldiers who wore their uniforms with a smartened pride;
who were jaunty and alert and prompt in their movements; and who
expressed as some did vocally in my hearing, and all did by their
attitude, a sincere heartfelt inclination to get a whack at the foe
with the shortest possible delay."
Continuing, Mr. Cobb uttered a sentiment that is sure to awaken a glow
in the hearts of all sympathizers and friends of the Negro race. "I am
of the opinion personally," he said, "and I make the assertion with all
the better grace, I think, seeing that I am a Southerner with all the
Southerner's inherited and acquired prejudices touching on the race
question--that as a result of what our black soldiers are going to do in
this war, a word that has been uttered billions of times in our country,
sometimes in derision, sometimes in hate, sometimes in all
kindliness--but which I am sure never fell on black ears but it left
behind a sting for the heart--is going to have a new meaning for all of
us, South and North too, and that hereafter n-i-g-g-e-r will merely be
another way of spelling the word American."
Many a man in the four regiments comprising the 93rd division when he
heard about the exploit of May 15th, oiled his rifle, sharpened his
bayonet and whetted his trench knife, resolved to go Henry Johnson and
Needham Roberts one better if the opportunity came to him. It did come
to many of them in the days that followed and although none got a
chance to distinguish himself in equal degree with the redoubtable
Johnson, it was because the Boche had become too wary. They had
cultivated a healthy respect for the colored men and called them
"blutlustige schwartze manner," meaning "blood-thirsty black men."
Another nickname they had was "Hell Fighters."
When the 93rd division was brigaded with the French on the Aisne, at
least two of the component regiments were under a French general having
in his command several thousand Moroccan Negroes. He placed them on the
other side of the river fearing they would quarrel over religious
differences. However, it was impossible to keep them from fraternizing.
There were no religious disputes, nor is it of record that the Americans
attempted to convert the Mohammedans. But they did initiate their
turbaned comrades into the mysteries of a certain American game and it
is said that the disciples of Allah experienced considerable hard luck.
Most of the 93rd division was under fire from the early days of May,
1918, until the close of the war. The 369th, which left New York with 56
officers and 2,000 men, returned with only 20 officers and 1,200 men of
the original organization. A few had been transferred to casual
companies and other commands, but many will never come back; their
bodies being part of the soil of France--killed in action, died of
wounds or disease.
The tale of the 93rd is full of deeds of valor, laughter in the face of
death, of fearful carnage wrecked upon the foe, of childlike pride in
the homage their Allies paid them, and now and then an incident replete
with the bubbling Negro humor that is the same whether it finds its
outlet on the cotton-fields of Dixie or the battlefields of France.
Between the French and the colored troops the spirit was superb. The
French poilu had not been taught that the color of a man's skin made a
difference. He had no prejudices. How could he have, coming from a
nation whose motto is LIBERTY, FRATERNITY, EQUALITY? He formed his
judgment from bravery and Manhood and Honor. The Negro soldiers ate,
slept and drank with the poilus. They were happy together.
An incident of the valor of the 93rd division was in the fight at Butte
de Mesnil, as tough a spot as any in the line between the sea and
Switzerland. The ground had been fought over back and forth, neither
side holding it for long. The French said it was the burying place of
200,000 of their troops and Germans, and that it could not be held
permanently. The Negro boys tackled the job. In four days they had
advanced fourteen kilometers (8.4 miles) and they NEVER retreated.
The Negro troops to a great extent went into action with little
training, but they learned quickly in the hard school of experience.
They excelled in grenade throwing and machine gun work. Grenade throwing
is very ticklish business. Releasing the pin lights the fuse. Five
seconds after the fuse is lighted the grenade explodes. It must be timed
exactly. If thrown too quickly the enemy is liable to pick it up and
hurl it back in time to create the explosion in one's own lines. No one
cares to hold a grenade long after the fuse is lighted so the boys
sometimes threw them ahead of the signal.
"Shorty" Childress of B company, 371st Infantry, had been drilled with
dummy grenades. When given the real thing he released the pin and
immediately heard the fulminating fuse working its way down into the
charge. It was too much for his nerves. He threw the grenade as far as
he could send it. The lieutenant reprimanded him severely.
"What do you mean," he said, "by hurling that explosive ahead of the
proper time. Do you want the Boches to pick it up, fire it back here and
blow us all to smithereens?"
"Shorty" was properly abashed. He hung his head and responded:
"Lieutenant, I begs your pardon, I didn't mean to heave it so soon, but
I could actually feel that thing a swellin' in my hand."
But they soon acquired the idea, and after a short time very few of the
grenades reached the enemy either ahead of or behind time.
Here is the valiant and humorous story of Elmer McCowin, 669 Lenox
Avenue, New York City, a private in Company K, 369th infantry, and how
he won the Distinguished Service Cross. He said:
"On September 26th, the captain asked me to carry dispatches. The
Germans pumped machine gun bullets at me all the way, but I made
the trip and got back safely. Then I was sent out again. As I
started the captain hollered to bring him back a can of coffee. He
was joking but I didn't know it.
"Being a foot messenger I had some time ducking those German
bullets. Those bullets seemed very sociable but I didn't care to
meet up with any of them, so I kept on traveling on high gear. None
touched my skin, though some skinned pretty close.
"On the way back it seemed the whole war was turned on me. One
bullet passed through my trousers and it made me hop, skip and
jump. I saw a shell hole six feet deep. Take it from me I dented it
another six feet when I plunged into it. In my fist I held the
captain's can of coffee.
"When I climbed out of the hole and started running again a bullet
clipped a hole in the can and the coffee started to run out. But I
turned around stopped a second, looked the Kaiser in the face and
held up the can of coffee with my finger plugging up the hole to
show the Germans they were fooled. Just then another bullet hit the
can and another finger had to act as a stopper. I pulled out an old
rabbit's foot that my girl had given me and rubbed it so hard the
hair almost came off.
"It must have been the good luck thing that saved my life because
the bullets were picking at my clothes and so many hit the can that
at the end all my fingers were in use to keep the coffee in. I
jumped into shell holes and wriggled along the ground and got back
safely. And what do you think? When I got back into our own
trenches I stumbled and spilled the coffee."
Not only did Lieutenant George Miller, battalion adjutant, confirm the
story, but he added:
"When that boy came back with the coffee his clothes were riddled
with bullets. Yet half an hour later he went out into no man's land
and brought back a number of wounded until he was badly gassed.
Even then he refused to go to the rear and went out again for a
wounded soldier. All this under fire. That's the reason he got the
D.S.C."
Corporal Elmer Earl, also of Company K, living in Middletown, N.Y., won
the D.S.C. He explained:
"We had taken a hill Sept. 26 in the Argonne. We came to the edge
of a swamp when the enemy machine guns opened fire. It was so bad
that of the 58 of us who went into a particular strip, only 8 came
out without being killed or wounded. I made a number of trips out
there and brought back about a dozen wounded men."
The proudest recollection which Negro officers and privates will carry
through life is that of the whole-hearted recognition given them in the
matter of decorations by the French army authorities. Four colored
regiments of the 93rd division attained the highest record in these
awards. These regiments being brigaded with the French, their conduct in
action was thus under their observation. Not only was each of these
regiments cited as a unit for the Croix de Guerre, but 365 individual
soldiers received the coveted decoration. A large number of
Distinguished Service Crosses were also distributed to the 93rd division
by General Pershing.
The verdict pronounced by critical French commanders may be considered
as an unquestionable confirmation that the Negro troops were under all
conditions brave fighters. This fact and the improved status of the
Negro as a result of it was pointed to by the New York Tribune, in a
leading editorial in its issue of February 14, 1919. It said:
"The bas-relief of the Shaw Memorial became a living thing as the
dusky heroes of the 15th cheered the Liberty statue and happily
swarmed down the gangplank. Appropriately the arrival was on the
birthday of the "revered Lincoln," and never was the young and
martyred idealist of Massachusetts filled with greater pride than
swelled in Colonel Hayward as he talked of his men the best
regiment, he said, with pardonable emphasis, 'of all engaged in the
great war.'
"These were men of the Champagne and the Argonne whose step was
always forward; who held a trench ninety days without relief, with
every night a raid night; who won 171 medals for conspicuous
bravery; who saw the war expire under their pressure in a
discouraged German cannonade. First class fighting men! Hats off to
them! The tribunal of grace does not regard skin color when
assessing souls.
"The boys cheered the Bartholdi statue. It makes some whites
uncomfortable. It converts into strange reading glib eulogies of
democratic principles.
"A large faith possesses the Negro. He has such confidence in
justice,--the flow--of which he believes will yet soften hard
hearts. We have a wonderful example of a patience that defies
discouragement; the "Souls of Black Folk"! When values are truly
measured, some things will be different in this country."