Springtime had come again, but so different from the spring of that
other year. Then the voices of spring had been deadened by the
thunderous guns around Verdun, Soissons, and Chateau Thierry. Then
those guns with their deep and ominous challenge were holding the whole
world in tense and fearful waiting. Women of every land were listening
with tender yearning and burning anxiety for a word from their heroes
on the fields of France. Men of mature years who had been a part of
the conflicts of other days could scarce conceal their eagerness for
the fray as they gently encouraged those anguished women and commended
their wonderful spirit of endurance and patriotism. It was springtime,
but the Crown Prince still hammered on Verdun, the Hindenburg line
was still unbroken and the foe was not yet hurled back from the
Marne in sure defeat. It was the springtime when late, but with grim
determination to win or die, the American Forces had at last taken
their place in the World Conflict.
But all that was now a part of the past and springtime had come once
again in France. Meantime a spirit of change had crept over all the
land. After one tremendous shout for victory the world had fallen into
the silence that follows a supreme struggle—the silence of exhaustion,
the silence of death. Many of the thousands who had pressed forward in
those terrific battles crying “Victory!” had fallen and lain together
under the bleak, dark winter skies of France. It was a period, too,
of reckoning and realization of the price paid. But springtime had
come again in France with its song-birds and blood-red poppies, and
with it the quick consciousness that the dead lying en-masse on the
battlefields must be given resting places befitting heroes.
Here was a tremendous task for the surviving American soldiers, but far
more sacred than tremendous. Whose would be the hands to gather as best
they could and place beneath the white crosses of honor the remains
of those who had sanctified their spirits through the gift of their
lifeblood? It would be a gruesome, repulsive and unhealthful task,
requiring weeks of incessant toil during the long heavy days of summer.
It also meant isolation, for these cemeteries for the American dead
would be erected on or near the battlefields where the men had fallen.
But it would be a wonderful privilege the beauty and glory of which
would reveal itself more and more as the facts of the war should become
crystallized into history.
[Illustration: 1. Burial at Sea. 2. Writer’s Tent at Romagne
Cemetery. 3. Among the Ruins of Dunn-sur-Meuse 4. Belleau Woods.]
Strange that the value of such a task did not gather full significance
in the minds of all American soldiers. Strange that when other hands
refused it, swarthy hands received it! Yet, perhaps, not so strange,
for Providence hath its own way, and in those American cemeteries
in France we have strong and indisputable evidence of the wonderful
devotion and loyalty and the matchless patience and endurance of the
colored soldier. The placing of this task—the most sacred of the whole
war—in his hands may have been providentially planned. It may have been
just another means, as against the force of arms, to hasten here at
home the recognition and enforcement of those fundamental principles
that for four long years had held the world in deadly struggle.
We looked upon these soldiers of ours—the splendid 813th, 815th and
816th Pioneer Regiments and the numerous fine labor battalions—as they
constructed the cemeteries at Romagne, Beaumont, Thiencourt, Belleau
Woods, Fere-en-Tardenois and Soissons. We watched them as they toiled
day and night, week after week, through drenching rain and parching
heat. And yet these physical ills were as naught compared with the
trials of discriminations and injustices that seared their souls like
hot iron, inflicted as they were at a time when these soldiers were
rendering the American army and nation a sacred service. Always in
those days there was fear of mutiny or rumors of mutiny. We felt most
of the time that we were living close to the edge of a smoldering
crater. At Belleau Woods the soldiers _en-masse_ banished some who
mistreated them. We recall an incident at Romagne. Even though it was
May the nights were winter cold, so that when one snuggled between army
blankets in the tent, it required a bit of heroism to crawl out. This
particular night we had just retired when shots were heard, fired in
rapid succession. Without thought of the cold we began dressing and
were sitting wrapped in cloak thinking rapidly about what was happening
when someone called, “It is only a fire!” What a relief it was! What
did it matter if the whole camp burned in comparison with our boys
being goaded by prejudice beyond reason! Rations were often scarce
and poor at Romagne because we were so far from supplies, hence we
prepared and served food for the soldiers all day long. But this was
but a small task compared with that of keeping the men in good spirits
and reminding them again and again of the glory of the work they had in
hand. Always, whether in the little corner set aside in the Y barracks
as our reception room, or among the books they liked so well to read,
whether by the side of the piano or over the canteen, we were trying to
love them as a mother or a dear one would into a fuller knowledge and
appreciation of themselves, their task and the value of forbearance.
We had gone from Romagne—women of fine spirit had taken our place and
were lovingly ministering to the needs of these soldiers, when things
happened too grievous to be calmly borne. At one stroke down came tents
of discrimination and injustice, but the work there went on and the
soldiers completed the difficult task assigned them.
[Illustration: