_THREE NEW GRAVES_
Out of a blue and sea-cooled sky the sun looked down upon an ancient
city of France. Great ships fantastically camouflaged lay in the
harbor; darting to and fro were smaller vessels; the streets of the
city were crowded with curious soldiers in khaki stretching their
cramped limbs after two weeks in the restricted quarters of a transport.
From a military hospital three army hearses, accompanied by their
formal escorts and preceded by officers, slowly climbed a central
hill toward a cemetery. Three American flags were draped about the
caskets, and several bouquets of flowers supplied by friends of the
dead men were carried by the drivers. As the quiet group moved through
the street, civilians and the military stood uncovered; a platoon of
marching French soldiers brought its guns to attention, and even the
small children removed their head-coverings; the populace had long
since become accustomed to military funerals, but the heart of France
never wearies of honoring the hero dead.
Through the long rows of cross-marked graves the little procession made
its way--by the tricolor of France, the Union Jack, and the crescent
marking the graves of Algerian soldiers who gave their lives for a
cause that had not raised its banner in their own land, but for which
they were glad to die by the side of their brothers who spoke a tongue
that they did not even understand.
When the three open graves were reached, the caskets were placed upon
the supports ready for lowering, and the brief burial service was
begun. Quietly surrounding the graves were first the soldiers and then
the simple peasants of Brittany, who had come to mourn their own dead
and who now remained to honor the memory of those who had journeyed
from the great nation beyond the sea to help fight the battles of
democracy, of civilization, and of their beloved France.
The chaplain of the occasion read the names of the dead soldiers,
and then said: "These men were denied the privilege of dying at the
front; with fine ardor they enlisted, and with bounding enthusiasm they
stood upon the deck when the ship took the path to the open sea. They
were black men, sons of fathers or their grandsons liberated by the
emancipation of 1863. In the quest of a larger freedom than was ever
won for a single race they turned their faces toward the fields where
white and black and yellow mix themselves to blend the colors of a just
and lasting peace. They fell beneath the hand of disease that might
have stricken them at home. It is the irony of fate that no shells ever
moaned above their heads, that no hoarse-voiced command ever sent
them charging into the enemy's lines, that no portion of their dream
of conflict and triumph ever came true. But they had not fallen short,
and their coming has not been in vain. In their own hearts they were
soldiers; by their own decision they gave their lives to their country,
and in the sum of the contribution America makes to this unparalleled
endeavor their gift will not be lost. God measures us by what we are;
deeds are not the outward manifestation of character; we fail or we
succeed first in our own souls. Into the body of the same earth out of
which they came in a far distant land, which holds those who loved them
and who had great pride in their setting forth, we lower their bodies.
We commit their spirits to Him who was called the Prince of Peace,
who is the rewarder of every righteous action; who gives the keys of
everlasting life to all who have kept the faith."
A prayer followed, and then an ebony-skinned bugler stood at the head
of one of the graves. He turned the bell of his instrument into the
sunset, and out toward sea beyond the land-locked harbor the clear
notes rang. There is no firing-squad in a French cemetery. Back from
the grave-crowded God's half-acre the platoons marched, and then
dispersed. The day was drawing to a close; the graves were filled; the
earthly record of three humble colored men who died for their country
was completed.