Cramped in one of the sleeping quarters, Renfield and Ben shared a bunk. They both lay there listening to the strange creaking of the ship, the sway and motion, and the random lurching of some soldier sick from the waves.
"Do you think Mina will wait for me?" Renfield whispered, somewhat melancholy.
Ben stared above him, gazing up at the metal beam of the ship without really looking at it. His own thoughts, just as many of the other men on the ship, wandered home. "Mina?" he said without giving much thought of a face to the name.
"My girl, I've been writing to her. Do you think she'll wait for me?"
"Why wouldn't she?"
"I don't know...I guess...oh, never mind."
Ben frowned, retreating from his own thoughts, he turned his head and looked at his friend. "What's bugging you?"
Renfield hesitated, whispering louder he said, "Nothing...just...what if she thinks we ain't coming back?"
"Why would she think that?"
"I'm just saying."
"Do you think we're not coming back?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Well, do you?"
Again, Renfield fell silent.
Exhaling loudly, Ben rolled out of his cot.
"Where you going?" Renfield asked.
"I'm going on deck for some air." He turned to leave.
"How come you ain't bothered?" Renfield called, still whispering.
Ben stopped and turned back to his friend. He shrugged. "I don't know, I suppose I just don't get seasick."
"Not that, how come you ain't worried about never coming home?"
Again, Ben shrugged. "I just know. You'll see, everything will be fine. We'll land right side up and kick those Boche in the romp all the way back to Berlin."
Renfield lay back down. "Wish I had your confidence. Me, I would have preferred more combat training than what we got. Some proper gear would be nice too. Oh, and orders too, if that's not asking too much."
Ben shook his head and went out the hatch. Following a trail of pale blue lights, he found his way to the deck. Outside, a bitter night wind blew with salt water across the bow. A huddle of shadows lurched by the lifeboats, whispers between them. From either side of the Pocahontas faint, spectral blue shapes of their escorts, bobbing with them in the Atlantic.
Watching those azure ghosts, Ben thought of what Renfield had said. He was right, after all. They were a baby regiment, untested, unwanted, and no modern warfare training. Led by a political officer. Jim trusted Colonel Hayward, sure, but still...now they were in the middle of the Atlantic heading to a fight they knew little about and with no standing orders.
Ben, still gazing out at those spectral looking ships, whispered, "Just what have we got ourselves into?"
Chapter 12
"Come on, come on, the war ain't going to wait forever!" shouted Sergeant Barnes. He stood on the ramp of the Pocahontas, watching his platoon disembark with Captain Fish, a tall, handsome, and athletic looking white officer, standing next to him. The two had a strange balance of night and day, one smiling warmly while the other bellowed orders raucously. The wind whipped at the Rattlers bitterly. Large flakes of snow and ice curled around them, sticking to their long overcoats and exposed skin.
"If they had any sense, we'd wait out this storm before coming on shore," Renfield complained, taking slow, methodical steps as the soldier in front of him moved forward.
"Better than being stuck on the ship, at least we're on land, right?" Ben offered, keeping his eyes forward, waiting his turn to take another step towards the ramp. He pulled on his ruck, what counted for what little gear he'd been provided, the rest included books for his journals, and despite his resentment towards them, a photo of his father and brother. Before they had set sail out of New York, he'd sent a letter, waiting until the last possible second for fear that his father would try and pull him off the ship. There was little doubt they had read the letter by now and had most likely made inquiries, despite what he'd requested of them in the letter, that his father let him be his own man, that this, accepting Ben's wishes to fight in the war, serving, doing his part. If his father had made any inquires with the War Department, it would take months to reach him, and by then, he hoped, he would already be on the front line.
"Let's go, let's go, the damn Boche will be on our doorstep by the time you slugs get off this tug boat," Barnes yelled again.
Throughout the Port of Brest, locals were gathering between buildings and in the streets. Some cheered and waved their hands, excited it would seem for their arrival.
Odd, Ben thought.
To be secreted out of New York without a single shout or cheer, but here in this place to be welcomed heroes.
Suddenly, the Regimental Band, James Reese Europe's band, struck up a jazzy tune, one Ben had never heard before. Renfield beside him started giggling, struggling to keep Barnes from noticing.
"What's so funny?" Ben whispered to him, taking a step forward toward the ramp as the man in front of him took a step.
Renfield glanced around. "Notice the Frenchie's? None of them are standing at attention or saluting."
Ben looked around. "So, what."
Renfield rolled his eyes. "Lieutenant Europe is playing their National Anthem. I guess they don't recognize the style. Must never have heard jazz before."
Ben looked around again. Some seemed to have finally recognized the song the band was playing and stood stiffly. Most still stared at them with mixed expressions of shock and joy. Renfield was right. These folks had never heard jazz before, not like this.
"Private Harker, watch your step before you fall off into the water!" barked Sergeant Barnes.
"Yes, Sergeant," Ben said, fixing his gaze on the man in front of him. He stepped up on the ramp and following the progression down onto the dock. Europe and his band were formed and playing on the right. He hesitated, wanting nothing but to stay and listen.
Renfield tugged on his arm. "Come on, we're marching out this way toward the trains."
Ben sighed and followed.
Ahead of them the Rattlers herded around a set of boxcars connected a black smokestack locomotive. Captain Fish and Sergeant Barnes had made their way and were now standing on a platform, guiding the troops, separating them into groups of forty per wagon.
"Let's go, let's go, load up, forty per car, come on." Barnes stood on the edge of the platform, barking and stabbing the air with his hand.
Captain Fish stood next to him, taking notes. He looked up and yelled, so everyone could hear him. "Remember Colonel Hayward's orders, and remember them well, recite it three times a day, keep your eyes and ears open, and keep your mouths shut."
Renfield leaned into Ben, "Sounds inspiring," he quipped quietly.
"Do we know where we're going?" Ben asked, also keeping his voice low.
Renfield chuckled. "Do we ever?"
* * *
"Did you see that?"
"Keep your voice down."
"Over there, look!"
Ben peered through the barracks window, squinting hard against the frost crusted over the panel glass, following the shadows moving outside.
"Bad enough they got us here doing pick and shovel work, now we got to worry about this?" Renfield groaned, keeping his voice low.
Another soldier crept up next to them, keeping low, his gaze fixed outside the window.
"Johnson," Renfield said, nodding to him, "see for yourself." He inched over, giving Henry, a dark smooth skinned Brooklyn native with almost watchful somber eyes some space to see.
The men were silent for a moment, watching out the window as more shadows passed by the barracks.
"That's got to be them, right? Those damn honky Marines." Renfield wiped his mouth.
"How are they slipping past our sentinels?" Ben argued.
Renfield scoffed. "The way they got us working, building the rail line or laboring at the dam, or building a damn building, any man would fall asleep out there on guard."
Henry
Johnson was quiet, turning his ear to the window.
"Wait...what was that?" Renfield asked, his breath trembling.
Ben's eyes were wide as the moon. "Screaming," he said cold and matter-of-factly.
More shadows passed by their barrack window, some snickering among them. "Did you see that nigger's face when you stuck him?" one of them said. "Be quiet before we get caught," said another.
Henry Johnson moved away from the window.
"They must have..." Renfield started.
"And we're going to do something about it." Henry went to his bunk, fishing around his ruck, and came back with a bolo knife. The steel glistened softly from the pale moon light that shone through the frosted window.
"What are you planning to do with that?" Ben asked, glancing between the private and the knife.
"I don't know how long we're going to be stuck here in St. Nazaire, could be weeks, months, years for all I know. What I do know, we can't let these vermin keep sneaking in here and taking the lives of our own. Our white boy officers want to ignore this...fine, then we'll do something ourselves, something that'll make them rednecks think twice about coming over here again." Johnson started for the door. "You with me?" he asked, glancing back at Ben and Renfield.
Renfield looked at Ben, uncertain.
Ben looked back at him and shrugged. "Better to do something now than wait until the next time...and I have no doubt there will be more."
"Ben, you're talking about murder—"
"I'm talking about doing no more than what they are."
"Eye for an eye, then?"
"And tooth for a tooth, if need be."
Renfield looked at his feet, seemingly thinking. He looked up and said, "Fine, but if we get caught and are court martialled and hanged, don't think I won't say I told you so."
Ben smiled.
Henry gestured with the bolo. "Then we better not get caught."
* * *
The trio kept to the shadows, moving between building to building, slipping past their own guards still fast asleep on post. Moving out toward the docks, they followed Boulevard du quatorze for what felt like hours until they spotted dull lights flickering as if from a camp fire past a group of tugboats bobbing the winter water. Creeping closer, the light grew and grew. Shadows and laughter echoing in the night. Partially askew from crates and boxes recently unloaded from one of the vessels.
"That's got to be...what...the fourth nigger we got?" said one of the men by the camp fire.
Another laughed, drunkenly.
A clank of glass as a bottle was passed between them.
"Shouldn't even be here, damn coons."
"What do they know about fighting," another said.
Ben, Renfield, and Johnson snuck a little closer with Johnson on point. They knelt beside the crates and boxes, listening to the white Marines on the other side.
Johnson looked back at Ben, his eyes glowing white in the dark cold night, saying everything without words. These were the men responsible for beating and murdering four Rattlers. Men who were not conscripted to serve but volunteered willingly, wanting nothing less than to do their part, only to be snuffed out by a couple white trash vermin.
Pulling out his bolo knife, Johnson nodded to Ben.
Ben glanced over his shoulder and nodded to Renfield who unsteadily unsheathed his bayonet from a leather holster clipped to his belt.
Ben withdrew his bayonet as well, and nodded back at Johnson.
Johnson gestured with his free hand and counted down as the white Marines on the other side of the crates and boxes laughed and drank, warming themselves by the fire.
Three.
Two.
One...
And without evening shouting, without much of a sound at all, only that daring wide hungry stare of his, Johnson leapt up and sprinted around the crates.
Ben followed close on his heels.
Johnson swung and stuck his bolo knife into the neck of the first Marine he came upon. Dark blood jetted, splattering on his face and thick olive-green Army jacket.
"WHAT THE—" one of the white Marines started to shout.
Ben ran up on him and jabbed his bayonet into his gut.
The Marine grunted, crimson frothing out his mouth.
Unsticking the blade, Ben speared him again, this time piercing the man's throat. He watched, unblinking, as he fell, gurgling and babbling about something Ben couldn't quite make out. The Marine slunk over and was still.
Renfield came at the last one, and speared at the Marine, missing. Trying to turn, he tittered and tripped, falling to the ground.
Standing above him, the Marine started for his pistol, but froze.
Johnson had come up behind him. A dark red wound opened across his throat. The Marine's eyes flashed wide and glassy. He clutched his bubbling throat.
Still holding him, Johnson stabbed the Marine in quick blurry fits of rage until the body slumped to the ground, blood pooling on the grimy cobble street. Taking deep breaths, painted in dark steaming red, he held out a hand and helped Renfield to his feet.
"Where did you learn to do that?" Renfield asked, sounding somewhat amazed and horrified at the same time.
Johnson put away his bolo knife. His breathing slowed. "I don't know," he said. "I just felt this hate pouring through me."
"More like Hell poured through you, but thanks all the same." Renfield gestured to the Marine with the opened throat. "That white boy was about to shoot me."
Johnson nodded.
"We better get back, before anyone decides to check on these fools," Ben said, cleaning off his bayonet before sheathing it away. The fact that he'd just murdered a man hadn't fully registered, and when it did he certainly did not want to be out here.
Kneeling, Johnson reached in his pocket and pulled out a rag. He wrapped the edge around his index finger and dipped it in the pooling blood on the ground.
"What in God's name are you doing?" Renfield whispered hotly in an odd muted screech.
Johnson dipped the rag some more in the blood and started drawing on the forehead of the Marine. "Just leaving a little note." Finished, he stood, measuring his work.
Ben and Renfield stood beside him, gazing down. Despite the horror of it all, they smiled, god help them they smiled wide and jubilantly.
"Hellfighters..." Ben whispered. "I like that."
Johnson tossed the crimson stained rag over the dock and into the icy waters. "Okay, let's get back to the barracks before we really are caught."
Chapter 13
Following that night Henry Johnson and Renfield and Harker went on patrol and left their mark, those Marines never bothered the 15th New York Infantry again. Rumor of what the men were calling a Vampire Patrol spread among the Rattlers, usually accompanied by a smirk like smile or a head nod. They'd been bullied and brutalized long enough. As a strange turn of events, just like in Spartanburg, Colonel Hayward was able to use these rumors as a catalyst to get his regiment assigned to the Western Front. And General Pershing, though keen on keeping a cheap labor force to continue building St. Nazaire, agreed with Colonel Hayward. As it was, the French had been begging for reinforcements and as no American General would take a band of Negros, the French Army could have them. This of course meant that James Reese Europe's band would have to be recalled from Aix-les-Bains, where they had been spreading the gospel of rag-time jazz for the last few weeks.
Ben was happy to hear the news.
On March 15, 1918, the Rattlers of New York were no longer the 15th, now given a new designation as the 369th United States Infantry. They boarded the trains in St. Nazaire once more and departed to join the Sixteenth Division, VIII Corps, of the French Fourth Army. Ben and Renfield sat together in the boxcar, peering out between the cracks in the wood, trying to see where they might be going.
"What do you see?" Ben was asking.
"Nothing but countryside," Renfield replied. "Sheep by the looks of it."
Ben smiled, jotting a note in one of his
journals. "Sounds like Heaven," he said.
Renfield glanced at him. "Heaven? Don't you know we're heading into Hell?"
Shrugging, Ben said, "Better than being slaves in St. Nazaire."
Renfield smirked, turning his gaze back through the cracks in the wood. "I suppose we'll be happy in Hell, then."
Ben set his journal and pen down. He looked at his friend. In a low voice, he asked, "You still bothered by what happened?"
Renfield shot a look back. He glanced around to see if anyone else was listening. Whispering he said, "We...it doesn't feel right, what we did."
"They would have killed more of us if we hadn't."
"I know that...still...it doesn't sit right."
Ben was about to say something but stopped. He looked at his friend whose attention went back to the space between the boards of the boxcar. He glanced down at his journal and tore out a couple blank pages. Fishing for another pen, he handed them to Renfield.
"Here," he said, "why don't you write to Mina. Let her know that we got orders to the front. Let her know how you're doing. Let her know...you know, that you love her and long to see her again, or whatever you romantic types like to say."
Renfield regarded the papers and pen for a moment and then smiled. "Sure," he said. "I'd like to put my thoughts on her. Better than thinking about this place, at least."
Watching, Ben decided against his own advice and tried not to think too much of home. One advantage of being treated the way they had on this journey, from Camp Wadsworth in Spartanburg, to the Pocahontas in New York, across the Atlantic to St. Nazaire to work as General Pershing's slaves, and then yanked and plopped down with the French Army, was that it would be extremely difficult for his father to find him. Whatever letter the old man may have sent wouldn't know where to go and when they finally got things situated, who knows where they'd be. Besides, they couldn't pull him out now.
Not thinking of home, of course, pushed Ben's thoughts toward Lieutenant Europe and Sergeant Sissle and the rest of the regimental band. Would they find us in time? he wondered.
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