11
ON THE LINE
By mid-April 1918 the 369th was placed in position along the defensive line that stretched across France, waiting for the German push. There had been brief skirmishes, and the men were getting used to the tensions of combat. Enemy artillery fire had plowed up the ground around the trenches, and the 369th had experienced its first casualties. They were even used to the German spotter planes, marked with the German cross, that flew over their lines taking photographs as they remained tantalizingly out of the reach of small-arms fire. Besides the planes searching out their positions, there were also German patrols probing for weaknesses along the lines. The German soldiers were disciplined and daring, Needham Roberts, from Trenton, New Jersey, and Henry Johnson, from Albany, New York, were to find out.
Henry Johnson was born in Alexandria, Virginia, around 1895. His family was poor, and it was all that his mother could do to keep her family fed. The family went south to live with relatives shortly after Henry was born, settling in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. This small, largely rural community offered little more than backbreaking farmwork for any uneducated man, black or white. At five foot four and barely 130 pounds, Johnson was not considered to be a good prospect even as a farmhand, the prevalent work in the area. In his teens he joined the thousands of other young black men who headed north, unsure of what they would find in the big cities but knowing they were not leaving much behind.
Henry Johnson
When Johnson arrived in Albany, the capital of New York state, his prospects were not good. So when he found a job at the busy railroad station as a porter, he was pleased. There was very little actual pay for the porters, but if they were lucky, the tips might be good. Johnson worked at the station, and when things were slow there, he worked in a combination drugstore and soda shop, mixing sodas.
Eventually he met a woman, a minister’s daughter, and fell in love. In 1915, when Johnson was about twenty, the young couple was married and settled on Monroe Street in downtown Albany.
Marriage can be difficult for anyone, but for a young man without an education the pressures can be unbearable. Still, Johnson had to do the best he could. Part of that “best” was understanding the world around him. He knew that there was a major war taking place in Europe and, in 1917, knew that a number of his friends were joining a black National Guard regiment being formed in New York City. He thought it was his duty to join. He was assigned to Company C of the 15th, later the 369th.
Needham Roberts worked as a store clerk in Trenton, New Jersey. A handsome, well-spoken young man, he yearned for more adventure than the small shop offered. The new black regiment being formed in New York sounded like such an adventure. Being in the army during wartime would be dangerous, of course, but it would also be a chance to see a foreign land and to discover more about himself. The trip from Trenton to Harlem took a little less than two hours, but as he boarded the train, Roberts knew that it would probably be the most important trip of his life. It was a trip that would soon bring him to the adventure of his life in the Argonne Forest.
The Argonne Forest lies between two rivers in northeastern France, the Meuse and the Aisne. On this heavily wooded plateau the Germans had built a strong defensive position, which the French had not been able to successfully penetrate. On May 13, 1918, Henry Johnson and Needham Roberts, both in Company C, were on guard duty in forward posts.
The main guard post was stationed on the outer edge of the 1st Battalion’s position, several hundred yards from where the companies were bedded down for the night. Johnson and Roberts were sixty yards forward of that. It was a dangerous spot, and they knew it as they waited in the darkness. Pieces of tin had been attached to the barbed-wire fencing, and they listened for any sound of the tin being disturbed.
Time passed slowly. It was early morning when they heard the first sounds. Were they voices? And where were they coming from? Neither man wore a watch, but both knew that it was too early for their relief. They heard the voices again and realized that they were closer than they had first thought, and that they were unmistakably German.
They moved apart, as they had been trained to do. No sense in letting a lucky German burst of fire get both of them. They wondered where their relief was. Johnson took the hand grenades from his service bag and carefully laid them on the ground in front of his position. His palms were wet, and he wiped them on his pants. More time passed, and the area was quiet.
Johnson leaned his rifle carefully against the tree a half arm’s length away. He touched the bolo knife that hung from his belt and loosed the string that tied it to his leg. The heavy bolo knife had come from an African soldier.
The white French soldiers had laughed when they saw some members of the 369th trade with the Senagalese soldiers for the weapons, but Johnson noticed that no one started an argument with the African troops.
Needham Roberts
The thought came to him that perhaps the voices had just been a passing German patrol. He knew the Germans were aware of the Allied soldiers and probably knew exactly where their trenches were. He tensed as he listened for new sounds. Each rustle of the wind, each chirping of any of the thousands of creatures that lived in the forest had the ring of danger. The moon drifted easily through the distant clouds, sending uneven slivers of light between the dark silhouettes of the trees. Suddenly there was a rapid series of clicks. Johnson held his breath and listened as hard as he could. Then he recognized the sound. Wire cutters! The Germans were cutting their way through the barbed wire!
Both men grabbed for their grenades and began tossing them.
The French rifle, the Lebel, was not known for its accuracy, but in the dark of night Johnson couldn’t see anything clearly anyway. He fired as many shots as he could, reloading the three-shot magazine and jerking off shots until the gun jammed.
By that time the Germans had completely cut through the barbed wire, and he could see their forms closing in on him. He swung the eight-and-a-half-pound weapon with all his strength. Powerful arms grabbed at the rifle and pulled while another arm reached around his neck.
Johnson felt himself being pulled backward as he freed his bolo knife from its makeshift sling. He swung the bolo knife down at the leg of the soldier who held him. The German howled in pain and released his grip on Johnson’s neck. Quickly stepping to one side, Johnson swung wildly in front of him, keeping the edge of the sharply curved knife always above his waist, as he had seen the Africans do.
For a moment he was clear, and then he heard German voices to his right. Even in the semidarkness he could see that they were trying to drag someone away. It was Roberts!
The 369th had sworn among themselves not to be captured or to lose their men to the enemy. They prided themselves on fighting to the end. Johnson, filled with an almost desperate rage, rushed across the short distance and attacked the retreating Germans. In the darkness the Germans weren’t sure of what they were facing or how many. They just knew that they were being sliced up badly and that even the man on the ground was fighting furiously. They released Roberts just as more men from the 369th, alerted by the sounds of fighting, arrived. The Germans fired their Mausers as they retreated quickly through the barbed wire.
Both Henry Johnson and Needham Roberts were badly wounded in the battle. Johnson had been shot three times and had numerous bayonet wounds. Roberts was also badly wounded and had lost a lot of blood. But the Germans had not broken through. Forty grenades, seven pairs of wire cutters, and a number of weapons were found as daylight brightened the area. From the amount of blood found in the tracks of the retreating German patrol, the French investigators concluded that at least four of the enemy soldiers had been fatally wounded, and perhaps as many as a dozen injured. The wounded had been lucky to escape with their lives in the ferocious battle.
In recognition of their efforts, both Henry Johnson and Needham Roberts received the Croix de Guerre, the highest award the French army gives for valor and heroism in battle. There were no Amer
ican awards given.
Henry Johnson.
Croix de Guerre
The accounts of Johnson’s feats were all written by his white officers. As such they were universally given a humorous twist. Johnson’s dialogue was carefully scripted to show that he was not an educated man, and his replies were milked, and probably written for him, for the humor they could evoke. The heroic act of saving a fellow soldier and of stopping the attack against an important American position was downplayed.
But the men of the 369th appreciated what Johnson and Roberts had done. Although they had both been badly wounded, they had faced the Germans and taken them on in hand-to-hand combat. And they had prevailed.
12
THE GERMAN OFFENSIVE
The years of trench warfare, in which neither side gained significant advantage, were draining the Allies of men and morale. The addition of the American troops and supplies had been desperately needed but did not provide the kinds of strategic wins that General Pershing thought would end the war. And American soldiers attacking entrenched German forces suffered major casualties even when they were deemed successful. The war could have settled down again into the bloody trench maneuvers that had marked the first three years, but the Central Powers were running out of supplies on the front lines, and Germans were suffering much more than people living in the faraway British and American cities. But the Germans, who were now directing the Austrian army as well as their own, had signed a treaty with Russia in March and now were bringing men from the eastern front to face the Allies in the west.
The men of the 369th were told of the coming offensive. The French felt that the next few months would be a turning point in the war.
The constant shelling, the gas attacks, and the German snipers were taking their toll on the men from Harlem. In Maffrecourt a corner of one cemetery was dedicated to the black Americans who had lost their lives so far from home.
The battalions of the 369th took turns manning the trenches as they readied themselves for the assault to come. German planes flew over their positions, sometimes dropping bombs, sometimes just photographing the fortifications. The officers worried about the replacements being sent from the States. Most of them were young black men who had been farmers and who had been drafted into the Army. They had had little military training, if any, before being sent as replacements for those killed and wounded. The major qualification of some of the new men was that they were black and so were routinely sent to a black outfit. They had to be trained in the trenches, and if they were lucky, they lived long enough to learn how to defend themselves.
June passed by slowly, with the Germans constantly testing the French and American forces. Night after night the trenches were hit with deadly gas attacks and high-explosive shells. General Henri Gouraud, the commanding French general, had high praise for the black troops under his command. On July 7, 1918, he wrote a memorandum about the impending assault.
The soldiers traveled in boxcars (the sign indicates the car holds 32–40 men or 8 horses lengthwise)
* * *
ORDER
TO THE FRENCH AND AMERICAN SOLDIERS OF THE 4TH ARMY.
We may be attacked now at any moment.
You all feel that never was a defensive battle engaged under more favorable conditions.
We are informed and we are ready.
We are powerfully reinforced in infantry and in artillery.
We fight on a ground you have transformed by your persistent work into a formidable fortress—an invincible fortress if all the passages are well guarded.
The bombardment will be terrible; you will bear it without flagging.
The assault will be severe, in a cloud of dust, of smoke, and of gas….
In your breasts beat brave and strong hearts of free men. Nobody will look back, nobody will fall back one step.
Everybody will have but one thought: Kill, kill many until they have had enough of it.
This is why your general tells you: You will break their assault. It will be a beautiful day.
GOURAUD
* * *
The attack came at midnight on July 14. It was Bastille Day, the day the French celebrate the fall of the notorious prison and the transformation of their country into a republic.
It began with a thunderous artillery duel as far as the men could see, at least fifty miles to either side of them. As the shells pounded the ground around them, the men took whatever shelter they could find in the second trenches. At each lull they would have to pop up out of the trenches to see if the German infantry was headed their way.
At last the artillery did stop, and through the smoke and gas-filled air the first wave of German infantry came.
The French officers pulled the men back from the front trenches and zeroed their artillery on the abandoned trenches, turning them into killing zones. The desperate Germans forced their way out of the first trench lines and struggled toward the heavily fortified second lines, at a great loss of men and equipment.
The battle raged from night into morning, and still the guns roared and men threw themselves across the open fields. The Germans sustained the staggering losses typical of a charging army and slowly began to retreat. The Allied line had held against the first assault. But it was just the first. The artillery fire started instantly, and the combat intensified. On July 16 Corporal Horace Pippin’s life changed forever.
Horace Pippin was born on February 22, 1888, in West Chester, Pennsylvania. By the age of ten he had moved with his mother to Goshen, New York. His early life was typical of that of many young black boys: He dropped out of school in his early teens and began a life as a common laborer. At fifteen he was doing the backbreaking work of unloading coal from freight cars. In 1912, after the death of his mother, he worked in Paterson, New Jersey. In 1916 he was working in Mahwah, New Jersey, as a molder.
Artillery fire leads the charge
Pippin had always been interested in art and had attracted some attention in his church community for his crayon drawings as a child. A tall man of exceptional physical strength, Pippin had a keen interest in the folk stories he heard and often tried to draw pictures illustrating the stories.
In the black community there have always been “race men,” black males whose interests centered on the advancement of the black race. There have also been men who seemed to represent the best of the black male aspect, who constantly served as the strength of the community. Pippin was such a man. When the United States declared war on Germany in March 1917, Pippin remembered the colored regiment being formed in New York and enlisted.
Pippin was twenty-nine at the time of his enlistment and, like most Americans, had little idea of what war was about. But the rigors of training were apparently to his liking, and when he was assigned to Camp Dix, New Jersey, he took to it with gusto. It was at Camp Dix that he made corporal, which meant that he had somehow managed to distinguish himself from the other volunteers.
In a brief biography by Judith Stein, I Tell My Heart, Pippin talks of the month he trained with the French to learn their weapons and their systems of fighting. He mentions going into combat at Bois-d’Hauze and the shock of being in a war zone.
When the Germans started their attack in July, the French command wanted to know as much as possible about it. They sent out patrols to capture prisoners from whom they hoped to get information. It was a dangerous mission, and Pippin knew it when he left the American-held trench.
The small squad of French and black American soldiers was to make its way to the forward trenches, then go through no-man’s-land toward the enemy position, capture a German soldier, and return as quickly and as safely as possible. The Germans, of course, were waiting and prepared for just such an attempt.
A few yards out of the trench Pippin and the men with him were pinned down by German machine-gun fire. Pippin believed in himself and thought the mission would still succeed. But he soon felt a searing blow to his right arm that knocked him to the ground. A German sniper had go
t him. The pain was excruciating, and Pippin fought not to pass out. A French soldier came to the ditch in which Pippin was lying and tried to assess the situation. Pippin signaled for the Frenchman to get down, but before the man could react, a bullet tore through his forehead. The startled soldier seemed frozen for a moment, then fell lifelessly beside Pippin. Slowly, painfully, Pippin made his way back to the safety of the French trenches. His war was over.
The nerves in his arm were torn apart, the muscles severed by the sniper’s bullet. Pippin would not be able to move his right arm for years to come. But eventually he would move the arm and tell the story, in pictures and words, of what it was like to fight in a war, and what it was like to fight that war as a black man.
Pippin’s drawings of the war were moving and stark. His depictions of war are free from romanticism and fully expressive of the pain and horror of what he had experienced as a soldier in the 369th.
13
IN ENEMY HANDS
The 161st French Division, with which the 369th also fought, moved along the line from Maffrecourt to Minaucourt, some twenty-five miles westward. The area had already seen years of fighting and hundreds of thousands of casualties.
As the 369th advanced into position, they were raked with artillery fire and took heavy casualties. But by the end of July it was the attacking German divisions that had retreated, leaving thousands of young, and equally brave, German soldiers scattered over the fields. The war was devastating for both sides, with heroes being made by necessity.
“Our father, Don, was with the medical unit,” Ann and Jeni Estill told me. “He didn’t carry a gun but wore a white armband, which should have protected him. But when he went out in no-man’s-land to bring in a wounded soldier, he was the one they shot at first.
The Harlem Hellfighters Page 6
