Brothers In Arms

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  Though they learned the rudiments of operating and firing a tank cannon, the African Americans did not shoot live ammunition; they were told they were going through “dry runs.” In their final week of training, they were permitted to fire a single round of ammunition. That was all. White recruits at Fort Knox, by contrast, fired live rounds throughout the majority of their training period. At Knox, as at Upton, the men had grudgingly accepted their segregated quarters, but this particular disparity in training was hard to take. Officers assigned to train African American recruits often expressed concern for the well-being of their men: How were the soldiers supposed to learn the intricacies of bracketing targets—firing a first shot long, a second shot short, then calibrating and adjusting to hit the target—if they could fire only once? If, in actual combat, they missed and didn't know how to correct, they were dead.

  THOUGH THEY WERE UNAWARE OF the historical implications of their activities, Leonard Smith, William McBurney, and Preston McNeil were in the vanguard of a change with ramifications that would bear enormous consequences for the American armed forces. The 761st Tank Battalion, created by the War Department on April 1, 1942, would not only become the first African American armored unit in the nation's history to land on foreign soil; it would also become one of the first black combat units in the modern Army to fight side by side with white troops. The unit's actions, and those of their fellow black soldiers, would ultimately lead, in 1948, to the desegregation of the American military.

  African American soldiers had served with the highest distinction in nearly every major conflict since the Revolutionary War. But by the outbreak of World War II, this storied legacy had been all but forgotten by military commanders. There were black casualties at the Boston Massacre of 1770, and several black soldiers received special commendation for extraordinary heroism in the Battle of Bunker Hill. Five thousand slaves and freemen served beside white troops in George Washington's Continental Army, in battles from Lexington and Concord to Yorktown. In the War of 1812, black seamen made up at least a tenth of all naval crews on the Upper Lakes; blacks in the Army fought both scattered among white troops and in separate all-black units, including two black battalions that executed counterattacks critical to Andrew Jackson's victory at the Battle of New Orleans. Slaveholders, however, had always bitterly protested the arming of black troops, and following the American victory in 1814, the enlistment of African Americans was discouraged in every branch of the service except the Navy.

  This was the status quo until the Civil War. Abraham Lincoln resisted the use of black troops until manpower requirements and the persuasion of Frederick Douglass led him to authorize the creation of black regiments. Black Union soldiers would see combat in almost every southern state, with more than 38,000 losing their lives by war's end; Major General Q. A. Gilmore and six other major generals would testify to the bravery of African American soldiers under their command. After the war, four all-black units were set up permanently, two infantry and two cavalry. The cavalry regiments, the Ninth and the Tenth, became the famed “Buffalo Soldiers” who took on the Apaches and the Cheyenne in the American Southwest, fighting with such notable skill that the commander of the Army, William Tecumseh Sherman, argued before Congress—unsuccessfully, as it turned out—for the full integration of the armed forces. Elements of the Ninth and Tenth Cavalries later served with Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill, and with General John “Black Jack” Pershing in the expedition against Pancho Villa in Mexico.

  But as Southern whites regained political power in the early 1900s, asserting Jim Crow stereotypes and legislation, this history was virtually erased. African Americans in both the Army and the previously integrated Navy found themselves increasingly relegated to inferior quarters and to menial service and support roles. Two separate race riots involving black soldiers in training—one at Brownsville, Texas, in 1906 and one at Houston, Texas, in 1917—were used by Southerners to justify this policy, though both incidents had been sparked by the brutality of local white police toward uniformed blacks. Of the 380,000 African Americans who served in World War I, all but 42,000 were assigned to support roles.

  General Pershing—the same general who had been well-served by the Buffalo Soldiers—sent the all-black 92nd and 93rd Infantry Divisions to France with insufficient equipment, after what was at best a rudimentary course of training. The 92nd, operating largely under the command of white Southerners who were openly contemptuous of its men, received an unjust yet enduring reputation for cowardice—though the secretary of war himself later disputed these claims, and though twenty-one of its soldiers earned the Distinguished Service Cross, more than were awarded to the soldiers of comparable all-white divisions fighting nearby. The combat record of the 93rd Infantry Division, the “Men of Bronze,” was extraordinary. Turned over early in 1918 to the command of the French, the men of the 93rd served in the trenches for six straight months, not yielding a single foot of territory, earning 550 medals from the French and the Americans, including 180 Croix de Guerre. Seven hundred and fifty African American soldiers were killed in World War I, and more than 5,000 were wounded.

  In the 1920s and '30s, the number of blacks in the military diminished greatly as vacancies in black units, due to budget-cutting decisions, were left unfilled and as innovations in warfighting strategy resulted in newly created whites-only branches, such as the Army Air Corps. But the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, altered the course of American history. In the subsequent flood of volunteers, one out of seven were African American, a much greater ratio than the ratio of blacks in the general population. Among them were the 761st Tank Battalion's Leonard Smith, William McBurney, and Preston McNeil.

  The 761st, along with black units such as the 758th and 784th Tank Battalions and the 99th Fighter Pursuit Squadron (also known as the Tuskegee Airmen), had been created not to fight but rather to placate black voters and the Negro press. The belief held by most Army officers and War Department officials at the outset of World War II was that African Americans lacked the intelligence and physical skills necessary to perform specialized combat operations. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, War Secretary Henry Stimson, and other national leaders saw the mobilization of these showcase units primarily as a way of solidifying Democratic Party gains in the black community.

  While FDR's motives were political, those of Eleanor Roosevelt and Harry Truman (at the time a senator and working behind the scenes) were more altruistic and forward thinking. Mrs. Roosevelt publicly agitated for the full and equal utilization of African American manpower, and she used her bully pulpit with her husband to advocate as well. Her sentiments mirrored those of African American leaders, who resented the restriction of blacks in the military to noncombat roles. For generations, African Americans had argued that black soldiers be given the right to shoulder their portion of the burden in order to gain full purchase as citizens. As Frederick Douglass had stated during the Civil War, “The colored man only waits for honorable admission into the service of the country.—They know that who would be free, themselves must strike the blow.”

  AS THEY SWEATED THROUGH BASIC TRAINING, Leonard Smith, William McBurney, and Preston McNeil did not yet know, or even suspect, that the Army never intended that they go overseas or see combat. In the heat of the autumn in the South, amid intense physical hardship as they climbed up Misery Hill to their quarters carrying full packs day after day, McBurney and McNeil formed close ties. The fellow New Yorkers shared a special bond, if one formed in mutual adversity: Some of the Southern sergeants at Fort Knox seemed to have it in for them. They would make the New Yorkers stand apart from the others, snickering, “You New Yorkers think you're smart, but we got something for y'all.” They'd make them do extra drills, extra push-ups, and march extra distance. Smith encountered the same reaction from sergeants at Camp Claiborne.

  But it was not just the New Yorkers who began to band together into a cohesive fighting unit. All of the men were developing a tight camaraderie.
As they moved through basic training, African American recruits from New York, Chicago, South Carolina, Oklahoma, and virtually every other corner of the country were starting to think of themselves as a single unit. Warren Crecy of Corpus Christi, Texas, and northerner Horatio Scott of Lynn, Massachusetts, for example, became the closest of friends.

  Warren Crecy's serious manner and striking good looks tended to make him stand out in any group. Crecy was a study in contrasts: A former high school football star known for his gutsy willingness to throw his 150-pound frame in harm's way, he was nonetheless introspective, at times almost painfully shy. Though ferociously competitive and determined to be the best at whatever task he applied himself to, Crecy was universally considered the nicest man in the battalion. He was rarely heard to use a word stronger than “damn.” Horatio Scott mirrored Warren Crecy in his seriousness, his quiet intelligence, and deep-seated kindness, if not his ferocity and force of will. The two became as close as brothers, taking a solemn oath that they would refuse promotions in rank until the other man had made the same rank.

  AFTER THEIR THIRTEEN WEEKS OF training at Fort Knox, the men of the 761st boarded a troop train for the six-hundred-mile journey through the winding hills of Kentucky, Tennessee, and Mississippi to rejoin Leonard Smith and the others already at Camp Claiborne. Louisiana was an alien land to most of these young men. For William McBurney and Preston McNeil, seeing their old buddy Leonard Smith was the only pleasant aspect of the relocation.

  What struck them most, as they marched from the train to their new quarters, was the smell. The segregated black quarters were located near the camp's sewage-treatment plant. When the wind came from the right direction, the smell could be overpowering; on the best of days it was foul, assailing the men anew each time they came back to their quarters from the range. Second only to the smell in its sheer physical unpleasantness was the mud. The camp itself was situated in a swampy area, and their quarters—a scattering of field tents and ramshackle wooden structures—were located on the low grounds. They lived in a sea of mud. They hadn't realized mud could be so various, changing day by day to cover the entire range of textures from soupy to thick and claylike. The ever-present substance made walking difficult, found its way over the tops of their boots, and soaked their clothes when passing motor vehicles spun their wheels.

  The rough physical conditions were not the only thing they had to adjust to. They also had to adjust to life in the South. Preston McNeil, who had spent his childhood in North Carolina, was anxious for the others. He tried repeatedly to warn his comrades from the north about Jim Crow, explaining the unwritten codes dictating who they could and could not interact with, where they could and could not go. Some of his friends listened and some of them—including Leonard Smith—had to learn the hard way.

  On the base, the battalion's training in the M-5 Stuart tanks intensified. Almost daily, the men were timed in mounting and dismounting the tanks. Each had to be able to get in and out of position by a certain time. They were told repeatedly by screaming sergeants that in combat situations their quickness in dismounting could mean life or death. They grew to hate this exercise—jumping in and out of the tanks so often in the oppressive heat that they started slipping on their own pooled sweat—but they did get faster. They also continued their instruction in vehicle maintenance. They were taught to take apart and reassemble the 37mm cannon and .30-caliber machine guns. They learned the importance of oiling the bogie wheels—the wheels that turn the undercarriage—which otherwise could freeze and disable the tank. In field exercises, they learned how the vehicle responded to various types of terrain. Surrounded on all sides by swampland, the terrain type they came to master above all others was mud. The trick, they discovered, was to keep moving; it was usually only when you stopped or slowed that you got stuck.

  Men who had learned all four positions in the tank in basic training were now assigned to one role, based on character evaluations made by their sergeants and lieutenants. William McBurney, ever reserved, composed, and steady under pressure, was assigned to the position of gunner, operating the 37mm cannon and coaxial .30-caliber gun. Preston McNeil and Warren Crecy were both chosen as tank commanders—McNeil because of his steadfast concern for others and the loyalty he earned in return, Crecy because of his steely determination, his thoughtfulness, and his consistently excellent marks throughout training.

  Leonard Smith had also received high marks on most of the physical and technical challenges of training—but found himself assigned to the junior position of assistant gunner. He was regarded by his superiors as something of a rebel. Nobody in the battalion spent more time at punitive KP duty than did Smith, whose naïveté and high-spiritedness often bordered on seeming insouciance. He regularly forgot to salute officers, greeting them instead with a nod, a smile, and a “Hey, how you doing?” He frequently reported late for duty. The officers and sergeants nonetheless found it impossible not to like him, believing he had the potential to become an accomplished soldier if he could just learn to settle down.

  The men were given not only tank position but also company assignments. The 761st Tank Battalion at the time consisted of five companies: Headquarters, Service, and the letter companies—Able, Baker, and Charlie—as well as a medical detachment. The letter companies contained three platoons, each platoon made up of five tanks. Leonard Smith and William McBurney were sent to Headquarters Company. Headquarters consisted of three tanks, a mortar platoon, and an assault gun platoon, and included the battalion's commanders and support staff. Preston McNeil and Warren Crecy were sent to Service Company, containing an assortment of tanks, half-tracks, and jeeps responsible for resupplying the men.

  Whatever their company assignment, the young soldiers identified themselves first and foremost as part of the battalion. An all-black engineer battalion was quartered nearby, and the men set up wrestling events and other minor competitions to see who had the best unit. They were proud of the armored patch displayed on their shoulders—a triangle in three colors, yellow, blue, and red, containing the picture of a cannon with a jagged red lightning bolt drawn across it, and at the top their battalion number, 761.

  Within the battalion there continued to develop smaller, close-knit groups of friends. Leonard Smith remained tight with William McBurney and Preston McNeil. But Smith's best friend became a young man whom he first met at Claiborne, the driver of McBurney's tank, Willie Devore. There was an instant affinity between Devore and Smith. Devore, from Greenwood, South Carolina, was gregarious, charming, and intensely loyal to his friends. Quick on his feet, he was able to find humor in any situation. Handsome, with a rakish confidence, he had several different girlfriends writing him from home. Smith, who by that time had barely kissed a girl, was greatly impressed. Devore hooked Smith up with a girlfriend, a young woman from Greenwood who wrote him letters throughout the war. Devore was like a big brother to him, and the two looked out for each other.

  THE NEARBY CITY OF ALEXANDRIA, like the entire South at the time, was strictly segregated. William McBurney thought that Preston McNeil was exaggerating when he described the danger. Ever watchful by nature, however, he took his friend's advice and made his first trip to town as part of a large group. He looked in amazement at the signs marking “White” and “Colored” drinking fountains, and noted the naked hostility with which white civilians glared at the uniformed members of his group and treated them in stores. He didn't go into Alexandria much after that, figuring the hell with it, choosing instead to read a book and stay on base.

  On his first trip to Alexandria, Leonard Smith became involved in an incident that almost ended his military career. Like McBurney, he had been warned to take a black Southerner with him so he wouldn't get into trouble. With his inveterate tendency to leap before looking, he had blithely disregarded the advice. A white bus driver took offense at Smith's open, friendly greeting on boarding the bus—Smith apparently wasn't deferential enough to suit him—and deliberately let him off on the wrong side of
town. It was a potentially deadly act. Smith walked into the nearest store and picked out a few small gifts, including a pillow embroidered with the word “Mom,” to send home to his foster mother and sisters. Two white MPs entered the store and told him he wasn't supposed to be there. Smith told them this was where the bus driver let him off. The MPs drove Smith to the black side of town, where they handed him over to five black MPs.

  Common practice in the military at the time was to leave problems of discipline with black soldiers to black MPs—more specifically, to certain black MPs who were selected because of their low IQs and propensity to violence. This allowed white officers to keep what they considered to be “order,” while protecting themselves from direct charges of racism. A white captain of the 761st who was openly contemptuous of the men voiced this policy to a newly arrived fellow officer by saying “You got to have a mean coon . . . to keep these boys in line.”

  The two white MPs who handed Leonard Smith over to the black MPs explained to them that Smith hadn't done anything wrong, that he'd just gotten let off in the wrong place. After the whites left, one of the black MPs pushed Smith up against the wall, saying, “You're one of them New York wise boys.” When Smith shoved back, the rest of the black MPs jumped on him, beating him badly before locking him in the stockade. Nursing his wounds in a solitary cell wasn't exactly what Smith had bargained for when he'd volunteered. The MPs reported that he had been drunk and disorderly. He came very close to being court-martialed. But his boundless luck came through in the end: The two white MPs were located to testify on his behalf, explaining that Smith couldn't have been drunk, as he had been in town for less than five minutes.