Two Colored women with the American Expeditionary Forces

Part 1

Chapter 13,830 wordsPublic domain

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Two Colored Women With the American Expeditionary Forces

_By_

ADDIE W. HUNTON

_and_

KATHRYN M. JOHNSON

_Illustrated_

BROOKLYN EAGLE PRESS BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

_With recognition and thanks to the authors quoted in this volume and to the men of the A. E. F. who have contributed so willingly and largely to the story herein related._

_Contents_

†FOREWORD 5

†THE CALL AND THE ANSWER 9

†FIRST DAYS IN FRANCE 15

*THE Y. M. C. A. AND OTHER WELFARE ORGANIZATIONS 22

*THE COMBATANT TROOPS 41

†NON-COMBATANT TROOPS 96

†PIONEER INFANTRIES 112

†OVER THE CANTEEN IN FRANCE 135

†THE LEAVE AREA 159

*RELATIONSHIPS WITH THE FRENCH 182

*EDUCATION 199

†THE SALVATION OF MUSIC OVERSEAS 217

*RELIGIOUS LIFE AMONG THE TROOPS 227

†REBURYING THE DEAD 233

†STRAY DAYS 241

*AFTERTHOUGHT 253

—— † By Addie W. Hunton. * By Kathryn M. Johnson.

_Foreword_

Remarkable achievements are worthy of remarkable acclaim. This justifies our desire to add still another expression to those already written relative to the career of the colored American soldiers in the late World War. The heroic devotion and sacrifice of that career have won appreciative expressions from those who, from a personal point of view, know but little of the details. How much more then should they who walked side by side with those brave men in France realize the merit of their service and chant their praises. Surely they should be best able to interpret sincerely and sympathetically, lovingly and gratefully for our soldiers, as they may not for themselves, something of the vicissitudes through which they passed as members of the American Expeditionary Forces.

We feel, too, that almost fifteen months of continuous service that carried us practically over all parts of France, and afforded a heart to heart touch with thousands of men, is a guarantee of the knowledge and devotion that has inspired this volume.

Memories will ever crowd the mind and cause the eye to kindle with the light of loving sympathy as we recall our months of service at the base of supplies on the coast of France. For there we were privileged to learn something of the life and spirit of the stevedores, labor battalions and engineers whom we served—more than 25,000 of them—who, through all the desolate days of war, never ceased in their efforts to connect America with Chateau Thierry, Verdun, Sedan, St. Mihiel and other great battle centers of France. There we beheld combat troops, filled with the spirit of adventure arriving fresh from America to follow the trail to the already war-worn front. And there came also those regiments that we called Pioneer Infantries, the imprints of whose deeds of duty and daring are stamped all over France.

We followed our depot companies and engineers through those isolated stretches and wastes where they performed tasks so essential in the plans for victory.

After many months we went away from the confusion of war to beautiful southern France. There we worked to make happy the days of the men who came for rest and recreation to that wonderful Alpine region of Savoie. There in the Leave Area, by the side of shimmering Lake Bourget, we learned something more of the life of our soldiers as they fought or worked on French soil. Every week, for five months or more, a thousand or so men poured into Chambery and Challes-les-Eaux, and we saw in them the gladness or depression of their service.

Far to the North we took our way, over devastated areas, and dwelt midst the loneliness of poppy-covered fields in “No Man’s Land.” In those Cities of the Dead, we beheld our soldiers summoned to the supreme test of their loyalty and patience in the re-burying of the fallen American heroes.

Back again to the coast we went to join in the great “Battle of Brest”—the battle for the morale of the tired, anxious soldier waiting for transportation back to home and native friendships. For six weeks, from early morning to midnight, our huts at Pontanezen echoed to the tread of thousands of feet. During that period it is estimated that fifty thousand colored soldiers passed through the camp. Battle scenes and war adventures were ended, but the memory was yet deeply poignant, and often silences revealed the depths of experiences beyond the power of all words. Because of all this, we strive to humbly recount the heart throbs of our heroes.

Again the authors have written because to them it was given to represent in France the womanhood of our race in America—those fine mothers, wives, sisters and friends who so courageously gave the very flower of their young manhood to face the ravages of war. That we then should make an effort to interpret with womanly comprehension the loyalty and bravery of their men seems not only a slight recompense for all they have given, but an imperative duty.

We believe that undervaluation is a more subtle and unkind foe than overvaluation, so that we have not refrained in our story from a large measure of praise for a large measure of loyal and patriotic service, performed ofttimes under the most trying conditions.

We have had no desire to attain to an authentic history, but have rather aimed to record our impressions and facts in a simple way. But wherever historical facts have been used, it has been largely to justify the measure of praise accorded and to offset the criticisms of prejudiced minds.

This volume is written at a time when, after the shock of terrific warfare, the world has not yet found its balance—when, in the midst of confusion, justice and truth call loudly for the democracy for which we have paid.

If for all time the world is to be free from the murderous scourge called war, it must make universal and eternal the practical application of the time-worn theory of the brotherhood of man. May this volume written in all love and truth, though perhaps imperfectly, serve to lift some souls nearer to this ideal.

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THE POTENT HOUR

_The hour is big with sooth and sign, with errant men at war._

_While blood of alien, friend and foe, imbues the land afar,_

_And we with sable faces pent, move with the vanguard line,_

_Shod with a faith that springtime keeps and all the stars opine._

GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON.

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The Call and the Answer ————

The great thrilling, throbbing spirit of war did not reach the United States until that memorable spring of 1918. Then it came in a mighty tidal wave of vitalized force and energy. Our country, woefully late, was at last awakened to terrific speed. Great human cargoes and innumerable tons of supplies held transports and ships to their guards. Cities, towns and villages were suddenly transformed into great inspirational centers of war activity. Meanwhile we were watching the map of France, noting with deep anxiety the stubborn resistance of the war-weary French to the slow but certain advance of the enemy. Once again it moved with pitiless and determined face toward Paris—the heart stream of all France. Although General Joffre had once checked the German raiders and sent them to confusion and death, their lesson was not yet learned and they were again throwing human force against the principles of right. But now that so many of the heroes of France had fallen, how would the foe be met? Surely there was urgent need of a strong army to stand at the Marne once again.

The American Forces already in France were calling not only for help, but haste. Suddenly, we found ourselves included in this call with passport in hand. Not all at once did its full significance come to us, but in those waiting days, as we sat at our desk and tried to concentrate on war-work at home, quite unconsciously, we would find the passport in our hands and our eyes searching the war map on the wall. Slowly we began to realize that we were to make an effort to reach “over there” where thousands of our own men had gone and other thousands must go.

Then one dark afternoon, as the rain came down in torrents, the buzz of the telephone at our elbow told us our time had come. We asked no questions, for those were days of deep secrecy, but looked for the last time at the war map in the office—studied it as never before, wondering where in that war-wrecked country across the Atlantic we would find our place of service. We breathed a little prayer, said good-bye to our fellow workers, knowing that tomorrow we would be on the ocean eastward bound and went out to meet her who was to try the unknown with us and who would prove the faithful companion of all our “overseas” life. There was no sleep that night for us; friends came and went, and two ever faithful ones lingered lovingly for the last possible service.

Of necessity, in those days, there were strict laws and many sentries at the docks, so that when we entered there was little hope of rejoining our loved ones for a second adieu. We took the precaution, however, to beg them to wait for a final sign of parting and while going through the ordeal of having baggage examined and passed, learned that our sailing time had been delayed four hours. We determined upon an effort to rejoin those waiting so patiently outside the dock. Making a wide detour, we passed quietly by the sentry who was striding to and fro with gun on his shoulder. Now whether he could not quite grasp the fact that colored women were really going to join the American Expeditionary Forces, or had seen the close clinging hug given one of the women by the little lad and lassie near him—or whether the twinkle in our eye did it, we do not know—but we passed, and in that very act much of the sadness of our parting was removed. We rode across 14th Street, a jolly party, had our lunch and returned to the dock, where from an upper pier with smiles and tears all mingled, we waved a final adieu.

How wonderful is love at such a time! There they stood lovingly and lingeringly—the cousin of one of us who had come all the way from the Middle West for this leave-taking; two brave children with the dear little woman whose true and tried devotion made us know that she would mother them as her own till we came back to take her place; and that other friend with whom we had crossed in peaceful days, joyously roaming over England and the Continent. That last picture remained with us, to cheer us for all the months of our absence.

And now there was no turning back. Months ago the war zone was just six hundred miles from the coast of France—but now the United States was at war, and as we stepped on the gang plank, war-zone passes were surrendered. We were crusaders on a quest for Democracy! How and where would that precious thing be found?

What a spectacle was that sun-lit bit of New York harbor that June afternoon! All about us were transports filled with khaki-clad men, crowding port holes, every bit of deck and perched on every beam. These thousands of youths of fearless and deathless spirit, would quickly follow us over there, and many of them, in war’s thunderous tumult, quickly pay the supreme sacrifice. How they whistled, sang and cheered as our little French liner, _Espagne_, steamed slowly away from them to brave alone the sea peril of that time!

First to the south and then to the east we sailed over seas of glass, with never a storm or gale, but tremendous speed. They were cheerful days, although they were ever-watchful ones, with life-belts close at hand. No lights showed on deck at night nor on the whole horizon. Yes, just once! By the big blazing cross at the foremast, we saw the form of a hospital ship, bringing its toll of human wreckage to the waiting hands and hearts of its native heath.

For all the trip there was no anxious face or word that revealed the danger that so constantly lurked near us. Even the frequent summons for life-boat drills were answered with mirthful banter. An unfailing, kindly courtesy, and, in many cases, real comradeship marked the fellow-workers with whom we crossed. Perhaps it was due to the quiet but wonderful personality of the leader of this group, Mr. William J. Sloane, Chairman of the War Council of the Young Men’s Christian Association. The four hundred Polish recruits entertained us with song, verse and dance; while usually we had music and movies in the salon. Our Sunday afternoon at sea, we sat in the dining salon with the sun’s rays stealing through the closed portholes and falling upon us in long, flickering, gold lines. Dr. Henry Coffin talked to us in his forceful way of heroes of old. Some one sang “Speed Away,” and then there was a triumphal outburst of “Eternal Father Strong to Save!” The morning of the ninth day we entered the Gironde River and steamed slowly between vine-clad heights, overtopped by stately chateaux; between flowering meadows, with picturesque villas, up to Bordeaux. It was thus we “Answered the Call.”

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That for which millions prayed and sighed, That for which ten thousands fought, For which so many freely died, God cannot let it come to naught.

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON.

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First Days in France ————

There are many American boys now who are quite familiar with the Louvre, Boulevards, Notre Dame and Napoleon’s Tomb at Paris but who know absolutely nothing of the Metropolitan Museum, Fifth Avenue and its Cathedral, or Grant’s Tomb. The many ports of France were particularly the home of the colored soldiers, so that landing at Bordeaux it did not seem strange to be greeted first of all by our own men. But it did seem passing strange that we should see them guarding German prisoners! Somehow we felt that colored soldiers found it rather refreshing—even enjoyable for a change—having come from a country where it seemed everybody’s business to guard them.

Bordeaux was singularly the home of colored soldiers. They were in the camps there by the thousands. In fact, as we landed at Bordeaux, it seemed every man’s home. So crowded and varied was its population, one could almost believe that during the nine days of silence on the ocean, Paris had been passed by the enemy. There were many Colonial troops, Chinese laborers and, more or less maimed French soldiers. The French government had been removed to that city in which the blending of the finest in old and new architecture made it a charming substitute for Paris. Sitting in the park that evening, looking out upon the teeming life about us, with crowds of black-robed women and helpless soldiers filling in the picture, there came to us our first definite realization of the cost of war.

Our first dinner in France, with butter and real ice cream, was an unfortunate delusion, for it in no way prepared us for all the lean days to follow. Especially not for the war-breakfast the next morning—a thick piece of dark bread, a hard-boiled egg and a cup of black coffee—all thrown at us in unsweetened confusion; for while we waited for sugar, we were informed that for the future we must use a liquid substitute supplied us in bottles.

But Paris was our destination, and we rode all day over that part of France so full of historical memories—past Tours with its Cathedral of Royal Staircase and Towers; past Blois with its chateau of historical pre-eminence; past Orleans, over which the spirit of Jeanne d’Arc eternally hovers—on to Paris.

Rue d’Aguesseau! Who does not know it now! That short, narrow street made famous by the Young Men’s Christian Association. For there were the Headquarters of that organization for all its vast service to the American Expeditionary Forces. It was to 12 Rue d’Aguesseau that the precious letters from home were sent. There, in the crowded foyer, they were read and often answered. There friends were met and conferences held. How can any Y secretary who went through it all ever forget the intricate processes of “Movement Orders” and “Transportation” that somehow carried one all over the building and included several excursions from the first to the fifth floor, with the perverse little elevator generally out of order! Really it was far better named _ascenseur_, for when on rare occasions it did respond to the push of the button and take one up, there was always the warning sign not to descend in it.

It was always necessary to report to the Paris Headquarters in changing one’s base of service. Hence, we have several distinct pictures of the city as we saw it at different intervals during our fifteen months in France. We remember Paris at Christmas time, 1918, when President Wilson had but recently arrived there; when the forces that had for so long fought against cold and darkness were triumphant at last. Warmth and light flooded the very soul of the city. The American was the dominating figure, but the French were riotously happy, for peace had come—a Victorious Peace! We remember, too, the Paris of the late summer of 1919, when after her great victory parade—in which all the victors participated except our own colored soldiers—she began to realize her real condition. The foreigners had mostly gone, the lights were less brilliant than in winter. It was a quiet but wise Paris, bravely facing her tremendous work of reconstruction. But the saddest picture was our first. It was the summer of 1918, Paris was again in the war zone. We entered a city of darkness and our taxicab literally felt its way to the hotel. Here and there dim green lights, heavily hooded, peeped out at us, and we learned that they were simply guides to caves for those unhappy wayfarers caught beneath the enemy’s shell. On that June night, the great Gare d’Orsay was a seething mass of aristocracy, peasantry and soldiers. The same was true of all other railroad stations, for soldiers were forcing their way to the front and refugees their way to the rear. But all life seemed concentrated in those terminals; over the city itself there was deep silence. Even the days were heavy with dark forebodings. The French went quietly to their business by day and to their cellars by night, as the Germans menaced and shattered with shell and bomb. The day of the British and Belgian soldiers in Paris had almost passed—that of the American scarce begun. The many French soldiers one saw there were, for the most part, heartbreaking in their poor torn bodies. We had just seen the children at Bordeaux who used to play among the flowers and marble statues of the parks and look from the windows now close-shuttered. We looked in vain in the Louvre, Notre Dame and other repositories for their priceless treasures, but they were hidden, and ugly sandbags hugged the architecture against the ruthless attacks of the foe. True, the shop-keeper tried to extol and press her wares upon us as of old, but, with the above picture before us, bread tickets in our hands and meatless days, we felt most keenly that it was not the Paris in which, just ten years before, we had lived so joyously for many weeks. It was a bleeding, war-harassed city with its deadly foe pressing upon it. But faith at Paris was not wholly dead; the spirit of Jeanne d’Arc still lived and Saint Genevieve still kept faithful vigil through the long dark hours of waiting. To such a Paris we went, and somehow seemed a part of it. The warning of the siren, air-battles by night and “Big Bertha” bombs by day were accepted as a part of grim war. Meanwhile we prepared for work in the camp.

Those last days in America and first days in France brought us into close touch with the fine spirits who guided the women’s work for the War Council of the Young Men’s Christian Association. In the United States, we had gathered inspiration and vision for our service from the highly efficient and spiritual chairman—Mrs. F. Louis Slade. Closely associated with Mrs. Slade was Mrs. Elsie Meade, whose warm sympathy and steady hand was such a comfort, first, to the out-going women in America, and later in France with its ever-changing camp life. There was Miss Crawford, whose alert service and cheerful word in the office at home and in France meant so much to the Y woman who sought information. Our first assignment in France was made by Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., and the second by Miss Ella Sachs, both of whom gave to the Young Men’s Christian Association a wealth of devoted service—purely for the love of their country. There was Miss Martha McCook, who for so long stood so faithfully at the head of the women’s personnel abroad. Who of the secretaries will ever forget Dr. Cockett? Giving herself first to pioneer work in the camp, she afterwards stood as a tower of strength and knowledge to the newly-arrived secretary.

The colored women who served overseas had a tremendous strain placed upon their Christian ideals—but the officials whom we have mentioned, one and all, as did now and then a regional secretary like Miss Susanne Ridgeway at St. Nazaire, Miss Harris at Aix-les-Bains or the Misses Watson and Shaw at Brest, helped them to keep their faith in the democracy of real Christian service.

A whole volume of interest centers about those two weeks in Paris. The conferences from which we gathered facts and details that would find practical expression on the field; the meeting of old friends and the making of new; the full realization of the restrictions of the army and its penalties for disobedience; the fortitude and fineness of the French—all this and more crowded upon us in those days and wonderfully strengthened us for our task. And then, one day, one of us faced toward Brest and the other toward St. Nazaire to love and serve our men at those ports.

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