Chapter C: B. Humphrey, (4)

The fame of Europe’s Band, as it was familiarly called, spread over all France as well as America. One single occasion on which we were permitted to hear this band in France is worthy of note. We had been honored as delegates to the Conference of Allied Women held in Paris in August, 1918. The program, the delegates, entertainment, everything, including the garden party tendered by President and Mme. Poincaré, the afternoon at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., and the banquet at the Palais d’Orsay had quite won our hearty interest and admiration and we had reached the final and crowning session of the Conference. The great Theatre Elysées was crowded, although the lights were yet turned low. Someone informed us that the orchestra in the pit was composed of colored men. Immediately we came to our feet. Try as we might we could not see the men, but the leader, Lieutenant Europe, sat elevated, and so we recognized him. In spite of the addresses by great personages, in spite of the royal opera singer and the wonderful chorus, for the remainder of that evening our thoughts centered themselves about this band of colored Americans playing before the élite of Europe and America. It was a significant moment when, with a great martial note, this band of the 15th New York Infantry began the French National Hymn, summoning the great audience to its feet as President Poincaré and party entered their box. Time and time again the playing of these colored Americans thrilled the house into rapturous applause. After the audience had been dismissed and the lights again turned low, admiring friends, among whom were Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., stood by and the band played on lingeringly and tenderly as if somewhere voices were whispering that it would be one of the last great triumphs of its famous leader.

Music was one of the chief attractions furnished by the Leave Area for the tired, depressed men who were sent there for rest and recreation. There came the 803rd Pioneer Infantry Band under the capable direction of Sergeant Major Bailey. These men gave us so much joy and entertainment in their playing that not only did the Y make efforts to have them retained permanently in the Leave Area, but the French people were quite as eager to have them, and showered praises and flowers on them when at last they were ordered back to their regiment.

Then came the 815th with their fine Western pride and spirit playing their way, too, into the heart of the Area. We met them again at Romagne when, with the band of the 816th Pioneer Regiment, they were playing daily to counteract the depressing influences of their surroundings. We stood near them and watched with tear-filled eyes as they paid their humble homage on that memorable thirtieth of May when General Pershing had come to dedicate that largest military cemetery. We were with them again at the Port of Brest where, with their wonderfully stirring music they, too, fought in that battle for morale. We learned to know them well—those California lads—and to love them.

No finer men went to France than the men who composed the 802nd Pioneer Infantry, and that may account for the really high quality of the work of its band. No band seemed to adhere quite so closely to classical selections, and they would most naturally draw the French to their feet whenever and wherever they played. While resting in the Leave Area, they graciously gave us several concerts.

We followed the history of the St. Nazaire Band with a certain pride and interest because, in the early days when we entered that town it was a small struggling group with but few instruments, the sounds from which can be but faintly described by the word horrible. It was encouraged by the Young Men’s Christian Association, who gave it a thousand dollars for instruments and music. We watched this band grow and lose its crudeness with almost incredible rapidity, until a year later, when it visited the Leave Area, it was our joy and pride. It is sad to record that at the very zenith of popularity, its history was saddened by the sudden and tragic death of Sergeant Stevenson, the assistant bandmaster, who fell from a pole at Chambery. Again the beautiful French spirit was demonstrated by the populace of the town in a mass of floral offerings at the funeral of this soldier. Always with the French it was “_Nos fleurs et nos coeurs_.” The writer shall always have a peculiar remembrance of the St. Nazaire band, for at the time of the signing of the armistice she had succumbed to a serious illness as a result of overexertion. For a day or two the outer world was rather vague to her consciousness, but she was brought back when the band passed the house playing with full tone and complete abandon “Over There.” Looking into the face of her associate she learned that the armistice had been signed and that this playing was but an incident of the jubilation that had been in progress for several hours.

The Regimental Band of the 805th Pioneer Infantry was organized very late, but it became famous overnight, especially at Chateau Chehery, near Grand Pre. The Regimental Headquarters were in the famous and beautiful Chateau de Chehery, and there the band entertained the French, British and Americans of high rank who were constant visitors.

The story of the 808th band who had the honor of playing for President Wilson as he sailed home from Brest in June, is best told by one of its members who wrote this letter while they were in France:

“When they left Camp Meade the watchword was ‘Over There,’ and as
the band of the dashing 808th Pioneer Infantry played that tuneful
strain upon leaving the good old United States of America, they gave
courage and cheer to the three thousand boys in line, and filled the
hearts of wives, sweethearts, mothers and friends with that kind of
spirit which wins wars—an unbreakable faith. But I am to tell you of
these boys ‘Over There’ and I am to get my story from the spontaneous
expression of boys who just needed a strain of some good old ‘rag’ or
quaint Irish ballad to spur them on to the next town or a beautiful
symphony to lull them off to sleep as they lay in pain on their cots.

“This band of colored musicians has indeed upheld the tradition of
its race, for their music contributes much to make the name of the
808th Pioneer Infantry popular at the front. To begin with, they are
right at the front being only a few kilometers behind the line, and
although in danger of attracting the attention of hostile forces,
they realize that the spirit of the boys must be kept cheerful and
refreshed. So, often they assemble in a well protected spot and play
for the constant line of khaki as it moves along the road toward the
enemy. And how those boys enjoy the music only they can tell. But
from the quickened step, the straightened shoulders and the whistling
and singing, one can really feel the refreshing and satisfying
effects of the band. When the band stops playing, however, there is
no question as to the appreciation of the music, for from hundreds of
throats comes the cry, ‘Carry On!’

“There is small wonder, though, that these boys have developed into
such a well-balanced band, for when one meets the ‘Chief,’ as he is
familiarly known among his fellow officers, the reason is easily
explained. With a natural talent for music, the ‘Chief’ combines
years of training as bandmaster and leader. It was he, Lieutenant
James E. Wheelock, who brought to the Carlisle Indian School athletic
prowess which struck terror in the hearts of all followers of the
pigskin in the East, and he also developed the Carlisle Indian
School band into one of national repute, so now it is he, realizing
the power of music, who adds his talent and leadership to the one
great end. I must not fail, however, to give due credit to the boys
under his brilliant instruction. Naturally gifted as musicians and
with deep love for it, these colored boys have developed into a
respected organization, and with a realization of their power, they
have unhesitatingly given their services where they might cheer some
homesick boy or ease the pain of those suffering from wounds of
battle. Transported in trucks through mud and rain, they have gone
miles to play in hospitals and rest camps, and have brought to our
nurses some little respite from the constant cry of pain.

“These boys have also developed other features which bid fair to
permit them always to retain a warm spot in the hearts of the boys
of the American Expeditionary Forces. Could you but hear Terry and
Bloxson pull off their skit entitled ‘Sick Call in the Army’ in that
dismantled stable which the fellows have the nerve to call a theatre,
or could you hear the melodious string quartette, or a beautiful
saxophone solo, or the sweet voices of the band, you, too, would do
as the hundreds of boys do who crowd that place every Monday—jump to
your feet crying ‘Carry On!’ Let us thank these boys and Lieutenant
Wheelock for their unselfish spirit.”

Other regiments, combatant and non-combatant, had their bands that won honor and praise in the same way as the few did with whom we had personal touch, and then there were great numbers of singers and shows. In any camp an impromptu musical program was not far to seek.

But everywhere the music of the colored soldier was a faithful index of the spirit behind the song. There might be heard painfully monotonous or sombre chords—but wait a little and the atmosphere would change. There would come creeping into the music aspiration and elevation. Always the psychologist could discern the sorrow, pain and rebellion of souls that suffered unjustly, but always he would also discern through the exaltation and nobility of the music that its fundamental basis was faith and vision.

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Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.

_Matthew_ 28:20.

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Religious Life Among the Troops
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Although the church as an organization and as the most direct exponent of the Prince of Peace, had no part in the welfare work during the war, yet it was the contributing and inspirational force behind the organizations and individuals who played such an important part in the developing and the maintaining of the morale of the soldiers of the American Expeditionary Forces. The chaplains were direct, but not official representatives of the church, while the Y. M. C. A., the Y. W. C. A., the Knights of Columbus, the Salvation Army, and the Jewish Welfare Board were direct outgrowths of the church or religious spirit in America; and while the great war was apparently a complete and tangible evidence of the failure of Christianity among Christian nations, still there was abundant manifestation everywhere that within the hearts of men there was a deep and abiding faith in the great Ruler of the Universe, and a certain conviction that the great world cataclysm was a result of the dogged and persistent determination of the peoples engaged therein to ignore the principles in practice that they had so loudly preached to the world.

Although to some it was tremendously puzzling that a great human machine that had been built up for the purpose of killing men, should at the same time set agencies into operation to teach and preach the doctrines of Christ, yet they were willing to overlook the seeming paradox and gather in large numbers to hear the gospel, to study the Word itself, to pray, and not least of all, to sing as only dark-skinned Americans can sing, either the wonderful spirituals that were born of the travail of an oppressed and bleeding people, or the more stately hymns and songs that were published in a million gospel song books that were distributed throughout the American Expeditionary Forces.

1. Chaplain R. A. McAllister and Orderly at Camp Pontanezen, Brest.
2. Chaplain M. M. Jefferson, at Camp Lusitania, St. Nazaire. 3.
Secretary B. F. Selden and Chaplain George Shippen Stark, on Vosges
Front. 4. Chaplains Wallace and Robeson with 369th Infantry.]

The Y. M. C. A. had a regularly organized religious program which it put into operation with more or less success; it secured the services of Dr. Henry Churchill King, President of Oberlin College, as Director of the Religious Department in France. He had offices in Paris, and a large field force to put into operation his plan of carrying the gospel to the soldiers. Evangelistic singers and speakers traveled from place to place talking and singing to the soldiers as they congregated in the Y. M. C. A. huts. There was a religious director also for every region, who kept in direct touch with the work of religious secretaries who were supposed to be stationed at each hut. The personnel of the colored welfare workers, however, was so limited in number that there were not enough religious secretaries to supply the demand; and there were only about 50 colored chaplains in the entire A. E. F.; as a result, all who would were invited to help in this all-important work of the Y. M. C. A. Many of the soldiers were always willing and anxious to assist in every possible way, while some of the Y women gave much time to this phase of welfare work; the writer, with the assistance of interested soldiers, organized a Bible class in a hut where there hitherto had been only one religious service a week, attended by from 60 to 100 men out of a camp of 3,500. The Bible class grew and gathered strength until a colored chaplain was finally stationed at Camp Lusitania, which by that time had grown to a camp of 9,000.

Some hut secretaries were especially fitted for religious work, and filled the place of a religious worker in a splendid manner. Such a man was Mr. William Stevenson, who initiated and built the work at Camp Montoir. Rev. T. A. Griffith, hut secretary at Camp Guthrie, near St. Nazaire, was another such messenger of the gospel, and during three months of service had 300 accessions to the church; the names of all such men were enrolled on special blanks supplied by the Y. M. C. A., and sent to the churches at home of which they desired to become members. Of course this was work such as was to be expected of any minister, but nevertheless there were some who did not avail themselves of the opportunity. Another such Y. M. C. A. secretary was Mr. E. T. Banks, of Dayton, Ohio. Hundreds would go into battle after having followed him in silent prayer, with knees bent and faces lifted toward heaven, in the land where now “The poppies blow, between the crosses, row on row,” and where many of them at this moment “Rest sweet and deep, in Flanders Fields.”

In addition to the work done through the Y. M. C. A. religious workers and chaplains, thousands of pieces of religious literature were distributed, including pocket editions of the New Testament, Psalms, and Gospels. These were placed in literature cases so that the men could select those which interested them most, and always the New Testament or small extracts from the Bible would have the largest circulation.

To those of us who went over to cast our lots with the boys in khaki, nothing was quite so inspiring and so helpful as to hear them tell of their faith in God, or to give utterance to a prayer that bespoke the upward groping of a soul, or to hear a thousand voices, deep and rich and rhythmic, bring heaven into a sacred and almost visible nearness, with singing that seemed nothing less than a special benediction to a peculiar people. This was a priceless gift, in a country where all the people spoke a different tongue, and where the great organs in the cathedrals welled forth the only language that brought forth a gospel message to a stranger in a strange land.

In the midst of oppression, circumscription, intrigue, and false and wicked propaganda spread against them by their own countrymen, these colored soldiers fought as bravely as any Americans overseas, and worked with a greater will; and as you saw them going to and from their long hours of labor with a song upon their lips, you became convinced that these men had unconquerable souls; and the tramp, tramp, tramp of their marching feet made you feel that surely they were walking side by side with the Master, who had said unto them: Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.

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They are embosomed in the sod,
In still and tranquil leisure,
Their lives, they’ve cast, like trifles down
To serve their country’s pleasure.

Nor bugle call, nor mother’s voice,
Nor moody mob’s unreason,
Shall break their solace and repose,
Through swiftly changing season.

O graves of men who lived and died
Afar from life’s high pleasures,
Fold them in tenderly and warm
With manifold fond measures.

GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON.

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Reburying the Dead

Springtime had come again, but so different from the spring of that other year. Then the voices of spring had been deadened by the thunderous guns around Verdun, Soissons, and Chateau Thierry. Then those guns with their deep and ominous challenge were holding the whole world in tense and fearful waiting. Women of every land were listening with tender yearning and burning anxiety for a word from their heroes on the fields of France. Men of mature years who had been a part of the conflicts of other days could scarce conceal their eagerness for the fray as they gently encouraged those anguished women and commended their wonderful spirit of endurance and patriotism. It was springtime, but the Crown Prince still hammered on Verdun, the Hindenburg line was still unbroken and the foe was not yet hurled back from the Marne in sure defeat. It was the springtime when late, but with grim determination to win or die, the American Forces had at last taken their place in the World Conflict.

But all that was now a part of the past and springtime had come once again in France. Meantime a spirit of change had crept over all the land. After one tremendous shout for victory the world had fallen into the silence that follows a supreme struggle—the silence of exhaustion, the silence of death. Many of the thousands who had pressed forward in those terrific battles crying “Victory!” had fallen and lain together under the bleak, dark winter skies of France. It was a period, too, of reckoning and realization of the price paid. But springtime had come again in France with its song-birds and blood-red poppies, and with it the quick consciousness that the dead lying en-masse on the battlefields must be given resting places befitting heroes.

Here was a tremendous task for the surviving American soldiers, but far more sacred than tremendous. Whose would be the hands to gather as best they could and place beneath the white crosses of honor the remains of those who had sanctified their spirits through the gift of their lifeblood? It would be a gruesome, repulsive and unhealthful task, requiring weeks of incessant toil during the long heavy days of summer. It also meant isolation, for these cemeteries for the American dead would be erected on or near the battlefields where the men had fallen. But it would be a wonderful privilege the beauty and glory of which would reveal itself more and more as the facts of the war should become crystallized into history.

Strange that the value of such a task did not gather full significance in the minds of all American soldiers. Strange that when other hands refused it, swarthy hands received it! Yet, perhaps, not so strange, for Providence hath its own way, and in those American cemeteries in France we have strong and indisputable evidence of the wonderful devotion and loyalty and the matchless patience and endurance of the colored soldier. The placing of this task—the most sacred of the whole war—in his hands may have been providentially planned. It may have been just another means, as against the force of arms, to hasten here at home the recognition and enforcement of those fundamental principles that for four long years had held the world in deadly struggle.

We looked upon these soldiers of ours—the splendid 813th, 815th and 816th Pioneer Regiments and the numerous fine labor battalions—as they constructed the cemeteries at Romagne, Beaumont, Thiencourt, Belleau Woods, Fere-en-Tardenois and Soissons. We watched them as they toiled day and night, week after week, through drenching rain and parching heat. And yet these physical ills were as naught compared with the trials of discriminations and injustices that seared their souls like hot iron, inflicted as they were at a time when these soldiers were rendering the American army and nation a sacred service. Always in those days there was fear of mutiny or rumors of mutiny. We felt most of the time that we were living close to the edge of a smoldering crater. At Belleau Woods the soldiers _en-masse_ banished some who mistreated them. We recall an incident at Romagne. Even though it was May the nights were winter cold, so that when one snuggled between army blankets in the tent, it required a bit of heroism to crawl out. This particular night we had just retired when shots were heard, fired in rapid succession. Without thought of the cold we began dressing and were sitting wrapped in cloak thinking rapidly about what was happening when someone called, “It is only a fire!” What a relief it was! What did it matter if the whole camp burned in comparison with our boys being goaded by prejudice beyond reason! Rations were often scarce and poor at Romagne because we were so far from supplies, hence we prepared and served food for the soldiers all day long. But this was but a small task compared with that of keeping the men in good spirits and reminding them again and again of the glory of the work they had in hand. Always, whether in the little corner set aside in the Y barracks as our reception room, or among the books they liked so well to read, whether by the side of the piano or over the canteen, we were trying to love them as a mother or a dear one would into a fuller knowledge and appreciation of themselves, their task and the value of forbearance.

We had gone from Romagne—women of fine spirit had taken our place and were lovingly ministering to the needs of these soldiers, when things happened too grievous to be calmly borne. At one stroke down came tents of discrimination and injustice, but the work there went on and the soldiers completed the difficult task assigned them.

1. Military Cemetery at Romagne.

2. Bearing the Cross.]

For weeks at Romagne we watched these men fare forth with the dawn to find the dead on the 480 square miles of battlefield of the Meuse-Argonne. At eventide we would see them return and reverently remove the boxes from the long lines of trucks and place them on the hillside beside the waiting trenches that other soldiers had been digging all the long busy day. Far into the night we would sit in our darkened tent looking out on the electric-lighted cemetery, watching the men as they lowered the boxes into the trenches. Sometimes we could hear only a low murmur of voices, and sometimes again there would come to us a plaintive melody in keeping with the night hour and its peculiar task.

Mr. William G. Shepherd, in the New York _Evening Post_, gives the following picture:

“As we moved about the battlefield later, we saw in fields, in
groves, on hillsides, and even in the yards of what had been the
houses of French villages, groups of Negro soldiers at their worthy
but infinitely slow task of calling the roll of our American dead and
gathering them together at the hillside rendezvous of Romagne.

“One of the burning pictures of all this war to me was a view of
these Negro sexton-soldiers working on a hilltop one rainy evening
at dusk. They were outlined against the gloomy sky. Their huge
motor-truck stood near by, ready to carry their burden to Romagne.
I thought of the home back in the United States where this one
doughboy’s empty chair held its sacred place; of how the ‘home
fires,’ of which our doughboys had so often sung, had been kept
burning for him. I thought of how the heart-love in that home would
flash across the Atlantic to this bleak French hilltop faster than
any wireless message—if the homefolk only knew.

“It was good to know that he was being taken from his solitary bed,
in the midst of the battlefield’s desolation, back to the crowd of
his buddies at Romagne. This, that I saw on the sky-line, was his
second mobilization. Not this time will he sing and romp and play and
joke and fight; after his second mobilization at Romagne he will
just lie still and rest with all the other thousands of his fellow
soldiers, his job well done, until it is time for us he saved to take
him back home.”

We have yet another picture. It was the day before the 30th of May, 1919. Every soldier was helping to put the Romagne cemetery in readiness for its dedication by General Pershing on the next day. Looking out from our little kitchen window of the Y barrack, we saw what seemed to us a wonderful sight. Two long lines of soldiers were before us—one moving slowly over the hill and the other coming up the main road—each man bearing on his shoulder a single white cross that would rest above the grave of a fellow-hero. Quickly our mind traveled back over the centuries to Him who had borne the cross toward Golgotha, and we saw in these dark-skinned sons of America bearing those white crosses, something of the same humility and something of the same sorrow that characterized the Master, but we also beheld in them the Christ spirit grown large, beautiful and eternal with the ages. Behind the vivid picture drawn by Mr. Shepherd and behind this other picture, one sees not only the twenty-two thousand homes represented by these crosses at Romagne, but the ten thousand _real_ Americans, colored men of the Pioneer Infantries and labor battalions, who, through the sweat of toil, linked that place of sainted pilgrimage on the Western Front with those American homes.

Our outstanding impression of those faithful ones who wore the insignia of Alsace-Lorraine is their strict allegiance to the trust imposed upon them, with heart and purpose fixed to pay the price entailed in the completion of their severe task.

Whether they sought their comrades by the winding Meuse or on the battle-seamed heights of “No Man’s Land;” whether they found their bodies in the shadows of the ruined cathedrals of Rheims, Soissons or Ypres, always they were making an unconscious challenge to the very heart of the United States for the rights of the twelve millions of its citizens whose loyalty had thus endured the test.

May we not hope that as the heart of this homeland finds its way to those American shrines in France, a real peace, born of knowledge and gratitude, shall descend upon us, blotting out hate and its train of social and civil injustices? Then shall we realize the value and meaning of the pain and sacrifice of these dark-browned heroes of ours.

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What are the things that make life bright?
A star gleam in the night.
What hearts us for the coming fray?
The dawn tints of the day.
What helps to speed the weary mile?
A brother’s friendly smile.
What turns to gold the evening gray?
A flower beside the way.

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR.

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Stray Days
————

There were days of travel from one post of duty to another, and days of recreation that took us away from the camp for a little but seldom away from the soldiers themselves. Army restrictions were as numerous and as intricate as the barbed wire entanglement of the front. But in spite of limitations, and in some instances because of them, we had many novel and interesting experiences in what we called Stray Days.

Waiting, as simple as it seems, could sometimes be one of the most trying ordeals of a soldier’s life. This was true of those who reached France in the heat of the conflict to become in some small way a part of it. Arriving in Paris and finding it sorely pressed by the foe, one immediately became a part of the anxious throng within its gates, with scant desire for sight-seeing or visits to places of interest during those tense days. This was especially true if one had known that city when it was all life and light, before the pall of suffering and dread had fallen over it.

Now one preferred to sit in the Garden of the Tuilleries, if the bomb and shell of the enemy permitted it. Looking out upon the huge dark form of the Louvre or letting the eyes wander past the remains of the palace to the Place de la Concorde, it would be most natural that the thoughts or conversation would turn to the long struggle of France for the attainment of an ideal democracy. Usually the conversation would be with a wounded soldier or sad old civilian of the French who would add much to our knowledge of his people and their history. Or in those same oppressive days, we would ride past the palatial residences with their fast-closed windows, on the Champs Elysées to the Bois de Boulogne. Sitting there with face toward Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe, one would come to understand that kingdoms and principalities, builded by selfishness and tyranny, survive but a day. Through the gruesome crucible of the Bastille and guillotine, France had won the democracy that she was now battling to preserve. The grim insistence of this determination could be seen in the wounded men that were ever near us.

But when the French had finally won, life and light once again filled Paris, and with it the urge and joy of long days of sight-seeing for the Americans. Soldiers “on three days’ leave” wanted to see luxurious Versailles whatever else was omitted. Others preferred Fontainebleau with its stately palace, or St. Denis with its hundreds of royal tombs. All wanted to go to the tombs of Lafayette and Napoleon. One would find the Chapel of the Invalides crowded with soldiers looking down upon the great sarcophagus of the Emperor, while a Y man related the history. Now and then as we listened, we felt that the shade of the great warrior might be protesting all unseen against some of these original expositions of his life.

Aside from the best-known places of interest, one liked to go out to Père la Chaise with a group of men and show them its wonderful beauty, even though a cemetery—show them the graves of great scholars and artists of France, even those of its great lovers like Héloise and Abelard. Often the day would be closed with a restful ride on the Seine, where, somehow, one came into more intimate touch with historical Paris and a keener understanding of it than from any other point. The long dark form of the Louvre; the beautiful Notre Dame with the nearby Hotel de Ville, and the gold-domed Hotel des Invalides are among the dominating views of the famous little Seine, and in them is summed up much of the death and resurrection of a nation. But outside of Paris the footsteps of the world seemed to turn toward Rheims. Rheims with its far-famed cathedral, all war-despoiled, became a place of pilgrimage not only for the devoted French, but for the thousands of foreigners on their soil. Towering above the ruined city, the cathedral, so rich in artistic value and historical associations, stands all shattered and torn. Thirty years to restore, they told us there. Somehow as we looked upon it, standing proudly erect in spite of its ghastly wounds and piles of wreckage heaped high about it, it seemed strongly emblematic of its wonderful people, who even then had begun the herculean task of restoring their villages and towns. Aside from walking through the ruins to reach the cathedral and our ride to the fort and battlefield with its never-ending trenches, we have two distinct memories of our visit to Rheims. First, it was a wonderful way to celebrate the birthday of one of us; and second, a secret service man, posing as a Frenchman, completely won our confidence. Once before in Paris when one of our number had a dinner in honor of the Liberian delegates to the Peace Conference, we found close at our side an American in faultless evening dress. He quite amused us by the way he pretended to be engrossed in his dinner and book, while he really gave himself to listening. A little diplomacy, and his calling was discovered. But at Rheims it was all different. Sprawled on a bench in real French attire with wine bottle in hand, this man spoke perfect French. It was the hottest day we had ever experienced in France, so he opened the conversation with questions about the weather in different sections of the United States, thus locating us. Then came other questions about colored people, their relations and feelings to their country. After a while our little party went to purchase postcards, and when we returned our erstwhile Frenchman had become an unmistakable American. He laughingly revealed his identity. Now, perhaps it was the environment, but, at any rate, we had all stood the test that day of being rather good Americans; even the “buck” private who accompanied us seemed to have forgotten the many grievances of his kind and spoke with, a kind of glow upon his face of his home in Baltimore. Our secret service man was well pleased with our Americanism, but we felt rather chagrined that we had missed so splendid an opportunity to share with him certain truths about colored folk at home that he probably had not learned.

Seeing Rheims, one also wished to see the city so close by and so closely linked to it for all the war. But we had seen Chateau Thierry first. One Saturday afternoon the two writers were started from Verdun with “movement orders” for Paris. But the spirit of adventure was very strong in them. They were in a region that within a year had changed the map of the world and added miraculous pages to history. They were in a sector where their own men, side by side with the French, had fought bravely to victory, so that to see it only from the fast moving train was hardly possible. At Chalons they descended, and so full of their adventure were they that the difficulty of securing suitable lodgings in that city, overcrowded with American officers and soldiers, did not disturb them. Two Frenchmen carrying their baggage, contentedly jogged along with them, now and then offering a suggestion. The old cathedral, one of the finest in France and the old buildings of the city, were well worth the time spent in hunting a place to sleep. Next morning they hurried over to the ruined city of Chateau Thierry with its little Marne that had twice held the world in breathless anxiety. How glad they were to join there two other Y women and a man who were also out for a day of recreation! Already they had found the headquarters’ company of the “813th,” and the colonel of that regiment granted the use of two camions or wagonettes in which they all raced to Belleau Woods, where Messrs. Kindal and Parks, with Miss Thomas and Mrs. Williamson were faithfully serving those companies of the “813th” who were building the cemetery there and of whom we have spoken. There, too, we found Dr. Wilberforce Williams helping the regular staff. Never was a dinner served in the properly appointed way eaten more joyously than the one to which those ten secretaries sat down that Sunday in Belleau Woods. It had been gathered from devious sources by the soldiers of the regiment and brought to the Y hut, so that the courses would not have pleased an epicurean taste. However, there were few fragments left from that meal.

We have told about the soldiers at Chateau Thierry and Fere-en-Tardenois, but we have not told about our race from one place to the other, about thirty miles, with stops here and there to find our way, pick up hats and caps blown away, and to repair the camions.

That night we slept at Epernay and that is still another story. There, too, we found the city crowded by Americans. We thought we would sit in the depot all night, but the sleeping crowd and steamy atmosphere drove us forth into the clean night air. We were just endeavoring to drive a bargain with the owner of a _voiture_ for its use as a sleeping carriage, when a tiny French lady in voluminous black bombazine swept us away to her small apartment with its big feather bed. The next day, having satisfied for the time our desire for sight-seeing, we most demurely handed in “movement orders” at the Paris office.

During the war Epernay, like Bar-le-Duc and Chalons, was always just on the rim of that gulf of fire and smoke that swept Eastern France. For the most part these cities escaped with only an ugly scar here and there. Verdun saved them, for could the Crown Prince but have realized his dream, they, too, would have been as Soissons, Rheims and Chateau Thierry, mere heaps of ruins.

There were other trips over battlefields and through their tunnels that most of those who went to France had the privilege of making. But it was away from the beaten paths of travelers, and especially along the west coast of France, that these Stray Days afforded us the greatest pleasure. At St. Nazaire there were days when we would leave the noise of the camp and wander down long shady roads, by high stone walls that hid from view beautiful cottages and gardens, down steep inclines to the sea, stepping from boulder to boulder till we would be far out. Then we would rest with the breeze full of the salt of the sea blowing about us. Sometimes we would talk of home and loved ones over there in the west, sometimes of our work, but oftener we would be silent. Looking up we might see a khaki-clad form high above that would come down to us at a frightfully rapid pace. There were lovely moonlight nights when we would stand by the sea-wall on the ocean boulevard and watch the transports that so often filled the harbor, resting on the glistening waves. But there were other nights when, clad in storm raiment, we enjoyed equally as well seeing the great waves dash over the wall and across the boulevard in turbulent anger.

Now and then there would be a whole day in which we could leave the camp entirely. Then we could go to one of the many little seaside resorts about us—Pornichet, for instance, with its great stretch of white beach, quaint and quiet inns and tempting sea food. There one would go to sleep with the roar of the waves in the ears and the salt of the sea filling the atmosphere.

Now and then there would be need of supplies for our hut that the local _magasins_ or shops could not supply, and it would afford a chance for a shopping expedition to the quaint and historical old city of Nantes. Once there we would spend most of the day in the crowded but wonderfully attractive shops. Then we would seek for a _voiture_ with a versatile and talkative owner who would show us the points of interest in the old town that had known so much of persecution and despotism. The river Loire, now filled with supplies for the army, was once filled with barges in which hundreds of human souls were drowned. Nantes was one of the important war bases, and was always crowded by Americans.

Another outing took us to Vannes on the Brittany coast, one of the oldest towns of France. In Celtic times it was the capital of Venetis and it takes the honor of giving Venice its name as well as colonizing the Adriatic. Because its inhabitants resisted Cæsar with so much vigor he said of them “they have bodies of iron and hearts of steel.” Looking at the everyday life of those inhabitants of the Brittany coast, one feels that time has brought few changes in conditions and customs. The men driving their cows and sheep on market day, the women and children riding in the carts or walking about the towns, all in the native costume of their class, close the door on the present and, for a time, make one a part of the past. Its old stone gateways and courts, its old squares and old passages and more than all else, its old men and women with their clattering wooden shoes, reveal how little the outer world has penetrated to that ancient spot.

A half day only left for Vannes, and Carnac with its Druid Stones almost thirty kilometres away! How was it to be done? We could not miss seeing such a wonder. There was but one way, and well for us that we did not know then all the army regulations or we would have missed this place now engraven in our memory. But we did not know, so we did the one thing possible, hired an automobile with chauffeur—both French—and sped to Carnac. It is neither beautiful nor ugly, but it is wonderful to see hundreds of gray stones rising skyward out of the heather-covered fields. So regular the rows, so silent the surroundings that one can almost believe the legend that makes them an army turned to stone. There is much of tradition and history in all of this part of Brittany.

Finnistere offered many advantages for outings with the great military port of Brest as the starting point. To be in Brest in winter was to feel the gloom and penetrating chill of England with the addition during the war period of mud everywhere—earth ground into sinking mire such as only vast and constant movements of men and machinery could produce. It was the greatest port of the war, and men were always there by the thousands. We climbed high above the city one winter evening to visit the men at Camp Lincoln. As we spoke to them that night we saw their faces out of the shadows made by the flickering candles. Months later we spoke again, but in a well-lighted auditorium that had been built for the men as the result of the persistent and successful efforts of Secretary Cansler and his associates. Brest itself is full of historic interest, beginning with the sombre Chateau and its dungeons. But all around it are picturesque spots that lure one away from the town in summer days. One Saturday four Y women and twelve soldiers went by automobile north from Brest about twelve miles and reached the remote village of St. Mathieu. They were then at the most westerly point on the Continent, named by the natives “_Loc Mazi pen ar Bed_,” or the cell of St. Mathieu at the end of the earth. But the most important thing there is the ruins of a great monastery constructed in the sixth century. It was bombarded first by the English and again during the French Revolution. On all the Continent we had seen nothing more picturesque than that great roofless monastery with its cloisters and pretty Gothic windows. Covered with moss and ivy, it stood a monument to the monastic order of its day. Nearby was a lighthouse and all about us were mines, for the village held a strategic position at the entrance to the English Channel. Beneath the sea-wall was a submarine passage that had had its uses in other wars as well as in the last one. From there we rode on to Conquet, a typical little fishing village of the north coast. We ate dinner in a big old room jutting far out on the sea, where the mist fell about us like rain.

There were days in Southern France where, in addition to the interesting outings that were ever a part of the regular program, we made other journeys. Some of our number traveled to beautiful Nice on the Mediterranean, others went over those picturesque parts that border Spain and some stood by Lake Geneva and spent a night at lovely Chamonix under the shadow of Mont Blanc, marveling at its stupendous beauty. There were vales and grottoes, lakes and mountains to which we went, but there was always the soldier and one used these Stray Days largely to gather new strength, new vigor for the important task back in the Y hut. One might go many miles away from camp life, but the vision of those thousands of virile lads with soul and body steeled for the hour could not be lost and always sent one back to them with an eager longing to serve better than before.

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Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep
his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.

_Ecclesiastes_ 12:13.

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Afterthought
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We verily believe that the scriptural passage used as an introduction to these thoughts, is the rock upon which the colored people of America must build the superstructure of their civilization for all their future. It offers the only sure solution for their many difficulties, although it must be accompanied by righteous and indignant protest against injustice.

Some were not anxious for the colored soldier to take a part in the great World War. They felt that it would be a needless sacrifice for something that would bring no tangible results by way of alleviating his present condition; others felt that if he offered his life upon the altar for the principles of a new freedom, the remaining shackles that have so long bound him would be wholly broken.

Neither were correct; for while the shackles have not been wholly removed from his body there have been wonderful results accomplished that have in some measure removed the fetters from his soul.

Approximately 150,000 soldiers, officers and men went to France to represent the colored race in America. Many of them were brigaded with the French, while other thousands had a contact and association with this people which resulted in bringing for the entire number a broader view of life; they caught the vision of a freedom that gave them new hope and a new inspiration.

Some of them received the rudiments of an education through direct instruction; a thing that would not have come to them in all the years of a lifetime at home, while many hundreds had the opportunity of traveling through the flowering fields of a country long famed for its love of the beautiful, and seeing its wonderful monuments, cathedrals, art galleries, palaces, chateaux, etc., that represent the highest attainment in the world of architecture and art. They looked upon the relics left by a people long gone, and saw the picturesqueness of a great and wonderful country, as they took their way from the port cities to the front line trenches, or to the towering Alps, or through the farms and villages of a quaint and thrifty people. And while they traveled they learned that there is a fair-skinned people in the world who believe in the equality of races, and who practice what they believe.

In addition to this they had an opportunity of making a record for themselves that will be in no wise hidden from the generations of the future; a proud record of which the Frenchman took note, and for which he will be given due credit in the true history of the Great World War.

They also had an opportunity to give the truth a hearing before the Court of Justice of the civilized world; the truth with regard to their conduct, their mental capacity, their God-given talents, and their ability for the leadership of men and the accomplishment of results that were a credit to themselves and to the nation which they represented.

All of these things were quite enough to offset whatever came to them of hardship and sacrifice, of war and suffering, of mean prejudice and subtle propaganda, of misrepresentation and glaring injustice.

They have a right to have a wonderful hope for the future. Nothing but the Hand of Providence could have guided them into a great world maelstrom and brought them out with such wonderful and satisfying results. Their future endeavor should be to a greater extent than ever before along the line of demonstrating to the world their ability to follow that Providence more closely and with a greater faith; to become to the world a living example that the principles of Christianity can be applied with greater and increasing success to everyday life; and to blaze a pathway for themselves whose brightness and beauty will make a plea so eloquent that the ancient doctrine of the Brotherhood of Man will finally become the chief cornerstone of our Democracy.

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NOTES AND EXPLANATIONS

[1] A riot between colored troops and the citizens of Houston resulted in 13 colored soldiers being condemned to death. As a consequence the Des Moines Officers’ Training School had its term lengthened by one month, making the necessary time for obtaining a commission, four months instead of three; believing they were to be denied commissions altogether, many of the candidates went home.

[2] See _Crisis_ magazine, 70 Fifth Avenue, New York City, Page 19, issue of May, 1919.

[3] From official record taken by soldier who was in Brest at the time.

[4] See _Crisis_, May, 1919, Pages 16 and 17.

[5] A term of contempt used in referring to the French people.

[6] From report of supervisor of instruction for colored soldiers in France.

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ABBREVIATIONS.

S. O. S. Service of Supplies. Referred to men engaged in getting supplies of food and ammunition to the troops.

A. P. O. Army Post Office. The post offices were known by numbers so that names of towns giving location of troops would not be placed on paper.

A. E. F. American Expeditionary Force or Forces. Both terms were used, and referred to troops, welfare workers, etc., serving overseas.

G. O. General Orders. Orders issued from general army headquarters.

Det. Detached.