The Last Hellfighter

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  High above the stage, a banner rustled. Scrolled across: 15th New York Infantry, join today and support the Cause.

  "They did it...the Man's army let them in..." Ben whispered to himself.

  "Still thinking we ought to go fight?" Renfield asked, still grinning from ear to ear. "Europe wouldn't join just to play ragtime, he's out to prove we can do just as much, if not more, than any white man."

  Just then, the waitress returned with their champagne. "Here you boys go. If you need anything else, just wave your hand. Everything is on the house, courtesy of Mr. Europe and Colonel Hayward."

  "Colonel Hayward?" Ben asked automatically, his gaze fixed to James Reese Europe as he conducted his band.

  She glanced at the stage. "He's the commander of the regiment."

  "Miss, I do believe I'm missing something." Renfield looked at her woefully.

  "And that is?" she asked, her patience obviously thinning.

  "Your name, honey." He winked at her.

  Ben hardly paid attention to the two. He was still mulling over the reality of black soldiers being allowed to fight on the front lines. In his mind, it changed everything. The possibilities were boundless. First an allowance into the army as a participating force, the next, who knows, perhaps the end of segregation. Perhaps elected members of Congress...and then...dare he dream, the Presidency.

  The waitress started off.

  "Just your name!" Renfield called after her.

  She turned partly, surprisingly smiling. "Mina," she said. "Mina Chandler."

  Renfield held his chest as if his heart would burst if he didn't. "Miss Chandler," he sang dreamily.

  And she was gone.

  "I think I'm in love," Renfield said.

  "I think I want to join the Army," said Ben.

  Chapter 8

  "Left, right, left right, left, right, left, keep in step, keep in step, keep in step, right, left," shouted Sergeant Barnes, a real mean cuss if Ben had ever met one, with skin darker than coal. He was one of the older troops in the newly minted 15th New York Regiment, a transfer from 24th Maine Infantry, a Buffalo Soldier and veteran of the Spanish-American War. In many ways, Barnes reminded Ben of his father, except instead of a religious zeal for the docks, all that seemed to matter in the world to the sergeant was to be a soldier. And anyone who thought otherwise was simply ignorant.

  "Private Harker, keep that rifle steady on your shoulders!" barked Sergeant Barnes. He kept close on the left side of the formation of new enlistees.

  "It's a broom, sergeant." Ben tried his best not to look at the pedestrians and onlookers that began gathering as they marched down 5th Avenue holding brooms pressed against their shoulders as if they were real rifles. The only comfort from the embarrassment he felt was the sound of the 15th New York Regiment Band, James Reese Europe's band, playing somewhere in front of the rest of the formation.

  "Private, you ain't never gonna hold no rifle with an attitude like that. Keep in step now, and keep it tight. Let's make an impression, troops." Sergeant Barnes quick-timed ahead where Ben could no longer see him. But he could hear him clear as day. "Left, right, left, right, keep on up, keep on up, keep on up, right, left."

  Ben pressed the broom tighter against his shoulder. It was humiliating. Not even issued rifles as if the 15th New York weren't real soldiers. But they were, he believed. And eventually, they'd be issued weapons and all sorts of gear and shipped on out to France. They had a right to no more than any other American, to serve and fight for peace and democracy and perhaps bring a little of that back home. Emancipation had been fifty-four years in the making, high time they be allowed to show how invaluable contributors for the democratic way of life and progression (as President Wilson dreamed) of becoming a leader in the larger world. Benjamin had tried explaining all of this to his father, of course. And his old man would hear none of it. Wouldn't sign no papers either, letting his boy join. They'd gotten into a scuffle and there'd been some bruises, both seen and unseen.

  Eventually the discussion came to a draw, according to Ben's way of thinking. His brother James had stayed out of it entirely. Not that Ben was much surprised. James was every bit a parrot of their father, never offering anything close to resembling an original thought. He worried about him, his big brother, nearly as much as he resented him. When pa would be gone (God forbid such a thought), he wondered what would become of James? Could he even function on his own?

  At the age of seventeen, Ben couldn't join the Army. So, instead he went to the Cigar Shop on 5th Avenue in Harlem with Renfield the very next day after his father denied his request and lied about his age.

  "Age?" the recruiter had asked, not giving too much attention to the boy standing in front of him due to the crowdedness of the shop as more and more men from Harlem came out to enlist, thanks largely in part to the efforts and popularization of James Reese Europe and Sissle Noble.

  "Twenty, sir," Ben had lied, trying to keep himself from stuttering, something he did from time to time when he was telling a fib. He bit his lip and kept his hands behind his back.

  "Okay, welcome to the 15th New York Infantry, son," the recruiter had said as he stamped Ben's enlistment form.

  And now two weeks later, as he marched with his regiment, with his platoon, his squad, his team, Benjamin Harker prayed no one recognized him. Not so much for the embarrassment of parading down 5th Avenue in front of all these people with a broom in place of a rifle, but that someone who knew him might go and tell his father, or even something as innocent as gossip, a slip of the tongue, so to speak. He knew his father and brother were not out there among the growing crowds of onlookers. They'd be at the docks unloading cargo from some vessel or another. But someone they know might.

  Eventually the regiment made it to the end of the road and stood at attention in front of Mayor John Purroy Mitchel's office. Ben could hardly make out what was going on up front. He resisted the urge to stand on his tippy-toes. He saw glimpses of Colonel Hayward and some other important looking white men, some with top hats and others with pencil thin mustaches and clean suits and slick and parted hair. And then he saw the colors, the regimental flag flapping in the gentle mild spring breeze. Among the red and white, a large rattlesnake had been sown into the fabric.

  Ben caught sight of it and stretched his back a little more. He raised his chin. And puffed out his chest. For the moment, he didn't think about holding that broom in place of a rifle.

  And then there was some saluting up in front.

  Suddenly the regimental band started playing again, similar to what they had marched to, an odd mixture of traditional military brass and ragtime. Ben listened, unable to keep his foot from tapping the ground. The sound was an odd mixture indeed, oddly perfect for this Harlem Infantry unit.

  Chapter 9

  On April 6th, 1917, across Harlem the news was read by millions in bold faced print in the New York Post. America had entered the Great War. Some blamed the Zimmerman telegram, the supposed message intercepted by the British and decoded, a message from Germany seeking a possible alliance with Mexico. Others claimed it was Germans' decision to resume the policy of unrestricted submarine warfare that finally woke America up. Some believed entering the war was inevitable; America had already been sending supplies to England and France since 1915. It was only a matter of time before Lady Liberty decided to get her hands bloody. And as General Pershing amassed his Army and began sending troops to France, for Benjamin Harker and Renfield and the rest of the young untested recruits, still no word was heard of what may come of the 15th New York Infantry.

  Colonel Hayward wouldn't have it.

  Rumor among the troops was that he had sent letter upon letter requesting that the War Department find a place for his 15th, perhaps in the rumored to be formed 42nd Rainbow Division, but no generals wanted them. Segregation policies kept them from entering Pershing's fighting force directly. And while the Harlem Rattlesnakes trained in backyards up and down Brooklyn during the summer, much farthe
r south in Houston, Texas, race troubles were brewing. Those Texans never quite got used to the idea of armed Negros camped near them. Following an incident involving lynchings and police brutality against some of the black soldiers from the 5th Infantry some of those very same soldiers answered by springing the armory of ammunition and weapons, and marched into Houston on a dark drizzly night, rifles at the ready, bayonets fixed, and opened fire, killing some seventeen whites. Looking to settle the score, a mob of white men gathered in front of the sheriff's office and armed themselves. The two forces met in a bloody and vicious confrontation that eventually led to thirteen soldiers being court martialled and hanged.

  During that same summer of blood, the War Department finally answered Colonel Hayward's demands and sent the 15th New York Infantry south to Camp Wadsworth, a large training camp just outside of Spartanburg, South Carolina, hot and humid and surrounded by tall pines. Among the units being sent for training to Camp Wadsworth included the 167th Regiment from Alabama, a regiment that could trace its roots all the way to Bull Run alongside the likes of famed (by some) Confederate General Stonewall Jackson. And to make matters worse, those Alabamians were armed while the Harlem troops, now finally outfitted with rifles, were given no ammunition. To say race tensions were high would be an understatement.

  Ben Harker, among the other Rattlesnakes, had hoped that Camp Wadsworth would provide some fine-tuning in their training and that afterwards they'd be sent off to France. What they found was a training of another sort, a harsh lesson in racism, something Ben thought he knew a little bit about. But as it seemed, being isolated in Harlem had kept him from experiencing how other African-Americans were being treated in the south.

  "I ain't never seen so many angry-faced honkies in all my life," chirped Renfield, quietly whispering in Ben's ear.

  Ben shook his head, somewhat bemazed, staring at a progression of the Alabama troops marched in single-file lines towards to the large open field to do drills. He tried not making eye contact but he couldn't help gawking at them as they passed. Most were unshaven. And a good number were in desperate need of a bath and a haircut and a wash of clothes. Most wore uniforms, but those were mostly tattered and stained. It was as if they took no pride in what they were doing. As if they rolled out of bed and were forced to take part in the war. And here they were, the 15th New York Regiment, itching to prove themselves.

  The last soldier in the line hocked and spat on the ground, growling low at Ben and Renfield watching them from in front of their tent.

  Ben frowned but looked away.

  Renfield smiled and waved.

  "You gonna cause trouble," Ben whispered hotly to his friend.

  Renfield waved him off. "They can't do nothing. We're all on the same side anyhow, right?"

  Ben shrugged. "Supposedly."

  "You bunch of dumb privates," came a low deep voice.

  Ben and Renfield jumped up, standing at attention.

  Sergeant Barnes stomped and turned in front of them, glaring first at Ben and then Renfield. His gaze narrowed, hard and cold as ice. His olive uniform looked just as immaculate as the day they marched down 5th Avenue. He stood there staring at them for a moment and then said, "At ease."

  Both Ben and Renfield relaxed slightly, moving their hands behind their back.

  "So, you think we're on the same side, huh?" Barnes was asking Renfield.

  Renfield looked at him somewhat confused. "Yes, sergeant."

  Barnes smiled, but not kind or warm, more like a serpent who caught sight of a rabbit. "Really? Hmm. Let me take a guess, you lived in Harlem all your life?"

  "Mostly, sergeant. I lived in Brooklyn for several years with my—" Renfield started.

  "But you ain't never been nowhere south of New York, right?" Barnes interrupted.

  Renfield shook his head. "No, sergeant."

  "And you?" Barnes asked Ben.

  "No, sergeant," Ben reported.

  Barnes turned and gazed out at the open field as the Alabama troops were still drilling squad manoeuvres. "Let me educate you fools," he said, turning back around, staring at them with those cold dark serpent eyes. "These crackers here don't have much of a liking for northern Negros. Never have. I suppose it's because they think southern blacks and themselves have a mutual understanding. But what they really mean is that they got southern Negros fearing stepping out of place. The south is not somewhere you want to go on vacation, you can trust me on that." He smiled wide, revealing some missing teeth and dark gums. "They don't like us northerners because we don't fear them and we don't put up with their shit. As I hear it, their Colonel has been kicking up a storm trying to get us moved into a segregated camp. Unfortunate for them, the Brass listens to them white trash just about as well as they listen to us." He took a step closer toward them, letting his voice drop. "We don't take none of their shit, but that don't mean we go looking at starting trouble either by being some yank smartass, you understand?" His eyes glared at Renfield.

  "Yes, sergeant," Renfield and Ben said together.

  Barnes seemed satisfied. He stepped back. "Good. Be that as it may, we're stuck here with these white trash crackers. Colonel Hayward is still working hard on trying to get us sent to France, and as I said before you don't need to go making his job harder by being stupid and causing trouble." He turned again and looked out on the field. "But if those honkies make the first move, well..."

  "Sergeant?" Ben spoke up.

  "What, private?" Barnes turned back around.

  "Do you think they'll send us to France?"

  "You itching to get to war, Private Harker?"

  "Kinda, Sergeant."

  "You itching to do some fighting, some killing?"

  Ben shook his head. "Not killing so much, I just..."

  "Well, spit it out Private."

  "I want to...see what's out there."

  Barnes regarded him for a moment, silent and calculating. Finally, he shook his head and started off, calling from over his shoulder, "Ain't nothing out there but blood and guts and you'll soon see plenty of both."

  Chapter 10

  Colonel Hayward stood before his men, his pale eyes searching the crowd of olive uniformed soldiers. Faces of stone and discipline. He walked the platform, taking them all in. The 15th New York Regimental Band were positioned behind him. Europe was standing at ease, waiting for the signal to lead the progression in some savory military tune. He paced and measured his words. So much was on the line, duty, honor, glory. It could all be had, if only he could convince the War Department to send his boys to France. He would have to prove their merit, their natural athleticism, their pride just as any other man. All that stood in the way was their pride.

  "Now comes our greatest test," he said, bellowing as loud as he could. "to show our moral worth as citizens by refusing to meet the white citizens of Spartanburg upon the undignified plane of prejudice and brutality which had been so unfortunately advertised by the mayor of this town. If violence occurs, if blows are struck, that all the violence and all the blows are on one side, and that side cannot be our side. If wrong by disorder is to occur, make sure and doubly sure that none of that wrong is on our side."

  He stopped, remembering again all the reported attacks, the fights, the stabbings and retaliations and the troubles brewing, not just south in Houston, Texas, but also here in South Carolina, and throughout the nation it seemed.

  "I am depending on you," Hayward started again, "to act like the good soldiers you have always been and break the ice in this country for your entire race. We are on the verge of winning the regiment's greatest victory. Tonight, I leave for Washington to hear of our fate. We cannot afford a single misstep in this critical hour."

  He stopped again and stood, one hand cupped behind his back, the other raised. "Now, I ask each of you to make a pledge. Not just to me but to each other, to our regiment. Raise your right hand and repeat after me, 'I will refrain from violence of any kind under every condition.'"

  A sea of hands s
hot up among the rolling wave of olive-brown. In unison the Rattlesnakes recited Colonel Hayward's pledge, and with a courteous nod, the formation was dismissed. At once the band struck up a fine military ragtime tune, but none seemed eager or of want of enjoying the melody.

  "Easy for him to say, he's not the one taking the licks." Renfield spoke quietly as they started off back towards inner camp. If they were lucky, the mess tent would still have some coffee leftover from the morning's chow.

  Ben walked with him, listening and watching the other soldiers talking amongst themselves. Even the Puerto Ricans who came back with James Reese Europe and joined up with the New York Infantry looked disheartened.

  "Doesn't it feel unfair to you?" Renfield prodded him now.

  Ben shrugged. "Sure, but I can imagine Colonel Hayward and Captain Fish and all the officers have pressure of their own to contend with. They know that no matter what wrong is done to us the higher brass will only see what we did in it. It'll prove that blowhard Spartanburg Mayor right. Best take what licks come our way now, so long as we keep our eye on the bigger prize. If we can get to France and prove ourselves, well...like the Colonel said, we'd break the ice for our race."

  Renfield waved him off, obviously unsatisfied with Ben's opinion on the subject. They came inside the wide-mouthed tent and found a black pot kettle sitting on the wood stove. His frown disappeared as he nudged Ben in the ribs. "I think we're in luck."

  The two poured themselves two steaming mugs and found a couple of worn wood chairs. As they sipped in silence, watching the natural ebb and flow of the camp, Renfield pulled out a corncob pipe and stuffed it with a pinch of black-leafed tobacco. Fishing in his uniform pocket, he pulled out a match and struck it, taking several deep puffs and exhaling white smoke.

  Ben looked at him quizzically.