The Last Hellfighter

by Flowers, Thomas S.

"Yes?" Renfield asked, taking a sip of coffee and then a toke from the pipe.

  "When did you start using a pipe?"

  Renfield regarded the corncob pipe as if it were nothing more than an extension of himself. "What, this old thing? One does pick up new habits, I suppose."

  "You suppose, huh?" Ben smirked, taking a sip from his mug. The coffee wasn't the best he'd ever had. It was darker but not necessarily rich, more like grit, the stuff Sergeant Barnes would say made men out of boys and grew hair on your chest.

  "You want to try some?" Renfield offered the pipe.

  Ben gazed at it for a moment, shrugged, and took the tobacco pipe. He puffed carefully, not even inhaling on the first toke. Then he dragged long and deep and came out the other side coughing. Nearly dropping his mug, he handed the pipe back to his friend.

  Renfield snickered, taking the pipe back in his mouth and puffing white plumes. "Takes some getting used to, but once you do, the tobacco has a sweet flavor that tickles the—"

  "Excuse me, is your name Harker?" interrupted a crisp bass voice.

  Ben noticed the sewn bars first and came to attention, standing with his mug in his hand as rigidly straight as possible. Taking his cue, Renfield followed suit, holding his pipe in one hand and his mug in the other.

  "At ease, at ease," the officer said.

  Both Ben and Renfield relaxed.

  "You're Harker, right? In Captain Fish's outfit?" the officer asked.

  Ben looked at him finally and noticed who it was. "James Reese Europe..." he whispered, his mouth agape.

  The slim soldier standing next to James Reese Europe chuckled into his hand.

  "Oh, sorry, sir. I meant...you're...Lieutenant Europe. Yes, sir...I'm...I'm part of Captain Fish's machine gun company." Ben resisted the urge to stand at attention again, stuttering every other word. In all his dreams, he never thought he'd actually get a chance to speak with the Maestro of the Clef Club. He'd heard his music for years and became bewitched by not only the swing and flow but also the professional cadence that seemed imbedded in James's ragtime jazz.

  "Okay, okay, take it easy. Most call me Jim, but I suppose that wouldn't be very Army-like, would it?" Lieutenant Europe said, matter-of-factly.

  To Ben's great relief, James Reese Europe was smiling. Beaming, in fact. As was the man next to him, Sissle Noble, a sergeant in the army and Europe's drum major. "Jim?" he said, nearly whispering again.

  Jim nodded. "That's right. Might as well get acquainted with each other, ain't nothing bonds folks like spending time in a foxhole."

  Ben was frowning, seemingly unable to understand what he was talking about.

  "I've finally convinced Colonel Hayward to put me in with a regular unit and he assigned me to take over Captain Fish's machine gun company," Jim said, noticing Ben's confusion.

  "Sir...?" Ben started.

  "Yes?"

  "You're not playing in the band no more?"

  "Oh, I'm still playing. Colonel Hayward wouldn't allow me to stop. But playing ragtime wasn't why I signed up, I could do that at home. Don't get me wrong, we've put together one of the best damn Army Bands there ever was. And I'm sure there'll be plenty more shows to come. Still, I joined to serve, and the best way to do that is on the front line." Jim cleaned his glasses as he spoke, ignoring the smirk from Sissle standing beside him. Ben had heard a rumor that Sissle never wanted to join the army, he only did after James convinced him to.

  "So...you in charge of the machine gun company now?" Renfield butted in.

  "That's right." Jim put his glasses back on, still smiling.

  "Our company...?" Ben was whispering again.

  "Don't be so goopy," Renfield nudged him.

  Jim laughed, not critical, but jovial.

  "Have you boys been in town much?" Sissle chimed in.

  Both Ben and Renfield shook their head.

  "We've tried to keep our distance from the good folks of Spartanburg," Renfield said, somewhat mockingly.

  Sissle nodded, "Don't blame you there, but the Lieutenant here has been itching for some news from back home. We were thinking about heading into town for some papers. You're welcomed to join us. And fact we'd prefer you do, traveling in groups is the safest—"

  "We'd love to," Ben nearly shouted. He could feel his face getting warm, and the curious smiles from both Sissle and Renfield.

  Jim clapped Ben on his shoulder. "Good, we got the keys to another officer's Prince Henry. Not sure where he got it. And it don't look too safe if you ask Siss here, but she'll get us to town and back."

  Sissle gave Jim another one of his looks, a cross between disapproval and amusement.

  "Lead the way," Renfield said and then quickly added, "sir."

  * * *

  Jim's friend's Prince Henry was a Vauxhall that'd been converted into a topless sportster. They pushed at a top speed of 80-MPH, causing both Sissle and Ben to grab a hold of the Vauxhall's slim interior seats. Renfield didn't seem bothered by the insane speed. Brown dust and dirt blew around them as they bounded north west on Highway 56, heading into town. Turning on Church Street, Jim finally put on the brakes and slowed the car.

  Ben relaxed his grip a little and allowed himself to look around. Downtown Spartanburg looked about the same as the outskirt training camps. Humid and smelling of pine and some sort of flower that bloomed this time of year. The roads went from dirt to gravel to paved, more or less in the shopping areas, the women's dress boutiques and barber shop and taverns. There were a good number of locals out and about, walking to and fro, the men dressed in brown slacks mostly, and the women in tall-necked dresses that didn't look the least bit comfortable, especially not in this heat.

  Jim slowed and came to a stop on West Main Street in front of a tall, elegant house with five large white Romanesque columns with a peach sort of color painted on the wood beams and a wraparound porch with chairs and a swing, and above that a second-floor deck that wrapped around most of the building. People came and went from the property comfortably holding hands. Out-of-towners, it looked, mostly; a few residents perhaps, come for a beer or a meal. To Ben and everyone else in the Vauxhall, it looked every bit like a normal family hotel.

  "According to the cook back at camp, this is John Bomar Cleveland's place. He runs it like a bed and breakfast, serving dinner in the evenings," Jim was saying, narrowing his eyes as he gazed up across the street at the building.

  "Is it a white hotel?" Renfield asked.

  "Yes, but I'm told they sell papers to anyone, and I'll tell you what, I'd take any paper with the with word 'New York' on it. I never knew how sweet New York was 'til I landed here," Jim said, smiling again. "Siss, why don't you and Private Harker run in and see if that old cook was telling tales or not."

  Sissle gave Jim a disconcerting look, frowning as if he wanted to say something, maybe that they ought to find papers at some other place, but quickly looked over at Ben and Renfield in the car and pulled on his wool side cap.

  "Yes, sir," he said smirking. He gestured to Ben and said, "Come on, Private, let's get the lieutenant his papers."

  Ben nodded and hopped over the side of the Vauxhall. Straightening his olive-brown uniform, he tucked on his own wool side cap. The fellas in camp had another name with the cap, a cunt cap, to be crude, given the particular shape of the hat.

  They crossed the street. Sissle in front. A white couple came walking out, eyes shifting obviously away from the Negros coming towards them. They seemed to Ben to be walking a little bit quicker.

  When they passed and were heading up the street on the sidewalk, Sissle turned and whispered, "Not very promising, huh?" And then without waiting for Ben's response turned and started back up the steps of the Cleveland Hotel. The front door had the same peach color of the side panels and wood floor only creaked a little. It was a fine hotel, finer than the Keller where Ben had worked before. Not as large as the Keller, certainly, he seriously doubted this establishment had any elevators, but still, there was a kind of charm about
the place. Homely, modest, yet decadent in its own way.

  Sissle went inside and Ben followed him in.

  They came into a wide foyer with a tall, dark oak coat rack where some had hung their hats and a large hand quilted rug with diamond patterns. To their right a larger room opened up with several circular tables. Some of these had folks sitting by them, drinking steaming mugs of coffee and some with plates of what looked like eggs and bacon. To their front across the way was what could only assume to be the front clerk desk.

  Sissle walked to the front desk.

  "How can I help you, gentlemen?" asked a middle-aged round white man with rosy cheeks and a large bushy mustache. He seemed jovial enough with a wide smile and a clean suit.

  "Do you have any New York papers?" Sissle asked, keeping his voice low. Ben had the impression the drum major wanted to be in and out as quickly and discreetly as possible.

  The man nodded, "We do, in fact. We've got the New York Tribune, the New York Times, the Post, and one called the...uh...let's see...oh yes, the Herald."

  "We'll take them all," Sissle said.

  "They're a week behind."

  "Fine."

  "Good. That'll be...huh...twenty-cents."

  Sissle paid, and the clerk wrapped the papers with a thick string and handed them across the desk. Someone was arguing over in the dining area.

  "Thank you, sir," Sissle said, nodding slightly and turned to leave. He stopped and stared into the red face of another white man, similar appearance as the clerk but clean shaven.

  "Hey, nigger," the man barked in a gruff voice, "don't you know enough to take your hat off!"

  Sissle started to take his hat off and stopped. He glanced around at the other patrons, many of which were wearing hats.

  Did we forget some Army etiquette? Ben wondered, standing about a foot behind Sissle.

  "You deaf, nigger?" the white red-faced man barked again. He swung his hand and knocked Sissle's side cap off his head.

  Sissle stumbled back, staring at this man with wide unbelieving eyes. "Do you realize you are abusing a United States soldier and that," he gestured to the ground where his cap lay, "is a government hat you knocked off?"

  The white man seemed ready to pop, at least to Ben, frozen in disbelief at what he was seeing. He'd heard the threats and the reports of stabbings, small skirmishing from those Alabama boys and even a few of the local honkies. But nothing like this, nothing so...brutally in his face, or Sissle's to be exact.

  Sissle reached down to pick up his hat.

  The man snarled, "Damn you and damn the government, no nigger's coming into my place wearing a hat, you got me." With Sissle still reaching down for his hat, the white man kicked him hard.

  Tittering, Sissle fell and started back to his feet.

  The man kicked him again, still snarling that same venom.

  A crowd from the dining area had started to grow. The desk clerk watched with a look of embarrassment at the scene, yet did nothing to stop the hotel's owner except for a distant kinda sigh, "I think he's had enough, huh, John?"

  Sissle again started to get up.

  And again, the white man kicked him. "No nigger's coming into my place wearing no damn hat telling me what to do," he jabbed a finger at the clerk, "and you ought to know better."

  The clerk shook his head, sounding bored, "It was just papers, John."

  Sissle was trying to get to his feet again, and John looked ready to kick him.

  "Enough!" Ben shouted.

  John slowly looked around, his furious gaze settling on Ben, as if he couldn't quite believe what he heard. "What did you say, boy?"

  Ben swallowed hard, fixed a steely gaze, and stepped forward. "I think you heard me," he gestured to Sissle on the floor, "that's a sergeant of the 15th New York Infantry, an NCO in the United States Army. We're here training to go over there, to France and fight in the war so that the Boche don't spread over here, to keep democracy safe, and God willing, to end all wars. And what are you doing? Pissing and making a show over a damn hat."

  A silence hung over the foyer for a moment.

  Everyone seemed to be staring at Ben.

  Among the crowd of white onlookers, more than a few uncomfortable looks of guilt. Some took a few steps back into the diner, no doubt wanting nothing more than for this whole scene to be over with.

  John shook his head slowly and took a step toward Ben. "You got some nerve, you damn nigg—"

  "What the hell is going on in here?"

  All turned toward the door.

  James Reese Europe stood in the entryway, as always, an impressive six-foot-four, with dark, daring eyes and a fixed strong jaw. He seemed to be taking everything in, slowly surveying the scene. John didn't look as if he knew what to do, he stood there staring at James like everyone else.

  "You alright, Sergeant Sissle?" Europe asked, his gaze locking on John.

  Sissle got to his feet, dusting off his breeches. He bent back down and retrieved his hat and James's papers. "Just fine, Lieutenant."

  Ben unclenched his fists, relaxing a little, mesmerized by the command James Reese Europe had over these men. Even John seemed too timid to put up much of a fight against that cold hard glare.

  Europe walked quickly and stood toe to toe with John, his gaze fixed and unblinking. "You mind explaining to me exactly what happened here?" His tone was flat, calm, yet also strong and filled with all majestry of authority.

  John stammered, "This...he..."

  Lieutenant Europe seemed to grow larger, filling the room. "He what?"

  "He didn't take off his hat, no nigger's...you can't wear hats in my place," John moaned, his voice breaking every other word.

  "Did he commit any offense?" the Lieutenant asked.

  "No! I told you, he—"

  "Did. He. Commit. Any. Offense?" the Lieutenant asked again, raising his voice to a near thunderous quake. His eyes wide and dark yet strangely glowing with a kind of inner inferno.

  John licked his lips, silent for a moment. "No," he said finally, weakly.

  Europe smiled, "Good." And with that he gestured for both Ben and Sissle. Following his soldiers, he turned and walked out quietly.

  Outside, across the street, Renfield stood by the Vauxhall. "What's going on?" he shouted as they came down the walkway.

  Without a word, Europe and the rest climbed in.

  He fired up the engine, revving it long and loud.

  "Come on, guys, what happened in there?" Renfield prodded again, looking curiously between the group and the hotel.

  "Just a bunch of dumb honkies," Europe sniffed, shifting into gear. Kicking his foot down, he squealed the tires as they took off at a jolt. Glancing at Sissle, he said, "And don't tell me you told me so, I don't want to hear it."

  Sissle nodded silently and for the rest of the way back to Camp Wadsworth not so much as a word was whispered between them. Later, as they pulled the Vauxhall in front of the officer's barracks, Ben and Renfield started back for the tents. Renfield was nudging him, wanting to know what happened back at the hotel.

  Ben shook his head.

  "Come on, Ben. Tell me," Renfield pressed.

  Ben kept his eyes on the ground. It wasn't that what happened was some big secret. Renfield would find out eventually. It wasn't that. It was that he himself couldn't believe it had happened. To him, well...to Sissle, but he would have been next.

  Would have...if not for—

  "Hey, Harker!" Europe was calling by the front of the officer's barracks, the one of two buildings along the front of camp. Everything else was pines and tents and open fields scarred with boot marks from the countless hours of drill.

  "Hold up," Ben said to Renfield and then jogged over to Europe. "Sir?" he asked.

  Europe was looking over at Renfield without really looking at him, and then he gazed down at Ben. "Listen...I just wanted to say, thanks. Siss told me that you stepped in to help."

  Ben shrugged, his cheeks hot. He looked away. "Should have steppe
d in sooner."

  Europe grabbed his shoulder, not forcefully, but strong and kind. "Nonsense, trust me, it takes real guts to do what you did, to stand in the face of that kind of hate. That man back there, he's got a sickness that nobody can cure but him...and that's a shame, but that don't mean we should let'em walk over us, you understand?"

  Ben nodded, "Yes, sir."

  Europe waved him off, "Ah, cut the sir crap. We're about to share a trench together."

  "We got orders?" Ben frowned.

  "Not yet, but we will, trust me on that. It'd be a lot easier just to go ahead and send us off to war than to deal with us here." Europe started chuckling, deep and hearty, like the way people do when they've got stress seeping from their pores.

  Ben smiled, but truth be told he didn't know if he should to laugh or cry.

  Chapter 11

  A few months later, Lieutenant Europe's premonition came true. Word had circulated around about the incident at the Cleveland Hotel and talk spread among the Rattlers concerning retaliation. However, in Washington, Colonel Hayward was finally able to convince the War Department to send the 15th New York Infantry to France. Rumor in camp was that it was safer (just as Europe had predicted) and much easier to deal with the Harlem regiment by sending them off to war. And so, on December 11, following a couple failed embarkments, the men of the 15th New York Infantry boarded a steamship christened with the name Pocahontas. And as fate would have it, on that same day those Harlem boys set sail for war in France, down in Houston, Texas, thirteen black soldiers from the 5th Infantry were hanged for munity. None of the Rattlers would hear the news until months later.

  Across the Atlantic the Pocahontas sailed, bobbing along the dark waves, and causing more than a few cases of seasickness. Hours upon the ship were strictly regulated. Everything to be done needed to be done before dusk. For fear of the Boche U-boats, no lights were permitted. Not even for a cigarette or pipe. All that was allowed was a line of pale blue lights on the interior of the ship to help the men aboard find their way. At night, humorous light-hearted talk vanished, and the men took to looking somber and mysterious.