Not wanting to think of his father and brother or his fears of never seeing Jim again, Ben opened his journal and began sketching, using the edge of the pencil to make dark shadows as he glanced at his friend writing to Mina, the woman of his dreams or so he claimed at least. To be honest, he had never really paid that much attention. That night in the Clef Club, his complete focus had been on the army colors Jim and his band were wearing. And dreams of leaving behind Harlem for something new, something different.
And see something different he had.
More was in store.
Hours later, the boxcar train came to halt on screeching metal.
The doors came open and the men filed out into a damp grassy field.
There were other soldiers, white ones, but not American, watching them curiously. Among them stood a broad shouldered and bearded man with a narrow chin. His uniform was crisp and elegantly decorated in medals, yet oddly one of his sleeves hung loose.
"That must be the Lion," Johnson whispered to Ben.
"The lion?" Renfield asked.
"That's what I heard his nickname was, The Lion of France, General Henri Gouraud, said to have lost his arm during some colonial war in Africa."
The men of the 15th formed lines and quickly filed through a makeshift barrack building that had seen the worse of three years of war. Ben thought it might had been a tailor shop at some point, now the French used it as a supply house.
Sergeant Barnes made his rounds up and down the single file line like a dark prowling shadow. Barking as he went. "Quickly. Quickly. Turn in your Springfield rifles. You will be given a French Lebel in its place."
Renfield nudged Ben, "Why are we turning in our gear for?"
Ben shrugged.
Henry smirked as he handed over his unused Springfield. "Guess we ain't really American troops no more. We're French."
"But these French rifles only had three round cartridges," Renfield groaned.
Barnes began howling at some soldier Ben had only met once and couldn't remember his name. "No, Private. You cannot keep your helmet. Turn in yours and take one of French ones. Yes, the dull blue ones. What? Private, I do not care if someone's name is written on the inside. It ain't his no more, it's yours. Now go, you're holding up the war."
Renfield shot a look at Ben and Henry. "Name in the helmet. That's good luck, right?" He smiled weakly.
As the Rattlers finished exchanging gear, they formed up in the field outside. The booms of the large guns on the front echoed faintly. Ben licked his lips as he stood in the short regiment flag ceremony between Colonel Hayward and General Gouraud, each perched up on horses looking very dapper and precise, a strange combination knowing what was happening no more than a few miles away from their position. And then they were off again, marching out down a dirt road made not for cars but for wagons and horse-driven carts with blooms of early spring yellow flowers on each side. A strange site, Ben had thought, to see such beauty as they marched toward the scared lands of the western front. Ahead of them was a once upon a time farming village called Auve. And perhaps one day it would return to what it once was, but until then a base hospital had been set up here in place of a barn and as the men came into the area, they made camp, erecting tents in neat orderly rows, or as best they could, avoiding the large craters filled with brown muddy water. The cannon shells were louder here, and a faint odor of sulfur drifted in the breeze when it blew south.
Ben and Renfield had just finished putting up their olive tent went Henry came rushing past them, his eyes wide with a sort of strange excitement. His French rifle slung over his shoulder and his bolo knife dancing from his belt.
"Johnson, what's going on?" Renfield called to him.
Henry turned back with a wide grin. "My platoon is first up for our night in the trenches." And then he turned and hustled to join the French soldiers leading them up the maze of dugout holes and channels and barbwire and planks of wood.
"Well, he seems chipper about it," Renfield mocked, snickering to himself.
"Yes, he does." Ben couldn't take his gaze away from Henry's bolo knife and the way it had glittered in the waning sunlight, reflecting the memories of that night in St. Nazaire and the frozen faces of the dead Marines. Shuddering, he turned and sat down in front of his tent with a rag to clean his newly issued 8mm Chauchat Machine Gun. He rubbed the long barrel, soaking the rag in a bit of oil, picking out brown grass wedged in the tripod legs. Ejecting the drum ammo case, he inspected it with a sharp gaze, ignoring the fading grunts of death during that cold winter night on the docks and the thick booms building on the horizon.
As dusk approached and they had collected their tin cup worth of stew, Ben wondered how Henry was doing. He was the shortest Negro in this man's army by far, but he's seen the soldier's furiously first hand. If he Boche were dumb enough to raid the front line, they'd quickly discover what he knew, of that he had little doubt.
Suddenly, the dark sky glowed a strange yellow. And then the sound of trolley cars barrelling came on them. Rumbling the ground. Chattering their teeth. Screeching whistling drawn long and ending with a deep boom. Rattlers who'd fallen asleep in their tents were roused, crawling out between the flaps, peering out into the horizon, unable to see anything but the flashes as the shells hit the ground.
Beside him, Renfield lit a match and took a puff on his corncob pipe. His dark eyes searching the maze for movement.
Ben looked at him and Renfield looked right back.
Neither said a word.
* * *
Hours later, as dawn approached, and the bombs finally stopped, Ben stood, squinting into the early morning gloom.
"Is that...?" Renfield stood beside him, holding a steaming cup of coffee.
"Wounded," Ben said tonelessly. He watched, unsure if he should help or not, as a small group of medics carried two litters, one man on each end, from out the maze of dugouts and channels carved deep into the earth. He didn't know, so he stood and looked to see who it was that had been hurt. And then the sun caught the steel of a bolo knife.
Ben grabbed Renfield. "That's Henry," he said and started off for the medics as they made their way toward the make-shift field hospital.
Reaching the large wooden doors, the medics set the litters down. One looked up and noticed Ben and Renfield coming towards them. In a thick French accent, the medic asked, "Will you stay with him while we go wake the doctor?"
Ben nodded without a word.
The medics were gone through the creaking wood door.
Gazing down at the litter lay Henry Johnson, or what was left of him. In the other was an officer Ben had only met once or twice and couldn't remember his name.
"My God...look at him," Renfield whispered, the terror in his voice unmasked.
Ben knelt beside Henry. "Hey man, how are you doing?"
Henry stirred and opened one eye with a jolt. The rest of his face seemed swollen and bloodied. His uniform was in shreds and wet still with crimson. Bullet holes blackened the olive green of his arms and legs and hip. His lips trembled as if he struggled to speak.
Ben cooed. "It's okay, you're safe. You're back at camp. You're safe now."
Henry trembled, still struggling it seem to talk. Spasming, he shook his head.
"What the hell happened out there?" Renfield asked, more of a statement of utter awe and horror than a question.
Again, Ben cooed. "Everything will be alright. The medic has gone to wake the doctor. They'll fix you up right as rain. You'll see."
Red spit frothed from Henry's lips as he opened his mouth. "Out..."
"Don't speak," Ben tried.
"Out there..." Henry added weakly.
"Out where, the front? The German's you mean?" Ben asked, too curious now to keep Henry quiet. "Did you fight the Boche?"
"Who else would it be?" Renfield quipped.
Ben ignored him. "What happened, Henry?"
Henry licked his red wet lips, blinking his one good eye. "It was a raid...on our outpost...the Boche came.
..fought back..."
Renfield leaned in closer. "How many?"
"Dozens..." Henry groaned, shifting a little on the litter.
Ben shook his head amazed. "You fought off a dozen?"
Henry glared up at Ben, his normally bright whites now ringed with red. He stuttered as he said, "Not...not just them..."
Ben and Renfield exchanged glances at each other.
Frowning, Ben asked, "If it wasn't just the Boche raiding the outpost, then who else?"
Henry's entire body began to spasm, his good eye was wide, frozen on some memory of the front line. His breathing was hard and labors. Suddenly beside them the doors to the hospital flung open and the medics came rushing toward the litters. Two hoisted Henry up and started for the entrance.
"Wait!" Ben shouted.
The medics didn't listen or didn't hear.
"Henry, what else? What else was out there?" Ben called.
Henry stared at Ben and Renfield as the medics carried him through the open doors of the field hospital. Looking at them he said, "Something else." And then the doors shut leaving the pair standing together—frowning with sound of whistles screeching in the distance.
Chapter 14
Captain Fish paced in front of K Company, his gaze wandering from troop to colored troop. A French squad waited nearby—waiting to escort the fresh American negro soldiers into the maze of trenches and barbed wire. The sun was falling on the horizon. They never moved during daylight if they could help it. The Boche were dug in plenty across No Man's Land, had been for years now. Machine Gun nests and plenty of shells to keep the French busy filling in the holes and repairing the line with more mud. Sergeant Barnes stood at attention, his hard gaze following the white, politician's son officer. News of what had happened during the night and what Henry Johnson had done had been the talk of the camp. Blood was in the water and the men were itching for action.
"You all know what Private Johnson did, but do you know who else knows?" Fish shouted to the troops.
Ben clamped his teeth shut.
"The whole damn world, that's who—but that's not all...those Germans know, they've heard, I have no doubt, stories of a dark-skinned warrior. Fearless. Strong..."
Ben could see Renfield in his peripheral, straightening, standing a little taller.
Fish was smiling now, a wicked sort of grin, full of malice and violence. "Those stories have now permeated into their ranks. Every man out there now knows what's coming..." he paused, stopped pacing, took a deep breath, "...they know that hell is coming, gentlemen." His wicked smile grew wider. "The French have a nickname for our regiment, they're calling us Men of Bronze, but the Germans..." he laughed, "the Germans have different name for us, they call us Hellfighters—because we fight as if Hell was pouring up over the trenches, burning into their eyes. We give no quarter and we never retreat."
Around him, Ben could feel the electricity of the troops, every last one, ready for whatever may come in the night. Images of Henry came to mind—his battered and bloody body, and his last words to him too...something else.
"I cannot tell you what will become of us. All I can say is that I pity those Boche bastards." With that, Fish turned to Barnes and nodded.
Stepping forward, his dark skin turning red, Barnes shouted, "First squad, pick up your machine guns and follow those French boys over there. You'll rotate with Second Squad. Conserve your rations and wait for orders, understood?"
Ben turned and followed Tookes, a thirty-something volunteer from Harlem. Renfield was close behind Ben. They marched out to the waiting French who regarded them with smiles, the kind of expression that came with experience, a knowing that what lay ahead was unlike anything these boys had ever experienced before.
Down into trench, the air smelled thick. And the further they went, the more elaborate the maze became. Zig zagging in ten-foot-deep mud with bits of planks of wood and roots from gnarled trees.
"Quoi pour les rats," one of the French soldiers was saying as they continued farther along.
"What did he say?" Renfield asked.
Ben shrugged.
One of the French gestured to a nearby crate that had been wedged into the dirt wall. Scurrying across the top, a large black furred rat with curved teeth and red-looking eyes.
"Jesus Christ!" Renfield yelped.
Ben grimaced.
The French laughed. "Oui, les rat."
"Welcome to the Eastern Front." Renfield smirked, keeping a careful eye on the large black rat.
* * *
The sun had long disappeared, and for Ben he believed that was for the best. The glances he'd taken of the open terrain, the land between the two fronts, was a horrid wasteland of pits and scars made from mortar impacts and craters and yellowish smog that drifted and hugged close to the ground scented with a perverse melody of onion or horseradish—soiled and unappetizing. Occasionally an orange flare would fly high into the night sky, bursting in sparkling flame, and then the roar of machinegun fire would erupt, ushering another volley from those heavy guns. Whistling screams and explosions and dark dirt kicked up around them, forcing them deeper into the trenches.
"You okay?" Ben shouted between barrages, or perhaps he whispered. He couldn't tell. His ears rang loud. The stink of sulfur seemed especially strong.
"Are you?" Renfield mouthed back. His light dark skin looked paler in the hazy moonlight. Most of his handsomeness hollow, nearly skull like in the shadow of the trench wall. With trembling fingers, he reached inside the pouch of his uniform and presented his corncob pipe. He struck a match and toked, unsteadily.
Ben took the pipe when it was offered. "You're going to get me hooked," he smirked, taking a long and wonderful drag. Exhaling, he glanced at the French troops down the line. They were fast asleep, all but for one—a tall fella no older than twenty-six. He was bone thin with a thick curly mustache that sat below his lip. His close-cut hair showed signs of brown. His gaze never left No Man's Land.
* * *
Weeks passed. First squad relieved second squad and third relieved first, and so on and so on it went. Lulled by the steady whistle of mortar fire and the tat-tat-tat of machine guns, the Rattler's of 369th Infantry wondered if this was all they would see. Had Private Johnson put the fear into the Boche so effectively that they dared not seize the line? Ben pondered this with much irritation. "God damn, let's go!" he often murmured with bared teeth, watching between the barbed wire for any sign of action. Renfield took the endless waiting differently, his shoulders seem to relax more and more with each uneventful rotation on the eastern line. That is until news reached them in trenches of the return of the regimental band—of Lieutenant Europe and Sergeant Sissle. Ben was more than overenjoyed at the return of his friends, but also of unofficial word from Europe himself.
"Ben, its good to see you." Europe beamed, hunched low in the trench. He took several peeks over the mud wall, gazing cautiously at the thicket of pines in the not too far distance.
"You too, sir." Ben whispered, already well practiced for life in the trenches. He glanced at Sissle nearby who looked about as thin and underfed as Renfield. "I heard you've arranged a raid against the line.
Europe nodded without joy nor sorrow, stoic, watchful of the razor sharp barbed wire that stretched out between their company and the German line. "Why all the effort to just sit here in the mud?" he asked, more to himself Ben thought.
"Did you hear about Johnson?" Ben asked, his gaze falling to the dark soiled water along the planks covering the floor of the trench.
"I did—I suppose we have him to thank for our new nickname. The Men of Bronze who fight from Hell."
Ben smiled, though his thoughts went to Henry and the image of his injuries, the gashes and blood-soaked uniform, and his last words before being carted into the medical ward—something else, he had said. What did he mean? Ben didn't know. Perhaps Henry was simply delirious, in shock from loss of blood. What else could it have been?
Just then, two French officers
arrived stirring Ben from his thoughts. Hunched and moving quickly through the cold mud. They were both unshaven with at least a weeks' worth of stubble. Heavy bags hung under their eyes—yet, there was light in those hazy browns and a crooked smile on the hook of their lips.
"Are you ready?" they asked Europe in broken English.
Europe nodded.
"Okay...follow close. Leave your helmet here. Take only a few magazines," one of the French men said. "Nothing that hangs loose."
"Why?" Europe asked.
"Move faster and quiet. Oui, better that way."
"The bolo knife goes with."
The French officers looked from Europe's dark unchanging expression to the curved blade clipped to his belt—to Ben's and Renfield's as well. They shrugged.
Europe nodded, removing his French helmet and unstrapped his ammo pouch.
Ben undressed similarly.
As did Renfield—though he didn't look too happy about it, leaving behind his corncob pipe inside his upturned helmet.
Sissle followed.
Along with a few others, Private Pippin and Sergeant Archie Niblank.
The French men led the way, Europe behind them, Ben, Pippin and Niblank, with Renfield and Sissle taking the rear. Up the makeshift wood ladder, they went, over the top and quickly, single file, moving across No Man's Land. The Rattler's left behind their Chauchat machine guns and instead carried Lebel rifles, keeping them hugged tight against their chest as the bobbed and dropped in craters along the way to the front.
The French halted with a fist raised.
Ben breathed deep, craning his head to the sound of whispers.
What is that? He wondered. German?
At the realization, his eyes shot wide.
One of the French glanced back, beaming, a murderous fire reflected in his pale eyes. He was mouthing something Ben could not hear, it was only until the end he realized the Frenchman was counting down.
With a jolt, the men rushed ahead, out of the crater and into what Ben would later be told was a listening post—designed to alert the real German line of an impending assault from the French line.
The Last Hellfighter Page 8