Hug a Veteran and remember those who fought the good fight.
Every Memorial and Veterans Day, I think about the people in my family who volunteered to serve our country in the military. My son, Master Sergeant Isaac Anderson, is a 20-year Marine. My dad, Dr. Thomas Marshall, was in the Naval Medical Corps. My Great Uncle Charles Williams helped break racial barriers as a Machinest Mate in World War I, and his son, Chief Robert Williams, wore many impressive hats, including Chief of the Air Force’s Public Communication Division at the Pentagon during the 9-11 attacks. Mom’s brother, Dale Carter, was in the Air Force. And on and on. My family always answered the call to help protect our freedoms (even though we do not always receive those freedoms in return).
Today, I want to call special attention to my grandfather, Austin Henry Marshall, who was born in 1892 in Columbus, Georgia. He started a family in Cleveland, Ohio, with wife Daisy Dooley. He was a Pullman Porter, served as Vice-President of Peoples’ Realty Company and Crusader Mutual Insurance to help African American communities purchase property and insurance. He and Grandma Daisy were large supporters of the St. James AME Church, African American YMCA, Parent Teacher Associations, and Cleveland Funeral Home Directors Association. Their adult children became Chief of Obstetrics, concert pianist/music professor, two entrepreneurs, and a postal worker. Grandpa died at his Georgia birthplace in 1967.
Austin Henry Marshall’s amazing story is detailed in my The Marshall Legacy in Black and White book. I’d like to share some snippets from Chapter 6 in his book, entitled “The Great War.” It will likely open you eyes to the conditions—adventurous, frightening, fun, deplorable, and everything in between—that Black men experienced fighting for America between 1917 and 1919. Most of the stories are told from Grandpa Austin’s point of view.
Chapter 6 – The Great War (Excerpts from The Marshall Legacy in Black and White)
Columbus, Georgia, 1917, Austin Henry Marshall speaking
“Can you smell it?” An odor of foreboding throughout America as the German Army continued to expand its empire. Daily news reports described how they were gobbling up country after country in their power-hungry jaws. What if they took over France and England, then crossed the Atlantic Ocean for America? Sure, we had a standing Army, but were we prepared to fight a first-class power like Germany which was more than ready for war? This lightly veiled fear found its way into all aspects of American life, but especially those concerning race.
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Although we Negroes were technically eligible for many positions in the Army, very few got the opportunity to serve in combat units which were kept completely segregated. There was such a backlash from our Negro leaders, though, that the War Department finally created the 92nd and 93rd Divisions in 1917. Both were primarily Black combat units.
All totaled, about 400,000 Negroes served in The Great War and I’m proud to say I was one of them. Brother Israel registered for the draft in June 1917. Brothers Thomas and Clifford enlisted in August 1918. Thomas went into the 158 Depot Brigade and Clifford went into the National Army LB-14, 813 Pioneer Regiment. Thomas received a ten-percent disability on September 18, 1918, from a broken left leg, and was honorably discharged on December 29, 1918.
I was assigned to Company C, the 325th Field Signal Battalion of the 92nd “Buffalo Soldier” Division. We were the first all-Black signal battalion in the world, considered to be one of the best educated battalions in the Army. Many of our soldiers were graduates of the nation’s best colleges and universities, many who had studied electricity and electronics, both considered marvels at the time.
Most of the porters, bellhops, and chauffeurs like me had not had the benefit of such a lofty education beyond high school, nor job-related experience, but we also wore our Private First Class uniforms with pride.
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Dust rose in the air as our convoy of new recruits pulled into Camp Sherman on April 28, 1918. We had traveled on the train three hours south from Cleveland to Ross County, near Chillicothe, Ohio. What started out as brash banter amongst the recruits, mellowed into uncertainty. Fear about what to expect grew as each mile brought us closer toward our destination. Oh my God, where am I going? Will I be able to handle a rifle? Will I miss home? Will I pass muster? There was much self-doubt during that trip, especially since many recruits had never been away from home.
Called “Ohio’s Soldier Factory,” Camp Sherman’s 2,000 buildings could house 40,000 men and 12,000 horses or mules. I couldn’t believe how many buildings there were. In addition to barracks and offices used by the soldiers, there were theaters, a hospital, a library, a farm, and a German Prisoner of War camp. There was also a railroad that transported supplies and men. The camp even had its own utilities system. It was a huge world unto its own.
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After my regiment finished initial signal and combat training, we were sent by train to Hoboken, New Jersey. It felt odd being a uniformed soldier traveling in the train instead of working on the train as was my normal job. It didn’t take me long, though, to enjoy the train ride as my new normal.
“From Hell to Hoboken” became a rallying cry for the thousands of American Expeditionary Forces soldiers who departed on ships. Hoboken was a crucial location as a seaport. Our factories there were instrumental in supplying the allies with arms, supplies, and food. Newspapers later wrote that 1.8 million Americans passed through Hoboken before landing on the European battlefront.
There weren’t enough transports to bring troops to Europe, so the army pressed into service cruise ships, or seized German ships, or borrowed Allied ships to transport American soldiers to France. My unit sailed on the USS Orizaba on June 10, 1918. Not having ever been on a ship, let alone crossed the Atlantic Ocean, many soldiers became seasick within the first hour of leaving the shore. I had no problems, though, being quite used to the roll of train travel—in fact, I found the motion of the ocean to be quite soothing.
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The 325th was responsible for splicing telex phone wires in trenches captured from the Germans.
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On August 11th, the 92nd Division moved to Bruyeres in the Vosges Mountains, and the 325th moved into the trenches with it. After five days, we relieved the American Fifth Division at the St. Die Sector near the Lorraine border. We soon got our first taste of combat. Combat soldiers made daily and nightly raids on German frontline trenches to harass and capture prisoners; the Germans relied heavily on poisonous chlorine gas to repel them. Our regiments in the trenches depended on us for their communications, which meant we Black signalmen had to go where the White regiments went. At times, the 325th also had to fight. Such was the nature of ground warfare in those days. The 92nd held the St. Die sector for four weeks. Transportation was practically unavailable, so signal officers usually had to walk to the many outposts requiring our communications expertise.
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On September 20, the 325th left the trenches and headed for the Argonne Forest to join the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, located in the region of Alsace-Lorraine in northeastern France. This location bordered Germany, Belgium, and Luxembourg. The 325th was part of the defensive sector of the AEF, serving from June 1, 1918, to February 27, 1919. It was a major part of the final Allied Offensive Coalition that opposed the Central Powers.
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There were many acts of heroism by the signalmen and the regiment at Meuse-Argonne. Casualties were extremely high, most resulting from poisonous gas and bullet wounds. At no time during their stay were the communications or the signalmen interrupted for more than half an hour. Even so, no awards for bravery were given to Black soldiers for their performance in WWI, with one exception, seventy years after the fact. On September 18, 1918, Frederick Stowers, Squad leader of Company C, 371st Infantry regiment, led his squad through heavy machine-gun fire and destroyed gun positions on Hill 188 in Champagne Marne, where he was mortally wounded. He was recommended for the Congressional Medal of Honor, but it was never approved. On April 24, 1991, President George Bush belatedly presented Stowers’s award to his surviving sisters in a ceremony at the White House
I’m proud to say we Negroes participated in one of a series of Allied attacks which brought the war to an end. We were afraid for our lives the whole time, so we really looked forward to our free time off after the Armistice. Oo, là là! European women were fascinated by us Negro men! They wanted to touch our warm brown skin … and we let them. They wanted to see how we fit our monkey tails into our pants. Yes, they were told by Caucasian American soldiers, our countrymen, that we had tails. Some of us invited the women to see our tails. As a result, I’m sure many left lasting remembrances behind in England, France, and Germany! (known as Brown Babies)
What did we do in our free time overseas? What didn’t we do? Bars, restaurants, babes. That’s all an unmarried soldier needed: a little love and care. We had seen enough of the once-beautiful countryside during the fighting. Romancing, playing cards, drinking booze, and socializing with the lovely ladies filled our time off in town.
If I could have stayed in France, believe me, I would have. After representing our country overseas in a war, I was honorably discharged in 1919. With a sense of pride and a feeling of accomplishment, the 325th boarded a troop transport for our trip home. With a barking of orders and an exchange of salutes we were on our way. As the shores of France and memories of the exploits performed on those shores grew smaller in the transports’ wake, remembrances of home and the anticipation of reuniting with loved ones grew in our minds.
We had saved the world from the Germans and assumed we would be treated with a newfound respect when we returned home to America. But no, it was the same racist treatment all over again. It was almost worse, really, because we had tasted what it felt like to be treated as men. Sadly, Jim Crow was back home waiting to “make white America great again.” It didn’t matter if we wore our military uniform. Once our feet touched American soil, it was back to normal degradation. Negroes were still treated like latter-day slaves, less-than-human. I resumed my job as a Pullman porter, making less than any other worker on the railroad, just like before.
But many of us did not, would not, could not, go back to that old “normal.” We had tasted respect. We had proven our bravery and loyalty to this country. We were determined to change our lowly status. An explosion was inevitable. Negro American servicemen returned from WWI only to find a new type of violent conflict waiting for them. An outbreak of racial violence known as the “Red Summer” occurred in 1919. White sailors recently home from World War I had been on a days-long drunken rampage, assaulting, and in some cases lynching, Black people on the capitol’s streets. The relentless onslaught proved contagious, escalating in dozens of cities across the U.S. in what would become known as the The Red Summer. It was a destructive event that affected at least twenty-six cities across the United States.
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Kathy Marshall says on May 29, 2023: I salute those who volunteered to fight overseas for America. I am not proud of the shameful reception Black soldiers received returning home (and Blacks, women, gays, Latinx, Native Americans, etc., still experience a myriad of injustices). But we know how to rebound, to make the best of an untenable situation. We still try to find a measure of joy in life, always working to fight for the Constitutional rights that are supposed to be guaranteed to America’s citizens. I am confident that a growing number of ever-vigilant people will encourage America live up to its promise… someday.
More about Grandpa Austin is found in the award-winning The Marshall Legacy in Black and White and award-winning Finding Daisy: From the Deep South to the Promised Land.