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Not
Without
Dust
A NOVEL
Seginald Chantrelle
Exposition Press / New York


GRAD
828
( 4595np
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved, including the right of
reproduction in whole or in part in any form
Copyright, 1954, by Seginald Chantrelle
386 Fourth Avenue, New York 16, N. Y.
Designed by Morry M. Gropper
Manufactured in the United States of America
Consolidated Book Producers, Inc.
Library of Congress catalog card number: 54-12467


One
THE WHOLE STATION was agog with hurried excitement. Amazing
how anyone could slither his way through this sea of surging
restlessness and still maintain his equilibrium. The vast confines
were packed to overflowing as a seemingly motionless crowd,
in typical American fashion, politely jostled one another through
the gateways to the platforms below.
A remarkably gay party had assembled before Gate 18, in
Pennsylvania Station, New York, the more to be wondered at
since one of its members was about to entrain for Camp Stewart,
Georgia. Lieutenant Roy Raymond, in trim khaki uniform, with
the dental caduceus on one side of his collar and a bright silver
bar on the other, had no illusions nor was he disillusioned con-
cerning his assignment to the Deep South. To the casual passer-
by, he was just one more soldier. To the more observant, the
too easy smile that wreathed his thin-lipped mouth, the excited
glow in otherwise roguish oriental eyes, which twinkled merrily
beneath heavy black brows, betokened thoughts and feelings
which of necessity were far-removed from the moment's hilarity.
One more spring. Another leave-taking. Once again adrift from
family and friends. So similar and yet so vastly different from
that parting almost two decades ago when he had run away from


his native Jamaica. The conversation with his boyhood pal,
Eric, was etched for all time in the recesses of his memory.
He had been just venturesome enough then to cast aside the
needed security of mother and family, to reach out for the
promised opportunities of that blessed new land which beck-
oned him as a Utopia. Had he been older than seventeen, he
might have reasoned that a light-brown complexion together
with straight black hair could be definite assets in a country
where those not typically Negroid were enterprising enough
to utilize Nature's gifts to their own advantage.
So many things had happened in the interim. The jobs that
Roy had held during the three years that he had struggled to
adjust to the congestion of New York's Harlem were too various
to enumerate. It is never easy for an immigrant to swallow the
jeers and contempt that are heaped upon him during the period
of orientation and acclimatization, especially when people be-
come aware of his struggle to step into another social stratum.
For a man as slight, boyish and sensitive as Roy, the struggle
was well-nigh unbearable.
Ofttimes, feeling at the very end of possible human en-
durance, beside himself with destitution and despair, he had an
aching longing for the soothing calm of his Caribbean Sea.
Just as the weary traveler slowly wends his way toward the
beacon that offers succor from afar, so in all this misery did one
thought give him sustenance: he wanted to be a doctor. There
was no groping to find his milieu. He knew what he wanted
and each year progressed steadily toward his goal. His ambi-
tion, like the Hound of Heaven, gave him no respite. So firmly
entrenched was he in the desire to get ahead, to be somebody,
that he closed his mind and heart to the normal yearnings of
adolescence for companionship with the opposite sex. Marriage
-and subsequent parenthood-had to be postponed indefinitely.
That could wait, he felt.
In the midst of running elevators, dishwashing, mopping
floors, he forged a philosophy that became the mainstay of his
life. Desolate, lonely, weary, flat on his back at the end of a day


10
had come these last days to wish him Godspeed. The hospital
where he had served as the only Negro in the field of oral
surgery had tendered him a cabaret party and presented him with
a military kit. What a glorious week it had been, one grand
round of festivities, culminating in this merry gathering.
The redcap who was attending Roy's luggage discreetly
touched his elbow and nodded significantly to inform him that
it was train time. A tense hush in keeping with the moment's
solemnity ensued. Roy rose to the occasion with his customary
continental air of nonchalance. He kissed all of the ladies, some
on their cheeks, others on their lips, according to the degree
of intimacy that existed between them. One by one, all of the
men grasped his hand. As though everyone were suddenly
devoid of speech, they stood silently as he squared his shoul-
ders soldierwise and with rapid strides disappeared through
the gates.
The redcap delivered Roy over to the pullman porter. His
smile in departing bespoke his pleasure in receiving so unusual
a gratuity. Roy was generous to a fault. Impossible for a man
of his temperament to have struggled with the underdogs of
society for an overly long period and not reach out, as a kindred
spirit, to those who bore the yoke with humility.
The porter suggested that Roy go to the smoking room at
the end of the coach while he made his berth. Because of the
drawn curtains and air of silence, Roy assumed that all were
abed. To his surprise, on reaching the smoking room, he found
two white men engaged in quiet conversation. The room was
small and rectangular. A mirror and washbasin occupied one
wall. A built-in couch, upholstered in leather, ran the entire
length of the wall opposite. Facing Roy was the entrance to
the lavatory.
Still feeling the delightful glow of a last Scotch and soda
which one in the party had jokingly said was “for the road,”
Roy made his way cautiously across the room toward the toilet.
Just as he was about to grasp the handle of the door, a sudden
lurch of the train sent him sprawling on all fours. With the


11
dignity typical of the slightly inebriated, he picked himself up,
opened the toilet door and disappeared behind it. Emerging
shortly thereafter, he approached the sofa where the two men
were seated at the extremities. As neither made the least attempt
to move together, thus providing room for him at either end,
he sat between them.
The older man, weather-beaten, rawboned, reclined languidly
with the back of his head in the crook of his arm, while in his
free hand he held a cigar. The younger man, ruddy, blue-eyed,
blond, dangled a freshly lit cigarette from the corner of his
mouth, his legs stretched out before him, his hands clasped
loosely in his lap. Seating himself, Roy reached into his pocket
for a cigarette. He was fishing in his pocket for a match when
the older man flicked the ashes from his cigar and extended
the lit portion to him, drawling in a deep, southern accent,
“May I, Lieutenant?"
“Thanks very much,” Roy accepted cheerfully.
“I suppose you are on your way to rejoin your regiment,”
he continued in a friendly, interested manner.
“Join would be a better word. I have just been commis-
sioned.”
“Since most of the troops are being trained in the South
because of weather conditions and the wide, open spaces, I take
it that that is your destination.”
“True. Georgia."
"Then,” remarked the other traveler, “you and I will be
trainmates for another twenty-four hours. The skipper over
there leaves us in South Carolina.”
Looking more closely at the “skipper,” Roy ventured to say,
“No one asks too many questions in wartime, and I realize
that smoking-room companionships are brief. May I presume
to ask whether you are a sea captain?"
“Not at all. I used to be but now I pilot ships through the
tricky South Carolinian waters. Our other smoking-room com-
panion, as you label us, is a seafaring man also. He's a Canadian,
going to the coast to pick up his ship.”


"That gives us something in common. I too went to sea. I never
made the deep sea. It was only coastwise stuff.”
From that point, conversation became general and cordial.
Matches were passed, cigarettes lit. The “skipper” switched to
a pipe. An air of camaraderie pervaded the room, mixed with
the aroma of tobacco. Anecdotes were exchanged. While all
three had different theories as to the outcome of the war, they
all agreed that America would be victorious.
The train sped through the night. Like some wild animal
with fury unleashed, it shrieked as it gathered momentum. The
three men conversed far into the night, in a rambling sort of
way, going off at tangents, in the typical fashion of men who
know that they should be in bed but who do not wish to retire.
Roy had been accustomed to an interchange of ideas and
points of view with white people. His previous contacts gave
him every right to feel perfectly at ease. It might almost seem
that subconsciously, for the minute, he questioned convictions
that had been deeply rooted from early youth. It just never
occurred to him that he had anything to fear-yet. As the train
plowed its way into Dixie, he had a sense of being at peace
with the world, ensconced as he was with these two men in the
smoker.
Then suddenly, completely without warning, after a lull in
the conversation, the southerner remarked, “I've been up North
for over three weeks. I hope none of my niggers has gotten into
any trouble. As a matter of fact, one of them came damned near
getting lynched a few months ago.”
Roy was stung by the epithet but showed no emotion. That
poker face had served as a mask for deep emotional disturbance
on many occasions.
"How was that?” inquired the Canadian quietly.
"Oh, he was browsing around town when he noticed a group
of people in a huddle, so to speak. Instead of minding his busi-
ness, he got nosy and edged toward them to see what it was
all about. It turned out that some nigger had tried to rape a
white girl. Well, in South Carolina, we waste no time on that


14
the yard, the dining-room crew to his right, the kitchen crew
to his left. He strutted through the line of men shouting at
length, “There's a thief among you.' He went on to explain that
the yard foreman had found a slab of bacon and a chicken hidden
in our dormitory. Suddenly, in his prancing, he turned and col-
lared one of the kitchen crew, a boy who had just arrived in
New York from the South, demanding, Why did you steal those
things?' The poor fellow was so frightened that he almost
fainted, protesting his innocence the while. The manager re-
leased him, paced up and down and repeated the dramatics,
this time the victim being the busboy. The reaction was the
same. Then, suddenly, the third cook broke from the column
and Aed to the nearby woods. The manager laughingly an-
nounced, 'I knew it was he all the time. I wanted him to confess.'
He was about to leave when I said, “Mr. Koenig.'
“'Yes?' he asked, wheeling around.
“ 'You forget one thing,' I replied. “This is America, not
Germany. Here, a man is always innocent until he's proved
guilty. You've reversed the procedure. It's not American.'
“The manager dismissed the entire matter with the typical
Teutonic 'Ach' and walked into the dining room. Now, tell me,
where was the rank? I could have been fired and I needed the
job.”
The Canadian looked at his watch and rose. “Interesting, but
it proves nothing. This kind of thing could go on all night. Well
it's getting late and I must be turning in. Good night to you.”
Left alone, Roy cupped his face in his hands, shaken to the
core. He found it difficult to believe that an apparently friendly
attitude was just a veneer which masked a well of bitterness,
hate and callousness. He felt adrift in a sea of hostility. He
listened to the train, in the blackness of the night, racing from
a civilization he understood into another which was completely
unknown to him. He thought of the readiness with which the
Canadian sided with the southerner and wondered what would
happen to him when, instead of two, he would have to cope with
multiples of two. For the first time in his adult life, a sense of


15
insecurity bordering on fear took hold of him. He had quit many
a job when conditions were intolerable. He could not quit the
army, another job, no matter how reprehensible conditions
became. He could grapple with things of substance-the tan-
gible, as it were. He always had. This thing lacked form. It was
utterly without substance. Its very intangibility gave it an
advantage, a superiority that put it beyond the pale of ordi-
nary individual ability. The puzzled, strained look on his face
was indicative of the depths of his disturbance. He reflected
upon the manner in which each man had departed. He shook
his head in non-acceptance, as though thoughts were audible.
More things are wrought by the use of common sense than is
generally supposed. Reasoning that on the morrow he could
think better, when his emotions were subordinate to his mind,
Roy too went to bed.
Sleep, blessed as it is reputed to be, did not steal readily
over him. As he tossed restlessly in the narrow bed, listening
to the wheels grinding on the tracks, the pillow became in-
creasingly hard and lumpy, the mattress a piece of board. He
lay there in the dark, turning and twisting. It was then that
a long-forgotten incident of his high-school days stole stealthily
across his memory like an interloper. It caused him to come
to a quiet position. Lying flat on his back, he relived an episode
of fifteen years past when, during the summer vacation, he had
shipped out of South Street, New York City, as a mess boy on
a freighter. The trip was for a month's duration, from New
York to Tampa, Florida, thence, to Sienfuegos, Cuba, and back
again to New York.
The highly mixed crew was most congenial. After the ship
had docked at Port Tampa at dusk, Roy decided to stretch his
legs ashore after supper. Port Tampa itself was of no particular
interest except that it was the terminal of the streetcar which
went to Tampa City.
Roy boarded the empty car while the conductor was reversing
the seats for the return trip. He sat in the middle of the car
and took from his pocket a copy of Cervantes' Don Quixote,


16
the original of which he had previously started to read in a
third-year Spanish class in high school. He immediately became
absorbed in the book to the extent that he was unaware of the
conductor collecting the fare or of the starting of the car.
Neither did he raise his head to notice that, as the car progressed
toward the city, it was gradually filling up.
Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Looking up, he
noticed the conductor for the first time towering above him.
Roy asked himself the question, “What's this, I wonder?” He eyed
the conductor quizzically as he remarked, “Well, boy, you'll
have to get up and go where you belong.” The spoken word
with its intonation did not immediately register. He just con-
tinued to gaze at the man. Then, suddenly, the gleam in the
small, piercing, sardonic eyes, the indignant look on the red-
dening face, struck a chord in his mind. He groped for it. What
was it? Instantaneously, in a flash, it registered. Yes, he got it.
He had blunderingly seated himself in the middle of the car
when he should have been in one of the last three seats.
But why had the conductor permitted him to sit there in the
first place? Why had he collected his fare? However, that was
of no importance now. The present was what counted. Must
he degrade himself by rising and going “where he belonged”?
How could he so unwittingly have wandered into a position
of which he would have hesitated even to be a spectator. He
was jolted back to reality by the hissing voice of the conductor
demanding belligerently, menacingly, “What the hell is wrong
with you? You're a nigger, aren't you?” That only made matters
worse. He sat there, rooted to the spot, staring at the man,
speechless, petrified with fright. He realized that his life was
at stake but he was powerless to move. Finally, he glanced
around the car and saw in a blur a sea of expressionless faces
staring at him. They meant nothing to him. His brain had become
numb, calcified.
He was vaguely aware of the conductor leaving. He realized
that the car had stopped and that the conductor was returning
with the motorman. The latter carried a crowbar in his hand.


17
Roy's heart began to thump. He felt that all matter which repre-
sented his body had vanished, leaving only his frightened, ex-
posed heart beating violently against his ribs. What had once
been feet had melted away. His brain, though conscious of
what was going on, refused to function. Why didn't he go to
the back of the car as ordered? To this night, he had never
been able to fathom it. Was he trying to be smart, to thwart
the laws? No. He was too callow, and not at all brave.
Through the fog, he heard another contemptuous, arrogant,
withering voice, that of the motorman, bellowing, “By God,
you damn nigger. If you don't go to the back of the car, I'll
smash your blasted head in.” It might have been the Spanish
he was reading. It might have been atavism, a return to some
long-distant Spanish relative in his ancestral tree calling to him
in his emergency. But still paralyzed with fear, he heard himself
saying, “Que dice usted, Señor, yo no hablo engles.”
Both men looked at each other in disgust. The motorman
snarled, “Oh, hell, the bastard is just a damn greaser.”
It was some time after his tormentors left and the car had
started before Roy returned to some degree of normalcy. Still
dazed, he automatically left the car with the others. Using the
trolley tracks as a guide, he retraced his steps to the ship. His
gait was that of a drunkard, his brain was clogged to capacity.
The fragrant countryside, the cool breeze, the starlit heavens
were wasted on him. His only aim was to get home to the ship.
He groped along the deserted road until he finally saw the
lights of the boat.
The ship was deserted except for the night watch. Roy got
into his deserted cabin and, because he was very young, he
flung himself across his bunk and broke into weeping. As the
salty tears trickled into his mouth, his taut body cringed as
though it were being horsewhipped. Over and over again, he
heard the words repeating themselves like a refrain: “Aren't you
a nigger? If you don't go where you belong, I'll smash your head
in.” He finally fell asleep wondering what the difference was
between a greaser and a nigger.


19
tion of the diner, it was not evident. Their greeting was cordial.
Conversation followed the usual trend of picayune chatter across
a breakfast table in a public place. The absence of condescension
was marked. As Roy indulged in his third cup of coffee, his
emotions were more confused than ever. This couple was un-
doubtedly southern. He thought of the previous night's episode
and wondered if he would ever understand these people and
the attitudes which so definitely labeled them as southerners.
Roy finished his coffee leisurely and rose to leave. Back in
the pullman, despite the desire to delve further into this enigma,
he decided to peruse The Officers' Guide, a book on military
courtesy, discipline and conventions. He realized that his knowl.
edge of the army was nil and that a ten-per-cent margin for
error was not enough.


Two
THE TRAIN CREPT into Savannah, Georgia, like a spent animal.
Aboard, everyone was making preparations to disembark. Savan-
nah, second city of Georgia, noted for its Old World charm and
cosmopolitan flavor, is affectionately known to its residents as
"the Forest City.”
As he alighted from the pullman, an elderly redcap ap-
proached Roy and mutely, respectfully offered his services. His
only gesture was raising his hand to his cap. It was part salute,
part salaam. On the long platform, flanked by two trains, Roy
felt strangely uneasy. He subconsciously contrasted its smallness
with Penn Station. Lack of hustle-bustle almost to the point of
inertia was the dominant note. This was certainly no melting
pot, no crazy quilt of nationalities. An absence of facial types
labeled it American, all southern American. Recognizing his
luggage, Roy directed the redcap to it, inquiring at the same
time when the next train would leave for Hinesville, the location
of Camp Stewart.
“Your train's right over there, sir, on the next track,” the
redcap softly pointed out. “It leaves in twenty-five minutes.
I'll pile your baggage on the seat of that coach over there, so


21
that if you want to look around, you'll see it just by looking
through the window. You can't miss them, sir.”
Roy thanked him and gave him a coin. Glancing at his
watch, he strolled toward the exit. On entering the broad ter-
race which separated the waiting room from the tracks, Roy
stopped dead in the middle of it. Stunned, bewildered, he re-
moved his cap to wipe the perspiration from his brow as he
read the two signs which confronted him: “White Waiting
Room,” “Colored Waiting Room.” He knew that this system
existed, but this was the first time that he had come face to face
with it. It is one thing to read of the South's institutions in
one's living room in the East, but quite another to meet them
squarely, especially when you're on the short end of the stick.
Rooted in his tracks, he looked through the open door into
the white waiting room. It was well appointed, restful, with its
large, revolving electric fans and chrome and leather furniture.
Numerous magazine racks and neon lights completed the fur-
nishings. He could not see into the colored waiting room easily
as it was placed somewhat at an angle. Curiosity prompted him
to seek it out. Amazed at its dilapidation, he entered it indig-
nantly. The place was small, foul-smelling, its furniture out-
moded. Over the entrance to the lavatory, he noticed that some-
one had chiseled off the “gentle” from what was intended to be
“gentlemen," leaving only "men.”
Disgusted, humiliated and a bit frightened, Roy strolled out
to the nearest street where a Negro bootblack shined his shoes,
eyeing him surreptitiously. He obviously had never seen a Negro
in officer's uniform before, and Roy's preoccupation did not
invite conversation. Roy questioned whether he had already seen
the worst or whether this was just a beginning. Knowing that,
because of the South's economy, the army was more attractive
to southerners than to northerners, he wondered if they had
carried their system into the army itself. He felt that they had.
Returning to the platform, Roy discovered the place alive with
people. However, he was not prepared to see two lines formed,
one for whites, the other for Negroes. He felt that he had almost


26
to recognize the Negro either as a human being or as a soldier.”
The major who had remained silent heretofore broke in
hotly, “Do you realize that you are being insubordinate?"
Roy wheeled around and looked him in the face, disdainfully
retorting, “If that's insubordination, make the most of it.”
“When you speak to me, you say 'sir,” the major countered
with heat.
A half-concealed sneer played around the corners of Roy's
mouth. He answered defiantly, “Sir, while I do not know my army
regulations, sir, I can assure you, sir, that he who demands
courtesies, sir, which, sir, are, sir--"
"Well, you God-damned -----," the major roared, charging
at Roy, the blood vessels in his neck engorged, his face as red
as a beet.
The colonel who was nearby stepped between them with a
commanding, “Enough, gentlemen. At ease.”
After both men had recovered their composure, Colonel
Beecham with a stern face but calm voice addressed Roy.
“Lieutenant Raymond, I will agree that yours is not an enviable
position. Were it not for that and your newness to the service,
I would take disciplinary action against you. There is a war going
on, Lieutenant, and we must win it. Sectional methods of behavior
are of secondary importance at this time. As for ‘sir,' you cer-
tainly must have been a member of the Reserve Officers' Train-
ing Corps at college and are well aware of military conventions
when addressing superior officers. Your sarcasm to the major
was an unnecessary provocation."
"I have never found sweetness in adversity. Neither do I
subscribe to turning the other cheek, sir.”
“We haven't time to go into all that. There is a guest house
on the post for colored enlisted men. You will spend the night
there until other provisions can be made.” His tone was sharp,
final.
“Where do I eat, Colonel?”
“The chaplains have a portion of an enlisted men's mess hall
fixed up for themselves. I see no reason why you can't join them.”


27
Roy smiled wearily. “I could challenge that statement,
Colonel, but you have all the aces.”
“At 9 A.M. after breakfast,” the colonel continued, ignoring
the interruption, “a jeep will call for you. You will report to the
commanding officer at Dental Clinic Number Two for duty."
“Aye, aye, sir,” snapped Roy.
The colonel called the motor pool for transportation, and in
a few minutes Roy was on his way.
The colored guest house was a twelve-room structure with
an enormously spacious but cozy living room. Furniture was of
Swedish maple and two-toned green leather. The curtain ar-
rangement and color scheme had all the earmarks of a woman's
touch. At the southeast corner of the room was a compact little
office from which all activities could be discreetly supervised.
Three soldiers were reading magazines and looked up at Roy's
entrance. They followed him with their eyes, but no one spoke.
Roy left his bags where the driver had deposited them and
walked toward the office.
The hostess on duty rose as Roy approached the office.
Colonel Beecham must have notified her of his coming since she
greeted him with, “Welcome to our little family, Lieutenant."
“Thanks. I'm Lieutenant Raymond. You have a dainty little
place here."
“I am Mrs. Winston, Clara Winston. We try to make this
place as homey as possible.”
Her voice was that of the cultured southerner, with just the
faintest drawl. Roy viewed her with a masculine eye for feminine
detail: small feet; well-shaped legs; thighs not extravagant, yet
not penurious; waist and stomach doing well without apparent
benefit of girdle; breasts just large enough to be cupped in one's
palm. A cluster of dark brown wavy hair, which, even though
the beautician might have accentuated it, screened a copper-
colored complexion in which were embedded the full sensual lips
of her African ancestors together with the chiseled nose and
receding cheekbones of the Nordic counterpart. Beautiful? Al-
most. Yet, it was the round expressive eyes rather than the


29
“'And I said the hog is not for sale,' answered Harry dog-
gedly, his heart sinking because he knew what he was in for.
“The squire reached into his coat pocket for a cheroot, bit
off the end and lit it. With a half smile, half sneer, he took a
puff and remarked, “You haven't learned yet how to live with
white folks, have you, Harry?'
“Sullenly, his quiet anger rising up to his throat, Harry re-
plied, 'Have you learned to live with Negroes, sir?'
“The left side of the squire's mouth twitched back. He turned
toward the gate. Over his shoulder, he said, 'An uppish nigger,
eh? Rather an expensive dish, boy.'
“The next morning, the hog was found poisoned.”
Roy's only response was, “You mentioned molasses a while
ago. I don't know but that I could use some of it right now.”
“Come to think of it,” Clara responded with puckered lips,
looking Roy squarely in the eye, "I didn't finish the sandwich
which I usually bring along when I'm on this shift. If you're
not too proud, you may have what's left.”
Roy smiled. Viewing her again with renewed interest, he said,
“You know what they say about beggars.”
Clara led him into the little office. From the desk drawer,
she produced a cheese sandwich neatly wrapped in wax paper.
Handing it to him, she said, “Hope it isn't too dry, Lieutenant.
I'll get you a coke to wash it down.”
“Thanks so much. I appreciate your kindness.”
“I suppose it's old southern hospitality,” Clara responded,
as she made her way to the door of the office.
Roy lowered the sandwich which he was about to eat. With-
out rancor, he replied, “I can see the southern, but, as to the
hospitality, you'll pardon my saying I think it's highly overrated.”
Half turning, Clara shrugged as she answered, “Oh, well,”
and left.
In her brief absence, Roy munched on his sandwich and
mused how she was among the few women of all whom he had
met that he would love to nudge good morning. Just as he fin-


32
She smiled. “In a few days, you will have forgotten many
civilian habits.”
“Believe it or not,” Roy retorted with laughter, “I've begun
already.”
“Is this your first time South, Lieutenant?" asked Chaplain
Brown, apparently to make conversation.
“That's interesting,” replied Roy. “I have met many south-
erners whom I would have taken for northerners. I wonder what
makes you feel that I'm not one. Is my accent so different?”
He sipped his fruit juice which had just been served and eyed
the chaplain playfully.
"It's more than accent,” the chaplain said softly. “It's a ges-
ture, an attitude, even though unspoken, an approach.”
“That invites discussion, Chaplain. But, to answer your
question, yes. It is my first time South.”
Roy regarded the speaker intently. A fine-looking man, he
thought: a well-formed, strong mouth, lips not too Negroid; a
highly arched nose, a trifle broad at the base; dark, searching
eyes whose deep sockets failed to conceal their hunted look;
a high, intellectual forehead the temples of which were laid bare
by the receding salt and pepper hair. His very mien spoke refine-
ment.
“I thought as much,” continued the chaplain. “As an older
man, I would suggest—and I'm not being rude-that you do not
believe all the things you read in the northern papers. Things
are not always as bad as they are painted. You see, Lieutenant,
we get along pretty well down here with the white people. In
fact, I number quite a few whites among my friends."
“I left New York, sir, with an open mind,” Roy answered,
"but what I have seen and experienced during these last
twenty-four hours makes me feel that, had the South been
permitted to secede in 1860, it would have been better for all
of us. Now, it's my turn to request that you do not consider me
rude. But may I ask whether these so-called white friends have
ever invited you to dinner, to a visit in their homes? Has the


34
time. “It's a new slant, even though quite a militant one.”
Roy glanced at his watch and began eating his bacon and
eggs hurriedly. “I must report for duty at the dental clinic at
nine o'clock,” he said, “and, to win, one must not be caught
napping at the switch.”
The breakfast continued with less acrimony. Discreet ques-
tions and light banter served to clear the atmosphere. Everyone
was in good humor when, at eight forty-five, the jeep arrived
for Roy.


36
The major, Roy thought, was quite a young man to hold a
field grade rank. He was of that type of masculinity which
might be termed passively aggressive. Blond, tall, slender, he
addressed Roy in a manner representative of the true southern
gentleman.
"You have been transferred to another battalion, Lieutenant.
After you have met the men and checked in your instruments,
you will be excused so that you can report to your new command-
ing officer. There you will request a roster of battalion strength.
Tomorrow, instead of reporting here, arrange to examine all
the men. Examine them wherever you find them: on the range,
in the field, in the mess hall-even in the latrine. We have to
know just what is to be done and do it. Speed and good work
are essential. Within six months, we expect to be going overseas.
The men must be dentally fit. Now, if you will come along with
me, I'll introduce you to the men.”
As Roy accompanied the major around the clinic, the series
of introductions was interestingly varied. Many of the men gave
firm, sincere handshakes. Some gave a limp kind of clasp which
conveyed the impression that they might almost be holding a
tadpole in their hands. A few merely bowed, but, all in all,
they were not bad fellows to work with as the weeks of close
contact revealed.
The only approach to anything unpleasant occurred on an
afternoon when those dentists who had a half hour between
appointments were smoking in an improvised lounge in the
spacious lavatory at the end of the clinic. Roy relaxed with four
other dental officers when another entered in a huff.
While washing his hands, he remarked, “Those damn niggers.
I've never seen such broken-down mouths.”
The others glanced stealthily at Roy but passed no comment.
Flicking the ashes from his cigarette, Roy retorted loudly,
“Isn't that an indictment of the South?”
The officer in question stalked out without answering. The
incident was altogether ignored.
The checking of his instruments having been completed, Roy


37
called the motor pool for a jeep to take him to his new outfit,
the 612th Coast Artillery Antiaircraft Battalion. In the absence
of the commanding officer, he was received by the second in
command, Major Holland. Military greetings were exchanged.
The major affably offered Roy a cigarette and invited him to sit
beside him. Roy was impressed with his friendliness and com-
plete abandonment of the strict military dogma as he struck
a match and held it to Roy's cigarette. The act was trite among
smokers. To Roy, it assumed the proportions of a symbol. Look-
ing at the major, he noticed his closely shaven, oval face, his
pale blue eyes and somewhat reddish hair.
The major interrupted further scrutiny by saying, “If it will
make you any happier, the colonel and I have discussed your
case and have decided to help you as much as we can. By
helping you, I mean treating you as another officer in this bat-
talion.” After a somewhat lengthy pause, he continued, “You
are from New York, I understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That won't make things any better. In fact, it tends to arouse
feeling against you. You will not only be considered a nigger
but also a foreigner. You see, I'm speaking from experience.
I'm from Maine and even I am considered a damn Yankee for-
eigner. I want you to feel free to come to me for advice whenever
you find the going too tough. But you must remember this: I
can give you little physical support. I'm just another cog in
this vast machine. Majors can be bought a dime a dozen on
this post.”
“Now as to the question of your lodgings,” he continued,
"it has been decided to move you out of the guest house. It is
restricted to the visiting families of the enlisted personnel. It is
hardly adequate for the strength of this post, so a permanent
abode there would deprive an enlisted man from sharing it.
There is a large room behind the library which is being fixed
up at this moment as quarters for you.”
"Is there a shower on the premises, Major?”
“No, but that can be arranged later.”


“In renting an apartment in New York, we never accept
promises. The general feeling is that it is wiser to have all im-
provements completed before occupancy. Now, Major Holland,
you have been kind even to the point of being indulgent, but I
should prefer to have renovations finished before I move in.
The heat down here is equatorial, and with the popular concep-
tion that Negroes give off an odor, I must insist-and I hope that
you will not think me presumptuous-that the shower be installed
before I move in.”
“Mmmm. Good point, Lieutenant. So shall it be. With the
plumbing for the toilet, the job can be done within twenty-four
hours.”
“Thanks, Major. This interview has been a liberal education
to me. I will no longer subscribe to the tenet that all good white
men died a million years ago.”
The major laughingly said, “That's a new one.” He rose and
dismissed Roy.
Outside, Roy felt a sense of exhilaration which prompted
him to whistle softly to himself as he picked his way back to
the guest house.
For the next two weeks, Roy's military duties kept him so
busy that he had little time to think of himself. Inasmuch as
dentists received spot commissions and knew nothing about the
Army of the United States, classes were held from six to
eight weeks to indoctrinate the newly recruited officers into the
customs of the service. There were lectures on military cor-
respondence, military courtesy, sanitation, the setting up of an
aid station; care, transportation, classification and distribution
of the wounded; field reports and a host of other subjects which
were both enlightening and interesting.
However, on returning to his quarters, Roy felt a sense of
loneliness which was deeper than any he had experienced. It
was more destructive because he had met several friendly and
charming fellows, men of formal education, and cultural back-
ground, men who spoke his language. But they were enlisted


40
Approaching the theater of the area, Roy spied a familiar
figure. He increased his step to overtake her as he recognized
Clara.
“Not a bad sight for sore eyes,” he greeted her.
“Thanks,” she smiled. “Are you going in?"
“No. But since you left before the show was over, I take
it that it was not so good,” Roy answered, falling in step with
her.
"No. It wasn't the show. I felt restless and moody, so I thought
the show would perk me up. Fact is, it made me feel worse.”
“Most moodiness can be diagnosed as financial or of the
heart."
“I can't agree with you. No emotion is ever dismissed that
easily. However, in a sense, it was the heart. I got a letter this
morning from my husband who's overseas, and that's what started
it all.”
“I don't mean to change the subject, but if you're going
to the guest house, may I walk you there?”
“You may. It's O.K. with me.”
“Now, to resume what we were saying. Do you feel that if
you were not married, your emotional life here on the post,
restricted as it is, would be different?”
“Yes, I think it would. When a woman marries, she makes
adjustments which are hard to unmake, even if she becomes a
widow.”
“I agree with you. It has always been my theory that a
woman's emotions are like a horse who, once having tasted oats,
is reluctant to return to grass.”
Clara didn't answer immediately. Finally she laughed softly,
countering, “What of a man? Why single out the woman? Are
our emotions so different?”
"I'll answer you with a quotation: ‘Love to a man is a thing
apart, to a woman her whole existence.'”
“The conceit of you men has always floored me, and don't
forget, Mister Lieutenant, Brother Byron, whom you just quoted,


41
was also a man,” she answered, turning her head to look into
his face.
He smiled. Then they both broke into laughter.
“I think I'll have to go and dig up Byron and have him
batttle this out with you. However, that inverted bowl up
there which we choose to call the sky is too beautifully lined
with stars tonight to be neglected.”
"That's a graceful retreat, Lieutenant. I must agree. It is a
beautiful night, isn't it? By the by, I don't recall you ever men-
tioning whether or not you are married.”
“Oh, I'm single,” said Roy simply."
“I have always felt that marriage is such a great adventure
that a person is either a coward or without imagination to run
away from it.”
“It isn't always running away. Sometimes, you can't when you
would, and when you would, you can't.”
“Sounds a bit complicated. How about explaining?”
"Well,” he said, “I'll be personal. I couldn't get married
while I was in school because I couldn't afford to risk the
possibility of having a child-and I met some very nice girls.
When I had finished and started to practice and was able to
marry, the war began."
“Oh, Lieutenant, that reason doesn't hold water. People are
getting married almost every day on this post. The guest house
is full of newlyweds.”
“True. Only I do things differently. I don't think most of
these marriages will stand up a year after the war is over. In
most cases, they smack of legalized prostitution. If the poor
devil gets killed, his newly acquired wife inherits ten grand.
What if he returns maimed? Can you expect anyone to be solici-
tous and loving for life to a cripple whom she married over a
glass of whisky or slept with for a night and had it go to her
head?”
“That's putting it brutally, to say the least. It bears an atom
of truth. But I never cross a bridge until I get to it.”


44
post whose duties are to make adjustments for personnel who,
like you, are meeting with difficulties.”
“I shall utilize that possibility. Thank you ever so much.”
"Forget it. Forget it. Good luck.”
Roy returned to his room. After consulting his notes on mili-
tary correspondence, he began to draft this letter:
Subject: Request for Transfer
To: Commanding Officer
612th Coast Artillery Antiaircraft Battalion
Camp Stewart, Georgia
1. Officer requests transfer for the following reasons ...
On second thought, Roy decided to write the letter in the
customary civilian form. He felt that the appeal would be greater
from a psychological point of view. He hoped that a letter,
written contrary to stiff, military convention, would catch the
eye-and the hearts-of the higher-ups. Thus, he began again:
Sept. 17, 1942
Col. Richard Scott, Commanding Officer
612th Coast Artillery Antiaircraft Battalion
Camp Stewart, Georgia
SIR:
I hereby formally request transfer from this post for
the following reasons:
1. As a commissioned officer, I am denied treatment
which is in keeping with my rank. For example, I'm
compelled to eat field rations with the enlisted per-
sonnel under conditions distasteful to me. The prem-
ise is that the white officers would rise up in arms
were I to eat under the same roof with them.
2. Being the only Negro with a commission, outside
of two chaplains, I have no social or intellectual
comradeship whatsoever. The result is that, of neces-


45
sity, in order not to remain a recluse, I am com-
pelled to frequent the post exchange and, over a
bottle of beer, relieve the strain of ostracism.
3. There are many camps where the Negro officer is not
an oddity. I am requesting, sir, that you effect my
transfer to one of them. I would like to point out,
sir, that I am a New Yorker. Southern traditions
are reprehensible to me. I fail to see how, under the
above circumstances, I can contribute my small help
to the war effort. Permit me, sir, to quote from
Training Memorandum #38, dated Sept. 1, 1942:
Par. 1: The soldier must be treated as a man. Treat
him as you would like to be treated.
Par. 29: Our men must be as comfortable as pos-
sible. . . . They must have some reward for en-
thusiastic and efficient training service.
Par. 31: Regardless of race, color or creed, our
aim is to produce highly trained antiaircraft units
and soldiers. While doing this, we must also make
every effort to inculcate in our men pride in
being an American citizen, being selected to
bear arms against our enemies, impress upon the
men not only the advantages of being a citizen
of the United States but stress also the respon-
sibilities pertaining thereto.
4. Between the reasons for my petition for a transfer
and these quotations, there exists a contradiction
which none but the blind could fail to see. Hence,
my request.
Thanking you for your indulgence in this matter, I
remain,
Respectfully yours,
ROY RAYMOND
Ist Lt., Dental Corps


47
tact you as soon as possible. Another thing, Lieutenant: don't
carry a chip on your shoulders. If this is the only mistake the
War Department has made, then the war will be over this week
end. Expect my call.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Roy, bowing his way out.
The morning session at the clinic had not ended when the
supply sergeant announced the call. From the other end of the
phone, a clipped voice addressed him.
“Lieutenant Raymond?”
“Yes, sir."
"Colonel Gates speaking. Your transfer has come through.
Within twenty-four hours, you will receive orders. I hope you
will be happy at your new post.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
“That's quite all right. You're welcome. Good-by and good
luck.”
Roy sat in a daze by the phone, overcome by the rapid
change of events. He nervously puffed a cigarette, absent-
mindedly watching the smoke fade away. All at once, he became
aware of Major Rojan, chief of clinic. Roy was always at ease
with him.
“Aha. Caught in the act. Not working today?" the major
jokingly asked.
“Oh, yes, sir. I have just been transferred. My orders are
being cut.”
“I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“Frankly, yes. Major Rojan, I want to take this opportunity
to thank you for the fine way you have treated me. I am sin-
cerely grateful. I can truly say this has been the only bright
spot in my brief military career.”
“I'm glad to hear that. I'm a southerner, so don't think too
badly of all of us. Now, don't bother finishing the day. The
sergeant will check out your instruments. You still have to pack
and attend to minor details such as clearing the field. My very
best to you."


48
They shook hands warmly. Roy bade the operators good-by,
then hurried away to his room.
His packing finished, Roy indulged in his usual habit of
lying across the bed smoking. His thoughts strayed to Clara.
Closing his eyes, he recalled the dream he had had of her.
More than ever, he felt the desire of losing himself in the
mysterious pools of darkness that lay deep within her large,
brown eyes. Common courtesy required him to bid her good-by;
the promptings of his heart insisted that he do so. He shaved,
changed his uniform, whistling softly off-key to himself the
while.
It was twilight before Roy got started. Clara sat in her
customary place on the guest-house lawn. Dressed in a hand-
embroidered peasant blouse, with matching ballerina skirt, she
presented a charming picture as she relaxed in a beach chair,
her shapely legs stretched out before her. She smiled as Roy
approached. Looking at him intently, she said, “Well, you
certainly resemble the cat who ate the pet canary.”
“Could be, but I had no idea that it was so obvious in this
dusk. Truth is that I'm being transferred tomorrow and, among
other things, I've come to say good-by.”
“Good-by. All joking aside, I'm sorry that the prospect of
leaving gives you so much pleasure; yet, for a long time, I have
appreciated your position. By the way, why pick me for good-by
when there are three other hostesses on the post?”
“You know what they say about one rose in a vase.”
“Lieutenant Raymond, I have always admired your gift for
turning a phrase pleasantly, only when it is used impersonally,
however.”
“My dear Mrs. Winston, that is a half-truth. Why be prosaic
if you can say a thing elegantly? The trouble with most of us
is-well, let me illustrate by telling you a very short story. You
give the answer, if you will. Two men are in love with the same
girl. One is shy, timid. Shall we dub him Mr. Country? The


49
other is bold, polished, Mr. City Slicker. The lady is coming
downstairs; both men are at the door. Mr. Country rushes to
open it. In utter confusion, bathed in perspiration, he can't
even find the knob. The lady smilingly waits. Mr. City Slicker
walks over, gracefully opens the door, saying with a low bow,
‘May I have the pleasure?' The young lady smiles her acknowl-
edgment and makes her exit. Now, according to your line of
reasoning, smug City Slicker couldn't possibly be as much in
love as clumsy Mr. Country, isn't that so?”
After a somewhat lengthy silence, Clara observed, “That's
a farfetched example. Furthermore, I've always felt that too
much suavity smacks of insincerity or a vast amount of previous
experience."
“So, you care for Mr. Country, eh?”
“Let's not discuss it further. A fine way to say good-by.”
“O.K. O.K. Forget it."
They sat in silence on the rolling lawn while the darkness
gradually enmeshed them, each smoking, alone with his thoughts.
The area was deserted because of a dance at the servicemen's
club. Finally, Clara, in her quiet southern drawl, broke the
silence.
"Since it is your last night, I suppose I should invite you
to a farewell drink. It's not customary to entertain men in our
rooms. However, with discretion, we can get around that con-
vention. So, Lieutenant Raymond, of New York and points East,
if you will accompany me, I'll perform the honors.”
“Spoken like a perfect southern belle. While the scent of
jasmine and magnolia is still fresh in my nostrils, I'll follow
thee wherever thou shalt lead.”
Clara said nothing during all this banter. She entered her
quarters without looking back at Roy who followed close behind.
The room, a spacious one, at the end of the corridor, boasted
of nothing save cleanliness and tricky curtains. The settee was
a combination sofa and bed. A screen concealed what could be
roughly called a kitchenette. Behind this Clara disappeared to
Int Raye I'll pen belle


51
reverie when a tightening of his arms prompted her to struggle
for release. With great reluctance, he loosened his grasp until
she was free.
"Clara,” he said, “is the struggle to preserve the chastity of
your marriage vows worth the price of eventual mental illness?”
“My dear, it would be comforting to warm myself in the
glow of your affection. But I love my husband.”
“I know a girl who fought as you are fighting. She became
ill. No one could help her, not even the doctors. She went to
two or three psychiatrists. Each one advised physical satisfaction.
She took their advice. Very soon thereafter, in a fit of remorse,
she wrote her husband. In answering, he merely mentioned the
incident by saying, “I've had a wonderful furlough in Australia.'”
Clara rose slowly, freshened the drinks, began to sip hers.
With misty eyes, she clinked glasses with him. “Roy,” she said,
"I'll have to put you out. I'm no prude. I can think of no greater
pleasure than sharing this couch with you. But I must think of
tomorrow. People say that love is blind. Personally, I believe
that love just doesn't care to see. In my case, I see. I've gotten
used to these lonely, loveless, manless nights. What would hap-
pen to me if I took this moment of joy-with you leaving tomor-
row? How would my spirit and body react? What other ad-
justment could I make? No, dear. I must not destroy the peace
of mind of tomorrow for the happiness of this moment tonight.”
She finished her drink hurriedly. Standing with his hat in her
hand, she waited for him to finish also.
Alone, Clara sat in the corner of the sofa smoking a cigarette
in confusion. She wondered whether she had acted wisely.
There is no halfway mark between right and wrong, but who
is to judge in the final analysis, she queried. Love is an honor.
Can one toss it aside and have done with it for all time? She
remembered going into his arms as though drawn by a magnet.
She had been attracted to him from the first night, in spite of
loving her husband. Is it possible to love two men at the same
time, she asked herself. If both men were present and were
competing for her, would she be indifferent as to who won,


53
“Thanks very much. I have to get a bite to eat anyhow, so
I'll kill some time that way.”
Custom made it impossible for him to enter any post ex-
change whatsoever and order a sandwich and coke, inasmuch as
most of them were restricted to white personnel only. Para-
doxically, the whites used exchanges reserved for Negroes, but
it didn't work in the opposite way. In order to expedite things,
Roy walked up to the first Negro soldier he saw and asked
where he could find a post exchange for Negroes. He proceeded
as directed.
Apparently, among those things which produce the subtlest
brands of amusement are witticisms and the ridiculous. Roy
chuckled to himself. Just fancy a man fighting to preserve
democracy even at the cost of loss of life, who couldn't order
a pullman to get him to a post to which the government had
assigned him, or drop into an exchange to make a purchase.
Washing his sandwich down, he looked at his watch, shrugged
his shoulders and reported back to Captain Hicks.
“Well, Lieutenant, you're lucky. I succeeded in getting a
compartment for you to Montgomery, Alabama. However, you'll
have to proceed to Tuskegee by bus, a distance of about forty-
three miles. Your train, an express, will be flagged down at
Hinesville. You'll have to be there at the station at seven-
thirty.”
"Thanks a lot, Captain. The next time we meet, if ever, I
hope you'll be wearing oak leaves.”
“Hm. I have them right here in my pocket, just waiting for
the day to come.”
They both laughed significantly. Roy took the ticket which
the captain handed him and saluted his way out.
The scene at Hinesville at seven-thirty was enough to stir
the wrath of the most staid southerner. The train was flagged
down. A white boy, burdened down with Roy's bags, entered
the coach from which the stationmaster was signaling with his
lantern. Behind him strolled Roy nonchalantly, his hands in


58
in 1942 that the War Department had any idea of using Negro
pilots in combat. Nevertheless, the cadets were thoroughly
trained and rigidly disciplined. Unlike the white cadet who, on
receiving his wings, was sent into combat after a definite number
of flying hours, the policy was different regarding Negroes.
They piled up so many flying hours that, from sheer boredom,
when unobserved, many began to engage in stunt flying. Some
buzzed housetops. Others tried to pilot their planes between two
trees. The obvious result was that the casualties began to mount.
To complicate matters, the aircraft was antiquated. Some of
the planes had been used by Chennault's Flying Tigers in the
China campaign.
The Negroes comprised approximately three-quarters of the
field officer personnel. The remaining one-quarter white officers
held all the ranks and were placed in all key positions. It was
commonly asserted that the white officers received their pro-
motions by “climbing on the backs of the Negroes.”
All of the Negro officers could be classified into two groups:
the ambitious and industrious or the plain parvenus. The latter
usually advanced.
Another facet of southern attitude was a chauvinism which
recognized no color line. Most Negro cadets and officer train-
ing candidates were southern boys. The white northern officers
who were opportunists curried favor with their southern brothers
by adopting their philosophy in the treatment of Negro troops.
Once this Confederate approach was embraced, they became
blood brothers and advanced. The few who remained aloof either
received no promotions or were transferred.
The field had a splendid theater, a well-appointed officers'
club and a bowling alley: However, they were never frequented
by the white officers. The latter preferred to remain huddled
in a third-class hotel in Tuskegee proper, where recreational
exclusively by Negroes after retreat at five o'clock. The command
turned an indulgent eye away from the promiscuities of the
Negro officers which is not unusual in wartime. Women could


59
be entertained in the officers' quarters until midnight. Since
the mouse will frequently play when the proverbial cat is away,
the deadline was not always observed.
In all the labyrinth of interlocking subcommands, the station
hospital presented the healthiest spot. The physicians, dentists
and nurses had their separate mess and recreation halls. It was
a nice little medical family with the key position held as usual
by a white physician. Even here, the lust for rank and power
was not absent. It has been the observation of many sincere
men that the healing art and the ministry should not share in
the echelon of rank. As soon as a physician or a parson becomes
a major or a colonel, you can expect neither bedside condolence
nor divine humility from either. Each forgets his calling and
thinks mainly of the rank he holds and the authority it wields.
So was it at Tuskegee.
The dental clinic was small, having only three chairs. The
personnel consisted of three Negro dental officers, all first lieu-
tenants, and a major in command. He was an inoffensive mulatto
whose preoccupation with becoming a lieutenant colonel left
him no time to be bothersome. Life in the clinic was pleasant and
unhurried, as is usually the case when professional men are not
working in competition. Furthermore, no one had any illusions
about promotions since none were being made at this time. Any
improvement upon one's civilian training was not to be expected
via the army. However, since all three dentists were graduates
of different schools, it naturally followed that, by daily contact,
each had something to offer the other.
Most physicians at army air bases are flight surgeons. This
is a specialized form of medicine called aviation medicine. It
has to do with the effects of flying on the pilot. Randolph Field
in Texas was the training center. No Negroes were ever sent
there. To compromise, the War Department arranged a cor-
respondence course for its Negro medics. Learning of this dis-
crimination, the Negro press began a campaign to have it abol-
ished. Through the efforts of the white surgeon of the station
hospital, the War Department finally selected two physicians to


62
their third round of drinks when Roy teed off by saying, “Since
you guys fall all over each other when the discussion gets too
hot and controversial, I think we should let Blood act as a kind
of arbiter. For one thing, he's the oldest of us all and his booming
voice will make him a sort of vocal sergeant-at-arms."
“What the hell do you mean by the oldest of you all? Since
when does thirty-six—?”
“Brother,” laughed Frank, “you'll never see thirty-six again.
Didn't you tell me once that you had a chick parked in your car
on a lonely road and you decided to take her to your apartment?
Well, any time a man can't make good use of a parked car, he
has long since seen thirty-six.”
The laughter which followed was uproarious. Even Blood
joined in. When it had subsided, he rested his glass on his
chair, saying, “You punks. Is this your idea of a bull session?"
“O.K.,” announced Roy. “I'll start. Tell me this, Blood. You've
been in the army nearly fifteen years. You know the book back-
ward and forward. Then why don't you fellows who have cap-
taincies assume some kind of leadership in changing the condi-
tions at this post where some white pimp is in control of every
department? Why, you even train the bastards when they arrive
here as greenhorns, knowing damn well that, in four months,
they'll be promoted above you and take over.”
Lieutenant Frank Jones, dental officer, was about to say
something when Blood laughed sneeringly. “I see, my boy, you
don't know anything at all about the army. Well, maybe you've
heard the word. What happens when a man draws a courtmar-
tial? I'll answer that one for you. Some salesman or meter-
reader in civilian life defends him, but who prosecutes him?
I'll answer that too. A trained lawyer and, moreover, one who
has been sent to a Judge Advocate General School to learn
special military procedures of prosecution. So, I must assume
a leadership, buck a system in which I know the cards are
stacked against me and find my ass in jail? No, brother, not
for me. I know when I'm well off. David and Goliath exist only
in the Bible. Another thing: you fellows don't realize that, while


66
stand that the culture in the islands is very different from that
here in America, and the basis of the difference is economics.
Most women in America work. They have to in order to maintain
a certain standard. In the islands, in the class of which we are
speaking, they don't because, first, there are no suitable jobs, and,
secondly, it is not the accepted thing, which of course could be
based on the first reason. However, that is not the point. When-
ever a woman matches you, dollar for dollar, the parity, the level,
the equality is established. On the other hand, when the man
alone is bringing home the bacon, you have a tipping of the
scales. But the tipping does not necessarily mean disrespect
for the woman. It merely means that you don't have to help
with the dishes if you don't want to.” Roy chuckled.
“Let's all have another round together and wash away what
could easily leave some scars,” recommended Blood. “As I see it,
we are all Negroes or niggers, according to one's taste. How black
is black, anyway? Uncle says we're all black. So fill up, men, and
change the subject.”
Everyone obeyed without urging, and, as the bottle and coke
could be reached without moving, the gurgling sound of pouring
and drinking filled the room once again. After everyone had wet
his whistle, Blood remarked, "I'm the only layman among you.
All three of you are dentists or physicians. Now, tell me this:
how is it that while two-thirds of the Negroes are in the South
and badly in need of medical care, two-thirds of the professional
men are in the North where only one-third of our people live?”
“That's not so hard to answer,” replied Roy, placing his
glass aside and reaching for his cigarette. “When you consider
that quite a chunk is taken out of a man's life preparing for a
medical or dental career, it is natural that he should want to
spend the rest of his life where he can enjoy some of the things
a college education has refined him to. From what I see down
here, after a man has bought a fine home, a shining Cadillac and
an expensive fur stole for his wife, he has nothing else to do
with his money, or any opportunity to cultivate his tastes.”
"I've heard that crap before,” said Charles, who was a south-


67
erner. “Granted that you can go to the Metropolitan Opera, or
eat in a swank white restaurant and go to almost any place
you want to without the embarrassment of discrimination, last
time I was up North I noticed that there were hardly any
Negroes in these high-tone, cultural places. Blood is right. You
guys are so piled up on one another that you are almost starving,
while we almost work ourselves to death down here, feeling good
in putting our professions to good use and a damned sight better
when we look at our bank accounts."
“It's not a question of not finding the places overrun with
Negroes. It's the satisfaction of knowing that you can go if you
want to. Take the vote, for example. The poor whites, the
sharecroppers and the Negroes are fighting for the vote down
here. Up North, we have it. Yet, there is no stampede to the
polls at election time. But it is comforting to know that we have
the franchise. Then, when a bastard who is too strong for our
stomachs is nominated by the machine, we can go out there and
defeat him. However, every man to his own poison,” said Roy
doggedly. “As for me, I prefer to eat hamburgers on the streets
of New York than to eat steaks down here. Is there any truth
to this? I was told that if you should have a few white patients
in the South, the City Fathers compel you to put in separate
waiting rooms, even though the same pair of black hands is
going into the mouths of black and white."
"I can't deny that,” said Charles with feeling, “and since
you bums are all getting so blasted erudite, I might as well take
a fling at it too. Didn't we render unto Caesar the things that
are Caesar's? Well, if the Great White Father wants separate
waiting rooms, I say give them to him, simply because, in not
giving them to him, the damage is greater than in doing as he
demands. You see, Raymond, even though you've lived in this
country a long time, you really don't get the American point of
view. In fact, you're like all West Indians. We American Negroes
have a gift of survival. The Indian was proud and haughty.
He was exterminated. Now, cities, states and counties are named
after him. We're humble-but we're still here. If they want us to


upon their capabilities by a subtle network of unjust practices.
However, their general level of intelligence was sufficiently high
to raise them above the abyss of discontent into which they
might easily have sunk. The only place where open discrimina-
tion was practiced was at the post exchange restaurant. Since
the white officers consistently refused to attend regular mess, a
part of the exchange was set aside for their use exclusively.
Notwithstanding, no untoward incident was injected into what
had become an ominous calm until a brother Negro officer
returned from leave bringing War Department Directive against
Discrimination in Military Installation No. A.G.353. The pam-
phlet clearly stated that all army personnel could frequent any
and all installations on an army post.
“How's about seeing if this is according to Hoyle?” said the
bearer.
“Things have been quiet around here too long,” said another.
“Let's make it lunch with the Ofays tomorrow at their lily-white
restaurant."
A third chuckled aloud. “This is going to be good,” he said.
The men were all too willing to co-operate. Consequently,
the next day at noon, twelve Negro officers blithely entered the
reserved restaurant, appeared to ignore the mess officer who
approached them in consternation, and, with an air of abused
innocence, found tables and seats. The effect was terrific. Before
the man could open his mouth to protest, the army regulation
was thrust at him. The actions of the whites were abruptly
stopped at the various stages of eating. Some choked and sput-
tered. Forks dangled in mid-air. Plates of food were rudely shoved
aside as the majority rushed to the exit. All stared in sullen
rage. But the Negroes were served.
The performance was deliberately repeated for four con-
secutive days. Whereupon, the commanding officer called a meet-
ing of all officers. The colonel was a young, shrewd southerner.
He explained that the restaurant was the only place where the
white officers could relax and be alone, since the colored boys
had the rụn of the field. He further explained that, in spite of


70
army regulations, it was the epitome of bad taste to intrude where
you were not wanted. The Negroes listened in bored silence and
continued to interpret War Directive No. A.G.353 literally.
A week later, a second meeting was called. This time, the
colonel read the order. He closed the meeting by saying that
"the men could damn well go where they pleased except into
the women's toilet or the nurses' bedrooms."


73
self such a feeling of animosity toward the South that he won-
dered what effect it would have on his future. He had always
loved his adopted country but couldn't reconcile loving a thing
while entertaining hatred for a part of it. He thought of the
field and its Negro officers and could well understand it being
a nigger heaven to some while to others a Casbah.
Selfridge Field was located in Mount Clemens, on the out-
skirts of Detroit, Michigan. It was a small, compact, neat post,
ensconced between Lake Huron, the runways and aircraft
hangars. The troops arrived at midnight and were billeted in a
handsome, two-story building overlooking the lake. The rooms
were chosen according to rank, and although Roy was only a
first lieutenant, he was the ranking officer next to Captain
Thomas. He selected a large spacious room on the second floor
where each morning he could see the rising sun squatting on
the rim of that wide expanse of water, Lake Huron.
With Detroit only a half hour's ride away from Selfridge
Field, everyone had visions of enjoying its many night clubs
with the added pleasures of women and wine, not to mention
the gaiety and sensualities which are natural accessories. How-
ever, all of this ardor was dampened when, the following day,
the men awoke to find a notice posted on the main bulletin
board requesting all officers to report at 10 A.M. to the post
theater for an address by the post commander. No one knew
where the theater was. But after much wandering over the
strange terrain and via inquiries, they finally located it.
They had scarcely found seats when the familiar command,
“Attention,” brought them to their feet. A squatty, rum-soaked
individual, the eagles on his shoulders denoting his rank, strode
ahead of his two companions, majors, as it happened, to the
platform. Without benefit of introduction, the men listened to a
rambling, incoherent talk which, in the main, warned them to
abide by the rules of the post. Before he had finished the mumble-
jumble, ten Negro officers who had been unable to find the
theater entered. The colonel flew into a rage, saying that lateness
would not be countenanced and, to impress it upon them, he was


78
men found many reasons to admire and to like Matthews.
Like Captain Thomas, Colonel Holmes had been an enlisted
man, a master sergeant, before the war. Even though he now
wore the uniform of an officer and held a field grade rank, he
carried buried within his breast the heart of an enlisted man.
It was the same story of achieving greatness or having it thrust
upon you. He applied the same brusque, callow treatment to
the Negro officers as he did to the privates. He would frequently
breach of military ethics. The men were beginning to chafe
under his command. Every morning, at eleven, he browbeat the
group, finding grievances which were purely fictional. The men
showed their resentment by asking no questions, offering no
suggestions. The colonel was speaking to a wooden audience.
But if he were aware of it, there was nothing in his bearing to
indicate it. It was hard to determine the reason for his behavior.
Was he anti-Negro? Had his rank gone to his head? Whatever
the reason, that too was buried within his breast.
He had frozen the trips to Detroit, knowing full well that a
trip to Detroit was the only respite the men had. Detroit, fourth-
largest city in America, motor capital of the United States,
could boast of a population of three million, three hundred fifty
thousand of whom were Negroes living in widely scattered areas.
Their night clubs and restaurants were grouped around Hastings
Street, branching out to all parts of the city from that original
center. In spite of much tangible evidence of culture, unlike
Chicago and New York, Detroit was just a sprawling country
town. Within this city, one might find twenty racial groups,
the Poles constituting the largest single entity.
With the advent of war, Detroit was converted from motor
capital of the United States to munitions capital of the United
States. Despite its paramount importance to the war effort, the
tension between the whites and Negroes was high. Reasons for
this were many and varied. Some maintained that the war indus-
tries, with their wartime salaries, had attracted thousands upon


79
with them their traditional attitudes toward the Negro as well
as their unique manner of influencing others to act in accord
with them. Others felt that it was the second-generation immi-
grants, notably the Poles who, in the process of becoming Amer-
icanized, aped the standards of deeply rooted racial animosities.
Still a third group believed that, desiring to sabotage the war
effort, Nazi spies had taken note of the race question and had
worked overtime to stir up what at times might seem like dying
embers of a fierce antagonism. Whatever the reason, these facts
remained indisputable: housing conditions were intolerable. The
whites suffered. But Negroes, stepchildren of the nation, found
it practically impossible to obtain shelter. Recreation was lim-
ited. Since the white man was in the saddle, he reserved the
right to extend it or withdraw it.
Negroes were determined to assert their rights. A spirit of
aggressiveness extended to all classes among them. They knew
they were making contributions to the war effort and resented
the lack of recognition of their true worth. This precipitated
hate strikes. On one occasion, twenty thousand white workers
at Packard struck because three Negroes were upgraded. All
this in the midst of a war when hundreds of their kind were
dying overseas. During the course of another strike, a white
sailor who had recently returned from the war zone jumped into
the striking mass to tell them that he had seen Negroes fight
and die, had seen many go down when their ships sank. The
crowd jeered and insultingly reminded him that the navy prac-
ticed segregation and discrimination. So why shouldn't they?
The wonder of it all is that the government did nothing in the
face of this potential danger and the possibility of the whole
thing exploding in the face of the nation like a firecracker.
However great the injury or injustice, Negroes always laugh.
And it is not always dark laughter. The gift of laughter has been
a priceless treasure throughout the ages. So, in their own quar-
ter, they laughed, they sang, they danced, they flirted, they


80
loved, they hated, they back-bit, they went to church, they two-
timed, they educated their children, they got drunk-and they
resented the white man.
The Negroes of Detroit were unusually friendly to soldiers.
In most towns, at the approach of the man in uniform, the
civilian hastened to shoo away his womenfolk, pausing only long
enough to give him a polite but distrustful nod. Detroit was
different. The women's clubs vied with each other to entertain
the man in khaki. They were refreshing, attractive and, on
the whole, not ungenerous with their "affaires de coeur.” Almost
every night, some group could be found staging a party. The
admission was the uniform; the bill was on the house. Thus,
they neutralized Colonel Holmes's bile and unwittingly lifted
the morale of the Ninety-sixth.
· One day as Roy was about to enter the post exchange, a
tall sandy-haired major emerged. Something about his figure
was vaguely familiar. Each stared at the other for a moment.
Then both rushed impulsively to grip the other's hands.
"Roy, you old scalawag. What in hell are you doing in the
army?” The major was so overjoyed that he fairly shouted.
“Steve. My God. Is it really you? And a major at that. I know
you must have inherited it,” Roy said, grinning.
“Say, this calls for a celebration. Come on up to my room,”
Steve blurted out impulsively. “No. On second thought, I think
it would be better if we took a little ride and had a few drinks
in town away from all this. I have my car just around the
exchange.”
Roy thought he detected confusion in his friend but soon
forgot it, believing it to be baseless.
“Why don't you use army transportation instead of wearing
out your own car?” asked Roy.
“In the first place, that would be too conspicuous. Then I'd
have to fill out a trip ticket and that's too bothersome. Brother,
the army doesn't furnish transportation for personal recreation."


82
application. Taken utterly unaware, in his embarrassment, he
held the pieces of paper in his hand motionlessly while beads
of perspiration covered the forehead of his flushed face. Jenkins
never uttered a word. He merely stared at the man, picked up
the case and, with a twitch at the side of his mouth, left. His
anger and bruised feelings at the thought of the deception stayed
with him for weeks. He ate it at his meals. He slept with it at
night. Finally, he realized the futility of it all. But the spark,
the dash, the self-confidence which are so important in an
interview dwindled, then vanished altogether. The last time I
met him, he was a used-car salesman.”
They rode along in silence for a short distance. Of his own accord,
Steve pulled to the side of the road and turned off the ignition.
Without any further preliminaries, he said quietly, “Jenkins'
story taught me a lesson-a lesson in defiance. I vowed to
sell nothing but chemical engineering. One week after gradua-
tion, I got a good job with a large firm. They thought I was
white and I didn't disabuse their minds. After all, does a Negro
have to wear a placard announcing what he is? For a while, I
lived in Harlem, but I got tired of making excuses to the other
fellows on the job who wanted to visit me. So I moved into a
white neighborhood. I made rapid progress on the job, made
good money, lived in a swell apartment on West End.”
“Oh, I can imagine you enjoyed many advantages,” Roy
added innocently.
“That's on one side of the ledger,” replied Steve with a lined
face. “I had to visit my family surreptitiously. I had to swallow
the almost daily references to coons and niggers. I had to listen
without Alinching to the lurid details of how white men enjoy
sleeping with Negro prostitutes or near-prostitutes and the dubi-
ous honor of being a good bedfellow. Roy, life is very often a
paradox-too damn much so. Even though you pass up your
own race, instinctively you recoil from the jests and insults
aimed at the very race from which you are trying to escape.
In spite of the frequency of the insult, you never become


immune. Every insult is a fresh thrust. There is always a conflict,
a war between your physical needs and that which you reject
mentally and morally. Yes, the pay was good,” Steve con-
tinued, gritting his teeth. “I sometimes wonder whether Jenkins
would have passed if he'd been able to."
Roy sat there with a puzzled frown on his face. He seemed
momentarily burdened. He simply asked, “Then, why did you
enter the army as a white man?”
“Actually, I had no choice. On the War Department form,
in black and white, was the question, "race.” I had to think
of my eventual return to civilian status. I had to remain white.
I thought it would be a means of release. Actually, I've swapped
one evil for another. I never realized the call of race to race
could be so strong. They say in this country that one drop of
Negro blood in your veins makes you a Negro. Well, I have that
one drop, but it dominates the thousands upon thousands of
white drops. My instincts lean toward the Negro in spite of
close, intimate, enjoyable associations with white people. Oh,
what the hell,” Steve concluded harshly. “Let's go have a drink.”
Steve drove to a rambling, vine-covered house. As they
entered, soft indirect lights gave an atmosphere of warmth and
cheer to a spacious room which was flanked on each side by
numerous booths. Many patrons sat at a large, semicircular bar
which spread across the entire end of the room. A few couples
were dancing. Most just sat drinking and talking.
Steve and Roy walked slowly to the bar. Roy was aware of
the stir which their entrance created. He could feel the hush
in the conversations. He sensed something vague but malignant.
Two vacant seats near the end of the bar seemed to be waiting
just for them. They approached and sat.
“What will you have, Roy?” asked Steve.
“Black and white with water,” Roy responded, addressing
the bartender.
The bartender looked at Roy significantly, then said, “Sorry,
but I think you've had enough.”
"Had enough? Enough of what?” exclaimed Roy, amazed.


man whom I presume to be the proprietor remarked that money
talks on this base.” He was looking right at Major Riggs when
he spoke.
The change in Major Riggs's mien from indifferent placidity
to subtle alertness was barely perceptible.
“Furthermore,” said Steve, “I have an eyewitness, an officer
whose report substantiating what I have told you is in my
pocket.”
“The place will be placed off limits, Major Stewart,” was
the cold rejoinder. “But I would advise you to keep your nose
very, very clean from now on."
Steve walked to the door. He said over his shoulder, “And
don't forget, Major Riggs. You have a nose too."
A week later, Steve was shipped overseas. Roy never saw
him after the night's incident.
One evening, as Roy shaved in the latrine, Matthews joined
him, and, after the usual, commonplace chitchat, inquired, “Say,
Raymond, how long are we going to put up with Holmes's
bull shit?”
“As far as I'm concerned,” said Roy, “I've never paid the
bastard any mind. His rantings go right in one ear and out the
other. But what's on your mind?”
“How about rounding up some of the boys to see what they
think? You stay right here. I'll be back in a jiffy. Most of the
fellows are in the barracks anyway. I'll hustle them over and
just pass up the Uncle Toms.”
Roy had just left the shower when the men, with Matthews
in the lead, trooped into the latrine. Matthews started, “Dry
yourself, man, and let's start this latrine conference.”
Roy tied the towel around his middle. Eying the men, he
said mischievously, “I don't think we'll accomplish much. But,
this I know: some of the greatest decisions have been made
in a shit-house.”
Lieutenant Mackie, who had been transferred to the group,
began, “We all know that Colonel Holmes, since taking over the


88
hall, arranging themselves in the accustomed U formation. A
sharp “Attention” announced the arrival of the colonel. He
stalked in in his usual rude manner and, true to form, began to
gripe about some minor lapses on the part of the men. Roy,
who was at the extreme end of the hall, stepped forward.
He addressed the colonel. “Colonel Holmes, may I have a
word with you?”
“Yes. What is it?”
"Well, those silver oak leaves place me at a disadvantage.
Could we figuratively remove our insignia and speak man to
man?”
The room was in dead silence. The colonel who certainly
was no student of psychology acted as though he were a past
master of the subject. Without answering Roy, yet staring
savagely at him, he stomped down the room, a distance of some
fifty feet. Standing face to face with Roy, arms akimbo, he
said, “For your information, Lieutenant, one's rank is tattooed
on him. It can't be removed. However, I'll accommodate you.
What's troubling you?”
“It's just this, Colonel. Since you have had this command,
you have never spoken a kind word to any of us. At your meet-
ings, it has been a series of innuendoes and bluster. You've lost
sight of the fact that these men are porters neither here nor in
civilian life. Many of us hold college degrees—and from white
schools. So there is a natural resentment toward your attitude.
The junior officer, as inconsequential as he seems, can break
his superior officer, be he colonel or general. The method is
simple, just by passive resistance.”
“Continue,” said the colonel brusquely.
"You've constantly harangued about our using government
gasoline to go joy-riding around the post. Yet, on my way to duty
this morning, I saw a staff car, with army personnel, delivering
a white officer's groceries. Another thing. I understand that you
are about to move us down to this mudhole from our present
quarters. Am I correct, Colonel, in saying that I see in this move
a fine Italian hand?"


Seven
THE TRANSFER of military personnel from one station to another
is perhaps, next to a general court-martial, a commanding
officer's most potent weapon. Like the sword of Damocles, it is
suspended above one's head, a perpetual threat, to corral you
into line. It is, to a degree, reminiscent of the church's power of
excommunication.
Oscoda was an outpost of Selfridge Field. While its main
purpose was to give troops rigorous and rugged training in
preparation for overseas duty, it was a kind of Siberia, a place
to send non-conformists and those who strained too hard against
the leash. The convoy started at the crack of dawn. As the day
slowly reached out its hand to touch the cool, receding fingers
of night, the trucks rolled from village to village. The deeper
they penetrated the Michigan countryside, the sparser became
the houses in the passing hamlets, the more towering the pines
and the denser the wooded areas on either side of the road.
It was nearly twilight before Oscoda was reached. There
could be found the same type of quaint, sleepy village as had
been passed countless times en route, and which are common
to any Midwestern state. With the outbreak of war, the village


92
whu.
had been closed as a summer resort because of the airfield
nearby.
In spite of the fact that Detroit had so many Negroes within
its borders, none resided in Oscoda or its immediate environs.
But, war being war, and the departure from the normal being
the accepted thing—at least, for the duration—when the inhab-
itants of this little town, which numbered at the most three
hundred, saw the truckloads of Negroes descending upon them,
they waved and shouted a regal welcome. It might have been
patriotic or mercenary. Oscoda had taverns, a bowling alley,
souvenir shops and a few restaurants which had served the
one-time tourist trade. To be overrun with a swarm of G.I.s,
who have on no occasion been noted for their stint, was un-
doubtedly disarming. From what standpoint their reception was
genuinely altruistic could not be discerned. The little cottages
which dotted the woods, stringing themselves along the shores
of Lake Huron, added to the picturesqueness of the village. But
they had been vacant too long for the owners' comfort, and
were soon to find their walls bursting with the mirth and love
play of these descending black men.
Oscoda Army Airfield was not built along the customary pat-
tern of an army post. Instead of large barracks to house as many
as possible, there were small huts to accommodate couples. Two
officers shared each hut. Furniture consisted of a potbellied stove
centrally located, two beds, a desk and an open closet. The
well-known adage of not being able to see the forest for the
trees might be transposed to not being able to see the cottages
for the foliage. Only the station hospital and administration
building conformed to army standards.
The field had a small white cadre of enlisted and officer
personnel. The station hospital was comfortable and well staffed.
There were five medical officers, as opposed to the fact that
there were no dentists. Roy's task was to set up a dental clinic
in order to care for his men, the station complement as well
as for those needing treatment in the village of Oscoda which
had no dentist either and which, through a special dispensation


93
from the War Department, was permitted to use army hospital
facilities.
The only tavern which had accommodations for dancing
was a cozy little place hidden among the pines and shrubs,
called The Sky Top. There the men drank, played the juke box
and danced with the local white girls who frequented the place.
This prevailed for several weeks until it came to the ears of the
local southern post commander. He visited the tavern and de-
manded that the proprietor discontinue interracial dancing. Upon
his refusal, the commanding officer placed The Sky Top off
limits to all military personnel.
The Sky Top might just as well have boarded up its doors.
In desperation and in order to stem the flow of trade from the
other taverns which were doing a land-office business, the pro-
prietor acquiesced. Business returned to normal. The Negro
G.I. would put his nickel in the juke box, sit and sip his beer
while his white comrade-in-arms danced at his expense. Military
police were stationed at the tavern to see that the ruling was
enforced. Peace reigned until a colored officer appeared to dance
with his white wife. Prepared for just such an emergency, he
was able to produce a marriage certificate, demanding to know
what national law forbade a man to dance with his wife. The
incident provoked nothing more than a chuckle among the vil-
lagers, because the proprietor was a native son while the com-
manding officer was a stranger. Furthermore, the natives were
wise enough to appreciate the free spending among these easy-
going, good-natured men.
Meanwhile, the Negroes had begun to send for their wives
and sweethearts to share the cozy cottages. An officers' club
was hastily constructed by placing three log cabins together,
with the unique feature of a double fireplace in the center,
giving the structure a homelike atmosphere. Each man contrib-
uted his bit toward the purchase of furniture. The women did
the decorating. A homemade bar and a juke box added to the
atmosphere of ease and comfort.
Something was going on each night. Lawn parties were


94
held at the slightest provocation. During off-duty hours, there
were boating and fishing on the lake, horseback riding through
the woods. So it was that what was intended to be a punitive
measure turned out to be an idyll. Everyone was cheerful and
pleasure-bent. The term "light-housekeeping” was coined and
acquired a figurative meaning. It referred to couples posing as
man and wife and sharing the huts for a fortnight or a month.
Their emotions exhausted, the women would leave as blithely
as they had come.
Other convoys arrived, each man bringing with him a bit of
imagination to add to the already large fund. Gradually, the
men began to forget that a war was going on. However, they
were rudely jolted back to reality one Sunday when, without
warning, Colonel Holmes made a sudden appearance and
scheduled a call meeting immediately after lunch in the mess
hall. All enlisted personnel were excused. After a careful check
was made to ascertain that none remained behind or were in the
area, the colonel faced his men and began, “Yesterday, we had
an unfortunate affair at Selfridge Field. The post commandant
accidentally shot and seriously wounded his colored chauffeur.
I want you to understand that it was an accident and, when
the news gets out, impress upon your men that such were the
facts. I can easily understand how a warping of the details
can affect this command since the man was a Negro."
The once belligerent colonel had a note of pleading in his
voice which did not escape notice. The men said nothing,
but it was evident that they were thinking deeply. His mission
accomplished, the colonel closed the meeting. He motioned
to Roy to remain behind as the others filed out. Remembering
their last meeting, Roy was taken aback. Neither did he care
to be seen in cahoots with the commanding officer. Such a
liaison would create distrust among the men, and he could think
of nothing more damnable than to be considered a stool pigeon.
However, tacit or otherwise, orders are orders. Thus, he remained.
Eying him with a faint smile, the colonel said, “I understand


97
people. Yet, I have heard many white physicians say that the
only thing a Negro surgeon could do for them was to pare
their corns. Marian Anderson, proclaimed by some to be the
greatest contralto of our time, had to go abroad to be discovered,
but she has failed to make the Metropolitan Opera House.
Carver has done wonders with the peanut. It is rumored that
the American Peanut Company offered him a million dollars
to turn all of his discoveries over to them. Most whites feel
that the only thing Negroes are good for are singing and cooking.
Despite this fact, Negro spirituals are the sole contribution of
America to the world of music. A Negro has conducted the
highest form of musical art, the Philharmonic Symphony."
"I have to confess,” the colonel replied, “all this is news to
me."
"And to millions of other Americans who don't care to face
facts. There has been a systematic effort to belittle the Negro
by deliberately withholding the truth. A Columbia University
professor whose history textbook is used in high schools and
colleges all over the United States has remarked that, from
time immemorial, the Negro has been a hewer of wood and a
drawer of water. Notwithstanding, we find our images on the
Sphinx, and Aesop, that delightful teller of fables, was an
African. Pushkin, the first great author of modern Russia, was
an octoroon whose father came from Africa and was given
to the czar.
“Now, in the midst of this war, Time Magazine wonders
whether the Negro fighting man is equal to his white brother
when, as far back as the Revolutionary War, Crispus Attucks
led the mob in Boston and, to this day, a monument to his
memory stands on Boston Common. Negroes fought on both
sides during the Civil War, one gaining the rank of general.
“But enough of this. I know that your time is limited and I
wonder whether all this is not water on the duck's back.”
“On the contrary,” replied the colonel seriously, “I am grate-
ful for all that you have said. I would like you to give me a list
of a few unbiased books. I must admit, though, that I am dumb-


99
Unable to answer these turbulent questions, yet wary of
the colonel's motive, Roy finally quit the mess hall and went
to Oscoda where he could lose himself in the company of
servicemen not yet acquainted with the fracas.
Roy was stationed at the field hospital, near the entrance
to the post but far removed from the group. Even though he
met the men at mess, mainly at breakfast and lunch, there was
slight opportunity for anything more than hurried conversation.
The shooting was discussed with discretion. Resentment was
subdued but apparent.
At supper, on the Monday following Colonel Holmes's de-
parture, an officer seated at one of the long rows of tables, not
too far away from Roy, remarked meaningfully, “Well, Roy, I
see that you and the colonel have become boon coons."
“Oh, sure," replied Roy, anticipating the thrust. “All roads
lead to Rome, remember?”
“Now what the hell does that mean?”
“I tell you what. Round up as many men as you can. Meet
me in my hut and I'll be glad to tell you all about roads and
Romans.”
“I don't see why you have to be so damned mysterious. You
must know that the men have discussed this business from every
angle. The club has become a graveyard. The men are too
preoccupied to pay any attention to the women. They're either
sulking in their cottages or playing Pokeno. We're getting no-
where fast. Just what gives?”
Holding onto his patience, Roy said, “Let's get together in
an hour and exchange notes."
“O.K. Maybe you know something-and maybe you're playing
fox for Roy."
“Hm. I'd be a damned fool not to take care of me. Come
if you want to.”
Lying across his bed, Roy was browsing through the day's
edition of the Detroit Free Press when the men entered his hut.
Medical officers together with a fair sprinkling of men from all
branches of the service were present. Roy rose to make room.


101
No assuring nod of approval gave answer as Roy surveyed
the room unsmilingly and unflinchingly. The silence was sick-
ening. Then, gradually, the note that he had hoped for rose
to a voluminous crescendo as the men boomed in unison,
“Bravo."
The officers and enlisted personnel of the Ninety-sixth fol.
lowed the accounts of the shooting with avid interest. Both day
and evening editions of Detroit's leading metropolitan papers
reported the incident in detail. While the Detroit Free Press,
the Detroit News and the Detroit Times all gave unbiased
accounts, the Press was favored because it was noted for its
liberalism.
The trial lasted seven weeks. It was brought to the attention
of the readers that the post reeked of graft and corruption.
Because of the expediency of war with the accent on haste,
action and production, and the resulting outgrowth of laxity,
such a situation was not unusual. However, in this particular
instance, it appeared that there had been a complete breakdown
in command function because of the weakness in character of
the commanding officer. The over-all pattern of chicanery pene-
trated the ranks from the highest to the lowest. The opportunists
believed in making hay while the sun shone, and the glow was
that of a midnight sun.
The press created such a furore that Representative Paul
Shafer was appointed to conduct a thorough Congressional
investigation. Hidden beneath the placid countenance of what
seemed to be a routine, workaday military establishment was
a situation so scandalous that, in comparison, the fetor of the
shooting was like that of orange blossoms. It was revealed that
wealthy men's sons were taken off ships at the port of embarka-
tion just as the vessel was about to sail, that they were detained
at the fields in so-called essential positions which precluded
their seeing combat. One enlisted man was known to have his
yacht anchored in Lake Huron, just off the field, where high-


102
ranking officers reveled in nightly orgies. The press demanded
that the same justice be meted out to an officer as would have
ensued had an enlisted man shot an officer.
Colonel Cole finally stood trial. He had to face twenty-seven
charges. The army with its chauvinistic philosophy of protecting
its own found him guilty on four charges of conduct prejudicial
to good order and discipline, and, ironically, of careless use of
firearms. The men of The Ninety-sixth Battalion wondered
whether carelessness in marksmanship connoted the wounding
instead of the killing of the private. There is more mystery in
the concepts of military doctrine than can be found in the
philosophies of Socrates or Plato. The court-martial board or-
dered Colonel Cole to be reduced to the rank of captain with
no promotions for three years. That constituted his entire
punishment.
Once again, newspapers took up the hue and cry. The Detroit
papers branded the whole thing a whitewash, pointing out that
Colonel Cole actually hadn't been punished since he was merely
reduced to the rank he held before the war, his colonelcy being
of temporary grade. National publications began to add their
pressure to the barrage of local criticism leveled at the War
Department until the colonel was finally dismissed from the
American Army.
It is an accepted theory in some schools of psychology that
the nervous system never forgets. If that is so, then the men
of the Ninety-sixth never forgot an unjust restriction to the post
for two weeks without tangible reason. Thus, they had suf-
ficient cause to gloat over the misfortunes of one individual.
Colonel Holmes did not pull his men out of Selfridge Field
as quickly as he had planned. However, the fault or reason was
not his, nor was it surprising that things moved so slowly.
At best, removing any large group en masse is a Herculean task.
Moving day in the army is as welcome as a blizzard in August.
It is as devastating and demoralizing for the moment as it is
with a large family that moves from one residence to another.


108
I have an aunt?” She sounded breathless, excited and afraid.
“I don't know what I can do but I'll try. Give me your phone
number and I'll call you back.”
“Thanks, pal. I knew you'd at least try. The number is
Sherry 9030.”
Roy who was some distance from headquarters managed to
commandeer a jeep to get him back there. Colonel Holmes was
ignorant of the state of affairs in Detroit. As Roy dashed into
his office unceremoniously, the look of indignation at this rude
entrance disappeared as he recognized him. Roy announced
excitedly, “Colonel Holmes, there's a race riot in Detroit.”
“What? How do you know?”
“My cousin who is caught in the middle of it just phoned
me asking for help.”
“Just a minute.” The colonel picked up the phone, called all
unit commanders as well as post headquarters, telling them to
restrict all men to the post until the riot subsided. That accom-
plished, he leaned back with a sigh of relief.
“Colonel, what about my cousin?” Roy asked.
“Tell her to stay put where she is. She's at least safe there.”
"I'm not so sure about that. Is that the thanks I get for
breaking my neck to come over here to inform you?” demanded
Roy somewhat heatedly.
“All right, Raymond,” the colonel said soothingly. “Keep your
shirt on. I'll phone Selfridge Field and have a truck pick her
up to take her out of the riot zone. Write down her name and
address. But, don't forget: this is not strictly military.”
“Thanks, Colonel. Thanks a lot. I hope you will be a general
soon.”
"Oh, cut the talk. Write down the name and address and get
the hell out of here,” said the colonel, apparently not unflattered.
Roy walked slowly back to the hospital. He was glad to be
able to help Sheila. But he wondered why the government hadn't
taken steps to prevent this uprising when, for more than a year,
it was common knowledge that Detroit was dynamite. It was
astounding to see that, in the midst of a world war, Americans
why the
wledge Prising


109
could take time out to indulge in fratricide. Was the chasm
between whites and blacks so great that an ordinary fist fight
between a Negro and a white man could precipitate a race riot.
Had education and religion failed-or was hate a fiercer emotion
than love? It is more or less true that all of our institutions
harbor a hate streak, he speculated. Then how could the individ-
ual be blamed? The armed forces Jim Crow you. The schools
in a great many states Jim Crow you with separate and unequal
facilities. Even the church, the last refuge and sanctuary, denies
you admittance and sacrament in the major part of our country,
he thought. The courts and those who enforce law do not always
dispense blind justice. Then, is it not better to fight back, he
wondered bitterly, knowing you would die like a man, hoping,
perchance, that for every three Negroes killed, at least one white
would die-outnumbered, swapping blows, bleeding, reeling,
dying, but fighting back.
Roy was so engrossed in thought that he reached the hospital
before he knew it. He had read of race riots in the nation's
capital, in Chicago, but he never had been as shaken as he was
today. Sitting on the steps of a less frequently used side entrance
to the hospital, he tried to analyze the cause of his disturbance.
It certainly was not Sheila. It was something more deeply funda-
mental than that. Why? Why must these occurrences take place,
he asked himself, and with such frequency? Now, at last, full
understanding came to him as the words of Claude McKay
thundered through his brain; McKay, Jamaican immigrant like
himself, to whom this country had given so much also:
Although she feeds me with bread of bitterness
And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength against her hate. *
*From "America,” in The Selected Poems of Claude McKay (New York:
Bookman Associates, Inc., 1953); reprinted by permission.


113
Roy walked into the post exchange. He bought six captain's
bars and a box of cigars. The enlisted man who sold him the
bars grinned and asked, “May I be the first to pin them on you,
Captain?
"Sure. Go ahead,” Roy replied.
The private removed the silver bar and replaced it with a
twin bar, saying, “If I'm not too bold, sir, seeing that you won't
be needing this bar again, I'd like to keep it as a souvenir.”
“Sure thing. And I hope that one of these days you'll be
wearing it yourself.”
“Sorry, sir, but we can't all be officers. I'm always glad to
see one of us make the grade provided he doesn't forget me
and the thousands of others in the ranks.”
“Good thought, fellow. I accept my new rank with humility
especially when I think of stout fellows like you. 'By, now.”
“Good-by, sir,” said the private, gazing at Roy's retreat-
ing figure with pride while his fingers fondled the bar.
Roy left the exchange to make his way toward the wooded
area which was on the fringe of the post. Just for one short
minute, he wanted to meditate alone, with no alien, prying eye
to rob the moment of its solemn grandeur. Not since he had
received his dental degree had such a feeling of accomplishment
overwhelmed him. He sat on a log among the shrubs in a clear-
ing that seemed to have been prepared just for him. He thought
back over his army career, of the soul-searing bruises, of the
disillusionment as to his place in the American scheme of things.
He thought of his open resentment to a citadel, the abuses of
which he could never condone. Captain of the Army of the
United States of America. Assuredly a signal honor for any man.
Deep within his heart he acknowledged it as a reward for cour-
age, a mantle to enfold him as he pursued one set purpose: to
continue to fight any further abuses he might experience, since,
for the time being, reform was not a part of the pattern.
In recognition of his new rank, Roy was ordered to stand
in review of the Ninety-sixth that evening at retreat. He received
full instructions concerning the deportment of officers from other


115
“This is all the service you galoots are going to get from me.
The stuff is right over there and it's strictly self-service. Knowing
how bashful you are, I'll be the first to lead off.”
An outburst of raucous laughter followed. As Roy fixed his
drink, the men jostled one another to get theirs.
“Speech. Speech,” Roberts shouted, holding his cup in the
air. Before long, all the others took up the cry.
“What the hell do you guys want? Blood?” Roy laughed.
“You're smoking good cigars, and holding good whisky in your
hands. So now you want a speech. Maybe you want a strip-teaser
too, eh? O.K. Here's a speech. It's simply this: Now that the ice
is broken, other promotions should be forthcoming. But you will
have to convince Holmes that you deserve them.”
“You're the only man I've ever seen or heard of who browbeat
his commanding officer into giving him a promotion.”
“Do you really think that that is actually the case?” inquired
Roy.
"Oh, hell, I don't know.”
"Well, I know. It's hard work. It's a refusal to take an un-
earned bawling out. It's the ability to sell the fruits of your
labor, and, finally, it's the unwillingness to stoop.”
The men fell into a silence which indicated that they had
taken Roy's statement seriously. Finally, Roy broke the stillness
by demanding, “Say, what is this? A wake? Come on. Drink
up."
The men returned to their festive mood and filed out of the
hut only after they had emptied the last bottle.
Several weeks later, a War Department inspection had the
whole outfit on its toes. One of the brass visited the hospital,
examined Roy's records, and, finding things in order, inquired
whether he had any recommendations or complaints. Roy had
two. First, he wanted another dentist to join the group on de-
tached service so that the work could be speeded up. Second,
he wanted to go to a service school in order to learn something
of his duties under combat conditions. The major, a dentist
himself, remarked, “You're very inconsistent, Captain. You want


116
another dentist to help you because of too much work. Yet, you
want to leave to go to school.”
“The inconsistency lies in the consistency of your policy,
Major. You consistently overload the dental corps in instances
such as prevail here, while, at Huachuca, you have a large dental
pool where the men just eat, sleep and draw their pay. The
other inconsistency is that I have received no formal military
training except for stopgap lectures. Yet, you expect me to ac-
company this outfit overseas and to function under conditions
far-removed from civilian practice. You cannot honestly deny
that, except for paperwork, the duties of the dental officer are
identical with those in civilian life.”
The major frowned, then smilingly replied, “O.K., Captain.
Unwind yourself. How can you generate so much heat in this
Michigan calm? What you've said is true. But you realize I don't
make the policies. I'm only a major. There's some merit in all
you've said. So I'll call it to the attention of those in command,
and maybe-who knows?”
The major kept his promise. The following week, another
dentist was assigned to the group. Roy had no sooner acquainted
him with the roster and demands of the group than he received
orders to report to Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania, for a six
weeks' training in medical field service under combat conditions.
He packed joyfully because he realized that he would be just
a stone's throw from New York, that Bagdad on the Hudson.
Odd, he thought, as the oft-repeated saying goes, that people
who live in New York wonder how anyone can live elsewhere,
while those who live elsewhere wonder how people can live in
New York.
Passing through the city of Carlisle, none would suspect that
it holds such a prominent place in American history. It seems
detached, far-removed from the hubbub of excitement and
activity that appears to be characteristic of nearby Harrisburg.
Maybe it has retired on its laurels or has been gently pushed
aside by other communities which follow more closely the
pattern of the twentieth century.


117
Carlisle was settled as early as 1720. During the French and
Indian Wars, it was the supply center of expeditions against
the French. General Washington maintained headquarters here
during the Whisky Rebellion. Not too irrelevant is the fact
that Molly Pitcher of revolutionary fame is buried at Carlisle.
Carlisle Barracks, United States Army medical field service
school, situated at the northeastern section of the city, was
built by the British before the Revolution but was captured
by the continentals during that same war. After the battle of
Trenton, Hessian prisoners were kept there. The barracks were
later burned down by Stuart's men but were rebuilt by the
prisoners and still stand intact as the West Point of the medical
department of the United States Army. Here, physicians, den-
tists, veterinarians, sanitation and medical administration offi-
cers receive training in the basic principles of medical deport-
ment as well as training in combat routine.
Roy felt proud to be a part of this vast body of student
officers. Here, discrimination and segregation did not rear their
ugly heads. If the predominantly southern students resented
sleeping and eating beside Negroes, they suppressed their feel-
ings surprisingly well. The attitude of some of the members of
the faculty was highly amusing. These officers, professional men
in civilian life, had completely lost their identities. Most of
them seemed more concerned with barking out commands in
close-order drill than with the more gentle and refined art of
physical examination of patients. As a matter of fact, Roy, who
had never really been regimented, wondered how these civilian-
soldiers would readjust to civil practice where persuasion,
gentleness, a soft voice and a kindly demeanor are as essential
as a major operation or a sound diagnosis.
The six weeks' course was very intense. The following routine
was meticulously carried out: breakfast at seven-thirty, forma-
tion at eight, classes from eight to twelve, lunch from twelve
to one, formation at one to the classroom. From three to four,
either calisthenics or close-order drill was included. Occasionally,
this might bę varied with a hike of from fifteen to twenty-five


118
miles or by watching the barracks' full complement of troops
simulate combat with the emphasis on the functions of the med-
ical corps men and medical department officers. Supper from
four to five, a long period of study followed by “lights out”
at eleven-thirty, completed the order of the day from which
there was rarely, if ever, any deviation. Those who cared to
visit Carlisle proper or to travel in Pennsylvania did so at the
risk of failing their examinations. The wiser men learned to
reserve their free week-ends for trips to Philly or to the bright
lights of New York.
From the point of view of range and the deeper insight they
offered into l'art militaire, the courses were sufficiently varied
to meet the needs of almost any, conceivable military situation.
No subject seemed to have been omitted. Logistics, map-reading,
sanitation, care and methods of handling the wounded on the
battlefield, chemical warfare, intelligence and counter-intelli-
gence, aircraft recognition, close-order drill, military courtesy
and discipline, maneuvers in combat, transportation, the control
of tropical and venereal diseases, all these were crammed into
this brief period of training. To Roy, fresh from the air corps
where the accent was not on drill or related activities, the
barracks seemed a virtual workhouse.
Discipline was strict to the point where it could easily have
passed from the sublime to the ridiculous. Roy had a humorous,
though unpleasant, taste of this during the third week of the
course.
One day after lunch, he had to make a hurried visit to the
latrine. In the midst of defecating, he heard the whistle blow for
formation. He hurriedly terminated this physical function. What
with attaching his gas mask and seeing that his attire was beyond
the keen scrutiny of the platoon commander, he was late for
formation. Rather than make matters worse by breaking into
the moving column, he proceeded directly to the classroom. He
was no sooner seated than he was ordered by the lecturer to
report to his battalion commander, Captain Mayo. Still amused


119
at his predicament, Roy carelessly entered the captain's office,
only to be ordered out curtly.
“Leave this room, Captain, and come in the right way.”
Roy obeyed instantly. He returned, clicked his heels with a
snappy salute and said, “Captain Raymond reporting, sir.”
The captain, a physician, looked at him seriously. “You've
been here long enough to know better than to enter your com-
mander's office like that. You were not at formation. Why?”
Unfortunately for him, Roy was in a facetious mood. He
answered impishly, “I was doing what comes naturally, Captain.”
"Are you trying to be smart?"
“No, Captain. Frankly, just truthful.”
“Captain Raymond, you're insolent. If you persist in it, all
I have to do is to lift that receiver and call headquarters and
you'll be back in your outfit.”
This last remark stung Roy. He was always quick-sometimes
too quick-on the comeback. He retorted, “My mistake, Captain,
in thinking anyone here had a sense of humor. Really, I'm a bit
weary of this cult as it is practiced here. You know, I begged
for the assignment to this school, but while it is an education
that I wouldn't have missed, I sometimes long for the peace
and quiet of my outfit. I'm sorry for the rudeness. It wasn't
intentional.”
Without batting an eye, Captain Mayo replied, “In that event,
this is just the training you need. You'll stay here. Consider your
week-end pass for the next two weeks terminated. You may go
as far as twenty miles from the post, but no farther. Dismissed."
Roy stared at the captain, unable to believe his ears. The
week end had already been planned for. A group of friends was
to have met him at Penn Station and to have made the rounds
of the New York night clubs. Looking at Captain Mayo, a
disheartened Roy bluffed it out. “Well, so it is, Captain. That's
one way of catching up on my studies.”
With that, he saluted and left. Outside, he reflected with bit-
terness that it is not wise to look a gift horse in the mouth,


Nine
IN THE FOURTH WEEK of his stay at Carlisle, Roy and his entire
battalion had to locate stakes placed from one hundred to three
hundred feet apart. Each student was accompanied by another.
They marched to the area for maneuvers in formation. Then,
each group of two was on its own.
The night was dark and rainy. Roy and his teammate located
the first stake but lost their bearing after that. In trying to
recapture their direction, Roy fell into a ditch and injured his
knee. Fortunately for him, his companion was a husky southerner.
With Roy's arms around his shoulder, amid bellows and shouts,
they groped their way to another team. Using flashlights, the
men found enough branches to improvise a stretcher and car-
ried Roy to the nearest road where one of them went in search
of further help. He returned with a jeep which took Roy to
the station hospital. More damage had been done than was
evident at first glance. The injury was serious enough to keep
Roy hospitalized at Valley Forge General Hospital for almost
three months.
The trip from Carlisle to Valley Forge by car afforded an
excellent opportunity to see the countryside. It was all through