We Return - We Return from Fighting - We Return Fighting

Written by Yao Wang from Union County Magnet High School, New Jersey, USA

The Harlem Hellfighters, designated the 369th Infantry Regiment, were a unit composed entirely of Black troops that fought in World War I. After spending more days in combat than any other American regiment, they would return home to a segregated and hateful America, and it was only decades later (well after their deaths) that their heroism was finally recognized. The title of this story comes from the work “Returning Soldiers,” written by W.E.B. Du Bois in 1919, and it captures the adversity the Hellfighters faced both on the battlefield and back home, despite the bravery and courage they showed in the face of the enemy. 

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“As I said, Mr. Cobb, he’ll be willing to share his story. I’ll take you to where he rests.”

“Thank you, Colonel Hayward. The public needs a morale-lifting story.” 

The colonel moved swiftly, addressing each soldier he passed by name. 

What a strange man, Irvin thought. Commands a negro regiment and knows them all individually. 

Upon reaching the hospital tent, the colonel turned. “I need a minute with him first.” 

When the tent flaps opened, Henry sat up on his cot. “Colonel Hayward! Sir!” He stood to attention on one foot, saluting while wobbling.

“Sergeant Johnson, at ease.” The colonel sat down on the cot. “You did well, soldier. You made me proud, you made your regiment proud, and now you’re about to make America proud. A reporter’s here, Irvin S. Cobb from the Saturday Evening Post. Can you answer his questions?”

Henry’s eyes widened. “Of course, sir.” 

The colonel smiled, then walked back outside. “He’s all yours, Mr. Cobb.” 

The silence of the forest night broke with the pitter-patter of a rat’s steps, suggesting that at least some life remained in the long-forsaken Argonne. Crows stooped on splintered branches warily watching, perhaps guarding, the corpses of forgotten soldiers. The rain masked a scent of rust and decay, collecting in shell craters and discarded helmets. 

In a foxhole, Henry balanced his rifle across his knees. It was covered in grime, a far cry from the polished beauty he had received months earlier. 

“Henry!” He recognized the voice. 

“Needham! What took you so long?” Henry helped his friend lower a crate of grenades into the hole. 

“The French quartermaster was out of grenades, so I had to get them from the American one. He wouldn’t let me have them, kept telling me, ‘all you need is a shovel’. I flagged down a French officer who ordered the quartermaster to give me these.”

“Bastards,” Henry muttered. 

For a while, the two men sat in silence.

“Hey, Needham. Do you remember when we landed and went to get our gear like everyone else?” 

Needham frowned. “Of course. Humiliation is hard to forget. It sure was lucky that the French came and offered to outfit us, or we’d be digging for the entire war.” 

Henry chuckled. “America wants us to fight with shovels.” 

“Say, Henry, what do you reckon you’ll do once we’re sent home?” 

“I’ll probably be a porter again, maybe find a job in New York City. Hell, I might just stay in France. They seem to like us all right. How about –” Henry’s question was cut off by the echoing snap of a branch in no man’s land. 

Both men instinctively hoisted their rifles to their shoulders. 

“Put your weapons down!” Needham screamed, then repeated in German. “Waffen niederlegen!”

Henry switched off his rifle’s safety and scanned the darkness for movement. 

“Put down your own weapons – we’re Americans.” Two men followed these words. One of them, tall and thin, carried a lantern, while the other, short and stout, held up both of their guns. 

“Identify yourselves,” Henry shouted. The men walked closer, hands still raised. The short one spoke.

“I’m Corporal Ryan Hastings. This is Private Mike Smith from the 325th regiment; we were sent to scout enemy trenches.” 

Needham and Henry lowered their rifles.

“We got lost after being shot at; I reckon we’re about 10 or so miles off–” Private Smith abruptly stopped talking. He stood about five meters from the hole, his lantern illuminating Needham and Henry’s faces. 

“Well, lookee here, Ryan. Darkies!” He took a breath. “I’d rather die than follow orders from the likes of you.” His words spat sharply, reigniting a flame in Henry. Without a word, Henry picked up his rifle and pointed it square at Smith’s face. 

“Hey!” Needham tried to grab the gun, but Henry wouldn't let go. Smith pulled out his pistol and aimed it at both of them. Corporal Hastings, deciding that this was neither his battle nor his burden, dropped the weapons he held and took off for the French trench. 

“If you shoot one of us, the other will end your life. If you manage to kill us both, you will surely hang. Is this the end you want, private? Dying over some…” Needham swallowed. “Darkies?”

After a brief beat of contemplation, Smith re-holstered his weapon and followed Hastings.

“Henry, you really need to control your–” 

“Don’t.” 

“Okay. Fine. I’ll take first watch.” Needham looked over the foxhole while Henry lowered himself onto the damp mud. “Good night.”

Many hours later, Henry jolted awake; the frigid air clung to his neck and hands. The rain had ceased, and nature’s orchestra filled the forest. Propped up against the grenade crate, Needham had also fallen asleep. 

Fumbling around in his coat, Henry pulled out a worn pocket watch, a battlefield relic. The glass was long broken and the inside clogged with grime, but the tips of the hands showed that over three hours had passed. With a sigh that reverberated off the trees and bounced into the sky, Henry took up watch. 

It was a difficult task; the land was cluttered and vast, wrapped almost entirely in early-morning fog. Squinting into the haze, he saw nothing, but then an odd-looking tree trunk with a strange bump caught his gaze. Its branches stuck out unnaturally, swaying despite a windless night. 

Henry shook Needham awake. 

“Needham. Check out this tree.” His reluctant comrade rose, rubbing his eyes. 

At first glance, it seemed to be an ordinary branch, thin and pointed– but as the surrounding mist cleared, so did the illusion. Wood gave way to steel, revealing the glistening edge of a bayonet attached to an iron barrel. 

Both men instantly crouched down in the foxhole. 

“Damn Krauts snooping around our foxhole.” Needham clutched his rifle, finger on the trigger. 

“Calm down a bit – how do you know they’re not American or French? Remember those boys from the 325th.”

“Why would an American soldier be coming back to the trenches with a bayonet fixed?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe they got sent out as a raiding party, and we weren’t told about it.” 

Needham was about to speak when the distinct snip of a wire cutter interrupted him. 

“They’re cutting the wire. The barbed wire we set up.” The truth was now evident, and Henry reached for his weapon. 

“Needham, stay down while I see how many there are.” Slowly, Henry raised his head. Shrouded silhouettes in metal Stahlhelm helmets dotted the landscape, and far too many hid behind trees and bushes for him to count. 

“Bad news. I counted two squads' worth, but there’s probably more where I can’t see. We’ll have to take out the closest ones.” Henry grabbed a grenade. “I’ll throw one of these, then you run like hell back to our forces, okay?” 

Needham nodded. 

“On the count of three, I’ll toss it.” Henry pulled the safety pin, readied himself, and took aim at the cluster of Germans cutting the wire. “One, two, three!” 

The grenade landed at their feet, and Henry heard faint expressions of confusion. 

He counted down the time delay in his mind. Four, three, two, one. The ground erupted in a flurry of debris, both human and natural, while startled cries and pained screams mixed with the sharp orders of a commander losing control. 

“Now!” Henry fired blindly into the open to divert enemy attention away from Needham. 

Out of the soot and haze, a single German soldier stumbled into Henry’s sight, his uniform shredded and burnt. In his right hand, he held a single stick grenade. 

Henry lined up his sights with the soldier’s chest and pulled the trigger. 

Click.

“Shit!” Henry scrambled to find spare cartridges. An oblivious Needham had stopped to catch his breath behind a tree, unaware of the threat that stood mere meters away. With his rifle now fully loaded, Henry took aim once more–watching in horror as the soldier landed the grenade at Needham’s heels. 

“NEEDHA-” The soil surrounding the tree exploded, and the tree itself fell diagonally, shattered and broken. 

Henry’s first instinct was to charge towards his friend. He made it about ten meters to the foxhole before realizing he needed extra firepower. Jumping back into the dugout, he slung his rifle onto his back and stuffed as much ammunition as he could into his pockets. 

Running exposed and encumbered was no easy task, made harder by flying bullets. By some miracle, he reached Needham’s position without injury, save for a light flesh wound on his thigh. 

Delirious from the shock, Needham began to ramble. “Henry! Oh man, I am glad to see you. I was resting for a bit and then, BOOM! My head got a bit fuzzy after that, and I’m bleeding a lot. And I can’t move, actually.” He tried to look down at his body. 

“Hey, Needham. Shush, okay? I’m looking for the guy who threw that grenade.” 

“Oh, he fell down over there.” Needham pointed towards a corpse. 

Henry kicked the body over, gagging at the stench of blood and guts. The man had been shot in the stomach, the bullet lodged deep in his intestines. Poor bastard, Henry thought to himself. Bleeding out’s a horrible way to go. 

Needham had managed to crawl into the explosion’s blast crater, where he was now bleeding from his arms. Henry pressed on his wounds, fashioning a tourniquet from his jacket to plug them. Adrenaline, nature’s anaesthesia, began to wear off, and Needham soon found himself groaning in pain. 

“How bad is it? Am I going to die?” 

“Just a bit of shrapnel is all.” Henry cleared his throat. “I’mma get us out of here, I promise.” 

Voices could be heard talking in hushed tones, growing louder and louder. 

“They’re closing in on us – we’ll have to fight for it. Here.” Henry placed a pistol in his friend’s hand. “Can you use this?” 

Needham chuckled. “Can’t aim it, but I can pull the trigger.” 

“Good enough. Also, I need your bolo knife.”

Needham handed over the machete-like blade, and Henry stuck it under his belt. Gripping his rifle, he stepped out into the open, crouching to avoid detection from the Germans now scouring the area. He hid behind an overturned wagon, lying prone, observing the nearest squad of soldiers. Their faces were rotund and soft, their mouths agape at their first taste of war. None of them seemed to be over twenty. In the back, trailing behind them, were the veterans: easily noticeable from the way their heads swivelled, constantly scanning the battlefield for movement. 

Reluctantly, Henry aimed at the boy leading the group. A bulge grew in his throat at the thought of what had to be done. 

Just as he was about to fire, the boy clumsily dropped his rifle. Henry thought to himself, I can’t kill this kid. He can’t even hold onto a gun, for Christ's sake. 

The commander stepped forward and harshly reprimanded the recruit.

Bingo. Henry pivoted toward the officer, lined up his sights, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet raced through the air and tore through the man’s body. 

The men panicked, unable to pinpoint the shot’s origin. Henry chambered another round. When he fired again, another man fell, gasping and struggling. 

Henry kept this up until his ammunition ran out, by which point the ground was littered with bodies, dead and dying. The wounded begged for their compatriots, now hiding behind whatever cover could be found, to carry them to safety. 

Hands shaking, Henry reloaded his rifle, fingers moving to the bolt handle. He slammed it forward, expecting to hear the familiar clink of a chambered round, but the bolt wouldn’t fully close. Upon inspection, he realized that, in his haste, he had loaded American rounds instead of French ones, causing the action to jam. Henry threw down his weapon, the wooden stock hitting the hard surface with a jarring, resonating sound. 

“Angriff!” A German soldier, having heard the commotion, pointed at Henry’s position. 

“Oh, shit!” Henry bolted back toward Needham’s crater, weaving through bullets zipping past him, and found cover behind sporadic overgrowth. Eventually, he made it, although thoroughly coated with dirt and barely recognizable. 

“Needham! Don’t shoot! It’s me.” Henry collapsed. 

“Henry, lord. It sounded like a whole platoon fired at you!”

“That’s about right. Listen, Needham, my rifle jammed, and I’ve only got your knife, so my plan is to lure some of the Germans to our position and then kill them up close. They’ll find us soon, so I need you to pick off as many as you can before I charge, ok?” 

Needham answered with a quick bob of his head, then held the pistol in wait. 

Soon enough, a squad of soldiers stumbled onto their crater to find the tracks of the vanished rifleman. 

Henry whispered. “Now!”

Needham managed to drop the nearest two Germans before his pistol jammed too.

With a mighty war cry, Henry set upon the remaining enemies, bolo knife unsheathed. He caught the first German by surprise, deftly cutting his throat. The second lunged at him with a bayonet and grazed his shoulder. Henry kicked the bayonet into the dirt, stabbing the man in the chest and neck. Another fired at the knife-wielding berserker with a rifle, but missed and was quickly dispatched with several clean slices to the stomach. 

“Help! Help me!” Henry turned around to see an incapacitated Needham being dragged away by two soldiers. He sprinted, grabbing one of the Germans by the waist and pinning him down. 

“LET GO OF HIM, YOU BASTARD!” Henry stuck the bayonet deep into the man’s neck, repeatedly bashing it in with every word and watching as his knees coated in a thick puddle of blood. 

“What happened to the last bloke you caught? Did you kill him as well?” Irvin wrote furiously. 

“Didn’t have to. Last guy saw what I did to his buddy and ran off, followed by the rest of the platoon. After that, I carried Needham on my back all the way to our trenches.” 

“Terrific stuff! This is exactly what the people want. And to think that a Negro did all of this, could do any of this! Now I’ll let you in on an industry secret, boy. Any good journalist knows that the best characters always have a moniker, a nickname to make it easy for people to recognize them. What’s yours?”

Henry was unsure at first, but then it struck him. “The last soldier that ran away called me a Höllenkämpfer. Hellfighter. I suppose I’m a hellfighter from Harlem. A Harlem Hellfighter.” 

By the interview’s conclusion, Irvin had a full stack of notes and left giddy with excitement. Henry, on the other hand, was left with a worsening limp and a headache. He’d been told he had to clear the room for injured white soldiers, so he began a search for Needham.

“Henry Johnson, is that you?” A voice rang out from a nearby table. 

“Needham!” Henry hobbled towards his friend, who wrapped him up in a suffocating hug. 

“Man, you saved my life out there! Why aren’t you in the hospital – you’re riddled with wounds?” 

“Never mind that. How’s your arm holding up?” 

“White doc told me it’d be fine, bandaged me up and threw me out onto the curb. Bleeding’s stopped, though. Nipped a bottle of medicinal whiskey too. Fancy a cup?” 

Henry watched Needham painstakingly pour the liquor. Both men took swigs. 

“Henry, why do we do this?” 

Henry shrugged and took another long sip. “Because I don’t want my sister’s kids going through this, serving a country that neither trusts nor respects them. If we do enough good here, maybe they’ll treat us better back home.” 

Needham smiled and raised his cup in a toast. “To the future!” 

“To the future.” The two men drank, watching as the German artillery lit up the sky. 

Postscript: Both protagonists died tragically. Henry’s wounds deemed him unemployable, and the US government refused to give him disability pay. He would die at 36, impoverished and unknown. In 2015, he was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor, America’s highest military decoration, in a ceremony long overdue. Needham was accused of child molestation in a racially motivated case and committed suicide in 1949. Many other Hellfighters also met violent ends during the Red Summer of 1919, with some being lynched while wearing their uniforms.