Standing at the Scratch Line (10 page)

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The plaintive blues notes of a guitar resonated in spite of a steady, frigid breeze that came from the north and rushed through the city of canvas tents. It was six-thirty in the evening. The glow of twilight was still in the night sky. There were smells that not even the cold could suppress: cooked meat and human waste, depending upon which way the wind blew. It promised to be another cold night because the sky was cloudless. The stars had not yet emerged in their brilliance and the moon was low on the horizon. The temperature had been in the thirties for nearly two weeks. Not cold enough to kill, but enough to stiffen joints and make sleeping occasionally difficult.

Big Ed was sitting in his tent in a broken-down camp chair, talking to Professor and Sergeant King Tremain. His two visitors were sitting on the two cots cramped together because the remainder of the space in the tent was taken up with cases of musical equipment. “When did you guys get in?”

Professor answered, “King and I got in from the front a couple of days ago. We would’ve come to visit sooner. But we’ve been busy with picking up new uniforms and getting our transfer papers.”

Big Ed set down his tin and turned to King. “I want to ask you a question and it’s sort of what you call, uh, awkward, uh, LT. I hear just about everybody callin’ you ‘King’ now. I know you don’t like bein’ called out of your name, but I knew you as LT. I sort got used to . . . uh—”

“You can call me LT, Big Ed. You one of my Ace Boons. I know where yo’ heart is.”

Big Ed smiled and said, “I know how you got made sergeant, but I don’t rightly remember anybody calling you King before I got transferred, unless it was those mountain fighters by Kastledorf Bridge,” Big Ed said.

“It don’t matter. I just like it better than LeRoi. For some reason I ain’t never liked the name LeRoi,” King answered.

Professor explained, “You’re right, Big Ed; it all started back at the bridge after LT chased Lieutenant McHenry, God rest his soul, into that minefield. Then Smitty and some of the boys began calling him King because the ‘Lion’ fighters were calling him the King of Death. Soon everyone was calling him King.”

“I guess that slipped my mind. I was transferred down here in January and by mid-February stories were drifting in ’bout Sergeant King Tremain and his suicide squad.”

“We came here to talk about something else,” Professor reminded his two companions. “Big Ed, we’ve got to get back. We’ve been assigned latrine duty tonight on Duck Mountain. So I want to make sure you fellows know what’s happening before we start gabbing and losing track of time. I just got a letter from my mother saying that the three heavy trunks that we shipped have arrived safely. My father is looking into having a few of the coins appraised for authenticity and value. He won’t make any deals or do anything without our approval. My father thinks that our money worries are over because even if we just sold the gold for its weight, we’d have nearly eight thousand dollars a piece.”

“Eight thousand dollars!” Big Ed exclaimed. “We’s rich! It only take seven hundred to pay off my father’s whole mortgage! We’s rich, man!”

“Slick’s got an equal share?” King asked.

“Of course, just like you said,” Professor answered.

“Good, then it’s alright with me,” King said. “I just want the man to get his dying wish.”

“Eight thousand dollars, that’ll buy a mess of livestock,” Big Ed clapped his hands.

“A real good brownstone in Brooklyn costs about five, six hundred dollars. With this money, I’ll own my own home and go back to law school,” Professor said.

Big Ed teased King. “You keep winning at cards and dice the way you did the last time you were in camp and you’ll be takin’ that much money home with you, Sarge. The way I hears it, you was out there shearing the sheep of all their wool.”

“A man shouldn’t come to the table to play at games of chance unless he’s prepared to lose,” King said with a slight smile.

“Way I hears it,” Big Ed said with laugh, “you takes all the chance out of it and worse, you make the cheaters pay.”

“Oh!” Professor had an incredulous look as he said, “I heard something about King taking a strong magnet to a dice game and after some GI made his third seven in a row, he pulled out a magnet and sucked the man’s dice off the blanket.”

“Then hit the man upside his head with the butt of a pistol,” Big Ed added. “I was there. It was somethin’ else. You should write that down in your book, Professor. You gon’ have a helluva story.”

“I’ll write it in my diary, but nobody will believe that I just recorded events. Nobody wants to believe the terrible insanity, stupidity, and bigotry of this war. I didn’t want to believe it myself until it was pushed in my face,” Professor said. “If I published my diary, it would have to be as fiction and the problem with fiction is that it has to be believable. What we’ve seen and done isn’t believable.”

There was a moment of silence, interrupted by a loud tapping on the tent pole outside.

“Who is it?” called out Big Ed.

“Captain Grey,” a voice answered.

“Come on in, Cap’n,” Big Ed said, as they all scrambled to their feet.

Captain Weldon Grey ducked under the canvas flap and returned the salute of the tent’s occupants. Big Ed tried to offer him his chair, but the captain waved him off and took a seat on the cot beside Professor.

“You don’t have much room in here,” the captain commented as he looked around.

“Them cases ain’t mine,” Big Ed explained. “I got a sergeant from the Three hundred Sixty-ninth bunkin’ with me. He’s some kind of musician and he’s got guys comin’ at all hours of the night. Some nights I can’t get no rest.”

“You ought to talk with ’em, make ’em understand,” Grey directed. He nodded to both Professor and King and said, “I’m glad to see you men here. I need to talk with both of you.” Weldon Grey of the Bostonian Greys traced his ancestry directly to Crispus Attucks. His family boasted that it had sons fighting in every major American war starting with the American Revolution, so it was only natural that Weldon, a college graduate, should be admitted to officer training school for Negro soldiers at Fort Dodge, outside of Des Moines. He was among the more popular of the colored officers because he was known to stand up for his men.

“You need to speak to us, Captain?” Professor questioned. It wasn’t often that an officer at the rank of captain took the time to talk to enlisted men other than to discharge commands.

“Yes, Morris, I’ve got some regimental news and some camp news that will interest both of you, but first I need to cover some things with Corporal Harrison, our mechanical wizard.” Captain Grey turned to face Big Ed. “Did you get those brake parts I requested?”

“Yes, sir! But Sergeant O’Shaughnessy had them installed on Captain Davidson’s trucks.” Captain Davidson was a white officer who commanded an infantry transport division similar to Captain Grey’s, except that Captain Davidson and his men were all white.

“Was my name and rank on the transport order?” Grey asked.

“Yes, sir. It was made out to your division, with your army posting.” Big Ed answered.

“It’s my job to keep twenty-five trucks and five jeeps oiled and running. Since there’s an official record, I’ll have to report this to my commanding officer.”

“There’s another way,” Big Ed suggested. “Captain Kocian has a shipment of brake parts sitting on the other side the truck depot.”

“What are you proposing, Harrison?”

“Well, me and a couple of grease monkeys could probably do three trucks a night until they catch us. They checks storage ’bout every two weeks. We might could get as many as fifteen trucks done, maybe more.”

“Damn good idea! Get started on that ASAP! Requisition any assistance you need from my lieutenant. If I have to steal to keep running, I’ll do it. Meanwhile, I’ll take O’Shaughnessy’s decisions up with Command.”

Captain Grey turned to Professor and King and smiled. He was a handsome man with a pronounced widow’s peak, a broad, flat nose, and a flashing smile. “It’s pretty clear, the Three hundred Fifty-first Infantry Battalion is no more. I think there’s only about seven or eight men, including you two, who are left from that battalion. It will become a ghost battalion. The losses that the Three hundred Fifty-first suffered are so great compared to the losses of the white battalions that were on the front lines at the same time, that the only logical conclusion is that you men were used as cannon fodder. Since the army won’t admit that, the whole battalion will disappear from the record books.”

“How does that affect us, sir?” Professor asked.

“You and the remnants of your squad have been transferred to the Three hundred Sixty-ninth Regiment effective immediately. They’re short one sergeant and lieutenant and they need to fill out a couple of squads. You’ll maintain your stripes, Sergeant Tremain. They know you men have been tested in action. They’re going to move out early Sunday morning. They’ve been attached to the French army, which is situated for the big push toward the Marne. You have a choice: you can be reassigned to the Red Ball Express and work in my division or you can be assigned the Three hundred Sixty-ninth Regiment and participate in the big offensive this fall.”

“I want to go with the Three hundred Sixty-ninth,” King said without hesitation. “I already picked up my uniform.” King displayed the regimental emblem of the coiled white rattler on his shoulder.

“The cap’n’s givin’ you a chance to get off the front line, man!” Big Ed could not believe his ears. “We could be together. No more dodgin’ bullets all the time.” Big Ed looked from King to Professor.

Professor returned his look for a moment, then turned to Grey and said, “Thank you for the opportunity, Captain, but I too have already picked up my uniform. I want to go with the Three hundred Sixty-ninth. Please don’t take it as a reflection of our esteem for you.”

The captain shook his head in disbelief. “You men baffle me. You’ve been in the frontline trenches since you got here. From what I’ve heard, you’ve done a lot of suicide missions and have done more of your share of putting your life on the line than most. No one would dispute your courage or your patriotism if you chose to serve the remainder of this war behind the lines. The Red Ball Express has its esprit de corps. We do an important job. Without us, the war cannot be won. You’d be doing honorable work. You have until this Friday to change your minds. I hope you men will give my offer careful consideration.”

Grey coughed and continued. “I’ve heard that there is gambling going on and that soldiers under my command are participating in it. The High Command might have overlooked this had it not been coupled with violence.” At this point Grey gave King a hard look before continuing. “I know I don’t have to quote you men the army article that prohibits gambling, but let me tell you this. HQ has put out a bulletin on this matter and they intend to come down hard on anybody they catch, particularly if they happen to be Negro soldiers. Do I need to speak any clearer?”

“They don’t say nothin’ about the bare-knuckle bouts?” King asked. “A couple men been beat damn near to death and lot of bettin’ and gamblin’ goes on during the fights.”

“I think their major concern is high-stakes card games where white players are often left penniless and owing Negro soldiers their army pay for the rest of the year,” Grey answered. “HQ probably recognizes that you can’t stop everything and as long as the fights are kept out of their view, they’ll continue to look the other way.”

Captain Grey stood up. “Alright men, remain as you were. Corporal Harrison, get your team together for tonight. I’ll have three trucks ready for you to start on by midnight. And Sergeant Tremain, heed my warning. You’re a good soldier and a leader among the men. I’d hate to see you get court-martialed for gambling!” Captain Grey saluted and left the tent.

Big Ed waited until the captain left and sputtered, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you guys. He offered you positions behind the lines. You got a real good chance making it through the war alive.”

“Working as a porter and stevedore?” Professor asked. “I’ve taken too much humiliation to become a soldier to give it up. As long as the army wants me in a menial job, I prefer to carry a gun!”

“Menial, that’s just a word!” Big Ed said. “All that matters is that you live through the war. Now that I’m working as a mechanic in motorized transport, I ain’t had to lift a gun in months.”

“You’s called a porter. They didn’t make you no mechanic, you just work as a mechanic. If they made you a mechanic, the white boys would shit a brick,” King observed. “They treat you like shit and they know you know ten times more than they do about truck repair, but they still treat you like shit!”

“If I’m alive and healthy at the end of the war, bein’ treated like shit will be worth it,” Big Ed answered. “I got me some farm work in my future. I’m looking forward to feeling that dark Nebraska soil between my fingers.”

“Ain’t nothin’ I want that is worth takin’ shit for,” King said.

“That’s ’cause you don’t really want nothin’. If you wanted somethin’, you’d sacrifice your pride,” Big Ed said.