Between the French and the colored troops the spirit was superb.  The French poilu had not been taught that the color of a man’s skin made a difference.  He had no prejudices.  How could he have, coming from a nation whose motto is liberty, fraternity, equality?  He formed his judgment from bravery and Manhood and Honor.  The Negro soldiers ate, slept and drank with the poilus.  They were happy together.

An incident of the valor of the 93rd division was in the fight at Butte de Mesnil, as tough a spot as any in the line between the sea and Switzerland.  The ground had been fought over back and forth, neither side holding it for long.  The French said it was the burying place of 200,000 of their troops and Germans, and that it could not be held permanently.  The Negro boys tackled the job.  In four days they had advanced fourteen kilometers (8.4 miles) and they never retreated.

The Negro troops to a great extent went into action with little training, but they learned quickly in the hard school of experience.  They excelled in grenade throwing and machine gun work.  Grenade throwing is very ticklish business.  Releasing the pin lights the fuse.  Five seconds after the fuse is lighted the grenade explodes.  It must be timed exactly.  If thrown too quickly the enemy is liable to pick it up and hurl it back in time to create the explosion in one’s own lines.  No one cares to hold a grenade long after the fuse is lighted so the boys sometimes threw them ahead of the signal.

“Shorty” Childress of B company, 371st Infantry, had been drilled with dummy grenades.  When given the real thing he released the pin and immediately heard the fulminating fuse working its way down into the charge.  It was too much for his nerves.  He threw the grenade as far as he could send it.  The lieutenant reprimanded him severely.

“What do you mean,” he said, “by hurling that explosive ahead of the proper time.  Do you want the Boches to pick it up, fire it back here and blow us all to smithereens?”

“Shorty” was properly abashed.  He hung his head and responded:  “Lieutenant, I begs your pardon, I didn’t mean to heave it so soon, but I could actually feel that thing a swellin’ in my hand.”

But they soon acquired the idea, and after a short time very few of the grenades reached the enemy either ahead of or behind time.

Here is the valiant and humorous story of Elmer McCowin, 669 Lenox Avenue, New York City, a private in Company K, 369th infantry, and how he won the Distinguished Service Cross.  He said: 

“On September 26th, the captain asked me to carry dispatches.  The Germans pumped machine gun bullets at me all the way, but I made the trip and got back safely.  Then I was sent out again.  As I started the captain hollered to bring him back a can of coffee.  He was joking but I didn’t know it.

“Being a foot messenger I had