An excerpt from "Red Pants" (1927), by J.W. Thomason:
[...] There was a racket, and the mess sergeant came, so mad that he couldn't swear. He propelled before him a tallen, sullen soldier in the uniform of the Moroccan Division, a hard looking darky with an outthrust lip and rolling, angry eyes. In each paw the fellow clutched a tin of corned beef, and his musette bag bulged on his hip. The mess sergeant had him by the collar and the arm, and several of the galley force attended, with weapons in their hands.
The mess sergeant halted his captive violently, and spoke: "Sorry to disturb the lootenant, but --"
"Oh, hell -- can't a man shut his eyes? All right, what is it now?" The lieutenant sat up. "What the devil you doin' with that Senegalese? You know damn well orders are to have no foolishness with these Frogs."
"Yes, sir. It was like this, sir. I just found this nigger in my ration cart. He's walkin' off with our corn bill which we haven't got more'n enough to go with this slum we're cookin' up. Had his musette bag full an' a can in each hand-- look at it sir. I started to kill him, but rememberin' your order, sir, not to have no foolishness with these here Frog outfits, I brought him up to the lootenant. We can just take him off and shoot him, quiet like, if the lootenant wants." The mess sergeant cast his eyes around, looking for a seemly place.
"Stealin' my corn bill, was he? Godamighty!" The lieutenant breathed through his nose and searched his soul for adequate expressions. He knew a little French, but thtat language wasn't violent enough. He launched into the idiom of his native South. "Why, you damn' ornery black son of a --"
The angry face under the French helmet relaxed, lighted up, and split in a white toothed grin. "Why, boss-- Lawd Gawd, sah, is you from the Souf?"
The lieutenant stopped midway in a searing passage. It was a long time since he had heard the gentle, drawling darky speech of the land where he was born. He said mildly: "Of course I'm from the South. What's it to you, damn your eyes?"
"Why, bless Gawd, sah- Ah'm from Galveston, Texas, my ownself-- yessah, Galveston, Texas!"
It is a far cry from that white city that drowses by the Gulf to Soissons fight, but service in the Marines had cured the lieutenant of being surprised at anything.
"Let this man go, mess sergeant; I think he's a friend of mine. All right-- you heard me. Boy-- just give that corn bill back to the mess sergeant; you know a man don't steal chickens close to home. Now, what are you doin' in that uniform? I know Galveston mighty well. Sort of raised there."
The big negro pulled his blouse back into shape and shook himself. You observed that he had a high, soldierly look.
"Cap'n , sah, is dat a Bull Dur'm cigarette? Thankee, sah." He rolled one, had out a briquet, and inhaled luxuriously. "Cap'n, sah, if Ah'd knowed you was home folks, Ah never would have gone round dat ole wagon-- nossah! Thought dey was jus' w'ite trash, like. How'd Ah git heah? You never heared tell such a thing in all yo' bawn days-- Ah never did, either-- but heah Ah is-- sho'!
"You 'member, sah, some yeahs back, it's aright hahd yeah on us stevedoh boys at Galveston? Sho' was; ships quit comin', they warn't no cotton movin', us dam-neah stahved.
"Atter w'ile, we heahs they's a wah on; dey was some talk of it in Galveston; but us stevedohs we jus' figgered it was w'ite folks' doin's, and we never paid no 'tention, special. But things git powerful tight on de waterfront. Ah don't eat reg'lar a-tall! Den one o' dese cattle-boats come in, what handles mules. De mules stahts comin', an' befo' Gawd, Ah never knew dere was so many mules in de worl'! We loads 'em on de cattle boat, an' de cap'n say he wants some boys what ain't skeered of mules to take cyah of de mules on de boat."
Yes-- one remembered. In Texas that year the cotton crop rotted on the stalk because it was cheaper to let it rot than to pick and gin it. And presently came officers of the French and British services, buying horses and mules...
"De pay was good, an' Ah kinder has a itchin' foot anyway, an' like Ah say, Ah ain't been eatin' reg'lar. So Ah goes along.
"We sails an' Ah gets me a misery in mah belly an' can't eat no grub, but Ah gets over it. Finely, we gets to a place dey call Mair-say-- dat's it-- Mair-say. Its a bigger town dan Galveston, but de folks is funny folks. All de mules gits off de ship, an' de cap'n he take me asho' to ca'hy he bag for 'im. W'en he git to de ho-tel, he tell me to go on back to de ship or de paterollers git me. Sho' nuff, dey's a slew o' sogers aroun'. Well, Ah stahts, but Ah been powerful dry on dat ship, an' I stops to git me a little dram-- some of dis coon-yac. Cap'n, is you ever tried dat coon-yac? It sho is noble booze! Den Ah gits me some mo' coon-yac, an' Ah don' feel so lonesome. Ah steps aroun' to see de town.
"Ah sees a colored man, like me, standin' on de corneh. He's got on de nobles' clo'es you seed in your life. Dressed up jus' like a lodge membah. He's got on a little red hat without no brim, an' a little blue jacket, an' a red sash, and gre't big red pants, all baggy-like. Ah ask him what he b'long to. Ah says to mahself. if Ah can git a suit like dat, sho will knock dem Galveston niggers dead! Well, he don' say nothin'. Fust-off, Ah thinks he jus' uppity, because of he pants maybe, but de fac' was, he was jus' plain ignerunt. He's one of dese French niggers, frum Africa, an' he ain't never learn to talk mah talk.
"Then Ah say somethin' 'bout coon-yac, 'cause Ah'm stickin' wid them pants, an' he know coon-yac all right. We go in a s'loon, an' we has some. They's a man in there what ask me what Ah want. Ah tell him Ah like them pants. He laff fit to kill, an' he say he fix it up. Well, we drinks right smaht coon-yac, an' some time that night we go out to de casern, where dis French nigger live at. It 'pear like he in de ahmy. An' dats what happen to me. Dey jus'-- to make a long story short, like my ole Gran'mammy Caledonia uster say-- dey done take me by de nap of de neck an' de seat of de britches an' fling me in dis damn wah! An' heah Ah is."
The lieutenant considered; negroes interested him. There had been negroes around him all his life. This boy was a rare type; reminded you of old Mingo, on his father's place in the far South; reminded you of the tall savage who, they told, had been the body-servant of that old lion, Sam Houston. Fellow had a certain dignity; good features. "Anything can happen-- specially in a war-- and it frequently does! Struck one of those French colonial devils with a sense of humor." They talked of Galveston, of Church Street, and the Strand, and Tremont. "He's a Galveston darky, all right."
"Say, where'd you get that?"
The negro had the inevitable Croix de Guerre; the crimson fourragere of the Legion d'Honneur was part of the uniform of that fine Moroccan Division, famous from Tonquin to the Yser. But in French service, one must do something very exceptional and amazing to wear the green-and-yellow ribbon of the Medaille Militaire. Only generals commanding armies, and enlisted men, can win it; and only for conspicuous service to the republic.
"Dey gives me dat in de horspittal, atter a fight we had at dat place, Verdun. We was down souf somewheres for de winter time, wukkin' on de roads. Dey h'ists us out in de middle of de night, an' we goes in camions two-three days to Verdun, where it 'pears like ole Boche is breakin' thoo de w'ite sogers. Dey's a ole foht name Douamont; we has de hell of a rukkus in dere! Cap'n, dat was hell to pay an' no pitch hot! Snow on de groun'. Powerful col'-- Ah mos' froze. Ah kills a Boche wid mah bay'net-- an' it breaks. Trouble wid dese French bay'nets, dey always breaks, 'less'n you juk 'em out right. Mine breaks, an' de nex' Boche, Ah snatches de th'oat right outer him. Den Ah fin's me a knife, an' I jus' natcherly raises hell. Ah was right mad. Ah got hu't bad mah ownself an' dey gives me dis in de horspittal."
One remembers communiques, read in languid West Indian stations. They were rushed up over that road the French call the Via Sacra, reserves from anywhere, while seven divisions of old French Territorials fought forty divisions of German storm-troops for the Verdun gate... Those seven divisions, they do not exist now; their flags are hung in the Pantheon, with the old great relics of the Land of the Lilies. The 3d Guards, whom the proud Brandenburgers called the Cockchafers, took Douamont; Mangin's Colonials, attacking terribly through the February snows, threw them out... Yes-- man gets an arm and a shoulder on him, handling cotton-bales on a Galveston wharf...
"Cap'n, Ah tell you a funny thing. It come to me heah in dis wah, dat Ah ain't skeered of anything any mo'. Never was a skeery nigger like some, but now dere ain't nothin'-- My ole gran'mammy Caledonia, she was kinder quality folks. She come outer de old States wid de fambly of Generul Kittrelle-- you know, de ole general dat whip de Yankees in de wah. Befo' dat, she come from Africa her ownself. She allus told us when we was little dat we was quality niggers, an' she lowed her folks was kings, like, in Africa. She uster say she never knowed nobody else aroun' dere whut had kings in dey fambly. We never associate wid trash niggers, what she call 'em. She was proud of bein' black, an' she raise us dat way."
"H'm. What you going to do when you get back to Galveston? Seems to me--"
The man wrestled some with a thought. Then: "Cap'n, sah, you knows how it is in de Souf. Sometimes Ah gets such a honin' for Galveston, Ah could mos' die. Right now, Ah wish Ah had a mess o'greens, wid side-meat an' cawn-pone, an' pot-likker. Couldn't relish dese French vittles for a long time. But it's reg'lar..."
"Cap'n, Ah dunno. Ah done foun' out Ah'm a fightin' man. Ole Gran'mammy Caledonia, she done daid. Most of them Galveston niggers is trash niggers. An' so--" he flashed his white teeth-- "Ah ain't vexin' mahself 'bout after de wah. Be a wah, long as Ah'm heah. Dis here's a fightin' bunch, dis Premiere Division de la Maroc." He pronounced the words like a native. "Las' week we was fightin' over in front of dat town Rheims. Three-four times Ah been in fights over that way. Dey throws us in when de w'ite sogers-- lessn' it's de Chasseurs d'Alpin or La Legion-- jus' natcherly can't cut de mustard. Dat's how come we heah. We goes in, an' we breaks de line, an' we comes out. We is quality folks our ownselfs! Only eve'y time we comes out, a lot don' come out wid us. Ah got a chahm, an' all dese African boys got chahms-- but we all killable. Ah done got huht five time. But Ah's tough; Ah comes back. Ah--"
"How do you get on with those African fellows?"
"Gets on fine, sah. Ah talk dere talk-- allus pick up a wuhd easy-- Ah uster to talk wid dem Greeks what take de Gulf Fish'ries boats down to Campechey, an' Mexicans too. Dey fights, an' den dey got a game like craps, only diff'runt. Ah get along."
"All Mohammedans, ain't they?"
"Dat's it. 'Allah-il--' " He threw back his head and intoned strangely, then laughed like a child.
"That's it," said the lieutenant. "heard you in the woods yesterday. 'Allah is one god, and Mohammed is his prophet.' Means something like that?"
"Reckon so, sah-- don't know it in mah talk. we got a pahson wid us-- only we calls him a mullah. He tell you all that. He say, if you get killed fightin' you go straight to paradise-- I reckon. Paradise, it's a place, neah as I can make out, where dere's lots of gin an' women, an' a right good game goin' in the corneh. Kinder like ole Queen Laura's place on Chu'ch Street, only dere ain't no p'lice. It's a right good religion fer a fightin' man. Ah jined."
"Well, you did first rate in the woods yesterday. Was with some of you-- only troops we ever met that could keep up with the Marines."
"Cap'n, aint it de troof! We seen you-all in dere. Ole Boche thought Chris'mus come sho-nuff! We hit him an' you hit him!"
Well, why not? The slavers bartered for slaves with the strong coast-tribes of West Africa. The coast-tribes captured some in war, but caught most of them by raids on the low, weak peoples-- poor creatures with depressed skulls, from the Congo swamps under the Equator, just a hair removed from the gorillas. Now and then a sprig of one of the great black races, taken in battle, or betrayed in some quarrel around a throne, might be thrust into a consignment of black ivory, bound to Marblehead or Baltimore-- the strain would persist. And there have been great black races, like the fighting Zulus. One remembers Lobengula and El Mahdi, the prophet of God, whose naked warriors made vast trouble for British Imperial troops armed with Martinis and Gatling guns.
"'Bout goin' back-- no, sah. But Ah sho' is glad Ah seen you, sah. An' w'en you gits back to Galveston, Ah'd be mighty proud if you would get aroun' to see mah ol' folks. [...]
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