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While Roberts kept watch to the front, Johnson drew his Bolo knife and levered open the heavy wooden crate of thirty French F1 M1915 hand grenades the patrol had dragged to OP 29. As he checked the fuses of each of the cast-iron, pineapple-shaped grenades, he laid them out in rows between the two soldiers’ firing positions. Issued to American soldiers as a sidearm, the Bolo was a brutal-looking cross between a meat cleaver and a machete, with a razor-sharp fourteen inch blade and the point of a butcher’s knife. Many of the Rattlers had hung onto their Bolos when they exchanged their US Army equipment for French equipment before moving into the front line.

Sheathing his Bolo, Johnson checked his ammunition clips, leaving his pouches open for ease of access, before picking up his rifle and taking over while Roberts got ready. When Roberts was done, the two Rattlers settled down and waited, fighting the weight on their eyelids; their skin prickling and their throats tightening every time a passing breeze stirred the grass.

Around 01:45 hrs or 01:50 hrs, the tranch-raiders reached the barbed wire in front of OP 29 and applied their cutters to it, grinding their teeth as they tried to cut the steel strands as silently as possible. Strung out behind them on their bellies in the bull grass were the riflemen, their Mausers trained on OP 29 and the French lines beyond. A couple of raiders held grenades at the ready.

Around 02:00 hrs, the moon having gone behind a cloud front and plunged the valley into darkness, they heard gnawing sounds directly in front of the post. Roberts thought it might be rats gnawing on the bones of the decomposing bodies lying out on the slope in front of the OP, trying to get to the marrow, but Johnson was sure it must be cutters on the barbed wire. As the senior soldier, he ordered Roberts back to OP 28 to alert 1st Lt Pratt.

Roberts was barely out of the position when an unmistakeable pinging sound confirmed Johnson’s suspicions. Scanning the darkness, it struck him that a log in the grass about twenty-five metres away had not been there before. Reaching for a grenade, he pulled the cord and hurled it towards the log. On a three-second fuse, the grenade went off with a sharp crack and a bright flash as it landed. There came a yell in German as the log moved rapidly to one side. “Needham! Fritzies! Get yourself back here!” yelled Johnson, just as a bright magnesium light illuminated the area almost before he heard the report of the flare pistol and the whistle of the flare.  More flares shot into the air as jumpy soldiers on both sides reacted to the sudden explosion in no-man’s land.                

As Roberts threw himself back into the position, shrapnel from a German stick grenade  going off by the OP ripped into his arm and his thigh, inflicting three serious puncture wounds and dozens of smaller splinter wounds. Stunned by the blast, his ears ringing, he flopped into the OP and collapsed onto the duckboard. Seeing that Roberts was in bad shape, Johnson, half-deafened himself, an eye on what looked like hordes of German soldiers rising up from the grass and charging the position, yelled at Roberts to stay put and pass him the grenades.

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Johnson felt the shock waves from Mauser rounds as they passed close to him before he was taken off his feet by the blast from a German egg grenade lobbed squarely into their position. He felt no pain immediately from the shards of hot shrapnel embedded in his skull, his hand and his back as he picked himself up.  The first Germans were jumping into OP 29 as Johnson opened fire from the hip with his Berthier. His third and last shot hit a German in the chest, the round blowing shards of bone out of the man’s back and wounding two of his comrades behind him. A screaming German aimed a pistol right in Johnson’s face but the little man was too quick, ducking and knocking the German senseless with an upward swing of his rifle butt.                 Flat on the duckboard, unable to stand, but still conscious, Roberts flung a grenade toward the Germans sliding into the trench just a few feet away, knocking four or five of them down and taking more shrapnel himself, but three of the Germans jumped on him. As one large, enraged German knelt on Roberts, his ham-sized hands strangling the badly wounded Rattler, the other two each grabbed one of Roberts’ legs, attempting to drag him away in a grim parody of slapstick comedy. Johnson turned from the man he had just knocked out and, swinging his rifle by the barrel like a baseball bat, broke it in half as he smashed the skull of one of the Germans heaving at Roberts’ leg. Throwing away the now-useless rifle, Henry Johnson drew his bolo and brought the heavy blade down on the head of the German strangling Roberts. The bolo blade passed through the man’s fieldcap and skull like a machete through a watermelon, before the thicker bone at the base of the skull stopped it. Levering the blade out of the German’s head, Johnson felt three sickening shocks, followed by a burning sensation. The third German, a leutnant, had drawn his Luger pistol and was blasting away at Johnson at point-blank range, the 9mm bullets striking the little man in the right forearm, the right hip and the groin.          Collapsing to his knees, waves of nausea sweeping over him as rapid shock set in, Johnson saw the German officer moving in for the kill, struggling with the toggle-action of his Luger to clear a jammed round. When the unfired round spun out and a new round slid into the breach, the German raised his arm and aimed at Johnson. The years of hard, physical, labour were what saved Johnson’s life that night: he found the strength in the face of certain death to swing the bolo in a last desperate backhand arc, and its razor-sharp blade sliced through the German’s tunic and the skin and muscle of his belly, opening him up like an over-ripe tomato. As the German slumped back against the wall of the OP, loops of intestines hanging down his legs, the sharp smell of digestive fluids and faeces mixing with the tang of fresh blood and cordite already filling the OP, he exclaimed, in a perfect New York accent, “The nigger son of a bitch got me!” Johnson snarled, “Yeah, and this nigger will get any of you who wants it!” That was enough for the Germans. Realising that reinforcements were bound to be coming and that they were out of time, the trench-raiders hauled their dead and wounded out of the OP. Like elite soldiers in many armies, they tried never to leave anyone behind, including their dead. Johnson found a grenade on the duckboard beside him, pulled the cord, and lobbed it over the parapet in the direction taken by the last German scrambling out of the post. A shrill scream and a series of shouted orders followed the hollow thump of the explosion. Then…silence. Minutes later, 1st Lt Pratt arrived with reinforcements. Johnson, weakening from loss of blood, mumbled, “Corporal London, turn out the guard!” before fading into unconsciousness. Henry Johnson and Needham Roberts were evacuated to the divisional hospital in Auve.

The fantastic original artwork by Gerry Embleton that illustrated the story in Paradis magazine.

The next morning, Captain Little, the CO of the 1st Battalion, and Company C commander 1st Lt Pratt traced the route taken by the retreating raiding party through the woods towards the German lines for about half-a-mile. As Little recalled in his memoirs, “We trailed the course with the greatest of ease, by pools of blood, blood-soaked handkerchiefs and first aid bandages, and blood-smeared logs, where the routed party had rested.” They found four German bodies where their comrades had abandoned them, and ample evidence of severe wounds inflicted on several other Germans. They also came upon weapons and equipment stashed by the raiders in their FUP, which the Germans had not had time to retrieve and which indicated a strength of between twenty-five and thirty-five men. They were able to conclude that two inexperienced soldiers had put a party of at least thirty experienced German trench-raiders to flight. In the OP, later that morning, Little picked up a German fieldcap cut almost in half, with fragments of bone, brain and other tissue clinging to the coarse wool, a mute but grim testimony to the effectiveness of the bolo as a close combat weapon.


Johnson and Roberts recovered sufficiently from their wounds to rejoin the 369th and Johnson ended the war in the rank of sergeant, with France’s highest award for valour, the Croix de Guerre with Bronze Palm and Star.

The French citation for the award of the Croix de Guerre to Henry Johnson and Needham Roberts translates,

"First---Johnson, Henry (13348), private in company C, being on double sentry duty during the night and having been assaulted by a group composed of at least one dozen Germans, shot and disabled one of them and grievously wounded two others with his bolo. In spite of three wounds with pistol bullets and grenades at the beginning of the fight, this man ran to the assistance of his wounded comrade who was about to be carried away prisoner by the enemy, and continued to fight up to the retreat of the Germans. He has given a beautiful example of courage and activity.

"Second---Roberts, Needham (13369), private in Company C, being on double sentry duty during the night was assaulted and grievously wounded in his leg by a group of Germans continuing fighting by throwing grenades, although he was prone on the ground, up to the retreat of the enemy. Good and brave soldier. The general requested that the citation of the division commander to the soldier Johnson be changed to the citation of the orders of the Army.” In other words, Henry Johnson received the rare distinction of the Croix de Guerre avec Palme en Bronze et Étoile en Bronze at the same time.

The dozen Germans to which the citation referred were the ones who had entered OP 29 anticipating a relatively straightforward prisoner snatch. It was their first hard experience of the fighting qualities of the Black Rattlers, qualities that would lead the Germans to dub them hölle kämpfer, literally Hell Fighters, hence their more familiar nickname, “Harlem Hell Fighters”, after the predominantly black district of Uptown Manhattan where the regiment was formed. At one point, the German High Command proposed coveted home leaves with an Iron Cross and a cash prize for anyone capturing a Hell Fighter. Many Germans tried…and never made it back to their lines. No Hell Fighter was ever taken alive by the Germans.

Instituted on April 8 1915, the Croix de Guerre was the only decoration awarded by France in World War One purely for valour on the battlefield. It was awarded to individuals of any rank who distinguished themselves by heroism in combat against enemy forces and also to anyone mentioned in dispatches for bravery in action. Subsequent acts of bravery on the part of recipients earned a bronze star for Regimental and Brigade citations, a silver star for Divisional citations, a gold star for Corps citations and a bronze palm leaf for Army citations. A common soldier of lowly rank from the mud and filth of the trenches sporting the Palme de Bronze on his green and red ribbon, like Private Henry Johnson, was a man to be treated with the greatest of respect.

The Croix de Guerre could also be awarded to units that distinguished themselves and, indeed, the 369th ended the war with the Croix de Guerre pinned to their regimental standard, principally for gallantry in the September and October 1918 offensives in the Champagne sector but also for their record 191 days in the front line. The 369th spent the longest time of any US unit in the combat zone; they fought in the Champagne, on the Aisne, in the Argonne, at Main de Massiges, Butte de Mesnil, the Dormoise, Tourbe, Séchault, Ripont, Kuppinase, Bellevue Ridge and the Vosges and the Germans were terrified of them. Yet for all that, the American High Command continued to see blacks as intrinsically inferior and not reliable as combat troops.

At one point, the 369th represented less than one percent of US forces in France yet held some twenty percent of the territory held by American troops. During their year in France, fewer than six cases of drunkenness and only twenty-four of venereal disease were reported; a fact Colonel Hayward like to rub into his superiors at Pershing’s HQ. The regiment was the first Allied unit to reach the Rhine after the signing of the armistice, moving from Thann and arriving at Blodesheim on November 18th 1918. The 369th was also the highest-decorated American unit of World War One: 170 officers and men received the Croix de Guerre. Several dozen received the Distinguished Service Cross, America’s highest award for valour after the Congressional Medal of Honor.

However, not a single black soldier received the CMoH although one white officer of the 369th, 1st Lt George S Robb, received a well-deserved CMoH for refusing to be evacuated despite being wounded three times during the assault on the German lines between Séchault and Les Petits Rosiers during the night of September 29-30 1918. One of the black Hell Fighters who certainly should have received the CMoH was Henry Johnson but Negroes were limited to the DSC and, even then, there came a point when that honour was denied them (unofficially of course) by a High Command keen to “keep the niggers in their place.”

Denied any American awards for his extraordinary bravery, Henry Johnson was nonetheless recognised as a hero back home, as this photo of him riding high in a staff car with a bouquet during the regiment’s victory parade down New York City’s Fifth Avenue in 1919 shows.

Henry Johnson was personally congratulated by President Woodrow Wilson and given a ticker tape parade down Broadway but he received no American bravery awards. He was promoted to sergeant by Colonel Hayward, who recommended him for the DSC. But the High Command clearly felt that too many niggers were thumbing their noses at white authority by winning medals, which simply would not do. Keeping Sambo down on the farm now that he had seen Gay Paree, to paraphrase one of the mischievous jazz songs by the regimental band, was going to be hard enough without having him elevated to national hero status into the bargain.

Because of his wounds, Henry Johnson was unable to return to his pre-war job as a railroad porter. He drifted into unemployment, alcoholism and, in the end, destitution. Estranged from his wife and three children, Johnson was found unconscious in the street one night in 1929 by two beat cops, who took him to the Veterans’ Administration hospital, where he died at the age of thirty-two. At least he got to die between clean sheets at no charge to his next-of-kin. 

In 1997, President Clinton ordered that Johnson be given a posthumous Purple Heart. In 2000, in response to the campaign for a CMoH for Johnson, came a posthumous DSC, received by his surviving son, Herbert, who flew with the USAAF’s only black fighter squadron in World War Two as one of the mythical Tuskegee Airmen. Around that time, the surprising discovery was made that Johnson had been interred in Arlington National Cemetery, reserved for military heroes, because everyone believed his body had been buried anonymously in a paupers’ grave in Albany. Evidently, someone had made the effort back in 1929 to do right by Henry Johnson although no documentation has so far surfaced to explain this. There is now a statue of Johnson in Albany’s Washington Park and the city fathers have named a boulevard after him.

Yet for all that, Henry Johnson, lying in Arlington, remains unequal among the heroes who rest there with him, as efforts to get him a posthumous CMoH continue to be resisted by an American military establishment that clearly feels that the Clinton administration of the 1990s awarded too many posthumous Congressional Medals of Honour to black soldiers.