“We are heading to Kitzingen, just south of Würzburg, to the basic training facility for Negro troops. There you will receive orientation and training before being dispatched to duty. Grab your equipment and follow me to the bus. Platoon, atten-SHUN! Fall out.”
The soldiers broke from their ranks, and Marshall led the way to a fleet of service buses. He located their bus, and the soldiers filed onto the vehicle, stuffing their bags on the rack overhead and beneath their feet.
Ozzie found a window seat. As the bus pulled away from the dock, the men started off with rowdy chatter, but after a long stretch on the autobahn, the motion of the ride lulled most of them to sleep. Ozzie had been snoozing deeply when he was yanked back by Sergeant Marshall’svoice shouting “good morning” and prompting them to look out the window.
As they drove through the center of town, Ozzie watched the locals walking along the streets. Many had sullen eyes, and he saw kids in shabby clothes who were so skinny and frail that they looked as if a heavy wind would be the end of them. As the bus slowed near a footbridge, people brightened and waved their hats in the air. A few shouted,“Willkommen!”
“They are welcoming us.” Marshall waved back, and a few others did the same. Ozzie held up his hand and waved too.
Morgan whistled. “Man, I can’t wait to get to know some of these honeys.”
“Yes, Lawd. I heard the girls here hunger for that Coca-Cola in their ice cream.” Thorton slapped Morgan five, and several of the men chimed in with more bravado.
As the testosterone-charged conversation revved, all Ozzie could hear was his mother’s final warning:Don’t you go over there messin’ with no white women. Ain’t nothing on the other side of that but the devil’s luck.
The bus slowed at the mouth of the military base. There were two military police stationed at the gate, and after a few words with the driver, the gates opened and the bus drove through.
“Welcome to the Kitzingen Basic Training Center for Negro Troops. We are the spark plug of the entire Negro population in the European Command,” Sergeant Marshall said, pride gleaming from his face. “Now, let’s get you gentlemen settled so we can show them what we can do.”
The sleeping arrangements were one long open bay-style room with several bunks, a far better arrangement than what Ozzie had on the ship. Once the men had unpacked their things, Marshall gave them a tour of the facility. They went through the Army Education Center, the Kitzingen library, the tailor shop, Tent City—which housed the telephone switchboards and all communications—the chapel thatheld both Protestant and Catholic services, and the basketball courts. They ended the tour at the rifle range.
“This is what I’m talking about. When do we get our weapons?” one man asked, pulling an imaginary trigger before blowing away pretend smoke.
“Soon enough, but first things first. PT starts tomorrow morning at six a.m.”
The next morning, after a three-mile run and a shower, Ozzie moved through the chow line at the mess hall. Famished, he piled his plate with eggs, sausage, and what the men called shit on a shingle, which was nothing more than creamed chipped beef on toast.
Satisfied, Ozzie’s squad reported to the classroom for the aptitude test. It was a two-hour exam, but Ozzie finished with at least thirty minutes to spare. As he walked from the classroom, Morgan fell in step next to him.
“How do you think you did?” Morgan asked, his stocky shoulders bunched around his ears.
“It was pretty basic.”
“Yeah, I agree. Nothing challenged me much. Where do you want to be assigned?”
“Intelligence. You?”
“I’m hoping for adjutant general. I’d like to advise on military policy and procedures. Handle promotions, transfers, discharges, and that sort of thing.”
“You don’t want to get your hands dirty?”
“I’m a thinker. Combat would be a waste of my talent,” Morgan said. Ozzie felt the same way. He’d rather read a book than swing a weapon.
They walked down the hall and up the steps to the library to wait for the other men to finish testing. The room was narrow, withone wall of floor-to-ceiling books, several stuffed chairs, and a coffee table with stacks of American newspapers. Ozzie found thePittsburgh Courier. Even though the newspaper was dated May 5, 1948, nearly three months prior, he flipped it open. Morgan grabbed an outdated issue ofThe Chicago Defender.
One by one, the other men from their unit filed into the library, some looking at magazines, others in small groups whispering about how they thought they’d done on the test.
“Gentlemen, may I have your attention.” Sergeant Marshall had walked into the library and stood with an almond-colored man decorated in stripes and ribbons. “This is Lieutenant Lonnie W. Hill, assistant adjutant of the Kitzingen Basic Training Center.”
All the men in the library stood and saluted the lieutenant.
“At ease, gentlemen. I wanted to welcome you all to the best training center in the European Command. You are here at a monumental time,” said Lieutenant Hill. He wore his tie tucked inside his button-down shirt, and a single wedding band adorned his thick ring finger. “This just in from Washington: President Truman has signed Executive Order 9981, which mandates the desegregation of the U.S. Armed Forces.”
Ozzie blinked, wondering if he had heard correctly. The other men seemed equally stunned by the news. The room was so quiet you could hear a hatpin drop.
Lieutenant Hill held up a piece of paper and removed his glasses from his shirt pocket. “It reads that ‘there shall be equality of treatment and opportunity for all persons in the armed services without regard to race, color, religion or natural origin.’?” Laughter and joy emitted from the soldiers like water rushing from a dam. “This is progress, men. Congratulations,” finished Lieutenant Hill.
Ozzie could see tears sparkling in the lieutenant’s eyes.
