Pushkin Hello.

Pushkin Hello.

Hello.

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Before we get on with our show, I want you to know that your Pushkin Plus subscription grants you early access to Medal of Honor episodes one week before they were released to the public. That's one week of exclusive access. If you want to listen to more episodes a week before they're widely available, sign up for Pushkin Plus on Apple Podcasts or by visiting Pushkin, dot Fm, slash Plus. Now onto the episode. It was a clear day in New York City, February nineteen nineteen. The winter sun shone down warmly on masters of people lining both sides of Fifth Avenue. The parade route was seven miles long, and they were cheering crowds along every inch of it. People were john for a peak of thousands of soldiers who were marching uptown in perfect military formation. These men were just back from the most apocalyptic conflict the world had ever seen, World War One, the Great War, as they called it back then. The men were wearing dark wool uniforms and steel helmets. The bayonets of their rifles gleamed in the sun. Some of the men were shell shocked, some were exhausted. All of them were grateful to have made it back home, and all the men were black. They were known as the Harlem Hell Fighters, the three hundred and sixty ninth Infantry Regiment of the United States Army. This parade was their triumphant return to New York City, the city that had given them their unofficial name. In nineteen nineteen, troops were still segregated. Discrimination wasn't confined to the Jim Crow South. It reached all the way to the trenches on the European Front. But the Harlem Hell Fighters were some of the most highly decorated soldiers in the Great War. They had seen one hundred and ninety one days of combat, the longest of any regiment, and they had never had a man taken prisoner or lost a foot of ground. There were more than two thousand Harlem Hell Fighters in that parade, all them heroes, but as one in particular that I want to tell you about. His name was Henry Johnson, but as he rode past, the spectators called out to him by his nickname Black Death. Of all the Harlem Hell Fighters, Henry Johnson had made the biggest impression back home in the trenches of France. In the dark of night. He had single handedly taken on an invading enemy force. He had survived twenty one near fatal wounds, and he had rescued another wounded soldier who the Germans were trying to take prisoner. Every person at that parade knew Henry Johnson's story made it back to the US. Long before he did. Henry was featured on army recruitment posters and advertisements. He was profiled in newspapers and magazines. Out of a fighting force of millions, Henry Johnson had become one of the most famous soldiers in the entire war. Henry rolled up this avenue in an open topped cadillac. He couldn't march with the rest of the troops. His foot had been destroyed in the battle. It was being held together by a metal plate. He waved and smiled as the crowds shouted his name. At that moment, Henry was the most famous person in New York City. But only ten years later Henry Johnson would die poor and broken, and soon enough his story would be nearly forgotten. The Battle of Henry Johnson might have started in France, but he kept going long after the war. It went on, in fact, for ninety seven years until finally, one of the most famous soldiers of World War I would be awarded our country's highest recognition for courage, the Medal of Honor, him Malcolm Gladwell. And this is Medal of Honor Stories of Courage. The Medal of Honor is the highest military decoration in the United States. It's awarded for gallantry and bravery in combat at the risk of life, above and beyond the call of duty. Each candidate must be approved all the way up the chain of command, from the supervisory officer in the field to the White House. This show is about those heroes, what they did, what it meant, and what their stories tell us about the nature of courage and sacrifice today. The never ending battle of Henry Johnson. Let's start with the Harlem hell Fighters. I mean, it's there in the name, right, total badasses. Other regiments have nicknames like the Rock of the Marne, the Liberators, the puzzlingly named Armorators, or my personal favorite, the nickname for the one hundred and first Airborne Division, which at some point during World War II became known as the Battered Bastards of Best Doin. But to understand Henry Johnson, you first have to understand the Harlem hell Fighters. They started out as the fifteenth Infantry of the New York National Guard. At the time, they were the only black regiment in New York State. When the US went to war in April nineteen seventeen, men rushed to join the fifteenth. They came from across New York, but the vast majority of them were from Harlem. There wasn't a draft yet, they didn't have to go to war. They wanted to go. All of them were volunteers, including Henry Johnson. He was small, a slight man with a sweet disposition. He had a massive smile and wore his army issue cap at a rakish tilt to the side. He almost hadn't met the physical requirements to enlist. You had to be five foot four, and he was barely that. But he was resourceful and he was tough. As his wife, Edna Jackson would say, Henry wasn't big, but oh boy, he can go some. Like a lot of the thirty six hundred men of the fifteenth Infantry, Henry saw the military as a chance to serve his country and have steady work. It was risky, but if he survived, it could mean a better life, so he joined up. Back in the nineteen seventies, a documentary crew tracked down one of the last surviving Harlem hell Fighters, a guy named Melville Morris. He talked about the pride they all had in the fifteenth.

Before we get on with our show, I want you to know that your Pushkin Plus subscription grants you early access to Medal of Honor episodes one week before they were released to the public. That's one week of exclusive access. If you want to listen to more episodes a week before they're widely available, sign up for Pushkin Plus on Apple Podcasts or by visiting Pushkin, dot Fm, slash Plus. Now onto the episode. It was a clear day in New York City, February nineteen nineteen. The winter sun shone down warmly on masters of people lining both sides of Fifth Avenue. The parade route was seven miles long, and they were cheering crowds along every inch of it. People were john for a peak of thousands of soldiers who were marching uptown in perfect military formation. These men were just back from the most apocalyptic conflict the world had ever seen, World War One, the Great War, as they called it back then. The men were wearing dark wool uniforms and steel helmets. The bayonets of their rifles gleamed in the sun. Some of the men were shell shocked, some were exhausted. All of them were grateful to have made it back home, and all the men were black. They were known as the Harlem Hell Fighters, the three hundred and sixty ninth Infantry Regiment of the United States Army. This parade was their triumphant return to New York City, the city that had given them their unofficial name. In nineteen nineteen, troops were still segregated. Discrimination wasn't confined to the Jim Crow South. It reached all the way to the trenches on the European Front. But the Harlem Hell Fighters were some of the most highly decorated soldiers in the Great War. They had seen one hundred and ninety one days of combat, the longest of any regiment, and they had never had a man taken prisoner or lost a foot of ground. There were more than two thousand Harlem Hell Fighters in that parade, all them heroes, but as one in particular that I want to tell you about. His name was Henry Johnson, but as he rode past, the spectators called out to him by his nickname Black Death. Of all the Harlem Hell Fighters, Henry Johnson had made the biggest impression back home in the trenches of France. In the dark of night. He had single handedly taken on an invading enemy force. He had survived twenty one near fatal wounds, and he had rescued another wounded soldier who the Germans were trying to take prisoner. Every person at that parade knew Henry Johnson's story made it back to the US. Long before he did. Henry was featured on army recruitment posters and advertisements. He was profiled in newspapers and magazines. Out of a fighting force of millions, Henry Johnson had become one of the most famous soldiers in the entire war. Henry rolled up this avenue in an open topped cadillac. He couldn't march with the rest of the troops. His foot had been destroyed in the battle. It was being held together by a metal plate. He waved and smiled as the crowds shouted his name. At that moment, Henry was the most famous person in New York City. But only ten years later Henry Johnson would die poor and broken, and soon enough his story would be nearly forgotten. The Battle of Henry Johnson might have started in France, but he kept going long after the war. It went on, in fact, for ninety seven years until finally, one of the most famous soldiers of World War I would be awarded our country's highest recognition for courage, the Medal of Honor, him Malcolm Gladwell. And this is Medal of Honor Stories of Courage. The Medal of Honor is the highest military decoration in the United States. It's awarded for gallantry and bravery in combat at the risk of life, above and beyond the call of duty. Each candidate must be approved all the way up the chain of command, from the supervisory officer in the field to the White House. This show is about those heroes, what they did, what it meant, and what their stories tell us about the nature of courage and sacrifice today. The never ending battle of Henry Johnson. Let's start with the Harlem hell Fighters. I mean, it's there in the name, right, total badasses. Other regiments have nicknames like the Rock of the Marne, the Liberators, the puzzlingly named Armorators, or my personal favorite, the nickname for the one hundred and first Airborne Division, which at some point during World War II became known as the Battered Bastards of Best Doin. But to understand Henry Johnson, you first have to understand the Harlem hell Fighters. They started out as the fifteenth Infantry of the New York National Guard. At the time, they were the only black regiment in New York State. When the US went to war in April nineteen seventeen, men rushed to join the fifteenth. They came from across New York, but the vast majority of them were from Harlem. There wasn't a draft yet, they didn't have to go to war. They wanted to go. All of them were volunteers, including Henry Johnson. He was small, a slight man with a sweet disposition. He had a massive smile and wore his army issue cap at a rakish tilt to the side. He almost hadn't met the physical requirements to enlist. You had to be five foot four, and he was barely that. But he was resourceful and he was tough. As his wife, Edna Jackson would say, Henry wasn't big, but oh boy, he can go some. Like a lot of the thirty six hundred men of the fifteenth Infantry, Henry saw the military as a chance to serve his country and have steady work. It was risky, but if he survived, it could mean a better life, so he joined up. Back in the nineteen seventies, a documentary crew tracked down one of the last surviving Harlem hell Fighters, a guy named Melville Morris. He talked about the pride they all had in the fifteenth.

Every man felt he was in the best squad, in the best regiment of the whole game in United States.

Every man felt he was in the best squad, in the best regiment of the whole game in United States.

They set sail for France in the fall of nineteen seventeen, but when they got there, instead of grenades and tanks, they were handed shovels and wheelbarrows. The American Expeditionary Forces, under the command of General John Pershing had no intention of sending the fifteenth into battle. Instead, they would work as stevedores, manual laborers. They were signed to lay railroad tracks. Turns out Jim Crobb had followed the hell Fighters all the way to Europe.

They set sail for France in the fall of nineteen seventeen, but when they got there, instead of grenades and tanks, they were handed shovels and wheelbarrows. The American Expeditionary Forces, under the command of General John Pershing had no intention of sending the fifteenth into battle. Instead, they would work as stevedores, manual laborers. They were signed to lay railroad tracks. Turns out Jim Crobb had followed the hell Fighters all the way to Europe.

And General Persian said, there had no fighting blacks in this war.

And General Persian said, there had no fighting blacks in this war.

We train them in the stevedores.

We train them in the stevedores.

Or send you back home. Were set downs on old ships and do all kinds of details, but not fight because Persian wanted he didn't want no puddles in his division there or what lily white.

Or send you back home. Were set downs on old ships and do all kinds of details, but not fight because Persian wanted he didn't want no puddles in his division there or what lily white.

The fifteenth were trained to fight, and they knew they could make a difference. They also knew what fighting would mean, not just the war, but afterwards, when they went back to the United States. A lieutenant from the fifteenth wrote home from France to say, if we can't fight and die in this war as bravely as white men, then we don't deserve equality. But if we can do things at the front, if we can make ourselves felt, if we can make America really proud, then it will be the biggest possible step towards our equalization as citizens. Henry had worked as a baggage handler in Albany before the war. He was strong, he had grown up in hard scrabble North Carolina. He knew adversity, and he was deeply proud to be an American soldier. Being kept out of the fighting wasn't just frustrating, it was infuriating. And then in March of nineteen eighteen, the fifteenth Infantry got their chance. The French army was at its breaking point. They'd been on the front lines for three years and lost more than a million men. Look to the soldiers of the fifteenth and figured, the white Americans don't want to fight with him, so maybe we can so they requested their service. The fifteenth was quickly renamed the three hundred and sixty ninth Infantry Regiment of the United States Army, and they went off to join the French. This, by the way, was pretty much unheard of. The US military did not lend out soldiers, but loaning the hell Fighters solved a problem. General Pershing wouldn't have to worry about keeping his black and white soldiers apart. Plus, it was a nice thing for an ally to do, and as an extra neighborly act, his staff sent their French liaison a document titled Secret Information concerning Black American Troops. It warned about the dangers of relying on quote unquote inferior black soldiers. It noted that their quote vices were a quote constant menace, and it asked the French not to treat the black soldiers as equal warning against ea with them or even shaking their hands otherwise, the document explained the men might expect the same treatment when they got back to America. But the French welcomed the newly christened three hundred and sixty ninth Infantry into their army as fast as they possibly could. In that nineteen seventies documentary I mentioned, you can hear how excited Melville was about all things French.

The fifteenth were trained to fight, and they knew they could make a difference. They also knew what fighting would mean, not just the war, but afterwards, when they went back to the United States. A lieutenant from the fifteenth wrote home from France to say, if we can't fight and die in this war as bravely as white men, then we don't deserve equality. But if we can do things at the front, if we can make ourselves felt, if we can make America really proud, then it will be the biggest possible step towards our equalization as citizens. Henry had worked as a baggage handler in Albany before the war. He was strong, he had grown up in hard scrabble North Carolina. He knew adversity, and he was deeply proud to be an American soldier. Being kept out of the fighting wasn't just frustrating, it was infuriating. And then in March of nineteen eighteen, the fifteenth Infantry got their chance. The French army was at its breaking point. They'd been on the front lines for three years and lost more than a million men. Look to the soldiers of the fifteenth and figured, the white Americans don't want to fight with him, so maybe we can so they requested their service. The fifteenth was quickly renamed the three hundred and sixty ninth Infantry Regiment of the United States Army, and they went off to join the French. This, by the way, was pretty much unheard of. The US military did not lend out soldiers, but loaning the hell Fighters solved a problem. General Pershing wouldn't have to worry about keeping his black and white soldiers apart. Plus, it was a nice thing for an ally to do, and as an extra neighborly act, his staff sent their French liaison a document titled Secret Information concerning Black American Troops. It warned about the dangers of relying on quote unquote inferior black soldiers. It noted that their quote vices were a quote constant menace, and it asked the French not to treat the black soldiers as equal warning against ea with them or even shaking their hands otherwise, the document explained the men might expect the same treatment when they got back to America. But the French welcomed the newly christened three hundred and sixty ninth Infantry into their army as fast as they possibly could. In that nineteen seventies documentary I mentioned, you can hear how excited Melville was about all things French.

We got French helmets, French canteens, French rifles, and instead of water canteen, where should French wine? And we joined the fourth French Army.

We got French helmets, French canteens, French rifles, and instead of water canteen, where should French wine? And we joined the fourth French Army.

They were sent to the Argonne Forest in the northeastern corner of France to join the beleaguered French troops in the trenches. And when they got there, it turns out that three hundred and sixty ninth weren't just ready to fight, they were great at it, and soon enough, thanks to their tenacity and their skill, they had earned their new name, the Harlem hell Fighters. Back home, though, the truth of what they face as black soldiers, that white American soldiers did not want to serve alongside them, was being very carefully hidden. We'll be back in a minute. In the early hours of May fifteenth, nineteen eighteen, Henry Johnson and his friend and fellow hell Fighter Needham Roberts, were sent to a listening post in No Man's Land, the area between the French trenches and the German position picture a wide swath of desolate terrain parked with craters and burnt trees. The French were holding the western side in deep trenches rimmed with barbed wire. The Germans were holding the east. Henry and Needham's job was to stay up through the night and be the eyes and ears of their platoon. If they heard or saw anything suspicious, they were to alert the rest of the troops. The hell fighters had seen two months of action, the Germans had seen three years. They'd become experts at raiding trenches, coming by surprise, killing, taking soldiers prisoner, and pumping them for intelligence. That night, everyone was on edge. They were sure a raiding party was going to come. So sure a French lieutenant ordered Henry and Needham back to safety. Henry, as he told reporters later, wasn't having it. Lieutenant, He said, I'm an American and I never retreat. Henry and Needham stood watch all through the pitch black night. Their ears were tuned to everything around them, the wind whistling through no man's land, a rustle in the leaves. Then at two or three in the morning, they heard an ominous gnawing noise. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It was the sound of wire cutters. Suddenly, an enemy flare that the dark. The Germans had arrived. Grenades exploded, and bullets cut through the night. Air Shrapnel tore through Henry and Needham's uniforms their skin. Henry threw grenades of his own, his heart racing, he shouldered his rifle and started shooting. Needham, meanwhile, had been wounded in the arm and hip, and he lost consciousness. Henry was fighting alone. In an instant, the Germans were on top of them. Henry couldn't see how many ten twenty. He realized with horror that they were going to drag need Him away. The hell Fighters hadn't yet let a man be captured as a prisoner. They prided themselves on that he had to keep them from taking Needham. Henry had fired all the rounds in his rifle, and when he went to reload it, it jammed unusable, so he turned his rifle around and swung it wildly. Alone and mobbed by the enemy, he beat back the Germans until the butt of his rifle broke. Then he remembered his bolo knife. If you don't know what a bolo knife, let me put it this way. You don't cut butter with it. Nine to fourteen inches long, with a razor sharp blade along one side. Henry swung the knife and took down one enemy's soldier. Then another shots rang out. Henry was hit in the right forearm, right hip, and left leg, but he kept stabbing. He swung his knife till the Germans turned and ran into the night. He slashed and thrust until he was sure his friend was safe. Henry, as his wife Edna knew, could go so he'd lost a lot of blood. He struggled to stay conscious. He just couldn't, and as he sank to the ground, Henry hurled one last grenade, hitting and killing an enemy's soldier. As he fled, reinforcements reached the listening post a few minutes later. Melville remembers it Henry had been wounded twenty one times.

They were sent to the Argonne Forest in the northeastern corner of France to join the beleaguered French troops in the trenches. And when they got there, it turns out that three hundred and sixty ninth weren't just ready to fight, they were great at it, and soon enough, thanks to their tenacity and their skill, they had earned their new name, the Harlem hell Fighters. Back home, though, the truth of what they face as black soldiers, that white American soldiers did not want to serve alongside them, was being very carefully hidden. We'll be back in a minute. In the early hours of May fifteenth, nineteen eighteen, Henry Johnson and his friend and fellow hell Fighter Needham Roberts, were sent to a listening post in No Man's Land, the area between the French trenches and the German position picture a wide swath of desolate terrain parked with craters and burnt trees. The French were holding the western side in deep trenches rimmed with barbed wire. The Germans were holding the east. Henry and Needham's job was to stay up through the night and be the eyes and ears of their platoon. If they heard or saw anything suspicious, they were to alert the rest of the troops. The hell fighters had seen two months of action, the Germans had seen three years. They'd become experts at raiding trenches, coming by surprise, killing, taking soldiers prisoner, and pumping them for intelligence. That night, everyone was on edge. They were sure a raiding party was going to come. So sure a French lieutenant ordered Henry and Needham back to safety. Henry, as he told reporters later, wasn't having it. Lieutenant, He said, I'm an American and I never retreat. Henry and Needham stood watch all through the pitch black night. Their ears were tuned to everything around them, the wind whistling through no man's land, a rustle in the leaves. Then at two or three in the morning, they heard an ominous gnawing noise. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It was the sound of wire cutters. Suddenly, an enemy flare that the dark. The Germans had arrived. Grenades exploded, and bullets cut through the night. Air Shrapnel tore through Henry and Needham's uniforms their skin. Henry threw grenades of his own, his heart racing, he shouldered his rifle and started shooting. Needham, meanwhile, had been wounded in the arm and hip, and he lost consciousness. Henry was fighting alone. In an instant, the Germans were on top of them. Henry couldn't see how many ten twenty. He realized with horror that they were going to drag need Him away. The hell Fighters hadn't yet let a man be captured as a prisoner. They prided themselves on that he had to keep them from taking Needham. Henry had fired all the rounds in his rifle, and when he went to reload it, it jammed unusable, so he turned his rifle around and swung it wildly. Alone and mobbed by the enemy, he beat back the Germans until the butt of his rifle broke. Then he remembered his bolo knife. If you don't know what a bolo knife, let me put it this way. You don't cut butter with it. Nine to fourteen inches long, with a razor sharp blade along one side. Henry swung the knife and took down one enemy's soldier. Then another shots rang out. Henry was hit in the right forearm, right hip, and left leg, but he kept stabbing. He swung his knife till the Germans turned and ran into the night. He slashed and thrust until he was sure his friend was safe. Henry, as his wife Edna knew, could go so he'd lost a lot of blood. He struggled to stay conscious. He just couldn't, and as he sank to the ground, Henry hurled one last grenade, hitting and killing an enemy's soldier. As he fled, reinforcements reached the listening post a few minutes later. Melville remembers it Henry had been wounded twenty one times.

Well, he refused to die and took Johnson and Roberts. We finally got out there in the morning, dragged their bodies back. They weren't dead and both lived through it.

Well, he refused to die and took Johnson and Roberts. We finally got out there in the morning, dragged their bodies back. They weren't dead and both lived through it.

The next morning, as the two recovered in the hospital, their commanding officers surveyed the path of the Germans retreat. His captain Arthur Little wrote, quote, we trailed the course with the greatest of ease, by pulls of blood, blood soaked bandages, and blood smeared logs with the routed party had rested. They also discovered that the raiding party had left behind a small but very valuable collection of weapons and intelligence. They deduced that as many as twenty four Germans had been on the scene, yet Henry had held them off in hand to hand combat without a working firearm. In the dark, he kept them from crossing the French line, and just a few minutes of fighting he had defeated an entire raiding party. That's why when Henry came back home, everyone in America knew his name. The day after the battle, three American reporters arrived at the scene. While General Pershing had restricted news about American military operations overseas, the French had no such rules, and the three hundred and sixty ninth was, after all, embedded with the French. The journalists raised to speak to Needham and Henry at the hospital. They sent their reports back to the States, where people were desperate for some news, any news of progress in the war. Henry was happy to talk to the reporters about that night and that Bolo knife. Each slash meant something believe me, he told them, I just fought my life. A rabbit would have done that. His actions, wrote the Saturday Evening Post, were proof that the color of a man's skin has nothing to do with the color of his soul. Two days after the attack, the French sixteenth Division, which commanded the hell Fighters, officially recognized the actions of Needham and Henry. Both received the French Quadiguere, the country's highest military honor. They were some of the first U. S soldiers ever to earn this distinction. Henry's medal also included the Bronze Palm for extraordinary valor, and that's when he got his nickname Black Death. It took two days for the French to award Henry's courage. It would take decades for the United States to do the same. Henry spent the rest of the war in a French hospital recovering from his injuries. His foot had been destroyed, and the army awarded him the Wounded Chevron, an acknowledgment of his disabilities. They also upgraded his rank from private to sergeant. But while the French were willing to honor his courage and valor with a medal, the American military would not, even though by the end of the war in the winter of nineteen eighteen, the Harlem hell Fighters had served longer in the trench, which is than any other American regiment, and they had suffered the most losses, with fifteen hundred casualties. A reporter from a local paper found Henry at the pier as he got off the steamer coming home to New York and described him this way. His lip is scarred by a knife slash, his head holds a dent made by a rifle butt. In his hand is the welt of a bayonet's slash, and a silver plate keeps his left foot in place. He got his heroes welcome. Henry rode in a place of honor in the parade up Fifth Avenue, carrying a bouquet of lilies. Melville remembered it, well.

The next morning, as the two recovered in the hospital, their commanding officers surveyed the path of the Germans retreat. His captain Arthur Little wrote, quote, we trailed the course with the greatest of ease, by pulls of blood, blood soaked bandages, and blood smeared logs with the routed party had rested. They also discovered that the raiding party had left behind a small but very valuable collection of weapons and intelligence. They deduced that as many as twenty four Germans had been on the scene, yet Henry had held them off in hand to hand combat without a working firearm. In the dark, he kept them from crossing the French line, and just a few minutes of fighting he had defeated an entire raiding party. That's why when Henry came back home, everyone in America knew his name. The day after the battle, three American reporters arrived at the scene. While General Pershing had restricted news about American military operations overseas, the French had no such rules, and the three hundred and sixty ninth was, after all, embedded with the French. The journalists raised to speak to Needham and Henry at the hospital. They sent their reports back to the States, where people were desperate for some news, any news of progress in the war. Henry was happy to talk to the reporters about that night and that Bolo knife. Each slash meant something believe me, he told them, I just fought my life. A rabbit would have done that. His actions, wrote the Saturday Evening Post, were proof that the color of a man's skin has nothing to do with the color of his soul. Two days after the attack, the French sixteenth Division, which commanded the hell Fighters, officially recognized the actions of Needham and Henry. Both received the French Quadiguere, the country's highest military honor. They were some of the first U. S soldiers ever to earn this distinction. Henry's medal also included the Bronze Palm for extraordinary valor, and that's when he got his nickname Black Death. It took two days for the French to award Henry's courage. It would take decades for the United States to do the same. Henry spent the rest of the war in a French hospital recovering from his injuries. His foot had been destroyed, and the army awarded him the Wounded Chevron, an acknowledgment of his disabilities. They also upgraded his rank from private to sergeant. But while the French were willing to honor his courage and valor with a medal, the American military would not, even though by the end of the war in the winter of nineteen eighteen, the Harlem hell Fighters had served longer in the trench, which is than any other American regiment, and they had suffered the most losses, with fifteen hundred casualties. A reporter from a local paper found Henry at the pier as he got off the steamer coming home to New York and described him this way. His lip is scarred by a knife slash, his head holds a dent made by a rifle butt. In his hand is the welt of a bayonet's slash, and a silver plate keeps his left foot in place. He got his heroes welcome. Henry rode in a place of honor in the parade up Fifth Avenue, carrying a bouquet of lilies. Melville remembered it, well.

Everybody wanted to see Henry Johnson. Everybody wanted to shakers here. That's one day that it wasn't a sighted bit.

Everybody wanted to see Henry Johnson. Everybody wanted to shakers here. That's one day that it wasn't a sighted bit.

Of prejudice in New York City. Henry was featured on an ad for war stamps. It read Henry Johnson licked a dozen Germans. How many stamps have you licked? But Henry was exhausted, physically broken. When he got off the train in Albany, finally home, he was greeted by New York Governor L Smith and a group of cheering fans. He was grateful, of course, but pay attention to what he said to the reporters quote, I am very proud of all of you, but I am sick and tired. I just want to say that I am glad to get back home. He didn't want to be celebrated, but the welcoming party wouldn't take no for an answer, and Henry was paraded around the city and hustled to get another fancy dinner. Governor Smith promised to name a street after him, and then the Attorney General's office started raising funds to build a new house for Henry too, but those things came at a price. He was asked to speak before the New York State Senate Judiciary Committee, and he had terrible stage fright, sweating and stammering. Afterwards, the papers announced hero flunks in speech effort, and maybe because the real Henry wasn't so keen on public appearances, fake Henry Johnson's started popping up to take his place and make money off it. Two fake Henry's were arrested in Albany selling photographs. Henry asked the judge to go easy on them and offered to lend the impersonator's money if they needed it. The newspapers noted that quote, he doesn't care for the honors himself, but he hates to have the public imposed upon Then another fake Henry appeared in Saint Louis before thousands of fans and the city's mayor. That one was hauled off to jail. So now the pressure was on the real Henry to get out there and speak for himself. The organizers of the Saint Louis event pleaded with him to come and speak, and, maybe because he felt badly that they had been deceived, or maybe because he needed the money, he went to be the star attraction in an evening celebrating black contributions to the war effort. It was held in the Colosseum, the largest and most luxurious venue in all of Saint Louis. Five thousand people gathered to hear him tell his story. He was walking into an atmosphere bubbling with racial tension in Saint Louis and across the country. Lynchings were in the news constantly. The klu Kluck's Klan was on the rise, not just in the South, but stretching the whole width of the United States, from New Jersey to Oregon. So the evening of Friday, March twenty eighth, nineteen nineteen was meant to be a joyful one, but also to walk a very thin line on the question of race. Dramatic oratory, heroic stories, a tribute to the sacrifice of a community, and a small request for rights. It started out the usual way. First there was a welcome from the mayor of Saint Louis that was followed by speeches from a Missouri senator, the president of the city's board of aldermen, a congressman, and more. Then a series of black preachers spoke, and one, a minister for Mississippi, called for the enfranchisement of black voters in his home state. The man who is good enough to carry a musket in no Man's Land is good enough to carry a ballot in the state of Mississippi, he said. Another preacher made the case that black people should be included in the new wave of post war industry, each one of them asking politely for those things that were supposed to be their ineligenable rights, not being too controversial. And then it was Henry's turn. He was supposed to get up on stage and smile and wave, just like he did during that parade. We don't have Henry's personal letters or his diaries. We can't know exactly what he was thinking, but here's a clue. He kept the dignitaries and the politicians waiting on the stage to begin the event for an hour, the mayor, the senator, five thousand people, all them waiting. What was he doing pacing in the hall, back and forth, back and forth, thinking about something. Maybe he still had terrible stage fright. Maybe he was worn out from being carted around like a curiosity. Or maybe what he was exhausted by was all this politeness and forbearance. Maybe he was sick of pleading for equality from the country the Harlem hell fighters had been willing to fight and die for. We can't know, but what happened next changed the trajectory of Henry Johnson's life. He made his triumphant entrance, hobbling on his shattered foot. The crowd went absolutely nuts. He stepped to the mic alone like he'd been that night in no man's land, and whatever upbeat, happy thing he was meant to say, he didn't say it. His tone was bitter. Equal treatment in the war was a lie. He said, there was no racial friendship. In the trenches. Black troops suffered prejudicial treatment from white American soldiers, and those white soldiers weren't just bigots, they were cowards. Henry told the colosseum that a white major had said, and I'm quoting here, send the Negro troops to the front. There are two darn many negroes in New York anyway. And then Henry added, if I were a white man in Albany, I would have so much metal that I would be the next governor of New York State. The audience was stunned. Some uniform black officers left the stage in protest. Others in the audience cheered. It was complete chaos. What they all felt was shock. This guy was famous, which in America means you're supposed to be happy, right that did say this and say it in front of white dignitaries. It simply was done. But Henry was used to fighting alone. The Saint Louis Argus, the preeminent black paper in the city reported on the evening with horror. Remember times were precarious for black people, being outspoken like Henry was a risk to the community's safety. The front page blared Henry Johnson's speech insults Colosseum crowd. Missus Victoria Clay Hayley, who had brought Henry to Saint Louis for the event, swore, quote, of course we didn't know what the man was going to say. We wouldn't have had him come here to insult the white people of our city for anything. He did us more harm than good, and no one was more at risk of harm than Henry himself. A group of angry Marines visited him at his hotel, demanding that he'd take back what he had said about cowardice among white troops, and the threats kept coming. Henry escaped the city that evening in disguise. The military Mary wanted nothing more to do with him. A federal warrant was issued for his arrest, based on the complaint of white soldiers who had said that Henry had quote disparaged their valor unquote. The technical charge on the warrant wearing the uniform after a prescribed time, whatever that means The promised house in Albody never materialized. No street was named after him. The most famous soldier in the world. I'm going to bet you've never heard of him, but I want you to think about that night. We tell stories about war because the battlefield intensifies bravery. But that's not the only place we're brave. It turns out sometimes speaking of truth is the bravest and most dangerous act of all. The years that followed pushed Henry into obscurity. His marriage to Edna ended. He was permanently disabled by his battle wounds. Unable to find steady work, he was in and out of hospitals, and his tiny Army disability payment wasn't enough to live off of His health declined, he moved from Albany to Washington, d c. Then, in nineteen twenty nine, just ten years after that grand parade up Fifth Avenue, he passed away. He was only in his thirties. The cause of death was myocarditis, a weakening of the heart muscle. The papers covered his death in a minor way. He was buried at Arlington Cemetery. Once again, he was surrounded by black soldiers. The burial ground, like the military, was still segregated back then. The practice wouldn't end until nineteen forty eight. That might have been the end of Henry Johnson's story, his bravery in the trenches forever overshadowed by his bravery on that stage in Saint Louis. At least you could say he went down swinging. He insisted on being seen for who he was, Not a mythical soldier who licked a dozen Germans, but a man who was frustrated by the limitations of his country. And then that country turned away from him. But some people remembered years after Henry's actions in France. Teddy Roosevelt Junior, the son of the former president and the future Medal of Honor recipient himself, described Henry as one of the five bravest soldiers in the war. In the nineteen fifties, Langston Hughes, the great Black poet and playwright, considered writing a book about him. Then in the early nineteen seventies, a group of veterans of the three hundred and sixty ninth Regiment decided to push for more. Henry had been one of them. After all, we wanted to write a wrong they said, So they started a movement for Henry to get the recognition he deserved. Led by two Vietnam vets, the group started lobbying Congress. They brought local, state, and federal officials into the fight. Slowly, slowly, they made progress. In nineteen ninety one, a memorial to Henry was erected in Albany, and a section of the city's northern boulevard was renamed Henry Johnson Boulevard. Finally, he had a street named after him in his hometown, one long forgotten promise kept. In nineteen ninety six, President Bill Clinton posthumously awarded Henry Johnson the Purple Heart. In two thousand and two, the Army gave him their second highest military honor, the Distinguished Service Cross. Then Senator Chuck Schumer of New York threw his weight behind the ultimate goal, recognizing Henry with the Medal of Honor. In twenty eleven, a Schumer stafford discovered a long lost memo from General John Pershing, dated May nineteen eighteen, just after Henry's heroic stand. Even Pershing was impressed by Henry's actions, and he described them as quote a notable instance of bravery and devotion. A Medal of Honor recipient has to be approved all the way up the chain of command. Remember, with this letter from Pershing, they had the evidence they needed to make their case. Senator Schumer's office submitted a nearly thirteen hundred page request to the military and support of Henry's Medal of Honor and launched a petition to build support. After decades of calls and advocacy, something broke through. Henry would have his Medal of Honor. His battle was finally coming to a close. Soldiers don't go into combat with the hopes of being celebrated. Soldiers sacrifice because it's what they do. They act on principle, maybe to stand for a country they love as it is, or fight for a country they hope it can become. For Henry Johnson, that hope became a little closer to reality. Almost a century after his bravery in France and his battles on the home front. On Jine's second twenty fifteen, President Barack Obama awarded Henry his Medal of Honor.

Of prejudice in New York City. Henry was featured on an ad for war stamps. It read Henry Johnson licked a dozen Germans. How many stamps have you licked? But Henry was exhausted, physically broken. When he got off the train in Albany, finally home, he was greeted by New York Governor L Smith and a group of cheering fans. He was grateful, of course, but pay attention to what he said to the reporters quote, I am very proud of all of you, but I am sick and tired. I just want to say that I am glad to get back home. He didn't want to be celebrated, but the welcoming party wouldn't take no for an answer, and Henry was paraded around the city and hustled to get another fancy dinner. Governor Smith promised to name a street after him, and then the Attorney General's office started raising funds to build a new house for Henry too, but those things came at a price. He was asked to speak before the New York State Senate Judiciary Committee, and he had terrible stage fright, sweating and stammering. Afterwards, the papers announced hero flunks in speech effort, and maybe because the real Henry wasn't so keen on public appearances, fake Henry Johnson's started popping up to take his place and make money off it. Two fake Henry's were arrested in Albany selling photographs. Henry asked the judge to go easy on them and offered to lend the impersonator's money if they needed it. The newspapers noted that quote, he doesn't care for the honors himself, but he hates to have the public imposed upon Then another fake Henry appeared in Saint Louis before thousands of fans and the city's mayor. That one was hauled off to jail. So now the pressure was on the real Henry to get out there and speak for himself. The organizers of the Saint Louis event pleaded with him to come and speak, and, maybe because he felt badly that they had been deceived, or maybe because he needed the money, he went to be the star attraction in an evening celebrating black contributions to the war effort. It was held in the Colosseum, the largest and most luxurious venue in all of Saint Louis. Five thousand people gathered to hear him tell his story. He was walking into an atmosphere bubbling with racial tension in Saint Louis and across the country. Lynchings were in the news constantly. The klu Kluck's Klan was on the rise, not just in the South, but stretching the whole width of the United States, from New Jersey to Oregon. So the evening of Friday, March twenty eighth, nineteen nineteen was meant to be a joyful one, but also to walk a very thin line on the question of race. Dramatic oratory, heroic stories, a tribute to the sacrifice of a community, and a small request for rights. It started out the usual way. First there was a welcome from the mayor of Saint Louis that was followed by speeches from a Missouri senator, the president of the city's board of aldermen, a congressman, and more. Then a series of black preachers spoke, and one, a minister for Mississippi, called for the enfranchisement of black voters in his home state. The man who is good enough to carry a musket in no Man's Land is good enough to carry a ballot in the state of Mississippi, he said. Another preacher made the case that black people should be included in the new wave of post war industry, each one of them asking politely for those things that were supposed to be their ineligenable rights, not being too controversial. And then it was Henry's turn. He was supposed to get up on stage and smile and wave, just like he did during that parade. We don't have Henry's personal letters or his diaries. We can't know exactly what he was thinking, but here's a clue. He kept the dignitaries and the politicians waiting on the stage to begin the event for an hour, the mayor, the senator, five thousand people, all them waiting. What was he doing pacing in the hall, back and forth, back and forth, thinking about something. Maybe he still had terrible stage fright. Maybe he was worn out from being carted around like a curiosity. Or maybe what he was exhausted by was all this politeness and forbearance. Maybe he was sick of pleading for equality from the country the Harlem hell fighters had been willing to fight and die for. We can't know, but what happened next changed the trajectory of Henry Johnson's life. He made his triumphant entrance, hobbling on his shattered foot. The crowd went absolutely nuts. He stepped to the mic alone like he'd been that night in no man's land, and whatever upbeat, happy thing he was meant to say, he didn't say it. His tone was bitter. Equal treatment in the war was a lie. He said, there was no racial friendship. In the trenches. Black troops suffered prejudicial treatment from white American soldiers, and those white soldiers weren't just bigots, they were cowards. Henry told the colosseum that a white major had said, and I'm quoting here, send the Negro troops to the front. There are two darn many negroes in New York anyway. And then Henry added, if I were a white man in Albany, I would have so much metal that I would be the next governor of New York State. The audience was stunned. Some uniform black officers left the stage in protest. Others in the audience cheered. It was complete chaos. What they all felt was shock. This guy was famous, which in America means you're supposed to be happy, right that did say this and say it in front of white dignitaries. It simply was done. But Henry was used to fighting alone. The Saint Louis Argus, the preeminent black paper in the city reported on the evening with horror. Remember times were precarious for black people, being outspoken like Henry was a risk to the community's safety. The front page blared Henry Johnson's speech insults Colosseum crowd. Missus Victoria Clay Hayley, who had brought Henry to Saint Louis for the event, swore, quote, of course we didn't know what the man was going to say. We wouldn't have had him come here to insult the white people of our city for anything. He did us more harm than good, and no one was more at risk of harm than Henry himself. A group of angry Marines visited him at his hotel, demanding that he'd take back what he had said about cowardice among white troops, and the threats kept coming. Henry escaped the city that evening in disguise. The military Mary wanted nothing more to do with him. A federal warrant was issued for his arrest, based on the complaint of white soldiers who had said that Henry had quote disparaged their valor unquote. The technical charge on the warrant wearing the uniform after a prescribed time, whatever that means The promised house in Albody never materialized. No street was named after him. The most famous soldier in the world. I'm going to bet you've never heard of him, but I want you to think about that night. We tell stories about war because the battlefield intensifies bravery. But that's not the only place we're brave. It turns out sometimes speaking of truth is the bravest and most dangerous act of all. The years that followed pushed Henry into obscurity. His marriage to Edna ended. He was permanently disabled by his battle wounds. Unable to find steady work, he was in and out of hospitals, and his tiny Army disability payment wasn't enough to live off of His health declined, he moved from Albany to Washington, d c. Then, in nineteen twenty nine, just ten years after that grand parade up Fifth Avenue, he passed away. He was only in his thirties. The cause of death was myocarditis, a weakening of the heart muscle. The papers covered his death in a minor way. He was buried at Arlington Cemetery. Once again, he was surrounded by black soldiers. The burial ground, like the military, was still segregated back then. The practice wouldn't end until nineteen forty eight. That might have been the end of Henry Johnson's story, his bravery in the trenches forever overshadowed by his bravery on that stage in Saint Louis. At least you could say he went down swinging. He insisted on being seen for who he was, Not a mythical soldier who licked a dozen Germans, but a man who was frustrated by the limitations of his country. And then that country turned away from him. But some people remembered years after Henry's actions in France. Teddy Roosevelt Junior, the son of the former president and the future Medal of Honor recipient himself, described Henry as one of the five bravest soldiers in the war. In the nineteen fifties, Langston Hughes, the great Black poet and playwright, considered writing a book about him. Then in the early nineteen seventies, a group of veterans of the three hundred and sixty ninth Regiment decided to push for more. Henry had been one of them. After all, we wanted to write a wrong they said, So they started a movement for Henry to get the recognition he deserved. Led by two Vietnam vets, the group started lobbying Congress. They brought local, state, and federal officials into the fight. Slowly, slowly, they made progress. In nineteen ninety one, a memorial to Henry was erected in Albany, and a section of the city's northern boulevard was renamed Henry Johnson Boulevard. Finally, he had a street named after him in his hometown, one long forgotten promise kept. In nineteen ninety six, President Bill Clinton posthumously awarded Henry Johnson the Purple Heart. In two thousand and two, the Army gave him their second highest military honor, the Distinguished Service Cross. Then Senator Chuck Schumer of New York threw his weight behind the ultimate goal, recognizing Henry with the Medal of Honor. In twenty eleven, a Schumer stafford discovered a long lost memo from General John Pershing, dated May nineteen eighteen, just after Henry's heroic stand. Even Pershing was impressed by Henry's actions, and he described them as quote a notable instance of bravery and devotion. A Medal of Honor recipient has to be approved all the way up the chain of command. Remember, with this letter from Pershing, they had the evidence they needed to make their case. Senator Schumer's office submitted a nearly thirteen hundred page request to the military and support of Henry's Medal of Honor and launched a petition to build support. After decades of calls and advocacy, something broke through. Henry would have his Medal of Honor. His battle was finally coming to a close. Soldiers don't go into combat with the hopes of being celebrated. Soldiers sacrifice because it's what they do. They act on principle, maybe to stand for a country they love as it is, or fight for a country they hope it can become. For Henry Johnson, that hope became a little closer to reality. Almost a century after his bravery in France and his battles on the home front. On Jine's second twenty fifteen, President Barack Obama awarded Henry his Medal of Honor.

America can't change what happened to Henry Johnson. We can't change what happened to too many soldiers like him who went uncelebrated because our nation judged them by the color of their skin and not the content of their character. But we can do our best to make it right. And today, ninety seven years after his extraordinary acts of courage and selflessness, I'm proud to award him the Medal of Honor.

America can't change what happened to Henry Johnson. We can't change what happened to too many soldiers like him who went uncelebrated because our nation judged them by the color of their skin and not the content of their character. But we can do our best to make it right. And today, ninety seven years after his extraordinary acts of courage and selflessness, I'm proud to award him the Medal of Honor.

That night in the trenches back in nineteen eighteen, Henry fought hand to hand so that his brother in arms wasn't taken prisoner. When he got home. He fought to make sure that none of his comrades would be prisoners of a society that sought to keep them down. They called him black death, but I don't think black or death should be the first words we think of when we think of Henry Johnson. I prefer hell Fighter. Medal of Honor. Stories of Courage is written by Meredith Rollins and produced by Meredith Rollins, Constanza Galardo, and Izzy Carter. The show is edited by Ben Daph Haffrey, Sound design and additional music by Jake Gorski, recording engineering by Nina Lawrence, fact checking by Arthur Gombert's original music by Eric Phillips. Special thanks to Washington University in Saint Louis, Missouri for sharing archive material from the documentary Men of Bronze by William Miles. And if you want to learn more about our Medal of Honor recipients, follow us on Instagram and Twitter. We'll be sharing photos and videos of the heroes featured on the show. We'd also love to hear from you dm us with a story about a courageous veteran in your life. If you don't know a veteran, we would love to hear a story of how courage was contagious in your own life. You can find us at Pushkinbods. I'm your host, Malcolm Gampo

That night in the trenches back in nineteen eighteen, Henry fought hand to hand so that his brother in arms wasn't taken prisoner. When he got home. He fought to make sure that none of his comrades would be prisoners of a society that sought to keep them down. They called him black death, but I don't think black or death should be the first words we think of when we think of Henry Johnson. I prefer hell Fighter. Medal of Honor. Stories of Courage is written by Meredith Rollins and produced by Meredith Rollins, Constanza Galardo, and Izzy Carter. The show is edited by Ben Daph Haffrey, Sound design and additional music by Jake Gorski, recording engineering by Nina Lawrence, fact checking by Arthur Gombert's original music by Eric Phillips. Special thanks to Washington University in Saint Louis, Missouri for sharing archive material from the documentary Men of Bronze by William Miles. And if you want to learn more about our Medal of Honor recipients, follow us on Instagram and Twitter. We'll be sharing photos and videos of the heroes featured on the show. We'd also love to hear from you dm us with a story about a courageous veteran in your life. If you don't know a veteran, we would love to hear a story of how courage was contagious in your own life. You can find us at Pushkinbods. I'm your host, Malcolm Gampo