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My name is private Johnson, I'm from AEF.
The 369th Infantry Regiment. From Harlem to France, from ghetto to trench.
And honestly, here's not much difference.
May 15th, an enemy patrol around twenty huns.
Me and a box of grenades, I threw it all then took up my rifle, c'mon

191 days under fire, never retire.
Men of Bronze go forward or die
Hold one's ground that's why they call us Hellfighters.

God knows I give as good as I got.
The fucking Labelle had a magazine clip of just three rounds and I fired it all.
There was no time for reloading.
I swung my rifle and brought it down with a thrown blow upon the enemy's head.
He went down crying and close-in fighting began.
I stabbed one Jerry in the stomach, felled a lieutenant and took a pistol shot in my arm before driving his knife between the ribs of a soldier who had climbed on my back.

I killed four boches and wounded maybe ten or maybe five more can't count it well.
The only weapon left is my bolo knife.
So I climbed up from the ground and charged, hacking away at the foes.
There wasn't anything so fine about it.
Just fought for my life.
A rabbit would have done that.

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