Vernon Baker

"Dedicated to my grandfather, Samuel Joseph Baker, and the brave soldiers of the 92nd Infantry "Buffalo" Division who fought valiantly in Italy during World War II- especially the men I left behind. Well done, fellows. We did it."

"I, too, want to close wounds and answer the questions of World War II. Some wounds will not heal, some questions will not find answers. Even with a Medal of Honor, I remain haunted."

"Thousands of people embraced me- the towns of Montignoso, Massa, and Cararra, the cities of Pietrasanta and Florence, even the president of Italy. It was a homecoming more incredible than any lost soldier could long for. Yet, I came to Italy imagining one last important march. I planned to retrace my steps to the castle, search for the place where each of my nineteen men took his last breath- those places are indelible in my memory. I planned to pay homage to each man's soul, apologize, thank him, and make our peace. Perhaps I owed a similar apology to the two young German lads in the tank, I reasoned. I was not prepared to meet my ghosts."

"On April 4, 1997, the day before my pilgrimage, I visited Castle Aghinolfi from the German side of the lines. The invisible hand squeezed my soul. We were worse off than I had realized fifty-two years earlier. The Germans had more of an advantage and tougher defenses than we knew. Not only were they hitting us with mortar rounds from the castle, but there was a German mortar battery behind us that we had missed in our charge up those hills. The ravine was deeper than I remembered; the distance to the castle greater. We never had a chance. And yet we did it."

"Despite my passion for my men, I cannot better explain why I cannot honor them- the heroes who didn't retreat- by remembering their names. I know it painst me harsh and distant. It has its price. It is a regret that I cannot resolve but will wander the ghostly battlefields of Italy, in my mind, and will always visit me. I do not welcome these memories, but I do not shun the responsibility of carrying them. We did the best we could- and a hell of a lot better than anyone believed we could. We fought fiercely and proudly for a country that shunned us, and we kept fighting because we knew the price of allowing Nazi fascism to rule was far greater than even what we endured. Every time I see a child smile, get to listen to a symphony play, or freely choose a book to read I know we made the right decision. War, however, is the most regrettable proving ground. For the sake of my nineteen comrades, I hope no man, black, white, or any color, ever again has the opportunity to earn the Medal of Honor. War is not honor. Those who rush to launch conflict, and those who seek to create heroes from it, should remember war's legacy. You have to be there to appreciate its horrors. And die to forget them."

"[Regarding a 1937 summarization on black soldiers published by the U.S. Army War College] Reading this, I could begin to hate again, but now, I feel it's just from somebody who doesn't know and has his own idea about people that are of a different color or a different ethnic group, or a different religion. I think it's something that came from way back in prehistoric days, and it's been carried on up to now. I had problems with some of the white fellas after the Army was integrated in forty-eight, and I told many of 'em, I said, 'You look at me, and look at my color on the outside, but I'll tell you one damn thing: We get out there and something happens, your blood is just as red as mine, and my blood is just as red as yours. We all bleed the same color.'"

""Heidy usually answers the phone. But I picked it up and said, 'Good morning.' The voice on the other end said, 'Mr. Baker, Vernon Baker?' I said, 'Yeah.' He said, 'What do you know a bout the Medal of Honor?' And I thought, 'Who in the hell is this nut?' and I started to hang up the phone. He said, 'Don't hang up! I'm Professor Gibran and I'm a professor at the Shaw University in North Carolina, and the Army has given us a $350,000 grant to investigate why no black Americans received the Medal of Honor during World War II.' And I said, 'Um, yeah, this is another one of those committees they dream up to investigate, and then all of a sudden they're gone.' Well, he said he'd like to come and talk to me, him and a Colonel Cash. He's deceased now. So I said, 'Okay.' We met them over at a hotel in Spokane for a couple of days, spent the time talking. All of a sudden, reporters started calling, and then people started showing up at the door, wanting interviews."

"I received the Medal the thirteenth of January, nineteen-ninety-seven, from President Clinton. Seven were awarded, but I was the only one still walking around. I was thinking about nineteen men left on a hillside."

"For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty: First Lieutenant Vernon J. Baker distinguished himself by extraordinary heroism in action on 5 and 6 April 1945. At 0500 hours on 5 April 1945, Lieutenant Baker advanced at the head of his weapons platoon, along with Company C's three rifle platoons, towards their objective; Castle Aghinolfi - a German mountain strong point on the high ground just east of the coastal highway and about two miles from the 370th infantry Regiment's line of departure. Moving more rapidly than the rest of the company, Lieutenant Baker and about 25 men reached the south side of a draw some 250 yards from the castle within two hours. In reconnoitering for a suitable position to set up a machine gun, Lieutenant Baker observed two cylindrical objects pointing out of a slit in a mount at the edge of a hill. Crawling up and under the opening, he stuck his M-1 into the slit and emptied the clip, killing the observation post's two occupants. Moving to another position in the same area, Lieutenant Baker stumbled upon a well-camouflaged machine gun nest, the crew of which was eating breakfast. He shot and killed both enemy soldiers. After Captain John F. Runyon, Company C's Commander joined the group, a German soldier appeared from the draw and hurled a grenade which failed to explode. Lieutenant Baker shot the enemy soldier twice as he tried to flee. Lieutenant Baker then went down into the draw alone. There he blasted open the concealed entrance of another dugout with a hand grenade, shot one German soldier who emerged after the explosion, tossed another grenade into the dugout and entered firing his sub-machine gun, killing two more Germans. As Lieutenant Baker climbed back out of the draw, enemy machine gun and mortar fire began to inflict heavy casualties among the group of 25 soldiers, killing or wounding about two-thirds of them. When expected reinforcements did not arrive, Captain Runyon ordered a withdrawal in two groups. Lieutenant Baker volunteered to cover the withdrawal of the first group, which consisted mostly of walking wounded, and to remain to assist in the evacuation of the more seriously wounded. During the second group's withdrawal, Lieutenant Baker, supported by covering fire from one of his platoon members, destroyed two machine gun positions (previously bypassed during the assault) with hand grenades. In all, Lieutenant Baker accounted for nine enemy dead soldiers, elimination of three machine gun positions, an observation post, and a dugout. On the following night, Lieutenant Baker voluntary led a battalion advance through enemy mine fields and heavy fire toward the division objective. Lieutenant Baker's fighting spirit and daring leadership were an inspiration to his men and exemplify the highest traditions of the military service."

"Having grown up in a small northern town, Baker didn't understand why they asked him and another black passenger to move to the front car, closer to the noise and exhaust of the locomotive, shortly after the train crossed into Texas. Boarding the empty bus for Camp Wolters, he tossed his bag down and moved into the first seat behind the driver- his first mistake in the segregated South. The driver spun around with words uglier than Baker had ever heard: "Hey, nigger, get up and get to the back of the bus where you belong." Baker's fists clenched as a friendly hand touched him on his arm and led him to the back of the bus. The old man who'd intervened, and possibly saved Baker's life, gave him a quick education in Jim Crow. He'd been close. Stronger men had been lynched for less."