Wives, sweethearts and mothers began to dash into the ranks and press flowers upon their men and march alongside with them, arm-in-arm.  But this couldn’t be, and Colonel Hayward had to stop the procession for a time and order the police to put the relatives back on the sidewalks.  But that couldn’t stop their noise.

“The residents of the avenue paid fine tribute to the dusky marchers.  It seemed inspiring, at 65th Street, to see Mrs. Vincent Astor standing in a window of her home, a great flag about her shoulders and a smaller one in her left hand, waving salutes.  And Henry Frick, at an open window of his home at 73d Street, waving a flag and cheering at the top of his voice.

“At the corner of 86th street was a wounded colored soldier wearing the Croix de Guerre and the Victoria Cross as well.  Colonel Hayward pressed to his side with a hearty handshake, exclaiming:  ‘Why, I thought you were dead!’ It was one of his boys long ago invalided home.

     “No, sir, Colonel, not me.  I ain’t dead by a long ways yet,
     Colonel, sir,’ said the lad.

     “‘How’s it going, Colonel?’ asked a spectator.

     “‘Fine,’ said the Commander.  ’All I’m worrying about is whether my
     boys are keeping step.’  He needn’t have worried.

“The real height of the enthusiasm was reached when, after passing through 110th street and northward along Lenox Avenue, the heroes arrived in the real Black Belt of Harlem.  This was the Home, Sweet Home for hundreds of them, the neighborhood they’d been born in and had grown up in, and from 129th Street north the windows and roofs and fireescapes of the five and six story apartment houses were filled to overflowing with their nearest and dearest.

“The noise drowned the melody of Lieut.  Europe’s band.  Flowers fell in showers from above.  Men, women and children from the sidewalks overran the police and threw their arms about the paraders.  There was a swirling maelstrom of dark humanity in the avenue.  In the midst of all the racket there could be caught the personal salutations:  ‘Oh, honey!’ ‘Oh, Jim!’ ‘Oh, you Charlie!’ ’There’s my boy!’ ‘There’s daddie!’ ‘How soon you coming home, son?’ It took all the ability of scores of reserve policemen between 129th Street and 135th Street, where the uptown reviewing stand was, to pry those colored enthusiasts away from their soldiermen.

“There was one particular cry which was taken up for blocks along this district:  ’O-oh, you wick-ed Hen-nery Johnson!  You wick-ed ma-an!’ and Henry the Boche Killer still bowed and grinned more widely than ever, if possible.

     “‘Looks like a funeral, Henry, them lilies!’ called one admirer.

     “’Funeral for them bush Germans, boy!  Sure a funeral for them
     bushes.’ shouted Henry.