Tag: military

A Buffalo Soldier Mystery

A lone Buffalo Soldier on horseback captures a moment of dignity in African American military history.

Real Photo Postcards (RPPCs) offer tangible connections to history, yet they often emerge from a family photo album or shoebox collection entirely without context. Piecing together their stories requires careful observation and historical research, picking up valuable clues along the way.

Today’s case is an image of a lone Buffalo Soldier on horseback, printed sometime between 1904 and 1918. This postcard captures a moment of dignity in African American military history. The soldier sits tall in the saddle, wearing a formal military dress cap (rather than the campaign hat often associated with frontier service) and a meticulously maintained uniform. The setting—featuring a substantial brick building and cement sidewalk—suggests an established military installation rather than a frontier outpost.

The man is likely from the 9th or 10th Cavalry, and two military posts stand out: Fort Robinson in Nebraska and Fort Myer in Virginia, both important locations in Buffalo Soldier history.

Western Bastion

From 1887 to 1898, Fort Robinson served as Regimental Headquarters for Buffalo Soldier cavalry and infantry units. The 9th Cavalry Regiment made its headquarters there beginning in 1887, serving with distinction and boasting ten Medal of Honor winners from the Indian Wars. The Buffalo Soldiers at Fort Robinson earned a reputation for discipline and effectiveness that would later influence their assignments to more prestigious postings.

The 10th Cavalry Regiment maintained a significant presence at Fort Robinson during the early 1900s. The substantial brick buildings and newly constructed cement sidewalks visible in the photograph align with Fort Robinson’s infrastructure during this period, as the fort underwent significant modernization around this time. The formal dress uniform and cap in the photograph suggest this might have been a commissioned officer or a non-commissioned officer in a ceremonial or garrison role at the fort.

Nation’s Capital

Troop K of the 9th Cavalry served at Fort Myer in Virginia from May 25, 1891, to October 3, 1894, under the command of Major Guy Henry, a Medal of Honor recipient. This prestigious assignment bears a direct link to Fort Robinson. The selection of Troop K for this assignment was a recognition of the outstanding performance at Fort Robinson and other western posts.

The post at Fort Myer was the first time after the Civil War that an African American unit was stationed east of the Mississippi River near a major metropolitan area. The dignified formal pose and military dress cap would be consistent with a soldier stationed at this prestigious posting adjacent to Arlington Cemetery and Washington D.C., where ceremonial duties would have been part of their responsibilities. Both geographic and symbolic, the lauded post demonstrates how the Buffalo Soldiers earned respect through excellence despite pervasive racial prejudice.

While the AZO markings suggest a 1904-1918 printing date for this postcard, it’s possible the photograph itself was taken earlier. Many soldiers had formal portrait photographs taken to commemorate their service, which were later reproduced as postcards. If this soldier served at Fort Myer with Troop K (1891-1894), the image could have been reproduced on AZO stock years later. Alternatively, if the image dates to the 1904-1907 period, it likely shows a 10th Cavalry soldier at Fort Robinson. Without identifying marks or annotations, we can only speculate.

In either case, the photograph reveals a poignant moment during a complex era of American history. The soldier’s strong gaze suggest a person aware of his place in this important legacy. The Buffalo Soldiers’ contributions to American military history invite deeper study, recognition, and remembrance.

To Explore More

Buffalo Soldiers National Museum – https://buffalosoldiersmuseum.org/the-buffalo-soldiers/

The Proud Legacy of the Buffalo Soldiers – National Museum of African American History and Culture – https://nmaahc.si.edu/explore/stories/proud-legacy-buffalo-soldiers

National Archives: Exploring the Life and History of the “Buffalo Soldiers” – https://www.archives.gov/publications/record/1998/03/buffalo-soldiers.html

Buffalo Soldiers at Fort Myer Historical Marker – https://www.hmdb.org/m.asp?m=41108

Washington DC Chapter, 9th & 10th (Horse) Cavalry Association – http://www.buffalosoldiers-washington.com/Fort%20Myer.html

Brutal Views

A wooden cross rises from churned earth, the inscription stark against weathered wood. A familiar image of a striking handmade monument to the son of a president who fell from the sky over France.

This photograph, captured by a U.S. Signal Corps photographer known only by the initials P.E.L., embodies the US vision of the first World War carefully curated by military officials. While this image evokes sacrifice, honor, and patriotism, the ones that follow emphasize air power and the ground fight.

The Signal Corps photographers worked with clear directives. Their images showcased military capacity and impact: a German observation balloon in flames over Verdun, captured enemy aircraft, and troops dug into the battlefield. These photos celebrated American military achievements while maintaining a safe emotional distance from war’s realities. They framed the conflict as a grand, heroic endeavor of machines and strategy, and no bodies.

Soldier photography told different stories.

World War I marked a pivotal shift in war photography. The conflict erupted during the democratization of the camera, when Kodak’s marketing promise—You press the button, we do the rest—had placed photography in ordinary hands. For the first time, soldiers carried their own cameras to the front. They documented their experiences without oversight, censorship, or propaganda objectives.

The images captured by troops and printed later at studios like Renfro & Jensen in Belmont, Arkansas reveal a more intimate perspective—the human cost of conflict. German officers’ quarters reduced to rubble by American artillery. The harsh conditions of a foxhole or a machine gun post.

These images weren’t composed for newspaper spreads or government reports. They were personal souvenirs, visual evidence of experiences too enormous to capture in words alone. They were captured on a new-fangled camera and carried home as silent witness.

Belmont, Arkansas transformed virtually overnight in 1917 from a quiet rural community into a bustling military training center. Soldiers flooded the region, bringing with them not just their uniforms and rifles, but their cameras. The town experienced a true boomtown effect as businesses sprang up to serve the influx of military personnel. Among these enterprises, the Renfro & Jensen photography studio established itself as a crucial link between soldiers’ experiences and their communication home.

Then, as demobilization began in 1918, returning soldiers sought ways to share or quietly remember what they had witnessed. Renfro & Jensen became unwitting archivists. They must have developed and printed thousands of soldier photographs—images far more frank and direct than anything appearing in newspapers or government publications. The studio workers were likely among the first civilians to confront warfare through this new technology. Each day, they processed images showing destruction, military achievements, and occasionally, the graphic aftermath of combat. Their commercial service inadvertently preserved a crucial alternative visual history of the conflict.

Two European-produced photographic postcards further document the war. These images, printed on distinctive European paper stock, emerged from a continent already numbed by years of destruction.

Another sixteen images — the most harrowing in the collection — can’t be shown here. The ethical boundaries of war photography persist today. What images should be shielded from casual viewing, and which realities deserve documentation regardless of their power to disturb?

Major institutional collections house millions of WWI photographs. The National Archives holds the largest repository of World War I material in the United States, with over 110,000 photographs digitized from two primary series: the American Unofficial Collection of World War I Photographs and the Photographs of American Military Activities. The Library of Congress maintains extensive collections, including the American National Red Cross Collection with over 18,000 digitized negatives showing wartime activities.

Beyond these institutional repositories exists a vibrant world of private collectors who often hold the most provocative and unfiltered images. These private collections sometimes reveal perspectives absent from official archives. Photographer Carl De Keyzer discovered approximately 10,000 archival glass plate and celluloid negatives from WWI scattered across Europe, many in private hands. From these, he selected 100 to reproduce in stunning detail, revealing aspects of the conflict previously unseen in such clarity. Some of the most compelling battlefield imagery exists in small personal collections—albums like this one that have been kept by families of veterans, passed down through generations, their contents rarely exhibited publicly.

The grave of Lieutenant Quentin Roosevelt is quite enough for many. It symbolizes loss while sparing us its visceral reality. But the full photographic record of the conflict includes truly heinous realities—corpses tangled in barbed wire, faces distorted by gas, bodies rendered unrecognizable by artillery.

While official photographers were tasked to frame narratives that supported war efforts, some soldier photographers refused to turn a blind eye. They captured what they witnessed, creating very personal views that continues to challenge our understanding of history. Their lenses documented what words alone could never convey—the irredeemable human cost of modern warfare.

Held to the Light: A 1943 Postcard’s Hidden Meaning

When held up to the light, this 1943 wartime postcard reveals a play on names and a hidden orchestra – but that’s just the beginning of its secrets.

On a dark December day in 1943, someone in Chicago mailed an extraordinary postcard. At first glance, it appears to be a silver gelatin photograph of sheet music and a pair of scissors, artfully arranged and lit. But when held to the light, the card transforms – silhouetted orchestra members emerge from the shadows, and the scissors become a conductor’s upraised arms, creating a miniature theater of light and shadow. The message at the top reads MAY THE MUSIC BE JUST THE WAY YOU WANT IT ALL THROUGH ’44, signed playfully by Glen Shears – a silly pun referencing Glenn Miller, America’s most popular bandleader, and the scissors in the image.

The technical sophistication of this artifact presents an intriguing mystery. Its foundation is a silver gelatin photographic print, created using the same process that Eastman Kodak had popularized with their 1903 postcard camera. But the card’s creator went further, adding to the photograph a second iridescent overlay to create the hidden orchestral scene – a remarkable innovation combining two distinct images. During wartime rationing, when the War Production Board strictly controlled access to photographic papers and printing supplies, the mere existence of such an experimental piece raises questions about its origins.

Two theories emerge: The card might be the work of an individual artist-photographer, one of the creative practitioners who had embraced Kodak’s democratization of the postcard medium. The careful composition, masterful lighting, and precise registration of the overlay suggest someone with both technical expertise and artistic vision.

Or, it could be an experimental piece from the American Colortype Company of Chicago (or one of a handful other production houses) known for innovative printing techniques and possessing both the technical capabilities and wartime authorization to access restricted materials.

But as we look closer, deeper historical resonances emerge. The card was postmarked December 15, 1943, and addressed to Staff Sergeant J.M. Ellison of the 937th Engineer Aviation Combat Battalion at Barksdale Field, Louisiana. The sender’s casual inquiry – “Does it look as if you’re going over?” – hints at the imminent deployment of Ellison’s specialized unit.

The 937th was part of the Army Air Forces’ engineering force tasked with rapidly constructing and maintaining combat airfields. These Aviation Engineer Battalions could build a 5,000-foot runway in as little as 15 days, creating the infrastructure that would support the Allied advance across Europe. Following D-Day, units like the 937th pushed forward with combat operations, often working under fire to establish the forward airfields necessary for tactical air support and troop transport.

The card’s musical theme and playful signature unknowingly connected to another Army Air Forces mission. By December 1943, Glenn Miller had transformed his career from civilian bandleader to Captain in the Army Air Forces, modernizing military music through his Training Command Orchestra. In June 1944, Miller brought his band to England, where they performed hundreds of concerts for Allied forces preparing for the invasion of Europe.

As Allied forces advanced across France in late 1944, Miller became determined to bring his music to the troops at forward bases. He began planning an ambitious series of concerts at the very airfields being constructed by the Aviation Engineers. The precise coordination required for these performances – ensuring runways were operational and facilities ready – meant that Miller’s musical mission and the work of units like the 937th were deeply intertwined.

Here the card’s hidden theater of light and shadow takes on new meaning. The sender could not have known that exactly one year after posting this cheerful greeting – on December 15, 1944 – Glenn Miller would board a small Norseman aircraft in England, bound for Paris to arrange performances at forward bases. His plane disappeared over the English Channel in poor weather, creating one of World War II’s enduring mysteries.

The card’s wish for music “all through ’44” became both prophecy and elegy. Somewhere in France, Sgt. Ellison and his fellow engineers might have been preparing the very airfields where Miller hoped to perform. The innovative combination of photography and theatrical lighting effect, created in Chicago a year earlier, had unknowingly captured the intersection of American technical ingenuity, cultural influence, and the human tragedies of war.

Today, this hold-to-light card stands as both artistic innovation and historical artifact. Whether created by an individual photographer or a commercial outfit, it demonstrates the creative adaptation of pre-war techniques to serve wartime needs for connection and morale. In its transformation from simple photo to magical light-show, it embodied the same spirit of innovation that characterized both Glenn Miller’s military music and the rapid-deployment airfield construction of the Aviation Engineers.

More than just a technological curiosity, the card captures a moment when American creativity – musical, photographic, and engineering – was being mobilized for war. The coincidence of the postmark date and Glenn Miller’s final flight reminds us how individual stories weave together to create the larger narrative of history, sometimes in ways that only become apparent when held up to the light.

Add this card to your collection