My name is Sergeant William Carney, I am a proud member of the all black military unit known as the Massachusetts 54th. Our leader is Colonel Robert Shaw, a white man and son of a prominent Boston abolitionist family. Governor John Andrew appointed him as the commander of our regiment. In order to command a black regiment, an officer had to meet and demonstrate the following qualifications: Be white, young with military experience, ambitious, superior to the vulgar contempt for color, and have faith in the capacity of colored men to fight for the Union. Colonel Shaw indeed embodied these qualities as he proved himself continually by fighting for our rights as U.S. Army soldiers and for our dignity as men.

Although, Negroes are not allowed to serve as officers in the United States Army, I am fortunate enough to be serving as a non-commission officer, a sergeant. Colonel Shaw gave us the news last evening that our unit has been selected to lead the charge on Fort Wagner. When this news was told to us elation filtered through the assembly. Fort Wagner is a Confederate fort, which is located on Morris Island, South Carolina. At last, we were given permission to fight for our freedom. Last night, Preacher Johnson, led us in prayer and song thanking our Lord for giving us the privilege and asking that we gain success and defeat our oppressors so that all Negroes may escape the chains of slavery.

I am so pleased to serve with men who wish freedom for all our people and are willing to give their lives in this cause. It was not until Congress passed the Military Act of 1862 that we Negroes were allowed to join the army. Regrettably, many in the army and actually most whites, I think, considered us an inferior and cowardly race. Many Union officers strongly opposed issuing us rifles; they prefer to keep us as cooks, teamsters or diggers of graves. We are paid $10.00 a month, $3.00 less than white soldiers; and we must pay $3.50 for our uniforms, while whites received free uniforms.

However, money is of small concern because when the war is over, we are promised freedom for our families and ourselves. In January, Mr. Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation that freed the slaves in all the states that were in rebellion against the Union. In reality, I know, it is only a political statement. I hear the words "a brilliant foreign policy decision," spoken by a few of the officers. Yet, in actuality, no slaves were freed. It is said England and France look most favorably upon its issuance and determined based upon the abolitionist sentiment contained in the document decided not to enter the war on the side of the South.

Now, let me get back to my main purpose of telling about the battle for Fort Wagner. I along with 600 Negroes from every state in the Union are forming on the beach north of Fort Wagner on the morning of the 11th day of July, 1863. The rising sun lay like a shimmering sword across the choppy South Carolina sea. Gulls circled overhead seeming to squawk a warning song. Colonel Shaw shouted, "Bugler sound assembly call; drummer boys to the rear, unfurl the colors, my men in blue."

I hustled my men into formation. They know the honor of our race is on their shoulders. The colonel's voice rises above the waves breaking upon the shore. "Forward men, at the quick step." Twelve hundred feet reply. Sweat glistens on faces, determination in our eyes as we start across the warming sand toward Fort Wagner's walls. A single white voice gives a yell, "Hey 54, give 'em hell."

Shaw calls, "Onward men, double quick time." A thunder of white voices join in chorus propelling us onward. Faster and faster we race. Sweat gushing from every pore until gunfire erupts from behind the fort walls. Bullets whizz past, cannons blast. Grapeshot tears at the bodies of men, mini balls shatter bones, blood spurts and is drunk by thirsty sand. Two of my men lay bleeding from shrapnel. I bandage their wounds best as I can. Dying and wounded soldiers lie about, our charge staggers and halts. Shaw shouts, "Take cover, men, stay low, dig in. We'll wait for dark."

We burrow deep into the wet sand. Safe for now, in our trenches, we pray, voices praise Jesus and sing of the River Jordan. The sun slips behind Wagner's walls. The evening cool sweeps in. Under a sliver, silver moon, six hundred black men rise up. I tell my men to snap their bayonets in place. We creep from our trench, snake up the cooling sandy slopes and pinch past sharpened palmetto stakes guarding the walls of the fort. My mind is ablaze with victorious hopes.

Shaw calls, "Gain the walls, take the fort, rally to the flag, men."

"Okay, fellas, let's prove our worth." We charge. Fusillades of chains and grapeshot swirl toward us in slaughtering waves. Crescendos' of rebel yells sounding like the devils of hell pierce our ears. A grisly ballet of death is danced upon Wagner's stage. I see our flag bearer go down. I run to save the flag from falling to the ground. I take it just in time from his dying grasp and plant the flag solidly on the parapet.

I hear Shaw's last order before his eternal sleep. The words still haunt me. "Oh, men, I'm sorry, retreat. Bugler sound retreat."

I retrieve the flag, and hoist it aloft, as I do, a mini ball penetrated my thigh. I turn and drag myself toward our line. Another ball hits my arm. I take a deep breath, determined not to fail. I bolster the flag. "You're not going to fall," I say, as I continued to stagger back toward our line.

"Sargent, let me help you," a trooper in a shredded uniform, New York 100 on his campaign hat. He catches my good arm and grabs the flagpole. I look at the emblem on his hat. "No, please," I say, "I need to give the flag to another from the Massachusetts 54th." The white trooper nodded and says, "I understand," and helps me to the rear. As we stumbled our way in route another ball grazed my forehead. Blood runs from the wound and burns my eyes. Without his help, I know I never would have made it back.

When we reach the survivors of the charge, the trooper reports that I said, "Boys, the old flag never touched the ground." To tell the truth, I don't remember.

When I awoke the next morning, I watched with great sadness, the sea swishing the muck of death on the bloody beach. I observed, with disgust and hatred, Rebels disrespectfully throwing our white officers and black soldiers into watery, sandpit graves.

Years later, I read it was estimated that of the 600 troops of the Massachusetts 54th who made the charge that night, 300 perished. Our endeavor, among my people, is known as the Black Bunker Hill and though we were unsuccessful, our heroic struggle resulted in an increase enrollment of Negroes into the Union cause. I take comfort in the knowledge that our effort lives in the hearts of freedom loving men everywhere.

Thirty-seven years after the conflict, I was presented with the Medal of Honor. However, the real heroes are in those buried in the sand pit graves.