By Christopher Atkins
Acting President, For The Good, Inc.
I recently came across a Facebook post from the Oneida County History Center that
stopped me in my tracks. It named my grandfather, Private Augustus Atkins, as one of
two Utica men who served in the legendary 369th Infantry during World War I. I had never
known. But there it was—in black and white. Not only had he served, but when he
returned home, Utica held a parade in his honor.
Private Atkins, along with fellow Utica resident Ernest Frank, served in the 369th Infantry Regiment—better known as the Harlem Hell Fighters. This storied, predominantly African American unit fought with extraordinary valor in France, enduring 190 consecutive days under enemy fire. Of the 3,800 men in the regiment, only 800 survived by war’s end.
Despite facing racism and second-class treatment within the U.S. military, the Hell Fighters earned the respect of French forces and struck fear in their German adversaries through their tenacity and fierce hand-to-hand combat—particularly in Champagne and the Meuse-Argonne. Private Atkins received an honorable discharge with rare
distinction: “Service long and faithful and conduct under fire at all times. Mentioned for
conspicuous bravery in the Champagne department, Oct. 26, 1918.”
When Augustus Atkins and Ernest Frank returned to Utica on February 24, 1919, the city recognized their sacrifice. Friends and family organized a parade up Genesee Street. The men marched under Utica’s Victory Arch and were honored in a ceremony at Hope Chapel on Catherine Street, led by Rev. R.J. Strother. They were the first Uticans who had served overseas to be honored in this way.
More than a century later, I reflect on this legacy—not just as a grandson, but as a community member and veteran. I’m proud to say that from Private Augustus Atkins to myself, five generations of my family—born and raised in Utica—have served and protected this country. That legacy didn’t begin somewhere else. It started right here.
We live in a city where too many contributions by Black residents—past and present—go unacknowledged. But there was a time when Utica showed up. A time when our city honored its Black heroes. I share this story not only to recognize my grandfather, but to ask: How many more stories like his remain untold—hidden in archives, family albums, or fading memory?
Let’s find them. Let’s tell them.
Let’s make sure they’re not forgotten again.
