Sharing the history that some would rather hide, destroy, or deny is important. This truth must be told. It’s the very principle on which these United States were founded.

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Red Paint, Red History: Camp Logan’s Vandalized Truth

In the wake of Hurricane Harvey’s devastation in September, Houston crews were still hauling out debris. They were drying soaked walls when they stumbled upon something different. Red paint was smeared in thick defiance across a freshly rededicated historical marker at the former site of Camp Logan.

The vandals knew what they were doing. The paint wasn’t random—it covered the part of the inscription that told the uncomfortable truth:

“The Black Soldiers’ August 23, 1917, armed revolt in response to Houston’s Jim Crow Laws and police harassment…”

That single sentence holds a century of pain, prejudice, and the stubborn refusal to forget. It’s the story of the Third Battalion, 24th United States Infantry. These were Black soldiers sent to guard the construction of Camp Logan. This happened shortly after America joined World War I.

These men were not strangers to segregation; most had grown up in the Jim Crow South. But in uniform, with the eagle on their buttons and rifles in their hands, they expected something closer to equality. Houston didn’t see it that way.

White residents and police officers saw armed Black soldiers as a threat. They were considered a dangerous example. This can inspire local Black citizens to demand the same respect. The insults were constant. Slurs were shouted from sidewalks. “Whites Only” signs were on streetcars. There was harassment for daring to walk where white men didn’t think they should.

Tensions reached a breaking point on August 23, 1917. That is when police arrested a Black soldier for intervening in the arrest of a Black woman. A Black military policeman went to inquire about it. There was an argument, gunfire, and rumors. False ones—that he had been killed and that a white mob was heading for the camp.

In a world already wired with racial hostility, that was enough. Over 100 soldiers grabbed rifles and marched into Houston. Two hours later, sixteen white people were dead—five policemen among them-and four Black soldiers had been killed. It was one of the few riots in U.S. history where more white people died than Black people.

The army’s response was swift and merciless. Martial law. The unit was shipped back to New Mexico. Courts-martial—the first one, the largest in U.S. military history.

Of 118 indicted Black soldiers, 110 were found guilty. Nineteen men were hanged, fifty-three sentenced to life in prison. No white civilians were charged. Two white officers faced trial and were released.

Families have carried the weight for generations. Jason Holt still has a 100-year-old letter from his relative, Private Hawkins. It was written to his mother the night before his execution. In it, he tells her not to grieve. He claims his innocence. He also says he is ready to “take his seat in heaven.”

Charles Anderson spoke bluntly. His relative, Sergeant William Nesbit, was among the hanged. “They sent those soldiers into the most hostile environment imaginable. The riot was a problem that arose from community policing in such hostility.”

“They sent those soldiers into the most hostile environment imaginable. The riot was a problem that arose from community policing in such hostility.”

Even some descendants of those killed admitted the trial was a travesty. “I have no doubt that the men executed were innocent. They had nothing to do with the deaths,” says Sandra Hajtman, great-granddaughter of a policeman who died that night.

In Houston, the story was buried for decades. Newcomers often know nothing about it. That’s changing—slowly—thanks to historians, museums, and family members pushing for recognition, even pardons. Angela Holder, great-niece of Corporal Jesse Moore, has fought for marked graves and posthumous justice. “We tried during the Obama presidency for a pardon… we can try again.”

And then there’s the final image—December 11, 1917—thirteen ropes swaying from a scaffold. The condemned men were silent, unresisting. Nesbit, moments from death, calling to his men: “Not a word out of any of you men now!”

The red paint on that marker wasn’t just vandalism—it was an effort to silence history. But the truth doesn’t scrub away that easily.

If you strip away the paint, you’ll see the exact words that got buried for decades. It serves as a reminder that justice denied is never fully past. The lessons of 1917 are still waiting to be learned.

The Progressive Magazine originally published a report on this topic and in fact has an extended piece on this incident. You can learn more by visiting Progressive Magazine to read the entire report here.

Sharing the history that some would rather hide, destroy, or deny is important. This truth must be told. It’s the very principle on which these United States were founded.