We called him ‘Chief’

My favorite movies when growing up in Missouri Valley were the westerns. Cowboys and Indians were a must. It usually ended with cavalry soldiers chasing the Indians and the Indians were always the bad guys. Up to the time I graduated from high school and entered the Army I had never met an Indian.

After serving about six months in an infantry division an Indian was transferred to the company I was attached to. I was a radio operator but still an infantryman. The Indian was called “Chief” by everyone; this included the officers. He must have had some other name but I never heard him called anything but “Chief.”

He was a handsome person. He could easily have passed for one of the paintings of Indian Chieftains like Black Hawk or Tecumseh, that I had seen in my few experiences with Indians. His hair was coal black and glistened like a horse's mane. It was always the same length, never real long but never short either. He was tall, about six feet two inches, and was in perfect physical condition. The only words he ever said to me were “Hi” or “Hi there.”

It was naturally assumed by all of us he was a typical Indian who knew woodlore and we figured he would be an expert with the M-1 rifle. Actually he had a hard time making marksman with the rifle. Marksman was the lowest grade you could make with the M-1 rifle. You had to make marksman or you would be on the firing range until you did.

Sometimes a recruit or rookie would transfer into our company. One of these new soldiers tried to be funny and said to the Chief, “Me Lone Ranger, you Tonto.” He then asked the Chief if he ever scalped anyone. The Chief did not smile or frown but said in a cool voice, “You might be the first.” Needless to say, the recruit never said anything to the Chief again.

Like all Army units there were occasional beer busts and ours was no different. One of the officers would say if the M.P.s show up, one of you non-drinkers grab the beer out of the Chief’s hand. I guess the rule about Indians not drinking even applied to the Army.

No one ever said for sure what tribe the Chief was from, but I did hear once that he was a Piute Indian. Since he never said much more than “Hi,” no one knew for sure.

There were some German prisoners of war in the area we were training. They all looked the same, with eyes sunk in their heads, and even though most were young they looked 60 years old. One day as we marched by a small group of P.O.W.s, one of the German soldiers started yelling. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?” The Lieutenant stopped our platoon and asked, “Can anyone speak German?” Chief held up his hand. The Lieutenant said, "See what he wants.” The Chief returned to the Lieutenant and said he wanted to know if the war was really over. He said the German soldier told him he was only 17 years old. The Lieutenant asked, “Where did you leam to speak German?”

Chief replied, “I took it and French in high school. Also in college. I’ve had two years of college,” he added. The Lieutenant said, “It’s a small world.”

For nearly 25 years, until his death in 2015, retired grocer Don Behm wrote a column for The Storm Lake Times, “Cracker Barrel.” Don’s everyman view of everyday life was a favorite of Times readers. This was first published on May 24, 1995.