You'd have to look hard to find someone who hasn't seen a man named Ira Hayes, even though he died in 1955 and was buried in Arlington Cemetery. You've seen him because he's one of six marines to hoist the flag on Iwo Gima after several days too many of bloody warfare that would, a week or so later, take the lives of three of others in that photo and later bronzed in the famous sculpture.
Ira Hayes, as lots of people know, was Native American, a Pima from Arizona. On the island, the Japanese were dug in deep to protect themselves and, more importantly, the path to Tokyo. On February 19, 1945, Hayes and his 5th Marine Division, set themselves down in deadly gunfire on the beach. Only after four long days of fighting did they take the 554-foot hill where the six of them raised Old Glory, oblivious to some civilian named Rosenthal, who packed a camera and just happened to snap a shot that America today regards as precious. Few pictures are as iconic as that random shot on an island hill that had far less value than the blood that ran down its sides.
If you look closely or read enough, it should not come as a surprise to know that one of those marines was Native. Even though millions of white folks ran over the lands where precious Native old ones were buried, even though a million Euros laid waste to a Native frontier by killing buffalo and putting up barbed wire fences, today Native American cemeteries offer an flowing sea of Old Glories.
Still today a warrior spirit is no small thing among many tribal people. A host of powwows begin with traditional ceremonies honoring local veterans. A dozen businesses, a main street, and a tribal college just down the road all take the name of a celebrated Winnebago warrior named Little Priest, who happened also to be the last traditional War Chief of the Winnebago Tribe.
In April of 1866, somewhere into Wyoming Territory and far, far from home, Little Priest let his companions know what was about to happen. "Today I will be fighting all day," he told them.
In April of 1866, somewhere into Wyoming Territory and far, far from home, Little Priest let his companions know what was about to happen. "Today I will be fighting all day," he told them.
Turned out to be true. Vastly outnumbered by the enemy, Little Priest somehow got separated from the other Winnebago that morning and was shot four times before putting up impossible resistance in the kind of all-day battle he'd said he would fight. He killed several attackers in the process.
When reinforcements finally arrived, they simply presumed Little Priest was gone but were delighted to discover that he hadn't as yet passed into the Spirit World.
His friends sang and danced over him for four days--Grizzly Bear songs because Little Priest had insisted in a previous life he was himself a grizzly. Slowly, they watched him grow stronger--or so the story goes, until one day, miraculously, he stood and danced himself.
But just a few months later, on September 12, those battle wounds put him down, or, perhaps I should say, "brought him up." Little Priest was gone--you can find his grave at Decatur, NE. But he's not been at all forgotten.
If, like me, your pedigree is European, not Native, it may surprise you to know the enemy that fateful day in Montana Territory wasn't some cavalry unit, not white men. Those who attacked the Winnebago scouts were Arapaho, red men, not white. Little Priest and seventy of his fellow warriors had enlisted as scouts for American forces during the Red Cloud War.
Tell you what--just outside of Winnebago, Nebraska, pull over at the historical marker that celebrates the vets the Winnebago people still recognize as "the Winnebago Scouts." You'll appreciate the reverence people still hold for its warriors, past and present. "In the summer of 1866, upon the return of the Winnebago veterans, a homecoming festival was held," the sign says. "Shortly thereafter, Chief Little Priest died of wounds received in army service." And there's more:
When reinforcements finally arrived, they simply presumed Little Priest was gone but were delighted to discover that he hadn't as yet passed into the Spirit World.
His friends sang and danced over him for four days--Grizzly Bear songs because Little Priest had insisted in a previous life he was himself a grizzly. Slowly, they watched him grow stronger--or so the story goes, until one day, miraculously, he stood and danced himself.
But just a few months later, on September 12, those battle wounds put him down, or, perhaps I should say, "brought him up." Little Priest was gone--you can find his grave at Decatur, NE. But he's not been at all forgotten.
If, like me, your pedigree is European, not Native, it may surprise you to know the enemy that fateful day in Montana Territory wasn't some cavalry unit, not white men. Those who attacked the Winnebago scouts were Arapaho, red men, not white. Little Priest and seventy of his fellow warriors had enlisted as scouts for American forces during the Red Cloud War.
Tell you what--just outside of Winnebago, Nebraska, pull over at the historical marker that celebrates the vets the Winnebago people still recognize as "the Winnebago Scouts." You'll appreciate the reverence people still hold for its warriors, past and present. "In the summer of 1866, upon the return of the Winnebago veterans, a homecoming festival was held," the sign says. "Shortly thereafter, Chief Little Priest died of wounds received in army service." And there's more:
An annual memorial celebration is held in remembrance of his sacrifice. The year following his death, Little Priest's service flag was raised as a symbol of the tribe's allegiance to their country. This ceremony remains an important part of each celebration. Later the gatherings became known as the Annual Pow-wow.Just thought you might like to know.
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