Wake for an Indian warrior
Oglala Sioux bestow a lasting tribute - a name - to first tribal fatality in Iraq
By Jim Sheeler, Rocky Mountain News - 21 January 2006
http://rockymountainnews.com/drmn/local/article/0,1299,DRMN_15_4405009,00.html
KYLE, SD - Two miles from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation the car radio crackled, then locked onto the signal.
"I understand they are currently escorting Brett's body back," the disc jockey said. "There are several police cars, followed by the hearse and vans filled with Marines. We'll let you know when they are on the reservation."
Inside their rental car, two Marines from Colorado stared out at the road, winding through the rolling brown grass of the desolate Badlands. A few cars ahead, through the back window of the hearse, they could see the flag-draped casket of the first Oglala Sioux fatality of the war in Iraq.
A few minutes later, the disc jockey broke in again.
"Right now they are at the reservation line with the body of Corporal Brett Lundstrom," she said. "I've got eight songs queued up here, and we will play them back to back. So here they are, going out to Corporal Lundstrom . . ."
She started with a spoken word piece that began just as the procession rolled across the reservation line.
"Throughout time, American Indians have had to defend themselves and their way of life," said the solemn voice of songwriter Wil Numkena. "American Indian warriors have a long tradition of protecting their families, tribe and nation . . ."
The Marines listened as they drove past weather-beaten wooden houses and lone mobile homes, through the second poorest county in the United States, toward the geographic center of the 2 million-acre reservation.
"By tradition, American Indian people have always embraced their warriors upon their return from battle," the voice on the radio said. "Embraced them in heart, embraced them in spirit . . ."
Since arriving at the home of Cpl. Lundstrom's mother in nearby Black Hawk to inform her of her son's death, Marines from Buckley Air Force Base in Aurora had spent two days helping with plans for a nonstop, 42-hour wake on the reservation - the beginning of nearly five full days of traditional honors.
As the procession advanced, residents poured from their homes. The hearse passed families sitting on the hoods of their cars, their children wrapped in colorful blankets. One couple stood at the side of the road, their heads bowed. A boy on horseback watched with his dog near a barbed-wire fence. A man in a rusty pickup stared from atop a grassy hill.
The procession continued to grow as cars from the side of the road pulled in, stretching the line for more than five miles.
On their car radios, the tribute continued.
"We mourn, but honor the warriors who have given of their lives in the field of battle. We embrace their spirit, for they are our very breath of life.
"Great Spirit, we ask of you to receive our warriors."
From hearse to wooden wagon
Three tribal chiefs in feathered headdresses waited on horseback off to the side of the road, along with a dozen other riders and a small empty wooden wagon.
The procession arrived from over a hill, and as the Marines got out, the two bands of warriors nodded to each other.
The Marines lifted the flag-draped casket from the new Cadillac hearse, transferred it to the old pinewood wagon, and fell in line, issuing clipped commands under their breath. They stood at attention in spotless dress blue uniforms, white gloves and shiny black dress shoes.
The Oglala Sioux escorts wore blue jeans, Windbreakers and dusty boots. They spoke to their horses in the Lakota language.
"Unkiyapo," someone said. "Let's go."
They walked together, the Marines marching in crisp formation behind the chiefs. The last horse in the procession - an old paint - ambled along behind them all. In a funeral tradition that goes back generations, its saddle was empty.
The procession was quiet, other than occasional war whoops and horse whinnies, until it reached the gym at Little Wound High School. At the parking lot of the school, one woman sat alone in her car, crying.
Then the drumbeat began.
Inside the gymnasium - "Home of the Mustangs" - a 30-foot-tall tepee dominated one end of the hardwood floor.
The Marines brought the flag-draped casket to the front of the tepee, then two of them took their post at each end, beginning a shift that would last for the next two days.
Several rows of elderly men moved forward slowly, some supported by gnarled canes. Many had pulled their hair into dark gray ponytails, framing faces that looked like the landscape.
Many of them wore old caps and uniforms emblazoned with distinctive patches: Airborne, Special Forces and the revered combat infantry badge - along with dozens of gleaming medals. On the back of their caps, some also wore a single eagle feather.
At the front of the tepee, a funeral director opened the casket.
Descendant of Chief Red Cloud
Cpl. Brett Lee Lundstrom grew up in the wake of warriors.
Among his distant relations was Dewey Beard, also known by the Indian name Iron Hail, who fought in the Battle of the Little Bighorn, and who also survived the 1890 massacre at nearby Wounded Knee. A grandfather on his father's side was Red Cloud, one of the great Lakota leaders of the 1800s.
More recently, his great-uncle, Charlie Underbaggage, was killed at the Battle of the Bulge during World War II. Another great-uncle, Alfred Underbaggage, was killed in Korea. He has relatives at Pine Ridge who served in Vietnam and Desert Storm. His father, Ed, was a career Marine, and retired recently as a major.
At the time of Brett's death, his brother, Eddy - his only other sibling - was serving in the Army, stationed in the Iraqi hot spot of Tikrit.
"He was born to be a Marine," said Philip Underwood, who first met Brett when they were teenagers. By then, Lundstrom had long since decided to join the armed forces. The two friends spent the bulk of their time razzing each other, rarely serious - until it came to the Corps, which spawned a conversation that's rarely spoken, even among the best of friends.
"As a friend, he told me one time, 'I will die for you,' " Underwood said.
Lundstrom's parents grew up on and around reservations - his father at nearby Rosebud, his mother at Pine Ridge - but due to Ed Lundstrom's job with the Marines the family moved around the country, spending most of their time in Virginia.
Though the family returned to the reservation only periodically - primarily when Brett was young - Brett retained an interest in Indian tradition.
In January 2003 he enlisted, not only in the Marines, but in the most dangerous job in the Corps - one that would almost certainly send him into battle.
"I always told him he volunteered twice. Not only did he volunteer as a Marine, he volunteered to be infantry," Ed Lundstrom said.
"I tried to talk him out of it. He had so many other options besides enlisting. But he knew what he was getting into. He went into it eyes wide open," he said.
Brett served three months in Afghanistan in 2004. Nine months later, in September 2005, he headed to Iraq with the 2nd Battalion, 6th Marines, 2nd Marine Division based at Camp Lejeune, N.C.
One result of his frequent moves to new towns: The strapping 6-foot-2-inch tall Marine with the wide grin had no problem making new friends. The last entry on his Web page - written from Iraq - said, "I'm outta here in three months and I can't wait to come to Colorado."
His parents recently divorced, and his mother, Doyla Underbaggage Lundstrom, planned to move to the Denver area this month. After his hitch was up with the Marines, Lundstrom had talked of settling near her, and becoming a Broomfield police officer.
On one of his last nights in Colorado, Brett had spent the night in his aunt and uncle's home in Thornton, in the same room as his cousin, 13-year-old Richard Munoz.
Before he crashed on the couch that night, Richard said, the Marine left him with his last words.
"He said, 'Live life while you can,' " the boy remembered. "Then he went to sleep."
Cpl. Lundstrom was killed by small-arms fire Jan. 7 in Fallujah. He was 22.
His people bestow feather
Next to the casket in the Pine Ridge gym stood a tall staff crested with buffalo hair and lined with eagle feathers to represent local members of the tribe stationed in Iraq. The middle of the staff was pinned with photos of their faces.
A similar memorial was set up in the school's cafeteria, by mothers who formed a support group. Every Wednesday, they huddle in a sweat lodge, where they pray for their deployed children.
"Sophia Young Bear" . . . "Jason Brave Heart," their names read, in part, "Kimberly Long Soldier" . . . "Lisa White Face" . . .
Atop them all was the photo of Brett Lundstrom.
Upon their return from Iraq, tribe members receive the highest honor for bravery: an eagle feather. If they are injured in combat, the feather may be stained red with blood.
Before the first night's ceremony began, a 65-year-old Vietnam veteran named John Around Him looked at the staff, and then at Brett Lundstrom's flag-draped casket.
"He earns the American flag from his government," he said. "He earns the eagle feather from his people."
Near 11 on Saturday night, the gymnasium fell silent. Along with his first and last eagle feather, Cpl. Lundstrom was about to receive something even more enduring.
"This evening I want to take a few minutes of your time to name my grandson," said Birgil Kills Straight, Cpl. Lundstrom's great-uncle.
"Before he enters the spirit world, it's important for him to have an Indian name, because that's how the ancestors will know him," he said.
Earlier that night, Kills Straight had gone to an Inipi, a sweat lodge, to pray for the name, and to ask the Wakan Tanka to guide the fallen warrior.
continued
Oglala Sioux bestow a lasting tribute - a name - to first tribal fatality in Iraq
By Jim Sheeler, Rocky Mountain News - 21 January 2006
http://rockymountainnews.com/drmn/local/article/0,1299,DRMN_15_4405009,00.html
KYLE, SD - Two miles from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation the car radio crackled, then locked onto the signal.
"I understand they are currently escorting Brett's body back," the disc jockey said. "There are several police cars, followed by the hearse and vans filled with Marines. We'll let you know when they are on the reservation."
Inside their rental car, two Marines from Colorado stared out at the road, winding through the rolling brown grass of the desolate Badlands. A few cars ahead, through the back window of the hearse, they could see the flag-draped casket of the first Oglala Sioux fatality of the war in Iraq.
A few minutes later, the disc jockey broke in again.
"Right now they are at the reservation line with the body of Corporal Brett Lundstrom," she said. "I've got eight songs queued up here, and we will play them back to back. So here they are, going out to Corporal Lundstrom . . ."
She started with a spoken word piece that began just as the procession rolled across the reservation line.
"Throughout time, American Indians have had to defend themselves and their way of life," said the solemn voice of songwriter Wil Numkena. "American Indian warriors have a long tradition of protecting their families, tribe and nation . . ."
The Marines listened as they drove past weather-beaten wooden houses and lone mobile homes, through the second poorest county in the United States, toward the geographic center of the 2 million-acre reservation.
"By tradition, American Indian people have always embraced their warriors upon their return from battle," the voice on the radio said. "Embraced them in heart, embraced them in spirit . . ."
Since arriving at the home of Cpl. Lundstrom's mother in nearby Black Hawk to inform her of her son's death, Marines from Buckley Air Force Base in Aurora had spent two days helping with plans for a nonstop, 42-hour wake on the reservation - the beginning of nearly five full days of traditional honors.
As the procession advanced, residents poured from their homes. The hearse passed families sitting on the hoods of their cars, their children wrapped in colorful blankets. One couple stood at the side of the road, their heads bowed. A boy on horseback watched with his dog near a barbed-wire fence. A man in a rusty pickup stared from atop a grassy hill.
The procession continued to grow as cars from the side of the road pulled in, stretching the line for more than five miles.
On their car radios, the tribute continued.
"We mourn, but honor the warriors who have given of their lives in the field of battle. We embrace their spirit, for they are our very breath of life.
"Great Spirit, we ask of you to receive our warriors."
From hearse to wooden wagon
Three tribal chiefs in feathered headdresses waited on horseback off to the side of the road, along with a dozen other riders and a small empty wooden wagon.
The procession arrived from over a hill, and as the Marines got out, the two bands of warriors nodded to each other.
The Marines lifted the flag-draped casket from the new Cadillac hearse, transferred it to the old pinewood wagon, and fell in line, issuing clipped commands under their breath. They stood at attention in spotless dress blue uniforms, white gloves and shiny black dress shoes.
The Oglala Sioux escorts wore blue jeans, Windbreakers and dusty boots. They spoke to their horses in the Lakota language.
"Unkiyapo," someone said. "Let's go."
They walked together, the Marines marching in crisp formation behind the chiefs. The last horse in the procession - an old paint - ambled along behind them all. In a funeral tradition that goes back generations, its saddle was empty.
The procession was quiet, other than occasional war whoops and horse whinnies, until it reached the gym at Little Wound High School. At the parking lot of the school, one woman sat alone in her car, crying.
Then the drumbeat began.
Inside the gymnasium - "Home of the Mustangs" - a 30-foot-tall tepee dominated one end of the hardwood floor.
The Marines brought the flag-draped casket to the front of the tepee, then two of them took their post at each end, beginning a shift that would last for the next two days.
Several rows of elderly men moved forward slowly, some supported by gnarled canes. Many had pulled their hair into dark gray ponytails, framing faces that looked like the landscape.
Many of them wore old caps and uniforms emblazoned with distinctive patches: Airborne, Special Forces and the revered combat infantry badge - along with dozens of gleaming medals. On the back of their caps, some also wore a single eagle feather.
At the front of the tepee, a funeral director opened the casket.
Descendant of Chief Red Cloud
Cpl. Brett Lee Lundstrom grew up in the wake of warriors.
Among his distant relations was Dewey Beard, also known by the Indian name Iron Hail, who fought in the Battle of the Little Bighorn, and who also survived the 1890 massacre at nearby Wounded Knee. A grandfather on his father's side was Red Cloud, one of the great Lakota leaders of the 1800s.
More recently, his great-uncle, Charlie Underbaggage, was killed at the Battle of the Bulge during World War II. Another great-uncle, Alfred Underbaggage, was killed in Korea. He has relatives at Pine Ridge who served in Vietnam and Desert Storm. His father, Ed, was a career Marine, and retired recently as a major.
At the time of Brett's death, his brother, Eddy - his only other sibling - was serving in the Army, stationed in the Iraqi hot spot of Tikrit.
"He was born to be a Marine," said Philip Underwood, who first met Brett when they were teenagers. By then, Lundstrom had long since decided to join the armed forces. The two friends spent the bulk of their time razzing each other, rarely serious - until it came to the Corps, which spawned a conversation that's rarely spoken, even among the best of friends.
"As a friend, he told me one time, 'I will die for you,' " Underwood said.
Lundstrom's parents grew up on and around reservations - his father at nearby Rosebud, his mother at Pine Ridge - but due to Ed Lundstrom's job with the Marines the family moved around the country, spending most of their time in Virginia.
Though the family returned to the reservation only periodically - primarily when Brett was young - Brett retained an interest in Indian tradition.
In January 2003 he enlisted, not only in the Marines, but in the most dangerous job in the Corps - one that would almost certainly send him into battle.
"I always told him he volunteered twice. Not only did he volunteer as a Marine, he volunteered to be infantry," Ed Lundstrom said.
"I tried to talk him out of it. He had so many other options besides enlisting. But he knew what he was getting into. He went into it eyes wide open," he said.
Brett served three months in Afghanistan in 2004. Nine months later, in September 2005, he headed to Iraq with the 2nd Battalion, 6th Marines, 2nd Marine Division based at Camp Lejeune, N.C.
One result of his frequent moves to new towns: The strapping 6-foot-2-inch tall Marine with the wide grin had no problem making new friends. The last entry on his Web page - written from Iraq - said, "I'm outta here in three months and I can't wait to come to Colorado."
His parents recently divorced, and his mother, Doyla Underbaggage Lundstrom, planned to move to the Denver area this month. After his hitch was up with the Marines, Lundstrom had talked of settling near her, and becoming a Broomfield police officer.
On one of his last nights in Colorado, Brett had spent the night in his aunt and uncle's home in Thornton, in the same room as his cousin, 13-year-old Richard Munoz.
Before he crashed on the couch that night, Richard said, the Marine left him with his last words.
"He said, 'Live life while you can,' " the boy remembered. "Then he went to sleep."
Cpl. Lundstrom was killed by small-arms fire Jan. 7 in Fallujah. He was 22.
His people bestow feather
Next to the casket in the Pine Ridge gym stood a tall staff crested with buffalo hair and lined with eagle feathers to represent local members of the tribe stationed in Iraq. The middle of the staff was pinned with photos of their faces.
A similar memorial was set up in the school's cafeteria, by mothers who formed a support group. Every Wednesday, they huddle in a sweat lodge, where they pray for their deployed children.
"Sophia Young Bear" . . . "Jason Brave Heart," their names read, in part, "Kimberly Long Soldier" . . . "Lisa White Face" . . .
Atop them all was the photo of Brett Lundstrom.
Upon their return from Iraq, tribe members receive the highest honor for bravery: an eagle feather. If they are injured in combat, the feather may be stained red with blood.
Before the first night's ceremony began, a 65-year-old Vietnam veteran named John Around Him looked at the staff, and then at Brett Lundstrom's flag-draped casket.
"He earns the American flag from his government," he said. "He earns the eagle feather from his people."
Near 11 on Saturday night, the gymnasium fell silent. Along with his first and last eagle feather, Cpl. Lundstrom was about to receive something even more enduring.
"This evening I want to take a few minutes of your time to name my grandson," said Birgil Kills Straight, Cpl. Lundstrom's great-uncle.
"Before he enters the spirit world, it's important for him to have an Indian name, because that's how the ancestors will know him," he said.
Earlier that night, Kills Straight had gone to an Inipi, a sweat lodge, to pray for the name, and to ask the Wakan Tanka to guide the fallen warrior.
continued
