I was recently invited to a weekend retreat to brainstorm about the future of management training being undertaken by the company for which I work. I must admit I was honored to be invited, especially because of the immense amount of respect I have for the person who invited me. However, the idea of training more managers concerned me as I have long struggled with the managerial types of supervision, which is ironic because I am titled as one. Then one day while searching the internet I finally found a long-lost friend and mentor of mine, and it was with seeing his picture again it all became perfectly clear to me. There are huge differences between leaders and managers, but we need both and occasionally we get it right and find someone who best personifies the highest qualities of each.
A WAR CHIEF
I can’t help but wonder what Indian war chiefs would think about modern-day managers. I personally think modern-day managers would remind them of the American Calvary Officer, whose ego and managerial style of leadership led to the decimation of the 7th Calvary at the Battle of Little Big Horn, Colonel George Armstrong Custer. Why should we care what Indian war chiefs thought about modern day managers? Well, because Indian war chiefs made great leaders which many of us should emulate, because we need more leaders in our industry. Sure, we need managers who manage costs, manpower, tooling, equipment, etc.; and we have plenty of them, but where are all the leaders?
Let me explain myself further. Have you ever seen how a manager handles problems in the area of safety? I have, and there are generally two ways in which they try and improve safety. The first thing is to threaten everyone that if they don’t straighten up there will be repercussions up to, and including, terminations. The second thing is to flood the job site with more safety personnel to police the craftspeople. What if there are quality issues? A manager’s approach is simple, just add more quality inspectors to check installations, as well as add more craft supervisors, to well, supervise. Is this effective? Not really. We know this because of policing which just keeps honest people honest and pushes the dishonest ones and their actions into the shadows. The same goes for our industry, which we have been policing for years and although it has gotten better, there are still way too many incidents to claim victory.
What would happen if we offered our craftspeople leadership instead of management? What if we offered mentorship instead of reprisal? The answer to these questions is we would have more successful projects because people would rather follow leaders than be babysat and micro-managed. To figure out how we can create more leaders, we must first figure out what a leader is and the best way I can explain this is to use my vast knowledge and experiences with war chiefs, including what I did as a teenager to try and actually become one. BUT YOU’RE WHITE!
My journey to become an American Indian war chief began in the early 1980s when I was about fourteen years of age and living in Metairie, Louisiana. I had just finished watching a rerun of the 1977 television movie, “Last of the Mohicans,” and like any good movie I found myself wanting to be one of the characters, the Mohican brave Uncus.
Please don’t question my sanity because by this point in my life I had seen many other movies and television shows and had also wanted to be a cowboy, an astronaut, a Viper pilot from Battlestar Galactica, a boxer, a gang leader, and Olivia-Newton John’s boyfriend, just to name a few, and none of these had happened yet either. However, I just knew that this dream was going to be different, maybe, just maybe, I would one day even become a full-fledged war chief! This dream of mine was not at all out of reach because my mother had always told me I could be anything to which I set my mind.
It was also a very plausible dream because, growing up as a young boy in the 1970s and 80s, American Indians were thoroughly engrained in our culture. My favorite childhood book was Hiawatha with its read along record; I also had Big Chief writing tablets I practiced penmanship on, I paddled the bayous of South Louisiana using Navajo boat paddles, and who could forget the famous crying Indian commercial that taught us all not to litter. I just knew one day I could become an American Indian; the heck with running off to the circus to become a lion tamer, I just needed to find an Indian tribe to take me in and teach me their ways. A DREAM, A SHORT STORY, A MISSION
Could I just pick any tribe and join it? I wondered if the Sioux would take in a fourteen year-old boy and train him to become a Brave. Were there dues I would have to pay like in Cub Scouts? If I could become an Indian Brave, then how could I become a war chief? Were they even making anymore war chiefs? I had so many questions and no internet to look them up. And although the library had a lot of books about American Indians, none of them contained guides on how to become one.
Then one day during speech therapy fate and destiny came together and provided me with an answer when I was given a short story to read about Indian War Chief Joseph Medicine Crow. Yes, I went to speech therapy from around twelve to fourteen years of age to help rid me of a rather persistent Castilian lisp. A lisp I picked up years before while attending a Spanish speaking school in Ibiza Spain and a lisp that might one day affect my ability to learn an Indian language.
Anyway, as I read, I learned Joseph Medicine Crow was a Crow Indian who fought as an Army Scout in the European Theater during World War Two, and upon his return home became a war chief with the Crow Nation. Here it was, a story about someone who had become a war chief in recent times, and with it my path was clearly laid out, and it only consisted of four tasks I needed to complete! I eagerly read on, intent to know what these tasks were and how this Army Scout and Indian Brave completed them.
First, he had to touch his enemy without killing them, called counting coup, which he did while scouting ahead in a small French town and accidentally finding himself face to face with the enemy. A fight immediately ensued between our warrior and this German soldier, a fight which was not at all one sided. It eventually ended with this Indian brave disarming the German, who by this point had begun crying for his mother. Private Medicine Crow let the enemy soldier go, thus fulfilling not only the first requirement of counting coup, but also the second one of taking an enemy’s weapon in battle.
The third requirement was to lead a war party, which he did in true warrior fashion during the Battle of the Rhine. This army private was sent to lead seven soldiers with dynamite to destroy some German bunkers on the Siegfried Line, and did he! Private Medicine Crow led his war party, through a hail of bullets, on a successful mission that blew a hole in the Siegfried Line allowing the American infantry to advance. While writing about this act of bravery, it became obvious to me, although only a private, Joseph Medicine Crow was already a leader, because who would follow a manager through a hail of bullets? After all, managers are made more for counting bullets expended, ordering replacement ammunition, and writing after-action reports claiming credit for the mission, but only the successful ones. For his action that day, Private Medicine Crow earned himself a Bronze Star and completed the third requirement of becoming a war chief.
Then in 1945, our Indian Brave wearing the war paint of his Crow tribe, and with a yellow feather tied to his helmet for luck, once again led his team behind enemy lines to scout for troop movements. Soon he came across an SS camp and a corral full of their horses, and naturally our Brave knew he had to steal them. Armed with only his .45 caliber service pistol, he snuck past the sleeping guards into the corral, fashioned a makeshift bridle on the best horse, and with a resounding whoop of a Crow war cry, he herded out as many of the horses as he could. Our Indian Brave rode bareback toward the completion of his fourth task, all-the-while being unsuccessfully pursued by German bullets. Making it back to friendly lines, our Brave fulfilled the fourth and final requirement of becoming a Crow War Chief.
This young soldier continued to demonstrate leadership skills when he didn’t kick back upon completion of his fourth requirement. Later in the war, and in the true fashion of a Crow War Chief, Joseph Medicine Crow and his commanding officer drove a jeep through the front gates of a Polish concentration camp causing such fear in the SS guards they immediately dropped their weapons and ran away without a fight. After his war ended, he headed home to his tribe in Montana where the Crow elders made this young Brave an official war chief of the Crow Nation. So, you see, I too, could become a war chief, I just needed to find a leader to train me, a leader like Joseph Medicine Crow!
WHERE HAVE YOU GONE JOE MEDICINE CROW?
Writing about this great war chief got me thinking about where someone would find a leader like Joseph Medicine Crow. This was a question that has been asked over and over by many people including Paul Simon of Simon and Garfunkel, when in their hit song, Mrs. Robinson, they ask Joe DiMaggio where he had gone. Paul Simon would later say his question wasn’t directed at Joe DiMaggio, but more so symbolized our nation was missing the heroes of our past. Well, I have a similar question to Chief Joseph Medicine Crow, not in a sense he disappeared after WWII, because we know he continued to lead his tribe until his death in 2016 at age 102, but more in a sense of asking where are the leaders like him, who could train and mentor our next generation of Braves? Is it too late and are we stuck with only the managerial types of leaders? I don’t believe so because Joe Medicine Crow proved heroes, leaders, and war chiefs are not a thing of the past, but something that can be created in four steps with just a little initiative and a lot of bravery. Don’t worry, I am not asking you to go to war so you can become a leader, but I am asking you to symbolically follow the Crow Nation’s four traditions to become a war chief, a leader for your profession:
1) You need to count coup on an enemy. That is, you have to complete a project alongside other companies and clients who may not be looking out for your crew’s and your company’s best interest. You must go into battle every day without losing your temper, thus showing yourself to be a leader who does not have to ‘kill the enemy’ to prove to others you are a warrior.
2) You have to have stolen a horse, actually around fifty of them from an enemy camp. I can almost see the HR people winching in pain when they read this wondering what positive analogy I could possibly make about theft. Well, here you go. What do you do when your project unexpectedly grows much larger than planned and you need to add more qualified supervision and craftspeople? Why not sneak into your competitors’ camp and successfully recruit his employees, around fifty of them should do the trick. Just remember ‘stealing your enemy’s horses’ will always be easier if you are known as a leader and not a micro-manager. 3) You must have taken your enemy’s weapon in battle. In your quest to become a leader there will be many people wanting to see you fail. They are generally the managerial types; disarm them by being the best leader you can be. Believe me, most of them will freely drop their weapons and leave when confronted by a true leader.
4) You must lead a successful war party. This is simple; you should all be able to lead a project to completion, safely, in a quality fashion, and with the type of leadership that would make our War Chief, Joseph Medicine Crow proud. Your project is your War Party to lead so take charge and lead it.
……. BUT YOU’RE STILL WHITE
It wasn’t just the Hiawatha read along book, the Big Chief tablets, the Navajo boat paddles, or the Crying Indian that led me down this path, no, there was actual history that proved I could become an Indian! There were other non-native Indian war chiefs I had read about as a boy who also encouraged me to pursue my dream. Leaders like Quanah Parker of the Comanche, whose father was Chief Peta Nocona and whose mother was Cynthia Ann Parker. As a boy, I also read the story of the young captive Marmaduke Van Swearingen who rose to prominence for the Shawnee as their war chief, Blue Jacket. If these two could become great war chiefs, then I, too, could strive to become one, especially since I was growing up in an age unencumbered by DNA testing and comments of cultural appropriation.
Armed with this knowledge and a short story I had read about Chief Joseph Medicine Crow, I decided to commit myself to one day becoming a war chief. I must mention it was later proven by DNA that Blue Jacket was in fact 100% Shawnee, but like I said before, my dreams and desires were not encumbered by DNA testing at that time. Now all I needed to do was to complete the four requirements of becoming a war chief.
COUNTING COUP
At fourteen years of age, I mounted my proverbial war pony and headed off on my quest to become a war chief; I even realized I could already check off a couple of the requirements from actions I had taken in my younger years. Counting coup; heck I had accomplished this many times before by this point in my life. If this was the first test, then I was already a quarter of the way to becoming a war chief, because by fourteen I had gotten into so many scraps with other boys it amazed me that I was not yet called Big Chief Eagle Eye! These scraps, though not a full-on battle, were very real and usually began with me and my enemy circling each other while a crowd of onlookers gathered around egging us into conflict. Then the challenge would come from my enemy, “Touch me and see what happens.” Being a curious boy, I always chose to “see what happens” and I would reach out and push my enemy’s shoulder while exchanging the pleasantry, “Yeah, I touched you. Now what are you going to do about it.” It was this act of counting coup that always caused the crowd of onlookers to holler out with war cries of “whoop, whoop, whoop!” War cries that translate into English as “fight, fight, fight!” Yes, I had completed the first challenge of becoming a war chief many times before I had even hit the double digits age of ten. Therefore, I was well on my way to becoming the war chief called Puma Heart!
As this short story is obviously an anecdotal analogy for leadership and knowing a leader should be honest and humble, I must honestly, and with much humility, admit my enemy almost always touched me back while sharing the same pleasantry of, “Yeah, I touched you. Now what are you going to do about it,” but hey, counting coup is counting coup to a boy, so I kept the check mark and moved on to the next requirement.
“HEY MOM, DO YOU KNOW WHERE I CAN FIND FIFTY HORSES?” With the first requirement solidly in the bag, I quickly realized my next requirement loomed large in front of me. I had to steal my enemy’s horses, fifty of them to be exact. This should not have been a problem for me as I was a trained equestrian whose uncles had taught me to ride like the most incredible light calvary ever to mount horses in battle, the Comanche! For those of you who have read A DANCING HORSE, don’t snicker, because at this point in my life, I had not been horseback riding with Greenhorn, and I had not experienced the majesty of riding a majestic steed on the beaches of Padre Island.
Thus, let me assure you while very capable of completing this requirement, the opportunity never manifested itself because of the geographical restrictions put on me by my mother, especially after I got lost in the woods behind our apartment complex as a young boy. So, how was someone living in apartment complexes ever going to find fifty horse to steal? As a matter of fact, the only time I saw fifty horses in one place was during a summer trip to Pennsylvania Dutch country to visit my Uncle Tom and his family when I was about eleven. Oh, I could have done it. I could have stolen fifty Amish horses, but the Amish were not my enemy. They may have been Uncle Tom’s enemy every time he got stuck behind one of their horse drawn buggies, but they definitely were not mine. Furthermore, even though I have proven myself not to be very legalistic as to the requirements of becoming a war chief, stealing buggy and draft horses from the pacifist Amish simply would not count. Thus, I would have to skip over this one until later in life. After all, a leader and war chief should be of higher moral character than to steal horses from the likes of the Amish!
“WARRIORS, COME OUT TO PLAY”
Skipping requirement number two and moving on to number three, all I had to do is to take my enemy’s weapon in battle and I clearly remembered doing this while living in Ibiza Spain at nine years of age. I remember when the sequence of events started that put me on the path to meeting the third requirement of becoming a war chief. It was a Friday night, and just like most other Friday nights in Sata Eulalia Del Rio, most of the kids in the surrounding areas went to the local movie theatre. However, there was something different about this particular Friday as the air of excitement had been building for weeks as we awaited opening night of the American movie, ‘The Warriors.’ The movie started with so much built-up anticipation, that was justified as no sooner had the closing credits rolled did rival gangs break out all over our small town and surrounding villages.
The gang I chose to join was based on the geographical restrictions put on me, and it consisted of my friends from the neighborhood around Calle San Vicente. We called ourselves The Knights and based our identity on Spain’s national hero of The Reconquista, El Cid the Campeador (The Champion). We formed up and started building weapons and armor the very next day; armor of cardboard and plastic, and weapons out of anything we could scrounge or steal. We worked hard, calling on our years of experience as boys to fashion crude swords, maces, shields, breast plates and helmets.
Then one day at school the challenge came for us to meet another Warrior-influenced gang on Saturday at the old hippie cave about 1.5 kilometers outside of town. In preparation for the looming battle, we practiced the art of war every day after school, honing our skills. That day came with much excitement and right after breakfast, we donned our armor, grabbed our weapons, and headed out to that old hippie cave to do battle with a rival gang just like in The
Warriors! Now I must admit I felt fear because I had never been in a real gang fight before, and I was not as practiced in this type of warfare because I grew up playing Cowboys and Indians, not Knights and Moors. But I was a Knight now and, as such, I joined in with my fellow Knights as we marched off to battle this rival gang that had dared to challenge us.
Yes, we proudly marched out of town and down the beaches filled with tourists who gasped in fear at the site of our war party. I would have let out a resounding “whoop, whoop, whoop” war cry, but didn’t as my fellow Knights had never shared knowing anything about American Indian culture, nor had they ever wanted to play Cowboys and Indians. As we marched on, I relished in the terrified gasps of mostly German tourists; however, it shocked me that their gasps didn’t have the distinctive harsh guttural sounds of the Germanic language. “It almost sounds high pitched, like giggles and snickers, but who would dare laugh at a war party such as ours,” I thought as we marched on.
We finally came to a point where the beach ended and the cliffs began, and we turned onto a trail climbing up the hill towards the old hippie cave and our pending epic battle. Along the trail we marched, single file, up and up until we got to the edge of a cliff where we stopped long enough to catch our breath and admire the blueness of the Mediterranean Sea below. We struck out again climbing higher and higher until in the distance we could see the roughly six meter square strip of land where we had agreed to do battle, but our enemy was nowhere in sight. “I just knew that girls could not be trusted to be on time for anything,” I said in Spanish, complete with my thick Castilian lisp. Then our leader mentioned we needed to be careful because even though boy gangs could be dangerous, girl gangs could be something even worse, deceitful and conniving! Yes, we were on our way to fight girls!
We stopped long enough to discuss what their absence from the field of battle could mean and intelligently deduced they were lying in ambush, hidden in the darkness of the old hippie cave. With the forethought of a seasoned warrior, one of our Knights said we needed to be careful as those deceitful girls probably planned to rush out of the cave and push us back across the battlefield and off the cliff! It was with this wise insight we decided to split our force with one group of Knights circling around the back of the cave to serve as a flanking reserve force, while us remaining Knights marched upward toward what we just knew would be an epic battle!
Immediately upon cresting the top of the hill we attacked the cave, knowing if we were pushed back toward the cliff, our flanking force would join the fray and overwhelm those prepubescent Amazonian Warriors. Charging into the cave we found ourselves blinded as our eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness and thus, we were unable to make out more than the mere shadows of our foes. Still, we fearlessly charged into battle and a truer battle there never was and never will be again. These girls shockingly fought back valiantly, and any reservations I may have had about hitting a girl quickly left my mind as I felt the first blow of a makeshift sword tear into my flesh, right between the seams of my armor. With that first blow, any idea of this being an easy victory quickly left my mind. Then a simultaneous attack came from my blind side and blow after blow of what could have only been a mace slammed into my garbage can lid shield. The intensity of the battle rose with the pounding of weapons against armor, and we Knights fought on pushing our enemy back toward the rear of that old hippie cave that had only a mere decade earlier had sheltered expatriate hippies fleeing the 1970s and the ending of their movement. This cave which once witnessed hippie love, folk songs, and the scent of the devil weed, was now so much different. This once peaceful cave was now a battlefield that held only hate, war cries, and the smell of sweat coming off prepubescent boys and girls fighting for their lives! And fight we did until we heard a soft and fragile cry coming from in front of us, a cry of defeat so painful it would famously be plagiarized just one year later during the 1980 rematch of boxers Roberto Duran and Sugar Ray Leonard. Yes, it was that exact cry that would come from Duran’s mouth in the Eighth Round! That is right the cry of surrender we heard that stopped our epic battle was, “No mas, no mas!”
With mercy pouring over our warrior’s hearts, we backed off from our defeated foe, back into the sunlight, back into a level of civility we hadn’t shown since the battle began. Standing there bloodied and bruised, we waited for our defeated foe to exit the cave as our gang leader, our war chief, called out, “Deja las armas!” Instantly the sound of the clinking of weapons being dropped emitted from the cave and out staggered the pitiful lot of defeated Amazons who dared to challenge us. Understanding this was my very first epic battle, I still found it shocking that our enemy looked nothing like what I had imagined, trained for, or had been fighting with in that darkened cave. Somehow, through the blood, sweat, and tears, those deceitful girls looked a lot like our flanking force of Knights. Had we been fighting our very own Knights in the darkness of that old hippie cave? If this was true, what would this do to our warrior spirit? Our reputation as gang members? I have come to learn in times of uncertainty a leader simply must lead, and ours did when he stuck his broken makeshift sword high in the air and proudly proclaimed, “Las chicas tienen miedo de Los Caballeros!” “Yes,” I thought, “the girls are too scared of The Knights to even show up!” Listening to our war chief’s words gave us immense pride and we let out a resounding celebratory cheer that rivaled that of the knights of the Reconquista in 1492, when the last Morrish stronghold of Granada fell. We then staggered back into the old hippie cave exhausted, bloodied, and bruised to pick up the weapons of our defeated foe, our very own fellow Knights, and it was with the remembrance of this act I realized I had already accomplished the third requirement of becoming a war chief.
IT’S MY TURN TO LEAD THE NEXT WAR PARTY
In triumph, we staggered back down the hill, straightening up only long enough to pass the tourists on the beach as there was no need to look like anything other than glorious knights returning home from The Reconquista, especially with all those Germans gasping in amazement! Once home, it was time to clean up for dinner, church the next day, and school on Monday. And it was Monday I looked forward to the most as we would let all the other gangs of Santa Eulalia know the girls had chickened out. More importantly, it was also the day I would ask, no that I would demand, to lead our next war party!
Monday came and like every other school day my sister and I, along with our two American friends who had moved from Georgetown, Texas with us, left our apartment on Calle San Vicente and began walking to school. We walked 2 kilometers uphill every day, but not both ways and not in the snow. We walked to school along with most of the other children in town as there were no school buses and very few people had cars. There were; lots of mopeds and motorcycles, but very few cars. As we walked through our little neighborhood I met up with my fellow Knights and we reminisced about our epic battle, and with each successive neighborhood, our group of boys grew along with tales of glory. On the outskirts of town and once all the boys had joined up, we rushed past the girls taking a short cut up the hill, past the base of the old Puig fortified church. From there it was a slight jog downhill the rest of the way to school where we Knights continued to share our exploits with all the other boys.
Then just as the girls showed up something happened that had me questioning the very ethos of the warrior code, the girl gang said they were not there and never even agreed to meet for our epic battle! They said we made it all up! That was it, all the recognition we received, all our bruises, all of our glory had disappeared, and on the deceitful and conniving words of girls! We needed another gang to challenge us. We needed another epic battle so future generations would sing ballads of our bravery! I was certain the next challenge was right around the corner, and with it my opportunity to lead the next war party. Weeks came and went with no challenge and with the warming of the weather the campaign season for the Gangs of Santa Eulalia was over. Then with school out and summer roaring to life the Gangs of Sata Eulalia faded away, along with my chance to lead a war party.
LOS CABALLOS LOCOS
Summertime in Ibiza was always incredible with the Paseo coming to life every evening, as did the beaches with the warming of the Mediterranean and we found ourselves spending a lot more time at the beach, where we searched the tidal pools for octopus and the sea for mussels.
Summertime was also very busy as Green Peace Mother of Earth and her friend, let’s call her The Bohemian, began working several days a week at the Hippie Market in Es Canar, work that required us kids to pitch in with the preparation. There was chicken to cook, debone, and hand grind; along with eggs to boil, peel, and chop as my mom made and sold chicken and egg salad sandwiches. There was also an ice chest full of ice that needed to be retrieved from the fish house for The Bohemian to make snow cones as she was never as handy in the kitchen as my mom. Shockingly, the fish monger would just throw the fish off the top of the ice and start shoveling the fishy ice right into our ice chest. I guess the snow cone syrup hid the fish flavor and mom said when a fish scale would make it on to a snow cone, The Bohemian would simply flick it off with her fingernail before pouring more syrup on it, you have got to love the 1970s! The good thing was once preparation for the Hippie Market was complete, we were left to our own devices and enjoyed much more freedom than we had experienced as children in America, maybe a little too much freedom.
Well, about halfway through the summer, I took my lack of supervision and new double digit age of ten as permission to re-form The Knights with me in charge. I remember my devastation clearly when I walked outside to find my friends, only to see them riding down Calle De San Vicente toward me on shiny new bikes shouting, “Somos los Caballos Locos!” First of all, I didn’t know midsummer was the time all native ten-year-old Spanish boys got new bicycles, secondly them whooping, “We are the Crazy Horses,” made me think they knew more about the American Indian warrior culture than they had let on to before. As they skidded to a stop in front of me, I quickly asked to join Los Caballos Locos, but was told I was not qualified because I didn’t have a bicycle, and I knew I never would because we couldn’t afford one!
There was also a contributing factor for my exclusion in that I had counted coup on one of my friend’s older brothers not two weeks earlier after he dared me to touch him. In the ensuing back and forth of a preteen fight, he missed a punch, and my corresponding shove led him to lose his balance, causing the curb to count coup on his nose. It was a counting of coup which I quickly accepted, until he got up in a fit of rage and chased me back to our apartment! Now normally, a fight between boys would not cause this kind of exclusion amongst friends, but that curb caused a lot of blood to be spilled that day and his entire family was quite upset with the Americans who lived on Calle San Vicente.
It was only midsummer and gone were my friends and gone my dreams of one day leading a war party. However, one can always count on the fact males’ brains are compartmentalized, so eventually my friend forgave me for counting curb coup on his brother and we all began to play together again, but only when they were not out raiding as Los Caballos Locos. Looking back at my exclusion from Los Caballos Locos I feel I am better off as I never should have wanted to participate in their horrible cultural appropriation anyway!
MODELS AND MOHAWKS
A few months later, we left our sleepy little town of Santa Eulalia Spain for the hustle and bustle of London England, and although I normally would have been sad to leave, my exclusion from Los Caballos Locos made the move easier. Maybe I should have stolen their horses (bicycles) before I left, because a few years later I could have checked off another requirement of becoming a war chief.
Anyway, I traded in my Spanish language for a much harder one, English, but held on tightly to my Castilian lisp. Gone were hikes to school past the ole Puig as I now rode The Tube to school and listened to the ever-present warning of, “Mind the gap.” Gone were the beaches and warm Mediterranean Sea as now I had an endless sea of concrete and black mushy snow everywhere! Gone were my friends, a school, and a town that were much like a Norman Rockwell painting, and now was a new and harder existence.
Sure, I made new friends at my new school; a school where smoking was allowed, but not for us little kids. Nope, the staff was smart enough to ensure no one under the age of thirteen was allowed to smoke on campus. Unable to smoke, we were still given an unusual amount of freedom for our age and were allowed to leave campus during lunch. Thus, not long after starting my new school, I followed my friends off campus and down the street during lunch, but we weren’t getting food, nope, I was being introduced to a whole new life by friends who took me to a model store. Now as a boy I loved models and will one day share a short story about my commitment to building models, but not now, because, even though we looked at all the amazing models we didn’t buy any. We did buy a tube of model glue, which the shop keeper placed in a nice paper sack for us, a paper sack that was just big enough to fit over our little ten-year-old mouths and noses simultaneously. “This place isn’t that bad, after all my friends are teaching me new things,” I thought as I took my third turn huffing glue. In my altered state and feeling amazingly like a peyote-induced Apache warrior, I looked around and noticed this place kind of had a warrior nation vibe to it. Was I hallucinating or was I surrounded by American Indians?
Kind of, as it was the1980s and the punk rock scene was in full swing with Mohawks and face paint everywhere! Luckily the allure of London didn’t last long for Green Peace Mother of Earth, and we moved back to the states before I got a mohawk, and before I developed a permanent glue-huffing habit. Actually, the only thing I got out of my London experience was the knowledge English people can’t spell color, including my teacher as she marked it wrong and told me it was spelled c-o-l-o-u-r!
DIS, DAT, DEM, AND DOSE
After London, we moved to Thibodaux, Louisiana for a couple of years as my mother thought it would be good to be close to family again. After about a year and a half in Thibodaux, I not only grew closer to family, but also grew closer to developing a real Cajun accent to go with my Castilian lisp. Some of you may know the accent, but for others, it is pretty simple as you replace the TH sound with a hard D. However, my mother was having no part of my burgeoning Cajun accent and she corrected me every time the slightest dis, dat, dem, or dose, rolled off my tongue. “Scott, repeat after me,” she would say before annunciating. “it’s this, that, them, and those!”
Defeated from my pursuit to sound like my new friends, and after she had enough of family, we left Thibodaux and moved to Metairie, Louisiana where I attended Haynes Middle School. We only stayed a year in Metairie because Green Peace Mother of Earth got the itch, and we were off again, this time to Barcelona, Spain. Unfortunately, Barcelona didn’t hold onto our little wandering tribe long, and after only a few weeks it was back to Ibiza. This time in Ibiza we went to a British school for the children of expatriates, where we made friends with French, British, and Flemish teenagers. Oh, there were Germans in our school too. We didn’t stay long here either, because the one thing Green Peace Mother of Earth would not allow was her teenagers becoming Bohemians like her and her friend. So, after only six months of being Spaniards again, it was back to Metairie.
Settled back in America, and not long after starting back at Haynes Middle School, a teacher decided to address my now-reinvigorated Castilian lisp with speech therapy. It is amazing when someone goes out of their way to help you, and with that help, I finally was able to rid myself of that pesky speech impediment. Unfortunately, there always seems to be a negative opposing force to every positive outcome and for me, it is that I can no longer speak Spanish with a Castilian accent. However, it was because of speech therapy I developed my love of short stories, as I read them three times a week to a speech therapist while practicing my tongue placement with each S sound I made. It was also in speech therapy where I read the story of Crow War Chief, Joseph Medicine Crow! Most importantly, it was because of speech therapy that I learned I was already halfway to becoming a war chief. Although, I realized the difficulties of completing the last two steps still eluded me, I knew if I was able to conquer that stubborn Castilian lisp, I could do anything!
MOUND BUILDER OR ANCIENT ALIENS
With two of the four boxes checked, I found myself with just two more requirements remaining before I could apply to become a war chief, but the questions of what tribe I should apply to, and where to submit my completed application, still left me perplexed. Unable to find the answers to my questions in books, and with adults being unwilling to help me because we were in a generation where, “children should be seen and not heard,” I turned my energies toward my pending summer vacation with my mother and future stepfather, Daddy Lyle.
It was a summer vacation where we would camp the entire length of the Appalachian Trail and on into Nova Scotia, Canada, sleeping outside just like the Indians. Realizing I would not be allowed to speak for the entirety of the car trip, I decided it was best to make a run to the public library to check out some books for the trip, books, of course, about American Indians. The following Saturday, we departed on our adventure and not thirty minutes into our trip I leaned over the seat and asked, “What are we doing first and when will we be there?” The response from Daddy Lyle came swift and sarcastic, “Don’t you have something better to do other than to bother us? After all, children should be seen and not heard!”
It was obvious this trip was not just for me and thus I sat back in my seat, read my books, and listened to my cassette tapes. Funny thing is, one of those cassettes contained the songs of a pretty little blond lady who taught me a lot about being a leader when she stressed the importance of communication, Debbie Harry of Blondie, of course. Our first stop was Moundsville, Alabama where we walked around an uneventful field covered with tall grass mounds in 100+ degree heat, mounds I learned were soil and grass covered piles of discarded clam shells. I was not impressed as this place was only an old trash dump. I may have been if the guy with the weird hair on Ancient Aliens had been around back then, because he has since taught us these ancient mounds were constructed on ley lines which are part of some invisible energy grid that spreads across the world. If only the archaeologists could have shared that with us that day, it would have made those boring piles of trash interesting.
It was in the gift shop I finally found relief from the 100+ degree heat and Green Peace Mother of Earth trying to convince me of the historical significance of this dump. One good thing about growing up with Green Peace Mother of Earth was reading was always encouraged, and therefore purchasing books to read was always in the budget, though wisely from the discount rack. Of course, I went straight to the books about Indians and skipping over the ones about the boring mound builders I found myself in the section about the great warrior nations of the Iroquois Confederacy, the Apache, and the Great Plains Horse Tribes! “Don’t you have enough books about Indians already?” Daddy Lyle asked me. I turned back toward the sound of his negativity and with a look of disapproval let him know I was shocked he wanted to be my new father! Yes, in my mind, I thought he wanted to be my new dad, when in reality, I was just allowed to come along because of his desire to date my mom. Still, I found it hard to believe he didn’t know I wanted nothing more than to be a war chief, and therefore I could never have enough books on Indians!
THE COOLIE AND THE TWO ROYALS
I passionately read those books about the great war chiefs, devouring one after another as we traversed the Blue Ridge Parkway, stopping only for my mom’s bathroom breaks and at rest areas where we ate our pre-packed lunches. Then it was off to the next scenic overview, tourist attraction, or state park located along the way, and with each state park I learned more and more about Indian tribes and of war chiefs I had never heard of, further feeding my ever-growing desire to become one.
After the rest stops, scenic overviews, tourist attractions, and state parks, we would find our camping spot for the night, usually at a KOA campground. As fast as the car was parked, I would do my part and unload our tents, ice chests, and sleeping bags. Since I had no money to pay for the food and gas, and since I was not old enough to drive, my contribution to this ‘family’ vacation was closer to that of the Coolies of old, you know those unskilled porters who carried baggage and set up camp for the British royalty? I was quickly educated by Daddy Lyle that the most important part of my duties as the camp Coolie was to set up the old green Coleman ice chest, as it had our food stores, and their cold beer in it. As for me, I thirst could only quenched by one Coke a day and miscellaneous disease-ridden water fountains along the way.
The next most important thing for this Coolie to do was to set up the large canvas army surplus tent for the royals. Then I was made to roll out their nice, soft, down army surplus sleeping bags on top of the luxurious yellowing foam mats they would later blissfully sleep on. When I questioned why I didn’t get a foam mat, Daddy Lyle told me, “You have a young back that can handle nature.” Once the royals were taken care of, I set up my little orange pup tent, grumbling under my breath about the rocks I would most certainly be feeling on my back later that night. Now as a teenager my grumblings were meant to be heard, and hear me they did, but not to my satisfaction as Daddy Lyle only mocked my pain, by saying, “If you are done complaining, could you please grab us another beer?” “Sure, why not, I have nothing better to do than sleep on rock anyways” I replied retrieving another beer for them from the green Coleman ice chest located in their tent, which was more similar to the ones of Arabian Sheiks than to mine.
THE NAMING CEREMONY
About halfway up the Appalachian Trail, after weeks of proving myself with pitching tents, and building, and cooking over campfires, Daddy Lyle told me he noticed I was still reading a lot of books about Indians. This was a breakthrough moment in our relationship, and I was excited he chose to speak to me as more than a Coolie. I just knew this conversation would lead to him no longer accidentally leaving me behind at random rest stops along the way. I excitedly said, “yes,” and shared with him my favorite Indians were the Sioux with their war chief Crazy Horse. I went on to say I found it fascinating Crazy Horse probably had earned his really cool Indian name from the actions he took as a warrior. Then it really happened, that moment a fatherless boy searches for all his life. This man, who loved my mother, stepped out of his boyfriend role and in a very fatherly voice, said, “Let’s take all the camping experience you have learned thus far and give you a real Indian name.” I proudly said, “Yes, yes, please do!” Looking back, I really should have said, “No, no, please don’t!” You see, the name he gave me was not nearly as cool as the Eagle Eye or Puma Heart names I had imagined for myself. And just like that, my naming ceremony around that night’s campfire ended, and with it my desire to be an Indian war chief with a cool name. Devastated, I sulked away in shame, climbed into my little orange pup tent, put my headphones on to drown out his beer-laced laughter and let Blondie lull me to sleep with a lesson in revenge as she sang her hit song, “One Way or Another!”
I FINALLY GET TO MEET A CHIEF
No matter how defeated I felt the night of my naming ceremony, this would not be my last experience with the warrior culture and chiefs, because what I didn’t know was one day, I would serve in a tribe of warriors whose leaders held the title of chief. It was a title, I learned during bootcamp, that held a position of honor, honor I knew must come with the same power and prestige given to an Indian war chief.
That is right, the United States Navy has a rank of Chief; the war chief of enlisted men, honored by a unique symbol of their strength, the emblem of the Fouled Anchor. And much like an Indian war chief exchanging individual feathers for a ceremonial headdress, our Navy Chiefs shed their dungaree denim uniforms and dixie cup hats for a much more distinguished khaki uniform and an officer style hat that sits squarely on their heads, just like the war bonnets of old. Though their uniforms are very similar to officer’s uniforms, these chiefs are easily distinguished from the officer corps as they always carried around a stained coffee cup in their hands and had a scowl on their faces. As for me, this was my opportunity to finally be able to serve in a military force under the command of a real chief and maybe one day I could even become one! However, life’s sarcastic twists and turns continued, and I spent the first year of my enlistment serving under chiefs in training commands. These chiefs cared more about sneaking out of work early than about mentoring us young warriors with tales of the sea. To add to my disappointment, I also came to the realization these training command chiefs were little more than the teachers I had gladly left behind in high school, rather than leaders of a warrior nation. Where were the leaders who were to launch me into adulthood. Where were the leaders who would train and guide all of us young sailors in the ways of Naval warfare? They definitely were not found in any of the training commands I attended, and unfortunately, we were generally left without proper leadership in a navy that was more reminiscent of the movie, “Animal House,” than “Top Gun!” THE SEAL
Then it happened, my first permanent duty station at Naval Air Station Adak, Alaska, and a chance to meet my very first real chief. After orientation, I waited outside his office eager to meet a war chief, and a war chief this one had to be as someone mentioned he had been a Vietnam-era Navy Seal. Into his office I was called, and life’s sarcasm once again hit me squarely across the jaw. My 300+ pound war chief could never have mounted a war pony; a Clydesdale maybe, but I was unsure how he would have gotten on its back as he had trouble even getting out of his chair. As a matter of fact, during some war games, a real Navy Seal ripped his Budweiser Trident insignia right off his uniform and threatened him with certain death if he ever wore it again, saying there was no way he was ever a Navy Seal. Maybe Daddy Lyle was right and that crappy Indian name he gave me was all that was left of my dreams of being a part of a great warrior nation. How do you portray yourself to your crews? Are you a liar? Are you not presentable? Or are you that war chief everyone wants to follow into battle? I know for sure which one I want to be seen as.
MY HAWKAWI CHIEF
My second chief replaced our “Seal” a few months later and I can honestly say he was much better. However, he was more of a manager and less of a warrior who would lead you into anything, other than maybe a bar. Yes, this chief was even our friend and chose to hang out with us in the barracks, where he led us more like the drunken Hawkawi Indians on the F-Troop television series instead of in the ways of a salty sea dog warrior. Once again, fate’s sarcastic reality was guiding me on my quest to find a war chief to lead me, that was, until one day my Hawkawi chief finally acted like a real war chief when he gave four of us sailors one of life’s most epic ass chewings.
You see, we had borrowed our chief’s car to make a beer run and decided that since there was a sale going on, we should stock up. We purchased as much beer as they would allow, hurried out of the package store, and loaded our haul into his car the best we could before heading back to the barracks. His poor car had cases of beer hanging out of a tied-down trunk, stacked in the rear window, as well as stacked on all of our laps, including the driver’s. Then about a half mile up the road, the Command Master Chief, the highest-ranking war chief on the base, drove past us, shooting a peculiar look our way. We thought maybe he was impressed with just how much beer we could fit in a mid-80s model Ford Mustang. Personally, I wondered if maybe we looked like Indian warriors riding back to camp after a successful raid, our mustangs loaded with scalps and plunder!
Well, the master chief was evidently not as impressed with our talents as we were, and to make the situation worse, he assumed our chief was with us hidden behind the many cases of beer. The command master chief called our Hawkawi chief into his office for what we heard was some impressive and very personal leadership advice. I think it must have been on the harsh side as our chief started chewings our asses the very next day, and continued pretty regularly for the next several months. You see, we soon found out our chief did not hang out with us because we were bad ass Indian Braves, nope, he did it because he wasn’t supposed to be drinking at all. Yet he did and hid it by drinking with us in the barracks. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t think his decision all the way through and paid for his poor choices. Needless to say, we were not allowed to borrow his war pony ever again to make raids on the package store; and he was no longer on the honor system with his Antabuse pills.
MOMMA CHIEF AND WAR CHIEFS
My next permanent duty station brought me to Naval Air Station Kingsville, Texas and another chance to fulfill my desire to serve under a real war chief. There I stood, after orientation, waiting to enter my new chief’s office. This was going to be different with a female chief, but hey, I was okay with that. Then I met mom, not my Green Peace Mother of Earth mom, but someone else’s mom, and I thought, “My goodness, this chief will never lead me into battle!”
However, during my time serving under her management, I knew she would make sure our trainings were completed and documented, and all our reports were properly typed up and submitted in a timely manner. She even cared enough about us to ask us about who we were dating and make recommendations of female sailors she knew, ah mom! Then something life changing happened to me; two chiefs came to base for an annual Military Working Dog inspection. I met them on the very first day of a weeklong inspection and I must admit I was instantly impressed by their resumes. One had been the chief over the most badass kennel in the United States Navy at Naval Station Subic Bay Philippines, where sending your dog for an actual bite on a person was as commonplace as making a cup of coffee in the morning. And the other had led point for Marines in the jungles of Panama who were hunting down intruders not long before ‘Operation Just Cause.’ Over that week, I learned the chief from the Philippines was a real war chief just like Crazy Horse, while the other chief from Panama, while also a real war chief, was more of a tactician and spiritual leader like Sitting Bull. Here I was finally under the mentorship of real war chiefs, and after only a week I knew I, too, would one day lead warriors into battle, just like them!
BITTER CHIEF AND JEALOUS CHIEF
In reality, I should have ended my naval career there at NAS Kingsville while I felt fulfilled, but I pressed on, and fate and the cruelty of life once again got in the way of my destiny of one day becoming a war chief. You see, the next two chiefs I had while stationed at Naval Submarine Base, Bangor and then at Naval Security Group Activity Adak, Alaska had some character issues.
My chief at NSB Bangor was a tad bitter and openly showed contempt and disdain for some of the warriors under her command. It was obvious to us she was not happy and merely passing time until retirement, evidently while trying to make our lives completely miserable. My NSGA Adak chief was young and showed a little too much enthusiasm, explaining how important her supervision was to her subordinates’ successes. There it was, my once proud warrior nation being destroyed from within by lying, partying, babying, getting involved in people’s personal lives, bitterness, and jealousy. I thought back to that summer camping trip and again worried that Daddy Lyle was right when he gave me that horrible Indian name and laughingly told me to leave all that Indian nonsense behind me. Maybe those great leaders of warriors only existed in books and on inspection teams! Maybe all the managerial chiefs I served under in the navy were just preparing me for a career in construction and the managers I would find there.
THE WAR CHIEF RETURNS
About the time disgust in my new chiefs’ leadership abilities seemed to get the better of me, in would ride Crazy Horse on his war pony where he would count coup on my managerial chiefs. At Naval Submarine Base, Bangor, the recommendation at the end of the annual inspection was for our chief to, first, stop worrying about me and a pretty little blond dog handler lady I was dating, and secondly, to start letting her Braves do their jobs because they were all really good warriors. Basically, he told the chief to stay out of our personal lives and let us work.
While at NSGA Adak, Alaska, I was under a different command from that pretty little blond dog handler lady and no longer involved with the dog program. However, during an annual inspection, two of the four dogs under this chief’s supervision failed to certify, and at the debriefing, the executive officer (XO) of the base asked Crazy Horse what could be done to fix his dogs. You see the XO was a leader who took ownership of the problem, even though he never trained with the kennels, nor should he have ever had to. My war chief, Crazy Horse, recommended the XO bring me in to help in the training for recertification. That wonderful young chief who had just been embarrassed by a 50% failure rate of her kennel was thankful and jumped at the assistance! Not really, she scoffed and said it would be against naval regulations as I was now married to that pretty little blond dog handler lady and thus, we couldn’t work together. Our XO scoffed at this saying he didn’t give a damn about that regulation and called my command to request me. The very next day I was standing in front of Crazy Horse and my new young chief, where I was given clear instructions by my war chief that I had two months to help the others fix the dogs before reinspection. This was it; the instructions were clear, and I thanked them for the opportunity and stepped out ready to get started. However, once out of the meeting, my new chief’s instructions to me ended in, “I dare you to so much as touch that pretty little blond dog handler lady while working!” She went on to say she was more than capable of training the dogs herself and I was no more than a diversion. Why do we have to be such petty leaders? Why can’t we graciously accept assistance, especially when we need it? Why do we not even admit there is a problem before it is too late? Why do we let pride and petty jealousy get in the way of the success of a project?
LET’S BE THE LEADERS WE ARE MEANT TO BE
The next two months of training seemed to fly by with long days and weekends beating down on all of us and just like that, about a week before my war chief returned for the reinspection, I was abruptly removed from the kennels and sent back to my command. I never said a word, just settled back into my life in the investigations department. The dogs passed with flying colors, but prior to his departure, my war chief invited myself and that pretty little blond dog handler lady to dinner and drinks at ‘The Chief’s Club.’ Yes, that is a real place where officers and lower ranked enlisted are not allowed to enter, uninvited that is. My war chief bought us dinner and thanked us for all of our hard work. He said it didn’t look good when the chief stood before the XO and said I was not much help, and not only did she have to do most of the training herself, but she had to send me back to my command because I was becoming a distraction. My war chief went on to say starting the very next Monday, I would be permanently on loan to the kennels as he had left that recommendation with the XO during his debrief. He told us to work with our chief as she was young and learning. He went on to say we too would grow and learn to be leaders alongside her as she had a bright future in the navy and as a leader.
In the end we all worked together for the next couple of years, becoming good work associates as we watched her mature into a really good chief; a chief who later became an officer and I am sure continued to develop into a very fine leader. As for me and that pretty little blond dog handler lady, well we did learn leadership alongside her, but eventually made the decision to leave the navy. We ended up back in Texas with fond memories of our time in service, of our war chief, and with growing family.
LEAD A WAR PARTY INTO BATTLE – CHECK
Many times, after leaving the navy I wondered where my war chief was and what happened to him. With the onset of the internet, I did my best to look for him, but it was as if he had just disappeared. However, I knew I was going to be alright because under his leadership I learned what a leader should look like, and for this, I will always thank him. He had taken the time to prepare me not only for my future role as a leader, but also for the time I would spend working for managers.
After leaving the navy, I became a civilian police officer where I found myself once again working for someone with the title of chief, but my chief of police was in no way like my war chief, actually he seemed to be very proud he was more managerial and less of a leader. This type of supervision was not what I needed as a young police officer, and I found myself longing to be led, wanting to once again ride alongside Crazy Horse instead of working for a manager and other supervisors who seemed to only care about political maneuvering and statistics than about leading us into battle. This was a shame, because I literally went into battle every day with other officers wearing blue. It was more of a “go out there and do your job and we will correct you if you do something wrong” type of environment, than a preplanned and trained cohesive unit. The one thing good about me working for the hands-off managerial types at the police department was it gave me opportunities I normally wouldn’t have had. While on loan to narcotics, I was even able to lead several successful war parties, checking my third box of the requirements to become a war chief!
HE WAS ALL OUR WAR CHIEF
I left the police department after about a year, and have never worked for another person titled chief since then. However, in the construction industry, I have worked for a few great leaders who continued developing me along the way. These leaders not only worked for the company I am employed by, but for other companies, and even for clients as well. Yes, the construction industry has many leaders, leaders that I would gladly grab my bow, jump on my pony, and with a rousing war whoop follow into battle.
However, I still find myself one requirement short from becoming a war chief, as I have not found an enemy with fifty horses to steal. Yet, I find myself completely fulfilled at how my life and career has turned out, though I do find it sort of sad the Crow, Sioux, Comanche, or Apache will never have a ceremony bestowing the status of war chief on me. Even without that, I will continue to be the leader I have been trained to be, and hopefully a leader my war chief would be proud of.
While preparing this story, I found myself, again, looking for my war chief; and I found him. Sadly, my war chief went home to be with the Lord in 2021 and I find myself missing him even more now that I know he is no longer with us. I thank him for sacrifices he made fighting for me and the other dog handlers I worked alongside, as well as for the impact he had on my life. I thank his family for sharing him with our nation for the twenty-one years of his service and all the leaders this war chief mentored along the way, including each of you who chose to read my words. Most of all I would like to share an old nautical saying in honor of my war chief, “Fair winds and following seas Crazy Horse!”
THE NAME
Oh, and in case you are wondering, “Big Chief Pass’em Bad Wind” is not an acceptable Indian name for an impressionable, young, fatherless, teenage boy whose lactose intolerance went undiagnosed for almost 45 years!
