"In the early years when my dad and stepmother first got married she was quite wealthy. In her new found motherhood role, she noticed my younger brother and myself, along with a bunch of other neighborhood kids, spent an inordinate amount of time 'playing cowboys' --- with cowboy hats, cap-guns, holsters, boots, etc., and in doing so we often ended up in the street. Using her logic, she thought, what could be better than having their own real ranch to play on, especially so, not in the street. So that's what she did, she bought a ranch. A whole section of land in size, that is, one square mile, with twenty acres set aside on one corner for the ranch house, barn, horse corrals, you name it. Then off we went to ride real horses and shoot real guns, but not so much at each other."
COLT WALKER: 1847 PERCUSSION REVOLVER
Growing up as I did as a young boy in the milieu of World War II, besides playing Cowboys and Indians on a regular basis all the time, the war was big for me as well. So said, I spent an equally amount of time playing army, and in doing so, not long after the war I was just as well equipped, if not more so, than any American infantryman ever was. Surplus stores sprung up all over almost overnight and I bought or got my hands on every imaginable piece of infantry garb and military gear I could get my hands on including steel helmets, pistol belts, hand held signaling mirrors, and even lace-up leggings like they used to wear in the Pacific back when the war first broke out. Between all those outdoor activities I read comic books, lots and lots of comic books.
There was one specific comic book that showed up late in the war that carried a series of stories that combined almost all of my fantasies, Cowboys, Indians, the military and P-40 fighters --- all lumped together around one central character, Tommy Tomahawk.
Tommy Tomahawk, as written, was a college educated Native American fighter pilot who led a highly rough and tumble group of other Native American pilots a la Greg Boyington's Black Sheep squadron, who, using Army Air Corps marked P-40 Tomahawks, albeit painted in the colors of the Flying Tigers, battled furiously in the Pacific Theater and/or southeast Asia against the Japanese onslaught during World War II. As an example of their rough and tumbleness, in the panel below, the apparent CO of the squadron is in the U.S. Army Corps general headquarters in Washington D.C. and is being reprimanded because of the outfit's flouting of rules and non-military like behavior. Notice the use of Flying Tiger looking P-40s:
As you can see in the first page of the story below, when the squadron returns from a mission against the Japanese they are wearing warrior-like war paint and feathers not unlike as seen in the above panel. However, without any reference, comments, or cause for change other than what is found in the above, even before they leave for their next mission, while sitting around drinking coffee the squadron members are all dressed in what appears to be more-or-less olive drab Sheep Dipped fatigues. After that, in most of the stories that follow they continued to wear similar garb, with no insignias, markings, or rank.
Although my early life introductions to Native Americans may have been through what I learned in school about the Pilgrims at Thanksgiving or the events surrounding Captain John Smith and Pocahontas at Jamestown, a good portion, if not all of the most impressionable --- for me anyway --- was garnered from comic books, cowboy western movies and radio via such personages as the Lone Ranger and his sidekick Tonto or Red Ryder and Little Beaver. They may have been really distant for being the best of role models relative to Native Americans (you have to remember the time period), but included in the mix were the somewhat more impressive dipictions of Tommy Tomahawk and the stories of Firehair. However, it wasn't very long into my young childhood that things began to change from comic books to real life.
When my uncle was still in his very early 20s --- and long before I was ever born --- after attending a few art schools in the east, he moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico. He was at the time, if not more so, still a struggling artist and to stretch his limited funds and maintain his health he began fishing, hunting rabbits, and looking into the potential possibility of edible and medicinal plants indigenous to the desert. In doing so he was soon coming in contact with Native Americans. At first they found the white man foraging in the wilderness one day and painting pictures the next day a bit strange and kept their distance, but after awhile they discovered he was neither there to destroy the environment nor to exploit them. A few Indians, and then soon more and more, began to assist him, and in return he helped them with marketing their wares and making their art more commercially viable. He began looking into local plants, soils and rocks to enhance pigments and dyes. Overcoming many deep rooted apprehensions and suspicions he soon became accepted as one with the Earth and eventually many secrets and rituals that would otherwise not have been revealed were shared with him without concern.
One day he was traveling with, as my uncle put it, a "bunch of off the reservation rowdy Indians" in the rough desert terrain somewhere well east of Santa Fe toward the Oklahoma-Texas border. He had gone off on his own foraging for edible plants or possibly an animal or two to throw his share into the community pot when he noticed a man, actually a young boy come-teenager, walking alone and from all appearances, unprepared for the desert environment. After my uncle hailed the boy down and he found out my uncle was gathering indigenous plants seemingly out of nowhere to eat or cook, the boy was besides himself. He was basically starving, or for the most part hadn't really eaten anything substantial in days, and here was this guy out in the middle of the desert finding things that were edible. True, it wasn't like pulling carrots out of a garden, but he was still finding things. My uncle invited the boy to join his friends and share their evening meal, albeit at the time never having said anything at all that his friends were Native Americans --- and a rowdy bunch at that. The boy was not only surprised that they were Native Americans, but what they were having for diner was native fare cooked and made in the wilderness in centuries old traditions --- a meal that after its completion and into the dark turned into a night of revelry, talk, and eventually sleep around the campfire. It was quite clear my uncle was a white-man, but to the boy it was even more clear that he was totally and fully accepted into the group without any inhibitions. That boy, when he grew up, turned out to be Louis L'Amour, the author of over a 100 western novels. The meeting between he and my uncle was at the very early beginning of L'Amour's wandering ways, so many of which found their way into his novels.
In a similar foray into the desert many years later, more specifically 1943 and with World War II not even a year old, my uncle, a civilian and non-combatant, was, as he often did, field searching indigenous plants for potential medicinal, spiritual, and nutritional value, only this time in the then largely uninhabited mountainous and desert-like region of central New Mexico between the New Mexico and Arizona border on the west and the north-to-south flowing Rio Grande on the east.
During his field searching he came across two Asian men, both of which turned out to be Japanese, who were in the process of doing some field research themselves, and had been for weeks --- researching all across Arizona and New Mexico for something my uncle never heard of --- testing the soil for excessive levels radioactivity. As it turned out, both of the men were spies for the Japanese Imperial government nuclear weapons program. They had been left off along the coast of Sonora, Mexico in the Sea of Cortez by a German U-boat. They shot my uncle at a point blank range, took his truck, and left him to die in the desert. However, Native Americans came across the scene with the following results from the source so linked at the bottom of the paragraph:
"Two days later my uncle woke up weak and dazed laying on his back in some sort of makeshift shelter. Rather than being moved the Native Americans had built a shelter around him right where he lay and brought in higher up indigenous help, i.e., spiritual elders, et al, caring for him around the clock. Why he didn't die on the spot is not known. The bullet apparently passed through fairly clean without hitting any vital organs and except for a substantial loss of blood and extreme fatigue mostly because of it, he was, thanks to the Indians interceding immediately both physically and spiritually, OK within reason. So here was my uncle, basically a conscientious objector but still a staunch patriot primarily through his positive experiences as an artist with the WPA, out in the middle of New Mexico thousands of miles away from any World War II hostilities, taking a bullet, shot by a Japanese spy."
THE JAPANESE SECRET WAR
Even though I was originally from a small Southern California beach community with probably a zero number of American Indians in the population, by the time I was reading Tommy Tomahawk comic books I was an old hand knowing and being around Native Americans on a mutual interactive level.
With World War II still in progress I was on my way to my grandmother on the west coast from my grandmother on the east coast when, in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night west of Flagstaff, Arizona the train I was on, the No. 3774 Santa Fe Chief derailed killing the fireman and three passengers and injuring 113 passengers along with 13 train employees, including the severely injured engineer. I wasn't hurt, but the people I was traveling with were hospitalized and I was left without any direct adult supervision. My uncle, who lived in Santa Fe, arranged for me to stay with a nearby tribal spiritual elder until I could be picked up and returned to California, re the following from the source so cited:
"Mid-evening on the night of the-unknown-to-anybody at the time up-coming crash I had gone to bed in the bunk in my compartment and as far as I knew had fallen fast asleep. Sometime during that period, between the time I fell asleep and the crash occurred, I found myself neither asleep nor in my bunk but outside of the train standing barefoot on the desert floor in the middle of the night in my PJs some distance off from a set of railroad tracks, my hand being held by an elderly Native American man.
"No sooner had I been standing there than in the distance to the east I could see the headlight of a locomotive heading in our same direction. Within seconds the train was parallel to where I was standing and then, almost as though in slow motion the train began coming off the tracks with the engine barely moving on it's side pushing huge mounds of dirt in front of itself and cars slowly going everywhere. Then silence and the passage of time returning to normal. The Native American, holding my hand, walked me over close to the now stillness of the crumpled cars, which by then people were either being helped out of by other passengers or scrambling on their own away from the wreckage. He left me standing a safe distance from the milieu with a small gathering of others accessing their status and searching for loved ones. Turning away from me and the wreckage, he disappeared into the full moon darkness of the desert. The next time I saw him was several hours later in the hospital waiting area after my uncle contacted him."
THE SPIRITUAL ELDER AND THE SANTA FE CHIEF
Not long after that, as found in Alex Apostolides I had spent time in a sweat lodge after being found wandering in the desert all alone. World War II had hardly been over by a year, with me still well under ten years old, that I started traveling around the desert southwest with my uncle and began interacting with Native Americans on a more regular basis. It was during those same early travels, after having visited several of the seven pueblos that made up the Seven Cities of Cibola, that I learned of first hand and actually met Navajo Code Talkers. See also:
THE WANDERLING AND HIS UNCLE
Their Life and Times Together
THE INCIDENT AT SUPAI
In the chronological order of things, by the time Tommy Tomahawk and his squadron of P-40 Flying Tiger adorned look-alike Tomahawks showed up in the Pacific Theater and/or southeast Asia as the case may be, the AVG, the American Volunteer Group, otherwise known as the Flying Tigers had long since been disbanded and replaced by the 14th Army Air Corps. Just about the same time, that is, the chronological order of things with the Flying Tigers being disbanded and all, another P-40 Flying Tiger type hero showed up, the Lone Tiger. Before Tommy Tomahawk there was another Tomahawk who flew for right and justice. See:
AUTUMN OF 1771. TOMAHAWK: THE FLYING FRONTIERSMAN
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THE LADY ON THE DOCK AND THE PBY
BLACK CAT ATTACKING MAST HEIGHT IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
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THE F6F NAVY HELLCAT, NAZI SUBS, AND
THE BAJA MEXICO CRASH SITE
CURTISS P-40: THE OBSOLETE WAR HERO
P-40 FIGHTER PILOT DAN H. ROWAN
GHOST AND THE HAUNTED B-29
THE LADY AND THE TIGERS
P-40 GOOSE SHOOT
THE ORDEAL OF LIEUTENANT STONER
ON THE RAZOR'S
DID THE WANDERLING FLY?
SUPERBOY TRAVELS BACK IN TIME, ENDING
IN REAL LIFE ANALOGIES IN TIME AND PLACE
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TIME TRAVEL: MEETING YOURSELF
As to the subject of donations, for those of you who may be interested in doing so as it applies to the gratefulness of my works, I invariably suggest any funds be directed toward THE WOUNDED WARRIOR PROJECT and/or THE AMERICAN RED CROSS.