Yesterday I learned that a former student in my 5th grade classroom was killed in Fallujah in early January. It has been a sobering day.
Brett Lundstrum was a Marine who followed in his father's footsteps in more ways than being a Marine. His father, Ed, is a retired Marine Major and a decendant of White Cloud, the Oglala Sioux chief. Brett understood what duty to family, community, and nation ment. He also knew the dangers in his "standing-up". He has paid a price for that with his life. For this, more than our elementary school history, I'll always hold his memory dear to my heart. I still remember his easy smile, his graciousness with others, the effort that he put into his work, but something has replaced that and that is an image of a lone warrior standing strongly on a ridge guarding his family and friends. Remember his name, Brett Lundstrum, remember too that he placed himself in harm's way to protect all of us.
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
January 21, 2006
KYLE, S.D. - 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 spirits to guide the fallen
warrior. After the ceremony, long after midnight, the Marines would
take Lundstrom's body into the tepee, where Lakota beliefs hold that
the spirits of Lundstrom's ancestors would communicate with his.
First, Kills Straight said, they needed to know who he was. "His name
is Wanbli Isnala," Kills Straight said, and then translated: "Lone
Eagle." With that, he took the eagle feather, walked to the open
casket, and placed it on the Marine's chest. "He, alone, above
everything else, is an eagle," Kills Straight said. "He will fly to
the highest reaches of the universe. He may bring back news to us in
our dreams." He looked to the stands of the stadium, and spoke of
Lundstrom's well- known warrior ancestors.
"The blood of these people you've probably heard of runs in the blood
of Brett . . . this is who Brett is," Kills Straight said. "He is a
warrior." After placing ceremonial grasses in the casket and offering
prayers in Lakota, he turned again to the crowd.
"Now I want to name my other grandson," he said. From the back of the
room, Pfc. Eddy Lundstrom walked in wearing his desert camouflage
uniform, the one he was wearing only a week earlier in Tikrit, when
told of his brother's death. As the only surviving son in the family,
he had the option to spend the rest of his tour stateside. Instead, he
plans to leave Tuesday to go back to Iraq. In the days leading up to
the naming ceremony, as Birgil Kills Straight searched for the proper
names to bestow on the two brothers, he said he specifically wanted a
name that might help ensure Eddy's safe return.
As the 21-year-old private stood at attention, his shoulders straight,
his fingers curled slightly at his sides, Kills Straight took out
another eagle feather. "His name is Wicahci Kailehya," he said
finally. "Shining Star."
Anguished cry wonders why American Indians have the highest per-capita
participation in the armed services of any ethnic group. According to
the Web site icasualties.org, 23 American Indians and Alaska Native
Americans have died in Iraq as of the end of last year. "People always
ask, why do the Indian people, who were treated so badly, step forward
to serve their country?" said James Shaw Sr. during one of the
ceremonies. "It's that good old nation pride." For John Around Him, an
Army combat infantry veteran who served in Vietnam and whose son
recently returned from Iraq, the bond is more tangible. "In 1876, the
Lakota Sioux took that flag from Custer," he said, nodding toward the
U.S. flag near the casket. "So that flag is ours, too."
Still, after so many centuries of battle, they also know the
consequences all too well. "I saw his name on CNN and I let out a war
whoop," said Velma Killsback - whose daughter served in Iraq - as she
looked at the casket that held Cpl. Lundstrom. "I sat here in
disbelief, wondering why. For a war that shouldn't go on."
On the reservation, where registered Democrats outnumber Republicans
9-1, the war in Iraq is largely unpopular. The men and women fighting
it, however, never are. "When we would have late-night talks, he would
tell me how he was fighting for me to do the things I do in everyday
life," said Brett's cousin Amanda Munoz. "No matter how much I was
against it, I gradually understood. No matter how much I hated it, and
said, 'Please Brett, don't go,' he was doing what he wanted to do. It
was his calling."
Generosity of the star quilts By the time the wake entered its 30th
hour, eyes had begun to sag, clothes had rumpled and stubble covered
the faces of many male mourners. The energy level never waned.
Periodically, drum groups formed circles that pulled the drowsy from
the bleachers. Visitors ate buffalo soup and fry bread. While most
tribe members left each night to return home, some slept near family
members on the floor of the gym, or under the bleachers, refusing to
leave the man few of them had ever met. All the while, the group of 12
young Marines from Colorado - most of whom had never visited an Indian
reservation - continued to post watch in 30-minute shifts. They stood
without flinching, listening to relatives cry over the open casket, and
as friends and family members placed letters, a rose and sports jerseys
alongside his body. On Saturday night, while many of their friends
back in Colorado concerned themselves with the outcome of the Denver
Broncos playoff game, the Marines watched as the family showed
childhood photos of Brett Lundstrom's life, projected on a screen next
to his open casket. After the ceremony on the reservation, they would
head back to Colorado for Lundstrom's burial at Fort Logan National
Cemetery.
"I hope they will take this message back, that they'll say, 'We went to
Pine Ridge, and it was one of the greatest honors we've ever seen,' "
John Around Him said. "They're witnesses, to take this honor and share
it." According to Staff Sgt. Kevin Thomas, they have no choice. "I was
a history major. I learned about the Western expansion, I learned about
the Indians," Thomas said. "But I never really understood." As the
ceremony progressed, many of the mourners brought handmade gifts,
including elaborate dreamcatchers, miniature illuminated tepees and
traditional star quilts. By Sunday night, more than 50 of the quilts -
which can take weeks to make and can sell for between $300 and $600
each - lined an entire wall of the gymnasium. Then, as is customary,
the family gave them all away. "Value doesn't mean nothing to the
family - earthly property, it doesn't mean nothing right now - it's
life that has worth," said 82-year-old Sylvester Bad Cob, a World War
II and Korean War veteran. "They give it out now, but they'll get it
back someday." One by one, the family called up everyone who had
helped organize the ceremony, and presented them with one of the
elaborate star quilts.
They began with the Marines. "I had a picture of this in my mind, but
to actually see it . . . It's just overwhelming," said Capt. Chris
Sutherland, shortly after Doyla and Ed Lundstrom wrapped him in one of
the quilts, and - as they did with each of his Marines - sealed their
gift with a hug. "If you think about it, in our culture, we give
thank-you notes," Sutherland said, shaking his head. "Just thank-you
notes." Once the gifting ceremony was over, however, the Lundstroms
found out that Sutherland also had something to return. As the gym
once again quieted, Sutherland took out a small red velvet bag, and
walked toward the Marine's parents. He dropped to one knee and tilted
the bag. He then pulled out a watch - the same one that the corporal
was wearing when he was killed. He handed it to Ed Lundstrom, who
hadn't slept for the past 36 hours, while remaining near his son's
casket. The former Marine major held tight to the watch, then crumbled
in tears. Sutherland tipped the bag again, and softly folded the
remaining contents into the hands of Brett Lundstrom's mother:
Her son's dog tags.
Sunday night near midnight, 65-year-old Regina Brave stood up from the
bleachers and made her way to the floor.
"As a rule, I don't go to wakes, I don't go to funerals. But for some
reason, I had to come to this one," she said. "After I heard about him,
I knew I had to be here. I walked for a long time."
Two days earlier, Brave had hitchhiked more than 100 miles across the
reservation to attend the wake. For the entire journey, the Navy
veteran carried one of her handmade star quilts, in memory of her son,
a Marine who served during the first Gulf War. Earlier that night, the
family gave the quilt away with all the others.
"My father told me, 'Everywhere you go, you're there for a reason,' "
she said. " 'You're either there to help somebody, or they're there to
help you.' "
Inside the gymnasium, Brave joined more than a hundred men and women
who lined up behind the Colorado Marines, for the last official ceremony
of the wake, the "Final Roll Call." She was soon joined by men and
women from all services, ages 19 to 90.
Some hobbled in walkers, others stood in desert camouflage, some wore
the same clothes they had for the past two days. As Sunday stretched
into Monday, they came to attention. For the next 15 minutes, they
all waited for their name, and then barked
the same response: "Here, Sir." "Here, Sir." "Here, Sir . . "
each of them said, one after another, until they reached the last
veteran in the building. "Corporal Brett Lee Lundstrom . .
"Corporal Brett Lee Lundstrom . . . "Corporal Brett Lee Lundstrom."
Finally, Capt. Sutherland answered for the Marine who never would.
"Not here, Sir," he said. As the Lakota warrior songs began, John
Around Him took the microphone once more. "This ceremony will continue
on - because in the past, in our history
with our great warriors, and how they defended our land, their culture
and their way of life - it passes on, generation after generation," he
said. "These veterans, they love us. They care for us." He looked
over at the groups of old men and women, the groups of young ones, and
thought of all the wars in between. "To all the veterans who are here
tonight, welcome home," he said. He then looked over at the open
casket at the man with a feather on his chest, and said it again,
"Welcome home."
