The laughing Indian

Images are the currency of photographers.
Professional photographers take ‘images’.
Photographers with technical skills take ‘photos’.
I take ‘pictures’. ‘Pictures’ are shit.


We all have images in our memories that evoke dramatic ranges of emotions.
Even after 50 years they are as real as yesterday.


I have images in my memory and today I was thinking about the laughing Indian.
I haven’t thought about him for 50 years.
There was no reason. Then there was.


The Indian was my drill sergeant at Ft. Leonard Wood in Missouri.
Ft. Leonard Wood was named after General Leonard Wood, physician, Army Chief of Staff, Governor General of the Philippines etc.
Wood is portrayed favorably in the 1997 miniseries “Rough Riders” by actor Dale Dye.


Lenny would be horrified to know his name is linked to a hellhole of cold rain and red mud in Missouri.
He would also be horrified to know that his brain is held at the Yale University School of Medicine.
It one of a historic collection of Harvey Cushing’s patients' preserved brains.
You did not want to be one of Harvey Cushing’s patients.


The Indian was a man of quiet reserve, who could run all day.
He was married to a beautiful Vietnamese woman and had the most striking children I have ever seen.
The Indian was aloof, stern and thoughtful.


The first week of basic training, the Indian was laying down the law as a drill sergeant does.
That was when Private Slentz spoke up.
Slentz was 21, balding, soft as pudding and scared shitless.
He worked in the post office before getting drafted. He was a dick worm. He would go far in life.


He was such a loser that I Googled his name before writing this.
He is the kind of man who could rise to the top of the US Postal Service.
No sense pissing off someone mailing me my social security checks.


Slentz raised his hand and spoke as we were sitting on the wooden bleachers in the cold rain.
”Drill sergent, if we all work really hard and are good will you treat us nice and ….”
We all sat there dazed with our mouths open.
We are fucked.


I believe that the Indian had never heard anything like this before.
Drill sergeants hear a lot.
He had clearly never heard that before.


We held our breath and the Indian starred into the cold, sticky red mud.


Then the Indian started to laugh.
He laughed from the belly and tears burst from his eyes.
He rubbed his eyes with his wet hands bent over laughing.
His fatigue sleeves became wet from rubbing his wet face.


I lived in South Dakota and knew some Indians.
They didn’t laugh much.
I can’t remember any of them laughing.
They appeared sad.


I was happy to hear the Indian laugh.
I was happy he was married and had a beautiful wife and children.
And a life away from the reservation.


I was not happy with what came next.
We did endless pushups until our arms quivered and our faces were pressed into the Missouri mud.
We marched 10 miles in the dark rain coughing our lungs out.
More pushups.


Slentz deserved it so we all paid the price, which is the American way.
Slentz would go far in life.
We all knew it and hated him for it.


It could have gotten ugly because some of the drill sergeants were brutish.
The Indian seemed to forget about it and treated Slentz with distant respect and did his job.
I sensed he had dealt with a lot in life and knew how to put up barriers to people and move on.


I’m sure Slentz had a great career at the US Post Office, retired with a brown nose, a big pension and lots of sick days.


I hope the Indian did the same and hold this image in my memory.