Remembering my friend, a Vietnam vet

Sometimes old friends unexpectedly show up in dreams. The latest one was Richard Schwartz, one of the lost and forgotten tribal ones, devastated by military service which must have been too much after the life he lived as a youngster.

The dream was prompted by a recent column I penned about Northern Cheyenne tribal members who served in the Vietnam Conflict. At the request of tribal elder Hugh Clubfoot, who served in that war, we attempted to list his tribal brethren who also endured Vietnam.


“We should list the names of the ones who served, got spit upon and then tossed aside. Forgotten ones,” Hugh said. “Each one has a story which could break your heart. But they don’t tell it. And though many did not get killed in action, it killed them later.”

Though the column focused on Northern Cheyenne, it brought Richard to mind. We both endured growing up in Prairie County, Mont., well off the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, two marooned Indian teenagers in a country where most people are still slightly upset about Custer’s Last Stand.

Yet, a few there are not of like mind. Those few were and still are my friends such as Kathy Galland who provided a photo for this article. In all Prairie County, Mont., there were only a few Indian kids, such as me, a light skinned Indian who could pass until they found out what I really was – a half breed.

Richard, on the other hand, was a full-blood, very dark, black-haired, tall, and lithe, easily identified and scorned. At least I knew that my half was Northern Cheyenne, but Richard, orphaned and thrown away as a baby, then had no clue about his tribal identity.


Sometimes, we speculated about that. “Do I look Apache, like Geronimo?” he asked.

“A little bit,” I said. “But the Apache are shorter. Let’s get some library books and see who you look like.” The closest we came was the Assiniboine, known to be very tall, with noses like Richard and unusually thick black hair tied up in long dangling braids.

That was out of the question for my friend who got buzzed every two weeks. As a young boy, he was adopted by stalwart servants of the American Lutheran Church, which we were required to attend, at our peril. Our Lutheran minister was very intimidating, reminding on regular basis that you can burn in hell for the least offense.

After baptism, Bible lessons, confirmation, and other thorough indoctrinations, we kept those rules in mind and were thus always slightly worried about eternal fire. Who can live up to those standards? Certainly not us poor darker sinners.

Erna and Jacob “Jake” Schwartz, Richard’s adoptive parents, reinforced that on daily basis, she the 4-H advisor and Bible teacher: Jake, church usher, pushing the plates for the weekly donations and a local carpenter. Flat intimidating in Christian way.

As a youngster, it is not possible to refute that. That very proper couple never had children of their own. Thus, they adopted, doing good Christian duty to orphans. First one was Richard, at age seven, a tall, strong, and good-looking boy (if you overlooked his color) and they must have just decided it best he did not know about his heritage, though later it came out in his obituary that he was Chippewa-Cree with the Indian name of “little Beads.”

Keith, a smaller, skinnier, pimply-faced white kid was the second adoptee and also did not know anything about his parentage. Somebody in that household had to do the grunt work, ‘learning to work’, according to Jacob, which fell to Richard. For example, at early age, he got a bicycle, rising early every morning to deliver the local newspapers.

It was necessary to land those missives directly onto the customer’s front porch and if he missed, had to go retrieve them because if not, they would complain to Jake who would take it out on Richard’s hide. Jacob, as I remember, was the ultimate and scary disciplinarian, excepting the soft spot for Keith.

Richard delivered to many houses, contributing to his later baseball pitching arm and cross-country running. Then, he had to damn sure get back home before breakfast, park his bike and jog two miles to school. If not, he went without breakfast. Since he did not like that consequence, he was almost always punctual.

Keith, on the other hand, got a motorcycle, went to showing off, chasing girls, torturing Richard to no end. “He was just awful to Richard when they were young, but I think he changed later,” a good high school friend agreed. For, you see, Keith could do no wrong, while Richard frequently was accused of many offenses, suffering the “strap” if found wanting, confided to me.

At any given minute Richard could have beat the hell out of his younger “brother,” or challenged his adoptive parents, but he never stooped to that. Perhaps too cowed by then. Or just too kind as he was grateful to have a home.

I remember the two boys’ behavior like the difference between day and night. Richard and I got acquainted in high school, considered by our classmates as two wrong-colored ones. When he was freed from daily athletic practice — by then across-country runner, and a baseball and football power– and I got off my after-school job as a waitress, we would sometimes find time to go down to the Yellowstone River. We would just sit there discussing school and how the other kids did not like us because he was noticeably brown, me just suspect brown.

We went to the prom together for that was the only choice. Richard dressed in a cast-off suit and tie (gawd that was awful) donated by Jake, and me in the best secondhand dress possible. We sat in the back for a while watching the Jitterbuggers, sipping Cherry Cokes until finally escaping back to the river to enjoy a better time.

Nobody else would be seen dancing with us. We were too shy to dance together, in jeopardy of being clumsy with no prior experience. Everybody would have looked at us and most likely laughed. As teenagers, this was unbearable.

Richard was older than me and thus escaped Prairie County sooner, enlisting in the Navy right after graduating from high school. It was 1969 and troop strength in Vietnam was at its height. He got the hell out of Montana before I could. Neither of us looked back.

Years passed and of course, Richard and I lost track, going on different adventures. Many years later, I had moved to the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, close to Sheridan, Wyo., convenient for shopping trips. On main street, leading into town, there sits a Dairy Queen. Salivating for a Double Chocolate Mint Frosty, I parked nearby.

Walking to the order window, it was necessary to pass a park bench, inhabited by a sorry lot of veterans, clad in camouflage jackets, big black boots, and baseball caps. Choosing not to look at them, certain they would put the beg on, I heard someone call out.

“Clara Lee! Is that you?”

Who knew me? Since high school nobody calls me by double name. I looked back and espied a wreck. Yet upon closer look, it was a shadow of Richard, a very shaky one, hands and body muscles quivering, right cheek slightly sunk in, overall unkempt and slightly odorous.

Yet, a military ribbon or two were displayed upon his frayed coat. No longer was he the strong boy from high school. A horrifying and pitiful sight to my eyes.

“Richard! What are you doing here?”

“Live here now. In the VA. The crazy ward. ‘Nam’ got me. The folks are dead now. No place else left.”

“What about Keith?”

He shook his head in the negative.

“How long were you over there?”

”Cannot really remember,” he said.

The shake echoed in his voice. I remembered how he had demolished double bacon cheeseburgers as a young man, which I got on discount from my high school waitressing job.

I asked: “Wanna cheeseburger? Double bacon?”

“Could stand one,” he said.

Thus, for a year or more, occasionally I went to the VA to visit Richard who made room A-7 his abode, in the “crazy” ward, finding out from the nurses that the drugs and related psychotic effect had gotten him. A devastation shared by many other Vietnam vets.

“There really isn’t a cure for it,” one of the nurses confided.

Though under safe care and treatment, he did not seem to be getting better, but always liked getting a bacon cheeseburger, new socks — which he felt were important — or a new baseball cap, his favorite team the Yankees. That was all he ever requested. Yet, he liked to recall sitting down by river, the good ol’ days. “Member that?” he would smile. “It was nice.”

He liked to focus on the good things, few as they were. Finally, came the sad day when I was informed that Richard no longer inhabited room A-7. “He’s gone,” the nurse on duty informed me. Of course, I assumed the worst and crashed out of there in grief. Figuring that nobody else would care, I bottled it up, choosing not to discuss it, not even with my few remaining high school friends in Terry, Mont.

Never during cheery Christmas greetings, did his name come up. Now, too late, I have discovered that “being gone” meant transferred to another Vet facility. I only recently learned that he lived until 2015, as a long-term resident of VA homes, the final one in Billings.

I think about how many years of visits I missed.

Although I don’t know all the details of Richard’s military service, I recently have learned from his obituary that “following the service his life changed.” His adoptive family listed his military service dates as May to November 1969. Richard was buried with full military honors in Terry, Mont.

My father, a World War II vet who was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, taught me: Everyone who served was a hero.

I remember Richard as a kind person caught in the jaws of irony. Hopefully, his passing brought peace to a life marked by hardship.

Clara Caufield can reached at acheyennevoice@gmail.com.