It was a bright sun filled day, that terrible bloody day in June of 1876. A day filled with cries and screams and shouts of victory. Of lances pointed high and gunshots ringing out across the Greasy Grass, of scalps taken and fatal blows struck by both sides and then a lonely silence as the victors cleared the field and wind was left to blow solemnly over those left behind.

There is a thing about the why’s and how’s of battle. It is not enough to win. That feeling is fleeting, the adrenalin soon dissipated. There needs to be something concrete and tangible to remind one of the results of that terrible risk taken, an actual prize from the field of battle that can link one back to that time when the memory grows dim. Something that is often referenced to remind one of the chances taken, the absolute finality of decisions, the very luck of the day. In this case for the victors it is the colors, the flag that meant so much to the vanquished, now held aloft and celebrated as a symbol of the glory of victory. To have captured that which was so important to their enemy validates their worth as warriors. It is proof undeniable that they were victorious.

There is a song important to us which contains the words “Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave” that were spoken as a symbol of hope during another battle. On this day in June of 1876, on the gently swelling hillsides of the greasy grass alongside the Little Bighorn river, where many good men on both sides met their fate, that hope was transferred from the vanquished to the victors. The meaning of the symbol holds true regardless of who controls the flag. This time it is the warriors of the Indian nations that hold the flag. Soon enough it will transfer back as the pendulum swings back to the ebb and flow of battles past and present. But then that’s a story for another time.

Any good war chief knows you don’t commit all your troops to a battle. Some of the younger members are held back to hold the ponies while the more experienced warriors are off conducting the raid, or perhaps they are too young to be in the thick of things just yet but need the experience of being part of the action. To learn how to handle the fear and excitement, to learn how to be responsible enough to handle the smaller tasks of the war party before being entrusted with the larger duties.

Learning to be men is a difficult and frustrating task for these young warriors. After all if they’re old enough to be along on a raid they should be able to take part in it rather than just be pony holders. They’re brave enough, they know how to shoot and fight. Don’t they practice every single day? They tell each other they would count many coups against the enemy, and take many scalps. All they need is a chance to prove themselves, instead of being left to wait on the sidelines.

There is more to being a man and going to war than fighting hand to hand. The lessons learned by being a part of the group, of being thought of as mature enough to be equal company with the older men, learning to be patient and take orders and stand their ground, to be trusted. These are all lessons being taught while being the rear guard, even if they don’t realize yet they’re being taught. Their time will come all too soon.