The Coming Storm

The tanned grassland swayed like waves of an angry ocean, or at least how George Whitetail imagined the ocean would appear, since the sea was well over a thousand miles away. It was the first cold front of autumn, and a line of storms barreled across the desolate, rolling hills of South Dakota like a runaway freight train. Towering pillars of billowing clouds tinged with blue and black spawned ghostly shafts of rain that inundated the parched grasslands. George watched in awe as wild, agitated veins of lightning danced between the rising mountains of cloud. The long, brutal summer of 1941 would soon be a distant memory, but the coming storm heralded an early winter.

The cold front reminded him of his miserable prospects on the reservation. The Depression had been especially cruel to the Sioux and the coming prosperity that America was eagerly looking forward to would never reach his people. His own plight was especially bleak, ever since his father left home a decade ago. George reluctantly dropped out of school two years ago to help support the family, by selling kitschy trinkets with his mother. Waiting for tourists along the windblown highway to Rapid City was demeaning, but it put food on the table. Besides, his grandfather insisted that it was work, and honest work at that, and that was better than waiting for the government to provide for their needs. George still had his doubts, but what else was there to do for an 18-year-old Sioux man with no high school diploma?

“I guess we’d better pick things up ‘fore it rains, son,” his mother yelled above the wind, her tired eyes watching the shaft of rain inundating the nearby badlands. “Won’t be no more travelers till after the storm passes.”

“Yeah, ma,” George answered as he grabbed a blanket caught up in the breeze. His long, dark hair whipped about his lanky shoulders as he darted after another blanket. “It’ll be dark before long. We might as well go on home.”

“You know we can’t ‘ford to do that yet.”

George silently grumbled as he gathered beaded necklaces into a rucksack. His friends would already be in town, watching the clouds roll in as they tried to forget their dreadful existence. He had hoped to join them earlier than usual in light of the storm.

A strange droning noise drifted across the shouting wind. Large drops of rain pelted his leathery face as he looked skyward and saw a dazzling, yellow airplane descend from the swirling abyss. To his surprise, it lined up on the deserted stretch of highway. It was going to make a landing! George stood transfixed as the aircraft touched down gracefully and taxied to a stop several hundred feet down the highway.

With a whoop of excitement, George ran down the road to lend a hand, but it was doubtful that he would be of much assistance. He had never even seen an airplane, but it had always been a dream of his to fly over the windswept plains like an eagle, twirling through the sunlit skies and around immense columns of bulbous clouds. The irritated shouts of his mother fell on deaf ears as he left her behind.

Two pilots were climbing from the festively colored airplane as George arrived. “Wow, that was great!” he gushed. “Are you having trouble with your aeroplane?” George asked.

“No,” the pilot answered. “We followed a sucker hole into this line of storms on our way to Rapid City and couldn’t find a way out. Captain Shaw figured it would be better to land and let it pass over.”

“I’ve never seen an airplane before. Could I take a look inside?”

“You betcha. Just don’t touch nothing.”

George eagerly climbed onto the wing and peered into the cockpit. He had always imagined that an airplane would look similar to an automobile on the inside, with a steering wheel, choke, clutch, accelerator, brake, and a few gauges. However, there was a dizzying array of gauges, dials, indicators, and switches. “How do you know what all the controls do?” he asked the pilot, who had climbed onto the opposite wing.

“It takes a while, but it gets to be second nature.”

“How did you get to be a pilot?”

“Well, technically, I’m not yet,” the pilot sheepishly admitted. “I’m still a cadet. Once I graduate in a few weeks, I’ll get my wings and be commissioned as an officer. I’ve wanted to fly for as long as I can remember.”

“I’d love to learn to fly,” George said breathlessly, caught in a vision of flying the bright, yellow craft over the plains.

“Uncle Sam is looking for lots of men to fly,” the cadet answered. “My buddy Frank thinks we’re gonna help the Tommies whip the Nazis and I don’t disagree. It’s only a matter of time before we go back and finish what we should of in 1918.”

“Anything would be better than staying here,” George dreamily continued. “There’s not much future on the res.”

“Well, the army takes care of its men. Free room and board, three squares a day, and a little money in your pocket. Plus, women love a guy in uniform. Especially one with silver wings on his chest.”

George asked the cadet everything he could possibly think of about army life and the world of military aviation. He was still going strong when the clouds began to dissipate, revealing a sky in radiant splendor. Beams of reddish-orange light from the fading sun pierced the parting clouds, bathing the badlands in brilliant hues of orange and shadows.

George breathed in deeply as the pilots prepared to depart. There was a sweet freshness in the air that his grandfather had always called nature’s rebirth; it was a cleansing of the earth to remove the contaminants that man had left behind. George knew that he had also been reborn; he would find a life in the army, to learn how to fly as the eagle, and to become a warrior like his ancestors.

He bid farewell as the propeller caught with a growl, shattering the quiet air. It settled into a steady rhythm as the prop wash furiously buffeted the grass like a tornado. Minutes later, the aircraft rolled forward onto the highway. The engine revved to a deep, throaty resonance that ruptured the air, shaking George to his soul. The aircraft lurched forward like a charging bison, leaving the lonely South Dakota plains behind. He watched seemingly transfixed as the plane climbed into the darkening sky, straining his eyes as it dwindled in size until it was lost in the temple of the gods.




“You want to do what?” Johnny Beartooth exclaimed later that night, nearly dropping his beer. A murmur arose from the half-dozen young Sioux gathered behind the white man’s church in Pine Ridge.

“You heard me,” George told his friends. “I want to fly aeroplanes for the army. I’ve got to get off the res. There’s no future for me here.”

“You’re crazy, my friend,” Johnny said. “You’ll never get to fly. The army will put a rifle in your hands and a pack on your back and send you to fight in the trenches.” Approving nods from the others indicated Johnny’s criticism was unanimous.

“I think I can pass the air corps exams. They can’t be that hard.” George had always been a good student and excelled in his schoolwork.

“Why do you want to go to the white man’s world?”

“We can’t do this forever, man,” George angrily replied, tossing his half-empty beer into the darkness. “What kind of life is this? Can’t sell beads and blankets to white tourists all my life! There’s got to be something better!”

“What will your mother think?” one of the others asked.

“What about your grandfather?” Johnny asked before George could answer. “How will he feel? You know what the white man’s army did to him. You want to join the same army that slaughtered our people? They took our land, our way of life, our names, and our religion. What’s next?”

“You’re right, Johnny. But, I will show the white man that we are not beaten. We don’t have to live where they tell us. The Sioux can survive in their world and bring respect to our people. And I will prove to everyone that I can be a warrior like my ancestors. I will make them proud.”

Convincing his friends of his plans had been hard enough, but George did not look forward to telling his grandfather. He knew that the old man would not be happy, and that was an understatement. His grandfather had been a young boy that fateful day when the army arrived at the Sioux’s winter encampment at Wounded Knee. George’s grandfather had only survived because his mother covered him with her body, even as she lay dying in the snow. A fiery-eyed trooper had discovered the weeping nine-year-old boy and leveled his rifle at the defenseless youth, and if not for the timely interruption by a virtuous officer, he too would have died. It was a wound on his soul that still bled to this day.




Four days after his encounter with the airplane, George hitched a ride to an army recruiting station in a nearby town in Nebraska. The smiling sergeant promised him that he would be allowed to take the aviation exams, but if he fared poorly, he would have to join the infantry. George would have to report to an army post in Texas by the end of October. He had less than a month to break the news to his unsuspecting family.

George waited for the right time to tell his family, if there was such a thing. He knew that it would bring great sorrow to his family, and he soon began wondering if he had done the right thing. It was too late to change his mind; he had signed up and that was that. He felt guilty every time he saw his grandfather, since he knew that the old man would take the news harder than his mother would. George delayed the inevitable confrontation until two days before his departure. He decided to tell his mother first, before his grandfather returned from his poker night.

“Ma, I’ve joined the army,” he hastily said during dinner.

“Wow!” his 12-year-old brother, Thomas exclaimed. “Will you be a rifleman?”

“Thomas, go outside!” his mother ordered. He tried to protest, but her stern look sent him scurrying from the table.

“Ma, don’t be angry. There’s no future for me here. I’ve…”

“Do you want to kill your grandfather?” she interrupted, tears filling her eyes. “Why would you do such an insensitive thing?”

“I have a chance to do something with my life. I want to be a pilot…”

“I knew it!” she roared, spooking Thomas from his hiding place outside the screen door. “You were so taken by those soldiers. When you came back, I knew that something had changed, but I had no idea that it would lead to this! You’re just like your father!” She began crying profusely.

“I’m not like my father!” he yelled, his anger boiling. “I want to make something of myself and to make you proud. I will not forget where I have come from like my father has!”

“I will not allow you to do this…”

“I am a man and my decision has been made! There is nothing you can do to change my mind, mama. Besides, I’ve already signed up.”

The rumble of his grandfather’s truck echoed in the distance. A sense of foreboding came over both George and his mother. George turned as the truck’s headlights flooded the living room like a flash of lightning. There was no turning back.

“I will tell him,” George quietly said. “It is my responsibility.”

Fear gripped George as the old man entered the house. He had been drinking, as usual, but George knew that he wasn’t a violent man. He was only afraid for how his grandfather would react, not out of fear for his own well-being.

“Gramps, I have some news.”

“So, you will finally tell me,” the old man knowingly answered.

“What? You know?”

“I know you are leaving, but I don’t know where. I have read it in your eyes for some time. Perhaps, it is time for you to do so. You are a man and you are free to make your own decisions.”
“But, gramps, you don’t know what I’m doing. You won’t approve…”

“Whatever it is, you are my grandson. I will support you.”

“I’ve joined the army. I want to be a pilot in the air corps.”

His grandfather was speechless for several moments. George knew that an outburst was imminent.

“The army?” the old man slowly asked. “That is a surprise.”

“It is the best chance for me to make a living outside of the res,” George explained. He continued about the benefits offered by the army and the opportunity that existed to prove his bravery as a warrior.

Throughout the discourse, the old man’s anger never surfaced. George had seriously misjudged his reaction. Though his grandfather appeared hurt, George knew that he would support his decision.

“Once, I too left the reservation. I was about your age, at the turn of the century, and I found a job in Denver. I stayed for two years, sending money home to your grandmother every week. I knew that I had to prove to myself that I could make it in the white man’s world, just as you are now. When I came back to the Sioux, I married your grandmother and the rest is history.

“I may not agree with your choice,” the old man continued. “But, it is your life and you must decide for yourself. Yet, I must warn you about the white man’s world. There are many things you do not know about their ways. The world is an uncertain place and the white man has many enemies, even if they do not know it yet. I fear that war is coming, and not like the war of our ancestors on the unspoiled plains. You will be fighting their war in a place far from our homeland. I hope and pray that you fight bravely and wisely and come home to us.”

His grandfather smiled weakly, turned, and walked from the room. George and his mother stood speechless.




The next two days passed in a whirlwind. George’s mother gradually accepted his decision, although she would never agree with it. Her father’s approval of George’s enlistment had taken the wind out of her sails. She knew there was nothing she could do about it and further criticism of George’s new life would only drive him farther away.

George packed his bags with an uneasiness he had never felt before. He was leaving the reservation, a place that he had left only twice, including his trip to Nebraska to enlist. It would always be home, but to appreciate it better, he knew he had to leave. After a few years, he would return home, bringing with him the knowledge and skills that would make the Sioux nation a better place.

“It’s time to leave, George,” his grandfather said. “Your bus will be along shortly. Let me help you with your bags.”

His mother began crying as he walked outside. “Be quiet, daughter,” George’s grandfather said. “The last thing he needs to remember is your tears.”

She held back her sobs, but her eyes shimmered in defiance of his order. George hugged her tightly. It was all he could do to hold his own tears back.

“George, I never thought I’d see this day…”

“Hush, mama. I’ll write all the time and I’ll see you when I earn leave time.”

George said goodbye to Thomas, who seemed indifferent to it all. He seemed more interested in the leaves swirling around the front porch than in the fact his brother was leaving. George knew that Thomas was in denial, hoping that George’s departure was just a bad dream.

“Thomas, you’re the man now. Take care of mama for me, will ya?”

“Are you gonna be a fighter pilot, George?”

“I don’t know. But, if I do, I’ll be sure to fly over the house and wave my wings for you.”

“We’d better go,” George’s grandfather said, watching the sky. “It’ll be snowing soon. It looks like a real bear.” A steady wind was blowing from the north and the sky was the color of ashen gray. It seemed as if the entire heavens were frozen in place, an unyielding wall holding back a colossal storm that would unleash its arctic fury onto the chilly northern plains.

George nodded, swallowing the huge knot in his throat. He waved goodbye once again and climbed into the truck. His grandfather started the rusty old Ford and drove off, with Thomas running after them with his arms held aloft like an airplane. George resisted the temptation to turn and watch his home grow smaller, choosing instead to watch the wide expanse of horizon before him, as if facing his uncertain future head on.

When they arrived at the Rapid City highway, the truck pulled to a stop on the side of the deserted blacktop. The storm was growing closer; bitter fingers of bluish cloud and insidious mist were rolling across the plains like a conquering army. The steady wind whistled past the cracked windows, rattling the cans in the bed of the truck, and chilling its occupants to the bone. Tiny flakes of snow flew past them as they sat in silence, waiting for the one o’clock bus.

“I’ve always seen great omens in the sky,” his grandfather said. “A storm is coming, bringing a long, bitter winter. The icy hand of death will strike all that it touches, taking no sides nor granting no favors. The world has never seen anything like what is coming. It will be far worse than the last tempest the world endured.”

“What do you mean, gramps?”

“Just come back to us. I will not rest until I see you again.”

A pair of headlights stabbed across the blustery afternoon sky, announcing the approach of George’s bus. He watched it draw near while pondering his grandfather’s cryptic words. He wished that he had the old man’s insight, but he knew that it would take years of experience before he could understand his gift.

The bus slowed to a stop as the two Sioux stepped into the howling breath of the glacial beast. The furious storm was onto them as the insignificant flurries turned into wet, swollen flakes that pelted them mercilessly. George gathered his baggage and briskly walked to the waiting bus.

“Goodbye, gramps. You’ve been my only father and you’ve taught me well. I will not let you down.”

“Remember your people, George. And remember what I’ve told you today…”

“I will, gramps. Don’t worry. I’ll bundle up when that icy hand of death comes knocking at my door.” He pulled up his coat collar as he spoke.

George stepped onto the bus, paid the fare, and found a vacant seat toward the back of the chilly bus, which was occupied by a dozen or so passengers. The smell of cigarette smoke, stale alcohol, body odor, and heating fumes filled its interior. Plopping into a worn seat, he looked outside as the bus pulled away.

His grandfather stood immutable against the storm, a rock against a sea of white. George watched until the old man was absorbed by the snowstorm and the last remnants of the reservation passed behind him. He swallowed hard against the persistent lump in his throat and faced forward, ready to take whatever the world had to offer. The storm was coming and there was nothing he could do except wait for its arrival and hope that he was prepared for its onslaught.