The young Navajo Indian became a good friend to me, that spring of 1944. There was a beautiful spot near my home where the river ran through woodland, and we went fishing there on numerous occasions. We would catch good size rainbow trout. Running Horse would show me how to turn over rocks and find worms for bait, or he would cut open rotting wood with his large folding knife and find larvae.

Sometimes he would bring bread with him and we would light a fire and cook the fish on a wooden spit. He taught me to thank the fish for feeding us and to never take more than we needed. The small fish he would always let go and talk to them, saying something like, "On your way, little one; we will meet again one day."

When we turned over rocks to find worms, he would explain to me the importance of putting the rock back as we had found it so the worms would still have a place to live. We always cleared a large area around our cooking fire, so there was no danger of the fire spreading. After, we made sure the fire was out and everything put back as we found it.

He made me aware of nature in a way I had never thought about before. Fishing had always been fun, but now it was an adventure. Running Horse was like a big brother to me. I don’t think I realized it at the time, maybe he became a replacement for my brother Alan. Any excuse I could find, I would go see him.

One day I was playing at home with some toy lead soldiers. I came across a horse that originally had a rider. I had left it lying on the floor and my mother accidentally stepped on it and broke the rider off the horse’s back. The horse still had the rider’s legs either side of its body, the rest of the rider was missing above the horse’s back. I looked at it; it was a running horse.

I put the horse in my coat pocket and headed over to the American camp. I found Running Horse sitting alone as he invariably was under the same tree some fifty yards from his hut, where he had been that first day I met him. He looked up and smiled as I approached. "Hi, Eddie, what are you up to?"

"I have something for you." I said holding out my hand with my fingers still clutched tightly around the lead horse to delay the moment of surprise.

"What is it?"

I opened my hand. "It’s a running horse."

"Well I’ll be—so it is. Is this for me?"

There is no pleasure greater as a child than to give someone you care for a gift and have them show appreciation. Even though we realize as an adult that the appreciation was probably exaggerated to suit the occasion.

"Thank you, Eddie, that’s one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever had."

I pointed out the ex-rider’s legs still attached to the sides of the horse, fearful that he might be disappointed should he discover them later.

"The horse had a rider at one time, but the rider got broken off. See, there’s his legs."

"I can see that. That’s okay; that makes it even more special. I’m going to keep this with me always." He put the lead horse in his shirt pocket. "Thank you again, Eddie."

"Why do you always sit here alone under this tree?" I asked. "Don’t you have any friends?"

"Yes, I have friends, but I don’t always care to do the same things they do. Let me tell you, Eddie, you can be alone without being lonely. This tree is my friend."

"You can’t talk to a tree."

"Sure you can; it can’t talk back but it knows you’re talking to it. This tree is a living thing and although it has no brain like you and I, it has consciousness, it is conscious of you and me sitting under it, and is conscious of the birds and the squirrels that sit in its branches."

Just then a crow landed close by. "There’s another of my friends. I swear that’s the same old black crow that used to visit me back home. So, Eddie, always remember you are not alone just because there are no other people around."

Running Horse was still working on the eagle he was carving from a piece of wood; it was almost finished.

"I wish I could make something like that; would you show me how?"

"I do not need to show you how; the Spirit will show you if you just let it."

"Where is the Spirit?"

"It’s in here, it’s in you too." Running Horse first put his hand on his chest and then pointed to my chest. "You can’t see the Spirit but it’s in us, it’s in the animals. See that bird’s nest in the tree over there?" He pointed to a tree some two hundred yards away. It was early spring and the tree was still without leaves. High in its branches was a bird’s nest from the year before.

"A bird built that nest, but how did it learn to build a nest? Another bird didn’t teach it. No, the Spirit showed the bird how. That same Spirit will show you how. When you want to make something or draw a picture, don’t think with your head but let the Spirit inside you guide your hand. The Native American calls this Hand Magic."

I listened intently to Running Horse. "So, did the bird build the nest or was it the Spirit?" I asked.

"The Spirit is the source of all creation. Sometimes it creates through a bird, sometimes through us." Running Horse stood and brushed the seat of his pants. "Hey, you hungry, Eddie? Let’s go over to the mess hut and find us a sandwich."

The mess hut was a short distance away. From the outside it looked like all the other huts but inside it consisted of a large dining hall, with a kitchen at the far end. There was a center aisle with rows of plain wooden tables with bench seating on both sides. A few small groups of men were scattered throughout the large room. Someone called out as we walked back toward the kitchen.

"Hey, Running Horse, who’s your buddy?"

We took a detour over to man who had spoken; he was dressed in a white cook’s apron and was seated with two other men.

"Carlos, this is my friend Eddie. Eddie, this is Carlos."

Carlos reached out and shook my hand,

"Glad to know you, Eddie." He was dark-skinned with black hair very much like Running Horse’s.

"Are you an American Indian too?" I asked. Carlos laughed.

"No. Running Horse is the only Indian around here. Me paleface." The whole group laughed.

"Well you don’t look like a cowboy."

"No, I’m not a cowboy either."

He turned to the man seated next to him. "Now Chuck here, he’s a cowboy, he’s from Texas."

"Is that right? Do you have a horse?"

"Yes, but they wouldn’t let me bring it with me."

There was more laughter from the group. The third man spoke. "Say, Eddie, do you have an older sister?"

"No, he doesn’t have an older sister." It was Running Horse who spoke this time. "Hey Carlos, can you make us a sandwich?"

"Sure, what will it be?"

"How about ham and Swiss on rye? What would you like, Eddie?"

"Can I have a cheese sandwich?"

"A cheese sandwich? We can do better than that. Make it two ham and Swiss."

"Coming right up," Carlos said as he left the table and disappeared into the kitchen. Running Horse pulled the lead horse from his shirt pocket.

"Look what Eddie gave me. It’s a running horse." He handed it to Chuck.

"It used to have a rider but he got broken off," I explained. Chuck handed back the horse.

"So now we’ll have to call you Running Horse with Broken Rider. Hey, that sound’s pretty good; it’s got a kind of poetic charm.

"You wouldn’t know poetic charm if it jumped up and bit your ass," Running Horse said as he put the lead horse back in his shirt pocket.

Carlos came back with the sandwiches; they were the best I’d ever tasted. While we were eating Carlos went back in the kitchen and came out with a cardboard box full of food. There was canned ham, canned fruit, butter, and sugar.

"Here, Eddie, take this home to your mother. I know your food is rationed; maybe this will help out."

I thanked him for the box of food and the sandwich and we said our goodbyes. Running Horse took the box from me.

"Here I’d better walk you home and carry this for you."

We arrived at my home and I invited Running Horse inside. He set the box of food on the table. My mother came out from the back scullery to greet us.

"Mummy, we have some food that Carlos gave us."

Running Horse explained about his friend Carlos who worked in the kitchen. My mother looked inside the box, picking out the cans of fruit.

"Thank you, I’m most grateful, this will really help out. Why don’t you come to dinner next Sunday? Bring Carlos if you wish."

"Thank you, ma’am, I’d like that very much. I’ll have to see if Carlos and I can get off."

But that Sunday dinner never came to be, because the following week my father came home after being away for four years and eight months.

It was a rainy day, so I was playing indoors with wooden building blocks. I had the whole kitchen table covered with a large castle I was building for my lead soldiers. My mother was sitting in an armchair with my sister, who was four years old now, reading her a book.

Suddenly the door burst open and in came this rough, dirty, unshaven man in army uniform and dumped the many kit bags he was carrying on the table, scattering wooden blocks and lead soldiers everywhere. My mother jumped to her feet, sat my sister in the armchair, and rushed to his arms.

My sister started crying, obviously scared. I just stood there with my mouth open. I instinctively knew this was my father but didn’t know what to make of the situation. What I can remember is, he was complaining.

After being away from home for almost five years, was he happy? No. He was pissing and moaning about something or other, which I came to learn was pretty typical of the man. I don’t know what the problem was—maybe we were supposed to meet him at the train station. It appeared he had written a letter that my mother had not received, and she had no idea he was coming home. Eventually he stopped complaining and his homecoming turned into a somewhat joyous occasion.

The next few weeks were confusing for me. I never knew how I was supposed to act toward my father. He rarely spoke to me and we never did anything together. He only ate and slept at home; the rest of the time he was at the local pub, drinking.

Weekdays I was at school, so he was in bed when I left. I would see him briefly when I got home before he went to the pub for the evening. Soon I learned it was best to not go home straight from school. I would go play with my friends, or go over to the American camp. My mother had told me not to bring Running Horse home.

"Your father won’t understand," she had said, and was she ever right about that.

I tried to tell him one day about my special friend. I missed going fishing, and I had really been looking forward to Running Horse coming to dinner before my father came home. My father called my mother into the room.

"What the hell is this boy talking about? Something about a running horse."

My mother tried to explain. "Eddie has this friend over at the American army camp, he’s a Native American named Running Horse. They go fishing together. He’s the same age Alan would have been."

"Well, I don’t like the sound of this, " my father said.

"Maybe if I brought him over here so you could meet him¼ " I looked up at my mother standing behind my father; she was shaking her head. The message was clear. Stay quiet, let it be. She knew he was a bigot. I had not grasped that concept yet.

The following Sunday my mother, my sister, and I had just got back from church. My father had been drinking at the local pub as usual and had gotten home early. He was waiting for us. He was very drunk and very angry. As we walked into the house he slapped my mother hard across the face.

"There’s talk in the village that you’ve had a black man ’round here. Is that true, you got yourself a nigger lover?" He slapped her again.

My sister was crying and clinging to my mother’s legs. My mother bent down to pick her up. "That’s not true. We told you about Eddie’s friend. For God’s sake, he just a boy, twenty years old."

"You didn’t tell me he was black."

"He’s not black, he’s a Native American."

I rushed to my father. "Daddy, stop."

He picked me up bodily and threw me against the wall. "Get away from me. You’d protect your mother by pretending he’s your friend."

"But he is my friend!" I ran from the house. I had to go over to the American camp and get Running Horse. I felt that if my father saw him everything would be all right. I ran all the way there and found him.

"You have to come with me. My father is hitting my mother because he thinks you’re her friend. I told him you’re my friend, but he won’t believe me."

"Well, I don’t know about that—if your mother and father are fighting, I really shouldn’t get involved."

"But please, you must."

Running Horse looked at my face. I had a large bruise on the side of my face where my father had thrown me against the wall. "Did he do that?" I nodded.

"Okay. I’ll see if I can help."

In the time it had taken me to get to the camp and for us to get back, things had calmed down a little. There was no sound coming from the house as I walked in. "Daddy, I brought Running Horse."

That was all I was able to get from my mouth before my father leapt from his chair. Pushing me aside he rushed out through the front door and punched Running Horse square on the jaw, knocking him over backward. He pulled the dazed young man to his feet and began beating him unmercifully.

Running Horse tried to defend himself but the twenty-year-old was no match for my father, a thirty-four-year-old hardened war veteran. What I couldn’t understand was that my father had a dark complexion and black hair, and after being in North Africa was deeply suntanned. He was the same color as Running Horse and yet he was calling him a black man.

The neighbors came out to see what the commotion was about. I rushed in and tried to drag my father from my friend, my mother tried to protect me and was slapped again. It was Mr. Holmes, the World War I veteran who I had never heard speak before, who stepped in to stop the melee.

Mr. Holmes was a big man, and he spoke softly as he pulled my father from the battered and bleeding Running Horse. "Now, Ted, that’s enough."

"But this young bastard has been screwing my wife."

"Ted, that’s not true. This young man is Eddie’s friend, I’ve seen them go fishing together. Don’t forget Eddie lost his brother, that’s hard for a boy."

"Well, his brother was no good either," my father retorted.

Anger flashed across Mr. Holmes’ face. His huge hand clamped my father’s face like a vise as he slammed his head against the house. "Your son was a hero who died for his country; don’t you ever say he was no good." He released the grip.

"He was her son, not mine," was all my father could say as he stumbled back into the house.

My mother turned to Running Horse. "I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say."

"It’s not your fault, ma’am."

Mr. Holmes stepped up again. "I’ll take care of him. Come with me, son." I started to go with them.

My mother stopped me. "Eddie, you come with me."

In the house that night all was quiet. My father knew he was wrong but he was not the kind of man to admit it or to ever say he was sorry. He told me, "You’re not to go to that American camp again, do you hear?"

"Yes." I was smart enough not to argue with him. I did, however, disobey him and went a few days later after school. I had to see if Running Horse was all right. I found him, he was pretty badly cut and bruised.

Before I could speak he said, "Eddie, don’t say anything, it’s not your fault, it’s no one’s fault—not even your father’s. It’s this damn war. Try to understand what your father has been through."

"But my father says I can’t see you again." I started to cry. Running Horse put his arm around my shoulder.

"I know, but you must do as he tells you, he is your father and pretty soon I’m going to be leaving here anyway. We have to go fight a war. Just remember what I told you about never being alone, you don’t need other people. You don’t even need me, you always have yourself, be your own best friend."