A Conversation with a Buffalo Soldier

Whenever I think of a “Buffalo Soldier,” the famous Bob Marley song starts playing in my head. I knew the buffalo soldiers were an all-black cavalry unit that formed after the Civil War, but I didn’t know much else.

That is until a few weeks ago, when one of my friends told me there was a buffalo soldier living in our town of Clovis, New Mexico. At first I thought my friend was mistaken. I reasoned that the buffalo soldiers were all dead by now, having disbanded long ago. But he told me that this one, Ira Pottard, served in World War II, and that the buffalo soldiers were only disbanded after President Harry S. Truman desegregated the military in 1948.

He was right. Ninety-two year old Ira Pottard is indeed one of the last living buffalo soldiers. I called Ira’s home, spoke to his wife, and scheduled a time to meet him.

I arrived at his house on a crisp Saturday afternoon. We sat in his living room while his wife and two daughters talked in the kitchen. Ira sat in a recliner, one of his great granddaughters played on his knees and snuck me shy glances from time to time.

Now in his early nineties, Ira is almost blind and has difficultly walking, but this didn’t dampen his energy for our conversation, which lasted almost three hours.

I learned he was 19 years old when he was drafted into the famed all-black cavalry unit in 1942.

“You didn’t think much about being drafted,” Ira said. “You got a letter from the president saying, ‘Congratulations you’re in the Army.’”

Ira was commissioned a second lieutenant and trained at Walter Reed to be a horse veterinarian. In 1943 he shipped out to Calcutta and rode a train to northern India, where he would serve on the China-Burma front for the next two years, fighting his way through the humid jungles of the Burma Road.

On the trail the men would ride their horses for fifteen and walk for forty-five minutes. At night they’d sleep in hammocks underneath mosquito nets to keep from contracting Malaria.

“But the most dangerous part,” Ira said, “was the king cobra. Lots of guys died because of cobra bites.” But the soldiers came up with a natural solution to the snake problem. “We rode with a mongoose on our shoulder. You’d put a pad up there on your shoulder and when he’d claw you’d let him down. He was so fast he’d run into a den of cobras and they’d hit each other and kill each other.”

To fully understand what jungle life was like, Ira pulled out his green duffel bag from the closet and explained his kit to me.

“This here,” Ira said as he wielded a rusted, but still razor sharp, 18-inch machete, “was so we could cut through the elephant grass in the jungle. It grew about four to five feet tall.” He then pulled out two silver canteens. “I had two canteens—one for my horse and one for me. But the horse and I would often share one.”

The pride and joy of his duffel bag was his helmet, which he affectionally referred to as his “steel pot,” because it cooked his meals and, in some circumstances, was used for — well, you know, relieving himself.

The conditions were tough, but so was the enemy.

“The Japanese would tie their soldiers up in trees and feed them dope,” Ira said. “They’d be laughing when you came upon them. But you just kept shooting till you hit him — he’s shooting at you.”

I was curious how black and white soldiers interacted in the war zone. “Was race still an issue?” I asked. His answer surprised me.

“Everyone was the same in the jungle. White encampments were the same as us. We were just buddy buddy. Overseas we lived together, but back home everything was segregated.”

When I asked him about his worst experience in the war, Ira said it was when he and his horse were strafed with machine gun fire from a Japanese Zero aircraft. His horse was riddled with bullets, and when it collapsed, Ira was pinned underneath the dead animal.

Once his fellow soldiers rescued him, Ira felt a throbbing pain in his leg. His knee was shattered. But with the nearest medical aid station 100 miles away, he had no choice but to ride on.

“I suffered till the war was over,” he said. “Whenever we’d get to an aid station they’d just patch it up. I didn’t get real medical attention until I came home.”

At the end of the war he was honorably discharged. But even after his service, Ira still lived in a country that viewed him as inferior based on the color of his skin.

He wanted to be a veterinarian, however he was only offered the position of feeding the animals and shoveling their slop. He declined it, but the incident didn’t deter him.

He worked for the governor of New Mexico in Santa Fe before settling down in Clovis for good, where he gained employment as a maintenance man in the school district.

He now lives a content life in retirement. During the holidays, his home serves as the gathering place for his large family. By last count there’re a total of seventeen children, forty-six grandchildren, and twenty great grandchildren.

But as his daughter jokingly told me, “These numbers might be slightly off.”

Towards the end of his life, Ira began receiving the just recognition and praise he deserved.

I finished our conversation by asking him how he felt about fighting for a country that didn’t always treat him as an equal, to which he replied, “You knew you had to make the best of it. It was just life back then.”

We can only understand how far our military and country have come when we listen to stories like Ira’s and appreciate the sacrifices people like him have made.

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