Surviving Buffalo Soldier still up for 3-hour talk

Guest columnist

link Tony Bullocks: Staff photo

Ira Pottard waves to the crowd during the Veterans Day Parade of 2013.

Clovis’ Ira Pottard is one of the last living buffalo soldiers. He was 19 when he was drafted into the famed all-black cavalry unit in 1942.

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

I spoke to him on a crisp Saturday afternoon in his living room a few weeks ago. Pottard sat in a recliner, while one of his great-granddaughters played near us, sneaking me shy glances from time to time.

Now in his early 90s, Pottard is almost blind and has difficulty walking, but this didn’t dampen his energy for our three-hour conversation.

I learned he was commissioned a second lieutenant and trained at Walter Reed hospital 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 15 minutes and walk for 45 minutes. At night, they’d sleep in hammocks underneath mosquito netting, to keep from contracting malaria.

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

“This here,” he said, as he pulled out 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,” he said. “But the horse and I would often share one.”

The pride and joy of his duffel bag was his helmet, which he affectionately referred to as his “steel pot,” because it cooked his meals and, in some circumstances, was used for … well, you can figure it out.

The conditions were tough, but so was the enemy.

“The Japanese would tie their soldiers up in trees and feed them dope,” Pottard 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 of World War II, he 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, Pottard was pinned underneath the dead animal.

Once his fellow soldiers rescued him, he 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, Pottard still lived in a country that viewed him as inferior based on the color of his skin.

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

He worked for the governor of New Mexico in Santa Fe before settling down in Clovis, 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 total of 17 children, 46 grandchildren, and 20 great-grandchildren.

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

Toward the end of his life, Pottard began receiving the recognition and praise he deserves, but it wasn’t always this way.

I finished our conversation by asking him how he felt about fighting for a country that didn’t always treat him as an equal.

“You knew you had to make the best of it,” he said. “It was just life back then.” I think we can only understand how far we’ve come when we know stories like Ira Pottard’s and appreciate the sacrifices he’s made.

Kitsana Dounglomchan, a 12-year Air Force veteran, writes about his life and times for Clovis Media Inc. Contact him at:

[email protected]