On a beautiful day in October 1945, William Lindsay returned home to his family. After their tears of joy had subsided, Martha asked him if he had received her letters, and she learned sadly, that not one had found its way to the camp.
Shortly after William’s arrival home, there was a knock at the door. Martha answered to find a young sailor standing in the doorway.
“Excuse me, are you Martha Lindsay?”
“Yes, I am,” she replied.
“Was your husband a prisoner of war?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
With a tear in his eye, he introduced himself. “My name is William Lindsay. I too was a prisoner of war.” Very slowly he reached into his pocket and handed her thirty tiny white postcards tied in a ribbon.
“I received one every month. They were the glimmer of hope that helped me survive. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.” Very gently, Martha placed them back into his hands where he held them to his heart.
“Love is patient and kind. . . . Love never gives up; and its faith, hope and patience never fail” (1 Corinthians 13:4).
Shelley McEwan
A Chain of Love
I do not teach children. I give them joy.
Isadora Duncan
I had read many books and articles about dealing with a spouse’s deployment and keeping kids happy and positive during those trying times, and came up with our “Chain of Love.” Every day, my son and I would cut a piece of colorful construction paper into five large strips. On one side of the strip, we would write the date and the number of days his daddy has been gone. On the other side, we would write how we felt that day. Our messages to Daddy have ranged from, “We love you and miss you,” “We hope that Daddy is being careful and staying safe,” to “We are having a bad day today, and we wish Daddy was here to comfort us.”
By linking them together, we have connected all these strips into a paper chain that hangs in the living room of our house. We started on one end, near the entrance of our home, and are continuing around until the chain meets its beginning. This is something that my son looks forward to and really enjoys doing. We have made it an everyday ritual. After breakfast every morning, we choose the next color strip and write our message to Daddy. We have taken pictures of our chain and sent them periodically to Jim so he can see that our Chain of Love grows every day that he is gone. He enjoys the photos and is looking forward to coming home and reading every message we wrote for him.
At the beginning, it was hard for my son to express how he felt. However, as the days have gone by, it has become easier for him. He sees this as an opportunity to talk to his daddy and tell him how he feels, especially because the phone calls are so scarce. The chain starts at the entrance of our home and will end there—and on the day that he walks through that front door, it will demonstrate every tear, smile, hug and kiss that he missed while he was serving proudly for our freedom.
He will know that our separation did not break our Chain of Love.
Tammy C. Logan
Deployed
An effort made for the happiness of others lifts us above ourselves.
Lydia Marie Child
When my husband deployed, we were given an address where we could mail our letters and packages, but the army initially told us to hold off sending anything until the guys were “settled.” A few weeks into the deployment, the colonel’s wife called me and told me that I could tell the other wives that we had a green light to send mail. After I shared the news, I could practically smell the pencil lead burning through reams of paper all through the Fort Campbell community!
I put together two boxes of mostly snack food. Knowing my husband is a real health nut, I wanted to make sure I was sending stuff that he would eat because he will go without a meal if it is too high in fat and calories. I waited until the girls were up from their naps so everyone would be in good spirits, and we went off to the local post office.
In all my past experiences, I’ve always had to wait in line, and I knew that, with the kids—Hannah is two and a half, and Charlotte is one—it would be interesting. Once I opened the door to the post office, I saw just what I had expected: a long line! I started to panic. Like most moms, I was praying that the girls would stay happy long enough to get to the head of the line so that we could get in and out without some type of tantrum.
Most of the people in line were military wives holding boxes addressed to APO addresses. Most boxes were decorated with stickers and children’s artwork.
Instantly, I got a lump in my throat. The man at the counter yelled, “If you’re mailing something APO, don’t forget your customs form!” The group started to scramble for the necessary forms. I was the only one in the group who had brought children, and, as I said, you have to be brave to take your kids to the post office when you are guaranteed a wait.
When I heard about the customs form that had to be filled out, my face must have shown my stress. I was holding two huge boxes, trying to keep the girls entertained, and looking around frantically for the necessary forms, when my angel appeared.
A very distinguished older gentleman in a three-piece suit came up to me and said in a very kind voice, “Would you like me to hold your baby so you can fill out your forms?”
I looked him over and said, “You must be a grandpa. That would be so helpful, but my Charlotte won’t really let anyone hold her. We can give it a shot. . . .” I handed Charlotte over, and she was actually very content! While he held her in his arms, he took the American flag pin off his lapel and put it on her coat.
As I busied myself with the paperwork, he spoke to both my girls: “Your daddy is very brave to be a soldier, and all of us here sure do appreciate him leaving you two beauties to take care of us.”
I finished filling out my forms, and, when I took Charlotte back, before I had a chance to thank him, he said, “God bless you and your family. Thank you for making the tremendous sacrifices that you do to ensure all our safety, and God bless America.”
After that, he left the post office. Tears welled up in my eyes. Not many people thank me for anything, let alone help a single mommy in a situation like that.
Being in the post office with a bunch of women all holding onto their packages for their loved ones is something that I will never forget.
Naomi Stanton
Silent Survivors of the Vietnam War
Learn to let go. That is the only key to happiness.
Buddha
1962. I remember when I first realized I loved Bill. It was Army/NavyWeekend. I arrived in Annapolis, and Bill wasn’t at the station to meet me, so I waited. I watched him approach, and I felt something connecting us as he drew near.
1964. He graduated in June, and we married the very next week.
1965. The Vieques cruise. I learned I was pregnant while he was gone.
1966. His first tour in Vietnam started in January. In March, Sarah was born.
1967. He returned in April.
1969. He left for Vietnam again in June. On the day he left, I learned that I was pregnant again.
1970. In January, our daughter Mitty was born. He was still in Vietnam. The next morning, two men in uniform got off the elevator and spoke to my aunt. I could see them from my hospital bed. I knew who they were. My aunt became upset, and a nurse hurried into my room and took the baby away. I waited. Every military wife dreads the day two uniformed men and a priest come to the door. My Bill was gone.
1994. I decided to pursue a doctorate in psychology. As a student, while reading literature on post-traumatic stress disorder, I found little research concerning the wives of Vietnam veterans. As a widow of that war, I wondered about the other women, and I thought more about myself and my own responses. Dormant feelings were roused, and my stoicism crumbled.
Bill had been away for more than half of our five-year marriage. I was angry with him for getting himself killed, and, instead of grieving, I denied how much his death had affected me. When he died, I was only twenty-seven years ol
d, too young to be a widow. I remarried twice, but there was a Bill-shaped hole that no one could fill. Competing with a dead man must have been difficult for my ex-husbands.
Memorial Day weekend. My two grown daughters and I went to Washington, D.C., to visit the Vietnam Memorial. Their father’s name is on that wall. The purpose of our trip was to acquaint them with the man they had never known.
We visited his school, the base of his first duty assignment and the first apartment we lived in after our marriage. One of Bill’s closest friends was the base commander at Quantico Marine Corps Base, and we were able to visit the base quarters that had been our last home together. The girls and I heard many stories about their dad. After nearly twenty-five years, I finally was able and willing to tell them about their father and answer their questions.
Before we left for the return trip home, we took one last walk to the wall. Sarah, who had been three when her father died and not allowed to attend the funeral, told me that she felt she had finally been allowed to honor his life.
Mitty, who had been born the day before her father’s death, reached out and touched his name. In the softest voice, she said, “This isn’t just a name anymore. This is my daddy.”
The sense of loss has never gone away, but it has blended into the fabric of my life, creating a complicated pattern of bereavement, courage, strength and joy. I took many pictures while we were in Washington. My favorite is a photograph of Bill’s panel. You can see his name and my reflection, joined together on the shining surface.
Sally B. Griffis
The Phone Call
Tact is, after all, a kind of mind reading.
Sarah Orne Jewett
“Is this Mrs. Smith?” An unidentified male voice was on the phone. I cautiously responded. Was this the phone call I had been dreading since March? For a moment, I thought I was going to be sick. Then the loveliest words I have ever heard came through the receiver: “Smith, your wife’s on the phone.”
At 5:20 A.M., on April 18, my heart leapt to my throat. I had not heard my husband’s voice since February 16. For a moment, I wondered if he would sound the same. I wondered if I remembered his voice at all.
The news channel I am now addicted to had not reported anything from his brigade in a week. Immediately, what seemed to be a thousand questions flew through my head. Where are you? How are you? Have you been able to shower? Are you eating? Do you miss me? Why has it taken you so long to call?
Intellectually speaking, I knew why he had not called. Jay was in a war zone. However, this fact had not prevented me from embarking upon the longest one-sided argument I have ever had. For weeks, I had been silently begging my husband to befriend a reporter in order to use his or her satellite phone. I realize this may sound ridiculous. But really! How dare he be concentrating on his job instead of his wife!
With that first hello, however, my irritation turned to uncertainty. I wondered if he was still the same man I fell in love with. Had this experience changed him? Had the past month hardened him? Would details from the home front seem anything but trivial to him now that he had been through a war?
I kept my questions to myself. All I wanted him to know was that I was doing well. The army operates on a need-to-know basis, so I quickly decided that we would, too. As long as he was in the desert, Jay did not need to know that termites have been discovered at our house, or that I had two flat tires in the last month or that the refrigerator broke. He did not need to know that his pay had been incorrect for four months or that I have been scared out of my mind.
For twenty glorious minutes I listened to his stories of Baghdad. He tried to protect my feelings, too, and his tales were not horrific war stories but amazing adventures that he had or sights he has seen. He told me of Saddam’s bombed-out palace. We laughed at stories of Udday’s palace with lions and wealth galore. He even told me about a single lieutenant he would like to introduce to my sister.
Any awkwardness that I had feared, dissolved. I was overwhelmed with pride; I was so lucky, and my husband was so brave. Military spouses share their lives with fascinating, dedicated individuals. So listening to Jay’s firsthand account of the war was truly precious.
The phone line cut out before we were able to say how much we missed each other. I held the phone in my hand for several moments, hoping to hear his voice again. The familiar pain of missing him returned. I waited two months for that wonderful phone call. Now, the waiting starts again.
Jodie Smith
Hello, Beautiful
Taking joy in life is a woman’s best cosmetic.
Rosalind Russell
I was at the kitchen table, barely aware of the breakfast waiting in front of me. The untouched eggs were cold. I stared out the window at the dismal December day.
My husband was almost halfway through his third tour in Vietnam, and my near future would include the delivery of our fourth baby and the challenge of caring for an infant while trying to keep up with my other kids. Jimmy, Mike and Tracy were very active children between the ages of six and ten, and it was my job to keep their minds occupied so that the year without their dad would go faster.
I missed my husband, I was tired, and the weight of my bulging belly was pulling on my back. My depression felt justified. The forty extra pounds on my normally thin body made me feel fat and ugly. With my coping skills depleted, I was as low as I had ever let myself get. I just couldn’t seem to shake the blues.
My thoughts were interrupted by someone at the front door. After the usual heart pounding that all military wives experience when their husband is in a war zone and the doorbell rings, I opened the door to find a florist standing there with a big box of flowers in his arms.
I thought the delivery was an error since we have no special occasions in December, but my name was on the box. I opened the card and smiled broadly while the pent-up tears streamed down my face. Since that morning, any time I feel sad, I draw on the joy I felt as I stood in the middle of our living room holding those flowers. There were only two words on the card, but they were the ones I most needed: “Hello, beautiful!”
Jane Garvey
Free Mail
The most vital right is the right to love and be loved.
Emma Goldman
I couldn’t sleep last night. I lay there in my bed praying to hear from my husband, knowing he couldn’t call, but hoping for a letter. It seems like it’s been so long since the last one came. I opened my mailbox this morning and there it was—a letter marked “free mail.” My heart stopped.
It never ceases to amaze me how much those two little words can mean. Somehow, this letter arrived when I needed it most. I read it right there, standing next to the mailbox. It was written the day before he headed into Iraq from Kuwait, where he had been stationed for the past six weeks. He told me a little bit about what he’s been doing, and I tried to picture him in my mind. He shared his feelings about crossing the border, and I could feel those things, too. He told me how much he loved me and the kids, and how our letters were getting him through the days. He said he hoped I hadn’t been watching the news, but that he was sure that I had been. He told me he’d been well trained and not to worry about him, then said he knew I would anyway.
Toward the end of the letter, my tears began to fall. Then I read, “Stop crying now, and smile for me.” I smiled a big smile and laughed out loud. The next line: “There you go, that’s my girl. Your smile makes everything all better.” Again, I was reminded of how well he really knew me, and I was comforted, knowing that, even across the miles, he managed to remain so much a part of me. I closed my eyes and imagined him next to me. I remembered the joy of all our reunions from past deployments, and I could feel his arms around me.
Letters can’t fix everything, but I treasure them because I understand that “free mail” isn’t really free.
Jill Cottrell
How fighter pilots ' wives get their husbands' letters.
© 2004. Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins.
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Mercy
Five o’clock came with the clock every day. The walk came from love.
R. J. Foco
Evangeline was blessed with a loving husband and three gentle children. Her husband Angelito was truly her soul mate and her angel. Angelito enjoyed cooking meals for his young family, playing with his children and helping Evangeline with daily household tasks. He had no aversion to scouring bathrooms, mopping floors, washing dishes or folding laundry. He encouraged his young wife to go out and enjoy her friends while he stayed home looking after the little ones.
Angelito had brought his family to the Hawaiian Islands for a tour of duty in the military service. Evangeline was far from her home in Pampanga, Philippines. She left behind her mother and father to be with her husband. Her husband wrapped her in a blanket of love and her children filled her days. Time went by.
One morning, as Angelito was getting ready to go out for a run, Evangeline noticed a lump on his upper thigh. She encouraged him to have it examined. It was cancer.
Their sweet life together would now be spent hoping, praying and learning to live with the inevitable. Angelito fought for his life for two years and then quietly lost the battle. Three children were left fatherless: fourteen-year-old B. J., ten-year-old Einar, and little Davin, only two years old. Evangeline lost her partner in life and was left all alone to care for her bereft family.
She was lost on an island, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, in despair. Evangeline managed to care for the needs of her children, but would collapse in anguish at the end of the day. The most bitter hour for Evangeline was 5:00 P.M.—the big hour. Her husband had always walked in the door at 5:00 P.M., and each day, she couldn’t help but wait for him. Of course, he would never come home, and Evangeline would go to bed alone and cry herself to sleep.
Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul Page 4
