It’ll Be Okay
On the evening of December 17, 1981, Red Brigade terrorists broke into an apartment in Verona, Italy, and kidnapped U.S. Army Brigadier General James L. Dozier. Two weeks later, as my wife, Nita, and I and our two small daughters were traveling to our home in a small village not far from there, a car raced alongside, matched its speed with ours, took a flash photo, and sped away. Although I took a zigzag course home, a second car attempted to follow us into our driveway. I slammed the gate shut and locked it, and after hurrying my wife and two wide-eyed little ones into the house, quickly reported the incident.
Because documents taken from General Dozier’s apartment identified my position as commander of a nearby unit, U.S. military and Italian police decided to take no chances. After sifting through the possibilities, the next morning, the entire family was moved on thirty minutes’ notice.
There might have been a brief catch in Nita’s voice when I called her with the news. If so, it was replaced in an instant with understanding, strength and a closing of “It’ll be okay”—despite having just been told that she had a half-hour to pack for a move of indefinite duration to a place not yet determined. Nita asked the girls to help by choosing the items they wished to take with them. It has since become part of our family legend that Laura, our twelve-year-old, only packed her records. Fortunately, Nita did a last-minute logistics check and suggested that perhaps things like clothes, toothbrushes and shoes might also be useful.
We were taken to a guarded “safe haven” area on a military post. When the news of the incident reached my boss in Germany, he called to ask if I wanted to leave, to be reassigned elsewhere either temporarily or permanently. After I declined his well-meant offer, he asked if he should move my family—perhaps bring them to Germany for a while.
We talked about it that night in the small apartment that was our “safe haven” home. Around a tiny table in the kitchen, with the windows shuttered and barred, and an armed guard outside our door, we held a family conference. I explained the offer that had been presented to us. Nita gave me a “you must be kidding” look, said she and the kids would be staying, and resumed reading her novel. We remained in the “safe haven” for forty-two days, until the carabinieri (the Italian military police) freed General Dozier from his captors.
Many years have passed since that ominous night in Italy. I think about it often in light of the countless numbers of American military families now placed in peril all around the globe. Somehow, I believe that military members forced by circumstances to make one of those phone calls will get responses from their spouses that sound much like Nita’s reply to me all those years ago. The voice on the line will be strong and understanding—and the conversation will close with “It’ll be okay.”
Tom Phillips
7
UNITED
WE STAND
The greatest formal talent is worthless if it does not serve a creativity which is capable of shaping a cosmos.
Albert Einstein
Sacrifices
Just remember, we’re all in this alone.
Lily Tomlin
“So, you’re a military wife?”
This doesn’t sound too flattering coming from a civilian who has no concept of military life. My father was a marine for thirty-one years, and I married a marine. When I said, “I do,” twenty-six years ago, I knew what I was getting into. Most people don’t understand what it takes. They don’t realize that we, the spouses, are just as involved. We make more sacrifices in twenty years than most people do in a lifetime.
We wring our hands when our husbands don’t come home some evenings, knowing they might be on spontaneous maneuvers, but no one will tell us for sure. So we sit and wait, gripped with the fear that when the door opens, we’ll see a captain standing there in his dress blues, his cover in his hand and regret in his eyes. It wasn’t “playing marine” this time. It was for real. We imagine the things we might say to our children if we ever had to have those conversations.
From Desert Shield to Desert Storm to Operation Iraqi Freedom, the nation needed the Corps and it was there— trained, ready and willing to give the ultimate sacrifice. The world witnessed the support that has always been there, in us, the other half of the Corps.
I get a lump in my throat when I hear the “Marine Corps Hymn” or the “Star Spangled Banner.” My shoulders pull back and my chin lifts a little higher when I see my husband in his uniform or when someone asks me what he does for a living and I say with great pride, “He’s a United States Marine.”
I heard a civilian woman say to my mother, “Oh, how fortunate are military families: free housing, medical and dental care, the commissary. . . .” My mother replied, “Nothing is free. It’s compensation.”
It’s compensation when they take the husband, the father, and, more often now, the mother and wife, for a year at a time to serve in some remote location that’s strategic and secret and has no name. Yet, it’s little compensation when you pass by a house after a terrorist attack on the marine barracks—and see a black wreath hanging from the door. You know inside there is a widow with children. And I know that widow could have been me.
The marine wife is a special breed. She’s a strong woman. I owe a lot of my strength to my mother. I saw her cope with hardships that would have made any man fold.
What would you do if you found yourself stranded in a New Jersey airport in ninety-degree weather with three children under the age of five, dressed for your destination in Iceland with no passports, no lodging, no luggage and no help? I’m proud to say she overcame this and we met my father in Iceland, a little ragged—but together.
Mom showed me how to look for things that most people don’t see: the young marine away from home during the holidays, missing those home-cooked meals in a family surrounding, or the expectant mother who is frightened and wishing her mom was close so she could ask her questions she thinks might be silly.
We take care of our own, and hope that when our loved ones are in a similar situation, someone will reciprocate.
Giving thanks takes such a small effort.
A point of advice to young marine wives: seek the support of other marine wives, enlisted or officer or in the links program. Experience is the best teacher. They were in your shoes once before and know what you are feeling. Ask. They know all you need to know: the tricks to a smoother moving day, quarter inspection, medical facilities, the schools and definitely the best shops. And if they don’t know the answer to your specific question, you can be certain they’ll know where to find it.
If I sound as if I’m glorifying the marine family, perhaps I am. We’re just as good at what we do as our marines are. We are not simply wives and husbands and children. We are a part of the marine team.
Amy J. Fetzer
Dreams and Doubts
I don’t care how long he is away from home, as long as he comes home.
Karin Mercendetti
June 10, 1944. The lunch rush was over, and a sharp gust of wind slammed the door shut behind the last customer. Sophia poured a cup of coffee, dished up the last piece of homemade apple pie and sat down. Instead of eating, she stared out the window and prayed with all her heart that her beloved husband would give her a sign that he was still alive. She felt in her heart that he was fine, but a little voice inside kept questioning that feeling.
They had met when she was only fifteen and working in a hospital after school. He was five years older, handsome, charming, brilliant and fun. They became friends instantly, but waited four years to get married. They scrimped and saved for five more years to fulfill their dream of buying their own business, this small hotel and restaurant on the river in Gowanda, New York. Since their wedding, they had not been apart for a night, until he went into the army.
She found herself remembering the day that Vic had received his draft notice. It was on his birthday, and she was devastated. Why did they want a married thirty-two-year-old? The notice, however, didn’t faze V
ic. He was eager to serve his country.
Vic had wanted with all of his heart to be a pilot because he had enjoyed flying a friend’s airplane around the countryside near their home every chance he got. But the army made him a staff sergeant in the mess hall because of his culinary skills. (He said there wasn’t much you could do with powdered eggs and dried beef!)
He had been moved to several different bases in the South during the past nineteen months. Sophia had taken the train to visit him several times and enjoyed the graciousness of the people, but not the oppressive heat and humidity. She was content that she had remained at home to take care of their business instead of trying to follow him from base to base. With help from her younger sister Josephine, she ran the hotel and restaurant quite efficiently, managing to build a substantial nest egg.
The war seemed to go on endlessly, but Vic had just been home on leave a few weeks ago. He was excited about his current assignment where he had learned to fly something called a glider plane. He went on and on with details that she didn’t comprehend, but his enthusiasm was so contagious that she listened attentively. He had informed her that he would be going to Europe within days. He allayed her fears for his safety by talking about their hopes and dreams for the future. He was convinced that the war would end soon, and they talked of moving to the big city to buy a larger business and having a child when he returned.
But would he return? Now she wasn’t so sure. It had been four days since she had seen the front page of the newspaper with the horrible news of all the glider pilots killed in the D-day invasion of France. She didn’t know for sure where he was, but she could put two and two together! The government couldn’t, or wouldn’t, confirm his whereabouts. Her fingers nervously twirled her wedding ring, and she prayed again for a sign that he was okay. She sipped the now-cold coffee and took a bite of the apple pie.
And then she saw them. Two soldiers in uniform were standing and talking next to a green Jeep parked a few buildings down the block. Terror gripped her heart and she prayed like she had never prayed before. . . . No, God! Please, no!
They started walking toward the hotel. They were coming inside. The place was empty at two-thirty in the afternoon. She was riveted in place, staring at them. She couldn’t speak. Her chest tightened, and she winced at the sharp pain from squeezing her wedding ring too hard.
They kept walking toward her. Finally, one of them said, “Can we get a couple of beers?”
A wave of relief washed over her as she delivered the drinks and said the beers were on the house. She explained to them that her husband was missing in action, and she initially thought they were bringing her bad news.
The next morning, the phone rang at five and she picked it up to hear the operator asking if she would accept a collect call. “Thank you, God!” she exclaimed. “Oh Vic, you really are alive! I knew it. I just knew it.” Vic explained that he was still in Georgia and had been injured during a final training exercise. He ended up in the infirmary and couldn’t go on to France and fly the gliders with his squadron. He was disappointed and ashamed that he had not gone on to fulfill his dream.
Communications hadn’t been good in the infirmary, and he just now learned of the hundreds of friends lost when the gliders landed in France. However, something kept whispering to him that he needed to contact his wife. Since there were no phones on the base that he could use, it had been several days before he was able to get a ride into town to call her.
What amazed both of them the most was how they had been expressing their feelings and “speaking to each other” without a word, while they were hundreds of miles apart.
Sophia Shell
As told to Cindy Shell Pedersen
Bluegrass Parkway
Our humanity is a poor thing were it not for the divinity which stirs within us.
Sir Francis Bacon
As an army wife of twelve years, I am no stranger to taking long road trips with our two boys. But a year full of ups and downs amidst numerous separations had left me feeling like my tank was already on empty at the start of my husband’s latest deployment to the Middle East.
The prospect of driving from Fort Campbell, Kentucky, to visit family in New Jersey was overwhelming and filled me with dread. I tried to talk myself out of the trip, but I knew it was important for the boys to spend time with family they had not seen in a year.
As the date for our trip drew near, my husband seemed to sense my anxiety when he called from Iraq, and he did everything he could do to make our trip easier for me. He e-mailed directions, tried to find things for the boys and me to do along the way and sent words of encouragement via e-mail.
The week before the trip was extremely hectic. There were the usual responsibilities, the kids were going crazy with missing their dad, and I got sick. My friends thought I should postpone the trip. I was tempted.
We finally got on the road late in the day on a Tuesday in June. As I searched for the next road change, I glanced over at the passenger seat fully expecting to see my husband sitting there, a map spread across his lap, navigating our way as he usually would on our trips. My heart sank at the sight of the empty seat, and, in spite of myself, I fought tears. What am I doing? I was overwhelmed with a longing for him, and the sleepless nights were catching up with me. I wanted to just turn around and go home. I began to pray and to try to focus on all the ways God shows us we are never really alone.
Just as I found the Kentucky Bluegrass Parkway, the boys really needed to find a restroom. I got off at the next exit onto what turned out to be a stretch of mountain road with no gas stations or restaurants. I turned around to go on to the next exit, but there was no return ramp going east on the parkway. We drove up and down the road to be sure we hadn’t missed a sign, and when we came upon a small church with cars in the parking lot, I decided to ask for some help.
We entered through a side door and found a lively group of ladies, some sewing and ironing, some setting out a pot-luck dinner. They immediately tried to feed us, and several ladies gave me directions. It made me happy just to be near them all. When I laughingly explained that I was turned around because my navigator was in Iraq, they gathered into a circle and prayed for George and the others serving to protect our freedoms. They prayed for the “stranger God sent to us” and for our children and our trip. Then they went a step further and escorted us back to the parkway to continue safely on our way.
Suddenly, the drudgery of the trip disappeared. My heart soared at the sight of the clouds and the mountains and the beauty of God’s love as shown through those ladies. I wasn’t so overwhelmed or tired or lonely. I felt the pride of loving a man as selfless and giving as my husband. I thought about the joy our children bring and of all the blessings in our lives. I began to truly enjoy the drive, and the passenger seat didn’t seem so empty anymore. I thought about the directions George had sent, and all the ways he is there for us even when he can’t physically be with us.
As a matter of fact, I am sure I saw his figure in the clouds blowing me a kiss until his safe return.
Kim Riley
“Admit it, Mom. You 're missing Dad.”
© 2004. Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins.
Terrorist Brownies
To love what you do and feel that it matters— how could anything be more fun?
Katharine Graham
My husband and I lived in Twentynine Palms, California, until he received orders for an unaccompanied year tour in Okinawa. Housing approved our request to remain, so we stayed in Twentynine Palms while he was away.
I decided to start my own little business of cake-and-goodie baking. I had several connections online through marine support groups, and soon I was baking and delivering cakes to marines stationed here. Shortly after 9/11, I received a call from a mom whose stepson was really stationed at Camp Lejeune in temperate North Carolina, but was out here in the hot desert taking part in a combined-arms exercise. She explained that it was his birthday soon, he loved brownies,
and she wanted to do something very special for him. Was there any way I could find him and deliver a birthday treat of brownies to him? she wondered. I said I would try.
After calling several people and being transferred from one office to another, I was finally patched into a field phone and was able to get a message to the marine that he should call me about a birthday surprise. Later that night, he called me and of course was extremely suspicious. He asked me his mother’s name, which I of course had to look up. After a mini-interrogation, he agreed to meet at the bowling alley when he had liberty the next day. His mother was unable to reach me that day, so I just went ahead and delivered the brownies, milk, napkins and a homemade card that said, “Love, Mom,” to the bowling alley. He had not been able to make it, but his sergeant assured me the marine would get the brownies. Mission accomplished—only better than I had ever imagined.
The next day, I received a phone call from his mother. It seemed this marine finally got his brownies and called his mother at two in the morning. He asked her if she had sent him brownies. She said no, since she was half-asleep. At this point, her son began yelling, “There’s been a freaking act of terrorism! You’re not going to believe this, but someone sent me poison brownies saying they were from you. And I almost ate them!” He was in an absolute panic.
Then it dawned on her. “Wait, wait,” she said, “Are they from an Amie Clark? I was half-asleep when you asked me. I did ask her to find you if she could, but didn’t get back to her and had no idea that she found you and delivered the brownies!” They talked for a while longer. He was amazed that she had found him out there.
She later explained to me that their relationship had always been strained, to the point where, if she walked into a room, he would walk out. She had tried several times to reach out to him, but nothing had worked. She told me that the brownies finally opened a door for them. Her gesture made him realize that she loved him, not because she had to but because she wanted to. He now calls the house to talk to her and they sometimes talk for over an hour. The effort she made to send him a birthday treat touched more than his stomach; it touched his soul.
Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul Page 13
