“I’m Andrea,” she began. “I’m flying with two friends. We’re Marine Corps wives. My friend, Joanna, is asleep by the window. We’re flying to Denver and then on to New York today. See, Joanna’s husband was killed in Iraq on
Wednesday, and we’re going to his funeral. We just have to get there today.
“We’ve given her two sleeping pills,” she continued. “We thought we’d be in the air for a couple of hours, and she needs to sleep. They got married just a year ago on Valentine’s Day. John and Joanna were the perfect couple. John was gone just two months on his first tour of duty. That’s his Marine Corps sweatshirt she’s wearing to comfort her.”
My heart sank. My mind raced. These girls are going to miss their connections to New York. What can I do? I thought to myself. Out loud, all I said was, “I’m so sorry. Let me see what I can do.”
Nobody was supposed to leave the aircraft, but I asked the captain if I might take the tickets of these three passengers to the gate agent to see if there was something that could be done. Nearly half the passengers had connecting flights, but, when the gate agent heard the story, she set out to get them on another plane.
When I returned to the airplane, I could see Andrea talking to the now-awake Joanna. Her hands held her face as she sobbed. I leaned over the two friends and touched Joanna for the first time. Again, all I could say was, “I’m so sorry.”
The wait was becoming longer and longer. People were getting antsy. I went to row four and said to Joanna, “Come with me.” I took her hand and led her to the front of the aircraft, behind the bulkhead, near the door. I just put my arm around her and held her. She cried. I cried. She held a rosary in her hand, but Andrea had said she was really mad at God right now. I understood. We just stood there, the two of us.
Finally, the gate agent came on board. She’d pulled some strings, made some phone calls and somehow managed to get all three women a direct flight from California to New York. I left Joanna for a moment, got her two friends and all their carry-on items. We deplaned. I’m sure the other passengers wondered why they were allowed off the aircraft. There would be time for explanations later.
I hugged all three women, took a deep breath, wiped the tears from my eyes and went back to the plane.
God, take care of them, I offered before heading back to work. Joanna’s two friends were there for her, just like she’d be there for them if the dice had rolled differently. They were all military wives.
They did leave that airport. They flew on a direct flight to New York City. I learned that they would be met by a military limo and taken to John’s parents’ home in New Jersey. I never talked with them again. I probably never will. But, today, my thoughts are with them. It was a hard day for Joanna. Fortunately, she had her friends to support her as she said her good-bye, one last time, to her young husband, John.
I wish I’d had the honor of meeting John. I know I’ll never forget Joanna.
Mary Catherine Carwile
Anticipation
Spirit is an invisible force made visible in all life.
Maya Angelou
It didn’t matter that rain droplets were falling, dampening my dress and hair.
I was in Hawaii. It was June 1968. The palm fronds danced, touched by the raindrops and the breeze, and my heart danced, too. I was waiting for my young husband— the love of my life—to alight from the bus to begin his R&R (rest and recuperation) from Vietnam.
The plan had been for a group of us to go to the Processing Center to intercept Denny, my in-laws’ only son. Pap, a former military officer, had figured out how to circumvent the military’s guideline that soldiers take cabs from the drop-off location to where their families were staying.
It was strange, but as we dressed that morning to leave the hotel, I felt glum. I wondered about it. Since Denny left for Vietnam, I had waited for this day, for the opportunity to be with him and hold him tight. And yet there I was—eager but also quiet, withdrawn, anxious. What was bothering me?
My mother-in-law, in her kind way, understood what I did not. “Honey,” she asked, “would you like to meet Denny yourself at the Processing Center, and we’ll wait here at the hotel?”
My father-in-law was outraged at her suggestion. “No! Of course not,” he exclaimed. “We’re all going together!”
She urged him gently. “Let her go herself. They’re a married couple now. We’ll see them when they get back to the hotel.”
It was yet another kindness when my father-in-law acquiesced to his wife’s suggestion. When I realized I would be going alone to the Processing Center, my spirits rose, and I felt happy, even elated.
Off I went, too early, really. I dutifully stood near a sign that stated: Family Members, This Area Only. Obviously, they anticipated that others would find out where the men would arrive.
Then came a third kind gesture, this time from a stranger. A workman approached and asked if I was waiting for the bus arriving from the airport.
“Yes, I am,” I replied. The workman left.
Twenty minutes later, he returned.
“The plane has just arrived,” he told me. “After they board the bus, they’ll be here in about thirty minutes.” I felt my stomach jump at his words.
“Thank you,” I said shyly.
“And,” he continued, “if you follow me over here, this is right where the bus will unload.” He gestured and started moving to another side of the building and then saw my hesitation. “It’s okay; come wait over here,” he said.
Even with the rain, I was not about to leave my specially assigned post. Looking down, I saw that my colorful flower lei was bleeding purple onto the white yoke of my sundress. But no matter. As I continued to wait, I was lost in my thoughts, feeling quiet and withdrawn once again.
Denny and I began dating in college; his senior year, my sophomore year. A year later, as the Vietnam War activity increased, he enlisted in the marines.
When it became apparent he would likely be sent to ’Nam, we decided to marry in March. We lived together in Quantico, Virginia, as he completed officer’s training. Denny was the first love of my life, and we treasured our six months together before he departed in September. During our eight-month separation, I pored eagerly over the letters I received from him. They were usually smudged with dirt and mud; he was experiencing heavy combat. I wrote him nearly every day.
But now I was afraid—fearful that I wouldn’t recognize this husband of mine. At home, I would look often at the photo of Denny posing in his military uniform and study the image again and again. I would search my memory for the moments we shared together, and hear his laughter, see his blue eyes, his broad shoulders, his smile. But this day I was fearful that perhaps I wouldn’t recognize the man I had chosen to marry and who was now a marine second lieutenant. I drew in my breath and felt anxiety rise inside me once again as not one, but three, buses stopped in front of me, one behind the other. The workman had been correct: the buses would unload directly in front of where I was standing.
My trepidation grew as, one by one, soldiers stepped down from each bus and began walking quietly past me into the Processing Center, where they would be debriefed and sent to meet their families.
I didn’t see Denny. As the soldiers continued to walk past me, I became afraid. What if Denny came down the bus steps and I was standing there empty of recognition, staring at but not seeing that the man in front of me is my precious husband? How will I find the face I so long to see, the face in the photograph?
And then he was there. The split second of recognition was so powerful, it swept through my entire body and being. And all it took was seeing a pair of boots and pant legs to the knees, waiting to descend the steps. I knew it was Denny—his stance, his legs, his feet in boots.
In that instant, I flew through the empty space between us, colliding with him as his first boot touched the ground. I hugged him, overcome by his presence and the realization that we were together again. Denny grinned and embraced me.
What was it that made me so powerfully aware of his presence? It was not his photograph or even the memories of our relationship that enabled me to recognize him.
What I learned that day is that the most powerful bonds we share with those we love deeply and everlastingly are not rooted in the physical. More than smiles, mannerisms and voices, we come to know the spiritual part of one another.
Denny’s very essence communicated to me that day in Hawaii. Denny’s spirit and his love shouted to me from the top of those bus steps. My recognition happened in an instant so fast I can’t describe it, and it happened because of the love that connected us.
Denny didn’t come home from Vietnam, and I have replayed in my mind many, many times the last days we shared in this world. And I know that, in the imperceptible dimension where love resides, Denny and I remain connected forever.
Judith Hodge Andrews Dennis
As told to Marjorie Kramer
Accepting the Folded Flag
The love of our neighbor in all its fullness simply means being able to say, “What are you going through?”
Simone Weil
I have watched them fold the flag more times than I can remember. The first time, I stood stiffly, noticing the mechanical movements of the navy honor guardsmen flanking the grave site as they lifted the flag from the casket and began to fold it into a tight triangle. Their practiced, white-gloved hands moved quickly to manipulate the fabric and smooth potential wrinkles, passing the thickening shape down the line of men, until all I could see were the bright white stars on the blue background. The men were meticulous with their movements, careful not to let the sacred banner touch the ground. The leader of the guard stepped forward to accept the finished triangle from the two men who gripped it so somberly at the end of the lines. He inspected the angles and tucked the loose end under the last fold to secure it. Then he walked slowly to face the petite woman shrouded in symbolic black.
Nelly, my dearest friend, stood stiffly, shoulders taut with the weight of the occasion, but her chin held high. Her eyes were swollen and dark from a week of sleepless nights and endless crying. With her long hair hanging loose, she looked beautiful in spite of her overwhelming sadness, radiating strength for her young sons, who stood on either side of her.
As the guardsman approached, she squeezed the two hands held in her own and then let them drop out of her grasp to accept the flag offered to her. Her eyes met mine for a moment, and a current passed between us. Neither of us could believe that this husband, father, best friend, lover and hero had been reduced to a folded flag. Her hands shook. I wanted to reach out and take the flag for her, to share her pain so that she would not have to bear it alone. She looked down at the flag and buried her face in the fabric, weeping softly but openly.
“Mama?” whimpered three-year-old Chris, pulling at his mother’s arm in confusion. Nelly’s sister immediately scooped up the child and rocked him gently from side to side while whispering softly in his ear. Benjamin, who was five and understood more than his little brother, leaned against his mother and began to cry.
We stood at attention as a bugler on a distant hill began to play the lonesome strains of “Taps.” I could not pull my eyes away from mother and children. Both the boys flinched and Chris began to cry when the riflemen on the opposite hill raised their guns and fired. Three rounds of seven shots invaded the silence in the customary twenty-one-gun salute to the honor of a fallen warrior. As the last notes of the bugle echoed in the air and the smoke drifted into the blue afternoon sky, feelings of sadness and pride settled over the crowd gathered at the grave site.
The sound of aircraft engines filled the air. A hush fell over the crowd. All eyes scanned the sky for the planes we knew would arrive momentarily. The four A-6 Intruders, flying in the shape of an arrowhead, moved in to fly over the crowd and grave site below. When they were directly overhead, the jet positioned slightly back and right of the lead broke formation and flew up and away from the group, disappearing deep into the heavens. The remaining three jets flew over our heads in the symbolic “missing man” formation, leaving the gap between them open. It was a maneuver used only as a salute to fallen aviators. Yet another hero had gone.
This was the first of many families I would stand with at Arlington National Cemetery. Through almost nineteen years as a naval aviator’s wife, I have watched widows, children, parents and siblings reluctantly reach out to accept that folded symbol of our nation’s honor and service. I have seen a young wife collapse in sobs, a confused toddler salute the bugler and a teenager march somberly behind a horse and carriage carrying the flag-draped casket of his dad, his greatest hero.
Out of that overwhelming despair, new heroes have arisen. Unsung by politicians, newspapers and medals of honor, Nelly and others like her have steeled their emotions and mustered their courage to face the future. They have protected the memory and honor of that symbolic flag, and passed it on to their children in spite of lonely days, sleepless nights and painful insensitivities from the world around them. They have emerged from their grief to provide homes full of love, joy and security for their children, a testament to the power of God and the human spirit.
For all those who have accepted the folded flag, I thank you for your sacrifice. I thank you for demonstrating daily acts of heroism that few appreciate or even recognize. You are a gentle reminder that, though the sun may sometimes set with glorious colors, plunging the world into darkness, the hope of a new and brilliant dawn is just beyond the horizon.
Saundra L. Butts
A Widow’s Salvation
The shadows of the evening run deep while love comes in to soothe every mind and body.
Kabir
Catalina’s husband had been in Vietnam for almost a year. In the beginning, he had written to her faithfully— she would get a letter from him once a week. But the letters had stopped coming, and it had been nine long weeks since Catalina had heard from him. At home, Catalina was doing her best to keep the faith and manage the household of five young children on a small budget. Her hands were full, and her mind was worried.
Catalina had been married to Floyd Dean Caldwell for sixteen years, all of which he had devoted to the military. Raised in extreme poverty in Mexico, she met her husband-to-be while he was stationed in a border town in Texas, where she would cross the border to attend adult-education classes. They were a military family, and Catalina knew that the U.S. Army had been her salvation. The military had provided the means for them to feed, clothe and house their five young children.
It was their military lifestyle and benefits, while not extravagant, that had allowed them to get the medical attention they needed when Catalina was diagnosed with tuberculosis shortly after they married, and when their daughter was born prematurely with severe asthma. Military life had not only allowed them to support their family, but also to live in parts of the world that they might never have seen otherwise. Catalina had a great appreciation for all the ways in which her life and her family’s life had been blessed by her husband’s military duty.
When Floyd was sent to Vietnam, she prayed for continued blessings.
Then his letters stopped. After nine weeks of worrying and waiting, she contacted the Red Cross. In her broken English, she told the Red Cross representative about her concerns. The Red Cross contacted the U.S. Army, and an investigation was immediately begun as to his whereabouts. As if he had a premonition that something might happen to him, Floyd had left all his military papers in an envelope for Catalina to use in case of an emergency. These papers began the investigation that would reveal the unthinkable.
It was discovered that Floyd Dean Caldwell had boarded a U-21 aircraft in Phu Bai Airfield in South Vietnam on December 14, 1971. He had gotten his orders to go home and had hopped an early flight with hopes of getting to his family as soon as possible. He was not scheduled to board that plane, but an officer in front of him in line had said, “Go ahead, take my place; you have a family to get home
to. I’ll take the next one.” That fateful generosity placed my father, Floyd Dean Caldwell, on the flight to his death. The plane’s twin engines caught fire, and the aircraft exploded in flames over the South China Sea. No remains were ever found.
When the two uniformed officers approached Catalina’s home to inform her of her husband’s death, her mind was racing. Her house was filled with the energetic activity of her children and their friends playing, doing homework, reading—being children. Chaos filled her home and her thoughts as she tried to listen to the officers tell her the findings of the investigation. She wondered how she would survive, how—with no education or training beyond a high-school diploma from Mexico—she would provide for her five children.
She wondered how she would tell her children that their father would not be coming home for Christmas that year—or any year . . . that he was with God now. She bit back her tears as she began to gather what strength she could to get through this moment to the next.
As it turned out, Catalina and her family continued to be blessed by her husband’s military duty, even after his death. The U.S. Army took care of a family of a soldier lost in a war, making sure that my mother was able to move forward with her life and support her children. She was able to place a down payment on a modest house and go back to school. Catalina earned not only her bachelor’s degree, but also her master’s in education, all while working full-time as a teacher and teaching adult-education classes in the evenings. In 1981, my mother received an award for Outstanding Teaching and Learning in Education in recognition of all her hard work and accomplishments.
Thanks to the assistance given by the army, each of her five children had the opportunity to attend college. Her two sons chose to follow in their father’s footsteps, and were commissioned as officers in the U.S. Army when they completed college. They served their country just as their father had done. Her youngest son is presently a major in the Texas National Guard.