Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul

  As the noon hour ended, the usual lunchtime bustle surrounded us: parents coming and going, teachers passing through, students running errands for teachers or taking care of business of their own. The secretary answered the constantly ringing telephone, and, as needed, orchestrated the flow of traffic.

  During a brief lull in the activity a young boy walked in. His face was flushed and his hair tousled—normal for a little boy coming straight off the playground. By his size and stature, I guessed him to be a first-grader. He timidly approached the secretary’s desk.

  “What do you need?” the secretary asked.

  The young boy answered in such hushed tones that I couldn’t hear him.

  “The nurse isn’t here,” the secretary said, “but wait right there and she should be back soon.” She motioned for him to stand in the doorway that led to the nurse’s office.

  The phone rang again, and the secretary turned to answer it. The little boy nodded and did as he was told. When he walked past with downcast eyes, I realized the reason for his office visit. The front of his pants was wet. He’d had an accident and needed a change of clothing.

  Quickly, I looked away. I shifted in my seat to try to give the little one some privacy and a sense of dignity in such a humiliating situation. I pulled my son close, hoping he’d never have to endure such an experience.

  The bustle around us picked up again as the bell rang, and students and teachers hurried back to class. With each minute that passed, the little boy’s head hung lower. Would anyone come to his rescue?

  Not the secretary, who sat at her desk sifting through her work, seemingly all but forgetting the little boy.

  Not the nurse, who still had not returned to the office.

  Not I, who sat just as uncomfortably as the little boy stood, trying to ignore the situation and not appear as if I were staring.

  By now, the little boy had begun to cry silently. His shoulders shook and his head hung so low that no one noticed the tears streaming down his cheeks.

  No one, that is, except for an airman who stood at the front of the office, waiting, too, for his appointment with the principal. Clad in full battle dress uniform and black combat boots, the airman walked across the room, knelt down and enfolded the sobbing child into his arms.

  “It’s okay,” the airman said. “We’ll get you taken care of.”

  The secretary looked up, saw the embrace and hustled over to the little boy and escorted him into the nurse’s office. The airman quietly stepped back and resumed his wait near the front door.

  By then, my son’s teacher had arrived, and the principal called us into his office. The airman joined us. My son laced his fingers through his daddy’s. I squeezed my husband’s other hand.

  Tracey L. Sherman

  War Is Not a Game

  All rising to a great place is done by a winding stair.

  Sir Francis Bacon

  I was eight and my brother, Butch, was eleven when we arrived in Naha, Okinawa, in 1952, after three weeks aboard a government transport ship. We must have driven our mother and the ship’s crew crazy with our adventures: playing tag in the engine room and hide-and-seek in the lifeboats. Yet none of those shipboard escapades upset her as much as our visit to the cave. And nothing ever taught me more.

  We were elated to join my father, an officer in the U.S. Army already stationed on the island during the Korean War. Uncle Sam provided everything. My mother had a maid, Tamiko, and the schools, post exchange, commissary and hospital were only a short drive away. On weekends, a school bus took us military brats to the movie theater where we saw the latest Flash Gordon serial and a feature film. It was hard to believe we lived on an island in the middle of the Pacific.

  Our housing area was new, so much so that the hills surrounding it held a threat. Although eight years had passed since the U.S. invasion of Okinawa, the military hadn’t completely cleaned out the caves inside the hills. During World War II, the Japanese hid in those caves. Now, the hills were off limits. Fences bearing warning signs enclosed those deemed most dangerous, but others, like the one behind our house, remained wide open to curious minds.

  Mother would wave her hand in that direction. “Don’t ever play up there. The hills and caves are dangerous. Your father says you could be killed.”

  Of course, the warnings only made the adventure seem more inviting. War was still a game to my brother and me. We wanted to be soldiers. Armed with a flashlight, he and I hiked up the hill to see what all the fuss was about.

  As we stepped inside one of the caves, dark and dampness enveloped us. Butch turned on the flashlight, and we inched ahead.

  Something that resembled a miniature Flash Gordon spaceship lay in a puddle of water. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “A mortar shell.”

  I gasped. My knees trembled. “I’m scared. Let’s go home before it explodes.”

  Butch stepped around it. “Don’t be chicken. Just stay behind me and walk where I walk. We’ll be okay.”

  Shivering in the cold and rank air, I clasped my shoulders. Water seeped from the gray walls.

  “That was a hand grenade,” Butch said after stumbling over an object rolling past my feet. He aimed the flashlight. “Don’t touch it.” It looked like a can of C rations with a pin sticking out of it.

  “I wanna go home.”

  He ignored me, at least for a few more steps. “Look!” he said.

  Before us lay a skeleton. I jumped back and leaned against the cave wall. I wanted to run but knew I couldn’t, not with all that explosive stuff behind me. “Please, let’s go home,” I cried.

  “Okay, okay,” he said with a sense of satisfaction. “Now that we’ve got a souvenir.” He reached down and grabbed the skull.

  We climbed out of the cave, and I blinked to adjust my eyes to the blinding sunlight.

  Butch said, “Now here’s the plan. When we get to the house, I’ll go inside alone and see if the coast is clear.”

  “Uh-uh,” I said. Too many times before my brother had left me holding the . . . bag. Yes, that’s what we needed, a bag to hide “the souvenir.” Then everything would be okay. Pleased with my cleverness, I suggested that.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said.

  As we approached the side of the house, he handed me the skull. “Wait here while I go inside.”

  Moments later, Butch came out the front door. “Mom and Tamiko are in the kitchen, so I couldn’t get the bag, but they’re too busy to notice anything. I left the door cracked for you. Hide it on the shelf above our closet.”

  “But I can’t reach that high.”

  “On tiptoe you can,” Butch reassured me.

  Skull in hand, I ran up to the front door and crept inside. No one saw me. So far, so good. With the hallway to the bedrooms just around the corner, I tiptoed and turned . . . right into Tamiko! When she saw the body part in my hand, she reeled back and shook with horror, her low moan sharpened into a scream and she ran out the front door, past my laughing brother, never to be seen again.

  I didn’t think it was funny, because along came Mother. Her puzzled look grew stern when she saw what I carried. She had seen far too much from her army brats to be upset over trifles, but there were limits.

  “This time, you’ve done it,” she said with a shake of her head.

  Dad and the military police soon arrived, bringing with them swift and severe discipline. Our butts hurt, and, within two days, a fence surrounded the hill. We had broken the rules; we could’ve been killed. But even before that happened, Mother taught us a more poignant lesson. Sentenced to our room, from the window Butch and I watched her walk up the hill and return the skull to its proper place.

  “A brave soldier died there,” she told us when she returned. “He fought for his country, and you had no right to disturb his grave. God forbid, someday it may be your turn to fight. War is not a game.”

  In 1966, I spent the last summer of my youth in France. Orléans was my dad’s last duty station; he would retir
e soon. With college behind me and the real world before me, I stopped at the American cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer on the way to Orly Airport. Displayed neatly in rows of sorrow were crosses marking the graves of 9,386 of our soldiers who lost their lives in the Normandy invasion. I couldn’t swallow the tears. Can we ever forget their sacrifice?

  Some may ask why I went to that cemetery. There are more charming places in France for a young man to visit—Paris, the Loire Valley or the Riviera. But I hadn’t forgotten what my mother taught me long ago: that war was not a game, that someday I might be called upon to serve. I stepped away and marched to my car with a sense of duty. In the right front seat lay my orders for Vietnam.

  Michael J. Jett

  Daddy’s Angels

  Only she who attempts the absurd can achieve the impossible.

  Robin Morgan

  “Dear Lord, could you please send two angels to protect my daddy? I don’t mean to be selfish but, you see, he is six foot five. He may need the wings of both of them to completely cover him. Please let their wings shield him when the guns are fired and the rockets are shot. Let him know that he is protected and give him comfort. Amen.”

  I asked my girls to pray this prayer every day while my husband was gone, and I repeated a similar prayer many times throughout the day.

  Two weeks after my husband’s return from Baghdad, he told a story of how he returned to his trailer after midnight and felt that there was an intruder in his small living quarters. When his search revealed nothing, he prepared for bed with a great feeling of peace and comfort. One hour later he was awakened by the sound of rapid gunfire. Lying on his belly with his weapon drawn, he told us how he was never afraid.

  My daughter asked him how this was possible.

  My husband told her that he could feel someone in the room protecting him. Actually, he said, it felt more like two. My daughter’s eyes grew wide as she looked at me and said quietly, “Daddy’s angels.”

  This was the first my husband had heard of our special prayer for him.

  Tammy Ross

  You Are on Speaker Phone

  Your dreams can come true if you know what to do.

  Johnnie Coleman

  I think every military wife will tell you that one of the hardest things is being a “Daddy substitute” when Daddy is gone.

  In our house, my husband’s special time with our three-year-old is bath time. For thirty minutes a day, one on one, they sing “Old MacDonald” at the top of their lungs, practice the ABCs and discuss their days between laughs and splashes. Next, Braeden runs down the hall to his bedroom with Daddy close behind, puts on his favorite Superman pajamas and carefully adjusts his cape. After “flying” through the house to clean up the toys, my husband calls out, “Time to pick out a book.”

  These moments are my favorite.

  We settle together on Braeden’s bed and read a carefully chosen story: me, my husband, our son and our newborn daughter. We pray as a family, thanking God for one another, and, of course, for baseball and football! As we say good night, we sing his favorite song, “The Great Big Book of Everything,” kiss all three of his stuffed animals, cover him with his two favorite “blankies” and begin the debate of who loves whom more. That is when we receive our reward, and our precious little boy says the magic words. “I love you, Mom and Dad.”

  When Daddy leaves, the bedtime routine is suddenly turned upside down. Our “key player” is absent from the game. Thanks to modern technology, we have a fix for it. While Braeden is in the tub, we talk about what Daddy is doing. Pj’s go on, toys are picked up and then I say, “You pick out a book, and I’ll call Daddy.”

  We all get into bed together: me, our son, our daughter and the telephone.

  “You are on speaker phone,” I tell my husband. I read the story, and we pray as a family, thanking God for each other, for the day and for Daddy’s safe and speedy return. We sing the beloved Disney song, I do all the kisses and then we debate over who loves whom more. Before we end the call, my husband yells out, “I love you, bud.” And we are rewarded with our son’s reply.

  “I love you, Mom and Dad.”

  Angela Keane

  4

  HOLIDAYS—

  MILITARY

  STYLE

  God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Red, White and Blue Christmas

  Honey, you’re gone, you’re so far away!

  And you know that I miss you each and every day!

  Things are so much harder this special time of year.

  Because you are my gift, and I wish you were here.

  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m so very proud,

  And I’ll be the first to say it out loud.

  Although I am lonely, I’ll get through each night,

  Knowing you’re out there to fight for what’s right.

  Baby, I love you and think you’re so brave,

  And this Christmas I thank you that my flag proudly waves!

  Roxanne Chase

  Our Matchbox Christmas

  Sharing is sometimes more demanding than giving.

  Mary Catherine Bateson

  It was a rainy California Christmas Eve. Our tree was lit up, and it shone through the large picture window of our home in military quarters at Port Hueneme. My husband would finally be spending Christmas with us. He had often missed the holidays due to deployments, leaving me and our three small children alone for Christmas. He had just returned home from Vietnam and would be home for six months. Then he would have to go back to fighting the war in Vietnam.

  Our children, six, four and two years old, were anxiously waiting for their daddy to return from battalion headquarters. He had to “muster and make it.” Their little noses had been pressed against the big frosty window almost all afternoon, waiting for him to come back home.

  Their daddy was a Seabee, and we were all as proud of him as we could be, but we often struggled to make ends meet. Once a month, I would buy a month’s worth of groceries, and this month, I had managed to squeeze in a large turkey and all the trimmings, to cook for our Christmas Eve meal, but money for presents was scarce. I had bought my husband a small gift, and he had bought me one. The children each had a handful of tiny department-store toys, all individually wrapped and waiting for the big day. There were no names on the small gifts; I could feel through the paper and tell what they were.

  I saw my husband’s car headlights cut through the dark winter mist that engulfed our home. I pushed back my hair and straightened my clothes. The children and I rushed to the door. This was our big night! It had been our tradition back home in Texas to eat our big meal on Christmas Eve night, and this year we were going to eat better than we usually did. Our little table was laden with all sorts of tasty-looking food. Each of the kids would get to open one present, and Santa Claus would be coming after they went to sleep.

  To my surprise, when I opened the door to give my husband a big kiss, standing behind him were three burly Seabees. They hung their heads as they entered our home, as if to apologize for intruding on our family feast.

  “Honey,” my husband said, almost apologetically, “these are some of the guys who were with me in ’Nam. Their families are thousands of miles away. They were just sitting in the barracks, and I asked them if they wanted to come eat with us. Is it okay if they stay?”

  I was thrilled to have Christmas company. We, too, were thousands of miles away from friends and family. It had been so long since we had “entertained.” We gladly shared our small feast with those three huge Seabees. After dinner, we all sat down in the living room. The children started begging to open their gifts. I sat them down and walked over to the tree to get them each a tiny wrapped gift.

  As I glanced up, I could see my husband’s friends sitting there looking sad and distant. I realized how bittersweet it must feel to be here with us. I knew they must be thinking about their own children, wives and homes. They were staring dow
n at the floor, lost in the loneliness of the season, trying to shake the horrible memories of the war they had just left—a war to which they would soon return.

  Quickly, I scooped up six colorfully wrapped Matchbox cars. I called each of our children’s names, and they quickly opened their presents. Soon, all three of them were rolling their cars on the floor.

  I walked over to the men. “Well, what do you know?” I said. “Old Santa must have known you were going to be here!”

  Those big old Seabees looked up in surprise. They opened their treasures: a Matchbox car for each of them. Within seconds after they opened the gifts, those men were grinning from ear to ear, down on the floor playing with their tiny cars.

  I looked up at my husband. “How about me?” he asked. “Did Santa leave me anything?”

  I reached under the tree and handed him a tiny present also. He joyfully joined our children and his friends. They must have played for hours. They ate, told funny stories and laughed while they rolled those race cars around on the floor.

  I watched them there, filled with pride. These men had fought for us and kept us free. Free to have nights like this one, and others that were to come.

  I didn’t really know these men, but there they were, sitting on our floor. They would have given the world to be back home with their loved ones, but it wasn’t possible. They had committed to defend our country. They were trying to make the best of an awful time in their lives.

  Soon, the races were over, the food was almost all devoured, and each of the men said their good-byes and left our home, their faces shining with new hope. In each of their hands, clutched tightly, was a tiny Matchbox car.

  Years have passed since that Christmas Eve night. Two of the men returned from the war. One didn’t.