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War
and Wives _ An Unnatural Combination
Sending
husbands and sons off to war is the hardest thing a woman can do. Without
faith, it may be unbearable
JOAN
WHITMORE
War
and wives are like oil and water. They don't mix. Yes, they will
temporarily emulsify, but after a short time separation occurs. Wives of
military men don't mix well with war. There is no glamour, only horror
and heartbreak.
As a foreign volunteer, frequently I am asked by old friends, taxi
drivers, teachers and other folks, ``What do we think about the
catastrophe of September 11th and the war on terrorism?'' Initially,
poignant memories have come forward in my mind.
War has had a deep effect on my life. First, as a daughter of a World War
I veteran and second, as the wife of an air force fighter pilot in the
Vietnam War. Now as a mother of sons in the military I reiterate, I don't
like war.
My World War I father returned home from France 100 percent disabled. He was a
cook in the First
Infantry Division stationed close to Lorraine, France. When supplies of food ran
low he made donuts to boost the morale of the soldiers in the trenches.
Artillery shelling and poison gas took the lives of most of the men
around him. Eventually he received a head injury from shrapnel and he was
gassed at the same time. Only a few men were left.
A friend put him in a wheelbarrow and pushed him to a French chalet that
had been turned into a field hospital. He received medical treatment
there and was eventually evacuated to the United States. The effect of that war never
left him. My mother recalls a time when they were watching a Fourth of
July celebration and parade, and the noise of a firecracker caused my
father to immediately ``take cover'' behind a garbage can in an alleyway.
The Vietnam War was a long drawn out affair. The war on terrorism could
be likewise. My husband's turn for a Southeast Asia tour didn't come for eight
years. I had all those years of dreading the time when there would be a
separation of a year or perhaps forever. We watched our friends as they
took their assignments and went off to the war zone. Some didn't return.
A lot depended upon the type of airplane the pilots were assigned to fly.
Some of the airplanes were flown into areas where they were sitting ducks
for heat-seeking ground-to-air missiles. I watched the TV evening news
reports and tallied the down rates, and held my breath. A number of my
friends became widows.
Late one fall day in 1968 in upstate New York the assignment finally
arrived. My husband, Bruce, was assigned to fly an OV-10 Bronco. It was a new airplane and I had
never heard of it before. It was such a relief to learn that it was
highly maneuverable and could land on 500 feet of steel mat runway. He
was going to be a forward air controller (FAC). I didn't know what that
meant but it sounded like something from the wagon trains of the early
American frontier. The scouts would ride ahead to check the territory,
look for dangers and find the safe passes through the mountains.
There is a small town in northeastern Thailand across the Mekong River from Laos called Nakhon Phanom. That's
where he was stationed. He would fly long missions, up to four and a half
hours, day or night, searching the jungle for communist supply trucks
coming down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. When he found them, he'd call in an
air strike. Once the fighters were circling high overhead, he would mark
the target with a smoke rocket, and then the fighters had something to
aim at and they could drop their bombs. This is very similar to what is
happening in Afghanistan at this time. The only
problem was that the targets fired back and tried to shoot down the slow
but maneuverable Bronco.
It was just an insignificant fact that except for the smoke rockets, his
airplane was unarmed. He personally carried a lot of survival gear
including a pistol, frozen flasks of water and a frozen Snickers candy
bar. Halfway through a mission the tropical heat would do its job, and it
was time for a thawed out chocolate treat and some ice cold water. Thailand's borders were defended
against communism by a very thorough man. One thing I could never figure
out. He could spot targets from
5,000 feet altitude, but he could never find his socks!
A Wing and a Prayer
When Bruce first started flying the Bronco the shootdown ratio was very
favorable. Years later while I was reading in a news magazine about the
OV-10, I discovered that by the end of the war it had the highest
shootdown rate of any of the combat aircraft in the war. My husband
consoled me by saying that only a few of those airplanes were
manufactured. So the numbers were different! He flew 640 combat hours in
that airplane. The OV-10s that survived the war are now a part of the
Royal Thai Air Force and are stationed at Chiang Mai in northern Thailand.
During the worst of times I would eat chocolate. Some days were three-candy-bar
days. I didn't want the boys to see me because I didn't want them eating
a lot of candy. So I'd gobble my favorite candy bar behind a closed door
and hide the wrapper.
Now, one would probably say that I was a basket case. At first I worried
and wondered how I would survive raising three strong-willed sons by
myself. Then somehow I received a feeling of peace and grew to an
emotional stage where I could actually say to myself, ``I can make it on
my own. It won't be easy, but I can do it.'' The worrying seemed to be
lifted from my shoulders. Life continued. The possibility of my husband
being taken prisoner was one I pleaded with my Divine Creator not to let
happen. Those wives and children whose husbands and fathers have been
prisoners are my heroines and heroes.
Finally his Vietnam tour was OVER. I can't
express the feelings of gratitude that I had. I promised myself that I
would never never forget this feeling. Yet my heart ached for my widowed
friends.
My husband's best friend in the military has his name inscribed on the
Wall of the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC. We had been in Washington many times but my husband
could not bring himself to visit the Wall. After more than 20 years we
finally overcame our emotions and went to the Wall. When we came to his
friend's name the tears flowed. It was a time of great sadness and pain.
There were other names on the Wall, but he couldn't see them for the
tears. His friend was shot down in his F-100. He left a beautiful wife
and four young children. This loss is not momentary, it is permanent. War
is devastating to wives, children, mothers and all family members.
Now I watch my daughters-in-law as they face their turns at military
separations. There are many hazards. My sons talk about the difficulty of
landing a helicopter on a cruiser on a moonless and starless night. There
are no reference points, only the instruments and an alert pilot with a
prayer in his heart. Their wives are keenly aware of the dangers
involved.
But even in times of war, we can have peace in our hearts and peace in
our homes. It comes from an understanding of who we are, where we came
from and why we are here on this earth. To wives and families of warriors
today: Do the best you can everyday. Be an influence for good. With this
wisdom insecurities fade and personal strength will be renewed.
- Sister Joan
Whitmore, a retired nurse, and her husband, Bruce, a retired pilot, are
Public Affairs Missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day
Saints. They are volunteers at the 20th World Scout Jamboree 2003
Thailand. Click Here.
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