And now, a short story:
Generally speaking, Dale James avoided the PX the day after payday. Fighting the crowds, the baby carriages and the wayward carts was a mistake most army wives only made once. But with FRG co-leadership thrust into her hands just days before, Dale had no choice but to brave the post-paycheck multitude to pick up some necessities for the next meeting.
She was poring over printer ink prices when she heard the sharp, hushed tones that signaled the beginnings of a public argument. Turning slightly, she was surprised to see Specialist Forrest, one of her husband’s soldiers. As a lieutenant’s wife, Dale made an effort to learn the faces and names of everyone in Charlie Troop. Forrest’s cart butted up against that of a woman Dale didn’t know, pinning her into the office supply aisle.
The stranger was covered from head to toe in swaths of some kind of silky fabric patterned with red and gold flowers. Her red headscarf was pulled low on her forehead, almost to her eyebrows, so that not a hair peeked under its hem. Her eyes darted from the tired tile floor to Forrest’s face, whose breathless voice was starting to become loud enough to hear from where Dale stood.
“…that you’d even show yourself anywhere on post with that, that thing, on your head! I'm so tired of this shit. How dare you? How dare you come into our store, into our country, looking just like the fuckers that are trying to blow us up?”
Clenching her jaw, Dale pushed her own cart toward the fray and interrupted brightly, “Mr. Forrest, how are you?”
Whirling, Forrest scrutinized the intruder, “Oh, Mrs. James. Hi.”
“Now, I know that wasn’t you I heard using such foul language in a place crawling with kids. It must have been someone in the next aisle.”
Forrest colored slightly at being addressed so by the platoon leader’s wife. “I was just…I was…”
Dale interrupted, “No, of course it wasn’t you. You’ve got two young kids of your own, right? And I know you wouldn’t use words like that in front of someone else’s little ones. Speaking of, I’m sure you need to get right back to them. I’ll see you at the FRG meeting on Friday evening, won’t I?”
With a fierce look to the woman in the headscarf, Forrest mumbled a reply and shoved his cart quickly away. Her mouth set in a firm line, Dale watched the fuming young man disappear behind a display.
“I’m sorry about that.”
The stranger turned to Dale. “It’s the same almost every time we PCS. People call us traitors, call us spies. My son gets pushed down on the playground. My daughter cries about the time she will have to cover her hair. My husband and I were born here. We are Americans. And we are Muslim. It appears we can’t truly be both at once.”
Tilting her head slightly, she continued, “But you apologize for words that were spewed all over me by someone else. Why?”
“Do you hate the people who take your faith in God and twist it into a weapon for their own ends?” Dale replied.
“Yes,” the woman said, “It’s one of the reasons my husband enlisted.”
“I hate those who take my skin color and stretch it like a mask over the face of bigotry, claiming to represent an America that I wouldn’t want my husband defending.”
“What is your name?” the woman asked.
“Dale.”
“I’m Selah.”
“Hello, Selah.”
“Hello, Dale. And so, both of us seek to atone for the sins of strangers. We feel guilty for their thoughts and responsible for their actions. How strange.”
Dale looked into Selah’s eyes and said quietly, “We are women, after all.”
When My Husband is about to leave for extended periods of time I get slightly psycho about cleaning. I never really understood why...I assumed it's about controlling something to make me feel better about the fact I can't control his time away from home.
This morning I figured out the real reason.
My Husband is gone for the next few days...overnight in the field doing training exercises. He left this morning about 4:30am, kissing me goodbye in the dark of our bedroom while I was still half asleep.
When I came home from my shift at the shelter a few hours later, the first thing I saw walking through the door were his running shoes...tossed at the base of the couch where he left them yesterday after returning from his track workout.
I can't really put into words the feeling of seeing something he touched a few hours ago and knowing he won't touch it again for days. It's just this huge reminder that he's gone and he won't be back for awhile.
This, of course, makes me think about how I would feel seeing those running shoes and knowing he'll never touch them again because he's dead.
Do all soldier's wives have death in the forefront of their minds like I do, or does my depression predispose me to dark thoughts like these?
So before he leaves I clean like a maniac so that everything is in its proper place...and most importantly, anything that belongs to My Husband is tucked safely out of sight until he returns and has some use for it. I stow away the physical reminders of his absence the way I ignore the truth of the dangerous nature of his job. Until I have a weak moment and those dismal thoughts, always hovering somewhere just out of consciousness, strike home.
I think I'll go to the gym and tire myself out so much that I can't think anymore.
I've mentioned before My Husband's squadron is down a few NCOs; people are moving up and moving on.
People are also doing stupid shit and having stupid shit done to them and it's starting to affect my life.
In the fall an NCO got shot in the leg by an elk hunter while his troop was doing a field exercise. It shattered his femur and he's looking at at least a year of physical therapy. Our Lieutenant Colonel and our Sergeant Major recently refused the squadron's request to have him relocated to a "desk job" since he can't do anything physical normally required of a guy in his position. So he's staying but one of the other officers or NCOs has to pick up his slack.
And now we've lost another NCO. This particular Sergeant First Class (SFC) got arrested for DUI over the weekend and before the leadership could decide what to do with him he resigned his position in My Husband's troop. Besides that, his wife was the leader of our FRG (Family Readiness Group), so she resigned her position too.
So now My Husband's at work all day today, in the field all night and then at work again tomorrow because our dumbass former SFC had a few beers and felt it necessary to mouth off to a couple of local cops. And I'm the new co-leader of our FRG.
Fantastic.
I've never seen morale this low. They were happier in Iraq, for God's sake. I can't comment on the enlisted men (since I barely interact with them) but the mid-level leadership is the gloomiest bunch of guys these days. They're tired, they're spread way too thin and they're working more hours than is healthy.
And the apparent disconnect between the upper leadership and My Husband's level is incredibly frustrating. You'd think this Lt. Colonel could take 15 minutes out of his day to walk through the troop offices and tell the guys they're each doing the work of three men and they're a fine example to the rest of the unit. Maybe he could cut them some slack on their workload or give them more reasonable timeline to get it done. Maybe he could send me a quick email and thank me for stepping up and volunteering to take control of an FRG steeped in disagreement and disarray.
I'm not going to hold my breath.
So if your congressman is telling you the army cares about its soldiers and that family programs are at an all-time high or that we're the military's most important resource and they treat us as such, you call BULLSHIT. It's been my experience that any officer above a Major cares more about themselves and their careers than any of their men. And considering a huge chunk of these men (and women, of course) are between the ages of 17 and 23, away from home for the first time, have kids of their own, have marital issues and/or PTSD, they need to be taken care of.
In our squadron and our troop, all of that care is falling to My Husband and his peers. And all of My Husband's care has fallen to me.
Good thing I don't need anyone to take care of me.
