My Life as an Army Wife
When growing up in the 1950s in rural North Carolina, I never had any association with the military, having never spent time around military bases or having much contact with military people or their families. In early 1963, I had my first real exposure to military life, when I went with my sister to the train station in Fayetteville, North Carolina, to pick up a cousin. There, on the train platform were two sergeants from the 82nd Airborne. They were sharply dressed in their uniforms, keeping a watchful eye out while they performed what was known in those days as “Courtesy Patrol.” The two approached us and we struck up a conversation. One, in particular, caught my eye, he was originally from Germany, and between his accent and the uniform, I was smitten. Over the course of a couple of months, we began dating. One thing led to another, and within a year, we were married. I had no idea what marrying a soldier would be like, what an adventure I was about to experience.
‘Lean On Me’ Was the Only ‘Family Support’
After a brief marriage ceremony at the courthouse, we settled into a trailer in Spring Lake, just outside Fort Bragg. Most of the occupants in the trailer park were military couples, and it appeared as if almost every woman in the trailer park was expecting. With one exception, a young single soldier who lived in one of the trailers. One day, one of the women in the trailer park suddenly went into labor. Unable to contact her husband, with no family present, the only individual at the time with a car was the young single soldier. He was asked if he would take the woman to the hospital and he agreed, but only if another woman accompanied them. Another of the woman’s friends jumped in and away they drove. On the way to the hospital, the baby arrived in the back seat. Mother and baby both were fine. Later, the word got around to the other women that the young soldier who had offered to drive was a little disturbed at having to clean out the back seat of his car. The next month, his trailer was conspicuously empty. We assumed with all the pregnant women walking around that trailer park, he wasn’t setting himself up for another delivery repeat.Bless This Lord, Our Daily Bread
Military pay wasn’t much to live on. My husband was a sergeant, and in those days he brought home very little money, only about $250 a month. Many young NCOs (non-commissioned officers) worked second or third jobs after duty just to make ends meet. Unless you budgeted very carefully, near the end of the month, you were often in financial trouble. That’s when the trips to the pawn shop began. Things got so bad one month, my steam iron was hocked so that we would have enough money for a little food. There was no Army emergency relief fund that soldiers’ families could depend on in those days. The well-known expression heard was that “Uncle Sam didn’t issue you a wife” meaning you were on your own with family financial problems. When food ran low, my friend, a young German girl, and I would scrape together whatever we had to make ourselves lunch.
It was also during this time, that I learned how to spit-shine jump boots. Paratroopers were always expected to look sharp, but my husband absolutely hated to shine boots. I made a deal with him, if he would do the dishes, I would shine his boots. He showed me how to melt the polish in the tin lid, apply the polish and use a cotton ball and bring it to a high gloss shine. It was the perfect arrangement, I had some peace and quiet outside on the doorstep shining boots, while my husband scrubbed the pots and pans. Apparently, I mastered the skill, after one inspection, my husband came home and told me that the First Sergeant wanted to know who was shining his boots because they looked so good! Life as an Army wife is often about burden sharing.
Home Is Where the Army Sends You
While stationed at Fort Bragg, my husband got into a little trouble. One afternoon he was pulled over by the military police for speeding on post. Normally this type of infraction would not be such a serious issue, but recently one of the general’s children had been hit by a speeder on post and now there were serious consequences for speeding. My husband told me he was given a choice: face disciplinary action or volunteer for a new outfit being formed at Fort Benning, Georgia, called the 11th Air Assault Division. So, as fate would have it, we returned to Fort Benning.As the Vietnam conflict was escalating, there was an enormous troop buildup at Fort Benning and with it an influx of families all looking for affordable housing in nearby Columbus, Georgia. We were transferred from Fort Bragg in the summer of 1964, and finding housing became a real nightmare. Property owners in Columbus were renting anything that had a roof and four walls on it. Most of the dwellings were in deplorable condition. When we finally found an apartment in an old, run-down two-story house in the middle of downtown Columbus, we were ecstatic, at least it was a solid building and not some shack. The house had been divided into six tiny apartments. The manager and his family lived in the right side of the first floor. Across the hall from them were two apartments occupied by soldiers with wives from Korea. We rented an upstairs apartment consisting of only three rooms, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a living room. Across the hall lived another soldier and his French wife.
Behind the large house was a makeshift wooden structure that served as another apartment that was occupied by a soldier and his wife from South Carolina. None of these so-called “apartments” had air conditioning. At the end of the hallway on the second floor was a bathroom that consisted of a bathtub, a toilet, and a single sink. It was a communal bathroom, used by all four families. I hated it and it was always filthy. I posted a sign on the wall imploring those using the toilet to please flush after using it, but my request often went unheeded. I hated using it so much that I had a large pickle jar for my nighttime use. This was our home when my first child was born. Many years later, I learned that the old two-story house was a historical Civil War era home, “The Rankin House,” owned by prominent Columbus planter and businessman James Rankin. In 1968, it had been donated to the Columbus Historical Society for restoration. Many years later I returned to Columbus and was in awe at how the house had been transformed back to its earlier splendor. I often wondered if visitors who toured the house museum had any idea what life was like for those of us living there during those times.
War Changes Everything and Everyone
After a short stay in the Rankin house, we moved into a converted garage that had been made into a single-family apartment. After that, we moved again, this time into a small duplex. Two months after my second child was born, my husband was shipped to Vietnam with the 1st Air Cavalry Division. With two infants and a pet dog, my brother drove down to Georgia to help me move closer to home while my husband was away in Vietnam. We packed the children, the dog, and all of our worldly possessions into his car and drove back up to Fort Bragg.When you say goodbye to a loved one who leaves for war, you expect them to return as you remember them. That wasn’t my experience. You find that the war has changed that person forever. The emotional adjustments are not easy as you try to continue a so-called “normal” life. While separated from family, making close friends, especially during wartime, is rare.
After a year, my husband redeployed from Vietnam. In those days, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) was less well-known and recognized. My husband returned from Vietnam a deeply changed man. He was more distant, less engaged, and suffered from angry outbursts. We had a small pet dog who stayed in the backyard of our house. In the corner of the yard, a small portion of the fence was missing and the dog often crawled out through the opening. Shortly after he returned, my husband had difficulty sleeping. Many nights he would sit by the window alone, staring into the yard, waiting for the dog … just waiting for it to try and slip out of the fence. When the dog would start toward the fence and try and get under it, he would burst into the backyard, grab the poor dog and beat it. This went on for several weeks until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I plugged the fence as best I could and begged my husband to get professional help. I honestly believe he wanted to get help, but he said that if he sought professional help, the Army would look unfavorably on it and it would jeopardize his career.
We struggled through that period. My husband did his best to suppress and control the effects of his PTSD. People struggle, you struggle, and everyone changes.
Do You Believe in Ghosts?
Our next duty station was with the 101st Airborne at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, where I met my first ghost. Many people don’t believe in ghosts. Once, I was one of those people. The event I am about to tell made me a believer.Being married to a soldier, housing was often catch as catch can. Usually, there was a long waiting list for on-post housing, so we had to rent whatever we could find or afford in the civilian community. Often families had to settle for less-than-desirable living conditions, since there always seemed to be a shortage of rental properties. Also, because of their transient nature, many property owners did not want to rent to military families, who might only be stationed there for a year or so. Usually, we were thrilled if we could find a small affordable home in a middle-class neighborhood. One such property we were lucky enough to find was just outside Fort Campbell. It was in a pleasant neighborhood and we didn’t have to share it with anyone, a real treasure compared to our previous living experiences. The neighbors on either side were delightful people. One was a retired minister and his wife, a retired school teacher. The family living on the other side were working parents with two young children. We were eager to settle in and become a part of the community.
When the owner of the house, an elderly lady whose demeanor spoke of old Southern charm, rented it to us, she asked us not to disturb the contents in the attic. She explained that the boxes there contained her deceased husband’s books and papers from when he had been a professor at the local university. I assured her we would have no reason to go up into the attic. Many days passed and I gave no thought to the contents in the attic until curiosity and boredom got the better of me. I remembered the landlady’s request, but like Pandora, I was overwhelmed with curiosity and wanted to see what was in those boxes. Feeling somewhat guilty for breaking my promise, I pulled down the folding ladder to the attic. Once I reached the top of the stairs, I looked around and discovered boxes and boxes to explore. Like a child on Christmas morning, I poured over them, going from box to box and finding books and papers on subjects beyond my comprehension. Soon my curiosity was satisfied, for the present time, anyway, and I returned the folding stairs. That was when something off began … that was the beginning of the footsteps.
Once the house was dark and quiet, and always when my husband was away in the field, heavy footsteps would begin from what sounded like the attic, slowly pacing back and forth across its length. Knowing no one was in the house but my sleeping children and myself, they were horrifying sounds. Lying rigid in bed, I would stare toward the ceiling that hid the folding stairs. I expected them to slowly begin to unfold at any time and reveal the mystery person. I had no idea what I would do should something happen. I didn’t have the presence of mind to make a plan for protection or escape. I just lay there paralyzed with fear as the loud thumping of my heart vibrated in my ears. I couldn’t make myself get out of bed to investigate. Eventually, slumber would prevail and I would retreat into the safety of sleep.
This was a common occurrence whenever I would venture into the attic. One day, I concluded it must have been the old professor who was unhappy because I was rummaging through his life’s work. I got the message. From that time forward, I stayed out of the attic, which also brought an end to the nocturnal restlessness in the attic. My only conclusion about the unusual events was the presence of an unhappy ghost.
A Special Needs Child
At Fort Campbell, routine took over. Military training remained rigorous because of the war, so there was little in the way of quality family time. It was during this period that I noticed unusual development patterns in my second son. After making numerous trips to specialists and doctors, we received heartbreaking news, he was diagnosed with Duchenne’s muscular dystrophy, a degenerative disease of the muscles that eventually lead to premature death. Very little was known about the disease at the time, even by doctors. There was no one to turn to with questions, no internet to research information, treatment options, or support group networks to leverage. There was no one to turn to for emotional support. You dealt with each day the best you knew how which often did not produce the best outcome.The Cold War Gets Hotter
After about a year and a half, we transferred to Fort Polk, Louisiana. It was an isolated, uneventful year. Early in 1968, we received orders for Augsburg, Germany. My husband was originally from Germany, so the prospect of going back to his homeland seemed exciting. It also meant that for a short time, he would be unlikely to have to go back to Vietnam. But life in Germany in the 1960s had its challenges. It was the height of the Cold War and my husband was constantly on maneuvers, preparing for a war against the Soviets. In the summer of 1968, that seemed a very real possibility.
When the Soviets invaded Czechoslovakia in August, my husband’s unit was on alert and went immediately to the field, leaving me home alone. I remember thinking about the evacuation plan for dependents in the event war broke out. We had our Rambler station wagon, with blankets, a case of Army C-rations, and a road map with directions to France. The plan was for me to load my two young children, the belongings we could carry, and head toward the border. It was a crazy plan, but that was all that we had to fall back on. Thankfully, the Soviets never did cross the border but the threat of World War 3 always loomed in the back of our minds.
Back to Vietnam
After eighteen months, our tour ended and my husband received orders again for Vietnam. I was in terror. After what I had seen my husband suffer through after his first tour, I wanted no part of that for him or us. I pleaded with him to get out of the Army. But my husband had just made the rank of sergeant first class and with the possibility of retirement on the horizon, he would not consider it. We left Germany days before Christmas, 1969 and found a small house in Spring Lake. Christmas was spent sleeping on borrowed Army air mattresses and cardboard boxes were used as makeshift furniture until our household goods arrived. After the holidays, my husband completed his training as an advisor at Fort Bragg and then shipped out. He first went to Panama for jungle training, then to Vietnam. I stayed in Spring Lake and raised three children alone.
Life Comes Full Circle
My husband’s tour was cut short as he contracted hepatitis during his last few months in Vietnam. We then packed up again and moved to Fort Ord, California. There we stayed the longest of any of our tours, almost 5 years. The war in Vietnam finally came to an end and my husband was reassigned to Fort Benning, Georgia, where we had first lived so many years before. After over 24 years in the Army, things had come full circle. My husband had enough of the Army and finally retired. We settled into Columbus, Georgia and that is where we started our new life as civilians and raised our three children.The idyllic life we envisioned wasn’t always what we thought it would be. There were good times and there were bad times as a military wife. But I am thankful for the life lessons I learned and for the experiences I gained. Life as a military spouse is a challenge … but for all its difficulty, sacrifice, and loneliness, it was a life worth living.
