An Army of One

I have been married for eight years. My husband Rob, a civilian technician in the Air National Guard (a position I like to describe as “just like Active Duty!!...with none of the benefits”) has served in three war zones since September 11th, 2001. But thankfully, I had never had to attend a military funeral until recently when we lost a family member to an IED outside of Ashraf, Iraq. Corporal Walter Howard was more brother than cousin to Rob. They grew up across the street from each other, went to the same schools from kindergarten through high school and participated in Civil Air Patrol together. Walt was the one who beat Rob up on a regular basis- and defended him should anyone else attempt to do the same. The loss, as all are in these circumstances, was unexpected and devastating. But what I’ve been thinking about isn’t Walt, who has been eulogized so beautifully over the past few weeks; or even Rob, who had been slated to return to Iraq in the very near future. My thoughts have been on Jamie, Walt’s wife of only two years…and myself.
In my research, I found a lot of writings on military wives, most of it saccharine sweet and full of the same kind of “support” that usually results in the affixation of a magnetic ribbon to one’s SUV. To be fair, there were many eloquent words written by wives themselves, much describing how devoted they are to being a support team back at home for their beloved who has been so often far away in recent years. I do not fit neatly into either category. I am a military wife adamantly against the war, who sits powerless and heartbroken as she waits for this time of rash aggression and foolhardy attempts at diplomacy to be over. I am reminded every day that the fate of my husband and my family lies in the hands of an administration run by people I personally wouldn’t trust with a pet rock. I feel powerless. Most military wives feel this way at one point or another- usually more often than any of us would care to admit. We are not angels of patriotism, tying ribbons around trees and baking homemade cookies while we wait for “our men” to return to us. Most wives that I have known are grateful simply for surviving the day without fixating on the terror of not knowing where he is…if he’s safe…what the day (or worse, the night) will bring. We often become more isolated, cutting ourselves off from friends because we don’t have the energy, or the childcare, or because it’s awkward to participate in “couples” activities when our own spouse exists in circumstances very different from hat most of our social circle can comprehend. We experience a jolt of terror whenever a car we don’t recognize parks in front of the house or uses our driveway to turn around…always afraid that it might be bearing an officer, a chaplain, and the end of the world.
The night we heard about Walter’s death, my husband left the house to be alone, to process, to grieve. I remained huddled on the couch, sobbing uncontrollably- it wasn’t about Walt really; it was the closest I’ve ever come to my own worst case scenario and the proximity to tragedy terrified me. At the funeral, I was transfixed by Jamie- the beauty of her composure and her grief. It was like watching my own life unfold in an alternate universe: it could just have easily been my Rob and her Walt. There is no logic, no safety, no respite in was. “There but for the grace of…” I was overwhelmed by the interchangeability of it all. If Rob were killed, it would’ve been the same six men in the honor guard, the same Chaplain wearing the same black stole. The same twenty-one rounds fired into the same blue sky. The same flag carefully folded into the same stiff triangle. The same empty shell casings tucked inside. The same words spoken by the same officer kneeling before me on the same knee. As we gathered to mourn Walter’s life, the military ceremony only reinforced the anonymity of all the lives so needlessly lost in this conflict. So many taken from us that we don’t even hear their names on the television anymore, the way we did at the start of the war when each combat death was treated as an unexpected shock by the national news.
My husband has often accused me of not supporting his career since Walt’s death. He says that I hate his job and that he thinks I’d be happier if he’d never enlisted. I tell him that he’s right. Any loving wife is going to have serious issues with a career field that puts her husband in immediate danger. Any supportive partner is going to worry and pray and yes, at times of weakness even beg them not to go. The ceaseless fear and the strain of constant worry that the military wife endures is its own form of combat. But I am proud of what he does. The military and those who choose to live within its world have made unimaginable sacrifices to protect and defend our nation. And our nation is worth defending. I question the leadership often and the purposes for which they choose to exploit the military and I’ve even questioned the motivation for Rob’s enlistment at seventeen and that very crucial “half”. But I don’t question why he serves. I am proud of the uniform he wears, even as it terrifies me with its symbolism. I am proud of his service overseas and hate it when he leaves; yet I am never prouder than when he returns from a vital mission accomplished.
There was a moment at Walt’s funeral when the flag that had draped the casket was being folded by the honor guard and all those in military service stood at attention and saluted. Rob was so stricken with grief that his whole body shook with sobs. My father in law, himself a veteran, stepped up behind him and gently placed his hand beneath Rob’s elbow to support him in maintaining his salute of Walter, his fallen brother in so many senses of the word. It was a moment breathtaking in its agony. In that moment, my eyes met Jamie’s across the coffin that cradled the father of her fifteen-month-old daughter and I recognized that the sacrifices we as military wives are asked to make are never fair and are nearly unbearable. But only those who are capable of leading the life of a military spouse are strong enough to see that life end. I am not a good military wife: I am worried and selfish and too often come across as anti-military because of my personal views on the war. But many others in this unusual sorority would admit the same if asked. We are all flawed, we are often angry and we are always fearful- but if we are anything, we are strong.