Ramblings

Last night as I was driving home from work I was listening to our President's speech and its promise of war soon to come. There were an abnormal number of accidents along the way, and I very nearly got rear-ended several times myself due, I think, to the number of drivers pre-occupied with listening to the same message I was.

There probably won't be much knitting content in this particular entry, but I have much to say about my own experience with war and for some reason feel the need to put it here.

I don't think many people realize how many casualties there really are due to wars and conflicts. They certainly aren't limited to the folks who die- although certainly that is the worst kind.

In the summer of 1990 my then-husband was a Major in the US Air Force. He had just completed his F-16 training course in Phoenix, a six-month long course during which I and our three small children stayed in Mississippi, and prior to which he had undergone other training which took him away from home for 3 months. Such is the life of a military family.

Upon completion of his training, he was assigned to Torrejon AB near Madrid, Spain, actually right outside the city of Alcala de Henares, the birthplace of Miguel Cervantes (author of Don Quixote). Torrejon was on the list of US air bases slotted to close, and he was one of the last pilots assigned there.

Backing up in time a bit, I recall flying to San Francisco to visit a friend while Alex was in fighter training in Phoenix. The children stayed with their grandmother and it was a getaway trip for me. I was unusually animated and a had a great time on the flight to SF, making several new friends and probably a fool of myself. I distinctly remember stating naively to a fellow passenger during what I probably thought was a philosophical conversation, "What this country needs is a good war." Oh, how foolish I was. Sometimes when things happen I can think back to a point in my life where I wished that the thing would happen, and I wonder if I caused it. Of course I don't really think I caused the Gulf War, but it does seem eerie. I remember watching Building #25 being built on the Microsoft Campus and thinking, "I want to work in that building some day." Three years later I was working in that very building, but at the time it was being built I had yet to even write my first line of code.

So when we got on that plane to Torrejon, it was my first trip overseas. I had been to Mexico, and I had lived several places in the US, but never had I left North American soil. Saddam Hussein had just the day before left his own native soil to invade Kuwait, and I had no idea what impact that was going to have on my own life.

We arrived at Torrejon and soon found a house to rent, in El Urbanization Zulema, a short drive from Alcala de Henares, a beautiful suburb graced with chopos and melacotones (poplar and peach trees). I didn't speak a word of Spanish.

Within two weeks, Alex's squadron was sent to Turkey to sit alert and wait for The War. As you know, the war did not start until January, and this was July. I'll not bore you with details of trying to get along in a foreign country with three little kids and no husband, because I think what I'm trying to convey is the sense of war, the feelings of the soldiers themselves, and its final impact on me more than anything else.

Torrejon served as a major launch platform for C-5s (huge cargo planes) and C-141s on their way from the US to Quatar. Many of the pilots of these craft were friends of ours, and as they came through they would be invited to dinner or I would accidentally run into them in the Officer's Club. During these months before the war actually happened, they seemed eager, even excited, to wage war. "This is what we've been trained for!" they would say as they downed a brew and puffed their chests out proudly. Those whose DOS (date of separation) was to occur soon would express hope that the war would start soon enough so they could fly at least one mission, just one sortie, in a real war. They were pumped.

Meanwhile, a new building was being built at Torrejon. But the base was supposed to be closed soon, so why? It was a morgue, destined, as they thought, to hold hundreds of casualties. This did not make me feel good. The days, weeks and months went by, much like the past few months have; everyone wondering what/when/if this war would have to happen, the pilots hoping, the wives fearing and the children blissfully unaware.

I taught piano lessons in my home, and one of my students was a Lt. Col named (and I kid you not) Clark Kent. To my children he was "Superman" and although he too was a fighter pilot he had not yet been sent "over there" because he was attached to the Wing as opposed to a squadron. But soon it was time for him to go, too, and we all knew that meant war was even closer. He asked me to look after his piso, his apartment, for him while he was gone, and arranged for us to have lunch with his landlord, who was also the managing director of the Hotel Barrajas, near the airport.

I will never forget that day, nor the next. We went to an Andalucian restaurant, ate excellent seafood and drank exquisite wine and sherry. I drove Senor de la Fuente's new Mercedes back to town and picked up the children from school, and then drove back out to the hotel. Clark was getting very drunk, and the Senor waxed very nostalgic, constantly toasting him, wishing him heroic medals, occasionally his eyes would well with tears. The Spanish are dear people. I think overall they detested the American presence, but as individuals we were dear to them as well. I finally got the keys to the piso and needed to go home, but Clark was way too drunk to take us home, so I took his keys and his car and drove home.

Alex's best friend Michael, a C-141 pilot and National Guard reservist, was temporarily stationed at Torrejon to work the stage. Michael watched out for me and the children, and hated being separated from his own three children back in Virginia.

Early, very early the next morning my phone rang. I answered si? and listened to a few seconds of silence, followed by Michael's very very quiet voice: It's started. He didn't say much more, but the warrior-like defiant fighter-pilot attitude was definitely no longer there, and as I found out throughout the day, it wasn't anywhere. These men were scared. Proficient, yes. Committed, yes. But scared out of their minds.

By 8:00 a.m. another friend, Jim, called-- same voice, same, scared, scary voice. Can you come get me? I decided to take the kids to school instead of letting them ride the bus, and told Jim I was on my way. After waiting in line to get on base (every id of every occupant was inspected closely) I saw a chilling sight: just inside the gates, the school bus sat, with two back tires flat. Why? I have no idea, but the immediate thought that flew to my head was that those tires were shot out.

After I dropped the kids off, I went over to the O Club to find Jim. This big tall confident young pilot was a bundle of nerves. He held onto me like he couldn't stand up on his own, and all around me a sea of faces were stricken with disbelief. I thought-- how could they be shocked? How could they be surprised that this would happen? And all I could come up with was that inside they never truly believed they would ever have to go to war.

Clark departed, along with anyone else able to fly that could be of use in the war, and my children and I waited at home. Randy, who was 5 years old, looked up at me with his big brown eyes and said "Mama, when is Papa going to die in the war?" Not is Papa going to die, but when.

The wives were told that this war could be expected to go on for years... at least 3 years. We were given the option of taking an "Early Return of Spouse", and I arranged to leave Spain.

What happened after that is a nightmare, but in a nutshell, I lost my husband (he didn't die but he was never the same afterward), I lost my family due to a cascade of events (later I regained custody of the two eldest children) and my entire world was changed. I left one USA in July and came back to a totally different USA in April. Fashions had changed, Starbucks was everywhere, and nobody knew or had any reason to care what effect the Gulf War had on me or mine. But I know, and now when I hear that war is eminent it has an entirely different meaning than it used to. I think of my youngest son, now 16, and the 10 years it's been since I've seen him, and wonder what his life (and mine) would have been like without that supposedly victorious war. I think of how the lives of men and their families are going to be changed forever, and I cry for them.

Here's hoping for no war, or if it must happen, a very, very short one. Every stitch I knit will be a prayer for peace.

Posted by Sheila at March 18, 2003 07:38 PM Posted to Autobiography | Family | Introspection | TrackBack