Stacy Smith Kirchheiner
A Quiet Road
Who shall set a limit to the influence of a human being?
Ralph Waldo Emerson
I like to read signs. They hint at the flavor of places. Small, easy-to-miss signs posted on the highway have informative and sometimes inventive names. Rivers and lakes, such as Clear Boggy River and Coffeepot Lake, intrigue me. Other signs with names like Terrebonne Parrish and Muleshoe, Texas, offer insights to their distinct regions. I look with longing at the brown highway signs that state, “Historical Marker, 1 mile,” because we’re always flying along to our destination and can’t stop. But I’d like to pull over and contemplate an old battlefield, now silent and peaceful.
Naturally, I glanced at the green sign as we turned onto one of Alabama’s state highways and read, “Johnny Michael Spann Memorial Highway.” After a second of wondering why that name sounded so familiar, I realized with a jolt where I’d heard the name: on the news. Johnny Michael Spann, a CIA officer, was killed during the bloody prison uprising in Mazar-e Sharif in our war on terrorism in Afghanistan. I remembered the reporters, squinting in the glaring light reflecting off the barren landscape, and the almost musical lilt of the name Mazar-e Sharif rolling off their tongues, followed by the phrase, “. . . the first American combat death.”
I picked up the walkie-talkie and pushed the button. Ahead of me in his little blue car, my husband reached over and grabbed his walkie-talkie. “Did you see the name of this road?” I asked.
A crackle of static sounded, then he said, “No.”
“It’s the Johnny Michael Spann Memorial Highway.”
After a second he said, “Wow.”
He didn’t say anything else. Neither did I. We didn’t need to. My husband is a pilot in the Air Force Reserve. We knew firsthand the rewards and risks of serving our country. We were silent—a respectful stillness—as we cruised down the highway.
I’d never thought about why we named roads after people. I’d always pictured a famous politician or successful businessperson when I saw a sign and I didn’t recognize the name. But naming a highway after a patriot struck me as appropriate. After all, the roads that crisscross our country symbolize our freedom to choose our own course and move unchecked across town or across the country as we live our lives and pursue our dreams. In fact, we were an example of that freedom in action. With my husband leading, I brought up the rear in the minivan loaded with two kids, two dogs and miscellaneous toys, luggage and houseplants, as we skimmed along the freeway. We’d left Oklahoma’s rolling hills dotted with scrub oak and headed toward middle Georgia for a new job, a government service position linked to his part-time job as an Air Force Reservist.
On that overcast Sunday, I studied the semirural road and wondered: Why this road? Why not a busy commercial district, at the heart of town? I contemplated the modest, scattered homes set back from the road. Smoke curled up from a few chimneys on that chilly day, and I pictured people reading the Sunday paper with a cup of coffee. Then it seemed exactly right to name this road for Spann, a place where people went about their business, quietly lived their lives and made their choices. Spann had joined a company of people who, beginning with the Revolutionary War’s Battles of Lexington and Concord and running through time to a prison near Mazar-e Sharif, had died giving Americans the ability to pursue life, liberty and happiness.
We followed the gentle curves of the road past the houses and between the tall pines. I wondered if Spann or his family lived on this road. It didn’t matter, I decided, as the road unfurled before us. This calm stretch of road in Alabama showed what our troops were fighting and dying for: the opportunity to live our lives in quiet freedom.
Sara Rosett
The Call Home
My husband is in the army. As part of an infantry unit at the 101st Airborne (Air Assault) Division in Fort Campbell, Kentucky, he left for the war in Iraq on March 2, 2003, but he assured me that he would call as often as he could.
Three days after he left, he called me from Camp New York in Kuwait. I received calls from him on a regular basis for about a month. Then, he told me that he was leaving Camp New York. He couldn’t tell me where he was going, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to call me for a month or more. Not only was I worried about where he was going, but, more so, what he was going to be doing.
A few weeks went by, and I had heard nothing. Since I hadn’t been part of the military world for very long, I was getting very worried. I talked to wives of his fellow soldiers, and no one had heard anything. I watched the news all the time, and the war just seemed to be getting more and more intense and violent.
One night, about a month since the last time he had called, I was lying in bed, crying my eyes out and praying with all my heart. “Please, God, just let me know he is okay. Please! I have to know he is okay!” I cried all night and got very little sleep. The next day, I was driving down the interstate when my cell phone rang. It was a number that I didn’t recognize, and my heart raced as I answered it. “Hello? . . . Hello?” I answered.
“Hi, baby!” The familiar voice on the other end was his!
“Oh, my gosh! How are you?” Questions were racing through my head, flooding my mind.
He said, “I’m okay. I found this satellite phone in a field, and it worked. I love you and I’m okay.”
“I love you, too! I miss you so much!” I replied. And then the phone went silent and nothing else. I sat there and waited for him to call back, but he didn’t. I knew that was the answer to my prayer. All I wanted to know was that he was okay. I thought to myself, What are the odds of his finding a satellite phone in the middle of the desert? I didn’t hear from him for about twenty more days, but that didn’t bother me because I knew he was alive and okay.
He is home safe now. To this day, I still sit in awe of God and his miraculous ways.
C. Boggs
Pregnancy
You must do the thing you think you cannot do.
Eleanor Roosevelt
Pregnancy is never easy. When your spouse is away, it can be even more difficult. For my new family, 1999 was a bustling year. Not only had I married my husband, George, a sergeant in the U.S. Army, but we were also expecting our first child.
Several months into our marriage and into my pregnancy, George came up on orders to go to Kuwait for a one-year tour. I was devastated. Although I wanted him to be at home with me, I knew that he had a job to do and that he was needed in Kuwait. This is the life of a military wife.
As my due date approached, it became overwhelmingly obvious that George was not going to be granted his request for leave. I would have to give birth without him. My due date came and went. At a routine examination, I was told that I was in labor and that I needed to get to the hospital immediately. On the drive to the hospital I fought with uncooperative DSN lines, trying unsuccessfully to get a hook flash to Camp Doha where George was stationed. My husband was not even going to know that his daughter was being born.
I also made a quick phone call to my mother, who was at home with my younger sister. Once at the hospital, my labor progressed quite rapidly, and my older sister, who had accompanied me, manned the camera. I wanted George to be able to share in the experience of birth, even if he could not be there in person.
We were well on our way when the door to the delivery room flew open—and in walked George. Fate had smiled upon him, and, at the last moment, he had been granted his leave pass. He had flown for over sixteen hours on an AMC flight from Kuwait. After arriving at my mother’s house and getting word that his daughter was being born, he quickly rushed to the hospital. George joined me for one last push, and we welcomed our daughter Kaylee into the world, together.
Every nurse on the labor-and-delivery floor was in tears at this act of love. By the next morning the entire hospital knew about the soldier who, by the grace of God, flew across the world in the nick of time.
Michele Putman
My Nurse Angel
You have to leave room in life to dream.
Buffy Sainte-Marie
The Georgia air was thick as the young mother-to-be and her husband entered the hospital. The girl was eight months pregnant and running a fever.
A nurse with warm brown skin and a caring smile ushered them into the examination room and sent the nervous young soldier into the waiting area so the staff could examine his wife. After the exam, the nurse explained to the girl that she had a virus, but she and the baby would be fine if she got some rest.
The young woman with the bulging belly began to cry softly. You see, she was a newlywed, married only six months when she found out that she would be a mother. In addition, she and her new husband had left their hometown, the place where they were both born and raised, to begin a new life in the military. They were young, inexperienced and new to the ways of the army.
As the girl cried, the nurse spoke, her voice tender yet stern. “Now, you listen here, baby. You gonna be just fine, and, in about two weeks, you gonna be up here to have that baby, and I’ll be right here with you. Don’t you worry none now. I’ll be right here.”
The girl blinked and dried her eyes. “But how will you know I’m here?” she asked. “Do you work here on the labor-and-delivery floor?”
“No, honey. I work at the other end of the hall. Don’t you worry about that. I’ll just know you’re here. Now, you go on home. Make Daddy take good care of you, and I’ll see you soon enough.”
This gave comfort to the young army wife, and she thought several times of the woman with the warm smile. The days ticked by until it was time to go to the hospital again. Her labor progressed and she continued with natural labor, breathing and being coached by her husband. As the pain increased, there, alongside one of the birth attendants, she saw the same warm, caring lady with the pretty smile.
“I told you I’d be here, now, didn’t I?” she asked.
The young mother was so very happy to see a familiar face, as she didn’t know anyone who was helping her, nor did she have any idea which doctor would actually deliver the baby. A pain soon gripped her and her special nurse helped, coaxing and soothing her along with her husband. She praised the laboring girl and assured her that she wouldn’t leave until the hard work was finished.
After a few hours of labor, it was time to be wheeled into the delivery room, leaving the nurse behind.
In the delivery room, the baby quickly entered this world; the young man and his bride were so awed by their new baby girl! Perfect! So healthy and strong, and, like every baby, a miracle from the Maker of us all. The overwhelming emotions of parenthood overtook the couple as they watched and held their newborn baby. Soon, the baby began to nurse and the girl’s mother arrived to help care for the new family.
The young mother asked one of the nurses about the nurse who had helped her so much, but none of the nurses knew who she was talking about.
As I talked with my husband Rick about writing this story, I mentioned that special nurse, the one who had coached me through that tough exam and childbirth, the one I had never been able to thank properly.
He looked at me and paused a moment. Very softly he said, “Lisa, I surely remember your labor, but I never saw her.”
Today, I am an army wife of seventeen years, a mother of three and a registered nurse of eleven years. We have lived on three continents, met many incredible people and have had many wonderful experiences. We have been blessed by God, as we strive to serve him and bring honor to him in all that we do each and every day. He continues to provide us with all that we need, just like he did fifteen years ago with my nurse angel.
Lisa Cobb
The Calm During the Storm
The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerant uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.
Ursula K. Le Guin
I have always gone to wave farewell to my husband when he departs on a mission. I stand behind the approachment line on the ground as he taxis his aircraft, and watch his crew wave back out of one of the open aircraft windows. My husband is a pilot of an MH-53 Special Operations helicopter in the air force, and saying good-bye is emotional. My parting words to him are, “Please be safe.” His response is a smile and, “I’ll be home soon.” This is our ritual.
On May 21, 2002, he was called to action. Nothing can prepare you for the bravery you must summon when you get a phone call telling you a mission is under way. My husband called to say he was departing and to tell me he loved me. He would be airborne before I could make it to wave farewell.
I had kissed him good-bye just hours before, but when he left for work it was for an ordinary training flight. Special Operations mostly operates at night, and I told him I would try to stay up and wait for him. I had not known there was a chance I would not see him until he returned from a “real life” mission.
As with all Special Ops Pave Low helicopter missions, I didn’t have a clue where my husband was going or when he would be back. The duration of the mission is sometimes unknown and often is classified.
As I later learned, what began as an ordinary day saw one of the longest missions ever flown by a helicopter crew. My husband was involved in what is believed to be the longest over-water rescue ever conducted: a journey of approximately thirteen hours, covering more than nine hundred miles round trip, to rescue passengers aboard a troubled yacht in the Atlantic Ocean. The crew flew overnight, with winds gusting more than fifty miles an hour and waves hitting the helicopter. The mission was successful. The helicopter crew returned home safely, but was exhausted.
I learned this not from my humble husband, but from the media accounts of the mission. The crews of the MH-53 helicopters never seek credit. For them, gratification comes from the success of a mission. It is rare to hear anyone boast about their accomplishments in Special Ops.
When I read the newspaper reports and saw the photos, I was on my knees to God, grateful that I would be reunited with my husband.
Now, my husband is no longer on a peacetime mission. Our country is at war, liberating another country. When my husband returns home safely, I will be on my knees before God again, thankful and relieved. The opportunity to say farewell is meaningful, but the chance to say “hello” means everything.
Kathy Oberhaus
Miracle Wallet
We are here not only to learn about love, but to also support and teach our fellow travelers on this journey.
Mary Manin Morressey
As a military wife of sixteen years, I stay quite busy and have little time for reflection. As a mother of three children and a nurse with a small teaching job, you can guess I don’t often think about times past. Over the years, we have traveled and lived in many different places, and there have been many people who have touched our lives in ways that I will never forget. Despite hectic schedules, sometimes a story needs to be shared with others.
We were stationed at Fort Campbell outside of Clarksville, Tennessee, only three hours away from our hometown of Florence, Alabama. My husband was on temporary duty in Africa, and I thought I would take my two girls home for a few days to give them some time with their grandparents. I needed a break, and four-year-old Bethany and ten-year-old Sydney would enjoy the trip.
One crisp, clear spring morning, we set out for home in our small station wagon. After an hour on the road, I pulled off the interstate at Brentwood and stopped at a gas station. A while later, I needed to stop again to buy some snacks for the girls. I reached for my wallet to get change . . . and it was gone. No!
I thought about the gas station where I had stopped earlier. Okay, I thought, trying to calm myself in front of the children, think! Into the station . . . bought juice after the bathroom . . . then out to the car . . . strapped Bethany in . . . The wallet! I put it on top of the car beside the luggage rack! Oh no! I already knew the answer but stole a quick look at the top of the car to confirm it wasn’t still there.
I did a quick mental inventory. As a military dependent, my identif
ication card was vital to my survival in everyday life, especially with my husband gone. Also, my Social Security card, driver’s license and my adopted daughter’s green card were in there! I couldn’t easily replace that! It was the longest drive to Florence, and I reluctantly told my in-laws about the wallet I left on top of my car.
My father-in-law and I hurried to call the Brentwood police. They hadn’t heard of anyone turning in my wallet but promised to look around the gas station and ask the attendants there if anyone had turned it in.
I knew in my mind that there was little to no possibility of my wallet being found, much less returned to me, as I had no current address or phone numbers in it, thanks to our many military moves.
The next day, the phone rang. The girl said she was calling from the Blockbuster Video in Florence. She asked my name and if I had a Blockbuster card in my wallet.
“Yes,” I answered, very puzzled.
“Someone has found your wallet and is waiting here at our store. Can you come? They’ll be outside waiting for you.”
“Of course! I’ll be right there!” I scrambled out the door, totally confused, amazed and happy. As I pulled up into the parking lot, I saw a station wagon with three people sitting in the back with the hatch up, two women and a man. I stepped out of the car, and the younger lady came up to me and asked, “Are you Lisa?”
It seems the couple and her mother were on a day trip from Tennessee to the Dismals, a nature park in northwest Alabama. As her mom said, “I have this bad smokin’ habit, and I guess the good Lord’s tryin’ to tell me somethin’ ’cause I caught myself on fire as we pulled the car back onto the interstate from Brentwood. I pulled over to jump out and brush off the ashes, and as I was walking behind the car I saw your wallet.”
At this point she scolded me. “Honey, you need to promise me to put your address and phone number in your wallet ’cause we couldn’t find anything but that Blockbuster card to possibly help us find you!”