Getting “Home” was the Problem

by Patty La Taille

Home is a relative term, especially when you marry into the military. My first year of marriage was a rocky one – a spontaneous European elopement as the shadow of Desert Storm – the first war in Iraq – descended on his battalion based in Nuremberg, Germany. Jim and I were married in Vejle, Denmark, on Pearl Harbor Day in 1990, together as man (First Lieutenant) and wife for two weeks, and then he was shipped off to engage the Iraqi Republican Guard in the Persian Gulf. I left Europe to wait out the war back in the States and he fortunately returned six months later. I was 17 pounds lighter and dealing with my own version of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as a new (and unfortunately “feeling abandoned”) military wife. We celebrated a quick wedding fiesta in the States with family and friends and off we went to Fort Leonard Wood (FLW), in the backwoods of Missouri.

As a recent college graduate with a degree in Sociology, fresh from a semester abroad and life and travel overseas, I was completely unprepared for the drudgery of life on a military base in “Misery.” Born and raised on Long Island, close to New York City, it was a shock to be cautioned not to take my New York style of dress and attitude – and our new silver Mazda Miata convertible – outside the base. I was warned it was “Deliverance Country” out there. Better to play it safe and stay in our tract home with the AC on, watching Oprah and learning how to be a good homemaker and officer’s wife.

These were roles this free spirit wasn’t exactly suited for, with my wild undergraduate days fresh in my mind, the carefree times on fall and summer tours with the Grateful Dead, my chosen apparel of tie-dyes and Birkenstocks, and the red Honda Rebel motorcycle I rode – all at odds with my new “Officer’s Wife” persona. So after a few months, I fled back home to Long Island to reduce my unhappiness and the strain on our new marriage. I had been requested to be a bridesmaid in two New York-style gala weddings of close friends – two weeks apart. I spent that month surrounded by fun and the familiar, and it was with a heavy heart that I headed back to FLW to face the repercussions of the long separation from my husband, and to try and fit into the military lifestyle.

My first attempt to fly back to “Misery” was foiled by a major airport fiasco. An AT&T telecommunications cable had been accidentally cut in the Tri-state area, and all the computer networks at Kennedy, LaGuardia and Newark airports went down. Hundred of planes lined up on the runways, with no air traffic control to guide them. After over seven hours sweltering in a plane on an active runway, I asked to be removed from the plane and (hopefully) rescheduled for a flight the next day.

Naturally there was a delay due to the high number of backlogged flights, and since FLW was two and a half hours from St. Louis by car, I made sure to contact my parents (on the relatively new and super expensive “plane phones”, strategically located on the back of an airline seat.) I left messages for my husband to apprise him of my intended arrival time so he wouldn’t have to wait at the airport. After numerous delays, I finally arrived six hours late; tired, cranky and alone at the airport.

Certain that I wasn’t truly stranded in St. Louis, I called our home number and my good friend, (who was visiting from Long Island), answered. She passed the phone to my husband who was kicking back and watching TV. Yes, he had received my messages, but he had a long day at work, was tired and wasn’t there a Greyhound bus I could take back to the base? He thought it was scheduled to depart at 11:30 p.m. at night – it was 6:30 p.m. while we were speaking. The bus would arrive at 2:30 a.m. on base and he would pick me up. All good? Another eight hours of travel for me? Ah, NO – Absolutely – NOT!

In hindsight, I should have walked back on the plane to New York. Instead, I voiced my frustrations in a way that had many Midwesterners staring and scurrying to put some space between them and a very angry female with possible Tourette’s Syndrome.

Thoroughly upset and angry, armed with the knowledge that I was stuck here until the “loser cruiser” left close to midnight, I headed to the airport bar and immediately downed three chilled shots of Absolute (vodka). I slammed down one more for good measure and nursed a beer at the bar. Having eased my mood slightly, I struck up a conversation with some of the other patrons and discovered that these scruffy looking, long haired, black Tshirt imprinted with AC/DC designs- wearing young men were headed to FLW by bus tonight as well – to enlist. Pretty trashed by my standards with such a high alcohol intake, I decided to cash in on the high drama and declared that I was on my way to Basic Training and this was my last night out as well, so let’s make it a good one. (After all, did I really want to admit to being a stood-up officer’s wife with a lonely bus ride back to a fort – and a life – that I was starting to dislike greatly?)

So there I was – fueled by Absolute – rolling up my sleeves and exhibiting my wimpy bicep to insist that I was ready for P.T. (Physical Training) and declaring my allegiance to the U.S. Army and the great opportunity that was before me.

Instant camaraderie prevailed in our boisterous group – some toasts to the good life – and then we made our slightly swaying way to the bus terminal, which entailed a lengthy, dark trek through a number of different parking lots at a different terminal. I staggered serenely in step with my new-found friends.

They all snapped to attention when a Drill Sergeant with a clipboard appeared. “Recruit so and so reporting for Basic, sir!” shouted each individual. I figured I would continue to play along, finding this incredibly entertaining and realizing that I could get a free ride back, since I just spent my bus fare on drinks at the bar.

When the Drill Sergeant got to me, I said my full name and he seemed perplexed that I wasn’t on the list, but dutifully added me to the roster and on the bus I went. Still thoroughly enjoying my new role as Army recruit, I joked around and chatted with the men about push up and sit up quotas and what kind of haircuts we’d be getting – that kind of bonding chit chat.

But as the miles sped by and my new buddies dropped off to sleep or fell quietly into their own thoughts, the one thing on my mind as I started to sober up was, “How the hell am I going to get out of this one?”

Up to that point it had been fun to see what I could get away with. But I could see that trying to explain to Mr. Drill Sgt. that I had just “changed my mind” in the dead of night after we reached the base was not a strong possibility. Then it occurred to me that my husband would be there to pick me up – the officer and a gentleman – and he could kindly explain to the scary sergeant that his wife really wasn’t going to Basic Training. Plus he could pay for my bus fare.

Satisfied with this scenario, I settled into a light sleep and was abruptly snapped out of it by bright lights, loud voices and people grabbing their gear as they were rousted off the bus. I peered out the window into the dark uninhabited and mostly empty parking lot – and there was no silver Miata in sight. No – my darling husband was not there to pick me up – or explain anything – much less hand over cash. In short, I was screwed.

Amidst all of the confusion and yelling of drill sergeants and hustling of new recruits, I climbed off the bus and grabbed my rolling luggage bag from the storage compartment underneath. The thought hit me – it was now or never.

So I ducked around to the other side of the bus in the shadows and took off running. Racing through the stubby fields with my rolling bag banging the back of my heels, I was hoping the dark would hide me. I heard some shouts “Wait a minute – get back here!” and “Where’s the female?” Still I kept going. It was 2:30 a.m. in the wilds of Missouri and I raced through an Army base in the humid darkness with my heavy bag bumping along behind me.

Different thoughts crossed my mind.

“This is retarded.”

“Why do I always over-pack?”

“What if I get caught and they force me into Basic? Do they give you that one phone call like in prison? I’d have to make the call from Private K. to Captain K.”

So when the Military Policemen (MPs) pulled up next to me on a street in some nebulous housing area that I was walking in, I wasn’t too surprised to see them. The pair questioned me – in effect trying to determine what an officer’s wife was doing on the total opposite end of the base from where she lived, toting her luggage in the dead of night. They assumed it was a domestic issue and when all I said was that I was tired and needed a ride home, they called me a taxi.

By this time I was feeling the fire – hell hath no fury as a woman stranded, shafted and hung over. When the taxi driver pulled up at our officer’s quarters, I became an enraged harpy. I raced through the house, ripping the covers off my still sleeping husband who supposedly “slept through his alarm”, illuminating the house with lights and my rage – ripping a $20 bill from his wallet to pay the driver and continuing to berate my newlywed husband with a stream of “Nice job picking up your wife at the bus stop, profanity.” “Isn’t it great that I’m not in basic training right now? Huh? Isn’t it? Aren’t you glad I made it home safe? Good to see me? Don’t bother to put yourself out, eh, buddy?”

Ending my adventure/ordeal on that note, I collapsed onto the guest bed and wondered if the Drill Sergeant would be sending the MPs to collect the $18 bus fare later that morning. To my knowledge, that’s a bill that the former Captain K. still needs to pay.

Patty LaTaille writes from “Villa Groovy” (currently squatter-free) and attempts to live a peaceful, sustainable life – minus the military and travel fiascos.