porch pukers and the arrival of the inevitable

November 2007. All the preparedness goes right out the window, and no PowerPoint slide can prepare me for this part.

A WEEK BEFORE THANKSGIVING, we have three months under our belts. Just a year to go. I am driving home from picking up Greta from preschool when my phone rings. It’s a Tuesday afternoon; pizza night was a couple hours away. We live for pizza night at the Commons. It is still our measure of time.

I hear the ringtone. Ben.

“Hey.” His voice is serious. I can tell this is not a usual call to report something humorous or absurd, or to vent. Ben is learning an awful lot about women, and reminds me as often as possible that he will likely stay single forever, and he has me to thank for that. But this is not one of those calls. “Are you driving? I need you to pull over if you are.”

My blood runs cold. If it was Jack, surely he wouldn’t tell me on the phone.

“I’m pulled over.” Which is a lie.

“We had two KIAs today. Two enlisted guys in my old company, Charlie Troop. Their vehicle hit an IED. Both killed outright.”

“Oh Jesus. Were they married? Did they have children? Who was it?”

“Only one was married, but his wife is in Texas. From what I can tell, they got married right before the deployment.” I breathe a small sigh; there will be no grieving widow here, no schedule of weeks full of delivered meals.

There’s a message from Jack on my answering machine. I’m relieved to have dodged that call. Waiting for me later will be a long email holding the details that I don’t want to read. Our phone conversations end one of two ways: Either the ten-minute allotted morale call runs out and we lose our phone connection abruptly midsentence, or else we have so much to say that there’s nothing at all to say. In those cases, after we endure an uncomfortable silence, Jack asks, “Anything else?” Which is army speak for, This conversation has ended.

When there’s a casualty in our battalion, we hold a private meeting for other wives in the unit after next-of-kin notification is complete. We schedule meal deliveries for the family of the fallen soldier; we rally our troops. Always at the end of the official part of the meeting, as the commander’s wife, I say a few words to the stricken wives. This is my first of those speeches, and somehow I don’t feel prepared, though I have played out this moment dozens of times in my mind. I gather the women close to me in the corner of the chapel and remind them that our husbands are making history, that we are part of history. Our job is to take care of one another, and in helping each other, we help ourselves. I remind them that our legacy is the grace and strength we show on days like today. I remind them that we have an appreciation for freedom and life that will follow us forever, that never, ever before has there been a generation who has endured as much combat over such a long period. These words I sometimes force myself to say, picturing myself pouring overflowing glasses of Kool-Aid, but each time the speech rolls out of my mouth, I find myself believing it. Even if the dazed wives are lost in thought and not even listening, it resonates with me. I forget the petty competitions and my urges to smear dog shit on neighbors’ blankets. I forget the one-upping. I feel our buoyancy and our bonds with one another. Our sisterhood and shared experience that no one outside of our world truly understands.

I avoid patriotic sound bites as much as I can—none of that “We are spreading freedom and keeping America safe” crap. I’m not good at insincerity, and I stick to what I can look the other women in the eyes and say truthfully. This is our legacy, like our mothers during Vietnam and our grandmothers during World War II. And I always end the speeches the same way: “Let’s put our big-girl panties on and drive on with another day tomorrow.”

Am I just slinging more of the army rhetoric with those pep talks? No. I mean and feel every word. Many other commanders’ wives don’t say a word at those meetings, but my responsibility is to rally my troops, and I’m good in those moments. I’m not insincere; I don’t read from a scripted speech. Those are the moments I see colors the most vividly. Other times, colors mix together into shades of gray, but not now. Even through the harrowing swell of loss, I’m grateful to be in my shoes. There’s a tangible beauty in that period—a beauty that will never leave me. In those moments, I wonder how or if, we, the wives, would be written into the history of this war. If anyone cared about the vivid colors I once saw.