JULY 1964
I sat on the base-issued rattan sofa in the living room of the home I had once shared with Smitty.
Fourteen weeks, I thought. Fourteen weeks since I had heard his voice, fifteen since I had seen his face. I closed my eyes and allowed a rare moment of remembering. Scenes like an old movie reel flashed in my mind as I remembered my former life, which now seemed light-years ago.
Mustn’t stay in that place long, I reminded myself as I opened my eyes and looked around the room. Most of its square footage was taken up by sealed cartons filled with our belongings, ready to be shipped back to the United States, where the children and I would be in a matter of days. Three suitcases that would fly back with us sat in the corner of the room. A wave of anxiety swept over me, and just as I had learned to do on the beaches of Panama City, Florida, as a young girl, I braced myself to stand against the waves and then recovered quickly to focus on the task at hand.
Mentally, I went over the day’s plans, stoically omitting the emotional side of leaving—that is, until Shieko entered the room. So lost was I in my focused thoughts that I had not heard the kitchen doorknob as Shieko had entered our home for the last time it belonged to us. Another couple would soon move in, and Shieko would faithfully serve them as well, for that is what she had announced on the day we had moved in—“Hello, Okasan. My name Shieko. I come with house.”
“Oh. Well, I will have to talk to my husband.”
“No, I come with house.” And so it was. And oh, what a blessing it was that we had selected this house, for Shieko’s quiet servant’s heart had been a balm to me from day one, especially in the dark days of the past two months. My eyes filled with grateful tears for this small, spunky, forty-something Japanese woman who had loved us well. I quickly squelched the emotion and stood to once again work side by side with Shieko.
Avoiding the emotion of the coming good-bye, we together set about completing the final tasks of preparation for the unknown journey ahead. Two hours later, all tasks were completed, and all was ready for departure. Since our car had been sold, Bill and Shirley Meyerholt and Patti and Ivy McCoy had volunteered to take us to the airport. Shirley and Patti were two of my best friends—family in every sense except blood. That was the hardest part—leaving my people. These friends, and many others, had gone above and beyond to comfort, help, and serve me and the children. From meals to babysitting to crying in their pillows through their late-night prayers on our behalf, these people embodied the essence of true friends.
The storm of dread once again churned in the pit of my stomach when I heard their car arrive. I was about to embark on a journey, trading in my known reality for a life of unknowns. My support system was intact here. We Air Force wives knew the complexities of this life of sacrifice we had all chosen. Back home, there were even greater complexities to come that I had not chosen. And as my mind traveled ahead, cataloging the options before me, I realized that returning to the U.S. meant I would be more than seven thousand miles further away from my Smitty and the life we had lived together.
I was also closing a door to information. Would I be apprised of the information, as I had been here? Claude Watkins was my casualty officer, the same Sergeant Watkins who taught Smitty the Tap Code, though we didn’t realize the significance of this at the time. He went beyond the designated procedures of tending to this wife of an MIA. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Officer Watkins had an even greater role to play in our story, for he had been Smitty’s instructor at Escape and Evasion school, who had by chance drawn out the grid for the Tap Code that Smitty had by this time begun to share with other POWs, who shared with others, who shared with others. If I had been privy to this information at the time, I might have been more confident in what lay ahead. With the poor health of Smitty’s parents and the weak constitution of my own mother, I knew I must be the strong one. I must be the one to decide what life my children would experience in the coming months, maybe years. Even so, I applied my mustard seed of trust and faith and walked forward into an unknown life.
Officially, Smitty was still MIA—Missing in Action. I was constantly reminded by officials that they had very little information. But I knew. I knew he was alive, and I knew he would one day come home. I just wasn’t sure when that would be and where he would find us.
When the suitcases were loaded, Shieko walked with us to the car. The emotions that I had successfully held back thus far began to force their heavy weight beyond what I could bear. Tears filled my eyes as I saw Shieko’s own tears silently fall when she hugged four-and-a-half-year-old Robin and three-year-old Carolyn. She hugged them tightly and then patted their blonde hair, which contrasted greatly with her own ebony strands salted with the grays of middle age. She then reached for six-week-old Lyle and quietly held him, as if they were the only two in the world. Soon she returned him to my arms and leaned in to share a long embrace with me. Tears threatened to overflow, and my voice shook with emotion as I spoke in her ear.
“Thank you, Shieko. For everything. I love you,” I said.
“I love you too, Okasan.”
“I will try to get messages to you,” I said hopefully.
“Not worry, Okasan. I will keep up with you.”
We parted and both helped the children into the car. Patti held Robin; Shirley held Carolyn; and I entered last with Lyle in my arms. Bill and Ivy sat up front, and as Bill pulled away from the curb, I looked back through the window to see petite, precious Shieko waving her American family away to a new life. I never saw Shieko again, and though we exchanged messages through Bill and Shirley for a while, we eventually lost touch. But Shieko will forever be in my heart—a beautiful bright memory in my life’s story.
The drive was subdued, and even the girls seemed to understand that this somber moment required soft and quiet tones. We drove to the base, where we would spend the night in a Quonset hut in a BOQ—Bachelor Officer Quarters—at the base. The girls’ previous subdued behavior immediately was overturned when they saw the bunk beds in the hut. Patti and Shirley hugged the girls before leaving, promising to return the next day to drive us across the base to catch our flight home. In time, the girls settled down and quickly slipped into a sound sleep, as did Lyle. What a mercy that Lyle was an easy baby. I, however, did not sleep.
Questions flew across my thoughts in quick succession and then lined up to be repeated in random order throughout the long night. What is ahead? Where will we live? A house? An apartment? How will everyone react? What will the trip home be like? How will Smitty’s parents react to our homecoming without Smitty? They were not well. His father had cancer, which had been diagnosed before we left. Would he live to see Smitty’s homecoming, which I was certain would one day come?
I would soon find out that Smitty’s determination to live was likely inherited from his father, who was also determined to live until he could see his son again. In the coming weeks, months, and years, he would constantly say to me, “I can’t wait to see Smith come home.” That sentiment seemed to improve his health more than any medication he took to combat his cancer. He held off his heavenly homecoming until his eyes had once again beheld his son. He died seven months after Smitty returned home.
The next morning, Bill, Shirley, Patti, and Ivy returned as promised to once again load our suitcases into their blue sedan and take us on the final leg of our Japanese journey. We approached the giant aircraft that had already begun the low rumbling of its engines, preparing for takeoff. The wind blew the girls’ blonde hair across their faces, and Shirley held it back as she hugged them and kissed their soft cheeks. Patti lifted the girls one at a time, knowing her pregnant belly would not allow her to kneel gracefully before them as Shirley had. Patti hugged them each tightly, while their little legs fell straight before her, much like the tears falling down Patti’s cheeks.
Telling these friends good-bye was one of the hardest parts of leaving. My stomach wrenched, and my heart felt as if it were breaking, but I didn’t cry in front of them. Smiling, I said, “It’s all going to be fine. I will be good,” trying to convince myself as much as them. I hugged them both tightly as I told them I would miss them and that I loved them dearly.
Standing outside the big plane, Bill said, “Louise, I will go with you,” just as he had said many times before.
“I will be fine,” I repeated my parrot-like response.
Another officer about to board the plane overheard the exchange and offered to sit with us and take responsibility for the girls. I declined. My children needed me. And that knowledge was what gave me the strength to climb the steep metal steps with my children in tow. I stopped at the top of the portable steps and then turned back and waved to my dear friends. It would be many years before I saw them again, and just as I knew at the time, they turned out to be lifelong friends through every future season. I then took a deep breath and entered the plane. I settled the girls into a three-seat section and took my seat by the aisle, with Lyle contentedly resting in my arms. I forced a smile on my face, wanting to encourage the girls and assure them all would be well. I wanted to believe that myself. I didn’t look out the window, so focused was my illusion of cheerfulness, but if I had, I would have seen my dearest friends waving to the plane, with tears streaming down their cheeks.
As the plane roared and the landing gear retracted within the belly of the plane, I dispersed snacks and new coloring books and spoke to the girls of the exciting adventures we would embark on as soon as we landed in the United States. More than any other time, I finally realized it truly was the home of the brave, and I was determined to be counted among those brave ones.