JULY 1965
Thirty-three hours, forty-three minutes. That’s how long the plane rides were from Okinawa to Andrews Air Force Base in Prince George’s County, Maryland. Looking back, the plane rides were a bit of a blur. I do recall passing out many snacks and complimenting many newly colored creations. I also recall praying for a long stretch of sleeping time for all of the children. The Lord must have heard my cry for mercy, as my prayer was answered and the girls and Lyle slept soundly for hours at a time. I, on the other hand, slept only stretches of a few minutes.
By the time our plane landed, exhaustion had begun to break through my cheerful illusion. A second wind of energy came as we neared the base. We were minutes away from seeing Smitty’s parents and my mother. I knew the reunion would be emotional, filled with unspoken words of grief and the unmistakable joy of seeing their grandchildren, including a grandson they had never met. The comfort of seeing familiar faces came inching up my stoic resolve, and I began to feel great excitement as we came closer and closer to our loved ones.
As was the standard procedure, my first encounter when we landed was with an apple-cheeked, young second lieutenant, who was to serve as my initial stateside casualty officer. He introduced himself, and as I inquired how he came to be in his current position, he promptly announced, “Well, I didn’t want to fight in the war.”
As the wife of an MIA Air Force pilot, who had just traveled halfway around the world with three small children, his insensitive reply nearly put me over the edge of decorum. Luckily, I saw our parents near the plane, which prevented a different type of war from ensuing. At my prompting, the girls ran to greet their grandparents, and the potentially sad occasion became a joyful reunion filled with the innocent squeals of young girls who were thrilled to have exited the big aircraft. The three grandparents immediately scooped up the girls and took them to the Harris home on the eastern shore of Maryland, about an hour’s drive away, while Lyle and I remained behind to meet with the casualty officer.
The inexperienced and reluctant officer was assigned to drive me and Lyle to join the family after a short debriefing session. Our fairly uneventful plane ride seemed particularly easy compared to the next hurdle I had to cross. I was informed by the young lieutenant that the Secretary of the Air Force had decided that I would only receive $350 per month of Smitty’s pay, and the rest of the money would be placed in a savings account until his return. Of course, with Smitty’s MIA status, the absurdity of this decision was magnified even more in my exhausted mind. The battle that had been averted earlier was about to be ignited.
“What are you talking about?” I asked incredulously.
“Um, well, the Secretary of the Air Force has decided that your husband’s pay will go into an Air Force program that will offer 10 percent interest.”
“And when was this decision made?” I asked as anger began to creep up my arms and neck until my face felt hot and red.
“Just recently. You, um, are the first MIA spouse to return to the States.”
At this time, Smitty was still the only member of the squadron who was MIA. He was the first officer with a family to be shot down. I was the first Air Force wife to return home without my husband. And therefore I was the first one in the system to have the newly established, untested procedures applied.
“Wait just a minute. I have power of attorney, and I am to get full pay to take care of our children. I certainly can’t do that on $350 per month. My husband signed the Casualty Information Card, which stated that I, his wife, would get everything—his pay and his allowances—in the event of him becoming a casualty of war, which he obviously is, or I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, this is coming directly from the Secretary of the Air Force.”
“Well, get the Secretary on the phone,” I stated emphatically.
“Ma’am, I can’t call the Secretary of the Air Force,” he said nervously.
“You do the dialing, and I will do the talking. But first, take me to my family.”
The hour-long drive was tense, to say the least. Any threatening tears had long dried up, and what was left was a seething anger and a determination to fight for what I knew Smitty wanted. When we arrived at Smitty’s childhood home in Maryland, the grandparents took one look at my face and knew that their best course of action was to keep the girls occupied.
I sat on the antique fainting couch in the Harrises’ den, with Lyle sleeping in my arms. The young lieutenant was the one who looked as if he might faint when I demanded once again that he call the Secretary of the Air Force.
“Ma’am, I can’t call the Secretary of the Air Force,” he repeated once again.
“Oh, yes you can. Tell them that you are with the wife of the MIA, Captain Carlyle Smith Harris, who insists that she talk to the Secretary of the Air Force. Tell them she is very upset and is threatening to call a news conference.”
He obliged without further argument, and as the call was put through, he quickly handed the phone to me before the Secretary answered.
“Mr. Secretary, this is Louise Harris, and I want you to know that I have a general power of attorney. Before my husband was shot down, he allotted me 100 percent of his pay. I have been receiving this for the past fourteen weeks, and I intend to continue receiving it. I have three babies, ages four and a half, three, and six weeks old, and I cannot support them on $350 a month. My husband intends for me to take care of his children. He is doing what he has to do, and I will do what I have to do. I am a former legal secretary—a smart woman—and I know my rights. I will not settle for one penny less. I intend to have every cent.”
“Ma’am, we are just thinking about your husband,” he replied.
“Well, you better think about his children. I am furious; I am tired; and I will absolutely call a press conference if need be.”
“I will have to think about this.”
“Absolutely not. I have just flown across the world with three young children. I am very tired. I need rest, and I can’t get it if I have to think about this. I expect to hear back from you by close of business day, which is five o’clock. No later than five.”
“Mrs. Harris, I need . . .”
“I don’t care what you need. I am telling you what I need. I had everything going smoothly until now, and I will not put up with it. This is what my husband intended, and this is what I will have.”
“Well, Mrs. Harris, I will get back to you,” the Secretary said.
“By five,” I replied. I then hung up the phone and looked up at the young casualty officer. His eyes were wide and scared, but he did not say another word about the matter. Later that day, I got the rest I needed—and I got the money I demanded.