by Vicki Cody
A helicopter pilot—I hadn’t considered that one. I had finally started feeling as if I belonged in Hawaii, and now it was time to pack up and move on. However, that year I had begun to see why Dick loved being in the Army. It wasn’t just a job; he was serving his country, he was working with soldiers every day, and he felt satisfied whatever his job was, never mind the long hours and low pay. Dick’s passion was infectious, so I couldn’t help but say, “I’m so excited for you!”
There were lots of farewell parties for Dick as we prepared to leave. At each one, I learned even more about what Dick Cody the soldier had done during his four years in the 25th Infantry Division, and I was in awe of and so very proud of him. We were both so excited for the next chapter in our Army life and all that was ahead of us.
PS: Before we were married, I was sure that Dick would do his time in the Army and then go back to Montpelier, Vermont, and help run his family businesses. I think his family thought the same. But after our first year of marriage, I knew differently. Dick was a soldier at heart.
4
Sweet Home Alabama
We picked up our car in Oakland, California, and began our long journey across the United States. We drove through the deserts of California and Nevada, deep into the canyons of Utah, and over the Colorado Rockies, before finally stopping in Denver.
While having the car serviced at a Chevy dealership, we found out that there was a ski area still open, a place called Arapaho Basin (A-Basin). We drove back up into the Rockies and found Keystone Lodge. For the next three days, we skied the trails and bowls at A-Basin, above the tree line, at an altitude of twelve thousand feet, with the sun shining and the bluest sky we had ever seen. A-Basin is like a spring-break party on the slopes, featuring blaring rock music and tailgates, complete with beach chairs and grills in the parking lot. That stop we made purely by chance on this trip would become one of our favorite family destinations for decades.
Back in the car and eastbound, we relived every detail of our ski adventure. I learned some things about Dick Cody on that long drive. He is a driving machine and likes to set land-speed records on every leg of a trip. I also learned that Dick is a good listener who will allow me to talk incessantly for hours on end. I liked that. In the confines of our small Corvette, we entertained each other and shared stories about funny, silly things we’d done and scary situations that we had found ourselves in. Even after all these years, just a word or two from one of us—“Reno,” “Bryce Canyon,” “Indianapolis”—can trigger a memory that causes us to burst into laughter, a memory that only the two of us share.
Our families in Vermont welcomed us with open arms, but, after traveling and living out of suitcases for a month, we were ready to begin the last leg of our journey, down the East Coast, across Georgia, and into Alabama. I was getting sick of the interior of the Corvette and couldn’t wait to reach our destination. By the time we crossed the Georgia-Alabama border, I had pretty much memorized everything on my map and the anticipation was building.
Finally, we saw the sign for Fort Rucker, the home of Army Aviation. What struck me the most, as we drove onto the post that first time, were all the helicopters flying overhead. They were everywhere, like buzzing insects. We passed by one of the stage fields and could see student pilots doing maneuvers—takeoffs and landings, and auto-rotations (engine-off landings). Dick could barely keep his eyes on the road. We were both craning our necks, mouths open, trying to see out the windows. Like Dick, I, too, had a fascination with flying. I had taken my first plane ride in 1957, at age five, and I’d loved every minute of it, but I had never dreamed that one day I would be married to a pilot. The course of our lives and the path of Dick’s career would change forever on June 1, 1976, the day he signed on for the rotary-wing officers’ basic course at Fort Rucker.
After he did that, Dick got us on the waiting list for housing on post with most of the other student pilots and their wives. While we waited for our house to become available, we rented a furnished, one-bedroom efficiency apartment with an air conditioner protruding from the bedroom window.
Later that day, in a very brief and spottily attended ceremony, Dick and two of his West Point classmates were promoted to the rank of captain. I pinned on his captain’s bars to commemorate his moving up another rung on chain of command.
That night, we went out to dinner to celebrate. As we pulled into the 1950s-looking Officers’ Club, I couldn’t help but think about what a stark contrast it was with what we had just left. I looked at Dick and said, “This sure is different from the Hilton Hawaiian Village.”
“It was either this, the Daleville Inn, or the Tastee Freeze down Highway 231. Welcome to rural Alabama, Vick!”
While Dick began his classes, I set up our temporary apartment. He would literally burst through the door every afternoon with tales of everything that had happened in class that day. He had boxes of books and flight gadgets, and we pored over all of it. He was the most excited I had ever seen him. He couldn’t wait to get out of the classroom and into the cockpit. It was such an exciting time, we felt like kids filled with anticipation—and for some reason, all our talk of school, books, and flying often led us into our tiny bedroom, where we experienced the best sex ever every afternoon, in the sweaty heat of southern Alabama. We’d turn the air conditioner on high to drown out our sounds. Mm-mm-mm—it was the best of times.
Because of his date of rank, Dick was the class leader, which meant he organized the class, held the formations, and was the conduit for information. (Every unit in the Army has a chain of command with a leader, even in a school setting.) Each class was designated a hat color that denoted their graduation date. Dick’s class was Navy Blue Flight 03/77. Approximately eight to ten classes went through Fort Rucker each year; about every six weeks, a new class was beginning and another was graduating, so there was a continual flow of students in and out. The hat colors were necessary to distinguish the classes from one another.
When Dick and I went to the meeting for class leaders, we met Randy and Eleanor Young. Randy was second in date of rank after Dick and assisted Dick with class duties. Eleanor and I began talking that night and didn’t stop for the next nine months. We talked about feeling unsure of what was ahead for our husbands and what was expected of us. We made plans to drive down to Panama City Beach the following weekend, and just like that, I had a new best friend, the very thing I had missed in Hawaii.
Our very first function as new student-pilot wives was a reception hosted by the commanding general’s wife at their quarters. The reception and the other events that were planned for us that year were all part of the education process for new Army wives, to teach us proper etiquette and protocol. We were told to wear a dress or skirt and short white gloves for the receiving line. I thought, Wow, I didn’t know women still wore white gloves for daytime functions! But Eleanor and I went into Enterprise, on our first shopping mission, in search of them. Enterprise, a neat little town with a statue of a boll weevil right in its center, consisted of a five-and-dime store, a hardware store, and a ladies’ dress shop. It was like going back in time, but we found our little white gloves in the dress shop and were ready for our first ladies’ function.
Dick and I moved into our house on post at the end of the summer, and I busied myself decorating our quarters—which were huge compared with our one-bedroom apartment in Hawaii—while Dick and his classmates were totally immersed in their studies and began to fly. Each class was made up of a cross-section of officers from all branches of the Army. The first female Army aviator had graduated from Fort Rucker earlier that year, and Dick’s class had one female student. Her name was Vicki, too, and she was Dick’s “stick buddy.” (Stick buddies are two students assigned to each instructor pilot [IP]. “Stick” refers to the cyclic, the helicopter’s control arm, which sits between the pilot’s legs.) Dick’s class had international students from Germany, Israel, Morocco, and Denmark. The foreign students were young, about nineteen to twenty years old
on average, and for most of them it was their first time away from home. We invited them to our house frequently, and became especially close to Moha Oulidad from Morocco and Elan Frank from Israel.
After everyone in the class had soloed, we wives were allowed to go out to the airfield and watch our husbands fly. I watched Dick come in for a landing, and after he shut down the aircraft, he got out and helped me climb in. As I sat next to him in the tiny Plexiglas bubble of a cockpit, I looked at all the switches, knobs, and controls and couldn’t believe he had learned to fly a helicopter in the short amount of time that we had been at Fort Rucker.
Once the first phase of flight school was done, Dick was definitely on his way. While he was a natural at flying and did really well academically, we never took that for granted. Each phase was different and progressively more difficult. Every flight was graded, so there was always the potential for a screw-up. A busted check ride would result in a dreaded pink slip; too many pink slips, and you were out of flight school. But Dick had more than pink slips to be concerned with, as I was awaiting the results of a pregnancy test.
The day I found out I was pregnant, Dick came home from class and told me that his assignment after graduation would be a short tour in Korea. I was in my usual position—hanging over the toilet, gagging—when he made his big announcement.
I looked up at him and said, “But I’m pregnant!” It wasn’t how I’d envisioned revealing the news.
“Wow, Vicki, that’s great!”
“It is, but would you please explain what a ‘short tour’ is?”
“It’s a one-year, unaccompanied tour in Korea, meaning I’m not sponsored to bring dependents.”
A quick calculation told me that my due date was approximately the same as his departure date. What should have been a joyous occasion was turning into a significant emotional event for me. That night over dinner, we discussed every possible scenario. I had to work extra hard to keep the whine out of my voice. “What if I come to Korea when the baby is a few months old and you’ve had time to settle in?”
“Maybe; we could think about that. But, Vicki, here’s the reality: I will most likely live in the barracks at Camp Casey, up near the demilitarized zone (DMZ), so you would have to live in Seoul by yourself with a new baby. The Army will not pay for anything for you and the baby because you are not command-sponsored. I just think it’s too risky.”
It was so weird to be talking about a baby that we had just barely found out we were having.
“But what will I do? Where will I go? I can’t stay here after graduation.”
“I honestly think the best thing would be for you to go home to Vermont. Look, I know this isn’t what we planned, but I will have to do a short tour sometime in the very near future. Don’t you think it would be better to get it over with now, while the baby is too young to remember?”
For the next twenty-four hours, we discussed all the pros and cons and realized there were far too many reasons why I shouldn’t go to Korea. I needed to wrap my head around the whole idea quickly, before I called my parents. I knew that my attitude would shape their reaction. Using what I thought was an unemotional voice, I called and told them the news. “Guess what? We’re having a baby!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Congratulations!”
Then I totally blew it when I started crying and blurted out the part about the short tour to Korea.
“What do you mean, Dick is going to Korea?” They were so shocked, they just kept asking why he had to go. “And where will you live?”
“Um . . . I was wondering if I could come home and live with you for the year.”
“Well, of course you can. We would love to have you and the baby!”
Just like that, I felt better. I knew that I could get through the year with the love and support of my family and Dick’s.
Excitement and nervousness over being pregnant (and the nausea) took over all my waking thoughts those first few months. I read books on natural childbirth and the Lamaze method, which was so popular in the ’70s. We would have to teach ourselves, since the small hospital at Fort Rucker didn’t offer the classes.
As had happened before, once I got busy with substitute teaching and the many planned social events for the wives, I didn’t dwell on Dick’s short tour quite as much. I still didn’t like the idea, and it was always in the back of my mind (and always the subject of our planning discussions), but I was able to accept it. Once I did that, I could live in the moment and enjoy life.
After Christmas in Vermont with our families, Dick began the most difficult and final phases of flight school: tactics, instruments, and night flying. He continued to do well but had to spend a little more time studying. When he had to memorize his emergency procedures (there were at least fifty of them, written on little index cards), I was his quizzer. I would sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor, resting the index cards on my growing belly, while he soaked in the tub, nursing his latest basketball injury or sore muscles. I learned the emergency procedures right along with him, until I probably could have passed the exam, too. It was in those sweet little moments with Dick that I realized, How wonderful my life is. I’m married to my best friend, and our love for each other is far more significant than any short tour.
As my stomach grew, so did our excitement about the living being inside me that would enter the world and be our child. We were convinced it was a boy (no ultrasound, just my intuition), and we chose the name Clinton Richard—a combination of both of our fathers’ middle names and Dick’s name. Also, we were big Clint Eastwood fans.
Our upcoming move posed some challenges for us. I would be almost nine months pregnant, so, after much discussion, we decided that I would fly to Vermont and Dick would drive the Corvette there. His parents were coming for graduation, on their way back from Florida, and they would follow Dick and make the three-day drive to Vermont together.
Suddenly, it was time. Dick gave the speech at the formal ball the night before graduation, and each of the wives received our own diploma and a pair of miniature flight wings for having supported our husbands during flight school. As we left the Officers’ Club, each student pilot stopped at the big wooden board in the lobby, where nine months before, on the first day of class, each had put up a pair of wings. If they made it through the training, the night before graduation, they retrieved their wings to be pinned on at graduation.
I sat with Dick’s parents at the graduation ceremony, and the three of us couldn’t have been prouder as we watched Dick receive his diploma. Then, in what would become a family tradition, I pinned his wings on him.
We took a lot of pictures that morning with all of our friends. As a class, we had become very close, not just the student pilots but the wives, too. It had been an intense nine months as we’d shared in one another’s successes and failures. It was hard to imagine all of us going our separate ways, knowing that some of us might not see each other again, but we exchanged addresses and vowed to stay in touch.
PS: We wives learned a lot that year. We learned about flying while our husbands went through their training; we learned etiquette and Army protocol. But what Fort Rucker did not teach the wives of Navy Blue Flight 03/77 were the dangers of being an Army helicopter pilot. They didn’t talk to us about the sleepless nights we would spend while our husbands were out flying with night-vision goggles, or the risks of flying in the mountains of Korea during a snowstorm or flying combat missions in the deserts of the Middle East. They didn’t talk to us about mechanical failure. They didn’t warn us that in an instant, we could lose a loved one or a close friend. Maybe it was just as well—maybe we didn’t want or need to know any of that at that point. We were young, carefree, and on top of the world. We would learn those lessons on our own.
5
We’re Having a Baby . . . and a Short Tour, Too!
The flight from Dothan, Alabama, to Burlington was long and grueling, with stops in Atlanta and Boston. The last leg of the flight, in a small ten-seat plane
, flying over the mountains in a blizzard, had me gripping my armrest for all it was worth. I was so glad to be safely on the ground.
Dick arrived two days later from his road trip up the East Coast, and we got settled into my parents’ house. Dick, never one to sit around and wait for anything, decided to work at his dad’s Chevrolet dealership in the parts room and washing cars. It was the kind of manual labor he was used to in the Army, and it kept him busy and out of my hair.
I busied myself putting away my baby shower gifts, washing and folding all our tiny newborn outfits, and setting up a nursery. I had so many conflicting emotions: joy over the upcoming birth of our first child, anxiety about what lay ahead, and dread over Dick’s leaving for twelve months. Much as I tried to focus on the birth, not on Dick’s departure, it was hard to do because the two were intertwined.
The clock kept ticking, but the few times I saw my obstetrician, he seemed so blasé that I could tell he didn’t fully grasp our situation. I doubt that he had many patients who were Army wives whose husbands were going on a short tour to Korea. Finally, when my due date arrived and nothing had happened, the doctor agreed to induce me the following week. But then, as often happens, I went into labor on my own.
Clinton Richard was born on April 9. I was so lucky—it was just a few hours of labor and an easy delivery, he was healthy and beautiful, and the waiting was over. It was the best feeling in the world—nothing quite like it. I got out of the hospital on Monday, we christened him at St. Mark’s Church on Tuesday, and Dick left two days later.
Those couple of days before he left, I was in a fog. Exhausted from childbirth and very little sleep, I felt numb. We both just wanted to get the good-bye over with. But then reality set in on the day Dick left. I was not feeling well enough to take him to the airport, so his parents and younger brother, Bobby, took him. I tried to muster a smile, but I don’t think I succeeded.