by Vicki Cody
On the way home from an FRG meeting, Dick finally said what he had been trying to verbalize for days: “Vicki, I look at all those young moms with their kids, and I realize that’s how it was for you every time I left. I see how hard it is for them. I now know what it’s like to be the one left behind.”
“Hallelujah! Finally, after all these years—validation!”
“Vick, I knew it was hard for you whenever I went away; I just never saw it from this point of view until now. I’m sorry I put you through so much when our kids were young.”
Given the instant gratification of cell phones and the Internet that the modern era offers, I was used to talking to both of my boys on a daily basis. Those early weeks of Clint’s deployment in Afghanistan, he didn’t even have e-mail, so that was one of the hardest things for all of us. But it forced us all to get back to basics: writing letters. Like his dad, Clint was a good letter writer—insightful and usually funny. I lived for the mail again, just as I had when Dick was gone.
In early April, Dick made an official trip to Afghanistan and Kuwait to check on his soldiers. I was in Vermont with my family for the one-year anniversary of my dad’s death. It was also Clint’s birthday, and I missed him especially during that time, but I had sent a birthday goodie box over with Dick.
Dick called from Afghanistan and said that Clint was doing great. “Hey, Vick, guess what? I got to fly a mission with Clint. We flew from Kandahar up to Bagram with Clint as flight lead and mission commander. I flew behind him in another Apache. It was great!”
“That is so neat, Dick. I wish I could’ve seen it.”
Clint called later to give me his rendition of their flight. He said that while they were flying in formation, his dad veered off and left the formation. Clint told me he got right on the radio and said, “Eagle 6, this is Blue Max 26. Say your position!”
“Mom, I have no idea what he was doing, but he was shooting at something in the mountains. I ordered him to get back in formation, as briefed! Mom, I’ve waited my whole life to be able to give Dad an order!”
We had a good laugh over the whole incident, but I was glad I hadn’t known in advance that they would be flying together, or I would have been really worried. And by the time Dick got back to the States, the story of Lieutenant Cody’s having given General Cody a direct order was already circulating the halls of the Pentagon.
Once Dick returned, I hung on his every word and pumped him for any information pertaining to Clint. He told me Clint was doing well and had flown great in Operation Anaconda.
“He was in combat?”
“Well, of course, Vick—that was the whole idea of his going over there.”
“But I thought you said he would have time to get oriented!”
Dick just shrugged and proceeded to tell me all about his visit and how nice it was to see not only Clint but all of his other Screaming Eagles. He had awarded air medals to Clint and most of the pilots in his unit, and had also awarded the soldiers of Task Force Rakkasan their coveted Screaming Eagle combat patches, which they would wear on their right shoulders forevermore.
Dick told me, “That evening, when I went around to visit my soldiers, I found them in their tents, sitting on their cots, sewing on their new combat patches. Vicki, it was so poignant to see those tough, gritty, battle-tested soldiers trying to sew.”
“Is that what you did when you got your combat patch in Desert Storm?”
“Yes, and I remember it like it was yesterday. We sewed them on before we went to bed that night. It never changes—each generation of soldiers so proud of what they’ve accomplished, so proud of their unit, so proud to be a Screaming Eagle.”
I thought, A new “band of brothers” has emerged, and Clint is among them. He now wears the same combat patch as his father.
While all that was going on, Tyler got his orders for flight school. He wanted to fly Apaches like his dad and his brother. He also told us he was going to request the 101st Airborne Division for his first assignment after flight school, so he could serve with Dick and Clint. Tyler proposed to Brooke that spring, and we looked forward to their wedding the following year.
My life consisted of attending a series of FRG meetings; addressing all the usual needs of the soldiers, both the deployed and those back in garrison, the spouses and the families at Fort Campbell; and at the same time trying to get through Clint’s deployment. Dick had said all along that the deployment would most likely be six months, but there was no concrete return date. I was thankful for my busy schedule and for being surrounded by spouses who inspired me every day.
As Tyler’s graduation was almost upon us, I made his scrapbook, and, as with Clint’s, it was so gratifying looking back on Tyler’s life and putting it into a book for him. It just reinforced for me what a great kid he was.
During a phone call with Clint, I sensed a weariness in his voice. The living conditions were getting old and the heat of summer had kicked in, and when they weren’t flying missions, they were bored and had a lot of downtime. I felt guilty that our lives went on while Clint’s was on hold in Afghanistan. I hated that he wasn’t with us, doing all the normal things. He said he had no way to get a graduation gift for Tyler, but he had an idea.
“Mom, I know what I want to do for Tyler. Go over to my house, go in my footlocker, and get Dad’s flight wings, the ones you pinned on me, and also Dad’s old flight bag. I want Tyler to have them; it’s his turn now.”
Dick had given Clint his original wings and flight bag before Clint left for flight school. The flight bag was old and outdated, but it was full of history and it bore the patches of all the aviation units Dick had served in. I was so touched by Clint’s thoughtfulness that I cried as I rummaged through his footlocker. I loved that Clint had thought of the gift all on his own, and I loved that he wanted to hand down to his brother what his dad had given to him.
When we headed out to College Station for the last time, I again felt that tug on my heart that I always had when we were closing a chapter. We got to meet more of Brooke’s family and enjoyed our time with them—although Tyler and Brooke were going to wait until the following summer to get married, and I sensed that Brooke’s parents were concerned about Army life and what their daughter was marrying into. I thought, How in the world can I explain this way of life to them? During that initial visit, I didn’t even broach the subject—we were busy with all the graduation festivities—but Brooke’s mom talked to my mom at one point that weekend and my mom told her, “I know how hard it is to have your daughter move away, but Vicki and I are as close as any mother and daughter can be, in spite of the distance.” I was so proud of my mom for sharing that with Brooke’s mom. And who better than she to talk about that?
When Tyler signed in to flight school at Ft. Rucker, I went down to help him get settled in his apartment, as I had with Clint. He was mentally preparing himself for what lay ahead for him.
“Mom, do you realize I have not only the pressure of being Commander Cody’s son but also the pressure of being Clint’s brother?”
“I can’t imagine what that must be like, Ty.” I was nervous for him, as I had been for Clint, and I thought, What if he can’t do it—like, what if he isn’t cut out for flying?
Dick’s advice to Tyler had been simple: “Do the work, study hard, and give it all you’ve got. You’ll be fine.”
But I understood what Tyler was saying. I knew it was tough on both our boys because of who their dad was, and Tyler did have more pressure on him than anyone. I was so relieved when he got through the first weeks and started flying. He took to it like just his father, his brother, and his mother.
Our time in the division was almost up, and Dick’s replacement had been named: Major General David Petraeus. It was an emotional time as we prepared to say our good-byes to the place and the people who had been such an important part of our lives and of Dick’s career. We were certainly richer for having spent all those years at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, especially 2000-2002, but
it was hard to think that such a big chapter in our lives was coming to an end. When we left Fort Campbell that summer, it would be for the last time. It would also be Dick’s last time in a unit with soldiers. Even if he were lucky enough to go further rank-wise, he would most likely be in staff positions.
The division change of command was festive yet poignant. It took place on a perfect summer evening, and I hated that our boys couldn’t be there, but we had a large number of family and friends to share the moment with us. Wynonna came and sang the National Anthem, which made it even more special. As the sun was setting behind Old Abe on the parade field, we watched the magnificent sight of fifteen thousand soldiers of the 101st Airborne Division and the other tenant units pass in review. I watched Dick’s back as he stood at parade rest, and I knew exactly what he was thinking: he would not be with these soldiers on their next rendezvous with destiny. We both knew the deal, but leaving was harder than we had thought it would be—even harder because we still had US soldiers deployed, including our son.
Right before the change of command, General Shinseki called Dick to tell him that his next assignment was at the Pentagon and that he would be getting promoted to lieutenant general. We had much to look forward to because of the promotion and our move back to Washington, DC, but until Clint returned home safe, none of that mattered.
PS: The day Clint deployed, I felt the harsh reality of Army life up close and personal. If I thought that sending Dick off to war was the hardest thing I would ever do, I was wrong—so very wrong. I had come a long way since my early days as a new Army wife—I had grown and learned to face the challenges of Army life head-on, and not much scared me—but being the mother of a deployed soldier frightened me more than anything I had ever faced.
Thoughts on Deployments
Whenever Dick walked through the door wearing his desert BDUs (battle dress uniform), the reality of his upcoming deployment hit me like a punch in the stomach. It was no longer an abstract notion, something we had been talking about for weeks or months; it was really happening. The change in uniform was but one of the many physical reminders—like a fresh high-and-tight haircut, arms hanging limp after receiving the multiple shots required for overseas travel, a meeting with a JAG officer to get a power-of-attorney form, kit bags lined up by the door—that signaled the beginning of the actual deployment and meant that the good-bye and the departure were just days away.
Not quite as subtle was the game face that showed up one to two weeks prior to a deployment. For Dick, it was kind of a vacant or distracted look, like he was not really listening to or with me. The first time I noticed it was when he and I were engaged and he was stationed in Hawaii. At that time, I was clueless in the ways of the Army and had no idea what a game face was. Years later, when Dick explained it to me, I thought back on that very first deployment and clearly remembered the look in his eyes. The game face is a state of mind, not unlike what a superstar athlete uses to win at his sport; fueled by adrenaline, it gives soldiers the courage to go into combat. Dick’s game face got better with each deployment. As he once told me, “The game face gets you through the tough times; it helps you keep the edge. Pilots, especially, never want to lose that edge. Once the game face is on, you’ve pretty much already left.”
When they first leave, you feel a sense of relief—relief from the stress, the buildup of emotions, the dread of actually saying good-bye. But that relief is short-lived, because what follows is fear. For me, it was fear that something would happen on the long flight to where he was going, then fear for his safety and what awaited him and his soldiers at the other end. Then it was loneliness and the overwhelming feeling: How will I get through the months without him?
Sometimes these scenes merge and my memories of Dick’s leaving are intertwined with Clint’s and Tyler’s departures. Certainly, there are different emotions attached to sending my husband off and sending a son or sons off to combat. But what never changes, no matter how many times I’ve experienced a deployment, is the overwhelming sense of helplessness and fear mixed in with love and pride. You see, the men in my family don’t just go on business trips or paid sabbaticals or adventures for pleasure; they go on combat missions or, at the very least, training exercises that are almost as dangerous.
I pride myself on being strong before a departure, but right after he leaves, whether it is Dick, Clint, or Tyler, it’s a whole other story—I find myself crying over anything and everything. Recently, I was grocery shopping and my bag of groceries fell off the self-checkout stand, with all the contents smashing and spilling on the floor, creating a big mess. The man next to me immediately started picking things up and then the janitor came and they were both so kind. I stood there bawling like a kid. It wasn’t just embarrassment; Tyler had left for Afghanistan that morning.
Within a week or so, though, my emotions are back in check and my normal routine continues. The first phone call from my soldier is a relief and a turning point. From that moment on, I know I can get through the months.
During Dick’s many deployments, we did not have e-mail, cell phones, Skype, or FaceTime. We had good old-fashioned letter writing and an occasional phone call. When that is all you know, you make it work. I once had the honor of meeting the wife of Medal of Honor winner Colonel Bud Day, who had spent six years as a POW in Vietnam, one of the longest held in captivity. It was the year after Desert Storm when I met Doris Day (same name as the actress), and we chatted about our husbands’ war experiences. When she told me that the POW wives sometimes went two years without a letter, I was speechless. I was amazed at her strength and realized how good I had had it when Dick was in Desert Storm. I’m sure the current generation looks at mine and thinks, How did you get by without e-mail and daily FaceTime? I’ve always said that it’s all relative and you do what you have to do to get by.
When the boys were young and their dad was gone, I knew that keeping our routine and providing my sons with a sense of normalcy and familiarity was essential to our well-being. Being surrounded by other families going through the same thing was the other key ingredient, because no one else understood like other Army families did. I relied on all my usual comfort zones, too; my hobbies and volunteer work served me well, and the care packages and goodie boxes that I sent were as gratifying for me as they were for Dick. They always made me feel useful.
Operation Desert Storm was the first time I felt the impact of instant news coverage. It was a double-edged sword. It was great when I got to see Dick being interviewed when he first arrived in Saudi Arabia because it gave me, our family, and our entire unit such peace of mind. The downside was that we also knew the minute something bad happened. Terms like “breaking news,” “101st Airborne Division,” and “Apache helicopter” would stop me in my tracks, and my heart would pound until I heard the rest of the sentence. The weeks after the ceasefire were even more stressful because Dick’s unit was still conducting combat operations deep inside Iraq. Helicopters were shot down; accidents and all kinds of other incidents made the news and sometimes were reported incorrectly. A journalist calling a helicopter by the wrong name can be devastating to the people back home who are waiting and watching the news.
It seemed like I had just gone through all of that with Dick, and then the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, brought that same reality back into my life all over again. Off and on for the next thirteen years, both of our sons would be deployed, often together. The news arrives even more quickly now, and still the triggering words for me are the same ones. As I stand there staring at the TV, holding my breath, for a moment I think the worst. Then it passes and I move on.
I’ve talked about compartmentalizing my emotions throughout my journey. Over the years I perfected the skill, which continues to come in handy now that Clint and Tyler have begun deploying. It started out as a coping mechanism but became a matter of survival. The compartments were like rooms in my mind, each one for a different fear. I kept the doors shut most of the time because I knew tha
t if a door opened, the fear would consume me. I couldn’t allow myself to give in to it because I had too many people counting on me. It was exhausting, though, keeping those doors shut.
Dick and I now live through the deployments together, both of us waiting for phone calls, e-mails, sometimes a letter. When something happens, it is Dick who gets the first word about it because of his position in the Pentagon. During a visit to the combat zone, Dick spent time with Clint and even flew with him before he flew on to Kuwait for more briefings. During the briefing, Dick got word that an Apache had gone down just outside Bagram, where he had left Clint just hours earlier. Dick said it was the longest seven minutes of his life while he waited to get the tail number of the downed aircraft. He said it was as if time stopped, and for those few minutes he was convinced it was Clint’s aircraft. When he found out that it wasn’t Clint, his relief immediately turned to concern for someone else’s son. Dick confided in me that most days in his office, he lived in fear of a phone call about one of our sons. He finally knew what I had lived with all those years.
One of the hardest things for a mother is not being able to control or fix what your kid is going through. I fixated on the living conditions the first time Clint deployed to Kandahar, Afghanistan. I knew they were primitive; the soldiers slept on cots in tents with no electricity, no running water until later. His first deployment to Iraq was pretty much the same thing. It was so hard for me to block that out of my mind that it took all of my resolve not to obsess about it when I lay in my comfortable, warm bed at night.
But by the time the boys started deploying, I had found my safe haven in my writing. Writing a booklet for parents of soldiers was a hugely therapeutic venture for me. At one point during that process, I kept getting ideas for song lyrics that swirled around in my head, and I ended up taking a little detour. With the help of Wynonna Judd’s manager and a talented songwriter, I ended up cowriting a country song in Nashville. Who would’ve thought that writing would become my passion and my way of coping with the stresses of deployments and Army life?