by Vicki Cody
I had thought this mission would be similar to Operation Desert Storm or even Clint’s previous deployment to Afghanistan: a buildup of troops, some waiting; then, after the Air Force bombed and paved the way, the Army would go in and work its way up through Iraq, take over Baghdad, and capture Saddam Hussein, and then it would all be over, all neat and tidy. Our troops would come home; life would get back to normal. I thought Clint would be gone maybe six months. Now I realize it wasn’t so much that I was naive as that I was just scared. I needed to dream up my own version of what I thought would happen, because that made it easier to handle, easier to sleep at night, and easier to get through the weeks and months. I could handle my version better than I could handle the reality of war.
Wynonna Judd called right after the war started. She was watching it on TV and worrying about Clint. She told me she had been sitting there with both her kids next to her, all safe and warm, and she had thought of me.
“How do you deal with this?” she asked me. “How do you let your son go, knowing how dangerous it will be? As a mother, I can’t imagine how hard it is.”
“It is the toughest thing I’ve been through. But we did the best we could to raise our sons, and now we have to let them make their choices and allow them to follow their dreams. I just never envisioned their dreams would lead to this!” Then I continued, “I feel like I’ve spent my whole adult life waiting by the phone. In the beginning, I was waiting for word from Dick that he was safe, and now I’m waiting for the same from my son.”
“Hmm . . . That sounds like a country song, Vicki.”
We both chuckled. Wynonna lifted my spirits that night. There was something about verbalizing my feelings to her that helped me see the situation for what it was. I had no control over what was happening in Kuwait and/or Iraq. I knew the worst was yet to come, when Clint and his unit would leave the relative safety of Kuwait, and that I had better gird my loins for that.
Clint called a few days later. “Mom, I just wanted to say good-bye.”
Then we got disconnected. I stared at the phone, ready to cry, so afraid that that was it. After two more attempts, he got through and said quickly, “I just wanted to say I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too.” And then, as I had done so many times in the past with Dick, mustering all my courage, I told him simply, “Be careful, fly safe, do what you need to do, but don’t do anything foolish. We are already so proud of you.”
The following weeks were some of the toughest I had ever experienced, certainly as a mother. Once Clint and everyone else began moving forward through Iraq, there was no word from him, just what we saw on TV. There were nights when we couldn’t sleep, nights when I told Dick to go to the Pentagon and see if he could find out something, anything. I didn’t care what information he could gather; I just needed some indication that Clint and his unit were okay. One night, while pacing in front of the TV, Dick turned to me and said, “I never knew how hard this would be—being back here, waiting and watching. How difficult it must have been for you all those times I was gone.” I had never felt closer to Dick than I did during those long, scary nights at the beginning of the war.
About that time, a huge sandstorm blew through the desert of Iraq, just when Clint and his unit had made it halfway to Baghdad. I had been so worried about the Iraqi army, Saddam Hussein, chemical weapons, weapons of mass destruction, and Clint’s helicopter getting shot down, I hadn’t considered or anticipated the fury of Mother Nature. For three long days, Dick and I did not sleep. I had never felt such fear in my life; it was worse than anything I had ever felt for Dick, and I honestly didn’t think I could take the stress. You see, on those scariest of nights, we were just ordinary parents, like all the other parents out there. It didn’t matter who we were or that Dick was a three-star general and the G-3 of the Army; nothing could guarantee that our son would be safe. The only advantage we had was that Dick could go to his office at the Pentagon and check for updates on all the units in the Army. For that, I was grateful.
Whenever the phone rang at night—and it rang a lot because of Dick’s position—I held my breath, waiting to hear him say something that would clue me in to what the call was about. It was never good news—soldiers wounded or killed. I lived in constant fear that the phone call would be about Clint. Sometimes it was about someone we knew, and then, while I felt relieved that it was not our son, I would lie in bed and think about some parent or spouse who was receiving the most dreaded news.
When I was so beside myself with fear that I wondered how I would get through the war, life presented me with an opportunity that led me down the path that I had been looking for. The Army set up a tollfree hotline for family members, and one day a week that winter and early spring, I answered phones at the Army’s Community and Family Support Center (CFSC). I had a big binder full of information, phone numbers, anything and everything you could think of that might be relevant to a family member who had a soldier deployed. We were there not to answer questions about the specifics of the war but rather to answer more basic questions about the Army in general and to steer the callers in the right direction.
After a few weeks of taking phone calls, I realized that it wasn’t just technical information I was giving out to the strangers on the phone; it was reassurance and comfort. I was living what they were living, I understood their worry and fears, so I was able to connect with them. Answering their questions made me realize how much I knew about the Army from my years as an Army wife. I would go home from my volunteer work feeling good that I was possibly making a difference, and that helped me get through some difficult times. Still, it wasn’t enough. And then the seed of an idea began to form in my head.
One night while Dick and I were walking Barkley, I relayed my thoughts to him. “There has to be a way that I can reach more people. I feel like I have so much more to give—thirty years’ worth of experiences that I want to share.”
“What are you thinking, Vick?”
“What if I wrote down all the basic information that I’m giving out on the phone—information about the Army and deployments, my personal experiences—and got someone to publish it? We could hand out the book to parents and family members. We have a lot of information for spouses, but there’s nothing for parents of soldiers.”
Dick thought it was a great idea, so I began with an outline and told myself I would just see where it led me. For me, once again, the writing gave me something to focus on besides worrying about Clint and the war. Even so, it was hard not to dwell on what was happening in Iraq. I couldn’t avoid the news; we were inundated with images and headlines that made it difficult not to freak out. Private Jessica Lynch was captured; an Apache helicopter was shot down and the two pilots captured for a brief time; there were sandstorms; the tanks of the 3rd Infantry Division were rolling through the desert toward Baghdad as the 101st provided air support; US casualties were mounting in the battles of Fallujah, Nasiriyah, and Najaf; and so on and so on. How could I sleep at night with all those images swirling around in my head? I would greet Dick every night with the same question: “How is Clint’s unit? Have you heard anything at all?”
He would always reply, “They’re fine, Vicki.” But that was never enough. I always needed more.
We went down to Fort Rucker at the end of March for Tyler’s graduation from flight school. Like his father and brother before him, Tyler took his wings off the board at the Officers’ Club the night before graduation, and the next day Dick and I and Brooke pinned the wings on him—the very same ones that Dick and Clint had worn. We had a little party back at our guesthouse, and Tyler’s buddy and his parents came over for refreshments. It was a very special occasion, but at the same time I was filled with worry because we had not heard from Clint in weeks.
While we were celebrating, Dick got a call on his special satellite cell phone and went outside to answer it. When he came back in, he rushed over to me.
“Clint and his unit are fine; they’ve been involve
d in quite a fight in the city of Hillah, but everyone is okay.”
“What do you mean? What can you tell me?”
“That was the Army Operations Center [Dick’s office]. I was given the status of all the units that had been involved in combat. Clint and his unit are fine—that’s all I know.”
The fact that he looked so relieved indicated to me that Clint had been in real danger. To be celebrating with one son while our other son was in harm’s way was more than even I could compartmentalize. But I was good that day and hid my feelings from everyone except Dick, who knew me all too well.
April 9, 2003, was a day of celebration for the United States, as the Army rolled into Baghdad and officially took control of the city. I watched on TV as the statue of Saddam Hussein was toppled. It was also Clint’s twenty-sixth birthday, the second one in a row that he had spent in a combat zone. I had sent him a birthday box but didn’t know then if he’d gotten it.
We got sporadic mail from him, and in one letter he described a little bit about flying his Apache helicopter through the desert. He never mentioned what the combat had been like; instead, he talked about having been on the move for weeks and how they had finally settled at an airfield near the city of Mosul. He detailed his living conditions in a very matter-of-fact way, never complaining about the lack of hot showers, hot meals, phones, or Internet. His letters were always upbeat and funny. Reading them, I thought, I am so glad both our sons inherited our sense of humor.
On May 1, President Bush declared the end of combat operations in Iraq and the beginning of an “occupational” force. I believed that my son would be coming home by the end of the summer.
Finally, on Mother’s Day, I got my first call from Clint. Dick and I were walking down by the Iwo Jima memorial when his cell phone rang. I sat down on the steps of the monument and talked to Clint. Tears streamed down my cheeks when I heard his voice for the first time in six weeks. It was the best Mother’s Day gift I’ve ever received. He sounded good, so normal, and that was all I needed.
Clint said they were being told that they would stay just long enough to get things stabilized, and then the National Guard and Reserves would come in to replace them. That was what we had all been hoping for.
In June, we gathered in Texas for Tyler and Brooke’s wedding. As we celebrated with family and loved ones, I thought back to when Dick and I got married and all the excitement of the new adventure awaiting us. The joy I felt for Tyler and Brooke was tempered by the fact that there was a war going on and I didn’t know what that would mean for them. Dick took Clint’s place as Tyler’s best man, and when he read the letter that Clint had sent, there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd. I hated that while we were celebrating such a big event, two important people were missing: Clint was in Iraq, and my dad was gone.
Tyler had already begun a Longbow (the newest version of the Apache) course at Fort Rucker and had about two more months before he and Brooke moved up to Fort Campbell. He had orders for 1-101st Aviation Battalion, the Expect No Mercy battalion, the very unit that Dick had commanded during Desert Storm. Tyler and Clint would be in the same aviation brigade, just different battalions.
Just days after the wedding, I watched Dick on the news, giving a Pentagon briefing about extending the length of deployments, as the situation in Iraq was not nearly stable enough to allow our troops to leave. When he came home that night, I knew what he was about to tell me. He looked more fatigued than usual, weighed down by the world.
“Clint’s unit will be staying in Iraq for another eight months.”
Just when I’d thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.
“You know what this means: when Tyler signs in to the 101st, he will join Clint’s unit in Iraq.”
The dream world that I had been living in exploded. My version of reality had the 101st coming back before Tyler got to Fort Campbell. I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. I just looked at Dick. When he hugged me, I sensed that he was as overwhelmed as I was. All I could think was, How in the world are we going to get through this one—both of our sons in Iraq?
Clint called almost immediately and talked to his dad. I heard Dick say, “No, Clint, probably not by Thanksgiving . . . longer than that.”
When I got on the phone, I could hear the despair in Clint’s voice. He had begun his countdown and was down to ninety days. Eight more months was pretty significant. I couldn’t control my crying, which I knew was upsetting for Clint, and I hated myself for doing it on the phone.
“Mom, calm down. It’s no big deal. I’ll be fine.” And then, in an upbeat voice, he said, “This means Tyler will be coming, so we’ll be together. That will be great! Tell Tyler I’ll be waiting for him when he gets here.”
We talked to Tyler later that night. He asked how Clint took the news. And then he said, “With me going, it will give Clint something to look forward to. We’ll get through it together.” I love these boys for thinking of each other, I thought.
Tyler was trying to explain everything to Brooke, who was trying to explain it to her parents. My heart ached for them; they were newlyweds and would have to make some adjustments and decisions that they hadn’t planned on. While there had always been the possibility that Tyler might have to deploy, we had figured, like many others, that since combat operations were over, the troops would start coming home. Dick and I spent the rest of the night on the phone with our parents and family members, who wanted to know what it all meant.
I desperately needed some quiet time. I had so many distractions in my life that I was having trouble hearing my inner voice. I needed to listen to and follow my instincts, and I was certain that if I began writing again, my purpose would become clear. It seemed like everywhere I turned, I saw signs that pointed me in the right direction. As I finally put pencil to paper, I thought back to 1975, when Dick deployed right before our wedding, and how I had nothing to guide me or my parents—or Dick’s, for that matter. I thought about Tyler preparing to leave his brand-new wife. I thought about Brooke’s parents and how confused and worried they were, as no one in their immediate family had served in the military, and I thought about all of our friends who had sons and daughters serving. It was for them and all the other moms and dads out there who had someone serving that I wrote my book. I designed the chapters around the needs of the people in my life and the ones I had been meeting and talking to on the phone. Suddenly, it was all clear to me.
I had already pitched my idea to the Association of the United States Army (AUSA), a professional nonprofit association that represents the US Army on Capitol Hill and in the local communities. They liked my idea and, thankfully, said they would get the funding to publish my booklet so that it would be free to everyone, as I didn’t want anyone to have to pay for the information I wanted to share.
Meanwhile, in Iraq, the insurgency was growing and the country was becoming more dangerous and unstable. Dick was working day and night to keep up with the demands and requirements of an army at war. The second and third orders of effects of invading Iraq proved more challenging than the actual invasion. The war planners at CENTCOM had not counted on a sustained occupation force. The vacuum that was created when the US military toppled Saddam Hussein’s regime and took control of Iraq enabled sectarian violence between the three main religious groups, and the presence of al-Qaeda thwarted any efforts at nation rebuilding. It was total chaos, which made the country too unsafe for the nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) to come in and provide support and assistance. It was up to our military to do all of that. Dick explained to me that it was just the beginning of a very long and protracted mission in Iraq.
Clint’s letters continued to be upbeat, in spite of his pitiful living conditions and the intense summer heat in Iraq. His unit had settled into what would be their “home” near Mosul for the remainder of the deployment. He started a new countdown: to when his brother would arrive. My only pleasure was sending him goodie boxes with anything I could think of that might make his life a l
ittle bit better. He started writing a monthly newsletter to keep up with all the packages and letters he was receiving from so many family and friends. His newsletters were entertaining and often hilarious, and they got even funnier once Tyler arrived and gave Clint more material to write about.
Tyler signed in to the 101st Airborne Division at Fort Campbell. He was given a few weeks to get in-processed and get Brooke settled before he left for Iraq, sometime around the end of September. Time passed quickly for them, as they had a lot of ground to cover. Tyler, having grown up in the Army and having spent much of his youth at Fort Campbell, knew his way around the Army and the area, but for Brooke, it was all new. I was reminded of my first year in Hawaii, trying to learn everything about Dick’s job and the Army. I knew Brooke was overwhelmed and that her experience was much more difficult because her new husband was leaving for a combat zone. Dick and I spent a lot of time on the phone with them, answering their questions, listening to their concerns, and supporting them in whatever they decided to do.
Suddenly it was time and we were heading back down to Fort Campbell to say good-bye to Tyler. It was the first time I saw Dick struggle with his game face, I think because of the realization that both of our sons would now be in a dangerous combat zone.
Dick left to go back to DC, as he had an already-planned trip overseas to Iraq. I had a few days alone with Tyler and Brooke, and then her parents arrived from Texas. I was glad for their company; I didn’t feel so alone with my fears. I could only imagine what they were feeling and thinking. I tried to be strong and reassuring for everyone, but my heart was breaking and I had no game face left. Saying good-bye to Tyler was agony; there is no other way to describe it. I was scared for both my boys and our new daughter-in-law; my worries had tripled.