Army Wife

by Vicki Cody

  Oftentimes I met him halfway, at the bridge, and made the rest of the walk with him. We came to love those evening walks by the cemetery and up the hill past the Iwo Jima memorial, catching up on the day’s events, whether significant or insignificant. They were little stolen moments in the midst of our busy lives.

  We spent the Fourth of July at the National Training Center (NTC) at Fort Irwin, California. After all those years of listening to Dick’s stories about thirty-day rotations, training in extreme desert conditions, and being in “the box,” I finally got to experience and see for myself what it was like to be a soldier, and how they trained for deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. After a tour through mock villages, complete with real Afghan and Iraqi role-players, we ended up in the big mess tent for a special Fourth of July dinner. We dined with hundreds of soldiers who would be leaving for Iraq as soon as they finished their training. I had met so many soldiers throughout the years, and in all kinds of settings, but never like that—in 116-degree heat in the middle of the desert, with dust and sand everywhere, sweat dripping off all of us. What spirit, what camaraderie they had, young men and women from all parts of our country, ordinary-looking on the outside yet anything but ordinary on the inside, and all heroes to me. I prayed that they would be safe in their travels and would return home to their families.

  In fact, Dick and I had been surrounded by heroes for the past thirty-six years. Arlington National Cemetery and cemeteries throughout the United States are full of heroes, but heroes are not just the wounded and the fallen; they are the men and women who wear the uniform, who continue to deploy, who say good-bye to their loved ones time and time again, sacrificing so much. Heroes are the wounded warriors at Walter Reed in Bethesda, the Center for the Intrepid in San Antonio, and all the other military hospitals. Heroes are the doctors, nurses, and therapists who take care of them, and the chaplains who minister to the soldiers in combat and the families back home. A hero is the young soldier’s wife with two little kids, seeing her severely wounded husband for the first time at Walter Reed and realizing the full extent of his injuries, or the sister who quits her job and moves to Walter Reed to care for her seriously wounded brother. Heroes are these families who stand beside their soldiers and serve their country, too, from the sidelines.

  The day the new chief of staff of the Army was announced, Dick came home from the Pentagon with a defeated look on his face.

  “It’s not that I expected to be the chief, Vicki, but, let’s face it, when you’re in the number-two position, it’s hard not to think about the number-one position. This means there’s no other job for me and that at some point I will have to think about retiring.”

  I went to him and put my arms around him. Unlike me, Dick had never been one to give in to his emotions, but that night I knew he was about as close to tears—or at least a quivering lip—as I had ever seen him.

  Dick had always said to those around him, “Work every job as if it is your last one.” Dick had always done just that, pouring his heart and soul into every role, no matter how big or small, from platoon leader to vice chief of staff of the entire Army. But I don’t think either of us thought this was his last position.

  “What does this mean? What will we do?”

  “I have a meeting with the SECDEF [Secretary of Defense Bob Gates], and we’ll see what he says. But, Vicki, you know me. I’m not going to hang on, hoping for some job down the road. I love being the vice, and I can still make a difference. If he asks me to stay on, I will. But after that, I’ll retire.”

  All I could think was, Retire? We’re not old enough to retire. That’s for other people—not us!

  Secretary Gates did ask Dick to stay on for another year as the vice. We then had a timeline. We told ourselves to put smiles on our faces and move forward, and we continued to remind each other that it had been a great ride. Dick had gone further than we had ever dreamed he would. It just took some time to wrap our heads around the concept.

  Dick had a lot of things he wanted to accomplish, and we both wanted to enjoy the time we had left. Our life was an amazing series of unbelievable happenings and moments. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t exciting traveling with an entourage, flying on a Gulfstream jet, meeting some pretty famous people, attending all kinds of fun events. The power of those four silver stars on Dick’s uniform and the way people reacted to him was at times a heady experience. Yet what I remember most were the small, intimate moments. At an event honoring Stevie Wonder, we were backstage with Wynonna Judd when we ran into Smokey Robinson. When he saw Dick in his uniform, his mouth literally dropped open. In his signature soft voice, he thanked Dick for his service and then asked if he could hug him. I stood there in awe as Smokey Robinson, the Smokey Robinson, whose music we had grown up listening to, hugged my husband with tears in his eyes. He told us that he, too, had served in the Army. Every bit as emotional was the severely wounded soldier trying to stand and salute my husband from his hospital bed, or the little boy and his dad riding in an elevator with us, looking up at Dick with wide-eyed wonder. And when Dick knelt down and gave him one of his General Cody coins, I thought the little boy was going to cry.

  One beautiful spring day, Dick and I went to the White House for Military Spouses Day on the south lawn. Dick just happened to be briefing President Bush right after the event, and since I was going to be with him, we were told that I could wait in the West Wing while Dick had his meeting. After the reception, Dick and I were ushered into the waiting room just outside the Oval Office. I sat down in a chair, put on my reading glasses, and was signing one of my books for Dick to give the president, when suddenly the door opened, and with absolutely no pomp and circumstance, no trumpets blaring, no entourage, in strolled George W. himself.

  He walked up to Dick, and they shook hands. Then Dick turned to me, and the next thing I knew, the president was walking toward me with his hand outstretched. I was startled, as I had not expected to see him. I froze, and as I stood up, my book fell off my lap and I fumbled to take my glasses off. I put the pen and my glasses in my left hand so I could shake hands with him. I was wondering if he remembered meeting us at Fort Campbell back in 2001, but he and his wife crossed paths with so many people every day, there was probably no way. His staff must have briefed him, though, because as he shook my hand, he asked how our sons were and if they were deployed. He then put his arm around me, and the photographer started snapping pictures. I still had the opened Sharpie pen in my hand, which was now behind the president’s back because I didn’t know where else to put it. He was talking to me, and I was answering and smiling for the camera, all the while worrying that I was going to get black permanent marker on my beautiful pale yellow suit or, worse yet, on President Bush’s suit! When no one was looking, I gently laid the marker and my glasses on the antique credenza behind us and hoped that the surveillance cameras and the secret service didn’t think I was up to something! All of that was going through my mind while the president was talking to me. After a few minutes, President Bush said, “Dick, are you ready to brief? Vicki, are you coming in with us?”

  “No, thanks, Mr. President. I’ll just wait outside.”

  As I sat in the reception area in the West Wing, I saw all kinds of important people coming and going with their briefcases and their entourages. I tried to look important; little did they know, I was actually writing a grocery list. And that’s how it was in a nutshell: talking to the president of the United States or to George Clooney at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner one minute, doing daily errands or speaking with Army wives whose husbands were in combat in Iraq the next.

  So, if we ever began to feel special because of Dick’s position, everyday life always tempered the glamour and glitz, and the soldiers and families we met always humbled us and brought us back to reality. We knew how blessed we were, and we tried to never take it for granted that both of our sons had lived through combat deployments. Every time we visited Walter Reed or attended a funeral at Arlington,
we remembered our good fortune.

  Our sons were making names for themselves in the Army and doing it on their terms. Clint was commanding an Apache company in Dick’s old unit in the 101st and doing a great job. He was preparing his unit for yet another deployment to Afghanistan. Tyler went to the Aviation Captains Career Course at Fort Rucker, then got accepted into the Instructor Pilot Course, and became an instructor pilot. Dick and I were so proud of them for the leaders they had become and for handling everything else that went with being General Cody’s sons.

  Meanwhile, I was still worried about the day-to-day stresses of Dick’s job. The traveling, the long hours, the late-night phone calls, and all the attendant responsibilities concerned me. Many a Sunday after church, he would go in to his office, or up to Walter Reed to visit wounded soldiers. I once asked him why he didn’t take Sundays off. He reminded me, “Soldiers in the combat zone don’t get Sundays off.” I never mentioned it again.

  Still, I became even more relentless about scheduling time off for him. I often met with his schedulers and entourage to ask them to work with me to carve out some down time for Dick. He had more energy than anyone his age, and because he loved what he was doing, he rarely said no to anyone. But I also knew there was a limit to how much he could take on before something had to give, and he usually listened to me. Date night became more important than ever, since we spent so much time at large functions and were always with his entourage. I scheduled ski trips, often meeting up with Tom and Gail Greco at our condo in Keystone, Colorado. While Tyler, Brooke, and Austin were at Fort Rucker, we made annual trips with them to the beach along the Florida panhandle. But there were times when Dick needed alone time, and as someone who cherished my own solitude, I certainly understood and made sure he had that, too. If he had any free time, he either played golf or drove up to his hangar at the Carlisle, Pennsylvania, airport. He would fly the plane when the weather permitted or just putter around. I was so glad he still had his passion for flying. He needed that more than ever.

  PS: I remember thinking at one point that Dick and I were on a fast-moving train that would pull into the station for a brief stop and then start rolling again, leaving us barely enough time to unpack and repack our bags. Between our responsibilities with Dick’s job and our family, I just wanted the train to stop for a while. I wanted to relish and appreciate the people and places and things that we were experiencing. Sometimes I just wanted to stop and smell the roses.

  Thoughts on the Nature of the Business

  When we pulled up to the brigade headquarters, Father Di Gregorio, our Catholic chaplain, met us. I practically ran to him. “Is it Dick?”

  “Dick is fine, but there’s been an accident.” I was relieved, but it was short-lived, because I knew that meant someone’s husband had been injured.

  My mom just happened to be visiting me at Fort Campbell when two of Dick’s Apaches collided during training in the California desert. Mom sat with me in the brigade commander’s office that day while I waited for the details and figured out what was needed of me. At one point, my eyes met my mom’s and she looked stunned. Nothing had prepared her for what was happening. One minute she and I were shopping for yarn for a knitting project, and the next we were waiting to hear the fate of four pilots in Dick’s unit. And as many times as I had been through it myself, I was never prepared for the reality. I was so glad for my mother’s company those days after the accident. I remember at one point, she said to me, “Vicki, I don’t know how you live this way.”

  I replied, “I don’t know, either.” But then I thought, It’s just the nature of the business.

  Many times throughout Dick’s career, I found myself struggling to explain our way of life. How do you describe the unique, unusual, sometimes bizarre, often challenging, acronym-filled roller-coaster ride that we call Army life? How do you justify the long hours and low pay, the years spent apart, moving eighteen times in thirty-three years, or the ache in your heart each time your husband or son deploys? My husband didn’t just work in a nice, safe office building: his office was a hangar at the flight line or the cockpit of a very complex helicopter; it was the firing range; it was a tent in a frozen, muddy field in winter, or in the desert of California or Egypt in the heat of the summer; it was an airfield in Georgia or Florida. And his workday didn’t end at 5:00 p.m. if there was still work to be done. It extended to Saturdays after our kids’ soccer games, Sundays after church, holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. Life revolved around training cycles.

  Dick and his fellow soldiers worked, ate, slept, and survived together, as a team. Working in such close proximity, often in adverse conditions, forges a bond and closeness that separates the Army profession from most others.

  For Dick, it was never enough to be just a pilot; he wanted to lead soldiers, too. He seemed born to do so, as he possessed an uncanny ability to motivate and inspire young men and women. Commanding a unit is what most officers strive for as soon as they get commissioned into the Army. Company command is the first level of command, then battalion or squadron, brigade or regiment, and ultimately division. An officer is lucky to be selected for one command at each level, but Dick got more than his share. He commanded twice at each level and then went on to command a division. Some say he had more commands than any other officer in his generation.

  If soldiering is an affair of the heart, then commanding soldiers is an affair of the soul. Command takes every bit of your mind, your heart, and your soul. Commanding soldiers involves so many human dynamics. It’s not just about high-tech equipment, expensive helicopters, gee-whiz machinery and gadgets; the Army is a melting pot of men and women from all backgrounds, socioeconomic levels, religions, and races. When you strip away everything that is the Army, when you peel away all the layers, at the very core, deep in the heart of the Army, you have human beings—soldiers and the families who love them. To Dick and me, whether it was his company, battalion, brigade, or division, that unit became our family. We were like parents who had two years to raise our entire family, two years to make a difference in their lives.

  I can’t think of any other profession that affords a person the opportunity to be the CEO of the equivalent of a midsize company, and at a fairly young age. Dick was not quite thirty-nine when he took command of his battalion, which included 335 soldiers and officers (pilots, crew chiefs, mechanics) and approximately $500 million worth of helicopters and other equipment. But it wasn’t the dollar amount that was so daunting; it was the human assets.

  “If I do nothing else in life, at least I got the opportunity to command,” Dick often said. He treated his soldiers as he would his own sons and provided them with the best leadership he could, and he exacted the same leadership from the commanders below him.

  While Dick was commanding the 101st Airborne Division, as we drove through the main gate after a long holiday weekend, he said to me, “I think I’ll go work the main gate and check IDs with my MPs. They didn’t get the weekend off, and besides, I want to see my soldiers coming back in from leave.” He put on his uniform and walked over to the main gate and worked for the next few hours. You can imagine the reaction of the soldiers and anyone else who came through the gate. There was Commander Cody, their CG, checking IDs!

  So it was only natural that the nature of Dick’s business became my business, too. My role as the commander’s wife was to be strong, positive, and reassuring, much like a mother. I was a coach, mentor, cheerleader, and support system for the spouses and families. I helped form up and run the family support groups within our units. It was something I chose to do and enjoyed every aspect of.

  We Army wives formed the same special bonds that our soldier husbands enjoyed. My friendships were as important to me as my family. And unlike friendships that are based on the amount of time spent together and on living in close proximity, where you can nurture and tend to the relationship, Army friends don’t always have that luxury. We make new friends each place we live, doing it quickly, oftentimes wi
th very little in common besides the fact that our husbands are serving together. We form connections out of mutual respect and sometimes out of adversity, like getting through a deployment together. We pack a lot of history into our time together, knowing that we will have to say good-bye at some point but, all the while, hoping that we will reunite somewhere down the road. Our friendships are able to withstand great distances and months or years apart, but none of that matters when we see each other again. I am lucky to have a handful of these friends whom I carry with me, even today. And while there are many other friends with whom I may not be in constant contact, I know they’re out there, always part of my Army family.

  I’m sure some people see my life as an Army wife as trivial, perhaps insignificant. I’m sure some must wonder why I didn’t go out and get a paying job, how I could have been content to spend my life in support of my husband’s career, and how I could have felt fulfilled doing volunteer work. It’s hard to explain a way of life in which my husband’s job and position did define my role, but having the opportunity to take part in and impact his units was exactly what I wanted to do. I was part of a generation of Army wives who accepted the role, the responsibilities and duties, willingly. Some would call that old-fashioned, and in many ways it was. Maybe I was part of a dying breed of women, but everyone I knew did it, and like our husbands, we saw it as a privilege to be in a leadership position.