by Vicki Cody
We wives didn’t get paid for what we did, at least not in money, but the rewards were far greater than any amount of income. For me, the pay was the gratification and satisfaction of knowing that I had made a difference in the lives of soldiers and their families. Because of Dick’s numerous command positions throughout the years and all the various positions I held, I gained an understanding of the Army and learned so much about people and about myself. I took advantage of what the Army offered to commanders’ spouses and attended all of the courses and classes at Fort Leavenworth and Carlisle Barracks. By the time Dick became a four-star general, I felt like I had a Ph.D. in Army life.
Dick and I experienced every kind of trauma in the units he commanded. When tragedy struck or someone died, it was like losing a family member. It wasn’t always aircraft accidents, although there were plenty of those. We dealt with all the other life experiences, like car accidents, training accidents, suicides, and illnesses, too. There were times when we faced something the schools or books hadn’t prepared us for, times when I turned to Dick and asked, “How in the world do we deal with this?”
I’ve often thought how strange it is to have a profession that affords you the opportunity to command soldiers, but just when you’ve gotten things running well—you’ve built your team, led them, guided them, trained them, taken them as far as you can, all the while having the time of your life—you have to hand it all over to your replacement. It’s a heartbreaker. In most other professions, you work your way up, and when you get to the top, you get to stay as long as you are capable. If you are a doctor or a lawyer, you build your practice and run it for as long as you want. But not in the Army.
Dick was doing a great job as the VCSA, but when his time was up, it was really up. There is always someone waiting to replace you, no matter how good you are. The thought of retiring from a way of life that Dick so believed in and loved was overwhelming. I realized that he and I had been going through a grieving process in the months leading up to his retirement. It came over us in stages, much like any kind of grief. At first we were angry about the fact that there was not another job waiting for Dick and that he would have to retire. Then we confronted a fear of the unknown and what we would do at ages fifty-eight and fifty-five, a scary time in our lives to begin anew. And then a variety of other emotions kicked in as we both thought about Dick’s actually taking off his uniform and leaving the Army. House hunting and sorting through thirty-six years’ worth of memorabilia and mementos was part of the process of letting go; I spent an entire evening crying as I looked through all of my recipe boxes and realized the recipes I had collected from my fellow Army wives were like a chronicle of my life. But ultimately, planning Dick’s retirement reception and other family gatherings to celebrate his career served as a form of therapy and helped us reach a point where we began to feel excited about the future.
25
The Last Chapter
If we learned nothing else from our years in the Army, we learned to value the important things in life, which aren’t a fancy house, a big income, first-class trips, or material wealth. When we visited our siblings and civilian friends and watched them build their dream houses, raise their kids in one place, or buy time-share vacations because they could predict their lives, sure, it was enviable. But oh, the benefits Dick and I had accumulated—the experiences, the people, the places we had seen; the challenges and fears we had faced; the joys and love we had shared with our two sons—made us feel like the richest couple on Earth.
One evening in 2006, we were sitting around our dining room table with the Judds—Wynonna, Naomi, and Grandmother Polly. They were in DC for an event, and we had invited them for dinner. Having spent a lot of time together over the years, we were all very comfortable with each other and the conversation flowed easily. The table looked beautiful, with candles lit and fresh flowers, and our enlisted aides served us a delicious meal. Naomi looked around, taking in everything, and then turned to me and said, “You must be so happy now; Dick is a general, and you live in this beautiful house.”
“Actually, Naomi, I’ve always been happy. Even when Dick was a captain and we lived in crappy little quarters, I was happy.” I paused, then continued, “I was just sitting here thinking, Who would’ve thought that one day we’d have the Judds at our dinner table?”
Without missing a beat, Naomi replied, “And I was thinking, Who would’ve thought the Judds would be having dinner at a general’s house?”;
Times like that, and there were plenty of them, were priceless. But it was all coming to a close, now that Dick was thinking about his retirement. Where had the years gone? One minute Dick was a lieutenant with his whole career in front of him, and now, as his was ending, his sons were beginning their own. I would be lying if I said it was easy and that we were ready; we were anything but.
I know plenty of people look forward to retirement—people who don’t love their job, people who are tired or bored and can’t wait to play golf and relax. But we didn’t feel that way, neither one of us. You see, I had come to realize that being a soldier is more than a job, more than a career; it’s an affair of the heart, a way of life. For Dick, it was his raison d’être, and because my life was so intertwined with his, being an Army wife had been my career, along with raising our kids. So the thought of its being over was traumatic for me, too. Neither one of us could imagine any other way of life.
Seeing Dick among soldiers—whether it was one or two, or a crowd of hundreds or even thousands; whether he was on an Army post or in a combat zone, on the wards at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, or serving chow in the mess tent at the National Training Center on the Fourth of July; whether he was pinning on medals and awards or promoting soldiers, swearing in new recruits at Times Square in New York City, leading West Point cadets in cheers at the annual Army-Navy game, checking IDs at the gate at Fort Campbell, or just stopping to talk to a soldier in the halls of the Pentagon—never ceased to be wondrous. He just had a way about him that was unlike that of any other general or leader, and it was consistent from the beginning, even when he was a second lieutenant. Dick had a gift for relating to any soldier, anywhere. In a gathering of them, Dick was always in the center. I had witnessed that for over thirty years, and now, as much as he would miss being among soldiers, I would miss watching him with them. How in the world could we leave that?
Because for the past thirty-six years the Army had pretty much decided Dick’s job, where we lived, and his pay, the thought of that big world out there and having all those decisions to make, at our ages, was daunting and intimidating, to say the least. Things that most people do in their twenties and thirties, like deciding where to live, buying a house, and beginning a career, Dick would be facing at fifty-eight. There were no maps to guide us; it was going to be the mother of all moves.
During one of our many discussions on the subject of where we wanted to live, I told Dick, “I really want to stay in the DC area. It’s felt like home since the first time we lived at Fort Myer. No other place has felt like this to me.”
“I know, Vick, but the cost of living is so high that I would need to get a very good job in order for us to afford living here.”
“Well, just think about it. I’ve followed you everywhere for the past thirty-five years and had little say in where we lived. I’m just putting my vote in early for the DC area.”
“I understand. Trust me, if I can get a good job, we’ll stay here.”
We had watched many other friends and peers retire from the Army in recent years. Some had taken jobs and bought a house, only to find they had made a mistake and had to change jobs and relocate all over again. We didn’t want to find ourselves in that position.
One of the groups Dick played golf with was a group of retired four-star generals, former chiefs and vice chiefs of staff, many of whom he had served with while they were on active duty. He had watched them over the years as they navigated and enjoyed civilian life. They assured him that they would help
steer him and guide him as he made the transition, giving up not just a job but also a whole way of life.
In the meantime, Dick stayed busy making things happen for the Army. The war in Iraq was dragging on, and the mission in Afghanistan had reemerged. The famous “troop surge” in Iraq put more demands on the Army, and deployment lengths increased from twelve to fifteen months. Dick and I continued our travels to Army posts, and by 2008, when we revisited some of the posts we had been to earlier in the war, there were spouses whose soldiers were on their second and third deployments. The questions they posed to us were more about their soldiers downrange than for themselves. That was a shift from what we had seen on previous visits. They worried about battle fatigue, low morale, and PTSD, not to mention the mounting casualties. They were even concerned about equipment and the training of their soldiers. They were counting on Army leadership (including Dick) and the Pentagon to resolve these issues.
At Fort Carson, Colorado, in a meeting with spouses whose soldiers were on their second and third deployments, a spouse told us she was concerned about her husband’s mental state; he was depressed, and she was worried for his safety. She was sitting right in front of me, tears rolling down her face. I was so worried for the young woman and all that she was trying to cope with—not only the dangers of combat but also the fear that her husband was mentally unstable. I was worried about her soldier, too. It warmed my heart to see the spouses on either side of her put their arms around her. I couldn’t wait for the session to be over so I could hug her myself. Before the day was over, Dick had contacted the chaplain in the soldier’s unit in Iraq, and the chaplain had already reached out to the soldier. Still, for every time we made a difference, there were many other times when circumstances were simply out of our control.
During those sessions, the line between my family and those families became blurred. We were living the stress and the worry of having sons deployed, and, like those other families, I was tired of it. The spouses we met—their faces, their concerns, and their fears—stayed with us long after we left them, and I was haunted by the fact that some of them would lose their husbands in combat.
Dick made one last trip to Iraq and Afghanistan to check on the troops, talk to the commanders, and make sure they had everything they needed. For his own peace of mind, he wanted to make sure the soldiers were okay as he prepared to leave the Army. He needed closure. He even got to see Clint. I was thankful for that and, as always, couldn’t wait to hear how our son was doing.
“He’s doing great, Vicki,” Dick said. “He’s so much more mature than I ever was at that age, and he’s a great commander; he always takes care of his soldiers. I’m so proud of him!”
During those years of frequent deployments, I realized that each of our boys, like their dad, had the heart of a soldier and had truly found their calling. They had always been good sons to us, better than any parent could have asked for, but what was just as wonderful to see was each of them maturing into such good, caring leaders.
With the help of his mentors, Dick began to think about job opportunities. It was important for both of us to stay connected to the Army, and he knew he wanted to continue to serve soldiers, and there were lots of opportunities for him to do that in the DC area.
We started house hunting in DC and northern Virginia in late 2007 and early 2008. We were in no position to actually buy a house until Dick had a job offer, but he couldn’t accept one until he retired the following August, so it was a real catch-22. After experiencing the initial sticker shock of the housing prices in the area, we set a limit for ourselves and used those months to narrow our search. Dick was pretty sure a couple of job offers would come his way, so knowing those two pieces of the puzzle made the thought of retirement palatable. We had so much fun looking at neighborhoods and houses that we felt like kids again, excited for the future.
Once we found our dream house, it was like we turned a corner—we began to look forward, rather than back at what could’ve been or should’ve been. I already knew I wanted to write another book, possibly a memoir. I had made an outline and had written some chapters during a self-imposed sabbatical to Florida earlier that year. I had never gone on a trip completely by myself, but I knew that if I was going to try to write, I had to get away from my real life, to clear my head and center myself. I went down to Pompano Beach and sat by the sea, collected my thoughts, and began writing. There were no distractions, no temptations, nowhere I had to be. It was just me, myself, and I, and the ocean, for seven days, and my ideas started flowing. It was exactly what I needed, but I couldn’t stay there forever; my real life was calling to me. When I left Florida, I promised myself that even if I had to put my book on hold temporarily once Dick retired, that would be my time to write. It gave me something to look forward to as the weeks and months flew by and Dick’s last day on the job approached.
Dick went down to Fort Rucker to take his last flight in an Apache Longbow. Tyler was the instructor pilot in the front seat; Dick was in the back seat. Brooke and Austin were on hand as well. When they landed, Dick emerged from the cockpit and found, as is the tradition when a pilot takes his last flight, a fire truck there to hose him down. The pilot holding the big fire hose was CW5 Brian Stewmon, Dick’s former copilot from Desert Storm. Brian had been a brand-new pilot fresh out of flight school back in 1991, when he flew the Task Force Normandy mission with Dick. He went on to achieve the highest rank of a warrant officer and by 2008 was an instructor pilot serving alongside our son at Fort Rucker.
What a way for Dick to end his Army flying career. Later, when I talked to Tyler, he said, “Dad flew really well. I’m amazed by how good he still is!”
And Dick told me, “Tyler is a great pilot, better than I was at that age.”
Dick has gotten to see each of his sons excel, and the mutual respect they have for each other warms my heart. Not every father and son get to experience that, I thought. That was the other piece of closure that Dick needed, I realized—his sons were the future of the Army, and he was now ready to leave it to them.
I hated to miss his last flight, but there was no way I could fly down to Fort Rucker for the day. It was just a week before his retirement, and I was up to my eyeballs in making arrangements, accommodations, and menus for all the relatives and friends who were coming in for the ceremony. It was like planning a large wedding. Dick and I had sat at many a retirement dinner and ceremony and watched people cry at their own events, but we didn’t want to do that—we had too much to be happy about.
Clint came in from Afghanistan, and Tyler, Brooke, and Austin were all able to be with us for the week. Clint, Tyler, and Brooke presented us with a quilt that told the story of our life in the Army, complete with family photos, all the unit patches, and a beautiful poem transferred onto the fabric. It was the most meaningful gift they could have given us.
Dick’s retirement dinner was a wonderful celebration with all the old friends who had made the trip—people we hadn’t seen in years, as well as friends and colleagues from all over the DC area—and for that reason, it wasn’t as sad as I had thought it was going to be. And as our family and more friends began arriving for the actual retirement ceremony the following week, the event turned into a big reunion for my whole family as well as Dick’s. For the first time, all of Dick’s aunts and uncles were able to make the trip. They had been huge supporters of Dick throughout his career, sending cards, letters, and prayers every step of the way, but they had never been able to attend any of his ceremonies. Having so many relatives with us definitely made it easier.
We didn’t have much alone time once our relatives showed up, but one night, as we lay in bed, Dick and I took a few minutes to relive all the wonderful things that had been done in our honor in the past few days.
“Are you doing okay?” I asked him. “It’s pretty amazing, having so many people make the trip here just for us.”
“I know. Just seeing my dad with all his siblings for the first time in a long time is
wonderful.”
“I feel like your retirement has been the best reason for our family and friends to gather. I’m not dreading it like I thought I would. Are you ready?”
“I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
The night before the ceremony, our family and closest friends, about forty-five people, came to our house for dinner. I kept thinking it was like a rehearsal dinner and that the ceremony the next day would be the equivalent of a wedding. We gathered around our dining room table, and Dick and I welcomed everyone. I always knew how much our families meant to us, but it was never more evident than that night before Dick’s Army career ended. As I looked around the room, I felt full of love for my family and Dick’s, and all our extended family members.
I thought about the young Dick Cody, just shy of his eighteenth birthday, who left his home in Montpelier, Vermont, to attend the US Military Academy at the height of the Vietnam War. I’m not sure his grandfather, his parents, or his siblings ever dreamed that the Army would be his career, his life, for the next forty years.
Whether they were sending goodie boxes and letters to Dick while he was deployed; calling the boys and me; or understanding when we missed family gatherings, weddings, birthdays, and anniversaries—our families were the reason we were able to do what we did all those years. As we moved all over the world, they were the constant in our lives; they were the ones we came home to. I knew without a doubt that we could not have done what we did without their love and support. It takes a family to raise and support a soldier, and they were our biggest fans, always cheering us on from the sidelines. And now they were doing that for our sons as they made their own way through Army life. Our experience had come full circle.