Row, Row, Row Your Boat

San Diego, California October 24,1967

Sitting there in the soft October night, I wondered how in the name of God would I be able to do what I must. The car was a tight little island that sheltered me from the hardness of a world I had voluntarily taken on. As a bride, it looked exciting and as a bride, I was willing to take my lumps for the man I had promised to love and obey. In 1949, they still said, "obey". But nothing had prepared me for this. Men were down over enemy territory and as the Commanding Officer’s wife, I must tell their wives and children.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

The Vietnam War was three years old when my husband Jim returned to it for the second time. He told me of his new orders over lunch at the Pickle Factory, just down the street from BUPERS (Bureau of Personnel) in Washington D.C.. The restaurant was a favorite haunt for naval officers and we waved to several we knew on our way to an empty table.

Something was up. There was a controlled tenseness about Jim. I could feel the coiled spring of excitement that was ready to snap. Orders were expected and we had made the four-hour drive from Virginia Beach in Washington early in the morning, planning to return the same night. While he visited BUPERS, I shopped in the Marine Exchange, close by. Normally, I would have enjoyed my chance to find new and different things. But uneasiness had settled on me and despite the warm, fall day, I felt cold. My feet weren’t interested in moving and although my fingers touched the silk of a blouse, I forgot to look down at it. Instead, my eyes were fastened on the door. In a short while, our lives would change again and having lived through one tour of combat duty, I never wanted to do that again. But orders are orders and wherever they wanted us, we would go. The coldness in my soul tried to warn me, but my mind simply shit down on the possibility of another Vietnam combat tour.

At the Pickle Factory, we studied the menu, discussed the pros and cons of various sandwiches and I waited. My marriage had been one of waiting and from that, had come control. Somewhere along the way during those eighteen years, I learned how to shift my mind into neutral. It was a survival technique that gave me time to fashion my reactions.

"Patti, they’ve given me an Air Group." It was surgically blunt. In the silence that followed, I rationalized that aircraft carriers with air groups went east to the Mediterranean as well as west to Vietnam. I looked into his face and saw excitement and pride and knew it was not the Mediterranean. He would be returning to combat over the missile laden skies of North Vietnam. The control I was so proud of deserted me and with tears streaming down my face, I fled to the ladies’ room. Eighteen years, a Navy wife and I’m cowering in a booth, pounding my fists against the tile wall.

It took some time, but eventually I returned to the table, head down – not wanting to see the curious glances of the naval officers who always assume wives don’t make waves. Dammit, of course we make waves. We’re human beings, not robots. We just don’t do it in public unless we lose control and God knows, I’ve just lost control.