The Lucky Bastard Club

December 12, 1997

I sat quietly beside the metal hospital bed and held her limp left hand in mine. I had to hold her left, because on her right, the shoulder and chest were swathed in bandage and gauze.  Out in the waiting room, the girls – six of our seven grown daughters – paced anxiously, also awaiting the surgeon’s report.  Her mastectomy was completed; it had gone well, except for a scare with the anesthesia, which had caused her blood pressure to plummet, threatening to take her from me. I gazed steadily at her still form; her breathing regular and slow, machines keeping count, measuring her vital signs.  Her hair, still curly but slightly matted from the surgical cap, was now liberally sprinkled – but not completely – with gray, making her appear much younger than her 72 years. 

The girls, who had flown in from Indiana, Wisconsin and Oklahoma, were worried as they watched her, their mother, aging, growing more frail; wrinkles appearing on her smooth skin. I didn’t see the gray, the wrinkles nor the gradual sagging of flesh that had come with the bearing of eight children. I only saw what I had always seen.  I saw my heart, my life and my wife of 53 years. Today, she had lost a breast to cancer. Unlike many husbands in my position, I couldn’t have cared less about the breast.  Me, I was more concerned about losing her – her laughter, her wit and her cold feet on my back at night.

As I searched her face for signs of awakening from the anesthesia, I thanked God for her.  Though bandaged and hospital-gowned, all I could see was the bright face of my nineteen-year-old bride, dressed in the flowing white of her chiffon nightgown, the blue ribbons fluttering slightly as she moved towards me on our wedding night.  White for purity, more scoffed at than celebrated these days; yet then, a sign of her virginity; her commitment to save herself for only me.  And I, I had saved myself for her, only her. Her fingers moved as she struggled to wake up.  Trying to focus on my face, disoriented, I could see them, the bright blue eyes which had captured my heart so many years ago.

Wed. Oct 25

Darling,

Just a few lines cause I’m so tired I can’t see or sit up. I’m lying in my sack now writing this before I drop off to sleep.

We have five missions now and as I said before ... I’m tired.  I’m just about convinced that it would be better if I weighed about 200 lbs. It would make for more endurance.

Darling ... you seemed so near me all day long today. It seemed that many times my mind would wander or completely ignore the business at hand and dwell on a much more pleasant subject ... you. I thought all about you and how much I love you. I thought of how sweet your hair is and how your eyes sparkle and I longed to rest my head on your breast and have you tell me that you love me. That’s the way you are with me darling and without you I’m sure I could never make it. Because with you ... there is something to fight for. Something to live for ... Someone to love.

I hope you can see just how much these things mean dearest. I do so want you to know how marvelous it is to love and be loved by you.

Forever ...

Jack

I think our first trip to Merseburg was when the reality of war really started to settle in.  I think this was when I made a conscious decision to not share with Joyce the reality of what we were up against.  Of course, the threat of censorship of my letters was always present. But, more than that, I had seen the way worry cast a dark shadow across her crystal blue eyes, and I guess I couldn’t bear to think I would be the cause of that shadow taking residence in her sparkling eyes for the duration of my tour.  Perhaps it was selfish on my part.  I really needed the picture of those eyes, sparkling the way they did, to lift me up when I was down or so bone-tired I couldn’t lift the pen to write.  I decided to censor myself, to protect my sweet wife from the horrible things I had to see and do.  “Keep the love-light shining in her eyes, so blue.”  My sweetheart. So, I decided to leave out the frightening details of our missions.  Why burden her with them, when there was nothing she could do to help?  Instead, I filled my letters with newsy, mundane details of our life at the base.  Then, I could retreat to the safety of her love for me, knowing that it was pure and undefiled by the horrors of war. I could remember the way she looked when I last saw her, and not have to imagine how she would look as she read my letters filled with fear and near-death experiences. So, my double life began.  I would share my fatigue, but not