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SAMPLE STORIES
Spouse of a Soldier
It was 1990. The winds of war were swirling fiercely. My husband was an F-16 pilot. I knew he would be leaving soon. I had received many words of support and comfort for which I was very grateful. Still, terror gripped me. I knelt in church on Thanksgiving Day and felt the warm stream of tears flow. A small age-worn hand grasped mine. This tiny, frail woman next to me understood. She had sent her husband to World War II, her son to Vietnam, and now her grandson, my husband, to Desert Shield. From this dimunitive form, I drew great strength. For the sake of my husband, my children, and my country, I could now hold back the tears.
Not long after the new year dawned my husband and his comrades strapped on their jets and headed over the ocean. We wives banded together. We laughed together and cried together. We commiserated over all the household catastrophes that only happen when husbands are away. We didn't speak too much of our fears. Those were understood.
Inside I quaked with every scud launch. Every report of a downed plane wrenched my soul. Yet, before anyone else could see the strain on my face, one of the wives would see it. She would speak no words, but would grasp my hands. I would do the same for her. We understood.
The day came when our husbands returned. I had heard that they were coming, but was afraid to get my hopes up. Part of me was steeled for my husband to be missing. When I saw him, tired and worn, step into the hangar I felt like a new bride.
After the band stopped playing, the parade was over, the hugs and kisses were given, and he was home, I could only cry and tremble the way you do after a near-miss head-on collision. I thanked God for my husband's safe return. I thanked God for the loving support of family and friends. I thanked God for the strength of the wives. He understood.
Ten years later we are spouses not wives. The last decade has wrought many changes. Some things, however, remain constant. Whether husband or wife, we are still married to soldiers. When duty calls, the soldier will answer. In fact, he may seem eager to leave those he loves and fight the good fight. It is hard to be married to a hero. The spouse of a soldier is called to understand. Understanding makes you a hero too.
by Denise J. Hunnell, 2001
A Widow's Story....
Dick and I were married May 30, 1964 on a beautiful Memorial Day. After completing four years of college, Dick and I went to Columbus, Ohio where he was sworn in as a 2nd Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps. His first orders were Pensacola, Florida, where he was to become a pilot. I became with child on the way to Florida, and nine months later we had a beautiful baby boy, Mark Randall Basinger on March 21, 1965.
After flight training was completed, Dick was transferred to Camp LaJaun, North Carolina. Soon after he had orders for duty in Viet Nam. Mark was 17 months old when Dick left. It was a beautiful day; we had said our good-byes to everyone except our own special love was expressed in that morning before we went to the train station in Lima, Ohio. As we arrived and Dick was kissing Mark and I goodbye, there was a woman there who said, "I cannot stand to watch this", because she knew Dick was going off to war. The ironic thing was that five years earlier I had met Dick at that train station as a young girl of 18. I was now 23 and Dick would soon be 24.
I said goodbye to my husband and went to my mothers, where we visited daily. Mark and I had an upstairs apartment. One morning in February of 1967, a Marine Corps officer came to my door and informed me that Dick had been wounded in his leg by shrapnel. Dick later called me to say that he almost got to come home. Mark had just turned two years old, and I thought to myself "what would keep Dick alive?" I tried to go on with my motherly duties attending to our son. We would talk to Daddy on the old fashioned tapes that we used to send back and forth.
I was active in the Servicemen's wives club affiliated with the YWCA. My birthday was May 11, 1967, and on May 14 Mark and I were in a Loyalty Day parade in which we rode a wagon with the American flag made of flowers. The next day I attended church for Mothers day. The following day was May 16, 1967; Mark was in bed. I had always checked the front window before I answered the door since Dick had been wounded. This morning I did not check the front window. The door bell rang and I opened the front door. There were two Marines there. They said, "May we come in Mrs. Basinger". As we proceeded up the stairway I said to them, "Is he dead?" They replied, "Yes." My body went numb; I walked back and forth checking on Mark, not knowing what to do next. They complimented me on my behavior. I knew I had to call some people. I called my parents first and then Dad Lorain A. Basinger. Mama said, "Oh God, No" and ran to the fields to tell Dick's father.
Within a half hour reality had set in and I realized that Dick was actually killed one day after my birthday May 12, 1967; they never told me until May 16, 1967. It was a very cloudy day. I knew I had to be a strong wife. I had been trained as a Marine Corps wife. I had to represent my husband in death for Mark and I. All that Mark remembers about the entire event is the color of the carpeting at the funeral home. He was so little, but he still sensed that something was wrong with Mommy.
Dick's remains were sent to Lima and arrived at the same train station we had said our good-byes at nine months earlier. My brother, James Carl Shafer, my Dad, and Dad Lorain A. Basinger met the train; it was too hard for me to go. As they lifted the casket from the train, a very young Navy sailor saluted the casket as it went by him. My brother always said this was one of the most touching things. After the funeral on May 29, 1967, my brother took me back to the apartment. I looked out the window and said "what must I do with my wedding ring?" I took it off my left hand and put in on my right. I knew in reality it was over. My brother said, "there is nothing left to do." The government had sent Captain Gene Gruhler to escort Dick's remains and to look after me. This gave me the strength to face this tragedy.
Captain Richard Louis Basinger has lived on in my heart for 32 years, and also through our son Mark, who is now 34. The love has come back to me through Mark's two daughters, Sara and Kari Basinger and their mother Amy. I am still very proud of our country, and honor the fact that I was a wife of a serviceman. I appreciate all that has been said to my son Mark, who is talking to many men who were with Dick in his Vietnam tour. All I can say is all the information gathered at this time is very, very SPECIAL TO ME AND COMFORTING. I did my best to raise Mark to believe in all the things for which his father died
The death of Marine Captain Richard Louis Basinger in the Vietnam war
Written by his widow : Nelda Sue Shafer Basinger Ludwig
Dreams and Doubts
June 10, 1944
The lunch rush was over and a sharp gust of wind slammed the door shut behind the last customer. I poured a cup of coffee, dished up the last piece of homemade apple pie and sat down. But instead of eating, I stared out the window and prayed with all of my heart that my beloved husband would give me a sign that he was still alive. I sensed in my heart that he was in pain and feared the worst.
I found myself remembering the day that Vic had received his draft notice. It was on his birthday and I was devastated. Why did they want married 32- year-old for heaven’s sake? It didn’t faze Vic and he was eager to serve his country.
We had scrimped and saved for five years to fulfill our dream of buying a business, this small hotel and restaurant on the river in Western, New York. We had not been apart for a night since our wedding, until he went into the Army.
Until now, it hadn’t been that bad. Vic wanted with all of his heart to be a pilot because he loved to fly a friend’s airplane around the countryside near their home every chance he’d get. But the army said he was too old to be a pilot and made him a staff sergeant in the mess hall because of his culinary skills. (He said there wasn’t much you could do with powdered eggs and dried beef!)
The war seemed to go on endlessly, but Vic had just been home on leave a few weeks ago. He was excited about his current assignment where he had learned to fly something called a glider plane. He went on and on with details that I didn’t comprehend, but his enthusiasm was so contagious that I listened attentively. Now he informed me that he would be going to Europe within days. He allayed all fears for his safety by talking about our hopes and dreams for the future. He was convinced that the war would end soon and we planned to move to the big city, buy a larger business and have a child when he returned.
But would he return? Now I wasn’t so sure. It had been four days since reading the front page of the newspaper with the horrible news of all the glider pilots killed in the D-Day invasion of France. I didn’t know for sure where he was, but could put two and two together! The government couldn’t or wouldn’t confirm his whereabouts. My fingers nervously twirled my wedding rings as I prayed again for a sign that he was okay. I sipped the now-cold coffee and took a bite of the apple pie.
And then I saw them. Two soldiers in uniform were standing and talking next to the green jeep parked a few cars down the block. Terror gripped my heart and I prayed like never before…. No God, PLEASE, NO!
They started walking toward the hotel. They were coming inside. The place was empty at 2:30 in the afternoon and I was riveted in place, staring at them. I couldn’t speak. My chest tightened and I winced at the sharp pain from squeezing my wedding rings too hard.
They kept walking towards me. Finally, one of them asked, ”Can we get a couple of beers?” A COUPLE OF BEERS! Beer? Is that all you are here for?
A wave of relief washed over me as I delivered the drinks and explained to them that my husband was missing in action and I initially thought they were bringing me bad news. The soldiers also wanted a room for the night and offered to try to find out Vic’s status but they cautioned that they probably could not get an answer right away.
The next morning, the phone was ringing at 5 a.m. and I picked it up to hear the operator ask me to accept a collect call from Victor Shell. “THANK YOU GOD! Oh Vic, you really are alive! I knew it. I just knew it.“ My anguish vanished as Vic explained that he was still in Georgia and had been injured during a final training exercise. He ended up in the infirmary and couldn’t go on to France and fly the gliders with his squadron. He was disappointed and ashamed that he had not gone on to fulfill his dream. Communications were not good in the infirmary and he just now learned of the hundreds of friends lost when the gliders landed in France. However, something kept whispering to him that he needed to contact me. Since there were no phones on the base that he could use, it was several days before he got a ride into town to call.
What amazed both us the most was that we had been communicating by expressing our feelings and “speaking to each other” without a word, while we were hundreds of miles apart
Sophia Shell
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