The Book
Yes, I have also written a book. I just haven’t published it yet.
And there are a few more books I’d like to write. Writing is very strong medicine.
This book is about my experience as an Army Wife during the Iraq War. It’s about how I got there, and what it was like to be married to the military, and how I got out of there eventually. In fact, I’m calling it “Married to the Military.” But I hear that the Publisher actually gets to select the title, so who knows.
When it does come out, I hope you’ll read it. Actually, I hope you’ll buy it, and THEN read it.
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Having spent the past two years writing my nonfiction memoir, I realized last week that this war is really different from earlier wars. For one thing, in World War I, II, and Vietnam, most of the guys who fought on the front lines didn’t make it home. We didn’t have a large number of Vets with the trauma of FRONT LINE VIOLENCE, we had just a few.
Most of our soldiers are coming home from Iraq– not all, and I wish those men and women peace. But the folks on the front lines (and we had a LOT of front lines) experienced a lot of violence, killing, bombs, blood, anger, fear, resentment, etc etc– and they are coming home to try and live a normal life in America. It’s going to be tough for a lot of them to do that, and the USA isn’t really all that prepared to support their physical, psychological, and emotional challenges. Or the challenges this will bring to their families and loved ones. And, consequently, to the rest of civilian America.
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Here’s my Introduction:
-Intro- Wake Me When September Ends
-By S. Brooke Elliott
It was mid-September 2004, and a Tuesday. Bret, my husband, was a First Lieutenant in the United States Army, stationed at Fort Lewis. His first post as an officer. The phone had rung at midnight the night before—This is it, Bret. You need to get here by 7 am, for the final inspection before we board the plane. We have our orders. We’re going to Iraq.
In a way, I was relieved by the news. We’d been dreading Bret’s deployment since June of the year before, waiting to hear something specific since early August, getting random “practice” calls at 2 am for the past month, just to see if the soldiers really had all their shit together or not.
Bret hung up the phone, turned off the lamp, and pulled me over to his side of the bed. I fell asleep in his arms with my back to his chest, my five-foot-three perfectly folded into his 6-foot-four. It was still dark when I woke to the sound of his shower turning on, the cacophony of thuds, water pelting the plastic tub in the Master Bath. His gear had been turned in and weighed the week before, all but the essentials. He’d had his four days to say goodbye to friends, family, and the places he wanted to remember during the year he was away. It all zeroed down to this morning.
I felt like a traitor for my sudden sigh of relief that the waiting was over, stifled when the sound of the splashing water suddenly stopped. I jumped out of bed and threw on the cloths I’d set aside for this moment—for driving him on-post one last time. For saying goodbye.
Red low-rider corduroy pants that fit like a warm glove, from Victoria’s Secret. A soft, black, knit sweater with a high v-neck, woven of rough silk. Bret had bought it for me before we were married, on a trip he took to Spain, and its loose drape flattered me while still appearing both conservative and “homey.” I didn’t want to be overtly sexy, but I wanted his memory of me on this day to be a good one. Something to keep him company on his flight out of Fort Lewis. Something to show him I cared.
“Hey, Staci, can you grab my boots? They’re by the front door. The tan ones. I think we’re supposed to show up in DCU’s, not civvies.” Bret’s bald head and wide shoulders, still naked, billow out the half-open bathroom door with a cloud of steam. He never turns on the fan in there.
“Sure.” I skip to the bathroom door, and stretch up to kiss the spot on his cheek where I know his dimple would be if he smiled, reaching around the door frame to flick on the switch for the overhead fan. He pulls me in for a quick hug, needing to touch something real. This is it.
“Let me see your towel, honey.” It is the last time I’ll get to dry the inner curve of his spine, the lowest five or six vertebrate, the hollow Bret always misses in back. It is my special privilege to dry that spot.
He hands me his towel, and turns around, shoulders hunched, nose pointed toward plump crooked toes. Bret once told me his feet were a size-and-a-half larger before he started boot camp. Back in 1996 when he was newly enlisted, nobody cared if he got issued the right-sized boots or not. But that was before Bret went to West Point. Before we were even engaged. Now it is 2004. Come to think of it, they didn’t care too much about the fit of his newly-issued Kevlar flack vest last month, either. Bret has a 53-inch chest, and the vest barely fastens. I blot his back, and toss the dripping towel in the hamper, then jog out into the hallway, looking for the new tan boots he’s only had a few weeks to break in. “Want any breakfast?”
“No. But you don’t have to run. We’ve got time.” His voice follows me into the living room. I can see he’s been up for a while. The remaining duffel and pack are closed, and all the gear he’s decided not to pack is shoved to one side, opening a path from the hallway to the dining table, and on to the garage door in the kitchen, where the bags are. The square glass bottle of chestnut-colored scotch on the table is empty. I decide not to calculate how recently he bought that one, not to check how many ounces it once held. He won’t get to drink anything alcoholic to help him sleep until he comes home for his two weeks state-side. That’s at least six months away, and then another six months in Iraq before he comes home for good. Maybe he’ll have better ways of coping by then.
It’s odd to be thinking in terms I only know from old John Wayne movies about war and bravery and love. State-side is here. The Sandbox is there. I quickly unzip the outer pocket of the duffle and slide in the note I wrote for him last week. A promise to be here, loving him, holding down the fort until his return. He knows he’s not supposed to open this note until he gets to Iraq. He has the other one, the silly light card I made last night, in one of his many shirt pockets, to be read as needed. I know the first night after he gets there will be the hardest.
He is silent getting into his black two-door Jeep Cherokee twenty minutes later, silent looking out the passenger window as I drive us down the familiar rutted gravel road in the half-light of morning on a cloudy day in the Northwest. I’d hoped for sun, for something hopeful to see him on his way, but it is Fall, and by the time we get to East Gate Road, a light drizzle coats the windshield. The wipers smear old dust across the glass, and I turn them off when I realize how hopeless they are. One more thing we didn’t have time or money to fix before he left.
“Talk to me.” He breaks the silence, and I wonder what is going on inside his head. I know the idea of death—of killing or of being responsible for the death of one of the men in his platoon– has haunted him since he learned Fort Lewis soldiers would be sent to Iraq. So I open my mouth, prepared to tell stories. Little nothings of sound and silliness to keep Bret’s thoughts at bay. I am determined not to cry until after he’s gone. He asked me last week to smile when I drop him off. To smile, and not to stick around. And that is what I will do. But my jaw trembles, and I have to clear my throat before I can talk.
“Have I told you about Stampen’ Up’s last meeting? Man, it was so funny! The workshop lady’s husband came home, and we all said “Hi, Honey!” because his wife was in the bathroom. I think he was a little bit overwhelmed. I mean, nine women ages 19 to 65 all welcoming him home from a business trip at once.” I pause to think. “And I talked with Shana the other day—she told me this funny story about Aussie and a jar of peanut butter. Do you want to hear it?” An opportunity to pull him back out of his thoughts. He loves that dog almost as much as he loves his half-pit, Salsa.
My throat is raw by the time we get to the gate. I fumble with my ID, and the gate guard waves us through. Usually, there is some exchange about the weather, or a moment of scrutiny to be sure we really are who we say. Today, they barely glance at our military ID cards, and wave us through without making eye-contact at all. They don’t search our bags, stick a mirror under the struts, or try to flirt with me just because they can. I think they’ve been briefed about who’s leaving. They probably feel guilty for staying behind.
I give up on conversation, and focus instead on keeping my teeth from shaking together, keeping his battered black man-jeep on the road. I have to not cry, and I have to smile. We still have two slow miles before we get to the parking lot, the barracks and offices of B-Company. I point out the tall green conifers on either side of the narrow two-lane road. Most of the companies at Fort Lewis jog here for PT in the morning. I’m glad we don’t meet any platoons of pale, sweat-stained men on the road.
I glance at Bret, and force myself to talk. “Looks beautiful out there, doesn’t it. I think the universe wanted to give you a realistic memory of how wet and green it is here. And don’t worry. I promise to take good care of Salsa while you’re gone. Not as good as you do, but you know. She loves you best anyway.” I practice my smile. Bret always gloats that both our pets prefer him over me, but today he is a lump of shoulders and thumbs and thighs in the passenger seat. “Remember to send her some of your old nasty socks in a package now and then, okay? That way she’ll know you’re coming home.”
Bret turns his head from the window and looks at me. His eyes are OD green, a sure sign that he’s switched over from man to military machine. They’d be hazel grey if he was feeling emotional. “She’ll be fine. Shit, it’s going to be a madhouse. Why can’t they have staggered the arrival times or something. Don’t hang around when we get there—don’t even park. There just won’t be enough room in that parking lot for all the cars, and we’ve got to have a final inspection before we can go. We’ve only got two hours to get on the plane—supposedly. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t actually leave until noon. Fuck.” He holds his hat loosely in one calloused hand between his knees, slumped back in the seat so he doesn’t hit his head on the roof inside the vehicle.
My hands on the steering wheel are white and cold, and my arms stiff. I’d probably be holding on this tight even if the driver’s seat latch wasn’t broken. As it is, my weight is so slight that if I let go of the wheel, the seat and I go flying backward off the chair rails. Bret had told me he fixed it months ago, but I nearly crashed us into the overgrown boxwood hedge just trying to get out of our driveway this morning. The seat had suddenly jerked backward and I couldn’t reach the break.
We’re a block from Bravo Company, passing the octagonal brick library on the left, and a rectangular cement building just like B-Company’s barracks-office on the right. Suddenly a parade of dented minivans and souped-up red 4×4s envelop the jeep. My progress slows to a crawl, since the two-lane road is clogged with vehicles, with soldiers and duffel bags, and with emotionally overwhelmed drivers. Bret scowls, “Shit. It’s a fucking zoo. What the hell are these people doing here!”
I look at him and feel like laughing for the first time in days. “Probably dropping off soldiers and saying goodbye, just like we are. Do you recognize anyone?” I scan the mix of scantily-clad women in tight low-cut summer tank tops, sleep-mussed women in fuzzy pjs and robes, and children in winter coats. Women hugging men in uniforms, and wailing selfishly about their goodbyes.
My nostrils flair and the skin below my eyebrows gets tight with disapproval. Don’t these women know their husbands need to be reassured that everything will be okay at home? Don’t they understand the burden of guilt and extreme emotions a soldier is not supposed to express when he goes to war—the burden their antics are only making heavier? Not cool.
“Shit.” It is my turn to edge around crazily parked cars and open doors, lip-locked couples and soldiers hastily shrugging their DCU’s into place. Bret swings the door open, so I lock my elbows and kick at the break pedal. The jeep slides to a stop on the locally mined Steilacoom gravel that coats the potholes and ancient pavement of the B-Company parking lot.
“This is close enough. I’ve got to get in there—we’re supposed to be forming our units right now, and some of these guys don’t even have all their gear packed. I’ll try to call from Texas, or wherever we layover.” They have a layover? “I’ll try to call from Iraq, too, but I’m going to make sure all my guys get their calls home in first. Don’t worry—we’ve made it through everything else. We’ll be fine.” He swings his legs and duffle out, then leans back in for a quick kiss.
He pauses to look at my face, and I pinch my cheek muscles into a smile without unlocking my jaw. I can’t see his expression through the saltwater lining the inside of my eyelids, and then the door slams, and he thunks the roof with his palm to let me know he’s out. I know we’ve done long-distance before, and I know I’m going to be pissed as hell to see the mess of discarded Army shit on the floor of the great room when I get home to that empty house. But right now, right now sucks. Saying goodbye wasn’t supposed to be this hard.
I wish I could call someone and be comforted. I don’t even see any of the other wives I know in the parking lot. It’s my turn to pull out onto the road. I lean into the opening between coffee-stained front seats, and look back toward the mess of soldiers, hoping for a last glimpse of mine. They warned us not to tell anyone the guys were going until after they’d landed in Iraq. They told us that our guys were in the most danger while they were in the airplane, making a nose-down landing in Kuwait to get it over with as fast as possible. They told us, indirectly, that we’d have to go through the first day or two after our goodbyes, alone. We don’t know what life will be like for the men after that. Where exactly they’ll go, or what resources their Camp will have when they get there. I don’t expect to get a call for several weeks, for security reasons if nothing else. The seat wobbles dangerously, and I pull myself back toward the steering wheel and the left-hand turn that I know leads to Fort Lewis’s East Gate, and our gear-strewn house in Roy.
I call my best friend Shana when I get home, blessing the three-hour difference between her time zone and mine. “I had to go out early and pick up some toilet paper,” I tell her. This is our pre-arranged signal so she knows Bret is gone. It’s a trick I learned from a Ranger wife I know. When her husband leaves for work, she looks for their signal to see if this is a normal workday or not. To see if he’s coming back. There is silence on the line, and then Shana begins to tell me stories, little nothings of sound to keep my thoughts at bay a little bit longer. To tell me she understands all the thing I am too worn out to verbalize. It is the first time since my marriage that we are able to talk as long as we want, without my husband getting jealous.
*** The contents of this web page are original, and copyrighted by Staci B. Elliott. 2010. Please do not reproduce, copy, distribute, sell, or publish the contents without the author’s permission. Thank you.
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I just wanted to comment and say that I really enjoyed reading your blog post here. It was very informative and I also digg the way you write! Keep it up and I’ll be back to read more in the future
History does not always repeat itself. Sometimes it just yells “Can’t you remember anything I told you?” and lets fly with a club. –John W. Campbell (1910
Great post. Thanks
You…are…my…hero!!! I cant believe something like this exists on the internet! Its so true, so honest, and more than that you dont sound like an idiot! Finally, someone who knows how to talk about a subject without sounding like a kid who didnt get that bike he wanted for Christmas