The Sinking of the HMS Diana

By Diane deVault

Sometimes, because of our suffering, we cease to believe that God cares about our success. We may fail to understand that when we first gave our lives to God, we agreed to give up our worldly desires and to allow God to order our steps so that He could cause our destiny to fit His plans. This "dying" is difficult even when we understand it. This

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Sep 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647734893

Book preview

First Shared Session

"I sometimes feel like such a mess! I married four outstanding men. They were good men in numerous ways, and they each played a part in building treasurable memories that I’d never want to forget. Yet I somehow managed to bring out whatever bad traits they had, and all but one of them felt a deep need to be rid of me. What kind of person must I be? How did I manage to do that?

I love God, and I’ve spent much of my life chasing after Him. I think it might have begun when my sister Fran told me a Bible story about Joseph. It was a rainy afternoon, and she was ironing while I watched. I was lying on the bed next to an open window, and the cool breeze from the rain felt good as I hung on to her every word. It was a long story, but it wasn’t boring at all. I can remember that afternoon perfectly. I was worried that she was going to run out of things to iron and that the story would end.

A few weeks later, I went to a Baptist summer camp at Ridgecrest, North Carolina. Billy Graham was the preacher on the last night of camp, and I remember literally running to the vesper garden and asking God to save me. I don’t remember repenting, for all I wanted to do that night was make sure I didn’t go to hell. I know I was saved that night, but I got baptized three more times as a Baptist and sprinkled as a Catholic and a Methodist. It took finally getting baptized in the Holy Spirit for me to really feel totally, 100 percent saved. What kind of person has to get baptized a dozen different ways before she realizes she’s saved? None of my friends went through such a process. What is wrong with me?"

Diane, I know very little about your marriages, but based upon what I know about you concerning Christianity, I think you were bumbling around, trying to get it right, because it meant so much to you. We’ve discussed your childhood, and other than your habit of hiding in the quilt closet when you were upset, we found nothing of concern. I think perhaps we need to explore those marriages, for that seems to be where your emotions began to get tangled up.

"You’ve used the words bumbling and tangled. That seems to describe me pretty well. Did you get my notes this week concerning my marriages?"

I did. That’s another reason I think we should shift directions. Could you do me a favor? I’d like you to write about your first marriage. I understand that you cannot write all about it, but I’d like a summary. As you write, I’d like you to try to feel what you felt then. I may be asking you to do something that’s too difficult, so if you get bogged down with it, just stop. It’s not something you must do. I’m thinking that you might benefit more from writing than you would with just an hour’s conversation. We could give it a try if you’re amenable to the idea.

I like that idea, because I love to write, and I can communicate better when I write. Do you want me to bring it with me?

No. I’d appreciate it if you’d drop it through the mail slot on my door. That way, I will have an opportunity to glance over it before our next meeting. So we’re clear? You’re going to tell me about Lee in as few words as you can. At the same time, I want you to make every attempt to let me know what you were feeling at that time. I’m not necessarily interested in what you feel now as I am in what you were feeling then. Our focus needs to be on then, the feelings at that time.

You do realize that Lee was three marriages ago, don’t you?

Try to remember. We will call this our journey backward so that we can find our way forward.

All Things Bright and Beautiful

I had no intentions of taking judo. The idea of letting someone toss me around seemed ludicrous to me. But when I saw the handsome judo instructor at the coed military college I attended, I signed up immediately. I guess you could say I had an overwhelming urge to join the ranks of kung fu junkies.

The first night’s class was a nightmare, to say the least. The incredible hunk instructor—I was told his name was Lee—didn’t seem to notice me at all even though I had taken more than two hours to make myself noticeable. It really didn’t matter how long I had worked to get beautiful, however, because after about twenty minutes of making an idiot of myself, my way of describing judo activities, everything fake had either been thrown off or displaced.

I quickly came to the conclusion that my body could not take this kind of treatment, even for this bronzed masterpiece who had stolen my heart in just one glance, but when I finally attempted to crawl into the background and slip, unnoticed, out the door, he said, Now, this move is very simple. Come here a second, Diane, and if you’ll just use all that high school tumbling and gym experience you’ve shown us, we can demonstrate for the class. All you have to do is relax. Pretend you’re a rag doll and let yourself go limp. Be sure to yell when you hit the floor this time, though. That way, you won’t have the wind knocked out of you again.

By the time I finally made my escape, my beautifully arranged, teased blond bouffant from the sixties looked a lot like one of the wildest rock star’s hair of the eighties. My makeup, especially the blue mascara that I had so arduously applied to accentuate my blue eyes, streaked down my face and would have looked perfect for the monster/punk look for the nineties. The problem was that it wasn’t the eighties, nor was it the nineties. It was the sixties, and consequently, there was nothing acceptable about my new look.

One of my contact lenses was darting around somewhere under my eyelid, but I had no idea where. The constant blinking caused both eyes to tear, which naturally made my nose run. I figured my back had to be broken, possibly my neck, and maybe even every bone in my body. Even my toes were sending out verifications of breakage. Struggling with the heavy gym door, I glanced back at Lee. Was he laughing at me? No, he wouldn’t laugh about doing this to me? Still, there was a sort of knowing expression on his face, a smile that said, I did that on purpose and enjoyed every moment of it.

He had certainly been successful in destroying my efforts to impress him with my artificial, fake attractiveness and with my past athletic experience. As I limped back to the college dormitory and crawled up what seemed like nine hundred flights of stairs to my fourth-floor room, my brain, probably broken, was sending pleading messages to forget about this military, martial arts fanatic. After all, he had to be a real lunatic to be the least bit interested in this sort of nonsense. My body readily confirmed these thoughts. Yet when I entered my room and fell upon the floor in a miserable heap, my tongue lashed out in rebellion against both the brain and the body. I calmly and confidently announced to my roommate that I had just spent the evening with my future husband but he obviously didn’t know it yet.

The voice on the intercom very nearly interrupted my sentence. I had a phone call. No, no, no! I could not get up and walk down all those stairs! How would I ever get back up them? Besides, whoever it was would probably hang up before I could get there. I offered my roommate my life savings to take the call for me, but $2.60 didn’t impress her all that much. I staggered back down the stairs.

Hello.

Hello, this is Lee deVault, from judo class. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You didn’t actually get hurt, did you? You came in so confident, and you looked so put together, so out of place. You were the only one with background experience in tumbling and acrobatics. I figured you probably wanted to use some of that mat experience you said you had. I really shouldn’t have been so hard on you. Would you let me apologize over a hamburger and fries at the Corner Café?

Captured! Mat work had paid off! He was mine! I couldn’t believe how easy this had been. As the hamburger and fries developed into a steak and movie, it got even easier. The relationship just seemed to take off right from the beginning. Almost instantly, he became my knight in shining armor and I became his damsel in distress. I had never known any kind of love like this, and it just seemed natural to talk about marriage and children and living together forever.

In warm weather, we tied ropes to ourselves and swam in the nearby rushing, sometimes-violent freshwater rapids above Dahlonega, Georgia. In the fall, we took long hikes through the surrounding mountain ranges, and during the winter, we snuggled as closely as military protocol would allow as we walked around the parade field on the campus of North Georgia College. We talked endlessly about the plans we had for our future.

During the occasional snows we had, we viciously attacked each other with giant snowballs as weapons. We shared millions of hamburgers and French fries at the local café, and we arranged our schedules so that we could be in the same classes.

We spent hour after hour, week after week, discussing every detail of our future lives. We planned how many children we would have, how many years there would be between each child, and what our goals would be by age thirty, forty, fifty, etc. We planned exactly how we would accomplish each goal. His goals astounded me because they were so high. I asked him once if he really believed he could be the chief of staff of NATO. Was he kidding? What kind of job was that, anyway? He quickly answered, Of course I can. It’s my destiny. Besides, you’re never supposed to aim for the lowest branch of the tree, Diane. You’re supposed to aim for the highest.

We even planned when and where he would retire even though that time was so far away. When he mentioned Texas, so far away from Georgia, it sounded like a wonderful place to grow old together. Any place was a wonderful place to me, as long as he and I were together. We even discussed how and where we would be buried when we died. It seemed that there was no topic missed as we talked and talked—and so easily we talked. We were so natural together; it was as if God had taken the time to make him just for me and me just for him. Those mammoth oak trees on the front lawn of the campus were our witnesses as we confessed our undying love for each other. I could so easily visualize my life with him. He was my soul mate, and I was his. Our life together would have to be wonderful, and our children would be beautiful.

Our conversations centered on marriage from the very beginning. In fact, marriage had seemed inevitable from the very first date. At the same time, it didn’t seem feasible. Lee wanted to achieve rank at college, and to receive a promotion in rank, he had to live in the dormitory with the rest of the cadets. My parents were counting on my finishing school, so marriage didn’t seem like an appropriate topic to bring up while I was just a freshman. My parents were make your bed, lie in it kinds of folks, and as in love crazy as I was, I still had enough sense to know that I was a far cry from financial independence.

We wanted to get married, but we also understood that the idea wasn’t realistic. That was why we did it secretly. It felt kind of odd getting married one Saturday morning and sleeping in our separate dormitories as soon as the weekend was over. Yet it was a good feeling too. Lee was mine, and I was his, and I knew it would be that way forever. As I stood at the window at the end of my dormitory hallway, I could see the window at the end of his dormitory hallway, and there he was, just as he said he would be, a vague figure waving at me. For right now, that was close enough. Our hearts were definitely one; everything else could be worked out in time. And there was always next weekend.

Naturally, we couldn’t exchange rings, so we gave each other Saint Christopher necklaces with the date of our marriage engraved on the back. Our hikes deep into the mountainous woods surrounding the college now became honeymoon rendezvous at a mountain spring we called Gurgle because of the constant bubbling, gurgling noise the spring made.

I felt as if I were in a romantic fairy tale. Things were just too good to be true. Lee was my prince charming, my hero, my long life’s dream, and I was his dream girl. Lots of times, Lee would take his guitar with us to Gurgle, and he would sing to me. He had the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard, and I remember thinking he should become a professional singer. At other times, he would quote poems he had written for me. During these times, I saw him as my Earnest Hemingway writer or my John Wayne general, for I believed every word he spoke. It was a kind of love that I’d only read about in books. It was an ardent, utopian time for us, and the closeness we shared made me feel that no such love had ever existed before. It was as if we were in a world of our own. I understood him perfectly, and I felt that he knew everything about me. All was well in the wonderland we had created for ourselves.

In order to graduate just behind Lee, I had to take extra classes and go to school during the summers. Lee had to receive military training at summer camps, so that helped me to catch up. It was sometimes really hard, but that period was so picturesquely perfect that taking overloads seemed smooth and uncomplicated. I had a goal: graduate as quickly as possible so that Lee and I could be together in one place. Everything else was immaterial.

When Lee graduated as a second lieutenant, I was one quarter behind him. That meant he would go on to Fort Benning, Georgia, without me, but that didn’t curtail our excitement over the imminent prospects of a dream come true. We both felt that we were embarking on the journey that we’d planned and dreamed about for years. It was a delightful, dizzying time, a time of great expectations. We were on our way. The future held nothing but promise, and we shared the elation our new military lifestyle offered.

About three years after our marriage, the Vietnam conflict forced our separation, but even that could not diminish the joy and happiness we felt about our lives. Lee left for Vietnam in July, just two months before our daughter was born. I didn’t have the luxury of Lee’s company during Tanya’s birth in September, but when I looked into her little face, it was as if Lee were right there with me. She had his nose, his earlobes, his eyebrows. The more I inspected our beautiful little creation, the more I saw Lee and me.

A few months later, I met Lee in Hawaii for a week of rest and relaxation, R & R as the military called it. As I sat beneath the palm trees and listened to the Hawaiian music drifting my way from the beach, I recalled the many times I had yearned to go to Hawaii. It was the one place I had always dreamed about, the one place I had desired to visit ever since I’d seen Elvis Presley in Blue Hawaii. Now, not only was I in Hawaii, but I was also there with my own tall, dark, and handsome airborne ranger. It was a dream come true, and as he occasionally played his guitar and sang to me in that blissful setting of the Hawaiian Islands, I could not imagine a more wonderful life. We were two happy souls reunited in love and pleasure. Nothing I could possibly imagine could compare to this moment.

It was a short week. Time, the same time that had dragged by during the months we had been separated, now seemed to fly by, and sooner than either of us wanted, we were once again forced to say goodbye to each other. As I watched Lee walk toward the plane that would take him back into an uncertain, war-torn environment, I felt a deep anguish and sadness. What if he never came back? What if something happened to him? He was a Special Forces airborne ranger who was trained in reconnaissance, so he was always going behind enemy lines.

His work was so dangerous, and he hadn’t even gotten to see his daughter in person! No, no, no! Military wives could not think that way. Military wives had to think positively. Lee was coming back. Our dreams weren’t fulfilled yet. We still had two more babies planned. Lee would get promotion after promotion until he became the chief of staff of NATO Forces, or whatever he said. I convinced myself that nothing bad could ever stop this beautiful, wonderful Camelot we had going. He would come back. He just had to.

Lee turned to look at me one last time, and I forced myself to wave and smile. Every military wife must learn to play the part, the smiling, waving wife, strong and able to take care of any emergency on the home front. I played it well. I stood straight and said my number 14 multiplication tables to keep the panic inside my heart from exhibiting itself. I waved and smiled. It had to be done this way. I think it was a written directive in some military manual.

Only when the plane was well into the clouds did I allow the tears to flow, for no matter how strong I pretended to be, the farewells were never easy. My heart ached because he was gone, and it would be six more months before I would see him again. My heart ached because there was also a great possibility that I would never see him alive again. My heart ached because there was an additional possibility that he would never get to see his little girl, and his little girl might never get to know what an awesome father she had.

My heart ached, yet the week had been wonderful. I could easily recall all the exciting events we had experienced, all the romantic moments we shared. It would only be six months. That would pass quickly. Then life would be back to normal again.

I didn’t know then that Lee would volunteer for another year in Vietnam and that it would be nearly two years before he came home. I didn’t know how his extending would affect me. I didn’t really understand that ranger blood that boiled deep within him, that devotion to duty, that calling to be all that he could be for the Army. I didn’t really realize then that Lee really did believe his destiny was to be a great warrior and that his calling to be a husband and father was second to his calling in the military. I didn’t know then that Vietnam would leave its scars on Lee’s soul forever, on our lives forever. Then, I only knew about the fact that in just six months, I would see him again, and I was eager for time to pass.

I felt sad and very lonely, yet I was excited and enthusiastic. My week had been wonderful. Lee was to be stationed in Hawaii after Vietnam, and it was going to be terrific to live in this paradise. I would finally get to see all those beautiful Hawaiian places I’d only seen in movies. Lee and I had not toured the islands, nor had we gone many places. We’d gone to Diamond Head and attended one luau. We went to the beach a few times, and of course, we’d taken time to eat, but mostly, we had spent our time in our hotel room, making love, holding each other, sleeping, making love. Yes, in just six months I would get to see all of Hawaii, and Tanya would love playing in this paradise sandbox. What a fantastic place to create another baby!

In spite of the loneliness and sadness, and even the fearfulness that attempted to creep its way into my thinking, I was happy. I was in love. I had a fantastic husband and a beautiful baby. I had a marvelous life to look forward to, a life that was wonderful now, but a life that, in just six months, was going to be perfect in every way!

Movin’ On Up!

It wasn’t like me to take long walks at night by myself. Yet it was ten thirty in the evening, and I was approximately two miles away from home, walking, slowly walking, occasionally looking up into the yards and homes of the majors and colonels all around me.

I had always looked forward to living in those quarters. Each time we changed tours of duty and moved to a new Army post, I always checked out the majors’ and colonels’ houses. I especially had my eyes on the generals’ houses, for that was our ultimate goal. I would make jokes about the day we would live there instead of over in the lieutenants’ ghetto. Lee was nearing his time for promotion to major, and for the first time in ten years, those dreams of living in the nicer houses were close to becoming a reality.

Our married life had been feverishly filled with activity. There had been two tours in Vietnam, and even though we never got to live in Hawaii, there was a second beautiful little baby girl, birthed precisely as we had planned, three years after the first. There had been lots of traveling, new Army posts to adjust to, new friends to meet, new challenges in Lee’s career, and of course, now the opportunity to move up again in rank, an opportunity to take one more step toward the general’s house.

However, I would be denied that opportunity because Lee had just asked for a divorce. At first, it had seemed to be an incredibly bad joke. Lee and I had problems occasionally, but surely, those problems weren’t enough to lead to this. Lee still loved me; I felt sure that he did. And I most certainly loved him. I more than loved him. He was my life. He was everything to me.

Still, there was no mistaking Lee’s seriousness. He had emotionally, but clearly, told me how tired and bored he was of family life. He wanted to do things he’d never done before. As I walked, I contemplated the agony I’d seen in his facial expression and the anguish in his tone of voice. Diane, I keep seeing myself at fifty still living this same kind of life. I have to have something more. He had appeared tortured and agonized as he talked to me. How could I have been so blind? How could I have thought that our life was good while Lee was so obviously tormented by the thoughts of going on together? What did he mean this kind of life? Our life was good.

I continued to walk, staring up at those homes that had suddenly become more beautiful than I could bear. One of those homes could have easily been my future home had the opportunity not just been snatched away from me. Self-pity tears rolled down my face as I trudged down the street-lighted row of houses. Was he telling me the truth? Was there another woman involved? Doesn’t it always take another woman to make a man act like such a jerk? Doesn’t she understand that she’s ripping my children’s and my life apart? Had I been such a horrible wife? Was our life really as boring as Lee made it sound? Were we casualties of Vietnam? Questions inundated my mind.

The second year in Vietnam had been especially hard for us, and the sweet, loving, romantic boy I had sent away to fight for Ole Glory had come back a man, not a boy. He was still sweet, still loving, still a romantic, but incredibly hardened in many ways. He had always been a drinker, but after his service in Vietnam, he drank to the point of violent, abusive drunkenness on rare occasions. This was a part of Lee I had never known, and there had been one or two frightening moments. Naturally, that violence was directed toward me since I was the one who was always nearby. There were only three incidents, but Lee was an airborne ranger who had been trained to kill. Even one was too many, and I became frightened of him and for him. One night, he had semi-awakened from a dream and literally threw our hundred-pound German shepherd out of the bed. I was really glad that our dog had been closer to him than I’d been. At least Prince was fast on his feet.

I soon realized that events like this only occurred when he’d had too much to drink, but they resulted in their awful consequence: causing my knight in shining armor to fall off his horse occasionally. I became dreadful of any drinking. The moment I saw him take a drink, I withdrew, and my withdrawing from him seemed to cause him to drink more. During these rare but horrifying occasions, I wondered what on earth could have happened in Vietnam, and could be happening when he was drinking, that could bring forth such a variety of emotions within him. I was convinced that it was drinking—what the drinking did to Lee—that was the real problem, but since I had not seen in Lee this kind of drinking before Vietnam, it was quite obvious that it was both Vietnam and the drinking together that caused Lee difficulties. I could not make Vietnam go away, but it seemed to me that Lee and I must make alcohol go away. I thought we could at least take control over half the problem.

It wasn’t that easy. Whatever effect Vietnam had left upon Lee, alcohol seemed to medicate it, or so Lee believed. Actually, I was not sure what Lee believed. I was not even sure what I believed. I just knew I didn’t want Lee to drink at all, but to tell a military man that he shouldn’t drink at all was like telling him he shouldn’t have a gun at all.

Not until many years later, when I saw the movie We Were Soldiers, did I even begin to understand the frustrations—the ordeals—Lee must have experienced while in Vietnam. As I watched the movie, it was as if I were reliving a former time, and it was as if a door to Vietnam were finally opened a little bit, giving me the opportunity to glance and see firsthand what it might have been like for him. As I watched the movie, I began to have a better understanding of what I had only suspected years before: Lee and I were very probably war casualties of an undeclared war.

As I got up to leave the theater after the movie, I had a visual flashback of Lee holding a gun to my head one evening, telling me that he was going to kill me. I had been angry with him for coming in at 3:00 a.m. and had asked him where he’d been. This was not my Lee. This was the Lee Vietnam had created.

I got inside my car, but instead of leaving the parking lot, I sat there, remembering more and more about that time. I remembered a time when Lee literally threw me into the hedge bushes at the officers’ club at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, resulting in a rescue by the military police. He had been drinking, and I had made the mistake of saying I partially agreed with Jane Fonda that US soldiers shouldn’t have ever gone to Vietnam.

I never meant that I agreed about the way our soldiers were treated when they returned home. I never meant that it was all right for her to call such heroic men baby killers. I only meant that Vietnam was an event that none of us might ever fully understand. Something more was going on in America’s political arena. I held a deep dislike and distrust of President Johnson, and because of news events, I wasn’t sure about President Nixon either. I just believed that innocent Americans, especially our soldiers, were used and abused by our government. I had no idea how much hurt Lee had stored up within him, and I was oblivious to the open wound I had punctured once again.

I had most definitely used bad judgment by even mentioning Jane Fonda’s name, but I was certainly unprepared for his reaction. The hedge bush incident became a big deal to both of us because Lee’s violence was exposed to others, and my fear of him grew so intense that I separated from him for a while. There was a chance this one incident could affect his entire career, which saddened me and created a fear even greater than my fear of Lee. In a way, though, it had some good results, because the only way I would come back was if we went to a marriage counselor. Counseling helped us both, and it was at the marriage counselor’s office that I got still another glimpse of what Vietnam had done to Lee.

The Lee I had sent away to Vietnam had been romantic and sensitive. He had been a songwriter and had quoted his poetry to me. He had talked to me about his dreams and had treated me as if I were the only woman in the world. On the other hand, the Lee who came back from Vietnam, while still possessing those same qualities, could also become intoxicated. And when he drank too much, he could become crude and dangerous. These events were so rare, but they were also so violent, so uncommon for Lee. Counting the dog, there were only two, but two was two too many.

Just before we’d go to the officers’ club, Lee would promise me that he would only have two or three drinks. We made an agreement that if I noticed any personality change, I’d tell him and he would quit drinking altogether. That agreement might have sounded as if it would work, but it never did. If I waited until after I noticed a personality change, then it was obviously too late. Going out together was something we’d always enjoyed, but I stopped going out with him altogether if it was just a drinking occasion. Unfortunately, just about every social occasion was a drinking occasion.

The Diane who had sent Lee to Vietnam had changed as well. I had been totally dependent upon Lee for everything, more little-girl-like than a woman. For months and months, I had even been afraid to live alone. After having a baby and taking care of every facet of life while Lee was away, I had gained independence, and I didn’t rely on Lee as much. This never caused a problem between Lee and me, for Lee was such a strong, dynamic personality that nobody could have ever made him feel any less of a man than he was. I do remember, though, that right after he came home from Vietnam, Lee wasn’t sure how he fit into our lives. Before he left, it had been just Lee and me. Now there was a baby, a baby who didn’t know her father and who cried when her father held her.

There was a definite time of adjustment for all of us, but Lee probably had a more difficult time. Living in a peaceful environment must have seemed strange, possibly even boring, to a man who was accustomed to war and violence. I’m positive that there were times when he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. The first Vietcong soldier Lee had killed in Vietnam was a young boy. Lee had no time to see who it was firing at him; he simply reacted. But when he examined the body afterward, he was sickened to see how young this soldier was. I know that Lee killed other people in Vietnam, but I don’t believe any of the other events haunted Lee like the one with the young teenage boy. Lee actually questioned if he was a teenager; he said the young boy looked more like he was eleven or twelve. I cannot imagine killing someone one day and coming home to a safe environment another day. How does the typical brain deal with that? I’m sure Lee’s adrenaline level had been at an all-time high for twenty-four months. What was he expected to do with all that adrenaline when he was back home?

I had little knowledge about most things Lee had experienced in Vietnam, and I had even less knowledge about the torment he must have felt inside. I had heard about the cruel, thoughtless acts of antiwar demonstrators, but Lee did not mention how he had been treated the day he arrived home. I guess I thought these were sporadic events, but they were obviously ongoing, routine events at every airport. Protesters were allowed to throw tomatoes and others at our soldiers! Why weren’t they arrested? It’s one thing to demonstrate. Everyone should have a right to express his opinion. However, it’s something else entirely to become violent. Nobody should be allowed to become violent during any demonstration.

I had little concept of the hurt Lee had endured as he watched his friends crippled and killed. I had no idea how he felt when he returned to the United States, wounded deeply within his soul, to the jeering, antiwar protesters at home. I had no realization of what it had been like to fight a war that, even in our government’s opinion, really wasn’t a war. However, I did hear his anger as he lamented these events, and it was obvious that he’d experienced something I might never understand. It was obvious that Vietnam had taken a slice out of Lee’s very soul, and because we were one, maybe it was a slice out of mine as well. I could not feel these hurts as deeply as he must have. I was offended at our government officials who allowed people to mistreat our soldiers, but I had no concept of how bad it actually had been for Lee.

It would be years in the future before I would gain even a modest understanding about Lee’s frustration concerning Vietnam. As I watched our troops return home from Desert Storm and still another war in the Middle East after that, the contrast between their return and the return of our Vietnam soldiers overwhelmed me. The troops returning from the Middle East were heroes, but while Lee was just as brave, just as patriotic, just as heroic, he never received the privilege of being a hero to his fellow Americans. Instead, Lee and his fighting comrades were referred to as baby killers. There was no honor, no respect, just rotten tomatoes and awful, thoughtless comments.

I began to understand in the new millennium what I had not understood in the seventies. Then, I only knew the little jabbing feelings of jealousy toward the girls from the American Red Cross serving in Vietnam, girls more popularly known as Doughnut Dollies. Then, I only knew how it felt to go months without even a letter. Then, I knew the hurt and the confusion I felt when Lee extended his tour in Vietnam. Not until years later, after movies were made about Vietnam and after I grew much older and gained more wisdom, did I get a deeper glimpse of how terrible a war that was, that atrocious, killing war that really wasn’t a war. And it was even later in my life that I began to better understand the warrior’s heart that was inside my torn lover. It was with grief that I finally understood that he loved me dearly, but after all, he was a warrior at heart. Who can understand a warrior’s heart?

As I walked along in the quiet, misty rain, I recalled the many negatives created by war, whether it was called war or not, and questions bombarded my mind once again. Were Lee and I casualties of the war as well? When our government officials so calculatedly analyzed the costs of the conflict, had they considered the many men who had not come back the same, the many relationships that would never be the same? Shouldn’t these people be listed as casualties as well? I was certainly feeling like one.

Vietnam had definitely played a part in messing up our marriage. But then, just the military lifestyle itself did a lot to mess up our marriage. Maybe it was all the times we’d had to be separated. Maybe it was my Southern little-girl innocence compared to Lee’s Brooklyn worldliness. Maybe it was this. Maybe it was that. No matter what the causes were, Lee still wanted a divorce. Could I calmly and silently stand back while this dream of my life simply walked away? He and the children were the reasons for my living. There had been mistakes, but I knew I could overlook all his. How could I convince him to overlook all mine? Wasn’t there something I could do to change his mind?

Maybe if I changed, maybe if I could somehow make our life more exciting, maybe then he would consider staying with me. He’d complained about my over-mothering the girls. Maybe if I just went out more with him. Could all our wrongs be made right now that those chilling, I-want-a-divorce words had been spoken?

If it had not been such a shock to me, I would have reacted better. If I had not been 1,500 miles away from home, possibly I could have been calmer. Maybe if I had not spent ten years of my life catering to Lee’s career, I would have felt less angry and less frightened about my own future. Maybe if I had not loved the military way of life and bitterly resented having to give it up, I could have been more understanding. Possibly, if I’d had some idea that some other man might someday find me attractive and lovable and might love the girls and be good to them, I would have felt less apprehensive. As it was, I was neither calm nor nice nor understanding. I was mad and frustrated and hurt and scared. How could I possibly raise the children without Lee’s help? This was something we had planned to do together. What happened to all our plans?

I had heard stories about women who had supported their husbands through medical school and then gotten dumped for a younger woman once the medical degree was handed out. I had heard those stories, but I never dreamed something like that could happen to me. As the list of military training schools paraded through my mind, I grew more and more bitter.

I had run beside him as he prepared for airborne training. When the preparation runs for ranger school became too difficult for me, I had driven alongside him with my little Volkswagen Beetle in first gear, encouraging him as he ran, assuring him that he could finish the run. I had willingly lived alone while he attended ranger training, Special Forces, and recondo/raider training. And what about the years he was in Vietnam? I had made his life my life, his accomplishments my accomplishments, his goals my goals. I had planned to be a general’s wife. I had planned to raise my daughters as Army brats. I had planned to move on up, to live in one of those stately, Colonial-type homes. He couldn’t do this to me. How could I endure it? This was my life. This was where I belonged. He couldn’t just pull the rug out from under me this way.

I stopped beside a big oak tree and leaned against it, staring into the yard of one of the general’s houses. All the homes were basically alike—the front door entering into a large hallway with a staircase leading up to the second floor, the dining room to the right, the living room to the left. They were all so large, large enough for twelve kids and a dog, large enough for huge parties, parties I would obviously never give now.

I could just imagine his marrying again and some other woman, probably twenty and without a single worry line events like Vietnam can cause, getting to sit back and relax on one of those big front porches. She would be president of the officers’ wives club. She would be the general’s wife, the general I had helped create.

What would I tell my family? This was the seventies, and divorce wasn’t all that acceptable, especially in the Bible Belt, where I lived. How many times had I heard folks at home talk about loose, divorced women? What would my friends say? Could I make it financially? I had rarely worked full-time, and even though I’d taught classes at the Army education center, I had never bothered to get a teacher’s certificate. What if I couldn’t get one? How would I raise the girls? I had been totally taken care of. Either my parents, the Army, or Lee had taken care of my every need. How could I survive on my own?

I felt completely devastated, which was a new emotion for me. I had always been a positive person, and a natural strength in me had been brought out by the need to take care of things when Lee was not around. Yet I was as close to being destroyed as I thought I could ever be. I had never felt such hurt, such frustration, such discouragement. I had never experienced this kind of torturous panic. I had never felt this kind of sickness in the pit of my stomach, the feeling that there were a million butterflies swarming around in there and each one of them was ready to throw up.

I found what comfort I could from books checked out of the post library, books written about divorce, books written by people who had gone through the celebrated event with battle scars and victory banners, books explaining how to hang in there with class.

I’m not sure what I would have done without the encouragement I received through those books. I now realize, of course, that I would have done better to stick with the book, but thank the Lord, He provides for people who don’t have enough sense to get out their Bibles and seek the one true source of comfort. He constantly raises up good authors to help desperate people through tragic events, those who, otherwise, would have had nothing and nobody to turn to. He is such a merciful, caring God, and it’s sad that most people don’t realize how much He cares and how much He wants to help in lonely and sad situations. It’s especially sad to me that I didn’t know then how much He could have and would have helped me. If only I had known—isn’t if a sad word?

Lee moved out almost immediately after asking for a divorce. I suppose that was good, for neither of us had much to say to each other. He moved in with a friend of his, a comrade who had divorced his wife about a year earlier and who now lived with his girlfriend. Within a week, I heard that the girlfriend’s girlfriend had also moved in. It certainly sounded very cozy for the four of them. It sounded very fishy to me.

Lee assured me that everything was aboveboard and that I should not be concerned. The girlfriend’s girlfriend was just visiting and would be gone soon. His assurance was in vain, for it did little to make me feel better about the situation. Too, her visit never came to an end. At least it never ended while I remained in New England.

I found out much later in my life that the girlfriend’s girlfriend was really not the only one I should have been concerned about. The real concern should have been the daughter of one of Lee’s military acquaintances. Her name was Patricia, and she was nineteen years old. This was also a new-millennium revelation. It would take years and years for this to come to light. Then, however, I did not know about Patricia, so I spent most of my time asking over and over, Why?

I stopped going anywhere other than to work because I felt that people were talking about me. I also believed that everybody knew about the girlfriend’s girlfriend, and I wondered what people must think. I was embarrassed. I don’t think I would have been any more embarrassed had I known about Patricia. It was bad enough just knowing that people knew my husband was living in the same house with two unmarried females and that he didn’t want me anymore.

I stayed away from people as much as possible. I literally ran into the PX, picked up just the items I had to have, and ran back to the car. If I saw people I knew, I avoided them. Why was I having such a hard time looking at anybody? Why couldn’t I be around anybody?

The next six weeks were unmercifully difficult. I was hesitant to talk to anyone. I had spent too many years being concerned about Lee’s career to stop now. I really didn’t even know how to stop. I worried that Lee’s commanding officer would find out that he was living in the same house with the girlfriend’s girlfriend and that Lee’s chances for promotion would be jeopardized. And then I worried about why I worried about Lee’s career. It seemed that I was worrying about something all the time. I felt that I had to appear strong and in control, but in reality, I knew that all I felt were weakness and despair. I hesitated to eat because I couldn’t keep anything on my stomach, and I dreaded bedtime because I couldn’t sleep.

I started drinking a glass or two of wine just before bedtime. I thought that by doing that, I would at least sleep through most of the night and would therefore not be tempted to call Lee and beg him to come home. My tolerance wasn’t high enough for me to drink more than a few drinks before getting drowsy. This meant that I didn’t get to drink enough to make me sleep all night. I would find myself wide awake around three o’clock in the morning. This problem was easily solved. I just had a few more drinks, just enough to help me go back to sleep.

One night, a week or two later, as I passed by a mirror in the hallway leading to my bedroom, with another drink in tow, I noticed a very old person staring back at me. Her shoulders were stooped, and she was much too thin. There was no sparkle in her eyes, and the drink in her hand made her appear even more pathetic. As I stared at this image of myself in the mirror, a determination and realization began to rise up within me. Alcohol wasn’t helping me to deal with my problem; it was only helping me to escape from my problem. Being depressed wasn’t helping me to deal with my problem; it was only preventing me from going forth with my life. Drinking was obviously not the answer. The answer was really very clear: I did not have to let this situation destroy me. I would not allow myself to become that old woman in the mirror just because I had lost a man. No man was worth it. I would not be defeated by this.

But as I poured the alcohol down the sink, I wondered how I was going to survive this. How could I possibly live without Lee? How could I take care of any needs the girls might have when I wasn’t even able to take care of my own? How could I work tomorrow after staying awake all night tonight, and I would surely never sleep without a drink. In desperation, I fell to my knees and asked a God I really didn’t know, hadn’t really put much effort into knowing, if He would give me strength to get through this situation. At this time in my life, I had been baptized as a Baptist and as a Catholic, so it wasn’t as if I didn’t know about God. I knew about God. I also knew about Jesus, that He had died for me and had been raised from the dead. I just didn’t know either one of them personally. I’d not given God much time in my life, and I certainly hadn’t done a whole lot of praying.

The next morning brought new problems to our household. First of all, one of my daughters woke up with chicken pox, and secondly, my two male German shepherds, who had never fought before, suddenly began a vicious battle over territory.

The breeder had warned about this. He had urged us to choose a female puppy when we had bred Prince about ten months before. His last words now echoed in my ears: The dogs will be all right until the puppy grows up. Then, they’ll fight. They’ll kill each other. You just wait and see.

I grew more and more creative as I came up with ways to keep the two nearly hundred-pound German shepherds from killing each other. In the meantime, my other daughter came down with chicken pox, and the girlfriend’s girlfriend applied for my part-time job at the education center after I gave notice to leave.

One morning, I was especially weary. My youngest daughter’s temperature had risen so high that I had carried her to the emergency room during the night. The trip had resulted in my older daughter’s feeling worse and all of us losing sleep. As I sat on my front porch, drinking a hot cup of coffee, I made the mistake of scolding Duke for gnawing on my bedroom shoe. That was Prince’s cue, and bedroom shoes, coffee, and dog hair flew into the air as Prince pounced upon Duke.

By this time, I knew all too well that screaming at the dogs only made them fight harder. I dragged both dogs, now locked onto each other’s throats, to the front door. Opening the screen door and holding it with one foot, I counted to three and heaved one of the dogs inside the house, quickly stepping in front of the other dog and slamming the door. Noticing that I had successfully maneuvered Duke inside the house while holding Prince outside the house, I silently congratulated myself for being so brilliant.

This elated feeling was quickly dispelled, however, for in just a few seconds, I heard the back screen door slam, saw Duke galloping around the corner of the house, and felt Prince lunge toward the approaching dog. It was only a moment before the dogs were once again locked onto each other’s throats. The girls, awakened by the commotion outside, were screaming at me to do something.

As I glanced over at the girls, who were covered with red sores, and then down at my dogs hanging onto to each other’s throats as if to kill, I did something. I did what I think any rational, reasonable woman would do in a similar situation. I sat down and cried. No, that’s not really true. It would be more accurate to say that I sat down and blubbered.

Quite a few moments must have passed before I noticed that