The journey begins
Published 10:01 am Thursday, October 3, 2024
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By Bonnie Bartel Latino
Columnist
“Tom! Where’s the car?” I said as my husband walked into our front door at March Air Force Base, CA. He had left home hours earlier on Saturday morning to take a Car Care class on base. It was almost dark. “Wait.” I looked into the carport via the kitchen window. “Where’s our car?” I thought you just said you wanted to learn some elementary mechanics.”
“I did. I mean, I do.” His face gave the Scarlet Letter new meaning. “Well . . .” He hung his head. I stifled a laugh. “What? Did you fail Vehicle Maintenance 101?” Indignant, Tom spouted, “I did not. I removed the carburetor, and I just …” even he started to chuckle,
“ … couldn’t get it back in, and the instructor didn’t have time to help me fix it today. I caught a ride home from the main base.” I knew someone would eventually show him how to return the carburetor back to its original home.
Come to think of it, his dad had worked as a vehicle mechanic in World War II. In fact, once in Europe, driving downhill pulling a disabled tank on a trailer, he had nearly collided with Gen. George Patton and his jeep. Hmm. Maybe ‘Mr. Johnny’ and his sweet son shared similar automotive skills.
Around the same time, I learned from Mama that Carl White, an old friend from Atmore, was stationed at U.S. Naval Base San Diego. She had sent me his phone number. “I tried to call him several times and left messages for him to call me.” I moaned to Tom that I hadn’t heard back from him. “It’s been a week. Carl’s not the type of person to do that.” Tom laughed and asked, “What rank is he?” I replied he was a junior enlisted seaman. “An E-1 or E-2, I guess.” Tom laughed and pulled me into a bear-hug. “Babe, the poor guy probably lives in a multi-story dorm with only one phone per floor. He might even live on a ship.”
“Oh, poo,” I said, after I understood our communications problem. I almost gave up on inviting Carl to come for a weekend. Almost.
The next night I told Tom that his info about Carl had really helped, and he was coming that Saturday to have dinner and spend the night. “He has to leave for San Diego early the next morning,” I explained. “How did you manage to talk to him?” Tom asked. I must have blushed because he turned to me and put both hands palm up, “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Babe, you didn’t use the name of some random Navy captain in San Diego that you found listed in a phone book, did you?”
“Not …” I felt myself blush, “ … exactly.” With a shy grin, I almost confessed. “But sorta-kinda, I did.” He just shook his head.
On Saturday Carl arrived just in time for supper. After we shared warm Atmore hugs, I introduced him to Tom. As they shook hands, Carl said, “With all due respect, sir, you do know your wife is crazy, don’t you?” Tom laughed and assured Carl he had known it even before he married me. Turning back to me, Carl said, “I still can’t believe you did that, but it sure worked!”
“Exactly what did my innocent wild child do?” Tom asked of Carl. “Or do I want to know?” Carl said that when he had come back to his barracks, one of the guys ran up and handed him a typed message that said: Captain Tom Latino’s secretary, Bonnie Bartel, called. The captain needs to speak with you at your earliest convenience. Below is her number to arrange the best time for you to speak with the captain. “What’s that old saying,” Carl said through his laughter, “‘Crazy like a fox.’ That’s your wife!” He hugged me again. The three of us were still laughing as we sat down for drinks in the living room.
“Bonnie just forgot to mention that Capt. Latino is an Air Force captain,” Carl added. “Well,” I retorted, “no one asked me if my boss was a Navy captain. If they had, I would have probably just said yes.” We laughed all through dinner. If Carl White were still alive, we would still be laughing about my communication skills and the fact that a Navy captain is a senior officer three grades higher than an Air Force captain.
We had other visitors, of course. Tom’s schedule of working six days at the 15th Air Force Combat Operations Center, and four days off, gave us plenty of time to explore southern California and Mexico. However, Tom and I still made time each week to solicit signatures and addresses on base for petitions for the Relief and Release of POW-MIA in Southeast Asia. It had become both my passion and my calling.
I also became a Red Cross volunteer at the base hospital and wrote features for the Officers Wives Club monthly magazine, the March Lady. The vibe seemed infinitely tamer than pilot training, and we more than liked that.
At March Air Force Base, I embarked on what would be a lengthy journey to become a good officer’s wife without losing myself in the façade.