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By Bonnie Bartel Latino

Columnist

As soon as I came home from the monthly Officers Wives Club board meeting at March AFB, Calif., I laid my small handbag on our second-hand coffee table. “Tom!” I called out. I wandered through the house looking for my husband. He had to be home. His car was outside. “Where are you?!”
“What’s happening?” Already dressed in shorts, T-shirt and sneakers for his run, he gave me a quick kiss. “Want to go to Big Bear this weekend? Mike’s got his parents’ cabin.”
“Sure, as long as we can each collect at least 25 signatures each for our Prisoners of War and guys who’re Missing in Action before we head out.”
He rolled his eyes, but not to make fun of me. He understood the importance of soliciting signatures for congressional petitions. He changed the subject by pulling me against his chest and kissing me deeply. Then, again. I pulled back to look into his eyes. “You didn’t really want to jog today. Did you, Latino?” He grinned sneakily as he shook his head and led me down the hall to our room.
In May each year, most Officers Wives Clubs in the 1970s awarded college scholarships to lucky high school seniors who had exceptional grades and character. The scholarships were financed with proceeds from base thrift shops or jewelry shops in the Far East that were run by volunteer members.
In 1971, the scholarship committee at March wanted to do something different to bring fresh appeal to the program. The topic had come up for discussion at a previous monthly OWC Board Meeting. As the elected corresponding secretary, I sat on the board. I had suggested we name our scholarships after four officers who were either POWs or Missing in Action.
A smattering of applause told me the ladies liked my idea, but I wasn’t finished. “If we can find four families of those officers, who live within a few hours of the base, we could,” I stumbled trying to phrase it in my head before I spoke it. Not to be melodramatic about it, but as if by divine intervention, I felt inspired. “We could invite their wives or mothers to come to our scholarship luncheon to make the presentations to the recipients.”
The ladies loved that, too! “Our publicity will,” I said excitedly, “call attention to the plight of our Prisoners of War and our missing service members in Southeast Asia. This is a win-win,” or so I thought.
At first everything went like clockwork. Our scholarship committee found four P.O.W. families living in southern California, who were thrilled to send a family member or two to our May luncheon. Scholarship recipients had been selected, notified and had accepted.
However, a week before the luncheon, I received a phone call from an Air Force colonel’s wife I will call Mrs. X. Her husband had, for the past nine years, been held captive in the “Hanoi Hilton,” sarcastically named by U.S. media for the brutal torture and psychological warfare that went on inside. Mrs. X explained that her husband’s branch of service had assigned a non-commissioned officer to help her with any problem that might arise. After all those years, he had become more like a brother than an aide. He drove her to most of her speaking engagements as he would to our scholarship luncheon. She said she lived two hours away and wondered if she might bring her aide inside for the presentation since he will be there anyway.
“Of course!” I said. She breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you. I wasn’t sure since the presentations are at the O’Club.”
I thought about the implications of her words for three seconds. “If this doesn’t qualify as a special circumstance, I don’t know what does. Surely, it will be fine.”
We hung up, and I called the OWC president to ask her to add a plus one to Mrs. X’s table. Madame president wasn’t at all sure it would be OK, but she’d let me know.
The next day our scholarship committee met at the O’Club to work out final details of our presentations. What I best remember are the shade of the four-star general’s wife’s eyes when she called me aside — and the words we exchanged.
I followed her to the middle of the ballroom. We were sitting, facing each other at an empty table for six. She wore a soft blue plaid-skirt. Her blue blouse was the color of her pretty, but determined, eyes. She said she knew I had worked hard on the scholarship luncheon, and I’d had two excellent ideas. An unspoken “but” implied in her tone lingered on air about as softly as fireworks on New Year’s Eve.
“I’m sorry, but . . .” Short story shorter, she assured me that Mrs. X under no circumstances could bring her aide into the O’Club.
I gasped, but I knew better than to pop off to a four-star’s wife, especially one who had only been kind to me until then. I looked at my hands atop the table and rotated the bottom of my wedding band with my thumb. All I knew to do was speak from my heart.
“I’m sorry, I’ve put you in an awkward position by asking to allow a non-commissioned officer to have lunch with officers’ wives. While I have nothing but respect for you personally, I will have to resign from the executive board and the OWC immediately.”
Her eyes widened in shock. Or was it disbelief? It quickly became apparent that I couldn’t be more serious. I stood to go.
“For me, this is a major moral issue for a one-time request.” I swallowed any trace of anger. “Please tell madame president I’ve gone home to type my resignations.”
As I walked out of the ballroom, I felt the eyes of every woman there on my backside. As for anyone, who thought the happy-go-lucky lieutenant’s wife would roll over and play dead, they never really knew me. I did not rethink myself. No one had raised a voice. Our transaction was simply quietly completed with conviction.
For me to have done anything differently would have negated everything Tom and I had been trying to do for men like Mrs. X’s husband for the past two years. I took a deep breath and drove the 2 miles home. I wasn’t worried about Tom’s reaction.
His values were mine. Mine were his. That’s why we had chosen each other.