By Bonnie Bartel Latino

Columnist

A brief synopsis for readers who missed last week’s column. A four-star general’s wife, Mrs. C., told me in an awkward face-to-face meeting that under no circumstances could any non-commissioned (enlisted) personnel enter our officers club for lunch. Not even to attend the Officers Wives Club’s (OWC) annual scholarship luncheon.
The (United States Air Force) globally enforced the “no fraternization” policy between officers and enlisted personnel. That meant no enlisted person could enter any Officers Club for any social purpose. In the early 1970s, I believe all military services had no fraternization protocols.
What stunned me most was that no exception would be made for a non-commissioned master sergeant, who had spent the last nine years assigned by the USAF to assist the wife of a specific prisoner of ware, in any way necessary. Frankly, as the years wore on, he had been a God-send to Mrs. X.
The following week, for the first time our four OWC scholarships would bear the names of four Prisoners of War held in North Vietnam and would be presented to four local students by a member of those POW families. The situation felt an exemplary way to honor America’s Prisoners of War. Surely the fraternization rule could be bent for a couple of hours in such a highly unusual situation. The master sergeant in question would be driving Mrs. X from out of town to make the presentation in her husband’s name. As helpmate to the wife of one of the Air Force’s highest-ranking POWs, of course he wanted to witness the scholarship presented in Col. X’s name. But that was not to be. “Not under any circumstance.”
Two totally unexpected and mysterious things happened after I met with Mrs. C. and learned of her negative decision, and I subsequently submitted my resignation from OWC. The next morning, I received a call from the OWC president. She said only that Mrs. X’s enlisted helper would be allowed to attend the scholarship luncheon at the O’Club after all. No further explanation was given. None was expected. Clearly someone of higher rank than Gen. C’s wife over-ruled her decision. My belief in the core decency of the USAF soared as if on eagles’ wings, or in this case, on Gen. C’s silver stars.
Several months later, things became even more curious. March AFB 15th Air Force Regional Hospital had been predetermined as one of several military hospitals to take care of the medical, physical and psychological needs of our POWs before they went home to their families. The wait time for the men to arrive at March might be six months or several years. No one yet knew the future date of unimaginable joy.
Whenever those fine men were freed, our Red Cross would not be caught unaware. The hospital quickly announced the selection of two current volunteers to help with the future POWs. How had a junior officer’s wife, who already had two run-ins with base Red Cross, been chosen, and by whom? I never learned.
But yes, why me? Surprised and shocked, I still can’t articulate the honor, joy and sheer wonder I felt. The only reasons I could imagine were because I inherited both my parents’ ability to talk to people from all walks of life. Speaking with people of all ranks came easily. Also, I wrote for, and often interviewed, various officers’ wives, for The March Lady, our OWC’s monthly magazine. Also, in my elected office as OWC corresponding secretary, I penned every missive by hand. I could help the POWs write letters home. Or perhaps it was because of my passion of shining a local light on the plight of our POW-MIAs in SE Asia via the new scholarship program, which I had proposed, plus the petitions I helped fill with military signatures to be sent to Washington, D.C.
It had never occurred to me until I started writing about my 30 years as an Air Force wife, that perhaps General C’s wife had suggested my name. If so, it wouldn’t be the only time she put forward my name without my prior knowledge. Or could her husband have been responsible? I never met General C., but I certainly respected him for his decision, which only he could have made, to allow an enlisted man’s short visit to March AFB’s Officers Club.
Being chosen, but due to Tom’s military orders, unable to stay there to work with America’s POWs, remains one of my two greatest honors — and two biggest regrets — of Tom’s career.
Not long after the scholarship luncheon, Tom came home for lunch one day as usual. “What?” I laughed in response to his odd grin.
“We’re going to Hawaii!” Something, which I took for excitement, shook Tom’s voice. “Yay!” I shrieked. “We’re moving to Paradise!” We never broke eye contact as he walked toward me across our small kitchen. “Not exactly, but I’ll meet you in Waikiki on … R & R.”
I gasped. The elephant in the room, which we all dreaded, had reared its ugly head.
Tom Latino had orders for Vietnam.