By Pat Wance

When I began to think about “What West Point Means to Me”, for some strange reason I had a flashback of that songs by the Animals, “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.” I know that sounds terrible, but I could also see everyone rushing to the dance floor and we still dance to it at reunions. Was it really that bad or were we in such a hurry to get on with our lives? Maybe a little bit of both.

    For the guys, it may have been the restrictions, especially for the times when many former high school classmates were having an entirely different college experience. For most of the ladies, completing our degrees, starting a career and maybe a wedding, were what we saw in the not-too-distant future. 

     Our first assignment was the Armor Basic Course at Fort Knox, KY, distinctly different from West Point. I was definitely out of my element, a newlywed, living far from home, learning what was expected of an army wife. I read Mrs.Lieutenant from cover to cover, and it didn’t make me feel any better. Maybe, West Point wasn’t that bad after all and maybe because it was familiar. Everyone from Cadet Company A-2 was dispersed to their basic courses or grad school. I did enjoy meeting new people but missed those faces that I became so attached to and treasured. Most of the wives were just as uncertain about Army life as I was, so there was a common bond we all tried to appreciate. Hats and gloves were the order of the day and we looked like those old Avon Lady commercials. It was 1969-70, for goodness sake. No one wore hats and gloves. Bell-bottom pants, fringed jackets and love beads were what civilians wore. Somehow, we managed to pull it off for those important receptions we were expected to attend.  We donned our post-wedding going-away outfits and a wretched hat that didn’t match anything. 

     In late 1971, we returned from Germany with infant twins and Denny left for Vietnam. I chose to live at a former air force base that was now called Stewart Airport. Much of the military housing left behind was set aside for “waiting wives,” my new title apparently, not much better than “dependent.” That little community also included professors and their families who were waiting for quarters* and any other overflow military folks that could not be accommodated immediately at West Point. It turned out to be a good experience. My parents lived nearby, and I was 20 minutes from the gate at West Point. The Army maintained my adequate quarters. At Stewart Airport, we had a small commissary** and PX***, nursery/daycare and a medical clinic headed by a pediatrician which was very convenient. The Military Police would circle the housing area at least once every hour and our long-haired dachshund was often picked up by them for wondering off the tiny lawn. It was always a little disturbing to see a big, tall MP standing at my door with Oscar sitting calmly beside him. I couldn’t always get everyone inside in a timely fashion after a walk – two babies and a twin stroller that refused to collapse easily; maybe, that poor dog was just forgotten in the turmoil. 

     Occasionally, I would go to the larger facilities at West Point and just driving through the post brought back fond memories and even some comfort for a “waiting wife.”

     It seems like so long ago. Those infants are now 50 years old. The unique experience of West Point still pulls us together as a couple, along with the Company A-2 “fraternity,” and all the other classmates and grads we have met along the way. I’m so proud that my husband attended one of the highest-rated colleges in the country leading him to a 20-year military career, but it means so much more.

And finally, full disclosure, I listen to a 60’s station on my car radio and when I hear the first few bars of that song by the Animals, I still get a big smile on face. I can’t help it!

 *term used for residential housing on a military post or base

**Army grocery store

*** post exchange – a small department store

Timing is everything and I’m certain that West Point has ingrained that principle in the minds of all its graduates along with so many other important aspects of military life. As a supporting wife, I tried to comply with all the rules, regulations, long and short separations, running our home and keeping the proverbial chin up during difficult times. This is something all military wives share—we are a tough bunch. However, the Army cannot control the human body, at least not mine.

We were stationed in Baumholder, Germany. When I told this story at an A-2 gathering and mentioned Baumholder, there were audible groans from a good portion of the crowd. Must admit, I liked Baumholder. Maybe because it was our first assignment and I had nothing to compare but I endured, even climbing to our 4^th floor quarters.

Denny was in a tank battalion commanding Alpha Company. Baumholder could not accommodate tank gunnery, so the entire battalion moved to Grafenwoehr in the late summer for 8 weeks. Here is where the timing comes in…I became pregnant in the winter and my due date fell on the day the battalion was to return. Oops.

The beginning of my 9^th month, it was discovered that we were expecting twins. No ultrasounds in those days (1971). The battalion commander allowed Denny to return for a week, but those babies were holding tight. He had to resume his command at Grafenwohr and I chose to move in with another “waiting wife” rather than spend weeks in the hospital as my OB/GYN suggested.  Luckily, I was surrounded with many supporting battalion wives, wives of classmates and those classmates in other units that were also assigned to Baumholder. A-2 classmate, Norv and Kris Eyrich lived in the next building from where I was staying, coincidentally, Kris was pregnant at the same time and due almost on the same day.

So, of course, my labor started the day before the battalion was to return. I knew Denny would be extremely busy making sure his tanks were being loaded on to trains, tying up loose ends and preparing for the long, 12-hour journey back to Baumholder.

I placed a call to the rear-detachment officer. His wife was also pregnant. There must have been something in the water! Anyway, he was just a little riled by this news wondering if he was the designated driver to get me to the hospital. I knew that wouldn’t be a problem because in about 20 minutes there were 6 or 8 wives in my friend Nancy’s living room all trying to figure out who would be able to transport me to Bad Kreuznach, about 40 miles away. I happened to glance out the window and there was Norv, walking his dog. Kris delivered their beautiful daughter a day or two before by C-section. I leaned out and yelled “Hey, Norv, are you going to visit Kris tonight?” He looked up and said “Yes, I’m leaving in a few minutes. Is there a problem?” I replied, “I’m pretty sure I’m in labor, and since you are going that way, I could really use a ride.”

God bless Norv. Without missing a beat, he said “Yes, I’ll bring the car to the front of your building.” My bag was packed and ready as I was instructed to do by the nurses at the OB clinic. I worked my way down the stairwell, with the help of all those ladies. They lovingly padded the passenger seat of Norv’s VW Bug with about 12 towels and off we went.

Norv mentioned that he knew a short cut through the countryside that was faster than the autobahn. Since I didn’t have a choice and the contractions were about 12 minutes apart, I hoped he knew what he was doing. After all, he did get Kris there, right? Right. Turns out a good portion of the road was under construction and the detours were rough surfaces to say the least. With every bump, I prayed my water wouldn’t break and I could tell the contractions were coming a little more frequently.

Meanwhile, back at Graf in the mess hall, Denny got the word about my labor, delegated his company responsibilities for their departure and was frantically searching for some sort of transportation to BK. It was getting dark and raining hard with poor visibility. Denny’s Battalion Commander found a helicopter pilot who volunteered to fly him to the hospital. Since that was the only offer, he took it. What could go wrong?

We thankfully arrived at the BK hospital and Norv escorted me to the admissions desk on the OB floor.

 

 The staff behind the nurses’ station, looked at him then looked a me and then looked at him again. A male nurse sneered and said “Captain, didn’t you bring another woman here a few days ago who was also in labor?” Norv explained that yes, that was true, but he was helping a friend this time who was in Graf. I could tell the guy still wasn’t convinced, standing there as I gripped the wall tile with another contraction. He asked for my ID card and Denny’s unit. I handed it over and told him it was 2/68 Armor. I could hear him talking to someone saying 2/68 Artillery. He turned to me and said that unit doesn’t exist. Another sneer at Norv. IT’S 2/68 ARMOR, ARMOR NOT ARTILLERY, I yelled to him. At last it was confirmed, and I was escorted to the labor room. Norv tried to reassure me it would be alright and went to Kris’s room.

I wasn’t sure it would be alright. I was admitted at about 8pm and Denny arrived, looking very pale, at around midnight exclaiming he had one hell of a ride.

At 6:08 and 6:15am, Kelly and Scott came into this world by natural childbirth.

Later that morning, the doctor who delivered the children, drove Denny back to Baumholder. Dr. Roth (Werner Roth, MD, a German contract OB) had clinic hours that day at our little dispensary.

It wasn’t at all how I pictured this event would evolve but thanks to bad timing and good friends, it was an experience I will never forget.