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General Patraeus and Paula Brodwell |
Not so much the infidelity itself (I used to say
that early on in our 52-year marriage she once commented that “If I found out
you were unfaithful, I don’t know if I would kill you or myself” and that
indecision was a constant reminder of our wedding vows.), but of how much his
wife had done in the 34 years of his service: something like 24 major moves (we
had 14 or 15), the constant social requirements, particularly when he became a
senior officer, and even the extra pressure of raising a family so as not to
jeopardize his rising career. Especially,
boys.
When I went on active duty and we got married (a
remarkably short time between those two events) we were among several young dental
couples at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. The men (and we were all men) were indoctrinated
in what it meant to be an officer, things that had missed our attention during
the two week indoctrination at Newport, Rhode Island. Our teacher was our Commanding
Officer, a genial but, in retrospect, extremely knowledgeable and expecting
Navy Captain. The women (never girls) were encouraged to purchase and commit
to memory the Naval Officer Handbook for Wives.
I strongly suspect that book went out of print many years ago.
In it there was mention of when to wear hat and
gloves; what was respectable attire for all manner of social functions; when
and what was expected for “Calls, made and received”, what to have printed on
your cards for those occasions, and numerous intrusions on your personal life,
excepting perhaps what to name your children.
The informal side of the Officer’s Wife’s Life was
left to the CO’s wife and the Officers’ Wives Club, which had a pecking order
entirely based on seniority.
In time Mary would take her own place at the helm as
the CO’s wife, and although times caused many items covered by the Handbook to
change, little changed in the sociability requirements of the wives. One was expected to entertain all new
officers and their wives and to provide comfort and solace to any and all single
officers. Most holiday dinners included
at least one of these, certainly lonely, men.
Instruction on commissary shopping, where to park at
the Exchange, how to settle children in school, and babysitter availability
were routinely doled out with a precision that masked how much effort went into
researching the facts. Remember this was
before Google. More subjective, but no
less common was advice on financial matters, what to buy, how to furnish where
you are currently living, and what constitutes necessities. I remember coming home from the clinic one
day of that first tour, telling Mary that she couldn’t buy a sewing machine, no
matter that everyone else seemed to be doing so, because we just couldn’t
afford it. She later confessed that she had no intention of buying a machine
she couldn’t use.
The Petraeus moves seemed of special consequence to
Mary (who, reluctantly shares family spelling of her maiden name with Jill Kelley). I had no idea that she still has
recurring dreams of the movers exiting the front door and she discovering a
closet, or perhaps a whole room, she forgot to have them pack. She feels that
General Petreaus’ wife is owed big time for her anguish. Of lesser concern, probably because she only
has her own experience to go by, is what Mrs. Petraeus went through, coping
with the effect of the moves on children: the problems inherent with new
schools, leaving friends, adolescent changes in an unstable environment, and even
the growing accumulation of “stuff” that needed to be packed and moved.
There are few compensatory perks for the Officers
wife; certainly none to speak of until your husband reaches senior level, which
might get you kitchen and household help and a bigger cave to live in, and much
that comes with trade-offs. I remember when we were privileged to stay in VIP
quarters in Baguio while stationed in the Philippine Islands. The bed was huge and had three pillows. Mary questioned why, three, and I conjectured
that one was probably for the Aide, since command necessitates a surrender of
privacy.

Several people have asked me why she would possibly
want to stay married. As one whose
parents are both buried at Arlington (mom on top of pop) and one who hopes for
the same for Mary and me, maybe she just wants a place to go when she
dies.
Maybe she can get the bottom bunk.
I heard an interesting
homily recently that argued we all have a “sell-by” date. Next post I’ll share how that got me
thinking. Please join me
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