Cheryl Dietrich

I was at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, working in Personnel. We were in the midst of a wartime exercise, chem gear, twelve-hour shifts, the whole schmear. I was in charge of the Personnel Readiness Center during the day. When we had a lull in the action, one of the airmen waddled in her chem gear upstairs to use the restroom. She took her purse with her to pick up a snack from one of the vending machines. Chem gear and a purse, the combination sounds funny but the chem gear had no pockets. And yes, the Air Force did have a mandatory uniform purse, designed and produced by Coach, as well as instructions regarding its wear.

When she returned, she was almost in tears. “Someone stole my purse. I set it down in the breakroom when I got my snack. I was just gone a minute and was headed back, when I realized I’d left it. I ran back up.” That would have been theoretical running actually, considering the chem gear included funny clown boots. “It was gone. I didn’t have much money but my credit cards, my ID—oh no, what am I going to do?”

We all expressed sympathy. She sat down at a desk to call the Security Police and make an incident report. I thought about it. I pretended to be Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple.

“Look,” I said, “Before you do that, here’s something you should try. Whoever took your purse is probably just someone grabbing an opportunity. They’d be pretty nervous, I imagine, afraid of getting caught with your purse on them. If it was me, I’d go right across the hall to the restroom, get in a stall, grab the money out of your wallet, then dump the purse into the waste bin on the way out the door. Why don’t you go check the ladies room? If it’s not there, get someone to check the men’s.”

She was back in a few minutes, waving her purse over her head. “Captain, I could just kiss you!” It was all there but the few dollars she’d had on her.

It worked? My advice worked? I was stunned.

A year later, I was still at Ramstein when Desert Storm blew over. I was working for the support group commander when Tony came to see me one day. He was the tech sergeant in charge of the Personnel Readiness Center. It was just a three-person unit but provided personnel’s main contribution to the war effort, keeping track of skills and casualties.

“Ma’am, I need your help,” he said. When Desert Storm began, they had of course been put on 24-hour coverage, 12-hour shifts for all of them, seven days a week. Desert Storm had ended six weeks ago, and they were still on that shift schedule. “Captain D, it’s killing us. I’ve been to see the major about it three times, but he won’t let us off the schedule. He says as long as the command post is at maximum readiness, we should be too. Of course, the command post is manned for twenty-four hour coverage. I’ve done all I can. Can you help us, ma’am? The major might listen to you.”

I considered that highly unlikely. If I butted in, Major Cantore would just get more stubborn. Besides I hated conflict, not a fighter myself. My instinct was to pacify or compromise—or manipulate. Once again, I had to ask myself what a wimp like me was doing in the military. But Tony looked at me with desperation in his eyes and a disarming hint of hope that I could solve his problem.

I sighed. “Why do you think the major wants 24/7 coverage of Personnel Readiness?”

He thought about it for a moment. “If an emergency popped up in the Gulf at odd hours, we might need to be available immediately to work it. He doesn’t want Personnel to be the place where the system breaks down.”

“Okay, Tony. You know what he wants. Can you work up a plan to take to him, maybe a rotating on-call system, that would give him that but also provide time off for you all. You know, he’s a busy man with a lot of demands on his time. Don’t go to him with just a problem. Take the solution with you as well.”

He stood up, looking disappointed. “Well, thanks for your time anyway, ma’am.”

I watched him leave, his shoulders hunched over, unusual for a man who prided himself on his military bearing. I had failed him. I had just pushed the problem back into his lap. But two days later, he returned, his shoulders back and a smile warming his face.

“It worked. I put together a plan and took it to him. He said it looked good and to go for it! Thank you, Captain. You’ll never know what you’ve done for me—not just solving this problem, but for the future. I’ve got the key now—go prepared with the solution!”

It worked? My advice worked? I was stunned then too. My advice on both occasions seems obvious now, but at the time I felt undeservedly brilliant. Tony went on to eventually reach the highest enlisted rank, and I like to think I helped a bit. For me, it meant that for  the first time I wondered if my way of doing things had benefits to offer the Air Force.

[Captain, 1990, 1991]

I often sat in as the support group commander’s executive officer when the major in that position was on leave. One such occasion was a late fall day, unseasonably warm enough to have the windows open. I leaned out,  taking long, refreshing whiffs of the autumn air and listening to the jet engines rumble steadily from the flightline, comforting as distant thunder. I sensed someone beside me, then heard the colonel. “Ah, yes, the sound of freedom.”

I pulled my head in. “Yes, sir. What a beautiful day. I love the fall.”

He ran his fingers through his rusty hair and sighed. “Umm, listen, Cheryl. Lieutenant Colonel Hargitay is coming over in a few minutes. Do you have the report?”

Hargitay, that asshole! My good mood plummeted to the floor. “Here it is, sir.” I pulled a thick folder out of the desk and handed it to him. He walked back into his office flipping through the pages. I turned my back on the beckoning afternoon and sat down to tackle the pile of correspondence I was screening. I tried to concentrate, but my mind kept going over the nastier details in the report the colonel was re-reading.

I’d heard—and believed—the rumors about Hargitay for at least a year, and the investigation the new colonel had quietly ordered confirmed the worst of them. The report revealed Hargitay to be a bully, a commander who ran his squadron like the worst kind of fraternity house, rife with sexual harassment and hazing. He’d created an atmosphere so poisonous it was a wonder one of those eighteen-year-olds hadn’t gone on a shooting rampage yet. It was hard to find something he’d done that was illegal, but there was enough to fire him, to ruin his career. And that’s what the colonel—a very kind man, but strict—planned to do. Hargitay was history. Yes!

When he strutted in, he didn’t bother to greet me. As a mere captain, I’d always been beneath his notice. He headed directly for the colonel’s door. I rushed to get there ahead of him. An arrogant little gamecock of a man, he wore a permanent sneer on his face. Now he directed it at me. As always, I felt like an idiot around him.

I tapped on the door. “Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Hargitay’s here.”

“Thanks, Cheryl. Come on in, Jim.” As I closed the door—slowly—I saw the colonel motion to a seat in front of his desk. This wouldn’t be a friendly chat in the easy chairs. I wondered if Hargitay knew he was being fired.

Much as I wanted to stand with my ear pressed to the door, staff meeting took place in half an hour, and the squadron commanders would be congregating here soon. The secretary had gone for a late lunch, so it was up to me to get things ready. I checked the coffee and creamer supply. I grabbed the few old magazines that had strayed and slapped them back on the end table next to the sofa: copies of the Air Force Times, Airman, and one lone People magazine. I straightened the cushions on the sofa, punching them back into place. And with each punch, I thought, Good! Good! Good! High time that son-of-a-bitch got caught.

Muffled voices spoke from behind the colonel’s door. The doorknob rattled. I whipped back to the desk and grabbed a pen. When the door swung open, I was staring fascinated at the top paper, my pen hovering above it.

“Okay, Jim,” I heard the colonel say, his voice clear and firm, though with a tired drag to it. “Do you want to send your first sergeant over for staff meeting?”

“No, sir.” Hargitay’s voice was so low I could barely hear him. “I’ll stay for it.”

I’ll bet you will, you son-of-a-bitch. That way you don’t have to wonder what’s being said about you. The colonel returned to his office. Hargitay sat down on the sofa I’d just been pounding. He perched on its edge as if he were sitting at attention, his feet together, knees bent ninety degrees, elbows pressed against his waist. His hands rested on his blue serge uniform trousers. He stared into space; a hard glaze shielded his eyes.

Ha! Thought it couldn’t happen to you, didn’t you, you, you . . . But against that dead look, it was hard to maintain my rage. It evaporated with no warning, along with all my exultation. Singing “Ding dong, the witch is dead,” felt pointless. What a cheat! I deserve to crow. He’s the bad guy, I reminded myself. But now nothing looked as simple as my righteousness wanted it to be.

I didn’t usually drink coffee in the afternoon, but that day I grabbed my personalized 377th Combat Support Wing mug, ostentatiously stretched and yawned. I rolled my chair back, got up, and ambled over to the coffee pot, next to where Hargitay sat stiffly. As I filled my cup, I glanced casually over my shoulder at him.

“While I’m at it, sir, how about you? Can I pour you some coffee?”

He started, as if I’d been invisible up to now. For a moment, he didn’t speak, then he nodded. “Yes, please. Black.” His fingers trembled when he reached out to take the mug of lukewarm coffee. For the first time he looked at me. “Thank you,” he said, almost a whisper. “Thank you . . . Cheryl.” His voice quavered. Tears formed in his eyes. I pretended not to notice.

“You’re welcome, sir.” I returned to my desk and my paperwork. The squadron commanders started arriving, and soon the outer office rang with greetings, jokes, laughter. No one spoke to Hargitay, as if through some magic the word had gotten out. He sat alone, silent, gripping the mug of coffee with both hands. He was gone within a week.

Today is our wedding anniversary, twenty-seven years. At our wedding, I remember hearing a few people mutter, “Well, this one will never last.” But it has; it’s lasted happily. So today I’ve chosen to send you an anniversary story from the years I was stationed at Ramstein Air Base in Germany.

            Ramstein is in the southwestern corner of the Rhineland-Palatinate, Rheinland-Pfalz in German. We were half an hour from France going west or south. Going west we hit Lorraine; south, Alsace. We especially loved Alsace with its French-German mixture. People there have names like Jean-Claude Schmidt and Gretchen Moreau. Its old villages are more than picturesque with their crumbling stone, ivy covering the houses and storks in nests on the roofs. And the food!—Alsace is known for its restaurants in a land which is justifiably famous for its food. So for our fifth anniversary we planned to go to a restaurant in an old mill in Alsace, the Auberge de l’Ill, a Michelin-ranked three-star (the highest honor).

My husband had made the reservations two months prior. It was a beautiful, early spring Saturday. We loaded up the car and took the dog to the kennel. We drove the two hours down into the heart of Alsace, chatting excitedly all the way. We talked about the food we might eat, the wine. We reminisced about the wedding. We talked about trips coming up. We talked about everything but work. The drive itself was magical.

We drove past the auberge when we arrived. It stood out in the countryside, an old building next to a small river, too modest to be called quaint, but beautiful with the dignity of old age. Then we drove to the equally old, modest inn in a nearby town and checked in. We unloaded the car. We’d packed just for an overnight stay, but we were heavy packers. We pulled out a bag full of guide books and maps plus the magazines my husband couldn’t travel without and the novel for me. Then a cooler with soft drinks and water for the drive. An overnight bag with pajamas and underwear and shoes and cosmetics. A container with champagne and crystal flutes to enjoy late at night in our room after our meal. And each of us had a mystery bag, a present for the other, we were coyly pretending to hide.

We lugged it all into our little hotel room, then looked at the pile of bags puzzled, with the sense of something missing. We went back out to the car to see if we had forgotten a bag.  Then it hit me. I said, “Honey, where’s our clothes?”

He looked aghast. “In the hang-up bag. Upstairs. At home.” We stared at one another for a few blank seconds.

I remember realizing that I had a choice of responses, and I chose to laugh. The tension in his face dissolved as he too started to laugh. We stood in the tiny parking area in the center square of this (yes) quaint moss-covered village, two Americans dressed in sloppy jeans and dirty old sweatshirts—all the clothes we had with us—laughing hysterically.

We could have gone to the auberge, but I knew I wouldn’t be comfortable. I would feel I was bringing shame on all Americans if we went. We called and cancelled our reservations at the world-renowned restaurant. They were quite okay with it—I suspect they had a long waiting list. That evening we wandered around town and peered into shop windows and read the menus outside the restaurants. We found a simple bistro in town, a place called Lion d’Or (funny how that name stays with me). We had a lively, delicious meal. The champagne that night bubbled with humor and happiness.

We promised ourselves that one day we would come back to this town. One day we would dine at the Auberge de l’Ill, but we never have. Some things are better left as dreams.

[Captain, 1991]

[Part Three]  Ironically, the only major issue I brought back to Electronic Security Command was from the happy base of Iraklion. The Department of Defense Dependent Schools (DODDS – pronounced exactly as it’s spelled) provided schools for military children overseas. At Iraklion, they ran an elementary and junior high. Because of the small number of teenagers, it was not feasible to provide a high school on base, so these students were boarded at the American School in Athens. That’s their seal to the left.

            This arrangement satisfied everyone. Athens was a half-hour flight or an overnight boat away, so kids could come home for holidays and parents could show up at the school at any hint of trouble. The American School was private, run on a European model, and provided these military brats with an excellent education alongside the children of diplomats, archaeologists, and entrepreneurs. It even provided college-level courses. Plus, parents and teenagers didn’t have to put up with one another on a daily basis during those impossible years. Everyone was happy. Then DODDS decided it would be more cost-effective to send these children to Spain, to the DODDS high school on Torrejon Air Base.

This was the crusade I’d been looking for, the rescue of a dozen high school students. It took me over six months to resolve the issue. First, I had to convince my own leadership at ESC that it was a problem worth going to the mats for. Mr. Bond was happy to support me in this, as long as he didn’t have to be involved. He had his own crusade, trying to get more base housing at San Vito. He also had the general’s ear, and the two of us briefed him together, backing each other up on the two problems. It was the first time I’d met the ESC commander. At first he didn’t seem very interested over an issue involving school kids.

“After all, umm . . .” He glanced down at his notes. “. . . Cheryl, the British do it all the time, send their kids away to boarding schools, sometimes thousands of miles away.”

“Yes, sir. But that’s not part of our culture.”

He nodded. “Okay, you can pursue it, but you’re going to have to give me lots of ammunition before I go to USAFE [United States Air Forces in Europe] and DODDS.”

For several months, I researched studies on education and childhood development, got information from the schools in Torrejon and Athens and compared them. I devised questionnaires for the families at Iraklion, compiled data, sent messages, was on the phone almost daily to USAFE, Iraklion, or DODDS. I would not let the interest flag. I wasn’t a knight in shining armor, more an obnoxious little terrier that had gotten hold of something and would not let go.

Part of the problem was that since ESC didn’t own any bases, we had no clout with DODDS. USAFE was the command they dealt with. In Germany, I’d met Bill, the civilian USAFE liaison to DODDS, and discussed the issue with him. He was onboard from the first but had a hard time working his way up the brass-heavy leadership chain at USAFE. Finally, after months of my yapping and snapping about this issue, Bill persuaded the USAFE vice commander to visit Iraklion. That’s all it took. The general listened to the complaints of the people there as if they were brand new to him and announced grandly that he would take care of it. With the weight of USAFE’s command leadership pressing against DODDS, they rescinded their decision within weeks of the school year that would have sent the Iraklion children to Spain. I was as relieved as if we’d diffused a bomb ready to go off. EOD, that was me—Educational Ordinance Disposal.

One of the things I did whenever I was reassigned in the Air Force was ask myself if there was any issue at the base I was leaving, in which I had personally made a difference. Of all the (few) things I accomplished at ESC, this was what I was proudest of: that I kept ten to fifteen teenagers closer to their parents and in a good school. In the scheme of things probably not nearly as important as the other work I did. But I took on the big dogs. I had the support of others because I was willing to do the fighting. I can look at it with the certain feeling that without my involvement, it would not have happened. Maybe a small victory, but it was mine.

That’s part of the reason I felt so hurt at the response that came to us from Iraklion. A message sent from the commander there worked its way down to me several weeks later—about the time a bunch of kids would be unpacking in their dorm rooms in Athens, greeting friends from the previous year. The message was sent to HQ USAFE. ESC received a courtesy copy, though courtesy seems a dreadfully inappropriate word here. In fulsome terms, the colonel thanked USAFE for all it had done to resolve the school situation, “especially in light of the fact that our own command structure made little attempt to help us.”

I went raving into the Director of Personnel’s office, waving the message at him. “Have you seen this, sir? How dare, how could, I can’t believe, it’s just—”

“Calm down, Cheryl. Don’t take it personally. The general’s not pleased either and has already placed a phone call to Iraklion. He had a few choice words for the colonel there.”

That just didn’t seem enough, but there was nothing more I could do. The ingrates—after all I’ve done for them! I hadn’t exactly expected a parade in my honor (though it would have been nice and well-deserved), but at least a thank you, certainly not a slap in the face. All that work, all the effort. How could I not take it personally?

Like the elephant, I do not forget my grudges. A few years later, in another assignment, I got to know a captain, a woman with whom I hit it off instantly. We recognized the crusader instinct in one another. We were quickly on our way to a deep, lasting friendship. Over lunch one day, I discovered she’d once been assigned to Iraklion, had arrived a few months after my trip there. She’d been the commander’s executive officer.

“What a beautiful base,” I said. “Nice assignment. I used to work for ESC too.”

“ESC—man, they were useless! They did nothing to support the folks they had out in the field. Nothing!” She began to tell me about the DODDS crisis. I recognized the passion in her voice; it was the same passion I’d had about it. I said nothing, didn’t interrupt to tell her all I knew about it. I listened as she inveighed against ESC, which had abandoned the base to the mercy of DODDS’ cost cutting.

“Our headquarters wasn’t even interested. So we had to rely on USAFE. Still,” her voice turned from outrage to triumph, “We let them all know how we felt.”

“You wrote that message.” It was a statement, not a question.

She nodded. “You saw it? It pissed the ESC leadership off, but it was worth it. It was true and someone needed to stand up and say it.”

“You wrote the message.” I set my fork down and calmly, coldly said, “And I was the one who spent six months getting everything together, all the stuff our commander needed to get USAFE involved, when DODDS wouldn’t pay attention to us. We hammered at USAFE for six months before they would do a damn thing. So yeah, they came in and played rescue at the end, but only because we wouldn’t let go of it. So, you wrote that message.”

“Yes.” She took a sip of water, then began to pick through her salad greens.

That was the end of our friendship. She could not bring herself to admit she’d been wrong. And I could not bring myself to forgive.

[Captain, 1987; 1990]