It's a beautiful Sunday
afternoon in May - Mother's Day, 1968. Spring in the Midwest
is sprouting with life and possibility. The peonies are shooting
stalks through the rich, black soil in the flower beds. After
morning mass at St. Joseph's, I am sitting in the shade of the
big sycamore in Mom's backyard.
My husband, Howard,
has been in Vietnam since March. He thought it would be best
for me to stay with my parents while he was gone. Princess, our
black German shepherd, is my constant companion. She lies at
my feet as I glance through the Sunday paper. I notice wedding
announcements, department store sales, ads for restaurants, and
upcoming movies.
Nestled in the back
pages of a remote section of the paper, I spot an article about
a battle in Vietnam. I avoid reading about the war, but this
article found me. The action described in the article involves
Howard's unit - 3rd Battalion, 39th Regiment, 9th Infantry Division.
War Refugees Are
Flooding into Saigon ...The Command Post is in a Buddhist pagoda,
20 yards from a tiny Catholic church which serves as a medical
aid station. "They hit us hard all last night with mortars
and rockets," said Maj. Boone. "Two soldiers from Alpha
Company held out during a three-hour attack on a little bridge
across a feeder canal. I don't even know their names but they
are up for the Silver Star. We've been lucky so far - only four
killed and 14 wounded in the battalion."
Howard is dead. I know
it. I don't know how I know, I just know. I can't breathe. Tears
are coming. I'm trembling inside and out. Mom comes out into
the yard and asks, "What's wrong?"
I show her the article
and whisper, "Howard is dead."
Three days later - May
15, 1968
The potatoes fry in
their usual pool of lard, lard rendered from the hogs my uncles
and brothers slaughter every January. Mom stands over the stove,
stirring the potatoes and turning the blood sausage frying in
an adjacent skillet.
Princess greets me after
I return from my job at Scott Air Force Base. My father sits
in his favorite chair, watching the evening news and waiting
for dinner to be served.
Something draws me to
the front windows. An ugly green sedan with the words "U.S.
Army" printed on the side of the door is parked in front
of the house. Two men in uniform sit inside the car, looking
down at the paperwork on their laps.
The room starts spinning,
my hearing becomes muffled, reality is slipping away from me.
Princess barks as Mom walks to the front window to see what's
causing the commotion.
They're coming to tell
me he is dead.
"Please God, let
him be wounded, not dead," I say.
The men continue to
sit in the car. Hours seem to pass before they get out, straighten
their uniforms, and head toward my door. I put Princess in the
basement - she doesn't welcome strangers. I come back to open
the door and see two men standing before me with the same terror
in their eyes that I'm feeling inside of me.
"Good evening,"
they say, as they remove their hats. "We're looking for
Pauline Querry."
"That's me."
They look at my protruding
abdomen which holds my unborn child, and then look at each other
in silence that lingers too long.
"Was he wounded
or killed? How bad is it?"
More silence. Finally
they begin.
"We regret to inform
you that your husband, Sergeant Howard E. Querry, was fatally
wounded on the afternoon of May 10 by a penetrating missile wound
to his right shoulder."
I'm dizzy. I can't think
straight.
"Dead? Is he dead?"
They don't answer me.
They just reread their script as if practicing their lines for
a performance they'll give someday.
"We regret to inform
you..."
The room is spinning.
I can't think, I can't hear anything. I'm going to faint. Alone...I
must be alone to sort this out. Leave me alone.
Instead, I sit politely
as they inform me of the details...funeral... remains... escort...
military cemetery... medals.
Finally they gather
their papers and leave. I politely show them to the door. My
parents are hysterical. My dad weeps, my mom trembles. No sound
is coming out - her whole body is shaking in upheaval.
After retrieving my
dog, I stagger to my room and shut the door. I throw myself on
the bed, gasping for air. My heart races and pounds. My unborn
baby starts kicking and squirming. I hold my dog with one hand,
my baby with the other, and I sob. I'm shattered, blown to pieces.
It can't be true.
No medics come, no helicopters
fly me away to an emergency room. I struggle to save myself but
I cannot. I die.
Half an hour later,
a ghost of my former self gets up off the bed and begins planning
Howard's funeral.
Mom calls relative.
People come over to console me. I just want to be alone. I just
want to be alone.
Grief Denied: A Vietnam Widow's Story, is available in soft cover for $14.95
, plus $3.00 shipping/handling (+$1.00 S/H for each additional book). Shipping is by Media Mail. (California residents add $0.82 sales tax per book.)
Please contact Pauline Laurent by e-mail at
(Please type the spam-protected address into your email program)
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