Tuesday, September 9, 1975

The ringing phone drew my attention away from the letter I was writing. In addition to the weekly letters badgering the government to fight harder for Al's release from the Vietcong POW camps, I had been writing letters to Al. After five years I had a sizable stack, tied up with a bright red ribbon, waiting for him to read when he came home to me. I laid the pen I saved especially for these letters to the side and moved to the hall table to answer the phone.

"Hello?"

"May I speak with Lieutenant Elizabeth Calavicci?" The voice on the other end of the line was male and deep.

"This is she."

"This is Captain William Griffith of the United States Navy. Lt. Calavicci, I have good news for you. Your husband, Albert, was located two weeks ago, and arrangements were immediately made for his repatriation."

"You found him?" My knees sagged. I sank down onto the nearby bench in relief. "When will he be home?"

"If all continues to go as well as it has, the transfer negotiations should be completed in a few days' time. We've made arrangements for you to be flown to Bethesda to meet Lieutenant Calavicci upon his return," Captain Griffith said.

"Bethesda? Yes, of course," I stammered out.

"Lieutenant," Captain Griffith paused meaningfully, "I want to assure you that your husband will be placed under the best care available. His service to his country has not gone unnoticed."

I made my thank yous and farewells to Captain Griffith in a daze. Al was coming home. My eight-year-long dream was coming true. And how much more was it Al's dream than mine? I wasn't the one who was dragged at gunpoint through the Vietnamese jungles. I wasn't the one who had been beaten and tortured for the past eight years. I wasn't the one who was isolated and ever so far from home.

My feeble attempts to imagine Al's horror could not even come close to the reality. I became vaguely aware of the twin streams running down my cheeks. Al's photo smiled down at me from its place on the mantel. A wave of pride washed over me as I realized that my husband had beaten the VC; he was coming home to me. Yvonne's words from five years ago suddenly ran through my head: "You stay strong for him. When he comes home he's gonna need you just as much as you've needed him, if not more."

The cover photo of Life was on the table across the room from me. I walked over and picked it up, looking at the moment forever frozen in time--Al being led away to another POW camp. This moment was in the past, but it was a part of the past that would always haunt him, I knew that. I vowed then never to let on how close I had come to giving up on him. If it hadn't been for that angel and his words . . . I shook my head. Yvonne was right, Al needed my strength, not my weakness.

I took my seat and resumed my letter.

My dearest Al. I've just gotten the best phone call I could ever have hoped for. At last, you're coming home. Oh, my dear, dear Al, I've missed you so much. I don't believe I could ever find the words to describe how happy I am right now. The prospect of seeing you again is like the beams from a lighthouse, leading the way from a dark and treacherous sea of misery to hope and life.

Eight years...Al, even eight days is too long to be apart from you. I long to see your face again, to feel your arms around me, to be with you. I know these years have seemed an eternity to me—how much worse they have to have been for you. But no...we need to look ahead, not behind. Our life stretches out before us. You're coming home, we're going to be together again, and that's all that matters.

I love you so much, Albert Mario Calavicci. I'm so proud to be your wife.

With all my love,
Beth