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By Bonnie Bartel Latino

Columnist

I pinned my pillbox hat onto my head, then rushed to the car. I couldn’t be late for my initial OWC (Officers Wives Club) luncheon at March Air Force Base. I wondered if the older women would have superior attitudes. Would I fit in?

Bright California sunlight streamed into the Officer’s Club through opposite walls of windows that lined the white ballroom. At least 90 women of all ages milled around. Without exception they had all dressed in their Sunday best. Several wore white gloves; most wore hats. A brunette woman wearing a burnt orange autumn suit with an air of authority, and obviously the club president, stood at a podium on the small stage. “Ladies,” she said into the standing microphone. “Please take your seats.”

The ballroom buzzed with chatter as the women searched for others they recognized, most likely from the same unit in which their own husbands worked. Here and there around the circular tables for six, all covered in white tablecloths and set for lunch, stood a few younger wives. Knitted eyebrows made vertical lines on the bridge of one woman’s nose. Another young lady was biting her fingernails.

Although I had been to student wives luncheons in Texas and Mississippi, my Atmore background quickly put me at ease, especially with older women. Back home, I had gone to occasional lunches at Atmore Country Club and in my girlfriends’ homes before graduation. Years before that I had served for my Mama, her bridge club, and church friends when they hosted bridal showers and occasional baby showers for Atmore’s young ladies, who the women had known since the blushing fiancées and soon-to-be new mothers had been babies themselves.

My mind jumped back to the present. I was tempted to round up those two wives who obviously felt out of their depth. Then I heard someone call to me in a soft Southern accent. “Bonnie! Come sit with us.”  I turned to smile at the woman I recognized as the wife of Colonel John Phillips, 15th Air Force Communications staff director, the man at the top of    Tom’s chain of command. I took the last empty chair at Pat Phillips’ table. I was seated directly across from her. When I had previously met her, she had been as approachable as she was now. Pat introduced me to others at our table. Most of their husbands worked for Colonel Phillips, where Tom did, at the numbered Air Force’s Combat Operations Center, the nerve center overseeing daily combat operations of the subordinate bomber and missile bases. I just nodded as if I understood exactly what that meant.

After the waitstaff had served lunch someone said the blessing, and we enjoyed Chicken Cordon Bleu with grilled asparagus and rice. During lunch, the president made an announcement. Every May, the club awarded scholarships to worthy students. They wanted to do something different that year to keep the program fresh, yet meaningful. Ideas should be directed to any board member. We had a few months to decide.

Then the guest speaker from KTLA-TV in Los Angeles stood from his seat and walked to the microphone. The charismatic man, old enough to have known better, shared some of the station’s outrageous bloopers. He started off sharing mildly funny mistakes, but quickly advanced to some a bit too naughty for an OWC function. However, some he shared were as hysterical as they were raunchy. One, which was over the line of propriety, created no laughter. In the total silence, my eyes locked with Pat’s. As we tried mightily to stifle our laughter, we snorted in unison. Loudly. It felt as if all eyes in the room jumped to our table. By then, Pat and I were almost convulsive with laughter. The entire room saw that Pat Phillips had made it OK to laugh, and they laughed, too. Only one older woman walked out.

As I glanced at the ladies around me, I thought, I already know these women. Any doubt that I could be an officer’s wife and still be myself dissolved in Pat’s smile across the table. In today’s vernacular, I would say these women were already my “Tribe.”

Pat’s personality was darling, but “John T.” as she called her short, cherub of a husband, was the extrovert. They held many parties in their spacious and beautifully appointed Mediterranean style home on base. Their two Air Force lieutenant sons were stationed at distant bases. The Phillips always invited junior officers and spouses or dates to their parties, which were many. When Colonel Phillips was off duty and had a few brews he told hysterical Cajun jokes complete with the bayou accent. Some were a little risqué, but never crossed the line. Tom and I adored them both.

Little did I know that Pat would become my closest friend at March and for decades to come. Against all odds, the World War II Glider-pilot and P-40 pilot, Col. John T. Phillips, would become Tom’s mentor and architect of much of his military career.