Stuggart, Germany. 

A phenomenal geographic starting point for European travel. A noble city populated with kind-hearted people. 

It is also my home during my command tour of a small Air Force Detachment. 

Our military unit is located on the Army’s Patch Barracks. The post was originally the German Army’s Kurmärker Kaserne, a World War II headquarters and barracks for one of their tank regiments. After a brief French colonial troop occupation of the post, American troops took over the facility. After a longer U.S. Army occupation of the post, the U.S. Air Force invaded and seized a small patch on Patch.

Having a host country like Germany and a host city like Stuttgart are more than adequate consolation prizes for enduring the misfortune of residing on an Army Post.  Our Detachment team has a tight working relationship that allows my unique leadership style to shine.

As an officer, I always strive to be more of an approachable human than the gruff drill sergeant type of tyrant leader displayed in the movies. 

I am the daughter of a World War II Army Air Corps Staff Sergeant and my Dad was consistent about two things: singing the Army Air Corps song to me each night at bedtime and reminding me that “Officers can’t be trusted.” So growing up with that mantra in my head, when I did become an officer, I sought to be the kind of officer Dad would have trusted.

Taking command of this Detachment is a professional honor for me, not only because of the hardship location of Stuttgart, but because of the reputation of the hard-working professionals I am joining. Their preceding reputations are spot on. This is a team that works hard and plays hard. They are patient with me, slowly granting me full permissions for personnel systems where previously I had view-only rights. 

I care about this team of professionals. I respect the work they do and am truly honored that they trust me, sometimes with very personal information.

The other benefit, or possibly curse, of being a small Detachment is that we are all in earshot of each other. Maybe that’s why we trust each other, because we have to, because we can’t very well hide news we get or give over the phone. Such was the case one Wednesday this past Spring. 

I hear the phone ring at another desk. Nothing unusual about that, obviously, so I keep working. 

I hear our Superintendent pick up the phone. Also nothing unusual about that (as I mentioned, we’re professionals here; the phone makes a noise, we do something about it). 

“Oh, hi Doctor Perez.” I know our Chief Master Sergeant has some medical concerns and has been through a battery of tests. This isn’t an unexpected call. 

I can hear the Chief’s monosyllabic responses, indicative of someone in receive mode while the person on the other side of the conversation transmits. Also not an unexpected exchange.

“I’M PREGNANT?” 

Ok, this is unexpected.

“How is that possible?” 

I suspect the question isn’t really about how but more of a rhetorical question. 

In the pregnant pause that followed (pun intended … I have lots of puns in the oven), I drop everything I am doing and stand by our Chief with my hand gently on her shoulder as Doctor Perez gives her the rest of the relevant information.

My emotions do a shuttle run between the next 9 seconds and the next 9 months. 

Those precious moments will be consumed by telling Chief’s husband, multiple doctor’s appointments, of course a baby shower, possibly some temporary help to bridge the gap during her maternity leave, which of course meant we have to get the Position Description written and posted, then we have to sort through the applicants and pick the one best suited to backfill the Chief, our new Detachment mom. Oh and mom-to-be is of an age that makes this a high-risk pregnancy, which of course gives birth to a whole new set of complications.

My mind bounces back and forth between the tasks involved with commanding my Detachment and caring for our new Detachment mother.

To command, I must wear the uniform of the gruff drill sergeant.

To care, I must uncover the compassionate human.

To lead, I must balance the two.

I labor to refocus my efforts to the present. 

Chief’s body nervously shakes beneath my hand.

I have never birthed more compassion than I am exerting at this very moment. 

I know my role right now is to be there. 

For her. 

For the baby.

“OK, doctor. Thank you.” An unsteady hand gently places the phone back in its cradle.

The Chief looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot, her face red, her body still quivering … from laughter.

“April fools!”

Yea, I should mention that this Wednesday in Spring is the first of April. 

Hook, line, sinker, weight, bait, boat and oar.

I have been reeled in from my desk to the Chief’s shoulder. And “Doctor Perez”  was another member of our Detachment calling from our Operating Location 3 hours north.

While I’m embarrassed that I, of all people, have been pranked, I wouldn’t do anything differently. 

I’m glad I showed compassion, able to be there for the Chief, pregnant or not. 

I’m glad the Detachment found me approachable enough to prank. 

I’m glad it’s another day at the office where I am able to laugh. 

This is the kind of officer I want to be and this is the kind of workplace I want to work in. One with compassion and caring, and a healthy dose of comedy.

I should mention too, that the same man who told me that officers couldn’t be trusted was also the man who instituted April Fools’ Day as a national holiday in our household. I suspect he’s probably disappointed that I didn’t catch the joke soon enough. 

I just hope he’s proud of the trustworthy officer I am trying to become.