The Woman Behind the Uniform

"Semper Paratus"–Always Ready

Thomas & Helen Diehl

My mother was born in Philadelphia on the last day of July, 1921. She was the fifth child of immigrant parents from County Cork, Ireland. I have never been sure of the actual details, but my grandmother died either while giving birth to my mother or shortly thereafter. Her father, already left with a son and three other daughters, was incapable of properly caring for his newborn baby girl. My mother was taken in by an Irish woman named Mrs. Burke, who became her foster mother. She came to visit us a couple of times when we still lived in Philadelphia. When she did, my mom was always adamant about us four kids being clean, well-dressed, and, most of all, on our best behavior.

In retrospect, I now know that my mother was affected for the rest of her life by what must have felt like abandonment. She did eventually reunite with her sisters and brother, and they became close, which gave me the gift of a flock of Irish cousins. When my father was transferred to Los Angeles in 1959, she was again, reluctantly, separated from her family. In her declining years, the lingering sense of inferiority—or, more precisely, a feeling of being neglected or unappreciated—returned. In her mind, none of us kids ever called enough, visited enough, or ultimately cared enough.

But that wasn’t the kind of mother or grandmother she was. She loved to laugh and have a good time, and she did enjoy her beer. She taught her grandchildren how to play poker, giving them pennies and instructions on how to bet. She was an inveterate people-watcher and definitely liked good gossip. When we were out, she often made funny, sarcastic comments under her breath like, “Get a load of the dress on that one,” with a roll of her eyes.

Helen Diehl

I learned early on that the best way to dissipate her anger and get out of trouble was to make her laugh. I remember one time when my brother and I were fighting, as we often did, she reached her boiling point. She grabbed a wooden spoon—or maybe it was a spatula—to smack our butts like she did when we were little kids. I was sixteen, my brother was fifteen, and by then we towered over her. Bruce and I must have read each other’s minds. Without a word, we each took one of her elbows, lifted her up high, and carried her out to the back patio. Then we locked her out. I can still see her face up against the sliding glass door. She was spitting mad and laughing uncontrollably at the same time. The laughing quickly took over, and we let her back inside. 

What my mother was most proud of in her life—except her four children, of course—was her military service during World War II. She was in her early twenties when, in a burst of patriotism and desire for adventure, she enlisted in the Coast Guard to help defeat the Axis powers. Eventually, she was stationed in San Francisco, operating a teletype machine, which was an electromechanical typewriter that could send and receive typed messages over long distances. It was a kind of mix between a typewriter and a fax machine.

She was at her desk in the communications room on August 14, 1945, when the message came over the loud, clacking teletype that the Japanese had surrendered. It was a message the entire world was waiting for, and she was one of the very first Americans to learn that the war was finally over. It was also in San Francisco that she met up with my dad, who was being discharged from the Navy. If I remember correctly, they had already been acquainted back home in Philadelphia, but it was in San Francisco that they reconnected and fell in love.

SPAR recruitment poster used during World War II

When she talked about her service, she always made sure to tell us, with tremendous pride, that she was a SPAR. It was what the women in the Coast Guard were called. The name came from their motto, Semper Paratus—Always Ready.

In 1997, the Military Women’s Memorial, located at the gateway to Arlington Cemetery, was opened. It honors all women who have served in the U.S. Armed Forces throughout history—from the Revolutionary War to the present. I was working as a sales representative for a transportation company and was flying to New Hampshire and then Washington, D.C., to make sales calls. My sister learned of the memorial and asked—told me, really—to take a picture of our mom in her uniform and submit it into their digital records. My mother had passed in 1995, and we both thought this would be a great tribute and one that Mom would have truly loved.

I got on a plane after my morning call in New Hampshire. Time was tight since my flight back to California was later that same day. I dozed off but was awakened by the pilot announcing that we were approaching Reagan Airport. As the plane banked, he also mentioned that we were passing over the new Women’s Memorial. As I looked down on it, I felt her presence—and admonishment—to make sure I got there. Okay, Mom, I thought. I’ll make it.

After my call in D.C., I checked my map and headed the rental car to Arlington. If you ever have an opportunity to drive in our nation’s capital, I would advise against it. It’s congested and confusing, and I wound up going in circles, arriving in front of the CIA building three times. It was getting to be crunch time, and in frustration, I literally gave up. “Sorry, Mom,” I murmured out loud and set out for the airport. Then something miraculous happened, which I’m sure my mother had a hand in somehow. A few minutes later, I looked up—and there it was, immediately to my left—the Women’s Memorial! Time was still of the essence, so I quickly parked and rushed inside.

Thomas, Wayne, and Helen

I thought I would just drop off the picture and be out of there, but the nice woman—who was about the same age my mother would have been—said kindly, but somewhat imperiously, “Where is the write-up about her?” I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t prepared and was running out of time. I think she sensed that, and she took control, saying, “Come with me.” I followed her to a small room with a table that had paper and pen on it. “Just bring it back to me when you’ve finished.”

I wrote a short profile, which included the Japanese surrender, and took it to her. She smiled and thanked me. I have been back to the memorial once. I retrieved my mother’s record from the registry, and her picture filled the large screen on the wall along with the short story about her. The love and pride I felt seeing her face on that screen can’t really be described in words. My hope is that one day my grandchildren will visit the memorial too—not only to honor their great-grandmother’s service, but to understand the courage, dedication, and sacrifice of all the women who have proudly worn the uniform of the United States.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.