Eight hours later, on the other side of the world, a cab rolled to a stop on a sleepy tree-lined avenue in a little Oklahoma town.
A captain in an immaculate dress uniform got out of the cab. He was holding the telegram by the corner because his hands were all sweaty.
Why do they have to use a captain to deliver the bad news, he thought; why not a lieutenant or even an NCO? He had to ride herd over a whole company of clerks at Fort Sill, on top of delivering these telegrams. It wasn’t fair.
He checked the number on the house and compared it with the one on the telegram. Mrs. Beatrice Farmer, 2705 Central Avenue.
At least it was a son this time, not a husband. Widows are harder to calm down.
He started up the walk and told himself that he had the hardest job in the world.