answers. Captain Bokov didn’t much care how.
D IANA M C G RAW WAS JUST STARTING TO DUST THE SPARE BEDROOM when the doorbell rang. “Damn!” she said, and then looked around guiltily to make sure Ed hadn’t heard. But the rattle and squeak of the old lawnmower out back told her he was still working on the yard. That was a relief. He didn’t like her to swear, not even a little bit.
She hurried downstairs: a slim woman in her late forties, going from blond to gray but not all the way there yet. She muttered wordlessly as she opened the door. Her daughter and son-in-law were half an hour early. That was annoying, even if they would have little Stan with them.
“Oh!” she blurted. It wasn’t Betsy and Buster and the baby out there. It was a kid in a dark green jacket with brass buttons.
“Mrs., uh, McGraw?” The kid had to look down at the pale yellow envelope in his right hand to get the name. He was just about old enough to start shaving. When Diana nodded, he thrust the envelope at her. “Wire for you, ma’am.”
“Uh, thanks,” she said in surprise. She hadn’t got a telegram in months. “Hold on a second. Let me grab my handbag.”
But when she came back with the purse, the Western Union delivery boy was bicycling down the street, pedaling hard. Her mouth fell open as she stared after him. He hadn’t waited for his tip! How far behind on his work was he? Far enough to be scared of getting fired if he didn’t go like a bat out of you-know-where? That was the only thing that made even a little sense to her.
Then she opened the envelope, and everything stopped making sense. The wire was from the War Department. In smudgy, carbon paper–like printing, it said,
The Secretary of War deeply regrets to inform you that your son, Patrick Jonathan McGraw, private, U.S. Army
—Pat’s serial number followed—
was killed outside of Munich, Germany, on 19 September 1945.
There was more, all of it over the typed signature of a lieutenant colonel. But all Diana saw was
Son. Patrick Jonathan McGraw. Killed.
That looked big as the world, and blotted out everything else.
She staggered toward the back of the house as if Joe Louis had landed an uppercut right on the button. After a moment, she reversed course long enough to shut the front door.
It was impossible. The war in Europe was over. It had been for months. Oh, there were stories in the paper about fanatics and diehards. They’d even killed General Patton. But Pat’s letters assured her everything was quiet in his sector. Like a fool—like a mother—she’d believed him.
Son. Patrick Jonathan McGraw. Killed.
“Ed?” she said when she got to the back door. One syllable was all she had in her.
The lawnmower stopped. Ed McGraw’s bald head gleamed under the end-of-summer Indiana sun. “Dang!” he said—he wouldn’t swear in front of her, either. “They here already?” Then he got a good look at her face. The half-rueful, half-annoyed grin on his own faded. “What is it, hon? What’s the matter?”
So she had to find more syllables after all. She managed two: “Pat. He—” But she couldn’t say that. She
couldn’t.
She held out the telegram instead. It had the words.
Son. Patrick Jonathan McGraw. Killed.
Ed McGraw stumped over to her. He’d lost the last two toes on his left foot in France in 1918. In spite of that, he’d tried to reenlist the day after Pearl Harbor. They wouldn’t take him. They probably wouldn’t have if he weren’t maimed—he was well overage. So he went on working at the Delco-Remy plant in Anderson, the way he had since he came home with eight toes, making good money and socking away a nice chunk of it.
Anderson, halfway between Indianapolis and Muncie, was almost as big as the latter. But people all over the country had heard of Muncie. Plenty of people in Indiana had no idea Anderson existed. Neither Diana nor Ed cared about that. They liked Anderson fine. They’d raised two good kids
D IANA M C G RAW WAS JUST STARTING TO DUST THE SPARE BEDROOM when the doorbell rang. “Damn!” she said, and then looked around guiltily to make sure Ed hadn’t heard. But the rattle and squeak of the old lawnmower out back told her he was still working on the yard. That was a relief. He didn’t like her to swear, not even a little bit.
She hurried downstairs: a slim woman in her late forties, going from blond to gray but not all the way there yet. She muttered wordlessly as she opened the door. Her daughter and son-in-law were half an hour early. That was annoying, even if they would have little Stan with them.
“Oh!” she blurted. It wasn’t Betsy and Buster and the baby out there. It was a kid in a dark green jacket with brass buttons.
“Mrs., uh, McGraw?” The kid had to look down at the pale yellow envelope in his right hand to get the name. He was just about old enough to start shaving. When Diana nodded, he thrust the envelope at her. “Wire for you, ma’am.”
“Uh, thanks,” she said in surprise. She hadn’t got a telegram in months. “Hold on a second. Let me grab my handbag.”
But when she came back with the purse, the Western Union delivery boy was bicycling down the street, pedaling hard. Her mouth fell open as she stared after him. He hadn’t waited for his tip! How far behind on his work was he? Far enough to be scared of getting fired if he didn’t go like a bat out of you-know-where? That was the only thing that made even a little sense to her.
Then she opened the envelope, and everything stopped making sense. The wire was from the War Department. In smudgy, carbon paper–like printing, it said,
The Secretary of War deeply regrets to inform you that your son, Patrick Jonathan McGraw, private, U.S. Army
—Pat’s serial number followed—
was killed outside of Munich, Germany, on 19 September 1945.
There was more, all of it over the typed signature of a lieutenant colonel. But all Diana saw was
Son. Patrick Jonathan McGraw. Killed.
That looked big as the world, and blotted out everything else.
She staggered toward the back of the house as if Joe Louis had landed an uppercut right on the button. After a moment, she reversed course long enough to shut the front door.
It was impossible. The war in Europe was over. It had been for months. Oh, there were stories in the paper about fanatics and diehards. They’d even killed General Patton. But Pat’s letters assured her everything was quiet in his sector. Like a fool—like a mother—she’d believed him.
Son. Patrick Jonathan McGraw. Killed.
“Ed?” she said when she got to the back door. One syllable was all she had in her.
The lawnmower stopped. Ed McGraw’s bald head gleamed under the end-of-summer Indiana sun. “Dang!” he said—he wouldn’t swear in front of her, either. “They here already?” Then he got a good look at her face. The half-rueful, half-annoyed grin on his own faded. “What is it, hon? What’s the matter?”
So she had to find more syllables after all. She managed two: “Pat. He—” But she couldn’t say that. She
couldn’t.
She held out the telegram instead. It had the words.
Son. Patrick Jonathan McGraw. Killed.
Ed McGraw stumped over to her. He’d lost the last two toes on his left foot in France in 1918. In spite of that, he’d tried to reenlist the day after Pearl Harbor. They wouldn’t take him. They probably wouldn’t have if he weren’t maimed—he was well overage. So he went on working at the Delco-Remy plant in Anderson, the way he had since he came home with eight toes, making good money and socking away a nice chunk of it.
Anderson, halfway between Indianapolis and Muncie, was almost as big as the latter. But people all over the country had heard of Muncie. Plenty of people in Indiana had no idea Anderson existed. Neither Diana nor Ed cared about that. They liked Anderson fine. They’d raised two good kids
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