Next of Kin

THIS is the way the news came to me. It was on a hot July day in Washington — one of those oppressive July days when even the morning air seems to steam mercilessly with heaviness and heat.

Nan and I had just returned from the market. The boys were playing in the yard. Playing their usual fierce, hot, dusty, daily game of Commando or Rangers or Underground, whatever it was. The names and situations varied from day to day but the game was essentially the same. Continuous, fierce, hot, dusty — and daily.

I heard the screen door slam as Robin clattered in and shouted, “Mail’s here, Mother!”

“Letter from Daddy?” Nan called. We hurried in from the kitchen.

“No.” Robin ruffled through the letters with his grubby small-boy hands. “Who’s this APO from, Mom — Uncle Bill?”

I took the letter from him and recognized Bill’s handwriting. Bill was an Engineer. My husband was G-2, General Staff Corps. How pleased they had been early in April to find themselves bound simultaneously for England. Brothers who had not been together for years, simultaneously assigned to the staff of the corps commander they both had known and admired at earlier peacetime posts.

“Read it to us, Mother.” Nan and Robin perched comfortably beside me on the sofa. “ What does he say about Daddy?”

“‘Dear Carol,’ ” I began, "’I hasten to write this before you receive an official communication. . . .'" The words froze on my lips. You can see why. This is what I read: —

24 June 1944
. . . He was on a mission when his party drew enemy fire. The party scattered — lie was the only one who did not come back. We have made several thorough searches on the spot and in the same vicinity. He hasn’t been found. We all believe he was taken prisoner and not killed, for if he were dead the Germans would not have carried off his body. We hold considerable hope for him. You must do likewise. God bless you — keep a stout heart. We’ll all be praying together.
Best love,
BILL

Do you know what it is like to go through the usual motions of your daily life without knowing you are doing so? It is as if you are a mechanical thing, an automaton, wound up like a toy with a key. You look at the clock and see that the hour hand has moved from two to nine. You look at the calendar and know that this is tomorrow, not yesterday. You know that on Wednesday you went swimming with the children. And that on Friday you must take Nan to the dentist. You know that dozens of people have telephoned. They are so anxious about him, so distressed about you. Yes, you will let them know if they can help in any way.

You look at the headlines in the daily paper. You talk again to his mother. To the sympathetic woman at the Red Cross. To the colonel at the Pentagon who has known him since Plebe days. You replace the missing buttons on Timmy’s shabby shorts. You get breakfast — and lunch — and supper; and still the clock ticks, and still the words do not come.

The War Department does those things so well. How often you have heard it said about the twenty or thirty or forty little words that mean hope or the end of all hope —the words other women know. Other women, not you. The War Department does it so well. You wait for the words, the twenty or thirty or forty wonderful or terrible words that can mean Bill was right — or wrong.

Fourteen days, fifteen nights, of waiting for the words. The words that meant, when they came, Bill was not right. He was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

WASHINGTON D C
1944 JUL 18 AM 11 36
THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES THAT I TENDER HIS DEEP SYMPATHY TO YOU IN THE LOSS OF YOUR HUSBAND WHO WAS PREVIOUSLY REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION. REPORT NOW RECEIVED STATES THAT HE WAS KILLED IN ACTION TWENTY TWO JUNE IN THE EUROPEAN AREA. LETTER FOLLOWS.
ULIO THE ADJUTANT GENERAL

People have said, “It must be comforting to realize he never knew what hit him.” That much is true. He never knew. But I know. And I am not likely to forget. I know that in one fraction of an instant he was with his men. And that in the next he was not. And that two weeks later they found him —and buried him — in France.

HEADQUARTERS VII CORPS

7 July 1944
. . . When Colonel Cary and the party approached the river near the village of La Rivière, they drew machine-gun fire from German positions across the river, and several of our military police were wounded. The party sought cover, and in the lea of the hedgerows, retreated to the road to reorganize. It was then discovered that Colonel Cary was not with them. ... At my CP his brother was informed that he was missing and accompanied the Provost Marshal, whom I directed to serve as guide, to prepare a search party nearest the scene. . . . Unfortunately on this trip the jeep in which they were riding hit a mine. The Provost Marshal was seriously wounded and your husband’s brother stunned. . . . This and several subsequent searches drew fire and were unable to locate Colonel Cary, so we reported him missing in action. ... It was only a few days ago that American troops cleaned out the German resistance in the coastal section. On July 4 I sent my aide down to La Riviere to again search the river bank. He found your husband’s body in the high grass along the river. An examination showed he had been shot through the head. . . . My aide assures me that his body lay exactly as he fell and that his death was instantaneous. Wednesday evening, July 5, at 9:00 PM, your husband was buried in the VII Corps Cemetery No. 2, southwest of Ste. Mère Eglise. . . . We all gave our final salute to our gallant comrade and friend.
J. LAWTON COLLINS
Major General,U. S. Army
Commanding

I think of the morning we said good-bye. In war there is a carious lack of bustle and excitement surrounding a man’s departure for overseas. How can you let him go — how can you? I will tell you. It is because you know that what happens in war to other men — to the husbands and lovers and sons of other women — can never happen to him. You know this. And with all your woman’s heart and mind you believe it to be so.

You merely breakfast that day a little earlier than usual. And as he drinks his orange juice you go into the hall to make sure the easily forgotten little things are in his flight bag. His toothbrush. His writing kit. The Christmas picture of you and the children. And the new fountain pen which you have laughingly observed is guaranteed not for years, not for life, but guaranteed forever.

The minutes tick by. There is nothing to say. There is nothing you can say. Even the children — there is nothing the children can say. You watch him peer into his coffee cup, then push his chair away from the table. This is the moment — now. This is the moment you have shut away from your mind for weeks and days and hours.

“Well —” he says.
“Yes,” you agree, “it’s time.”
He kisses the children. He kisses you and holds you close. And before you can breathe again he is gone. Then, only then, the words flood into your mind.
The things you meant to say and planned to say — the important things you thought about at six this morning, and yesterday, and last week, while he was still here, while there was still time. Now there is no more time. He is gone.

10July 1944
... I was evacuated to England and placed on limited duty after I was injured — and I was told that I could not return to France. I kept feeling that if I could just get back, I would find him some place. Perhaps waiting for me as usual at Headquarters. ... I managed to get back yesterday — but the world is changed. He was given a formal military burial four days ago. I went out to his grave, in a beautiful spot in the VII Corps Cemetery near Ste. Mère Eglise. The grave was covered with flowers. I took two red roses — one for you and one for Mother — which I’ll bring home some day. . . . I am being sent back to England. But I don’t mind now, since he is no longer here and we two cannot continue to work side by side. . . . Cod bless you and the
children.
Love,
BILL

The War Department is very conscientious about the return of personal effects.

Personal effects, when recoverable, will be sent to the next of kin as soon as practicable, by the Effects Quartermaster, Kansas City, Missouri, and any inquiries concerning this subject should be addressed to that office.

They have sent me his writing kit. And the Christmas picture. And the fountain pen.

I have made a dustproof cover for the lathe in his cellar workshop. The table he made of beautiful Hawaiian koa wood is beside me now — and the graceful, burnished koa bowl that was his greatest pride. He always loved to hold it in his artist’s hands, turning it slowly to the polished side he sought. “This is the place,” he would say, “that took so long to make right.”

In a reedy marsh in Virginia, the duck blind we made together rides the tides of the Potomac. And in a little leather box upstairs there is a red rose. . . .

LEGION OF MERIT

For exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services as Assistant Chief of Staff, G-2, Seventh Corps, from 7 April 1944 to 22 June 1944, Colonel Cary evaluated the voluminous intelligence information accumulated and, at the same time, completed plans for the organization of his section. His keen mind, sound judgment and his untiring efforts enabled him to carry out this difficult assignment in an amazingly short time, and he was able to devote his great organizing ability to the final completion of plans for the invasion.

. . . Subsequent to the landing, his eagerness and enthusiasm in securing the very best and latest information of the enemy often took him to exposed positions. Colonel Cary was killed in action on 22 June while accompanying a patrol to bring in enemy prisoners. His devotion to duty, and his resourcefulness contributed materially to the success of the campaign on the Cherbourg Peninsula.

Timmy is ten. He stood very straight that bright November day at the Pentagon. He stretched as tall as he could, so that General Thompson need not stoop too much. No one spoke as the medal was pinned to Timmy’s jacket. No one spoke until the General stepped back a pace and smiled gravely at me.

“He was a fine man,” he said quietly, “and a fine soldier.”

He turned to Timmy. “Take care of your mother for him, Chippy.”

“Yes, sir.” Timmy’s chin was trembling.

“They tell me you will go to West Point some day.” “I hope so, sir.”

“Good luck to you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

TWELFTH ARMY GROUP

OFFICE OF THE COMMANDING GENERAL

APO 655

U. S. ARMY

13 Dec. 44
. . . Anything I can say seems so inadequate. ... I counted him as one of my very best friends as well as one of our most capable officers, and I too felt his loss very keenly. I am sure that your fine children will prove a great consolation to you. . . . Please accept my sincere sympathy and my best personal regards.
OMAR BRADLEY

Last night Nan was restless again. I got out of bed and went into her room. Through the window the light of a cold spring moon shone on her troubled young face. She stirred uneasily. And in her same half-voice of sleep, the voice that has startled me so often, she called out the words that are familiar to me now: — “I want my father. Please, God, I want my father.” I slipped quietly into bed beside her — as I have done before in these last long months. I felt her head relax on my shoulder, and stared into the bright white bands of moonlight that gave such little promise of the dawn.