The Informer

Note to readers: The United States Military takes many steps to insure that this will never happen.  Nevertheless, what if...


There are many occupations within the United States Military.  Some, exciting beyond expectations, others boring and isolated.  I wished my job was one of those action packed, jump off a plane thrill rides, but it wasn't.

As I approached a small bungalow surrounded by dry shrubs and rolling tumble weeds, a small figure came in view.  At first, I thought it was a decorative gnome that some people put on their lawns, but as I got closer, I realized that the figure moved.  From my vantage point, an older person knelt in the front yard tending to a garden.

I drove on the property in my military vehicle, picturing my mother back in our front lawn planting carnations.  As I closed in, I saw that the gardener was a robust woman, perhaps in her sixties, diligently planting daisies in a patch of dirt, surrounded by sun-scorched grass. 

Upon spotting me, she rose and beamed with joy.  Just by her smile I could tell that woman was an eternal optimist.  To plant fresh daisies in a drought stricken environment, she had to be either optimistic or a fool.  Judging by her youthful blue eyes, her high cheekbones, and the magnificent grin, I sensed she valued life.

Standing before her in full military dress, I saluted her.

"Are you a friend of Henry's?" she asked.

There were two ways that I could approach my duty.  The first was to hand her the letter and allow her to read it.  The other was for me to tell her the news.

"My boy is coming tomorrow.  His tour is over today and he said he will be here tomorrow."

The joy and pride she exhibited cut through me like a shark being gutted.

"It hasn't rained in months, but I know my Henry loves daisies."

"My name is Major William Martinez, Ma'am."

"Any friend of Henry's is welcome here.  Come, sit while I fetch you some ice tea."

She led me to a white metal lawn table.  I sat on a chair with soft cushioned padding, planning my strategy. 

The sweet old woman returned with a clear plastic pitcher filled with ice tea and two tall glasses. 

"So, you're Henry's mother?"

"Well, I'm his grandmother.  Henry lost his parents in a car accident when he was two.  I've been raising him since."

The ice tea soothed my thirst as I chugged it all in one helping.

"My, you drink just like Henry."

I was trained to do my job with class, and to afford the next of kin all the dignity they deserved.  This had been my twentieth visit in the last month.  Every confrontation was emotionally grueling.  A few were physically draining. 

"Ma'am, I'm here to talk to you about Henry."

"To talk, oh I thought you were here to see him.  Did I tell you?  He's coming tomorrow."

Maybe it was my boyish face or my friendly easy going demeanor, but people had no clue to what I did for the military.

"Henry is dead."

"We have this whole day planned.  After I make him a big lunch, we're going to his favorite shopping mall, where he promised to buy me a new dress."

Some people that age have difficulty hearing things, especially horrible news.

"Ma'am," I slipped the envelope on the table, "please read this."

"And then we're going to catch a movie and later eat ice cream."

Every time I did this, I told myself that it would get easier with time.

"Henry is dead Ma'am."

The sparkle in her eyes diminished and confusion set in.

"Henry will be here tomorrow," she said. 

"Actually," I coughed, "his body arrives the day after tomorrow."

"No, you're mistaken."

Denial was always a difficult barrier to break through.

I slid the envelope to her shaking rough hands.

"You're wrong.  He's coming tomorrow."

I opened the envelope and handed the letter to her.

In an instant, I could see the nights when she comforted Henry as a boy during bouts of various sicknesses.  I saw her patching him up from the multitudes of scrapes and bruises.

Her eyes welled up as she read, "We regret to inform you that Private Henry..." her voice trailed off as tears clouded her vision.

"But he's due tomorrow."

"Ma'am, know that this country is proud to have a fine soldier like Private Henry Lee Benjamin in this man's army.  He served us with honor."

The now familiar look of confusion returned to the old woman who had seemed to age even more the past few minutes. 

"Did you say Private Henry Lee Benjamin?"

"Yes."

"My boy is Private Henry Lee Benton.  Lee Benjamin lives over on Macon Avenue, this is Macon Boulevard."

As the color drained from my face, the old lady's cheeks became rosy again.  She did not celebrate at my buffoonery. 

"Oh, God, I feel so sorry for Martha, his mother," she said.

I took my hat and got up with the letter.

She continued, "Henry Lee Benjamin was supposed to come to her yesterday."

I coughed.  I wished that I could rely on vigorous training like those soldiers with the action packed duties.

"My deepest and most humble apology, Ma'am."

"No dear, it is I who feel sorry for you.  So young and now you have to do it all over again.  How do you sleep at night?"

I gritted my teeth and said, "The men deserve to have a final voice."

I straightened my tie, dusted off my jacket, and made my way to another sad journey thinking that not all heroes are known, nor are they welcomed.