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Bob Davis’s barbershop, men gathered for discussions of war efforts and military strategies while the women met together behind closed doors for bouts of tears and prayer sessions. The town seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was to come.
    Andy found himself working overtime to deliver all the messages. People seemed to watch out their windows for him. The white banners trimmed in red, bearing the stars of their loved ones, seemed like a beacon, pulling Andy magnetically to each house.
    Blue to gold. Gold for death.
    The cadence rang in Andy’s ears as he marched throughthe snow. Once in a while there was good news. A telegram would announce that a soldier had been found wounded but alive and put in a military hospital. There was relief in such letters but also great frustration and anxiety. There was no possible way to go to their loved ones, to bridge the miles that separated them.
    On the first of December, Andy went to work to find nearly a dozen telegrams already waiting. They were stacked neatly on the counter—innocent enough in appearance.
    “They’ve been coming in steadily since I got here,” the receptionist, Hazel, told Andy.
    Eyeing the envelopes, Andy wanted to run in the opposite direction. Most of these telegrams were confirmation of the dead. There was no doubt about that. Two weeks ago the onslaught had been regarding the missing in action. The notifications now could only mean one thing.
    Hazel worked on affixing message strips to plain paper. She seemed to have taken it all in stride. Andy wondered silently how she could sit there so peacefully, so perfectly at ease.
    “Are any of them . . .” Andy couldn’t finish the sentence.
    Hazel looked up and shook her head. “Most are confirmation. There are a couple of new missing in action.”
    Andy’s spirits sank further. How much more could the little town take? Until a few weeks ago, no one had even heard of such a place as the Huertgen Forest, much less knew a battle there had stolen their loved ones away. People rushed for maps, for any piece of evidence to show where the fighting had been. The newspapers reported what they knew, but the details were so sparse it never answered the questions the people so desperately needed addressed. Did he suffer? Was it quick? Was he afraid?
    The citizens of Haven craved information—demanded it—but there was often nothing to be had. The saying that “no news is good news” passed out of favor. Any news was better than being left to wonder in a state of near panic. Even the telegrams that would be delivered today would allowgrieving families to know the truth about their sons, husbands, and fathers. It might be tragic, but it was better than never knowing.
    Andy gathered the telegrams and headed out the door. The day was dreary; the clouds hung heavy and dark. The temperature dropped throughout the day as Andy made stop after stop. At noon he came back to find even more telegrams.
    “Any sign of it slowing?” he asked the key operator. Hazel apparently was at lunch, as her desk was deserted.
    The man shook his head. Andy couldn’t be sure, but he thought there were tears in the older man’s eyes as he added, “I think they got all of us.”
    The snow was now coming down in a blinding fury, a blizzard of massive proportion descending with a vengeance. The wind picked up, whistling through the trees, stinging Andy’s face and eyes. He should just give up and go home, but he knew he couldn’t. Folks deserved to know the truth as soon as possible.
    The next telegram in his hand was marked to his high school principal. Andy hadn’t gotten to know Mr. McGovern very well in school, but he knew the man from church, where Mr. McGovern was an elder and a member of the choir. He could still remember Mr. McGovern singing a moving rendition of “Silent Night” the previous Christmas.
    Andy looked again at the message in his hand. He hadn’t taken any telegrams to the McGoverns before, and