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- <text>
- <title>
- (Roosevelt) "A Soldier Died Today"
- </title>
- <history>
- TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--FDR Portrait
- </history>
- <link 00101><article>
- <source>Time Magazine</source>
- <hdr>
- April 23, 1945
- "A Soldier Died Today"
- </hdr>
- <body>
- <p> In Chungking the spring dawn was milky when an MP on the
- graveyard shift picked up the ringing phone in U.S. Army
- Headquarters. At first he heard no voice on the other end; then a
- San Francisco broadcast coming over the phone line made clear to
- him why his informant could find no words. A colonel came in. The
- MP just stared at him. The colonel stared back. After a moment
- the MP blurted two words. The colonel's jaw dropped; he
- hesitated; then without a word he walked away.
- </p>
- <p> It was fresh daylight on Okinawa. Officers and men of the
- amphibious fleet were at breakfast when the broadcast told them.
- By noon the news was known to the men at the front, at the far
- sharp edge of the world's struggle. With no time for grief, they
- went on with their work; but there, while they worked, many a
- soldier wept.
- </p>
- <p> At home, the news came to people in the hot soft light of
- the afternoon, in taxicabs, along the streets, in offices and
- bars and factories. In a Cleveland barber shop, 60-year-old Sam
- Katz was giving a customer a shave when the radio stabbed out the
- news. Sam Katz walked over to the water cooler, took a long, slow
- drink, sat down and stared into space for nearly ten minutes.
- Finally he got up and painted a sign on his window: "Roosevelt Is
- Dead." Then he finished the shave. In an Omaha poolhall, men
- racked up their cues without finishing their games, walked out.
- In a Manhattan taxicab, a fare told the driver, who pulled over
- to the curb, sat with his head bowed, and after two minutes
- resumed his driving.
- </p>
- <p> Everywhere, to almost everyone, the news came with the force
- of a personal shock. The realization was expressed in the
- messages of the eminent; it was expressed in the stammering and
- wordlessness of the humble. A woman in Detroit said: "It doesn't
- seem possible. It seems to me that he will be back on the radio
- tomorrow, reassuring us all that it was just a mistake."
- </p>
- <p> It was the same through that evening, and the next day, and
- the next; the darkened restaurants, the shuttered nightclubs, the
- hand-lettered signs in the windows of stores: "Closed out of
- Reverence for F.D.R."; the unbroken, 85-hour dirge of the
- nation's radio; the typical tributes of typical Americans in the
- death-notice columns of their newspapers (said one, signed by
- Samuel and Al Gordon: "A Soldier Died Today").
- </p>
- <p> It was the same on the cotton fields and in the stunned
- cities between Warm Springs and Washington, while the train, at
- funeral pace, bore the coffin up April's glowing South in re-
- enactment of Whitman's great threnody.
- </p>
- <p> It was the same in Washington, in the thousands on thousands
- of grief-wrung faces which walled the caisson's grim progression
- with prayers and with tears. It was the same on Sunday morning in
- the gentle landscape at Hyde Park, when the burial service of the
- Episcopal Church spoke its old, strong, quiet words of farewell;
- and it was the same at that later moment when all save the
- gravemen were withdrawn and reporters, in awe-felt hiding saw how
- a brave woman, a widow, returned, and watched over the grave
- alone, until the grave was filled.
- </p>
-
- </body>
- </article>
- </text>
-