At the height of the Vietnam War, I studied journalism at Texas A&M University. The university had a strong military training program, graduating a significant number of officers. They went off to war. If they came home in coffins, as they frequently did, the school honored its former students with a ceremony. It would be at night. Campus lights went out. The flags lowered to half-mast. The slow roll of Taps began and, even in the summer, my skin crawled. All activity ceased. It was eerie and humbling, but it was not first-hand.
At bases around the country, a grim faced officer had made that knock. Kathleen, who was and is a pilot’s wife, tells us the rules of conduct when that knock happens.