Betty stared at the raised keys. She had become very comfortable with the typewriter over the past three years working as a secretary. What she was not used to were the words she was going to have to type day after day.
The women at the surrounding desks sat up straight and carried blank expressions on their faces. Had they typed so many letters it no longer bothered them? Betty wondered how long it would take for her to detach herself from the task she was hired to do. She put her hands to her ears and tried to quiet the slapping of keys against paper that surrounded her.
“Don’t worry, honey,” a smart dressed red head sitting next to Betty said, “you’ll get used to it. Before long you won’t even hear the noise,” she winked at Betty and went back to typing.
Betty positioned the crisp paper behind the platen and twisted the knob until the paper rolled underneath and reappeared in front of her. Lifting the cold metal bar she set the paper firmly in place. Her fingers rested on the keys as if they were waiting for the gun to go off to start the race. Betty pressed her left middle finger on the ‘D’. There it was; what was to be the beginning of hundreds of letters to come.
Above all the clicking Betty heard a man’s voice coming from behind her. It wasn’t clear, as if he was standing in the room, but had touches of static. She turned around to see an Army Officer’s door standing open. A dim light lit up the radio and Betty could hear President Roosevelt’s voice. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but she knew it was him. She had listen to him speak too many times to count over the years. Then he was gone, silenced by the officer shutting his door. Betty was forced back into the world of typewriters banging and the occasional chair scrape the ground.
Betty placed her fingers on the keys, took a deep breath and typed as fast as she could. The letter only took two minutes to create but it would bring some mother, father, brother, sister, wife, a lifetime of sadness.
Betty straightened the paper and read the words to herself:
Dear Mrs. Smith,
It brings me deep sorrow to have to inform you of the loss of your son, John Smith. He bravely lost his life on June 6, 1944…
Betty looked at the long list of names of the men that had lost their life defending their country, her country. Her eyes teared up as she slid another piece of paper in the typewriter and began the next letter.
