1941- my grandfather,
John, is at sea.
On the Hood.
My grandmother's fears are slightly mollified by Grandpa's descriptions of the sheer mass of the ship, the size of it's guns, the thickness of the deck plating. My dad, Sam, is only a babe-in-arms the day she stands there and receives the news that a shell has struck the Hood's achilles heel, the thin plating covering the magazine- initial reports are that are no survivors.
Mourning in Craig Street- John, father of three, barber in the local co-op, is lost at sea.
A few weeks later; my Gran had only started to come to terms with the loss of her husband when the telegram from Grandpa arrived: had they heard- the Hood had been sunk! Good thing he was shipped to one of her support ships a few days before- they'd have got the telegram telling them about it, of course.
The telegram telling them about his trans-ship transfer arrived a week later.