Heller's presentation of Mrs. Daneeka extends the satire beyond the war zone and into civilian life. We have come to expect the kind of military logic that declares Doc Daneeka dead even though he is walking around camp looking his usual sickly self. Now we see some of the same distortion and hypocrisy back home. When Mrs. Daneeka learns from a War Department telegram that her husband has been "killed in action," her woeful shrieks "split the peaceful Staten Island night." Nonetheless, Heller is not about to resort to stereotype; Mrs. Daneeka's lamentation is dripping with irony as well as tears: "The poor woman was totally distraught for almost a full week." Her husband writes her, but this only confuses the widow. At first she has hope, but the War Department insists that Doc is dead. Then the money starts flowing in. Mrs. Daneeka is the sole beneficiary of her husband's $10,000 GI insurance policy and four more civilian life insurance policies worth $50,000 each, a genuine fortune in the 1940s when $5,000 a year was considered a comfortable, middle-class income. Several smaller amounts arrive for burial costs. She receives monthly stipends from the military and Social Security Administration for herself and her minor children. Men begin to pay attention to her, and she experiences a new feeling of freedom. When another desperate letter arrives from someone claiming to be her husband, she nearly complies with its wishes. However, she then receives one of Whitcomb's form letters, signed by Colonel Cathcart. It reads as follows:
Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, or Mr. and Mrs. Daneeka:
Words cannot express the deep personal grief I experienced when your husband, son, father or brother was killed, wounded or reported missing in action.
Mrs. Daneeka loads up the children and moves to Lansing, Michigan. She leaves no forwarding address.
