Megan Schuck and her son, Gavin, visit the grave of her husband, Marine Cpl. Brandon Schuck in Safford. Schuck was killed in Baghdad in February. She had to endure not one, but two, death calls.

Jack Kurtz / the Arizona republic

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There are nights when 1st Sgt. Adam Harrell lies awake dreading his job as a harbinger of death for the Marine Corps.

He can picture how a widow's face contorts with grief, how parents cringe and weep when he knocks on the door to tell them of a loved one killed in action.

Some run and hide at the sight of his dress blue uniform. Others throw their arms around him, hugging and sobbing.

In the face of such sorrow, the 5-foot-11 military man feels suddenly small.

"Hands down, it's the hardest thing I've ever done," said Harrell, who works from the Marine Corps reserve station in Tucson, one of two casualty-notification officers covering Southern Arizona.

"Honestly, I would just as soon go to Iraq," he said. In one recent case, Harrell had to bring bad news to the same widow twice — the second time when more of her husband's remains were found in Iraq five months after his funeral.

"In one sense, it's gratifying to think you're helping these families and giving the fallen the respect they deserve," said Harrell, 39, a father of two.

"But at the same time, it's just so sad — especially when children are involved."

"It's the worst job you could ever do in the Marine Corps," echoed Capt. Chris Annunziata, who has served in Iraq as a combat engineer and now accompanies Harrell on casualty calls.

"No one wants to see us coming," said Annunziata, 30. "The families know as soon as they see us why we're there."

More than a dozen local families have received these grim visits since military operations began in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Twelve Army soldiers, five Marines and one Air Force member with ties to Southern Arizona have died overseas from accidents, roadside bombs or enemy gunfire.

In each case where next-of-kin live in the region, a team is assembled to break the news and help them through the funeral and its aftermath.

One might think a military family with a loved one at war would be steeled for the possibility of a knock on the door. But that's often not the case, said Michael Barber, a civilian who trains soldiers at Fort Huachuca, southeast of Tucson, to perform Army death calls for Arizona, Nevada and Southern California.

Many families cope with deployment by denying such thoughts, said Barber, 51. "It's a very human tendency to think, 'It's not going to happen to me.' "

Notification teams are taught to be ready for anything, including door-slamming, profanity, threats — even violence.

"We've had cases where the soldiers pull up in front of the house and someone inside starts screaming: 'Don't come any closer. I know why you're here and I don't want to talk to you,' " Barber said.

"One parent threatened 'Get out of here or I'll kill you.' We've had dogs released on casualty officers," he recalled.

And occasionally, he said, the first words out of a family member's mouth are, "How much money do I get?"

"Grief isn't rational," he said. "People's reactions are all over the map."

In an extreme case in Hollywood, Fla., last August, the father of a 20-year-old Marine killed in Iraq used gasoline and a blowtorch to set fire to the van of the Marines who delivered the news.

The Marines pulled the man from the burning van and doused the flames on his body. He survived and apologized. The Marines did not press charges.

Casualty officers also get a firsthand glimpse at the fractured nature of many American families.

When a deceased service member's parents are divorced, squabbles sometimes erupt over their roles in the funeral. In some cases, spouses are in the midst of divorcing when one is killed in action.

Some service members who make death calls are traumatized by the experience.

"Unfortunately, we've had a few cases where soldiers weren't able to handle it emotionally and we had to replace them," Barber said.

At the other end of the spectrum, some bereaved families forge ongoing friendships with those who broke the news.

Megan Schuck, whose husband, Marine Cpl. Brandon Schuck, 21, was killed in action earlier this year, said Harrell and Annunziata, the Tucson casualty officers, have become guardian angels to her and her 18-month-old son, Gavin.

"They were so compassionate and so amazing, and they're still there for me," said the 20-year-old war widow, a Safford native now living in Thatcher and studying to become a nurse.

Her husband was felled by a homemade bomb in Baghdad, and was buried in February. Last month, Megan Schuck was notified more body parts had been found overseas, prompting an angst-filled decision about what to do with them.

Torn by the thought of disturbing his grave, she opted to have them cremated. So a few days later, Harrell once again donned his dress blue uniform for another two-hour drive to her home, this time delivering her husband's ashes in a bronze metal box.

Harrell said notifying survivors is just the first step in an extensive support process for families of the fallen.

After the funeral, there is insurance paperwork to fill out. Each military family now gets a minimum of $500,000 when a loved one is killed in combat. And there's additional aid, such as a monthly allowance of $1,000 or so for a young child and free college educations for surviving spouses and kids.

All the military services have regulations, sometimes hundreds of pages long, on how to handle casualty calls and help survivors file claims.

Harrell said aiding the bereaved has taught him about resilience, the ability of survivors to overcome horrific loss and move forward.

He sees this most clearly in the children of Tucson's fallen Marines, who stop by and toddle around his office when their mothers come in to tend to business.

"Life goes on," Harrell said. "I like to think that we are helping them with that process."