A telegram had to do the rest.

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 218. 

The incident was over, apart from one thing: I had somehow to get in touch with my mother before she read of the incident—its gravity almost certainly grossly exaggerated—in the papers. She was, I knew, in Athens, and at nine o’clock that morning I called the Hotel Grande Bretagne. International telephoning half a century ago was not what it is today; it took me ages to get through at all, and when I did the line was atrocious. As it happened, however, she was in the entrance hall, a few yards from the telephone operator. When she came on the line I—terrified lest we should be cut off—immediately yelled: “Don’t worry, I’m all right!” but she couldn’t hear. I repeated, still louder. “What?” she screamed back. Then I made my big mistake. “I’ve been shot,” I bellowed, “but I’m . . .” That was the only bit she heard. “You’ve “been shot?” And then to the telephonist at the hotel: “Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, aidez-moi! Mon fils a été fusillé!” The line went dead. A telegram had to do the rest.