Undercover and oblivious

I do hope to move on from The Telegraph's announcements department soon, but for now I continue to wield my worldly eye in preventing mistakes that others whose in-depth knowledge lies elsewhere miss, be it in other papers or in my own ranks.  Many has been the occasion whilst working for births, deaths and marriages (incidentally engagements are more the stock in trade than official unions, letting the upper echelons know exactly who is now off the market), that I have come across a funeral director or a private client and offered my counsel, much as Jeeves would to Bertie Wooster, who have remarked most gladly at my observation rapidly followed by "Well, The Times did not spot that."  We have become accustomed to The Times modus operandi in that they require all submissions by email or fax, do not work Saturdays and never question what is sent to them.  It is on the head of the person who submitted the notice if the cut-and-paste jobbie conveys the incorrect details (though admittedly faxes could be a different matter, I feel they fax back proofs rather than read it out, the latter method I find more efficient in ferretting out mistakes).
I am a scourge of the tautology 'widow of the late' and will not permit it to be published where I can help it.  On other matters, such as bookending the caveat 'if desired' after 'donations' with commas, I am more relaxed - not demob happy as such, but realising that as my time at The Telegraph hopefully draws to a rapid close (not least because my measly holiday entitlement is almost at its limit), there are more important things than pressing one's own conception of the correct use of grammar.  I still exult in eliminating mistakes, such as 'internment' when what was meant was 'interment' - a recent homophone corner being a charity rferred to as The Prostrate Project rather than the Prostate Project.  My all-time favourite (from a funeral director) being a long list of family connections crowned with "and fiend to many," instead of 'friend'.
Today, I was in my element again.  Sir David John Stowell Hancock had reached his expiry date and this was being announced by his widow via the funeral directors.  Dutifully, they had copied with what she had instructed them and by and large this was fine.  Except in how he was being announced.  So it read "Hancock.-David John Stowell KGB."  I imagine had that gone to print there would have been considerable splutterings and upturned cups of tea, especially had he any friends in the security services ("What did I tell him while he was alive?").  Worse still, the funeral directors were going to engrave that on the coffin plate.  Of course, I instantly recognised it should be 'KCB' - that is Knight Commander of Bath - though my colleague who had typed it up had not.  And nor had any of the other publications to which the notice had been sent.  This really illustrates the entry-level nature of my job and how I must move on (some customers proffer surprise after a demonstration of my expertise that I should work in such a lowly position - but a job is a job).  Yet I had helped the funeral directors and Lady Hancock out of a potentially particularly embarrassing jam, given that, as far as we know, he was not a mole for the Soviet Committee for State Security.