There was a stunned silence. Then Ed Higbee said, “My God!”
The admiral stood still, his hands at his sides, the signal still held unfeelingly in his fingers.
“Is it true?” Major Pappas asked, making sure.
Slowly the admiral nodded. “It must be; there is a veracity code that’s watertight. We’ll check, but I believe it right now.”
Stanley Cumberland spoke in measured words. “Assuming that the message is accurate, then it is up to Hewlitt. If he knows this, or finds out in time, and if he is good enough to take advantage of it, then, sir, I’d say that things look better.”
Again the room was quiet, then the precise voice of Major Pappas was heard once more. “Sir, I recommend that you advise Magsaysay at once. Then I would advise passing the word to all field units as rapidly as possible. Some of them might decide to do as Philadelphia suggested, and without consulting us for permission first.”
“So ordered,” the admiral said. Very calmly he returned to his chair at the head of the table and sat down. “I agree with Stan,” he said. “Things do look a little better now.”
The Reverend Mr. Jones sat quietly, his arm around his son. He had been talking to his wife for some time, speaking of the mercy of God and of the certainty of the salvation of Christ. When he had reenforced his faith and pressed her hands in loving understanding, he had turned to enjoy, in the fleeting time that remained, the company of his son. He had already ministered, as much as he was able, to the others insofar as his own human endurance had permitted. Many of the hostages were bitter, many wanted to be left strictly alone, some had the attitude “They can’t do this to us!” and were waiting for some responsible part of the American military to come and rescue them by force. The Reverend Mr. Jones knew better than to disillusion those people; it was their rationalization and made it perhaps much easier for them to spend the final fearful hours.
He looked at Greg and saw with great pride that his boy was trying to smile back at him. In this period of intense soul-searching he knew that Greg was an average American boy, but that still made him a pretty fine future citizen. There was no doubt whatever in his mind that he would be with his wife and son in Heaven, but what they would have to go through first was an image that he tried to thrust out of his mind.
Greg was not equal to it and he knew that he had to help his son. “Greg, I want to talk to you,” he said. “You know that this sort of thing has happened before many times in the world’s history.”
Greg nodded that he understood, and swallowed very hard.
“Sometimes,” his father continued, “when things look blackest it is time to count blessings. You may not think that there are very many right now, and I’m forced to agree with you, but there are some things to think about nonetheless. Some very important things. I don’t like to bring this up, but at one time, and not too long ago as history goes, people who were held like us faced fearful things that we have escaped completely. Remember this, Greg, there are no lions. There are no torture chambers and all of the unspeakable horrors that they contained. There are no Roman circuses to see men and women die in a hundred different terrible ways. There is no crucifixion that Christ endured — and so many others after Him for His sake.”
“I know, dad,” Greg said.
Jones could not help it; he tightened his arm about his son and fought desperately to keep back his own tears. “Son, I love you with all my heart and soul; I’d give my life for you in a moment if I could. I want you to know that just having you for my son, in these years, has been one of the greatest joys of my life. And our Savior loves all of us this same way too, so we have nothing whatever to fear when we pass into His hands.”
Greg’s face began to tighten as he fought to keep himself under control. Then he failed and the tears came openly. “Dad, I don’t want to die!”
Jones flung both of his arms around his boy and lifted his eyes to ask for the compassion of Heaven. Then he could control himself no longer. He was racked by a great heart-wrenching sob that he was totally unable to control and then he felt his wife’s hands on him and knew that she was trying her best to comfort him. “Remember what you just told me,” she pleaded. “Remember!”
Reverend Jones lowered his head in shame because he could not remember. He was gripped by sudden desperate and uncontrollable fear — not for himself, but for his son. For all the promise of him, for all of his youth and good health, for all of the healthy and normal interests that he had, for all the years that he had labored in school for the not too outstanding, but better-than-average marks that he had brought home. For the hope that when he had matured a little more he would one day take a wife who would bring him a lifetime of happiness. For the prospect of grandchildren sometime in the future and the pride of having given a fine young citizen to society. And for the years of companionship that should have remained to them. And for the wonderful, irreplaceable, God-given girl who had consented to become his wife and share the restricted hopes of a minister of the Gospel and the limited outlook for anything more than a very modest scale of living all their lives. All of it piled up on him until he felt like crying aloud, as One had done before him, “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”
He fought; with all of the spirit and conviction that he possessed he fought to find himself once more, to thrust from him the fearful, brutal, insane injustice of it all, and to remember that there would only be a few minutes of acute distress and then the gates of Heaven would open before him. He remembered the Jews who had died under Hitler, and the thousands who had gone to the stake for the sake of their faith, or in spite of it. His dear ones did not have to face death by fire and the frightful agony of having their flesh burned from their bones. There would be a firing squad, only a few moments facing the guns, and then the face of God…
A man came to the door of the huge room. The Reverend Mr. Jones did not see him at first, but he sensed the sudden change around him and looked up to see what had caused it. When he saw the man in uniform he shot out his own hand and gripped his wife’s fingers until the pain almost made her dizzy, but she said nothing and gave no sign.
The man had a paper in his hand and that meant that the time had come.
“Dear God in heaven, grant me the grace and the strength…” he began, speaking aloud without realizing it.
The man raised his voice and half-shouted, half-spoke in English. “You can all go home.”
Doris Jones did not comprehend the miracle, her mind was too numb from the torture it had undergone. Greg did not believe the words, and looked at his father for the strength to resist this last, utterly cruel jest.
The man in uniform began to motion that people should go out the door. “A mercy,” Mr. Jones thought, “a mercy to make it easier for them to get into the trucks or whatever they have waiting.” But when, halfway in the exodus, he at last led the way through the door so that his little family could have the last split second of comfort, there were no trucks waiting, no long gray buses, nothing but a rapidly gathering crowd of the curious who were staring at them.
A sudden blinding light caught Mr. Jones in the face and made him stop. Then he heard the voice of a man who thrust a microphone before his face and asked him, “Who are you, sir — what is your name, please?”
In the stunned condition of his mind he hardly knew how to answer; he stammered out “Jones” and then recovered himself enough to add, “I’m… the pastor of…” and he could not remember the name of his own church.