He stopped. The rush of angry words from his flushed face died away into the room. In my mind they echoed again. "They never got out ... never got out ... never." We waited. The soft rustle of the flames seemed loud as their shadows wavered on the circle of still faces, all eyes were riveted on Harry.
More quietly now, his face once more almost its impassive self, he went on.
"They stayed with the Chinese Nationalist Forces all through the world war and afterwards, when the Communists took over, they were lost. When I was demobbed from the British Army I went to Hong Kong but I couldn't trace them and I couldn't get back into China. Some of the refugees I met thought they'd been executed for aiding the anti-communists ... mostly their own converts to Christianity, but there was no proof. That's why I came over here to work when I ran out of money. Vancouver is the closest main port to the Orient and I hoped I might keep in touch while I made a living. Now I know they are almost certainly dead ... and I want a chance to do something to beat those Red pigs."
His voice rose again on the last sentence and he looked straight at the Director. Hallam had sunk deep into his chair, again, his eyes shaded behind the heavy rims of his glasses.
"I see ... I see now," he murmured. "Yes, you must have your chance."
I looked over at Polly. Her eyes were wet and her lower lip looked suspiciously tight. She said nothing as Pat put a warm arm around her shoulders.
Harry was staring again at the fire. He was not here. Somewhere in China, or maybe nowhere in this world, was the red hell he saw in the flames.
CHAPTER 9