Day of the Bomb Read Online Free PDF Page B

the world. I’ve had a
bellyful of killing Japs while they try to kill me back. I wonder
if they ever get to feeling the same way about us?
    He looked up at the cloudless sky. “Sorry,
God. Guess I’m too afraid to really find out what Your will
is.”

4
    “… kechenoiah!”
    Glossolalia, speaking in tongues. Mrs. Sally
Rhinehardt was okay with it, as long as it was confined to the
first century Christians uttering an unknown language. But today
was September 1, 1945, for goodness sakes. And this was a memorial
service for dearly departed PFC Jason Dalrumple, lost at sea in the
Pacific sometime during the first weeks of August. No one was
certain of the exact date back here at home because the military
could be pretty tight-lipped about details that might endanger
strategies, missions, and troops. “Loose lips sink ships,” the
poster downtown at the theater had read. The fact that Jason was
dead and gone would have to suffice. Sally had heard stories about
holy rollers, Pentecostals who supposedly swung from the light
fixtures, rolled on the ground, and spoke in tongues, languages
unknown to both speaker and hearer alike. The strange words just
spoken unnerved her. Not only because they were unknown but also
because she was unknown in this strange church.
    I knew I shouldn’t have come. I only did because
Fred wrote that I should go and represent him. No one ever told me
that they speak in tongues even at their memorial services.
    Growing up in Kentucky, she had been exposed to
Catholics, Hard Shell Baptists, Presbyterians, Methodists, and even
snake-handling churches where one’s faith was proven by the number
of rattlesnakes one picked up during the services. But
Pentecostals? “No thank you,” had always been Sally’s refrain.
“They’re just so boastful about their being filled with the Holy
Ghost. They make the rest of us Christians sound like second-class
believers in Jesus,” she had said whenever the subject was
discussed.
    Sally scanned the pews for a familiar face and
counted two she knew from the factory where all three worked. She
stopped counting when the lady in front of her popped up like a
clown released from a jack in the box. Sally’s breath caught in her
throat as she leaned as far back in her pew as possible to distance
herself from the one to her front.
    “Do not grieve for your son. Even now he lives.” The
jack in the box lady settled back into her pew.
    A kind-looking woman who sat next to Sally reached
over and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, honey. That’s the
interpretation, dear,” she whispered. “First the utterance in
tongues, followed by the interpretation. Everything done decently
and in order, just like the Bible says it ought to be.”
    Sally mouthed a “thank you” to her as the pastor
continued his homage.
    “Thank you, Lord. Yes, Jason
Dalrumple lives on in heaven above where he dwells forever and ever
in the presence of his Lord Jesus Christ.” He paused. “Sister
Gonzalez will now lead us in a final hymn.” He nodded to the
organist, who hit the first notes of What
a Friend We Have in Jesus .
    Sally waited in the pew for a few
moments so she would be the last one to shake the hands of the
family who stood by the door. At least
that way I won’t have to hang around very long and make small
talk. Down the line she went, meeting
Jason’s parents, two brothers, and two sisters. Outside in the
parking lot, she met Thelma Pollack, until now only a face from
work.
    “Don’t you work at the factory, too?” Thelma
asked.
    “Yes. I thought I recognized you from somewhere. So
did you know Jason?”
    “Yeah. We were engaged.” She shrugged and held up her
unadorned left hand. “He never even got around to getting me a ring
before he shipped out. Typical Jason. Where’d you know him
from?”
    “I didn’t. But he was a real good friend of my
husband, Fred Rhinehardt. They met on Fred’s boat.”
    “The Professor? Yeah, Jason wrote me all about him.
You had