The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Captain Stanford couldn’t understand why a light appeared to be shining into his eyes as he lifted the homemade trap door at the tunnel’s exit. The light was blinding him.

He had been lying for more than an hour in silent anticipation in the tunnel lit only by the feeble light from a candle. It had been stiflingly hot and humid in the tunnel, and he was soaked in perspiration. The chill night air now sent a shiver down his spine as he gestured frantically to the men lined up behind him to back up.

The tunnel had been meticulously planned by the escape committee, following several ill-conceived and unsuccessful escape attempts. Fifty yards of tunnel. Six months of digging in secret, hiding the soil, distracting the guards, forging papers, and cobbling together civilian clothing. They’d waited for a cloudy, moonless night in the hope of escaping under cover of darkness.

The work had done wonders to relieve the men’s boredom and sense of frustration at being held captive in a POW camp. Every man had had a job to do and a part to play. A sense of unity and common purpose had prevailed. Morale had been lifted. Hope had returned.

Stanford’s mind raced. What had gone wrong? Had they miscalculated the distance? Had the weather changed? Had they been overheard? Had the guards spotted something? Or - worse - had someone informed on them? Surely all that effort hadn’t been for nothing?

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Stanford saw a German guard standing above him. In one hand, he was holding a torch and shining it into Stanford's face. In the other, he was holding a pistol and pointing it straight at him. The guard was smiling and shaking his head. At that moment, Stanford knew that he would never find out why the plan had failed. Any remaining hope turned to despair as he watched the guard’s finger squeeze the trigger.

The bullet that killed Stanford propelled him in an instant through a long dark tunnel towards the blinding white light of eternity.