The Last Bridge

Chapter Thirty-two 1155 Hours

On the sky, ponderous clouds moved slowly, but the rain held off, and the premonition of sunlight was strong. Corporal Smith huddled in the shadow of the big storage tank. His eyes moved fitfully. When he turned his head, his chin trembled. “You about done with that?”

“Relax,” said J. D. Hooker. “Plenty of time, kid.”

“I wonder if they made it. What if we get cut off?”

“For Christ’s sake shut up,” Hooker said. He was bent over, measuring out fuse by inches. He checked his watch and clipped off a precise length of fuse. He tamped it into the set charge with care and scooped gravel over the charge, burying it from sight. “Pick up them ammo boxes.” He popped a wooden match alight on his thumbnail and made sure the fuse was burning properly. It burned smokelessly; in a moment the spark receded into the plastic sheath. There was no odor, no sound.

He turned and lifted the machine gun. “Come on.”

Not far away on a hillside road there was the clatter of a buffalo-drawn cart. The noon chill cut through Corporal Smith’s clothes and stung the tip of his nose. He crabbed along behind Hooker’s crouched running figure; they slipped out through a fresh cut in the fence. Smith fought a moment’s alarm when his pants snagged on the wire. He plunged through, tearing off a patch of cloth. Somewhere on the windless slope an engine chattered into life and roared. Patches of fog covered the higher reaches of the mountain. Smith said, “Wait up.”

“Keep up,” Hooker answered. They ran through a grove of stunted trees and came in sight of a crumbling temple half overgrown by a garden gone wild. Hooker ran across the road and trampled a path choked with creepers. Smith followed him into the temple, and Hooker turned to his right. “Up there.”

“Jesus.”

They went up a precarious curling staircase of wood. The steps sagged low under Hooker’s weight. Smith put his shoulders to the wall and crept up the steps wordlessly, fearfully. Splinters of rotted wood dug into his back. Mildew and dust lay thick in the dark temple. Hooker battered a path through thick cobwebs with the machine gun. “Come on — come on.” They climbed past tier after tier of open pagoda — style windows. Smith felt choked by dust and the smell of rot. The building seemed ready to collapse on him. A thick vine crawled in through an opening; he was sure it was reaching for his ankle. He listened to the hollow sound of his own voice: “You think this is a Cao Dai temple?”

“How in hell do I know? Quit draggin’ your ass.”

They climbed to the top landing, forty feet above ground. Hooker planted the machine gun in the center of the open arc. “Lay out them grenades over here where I can reach them.” He bellied down behind the gun and fed ammunition into it.

Corporal Smith’s lips sagged with pale bitterness. Below in the road a pair of soldiers came in sight, walking unhurriedly, talking. They stopped in front of the temple and exchanged words, and then one of them went on his way. The other turned toward the temple and walked forward until he was out of their sight. Smith held his breath, but the soldier did not come inside the temple. “What’s he doing down there?”

“Taking a post, I guess. Don’t sweat it.”

“He’s right under us!”

“Keep your puking voice down, kid.”

Smith rubbed his face. His cheeks were stained by the tracks of drying sweat. He glanced at Hooker; Hooker’s brutal face was lifted to one side, his features unstirred. Smith watched those cruel, impassive cheeks and wanted to cry out; he wanted the sight of another man’s nerves raw and quivering like his own. A sluggish current of air chilled his skin. His eyes were hot and round. A piece of sky suddenly broke open, shining blue through the clouds. Beyond the looming storage tanks, the mountains buckled up in crooked sawteeth. Smith’s breath bubbled in his throat; he cleared his throat as quietly as he could and tried not to remember where he was. Dust lay in a fine grit on his lips; he licked it off. The slow tramp of heels sounded below — the sentry walking to and fro. Cars and wagons made faint noises in the city, not far away. A jeep’s fog lights stabbed around the bend and rushed forward along the road, turned another bend, and were gone. The sentry became a dark suggestion moving through the foliage. Smith’s heart pounded in his ears. “How long now?” he whispered.

“Ten, fifteen minutes. Will you for Christ’s sake shut up?”