The Bridge on the River Kwai

by Pierre Boulle

  One day he had anxiously exclaimed: ‘I only hope the Air Force chaps won’t have a go at it, sir, before we do.’

  ‘I’ve already sent a message to tell them to keep out of it,’ Shears had answered. ‘I don’t think we’ll be worried by them.’

  During this period of inactivity countless reports had come in, all referring to the bridge which the partisans were keeping under observation from the top of a nearby hill. They themselves had not yet approached it in case the locals got wind of the presence of white men in the area. They had had it described to them hundreds of times, and the more intelligent agents had even made a drawing of it in the sand. From their hide-out they had followed every stage in its construction, and were amazed by the unusual method and system which seemed to govern each successive phase and which were confirmed by every report. They were used to sifting the truth from any rumour, and had quickly detected a feeling akin to admiration in the partisans’ description of the bridge. The Siamese were not qualified to appreciate the technical genius of Captain Reeves, nor the organization for which Colonel Nicholson was responsible, but they were fully aware that this was no shapeless scaffolding in the usual Japanese style. Primitive people have an instinctive appreciation of applied art and design.

  ‘God Almighty!’ Shears would sometimes cry out in desperation. ‘If what our chaps say is true, it’s a second George Washington Bridge they’re building. They’re trying to compete with the Yanks!’

  Such unusually lavish work, amounting almost to extravagance – for according to the Siamese, there was a road running alongside the line, which was wide enough for two trucks abreast – was an intriguing but disturbing prospect. An installation of this size would almost certainly be more closely guarded than ever. On the other hand, it might be of even greater strategic importance than he had thought, so that attacking it would be all the more worth while.

  The natives had quite a lot to say about the prisoners. They had seen them working almost naked in the scorching sun, working without a break and under strict surveillance. When they heard this, all three of them forgot about their scheme and gave a moment’s thought to their wretched fellow-countrymen. Knowing the Japs as they did, they could well imagine how far their brutality would go in order to get a job like this one finished.

  ‘If only they knew we were in the offing, sir,’ Joyce had said one day. ‘If only they knew this bridge of theirs was never going to be used, it might raise their morale a bit.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Shears had answered, ‘but we can’t afford to contact them. That’s out of the question, Joyce. In our job security’s the first essential, even among friends. They’d let their imagination run riot. They’d start trying to help us and might give the whole show away by having a go at the bridge themselves. The Japs would get wind of it, and the only result would be terrible reprisals. No, they’ve got to be kept out of it. We mustn’t allow the Japs even to think of the possibility of the prisoners’ co-operating with us.’

  One day Shears had suddenly decided to test the reliability of the fabulous reports which were coming in every day from the River Kwai.

  ‘One of us will have to go and have a look. The work will be finished any day now, and we can’t go on relying on these chaps’ reports, which seem utterly fantastic. You’d better go, Joyce. I want to know what this bridge is really like, understand? How big is it? How many piles are there? I want the exact figures. How can it be approached? How is it guarded? What are the chances of attacking it? Do what you can, but keep your head down. You mustn’t let yourself be seen at any price, bear that in mind. But for God’s sake get me some proper information on this bloody bridge!’

  2

  ‘I saw it through my glasses, sir, as clearly as I can see you now.’

  ‘Begin from the beginning,’ Shears insisted in spite of his impatience. ‘How did it go?’

  Joyce had set off one night accompanied by two natives who were accustomed to these secret nocturnal expeditions since it was their practice to smuggle wads of opium and cases of cigarettes over the border between Burma and Siam. They claimed that the paths they used were quite safe; but it was so important for no one to know that a European was in the neighbourhood that Joyce had insisted on disguising himself as a Siamese peasant and on dyeing his skin with a brown pigment made up in Calcutta for just such an occasion.

  He soon saw that his guides had been telling the truth. The real enemies in this jungle were the mosquitoes and particularly the leeches, which fastened on to his bare legs and climbed up his body; he could feel them sticking to him each time he stroked his skin. He had done his best to overcome his disgust and to disregard them. He had almost succeeded. In any case he could not get rid of them during the night. He refrained from lighting a cigarette in order to burn them off, and he needed all his wits about him to keep up with the Siamese.

  ‘Tough going?’

  ‘Fairly tough, sir. As I said, I had to keep one hand on the shoulder of the chap in front. And these fellows’ so-called paths have to be seen to be believed!’

  For three nights they had made him clamber up hill and down dale. They followed rocky river-beds blocked here and there with stinking clumps of rotting vegetation, and each time they brushed against these they collected a rich crop of fresh leeches. His guides showed a preference for these paths, in which they were sure they could not get lost. They kept going till dawn. When the first rays of the sun appeared they dived into the undergrowth and quickly ate the boiled rice and cooked meat they had brought for the journey. The two Siamese then squatted under a tree until nightfall, puffing away at a bubbling water-pipe which they always carried with them. That was their method of relaxing after the rigours of the night. From time to time they dropped off between two puffs, without even shifting their position.

  Joyce, however, insisted on sleeping properly in order to harvest his strength, for he was anxious to make the best of every circumstance on which the success of his mission depended. He began by getting rid of the leeches which covered his body. Some of them, completely glutted, had fallen off by themselves during the night, leaving a little clot of congealed blood. The others, which had not yet had their fill, stuck firmly to this prey of theirs which the fortunes of war had brought into the jungles of Siam. Under the glow of a burning cigarette their swollen bodies contracted, twisted, then finally let go and fell on the ground, where he squashed them between two stones. Then he lay down on a ground-sheet and went to sleep at once; but the ants did not leave him in peace for long.

  Attracted by the drops of congealed blood which bespattered his skin, they took this opportunity to advance in long black and red cohorts. He learnt to distinguish between the two as soon as he felt them, without even opening his eyes. Against the red ones there was nothing he could do. Their sting was like white-hot pincers on his sores. A single one was unbearable; and they advanced in battalions. He was forced to yield ground and find some other spot where he could lie down until they located him again and launched a fresh attack. The black ones, especially the large black ones, were not so bad. They did not sting and their tickling did not wake him up until his sores were alive with them.

  Yet he always managed to get enough sleep, quite enough to have enabled him, when night fell again, to scale mountains ten times as high and a hundred times as steep as the hills of Siam. He felt drunk with delight at being on his own during this reconnaissance, which was the first stage in the development of the big attack. It was on his own energy, his own judgement, on his own decisions during this expedition that the success of the operation depended – of this he was certain – and the certainty enabled him to preserve intact his inexhaustible reserves of strength. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the imaginary bridge, that shadowy form which was a permanent part of his dream-world. The mere thought of it endowed his every gesture with an unlimited magic power which increased his glorious chances of success.

  The actual bridge, the bridge on the River Kwai, had suddenly spru
ng into view when, after a final climb, the stiffest they had so far encountered, they reached the top of a hill commanding the valley. They had kept moving later than on the previous nights, and the sun had already risen by the time they reached the observation post which the Siamese had mentioned in their reports. He looked down at the bridge as though from an aeroplane. Several hundred feet below him a light-coloured band stretched across the water between two strips of jungle; a small gap over on the right enabled him to make out the geometric network of piles and platform. For some time he noticed no other feature of the panorama unrolled at his feet, neither the camp directly opposite him on the far bank, nor even the groups of prisoners at work on the construction itself. It was an ideal OP and he felt perfectly safe. The Japanese patrols were hardly likely to risk their necks in the undergrowth between him and the river.

  ‘I saw it as plainly as I can see you now, sir. The Siamese had not exaggerated. It’s a big job. It’s properly built. It’s nothing like any other Japanese bridge. Here are a few sketches, for what they’re worth.’

  He had recognized it at once. The shock of confronting this materialized ghost of his was not due to surprise but, on the contrary, to its familiar aspect. The bridge was exactly as he had imagined it. He studied it, anxiously at first, then with overpowering relief. The general background also conformed to the patiently worked-out pattern of his imagination and hopes. It differed only in detail. The water did not sparkle as he had seen it in his mind’s eye. It was muddy. For a moment he felt almost cheated, but cheered up at the thought that this defect would better serve their purpose.

  For two days he lay concealed, crouching in the undergrowth, eagerly observing the bridge through his binoculars and studying the ground over which the attack was to be launched. He had painted a mental picture of the general lay-out and individual features, taking notes and making a rough sketch of the paths, the camp, the Japanese huts, the bends in the river and even of the large rocks protruding here and there out of the water.

  ‘The current’s not very strong, sir. The river’s an easy proposition for a small boat or a good swimmer. The water’s muddy. There’s a motor-road over the bridge, and four rows of piles. I saw the prisoners driving them in with a ram – the British prisoners. They’ve almost reached the left bank, sir, the bank with the OP on it. Other teams are following up behind. The bridge’ll be ready in a month, I should think. The superstructure . . .’

  He now had such a mass of information to report that he could not keep it in its proper order. Shears let him run on without interrupting him. There would be time enough, when he had finished speaking, to question him on specific points.

  ‘The superstructure’s geometric network of cross-beams which looks as if it’s been carefully designed. The supports are all squared up and properly put together. I could see the joints in detail through my glasses. A really well-designed job, sir, and a solid one too, let’s face it. It’ll mean more than just smashing up a few bits of wood. While I was there, sir, I thought of the safest way of dealing with it, and I think it’s the simplest as well. I think we’ll have to go for the piles in the water, or rather under the water. It’s thick with sediment. The charges won’t be noticed. That way the whole works will capsize all together.’

  ‘Four rows of piles,’ Shears muttered. ‘That’s a big job, you know. Why the hell couldn’t they build this bridge of theirs like all the other ones?’

  ‘How far apart are the piles in each row?’ asked Warden, who liked to have exact figures.

  ‘Ten feet.’

  Shears and Warden silently made a mental calculation.

  ‘We’ll have to allow for a length of sixty feet, to be on the safe side,’ Warden finally observed. That makes six piles per row, in other words twenty-four to “prepare”. It’ll take some time.’

  ‘We could do it in a night, sir, I’m certain. Once we’re under the bridge there’s nothing to worry about. It’s wide enough to give ample cover. The water washing up against the piles muffles any other sound. I know—’

  ‘How do you know what it’s like under the bridge?’ Shears asked, gazing at him with renewed interest.

  ‘Just a moment, sir. I haven’t told you the whole story. I went and had a look myself.’

  ‘You went underneath it?’

  ‘I had to, sir. You told me not to get too close, but that was the only way I could get the information I wanted. I climbed down from the OP, on the blind side of the hill from the river. I felt I couldn’t let this opportunity slip through my fingers, sir. The Siamese took me along some wild-boar tracks . . . We had to move on all fours.’

  ‘How long did it take you?’

  ‘About three hours, sir. We set off in the evening. I wanted to be in position by nightfall. It was a risk, of course, but I wanted to see for myself . . .’

  ‘It’s sometimes not such a bad idea to put your own interpretation on the orders you’re given,’ said Number One, as he glanced across at Warden. ‘You got there, anyway – that’s the main thing.’

  ‘No one saw me, sir. We fetched up on the river about a quarter of a mile upstream from the bridge. Unfortunately there’s a small native village tucked away there; but everyone was asleep. I sent the guides back. I wanted to reconnoitre on my own. I slipped into the water and floated down with the current.’

  ‘Was it a clear night?’ asked Warden.

  ‘Fairly. No moon; but no clouds either. The bridge is pretty high, they can’t see a thing . . .’

  ‘Let’s get things in their proper order,’ said Shears. ‘How did you approach the bridge?’

  ‘I floated down on my back, sir, completely submerged except for my mouth. Above me . . .’

  ‘Damn it all, Shears,’ growled Warden, ‘you might think of me when a mission like this crops up again.’

  ‘I’ll probably think of myself first if there ever is another one,’ Shears replied.

  Joyce described the scene so vividly that his two companions succumbed to his own enthusiasm and felt really disappointed that they had missed this part of the fun.

  It was on the very day that he reached the OP after three nights’ exhausting march that he had suddenly decided to do the reconnaissance. He had not been able to wait a moment longer. After seeing the bridge almost within arm’s reach, he felt he simply had to go and touch it with his hand.

  Flat on his back in the water, unable to make out a single detail in the solid mass of the banks, barely conscious of being carried downstream and unaware of the current, his only landmark was the long horizontal outline of the bridge. It stood out black against the sky. It grew larger as he approached it, soaring up into the heavens, while the stars above him dipped down to meet it.

  Under the bridge it was almost pitch dark. He stayed there for some time, hanging motionless on to a pile. Up to his neck in the cold water which still did not cool him down, he gradually managed to pierce the darkness and distinguish the strange forest of smooth trunks emerging from the surrounding eddies. It was no surprise; he was equally familiar with the view of the bridge from this angle.

  ‘It’s worth having a shot at it, sir, I’m sure. The best thing would be to float the charges down on a raft. It wouldn’t be seen. We’d be in the water. Under the bridge there’s nothing to worry about. The current’s not strong enough to stop us swimming about between the piles. We could tie ourselves on, if necessary, to avoid being carried away. I went right across and measured the beams, sir. They’re not very thick. Quite a small charge would do the trick – under the water. It’s thick, muddy water, sir.’

  ‘We’d have to place them fairly deep,’ said Warden. ‘The water might be clear on the day of the attack.’

  He had done all the necessary groundwork. For over two hours he had sounded the piles, measuring them with a piece of string, calculating the gaps between them, making a note of the ones which would cause the most damage if destroyed, engraving in his mind every detail which might be of use in the plan of attack. O
n two occasions he had heard heavy steps above his head. A Japanese sentry was patrolling the platform. He had crouched against a pile and waited. The Jap had vaguely swept the river with an electric torch.

  ‘Our only worry while we’re approaching the target, sir, is if they light a lamp. But once we’re under the bridge you can hear them coming a long way off. The sound of their footsteps is magnified by the water. That gives us plenty of time to make for one of the central piles.’

  ‘Is the river deep?’ asked Shears.

  ‘Over six foot, sir. I dived to the bottom.’

  ‘How would you set about it?’

  ‘Here’s my idea, sir. I don’t think we can rely on an automatically detonated fog-signal. We couldn’t camouflage the charges. The whole works will have to be under water. A goodish length of electric wire running along the river-bed and coming out on the bank – the right bank, sir, where it would be hidden by the undergrowth. I’ve found the ideal spot for that – a strip of virgin jungle where a man could easily lie up and wait. And there’s a good view of the platform through a gap in the trees.’