Bridges at Toko-Ri

by James A. Michener

  From aloft Brubaker saw that Cag had got two of the bridges. Now he must finish the job. He brought his division down in a screaming dive, aware that when he straightened out the pull of gravity upon him would suck the blood away from his head and drag his lips into grotesque positions, but the fascination of those looming bridges of Toko-ri lured him on. Lower and lower he came. When he finally pickled his bomb and pulled away he absorbed so many g’s that a heaviness came upon his legs and his face was drawn drowsily down upon his chin. But he knew nothing of this for he experienced only surging elation. He had bombed the bridges.

  Then he heard the dismal voice: “No damage to main bridge.”

  And you had to believe that voice, for it was Roy’s, last man through. Tomorrow stateside newspapers might exaggerate the damage. You could kid the intelligence officer. And you could lie like a schoolboy to pilots from another squadron, but last man through told the truth. No damage.

  “I’m sure Brubaker got a span,” Cag argued.

  “Negative,” Roy replied flatly.

  “How about the truck bridges?”

  “Clobbered, clobbered, clobbered.”

  Cag called, “Stand by for run number two,” and eleven jets orbited for position. The three flak-suppression Banshees stampeded for the gun-rimmed valley and as they roared in the leader confirmed Roy’s report: “No damage to the main bridge.” But the last of the flak jets reported, “We really have the ground fire slowed down.”

  Then, to the surprise of the communists, Cag brought his men in over the same check points as before and cheated some of the communist gunners, who had been gambling that he would use the other entrance to their valley. Through gray bomb smoke and bursts of flak, through spattering lead and their own fears, the first four pilots bore in upon the bridges. Roaring straight down the railroad track like demon trains they pickled their heavy freight upon the bridge and pulled away with sickening g’s upon them, their mouths gaping wide like idiots, their eyes dulled with war and the pull of gravity.

  As Brubaker led his men upon the bridges he saw a magnificent sight. Three spans were down and a fourth was crumbling. The two truck bridges were demolished and the alternate railroad span was in the mud. In triumph he called, “This is Brubaker. All bridges down. Divert to the dump.” And with blood perilously withdrawn from his head he swung his Banshee away from the bridges, over a slight rise of ground, and down upon the sprawling military dumps. Strafing, bombing, twisting, igniting, he screamed on, his three teammates following. Somebody’s bomb struck ammunition. Consecutive explosions, each keeping the next alive, raced through the stores.

  This time Roy, last man through, said, “We hit something big.”

  Cag, aloft, called, “All planes, all planes. Work over the dump.”

  Brubaker, now higher than the others, watched the dazzling procession of Banshees. Swooping low, they spun their fragmentation bombs earthward and retired into the lonely distance. Returning, they dodged hills and spread deathly fire. Over snowy ridges they formed for new runs and wherever they moved there was silent beauty and the glint of sunlight on the bronzed helmet of some man riding beneath the Plexiglas canopy. It was a fearsome thing to watch jets assume control of this valley where the bridges had been, and it was gloomy, for no matter where any of the pilots looked they could see the scarred hillside against which one of their team had plunged to death a few minutes before.

  His ammunition nearly spent, Brubaker nosed down for a final run upon the spattered dumps, but Cag called, “Stay clear of the ammo dumps. We have them popping there.” So he twisted his jet to the south, away from the ammo but before he could launch his dive, two jets streaked across his target and jettisoned their bombs so that again he had to pull away. He was tempted to drop his last bomb where he thought he saw a gun emplacement but promptly he discarded this idea as unworthy for it occurred to him, quite clearly in this instant of decision, that even one bomb more might mean significant interdiction of supplies to the front: fewer bullets for communist gunners, fewer blankets for their trenches, less food. He recalled Admiral Tarrant’s words: “If we keep the pressure high enough something’s got to explode over there.”

  So in an effort to add that extra degree of pressure which might help to beat back aggression, he turned away from his easy target and picked out a supply dump. He activated his nose guns and watched their heavy bullets rip into valued cargo and set it afire. Then he resolutely pickled his last bomb but as he pulled out of his dive, with heavy g’s upon his face, he heard a pinking-thud.

  “I’ve been hit!” he cried and as the jet sped upward chaos took over. He lost control of his mind and of the thundering Banshee and in panic thought only of Wonsan harbor. He felt the irresistible lure of the sea where friendly craft might rescue him and violently he wrenched his nose toward the east and fled homeward like a sea-stricken thing. But as soon as he had made this desperate turn he became aware that panic was flying the plane, not he, and he called quietly, “Joe, Joe. Just took a hit. So far I’m all right.”

  From the dark sky aloft came the reassuring whisper, “Harry, this is Joe. I have you in sight.”

  “Joe, drop down and look me over.”

  Now an ugly vibration identified itself as coming from the port engine but for one fragile second of time it seemed as if the frightening sound might abate. Then, with shattering echoes, the entire engine seemed to fall apart and Brubaker whispered to himself, “I’m not going to get this crate out of Korea.”

  A communist bullet no bigger than a man’s thumb, fired at random by some ground defender of the dump, had blundered haphazardly into the turbine blades, which were then whirring at nearly 13,000 revolutions a minute. So delicately was the jet engine balanced that the loss of only two blade tips had thrown the entire mechanism out of balance, and the grinding noise Brubaker heard was the turbine throwing off dozens of knifelike blades which slashed into the fuselage or out through the dark sky. Like the society which had conceived the engine, the turbine was of such advanced construction that even trivial disruption of one fundamental part endangered the entire structure.

  He had, of course, immediately cut fuel to the damaged engine and increased revolutions on the other and as soon as the clatter of the damaged turbines subsided he cut off its air supply and eliminated the destructive vibrations altogether. Then, in fresh silence, he checked the twenty principal indicators on his panel and found things to be in pretty good shape. “I might even make it back to the ship,” he said hopefully. But promptly he discarded this for a more practical objective: “Anyway, I’ll be able to reach the sea.”

  He laughed at himself and said, “Look at me! Yesterday I pushed the panic button because I might have to go into the sea. Today I reached for it because I might miss the water.”

  As he reasoned with himself Joe came lazily out from beneath his wing and waved. “Everything all right now?” Joe asked.

  “All under control,” he answered.

  “Fuel OK?”

  “Fine. More than 2,000 pounds.”

  “Keep checking it,” Joe said quietly. “You may be losing a little.”

  Then the sick panic returned and no more that day would it leave. Impeded by heavy gear he tried to look aft but couldn’t. Straining himself he saw fleetingly from the corner of his eye a thin wisp of white vapor trailing in the black sky. Knocking his goggles away he tried to look again and his peripheral vision spied the dusty vapor, no thicker than a pencil.

  “Joe,” he called quietly. “That looks like a fuel leak.”

  “Don’t your gauges show it?”

  “Don’t seem to.”

  “You’ll make the sea all right,” Joe said, and both men surrendered any idea of the ship.

  “I’ll make the sea,” Harry said.

  “I’ll trail you,” Joe called.

  In a few minutes he said, “You’re losing fuel pretty fast, Harry.”

  There was no longer any use to kid himself. “Yeah. Now the instrument
s show it.”

  Joe drew his slim blue jet quite close to Harry’s and the two men looked at one another as clearly as if they had been across a table in some bar. “I still think you’ll make the sea,” Joe said.

  But Harry knew that merely reaching the sea wasn’t enough. “How far out must we go in Wonsan harbor to miss the communist mines?” he asked.

  Joe ruffled through some papers clipped to his knee and replied, “You ought to go two miles. But you’ll make it, Harry.”

  The turbine blade that had sliced into the fuel line now broke loose and allowed a heavy spurt of gasoline to erupt so that Joe could clearly see it. “You’re losing gas pretty fast now,” he said.

  There was a sad drop on the fuel gauge and Harry said, “Guess that does it.”

  To prevent explosion, he immediately killed his good engine and felt the Banshee stutter in midair, as if caught by some enormous hand. Then, at 250 miles an hour, he started the long and agonizing glide which carried him ever nearer to the sea and always lower toward the mountains.

  Quickly Joe cut his own speed and said, “We better call the word.”

  With crisp voice Brubaker announced. the strange word which by general consent across the world has come to mean disaster. In Malaya, in China, over Europe or in the jungle airports of the Amazon this word betokens final catastrophe: “Mayday, Mayday.”

  It was heard by communist monitors and by the officers in Task Force 77. Aloft, Cag heard it and turned his jets back to keep watch upon their stricken member. And aboard the scow the newly reported helicopter team of Mike Forney and Nestor Gamidge heard it.

  “Mayday, Mayday.”

  Silently, through the upper reaches of the sky, the two men flew side by side. They had never been particularly friendly, for their interests and ages varied, nor had they talked much, but now in the dark violet sky with sunlight gleaming beneath them on the hills of Korea they began their last urgent conversation, their faces bright in Plexiglas and their voices speaking clear through the vast emptiness of the space.

  “We’ll make the sea,” Joe said reassuringly.

  “I’m sure going to try.”

  They drifted down to the sunny spaces of the sky, into the region of small cloud and laughing shadow and Joe asked, “Now when we reach the sea will you parachute or ditch?”

  “I ditched once, I’ll do it again.”

  “I never asked you, how does the Banshee take the water?”

  “Fine, if you keep the tail down.”

  “Remember to jettison your canopy, Harry.”

  “I don’t aim to be penned in.”

  “Six more minutes will put us there.”

  So they fought to the sea. As if caught in the grip of some atavistic urge that called them back to the safety of the sea after the millions of years during which men had risen from this element, these two pilots nursed their jets away from inhospitable land and out toward the open sea. They were low now and could spot communist villages and from time to time they saw bursts of communist guns, so they fought to reach the sea.

  But they did not make it For looming ahead of them rose the hills in back of Wonsan harbor. Between the jets and the sea stood these ugly hills and there was no way to pass them. Instinctively Harry shoved the throttle forward to zoom higher—only a couple of hundred feet, even fifty might do—but relentlessly the stricken Banshee settled lower.

  From the adjoining plane Joe pointed to the obstructing hills and Harry said, “I see them. I won’t make it.”

  Joe asked, “Now, Harry, are you going to jump or crash land!”

  “Crash,” Harry said promptly. Back in the States he had decided to stick with his plane no matter what happened. Besides, communists shot at parachutes, whereas the speed of a crash often took them by surprise and permitted rescue operations.

  “Keep your wheels up,” Joe said.

  “Will do.”

  “Be sure to hit every item on the check-off list.”

  “Will do.”

  “Harry, make sure those shoulder straps are really tight.”

  “Already they’re choking me.”

  “Good boy. Now, Harry, remember what happened to Lou. Unhook your oxygen mask and radio before you hit.”

  “Will do.”

  “Knife? Gun?”

  Harry nodded. Although he was soon going to hit some piece of Korean ground at a speed of 130 miles, his plane bursting out of control at impact, in this quiet preparatory moment he could smile out of his canopy and converse with Joe as if they were long-time friends reviewing a basketball game.

  “Pretty soon now,” he said.

  “I’ll move ahead and try to find a good field,” Joe said. Before he pulled away he pointed aloft and said, “Cag’s upstairs.”

  Soon he called, “This field looks fair.”

  “Isn’t that a ditch running down the middle?”

  “Only shadows.”

  “You think I can stop short of the trees?”

  “Easy, Harry. Easy.”

  “Well then, that’s our field.”

  “Listen, Harry. When you do land, no matter what happens, get out fast.”

  “You bet. I don’t like exploding gas.”

  “Good boy. Remember, fellow. Fast. Fast.”

  Desperately Brubaker wanted to make one run along the field to check things for himself, but the remorseless glide kept dragging him down and he heard Joe’s patient voice calling, “Harry, you better jettison that canopy right now.”

  “I forgot.”

  Like a schoolteacher with a child Joe said, “That was first on the check-off list. Did you hit those items, Harry?”

  “I got them all,” Harry said.

  “Field look OK?”

  “You pick ’em real good, son

  Those were the last words Harry said to his wingman, for the ground was rushing up too fast and there was much work to do. Dropping his right wing to make the turn onto the field, he selected what looked like the clearest strip and lowered his flaps. Then, kicking off a little altitude by means of a side slip, he headed for the earth. Tensed almost to the shattering point, he held the great Banshee steady, tail down, heard a ripping sound, saw his right wing drop suddenly and tear away, watched a line of trees rush up at him and felt the final tragic collapse of everything. The impact almost tore the harness through his left shoulder socket but without this bracing he would surely have been killed. For an instant he thought the pain might make him faint, but the rich sweet smell of gasoline reached him and with swift planned motions he ripped himself loose from the smoking plane. But when he started to climb down he realized that his oxygen supply tube and his radio were still connected, just as Joe had warned. Laughing at himself he said, “Some guys you can’t tell anything.” With a powerful lurch he broke the cords and leaped upon Korean soil.

  He was in a rice field three miles from a village. Beyond lay other rice fields and many curious U-shaped houses of the Korean countryside, their roofs covered with snow. To the north were mountains, to the south a row of trees, while from the east came a hint of salt air telling him that the sea was not far distant. But even as he surveyed his field he started running clumsily from the plane and before he had run far it burst into flame and exploded with numerous small blasts which sent billows of smoke into the air, informing communists in the village that another American plane had crashed. “They’ll be after me soon,” he thought and ran faster.

  Within a few steps he was soaked with sweat inside his poopy suit and his breath hurt as it fought its way into his lungs. But still he ran, his big boots sticking in snowy mud, his intolerable gear holding him back. Finally he had to rest and sat upon a mound of earth forming the bank of a wide ditch that ran along the western edge of the field, but when one foot went into the center of the ditch he drew back in disgust for the smell he stirred up told him this was used for storing sewage until it was placed upon the rice fields. The stench was great and he started to leave but across the field he saw two com
munist soldiers approach the burning jet with rifles. So he did not leave the ditch but hid behind the mound of earth and reached for the revolver which he had once fired nine times in practice. He inspected its unfamiliar construction and remembered that it contained six bullets, to which he could add the twelve sewed onto his holster straps. “None to waste, he said.

  Then one of the soldiers shouted that he had discovered the American’s trail in the snow. The two men stopped, pointed almost directly to where he hid and started for him, their rifles ready.

  At first he thought he would try to run down the ditch and hide in the line of trees but he realized the soldiers would intercept him before he could accomplish that. So he decided to stick it out where he was, and he hefted his revolver, for American pilots knew that if they were captured in this part of Korea they were usually shot.

  “I’ll wait till they reach that spot,” he said, indicating a muddy place. “Then I’ll let ’em have it.” It did not occur to him that he probably wouldn’t be able to hit a man ten feet away and that the spot he had selected was ridiculously remote, but fortunately he was not called upon to learn this ugly lesson, for as the two soldiers approached the point at which he was determined to fire, Joe’s Banshee whirled out of the noonday sun and blasted the communists. Then, with a wailing cry, it screamed to rendezvous with Cag for the flight back to the Savo.

  From his filthy ditch, Harry watched the mysterious and lovely jet stream out to sea and cried, “I’d sure like to be going with you.” They were supreme in the sky, these rare, beautiful things, slim-lined, nose gently dipping, silver canopy shining in the sun. Once he had been part of those jets and now, huddling to earth, he was thankful that he had known the sweeping flight, the penetration of upper space, the roaring dive with g’s making his face heavy like a lion’s, and final exultant soaring back to unlimited reaches of the sky. Then, as they disappeared completely, he pictured them entering the landing circle and he thought, “It would be fun, heading in toward Beer Barrel right now.” Then he dismissed the jets.