The Bridges at Toko-ri (10 page)

Admiral Tarrant was at once aware that he had posed his question the wrong way and said, “I think you’re jittery, son. I think you ought to stay down.”

Again Brubaker thought, “The old man’s wrestling with himself. He wants to ground me but he’s afraid it would look like favoritism. So he’s trying to trick me into asking. That way everything would be OK.” But again he said, “I want to fly against the bridges.”

Certain, and in some ways pleased, that the young man would refuse the order, Tarrant said, “Harry, I’ve been watching you. There’s nothing shameful in a man’s reaching the end of his rope for the time being. You know I consider you our finest pilot ... after the squadron leaders. But I can’t let you fly tomorrow.”

And Brubaker said quietly, “Sir, if you’d offered me this chance last night I’d have jumped to accept it.
Or half an hour ago when I stared at that big black Tilly.
But I think you know how it is, sir. Any time you get back safe, that day’s trembling is over. Right now I haven’t a nerve. Look.” He held out his coffee saucer and it remained rigid.

“You’re sure it’s passed?”

“Positive. Remember when you told my wife about the voluntary men who save the world? I’ve seen two of these men. It shakes you to the roots of your heart to see such men in action.”

“Who’d you see?” Tarrant
asked,
the sparring over.

“Yesterday I saw Cag take his photographic plane. ...”

“Cag?”

“Yes, sir.
I saw a man so brave. ... Admiral, he went in so low that he simply had to get knocked down. Then he went in again ... lower.”

“Cag?”
Admiral Tarrant repeated, amazed.

“And this morning.
... Did anyone tell you about the air force spotter in the SNJ?”

“No.”

Brubaker’s voice almost broke but he stammered, “He was killed by a gun I might have knocked out ... if I’d really been on the ball.” There was a long silence in which Tarrant poured more coffee. Finally Brubaker said, “Sometimes you look honor right in the face.
In the face of another man.
It’s terrifying.” His voice trailed away and he added in a whisper, “So I have no choice. I have to go out tomorrow. If he could fly an SNJ, I can fly a jet.” He laughed nervously and thrust his saucer out again. It remained immovable, like the end of a solid stone arm. “No nerves now,” he said.

It was 1145 next morning when Cag, his jets poised aloft for their first run against the bridges, cried, “Attack, attack, attack!”

With deadly precision, and ignoring the mortal curtain of communist fire, four Banshees assigned to flak-suppression flung themselves upon the heaviest guns at more than 500 miles an hour. Rendezvousing to the north, they swept back in ghostly blue streaks and raked the principal emplacements a second time, but as they reached the middle of this passage communist fire struck number three plane and with
a violence
few men have witnessed it smashed into a hill and exploded in an instantaneous orange flash.

Before the eight pilots aloft could realize what had happened Cag called quietly, “Prepare to attack,” and the four jets in his division peeled off for swift assault upon the bridges. They descended at an angle steeper than 50° and for the entire final run of two miles no pilot swerved or dodged until his first huge bomb sped free.

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 instruments 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.”