The Bridges at Toko-ri (11 page)

“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 communist 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.

He was determined to find a better refuge before new communists arrived, for the smell in this ditch was becoming too strong to tolerate, but when he did start to run toward the trees he saw four people standing there. Quickly he brandished his revolver at them, but they must have known he could not shoot them from so far for they stood impassively watching.

They were the family from the nearest farm, a mother, father and two children, dressed in discarded uniforms and brandishing rakes. He stopped to see if they intended attacking him, but they remained still and he saw them not as Koreans but as the Japanese family that had intruded upon his sulphur bath that morning in the Fuji-san and an unbearable longing for his own wife and children possessed him and it was then—there in bright sunlight in the rice field—that he knew he would not see his family again.

He was driven from this brief reflection by the arrival of more soldiers. From the very trees to which he was heading appeared eleven guards, shouting in Korean, so he hastily dived back to his stinking ditch where they could not hit him. They launched a methodical encircling attack but before they could bring him under fire four F4U’s appeared overhead, called in by Cag to protect the downed pilot until rescue operations could begin.

Using Brubaker as their focus point, the slow propeller planes established a four-leaf clover in which each flew a big figure eight with such perfect timing as to have one plane coming in over Brubaker at all times, with alternate planes commanding different sectors of land so that no enemy dare approach.

The very first run enabled the F4U men to spot the eleven communists, and with sharp fire they tied the soldiers down. In the respite Brubaker thought, “With such cover a helicopter might make it,” and he began to hope. Then, thinking to find a better spot from which to dash to the copter if it should arrive, he started to move out, but the Korean family saw him and thought he was moving toward them, so they withdrew. The F4U man responsible for this sector spied the Koreans, saw their tattered uniforms and roared upon them, his guns ablaze.

“No!” Brubaker screamed.

“No! No! No!” He waved his arms, jumped wildly to divert the F4U.

But the pilot could not see him. Focusing his sights grimly at what he knew to be the enemy, he brought his fiery guns a few yards from the faces of the Korean family. For one ghastly moment he thought two of the soldiers might have been children, but by then he was far away, roaring back into the four-leafed clover.

Sick, Harry Brubaker stood in the ditch and thought of his own daughters, and his heavy body was cold with much sweat.

He was standing thus when the helicopter appeared. It had lumbered in from the scow, dodging ground fire and flying so low that a revolver bullet could have destroyed it. Smack in the middle of the rice field it landed and Mike Forney got out. He wore his green top hat, a new Baron von Richthofen scarf of Japanese silk and a carbine. Behind him stumbled sad-faced Nestor Gamidge, also with a carbine. Leaving Gamidge at the copter, Forney ran across the rice field shouting, “Relax, Harry! Everything’s under control.”

Brubaker shouted, “Better dodge and duck.”

“Why, is there a war goin’ on?”

“Look!” He pointed toward the trees and as he did so a volley of machine gun fire spattered the helicopter. Gamidge fell to the ground but rolled over several times and indicated that he was all right, but above his head the helicopter burst into flames.

Forney jumped into the ditch and turned back to watch the fire in silence. No other copter would come onto this field. With flames of noon in their eyes the two men in the ditch looked at each other, unable to speak. Then slowly Mike pulled his right foot up.

“Harry,” he asked. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Yep.”

Scornfully he said, “You sure picked a wonderful place to fight a war.” Then he shrugged his shoulders and growled, “We might as well get Nestor in here. Three of us can stand those apes off for days.”

He hefted his carbine nonchalantly and started across the rice field to convoy Gamidge but when the sallow-faced Kentuckian stood up, communist bullets chopped
him
in the chest and he fell. Mike, still wearing his green hat, blasted the line of trees in pathetic fury, for he must have known his carbine could not carry so far. Then he ran forward to where Nestor lay but soon he crawled back to the stinking ditch and tried not to look at Harry.

“Is he dead?”

“Yep.”

In silence the two men tried to build protection for their faces, but when they reached into the ditch for stones, an evil smell arose, so that Forney stared back at the ditch and muttered, “I could have picked a better ...” Then he said bitterly, “They were goin’ to give Nestor a medal.”

“Why’d you bring the copter in here, Mike?”

“I take care of my men, sir.”

“How is it aboard the scow?” Brubaker phrased the question so as to imply that Forney would be returning there when this day was over.

“It’s fair, but carrier duty spoils you.”

“I liked the
Savo
,” Brubaker said, and when referring to himself he used the completed tense, surrendering hope.

Forney caught this and said, “You know what kills me right now?
Thinking of Kimiko going to bed with that ape from the
Essex
.”

“That would be tough,” Brubaker agreed.

The two men looked up at the F4U’s and Forney asked, “How much longer will they be able to stay?”

“Not long,” Harry replied.

“Well, we got nothin’ to worry about. The jets’ll be back.”

Harry said, “This morning I had a chance to watch jets in action. They’re terrific.”

“Look at those apes,” Mike said, pointing to where communists were starting to move in. From time to time accurate rifle fire pinked the top of the mound and Brubaker thought ruefully of people back in Denver who visualized communists as peasants with pitchforks who overran positions in mass attacks.

“Those guys know what they’re doing,” he said.

“But they don’t know what they’re gonna meet!” Mike laughed. Then he suddenly looked at Harry and said, “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have a carbine.” And before Brubaker could stop him, he dashed across the rice field, grabbed Nestor Gamidge’s carbine and stripped the dead man of ammunition. Two F4U’s, seeing what Mike was doing, roared low and held the communists off while the Irishman dodged and ducked his way back to the ditch.

“Boy, now they’ll know something hit ’em!” he cried as he jammed the weapon into Harry’s hands.