Read Online The Bridges at Toko-ri by James A. Michener - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James A. Michener
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barge.”
“The barge?” This was a scow stationed near the Korean coast, and helicopter men with that duty lived miserably and engaged in one dangerous land mission after another.
A destroyer moved in and the last the Savo saw of Mike Forney was when he climbed into the bo’sun’s chair, green top hat, green scarf and Irishman’s pipe. “I’ll send you the eighty bucks, sir,” he yelled, giving the word sir its old infuriating touch.
Brubaker didn’t care if the captain was watching. He grabbed the disgraced man’s hand and said, “Take care of yourself , Mike. Pilots need you.”
“I go for rough duty,” Mike yelled, clutching his hat as the lines started to draw him over to the destroyer. “Because I really hate communists.”
The chair dipped perilously toward the sea but Mike kept his legs clear. Instinctively the pilots cheered but the Irishman yelled derisively, “You apes go into the drink, not me!”
The new helicopter pilot was an officer, a college kid and no doubt competent, but the jet men and propeller crews knew that flying off the Savo would be a little tougher now.
The fear that was reborn when Brubaker watched Cag dive into the valley at Toko-ri grew all that day, augmented by the gloom of Mike Forney’s dismissal and the briefing. After dinner, in the crowded ready room, the intelligence officer had passed around marked copies of the photographs made that morning and said, “Take-off at 0900. By then the sun will have driven ground fog out of the valley. Keep well south of the guns at Majon-ni. Cag, you tell them about the approach.”
Cag, cigar in mouth, said briefly, “On paper it looks like a lot of flak concentrated here.” He jabbed at the map with his right forefinger. “But it’s not accurate. We’ll go in low. We’ll go in three times. And we’ll go in from the east each time. When we’re through, there won’t be any more bridges.”
There were some questions and then Cag handed them the cold dope. He held his cigar in his left hand and said, “Marty, you take your four men in at 1000 feet to suppress flak. I’ll follow with my four at 1200. Brubaker, you mop up.
Tightly Brubaker gripped the arms of his chair and fought back his fear. He couldn’t fly this mission. He couldn’t take his jet inside that blazing rim of hills. His old bitterness at having been called back into service sneaked up into his throat and corroded his courage. Frantically, as if afraid he might break down before his peers, he rose and hurried out.
Stumbling down the narrow passageways of the carrier, he banged against stanchions and bruised his shin upon the damnable hatches. Seeking out his own room he slammed the door shut and climbed up into his bed under the steam pipes. In uncontrolled panic, there in the dark room, he cast about for some way to avoid the strike against the bridges.
“I’ll go see the doc. I’ll just walk in and announce, ‘I’ve lost my nerve.”’ Impulsively he climbed down and started for the door. Then he stopped and laughed nervously at himself.
For the navy had worked out the perfect way to handle situations like this. Suppose you went in and said you were too jittery to fly, the doc simply said, “OK. Don’t fly.” It was so easy that a man thought a hundred thousand times before he used that dodge. He stood alone, sweating, in his dark room and recalled the Cag’s flight into the valley, and almost without knowing it he uttered the tricky words that bind a man to duty, those simple words that send men in jet planes against overwhelmingly protected bridges: “If Cag can fly that flak, so can I.” That was what kept the navy system working. You could weasel out any time, but within the essence of your conscience lived the memory of other men no less afraid than you who were willing to tackle the dirty jobs. So you stuck.
But then a late flight returned and he thought ungraciously, “What mission did they draw? Rail cuts. Up where there are
“The barge?” This was a scow stationed near the Korean coast, and helicopter men with that duty lived miserably and engaged in one dangerous land mission after another.
A destroyer moved in and the last the Savo saw of Mike Forney was when he climbed into the bo’sun’s chair, green top hat, green scarf and Irishman’s pipe. “I’ll send you the eighty bucks, sir,” he yelled, giving the word sir its old infuriating touch.
Brubaker didn’t care if the captain was watching. He grabbed the disgraced man’s hand and said, “Take care of yourself , Mike. Pilots need you.”
“I go for rough duty,” Mike yelled, clutching his hat as the lines started to draw him over to the destroyer. “Because I really hate communists.”
The chair dipped perilously toward the sea but Mike kept his legs clear. Instinctively the pilots cheered but the Irishman yelled derisively, “You apes go into the drink, not me!”
The new helicopter pilot was an officer, a college kid and no doubt competent, but the jet men and propeller crews knew that flying off the Savo would be a little tougher now.
The fear that was reborn when Brubaker watched Cag dive into the valley at Toko-ri grew all that day, augmented by the gloom of Mike Forney’s dismissal and the briefing. After dinner, in the crowded ready room, the intelligence officer had passed around marked copies of the photographs made that morning and said, “Take-off at 0900. By then the sun will have driven ground fog out of the valley. Keep well south of the guns at Majon-ni. Cag, you tell them about the approach.”
Cag, cigar in mouth, said briefly, “On paper it looks like a lot of flak concentrated here.” He jabbed at the map with his right forefinger. “But it’s not accurate. We’ll go in low. We’ll go in three times. And we’ll go in from the east each time. When we’re through, there won’t be any more bridges.”
There were some questions and then Cag handed them the cold dope. He held his cigar in his left hand and said, “Marty, you take your four men in at 1000 feet to suppress flak. I’ll follow with my four at 1200. Brubaker, you mop up.
Tightly Brubaker gripped the arms of his chair and fought back his fear. He couldn’t fly this mission. He couldn’t take his jet inside that blazing rim of hills. His old bitterness at having been called back into service sneaked up into his throat and corroded his courage. Frantically, as if afraid he might break down before his peers, he rose and hurried out.
Stumbling down the narrow passageways of the carrier, he banged against stanchions and bruised his shin upon the damnable hatches. Seeking out his own room he slammed the door shut and climbed up into his bed under the steam pipes. In uncontrolled panic, there in the dark room, he cast about for some way to avoid the strike against the bridges.
“I’ll go see the doc. I’ll just walk in and announce, ‘I’ve lost my nerve.”’ Impulsively he climbed down and started for the door. Then he stopped and laughed nervously at himself.
For the navy had worked out the perfect way to handle situations like this. Suppose you went in and said you were too jittery to fly, the doc simply said, “OK. Don’t fly.” It was so easy that a man thought a hundred thousand times before he used that dodge. He stood alone, sweating, in his dark room and recalled the Cag’s flight into the valley, and almost without knowing it he uttered the tricky words that bind a man to duty, those simple words that send men in jet planes against overwhelmingly protected bridges: “If Cag can fly that flak, so can I.” That was what kept the navy system working. You could weasel out any time, but within the essence of your conscience lived the memory of other men no less afraid than you who were willing to tackle the dirty jobs. So you stuck.
But then a late flight returned and he thought ungraciously, “What mission did they draw? Rail cuts. Up where there are
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