In a field three miles from a village, Brubaker lay hiding in a rice paddy. What was he doing here, he wondered. Why wasn’t he at home in Denver tending to his law practice, having dinner with his wife and daughters. He looked up and saw the enemy soldiers closing in ...

Also by James Michener:

Fiction
TALES OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC*
RETURN TO PARADISE*
SAYONARA*
SELECTED WRITINGS
THE FIRES OF SPRING*
HAWAII*
CARAVANS*
THE SOURCE*
THE DRIFTERS*
CENTENNIAL*
CHESAPEAKE*
THE WATERMEN THE COVENANT*
SPACE*
POLAND*
TEXAS*
LEGACY*
ALASKA*
JOURNEY CARIBBEAN*
THE NOVEL*
MEXICO

Nonfiction
THE BRIDGE AT ANDAU*
RASCALS IN PARADISE*
JAPANESE PRINTS: FROM EARLY MASTERS TO THE MODERN
IBERIA: SPANISH TRAVELS AND REFLECTIONS*
MODERN JAPANESE PRINT: AN APPRECIATION
PRESIDENTIAL LOTTERY: THE RECKLESS GAMBLE IN OUR ELECTORAL SYSTEM
SPORTS IN AMERICA*
KENT STATE: WHAT HAPPENED AND WHY*
THE FLOATING WORLD

*Published by Fawcett Books


THE
BRIDGES
AT
TOKO-RI


James A. Michener


FAWCETT CREST ? NEW YORK


Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

A Fawcett Crest Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1953 by James A. Michener

All rights reserved under international and Pan-American Copyright Conventions, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

ISBN 0-449-20651-3

This edition published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Fawcett Crest Edition: April 1973
First Ballantine Books Edition: June 1982
Twenty-seventh Printing: September 1993


To MARSHALL U. BEEBE

Jet Pilot


Contents
Contents	3
SEA	3
LAND	3
SKY	3
About the Author	3



SEA
THE SEA was bitter cold. From the vast empty plains of Siberia howling winds roared down to lash the mountains of Korea, where American soldiers lost on patrol froze into stiff and awkward forms. Then with furious intensity the arctic wind swept out to sea, freezing even the salt spray that leaped into the air from crests of falling waves.
   Through these turbulent seas, not far from the trenches of Korea, plowed a considerable formation of American warships. A battleship and two cruisers, accompanied by fourteen destroyers to shield against Russian submarines, held steady course as their icy decks rose and fell and shivered in the gale. They were the ships of Task Force 77 and they had been sent to destroy the communist-held bridges at Toko-ri.
   Toward the center of this powerful assembly rode two fast carriers, the cause of the task force and its mighty arm. Their massive decks pitched at crazy angles, which for the present made takeoffs or landings impossible. Their planes stood useless, huddled together in the wind, lashed down by steel cables.
   It was strange, and in some perverse way resolutely American, that these two carriers wallowing in the dusk bore names which memorialized not stirring victories but humiliating defeats, as if by thus publishing her indifference to catastrophe and her willingness to surmount it, the United States were defying her enemies. To the east, and farther out to sea, rode the Hornet, whose predecessor of that name had absorbed a multitude of Japanese bombs and torpedoes, going down off Guadalcanal, while the inboard carrier, the Savo, would forever remind the navy of its most shameful defeat in history, when four cruisers sank helpless at Savo Island, caught sleeping by the audacious Japanese.
   Now, as night approached the freezing task force, the bull horn on the Savo rasped out, “Prepare to launch aircraft!” And it was obvious from the way her deck was arranged that the carrier already had some planes in the skies over Korea, and every man who watched the heaving sea wondered how those planes could possibly get back aboard.
   The bull horn, ignoring such problems, roared, “Prepare to launch helicopter!” and although the deck pitched in abandon, rotors began to turn, slowly at first and then with lumbering speed.
   Now the great carrier struck a sea trough and slid away, her deck lurching, but relentlessly the bull horn cried, “Move jets into position for launching,” and the catapult crew, fighting for footing on the sliding deck, sprang swiftly into action, inching two heavy Banshees onto the catapults, taking painful care not to allow the jets to get rolling, lest they plunge overboard with some sudden shifting of the deck.
   “Start jet engines,” roared the insistent bull horn.
   The doctor, who had to be on deck in case of crash, looked at the heaving sea and yelled to the crane operator, “They may launch these jets, but they’ll never get ’em back aboard.”
   The craneman looked down from his giant machine, which could lift a burning plane and toss it into the sea, and shouted, “Maybe they’re planning to spend the night at some air force field in Korea. Along with the ones that are already up.”
   But at this instant all ships of the task force swung in tight circles and headed away from the open sea, straight for the nearby cliffs of Korea, and when the turn was completed, the deck of the Savo mysteriously stabilized. The effects of wind and sea neutralized each other, and planes returning from the bombardment of Korea now had a safe place to land.
   But before they could do so the bull horn cried eerily into the dusk, “Launch helicopter!” and the crazy bird, its two rotors spinning so slowly the blades could be seen, stumbled into the air, and the horn cried, “Launch jets!”
   Then, as the great carrier rode serenely amid the storms, the catapult officer whirled one finger above his head and a tremendous, almost unbearable roar arose and twin blasts of heat leaped from each Banshee, burning the icy air more than a hundred feet aft. Now the officer whirled two fingers and the roar increased and white heat scorched the deck of the carrier and the twin engines whipped to a meaningless speed of 13,000 revolutions a minute and the Banshee pilot, forcing his head back against a cushion, saluted and the catapult officer’s right hand whipped down and the catapult fired.
   Nine tons of jet aircraft were swept down the deck at a speed of more than 135 miles an hour. Within less than 150 feet the immense Banshee was airborne, and by the time it reached the forward edge of the carrier, it was headed toward its mission. Four times the catapults fired and four times heavy jets leaped into the darkening sky and headed for the coastline of Korea.
   As soon as they had left, the bull horn wailed, “Respot planes. On the double. We must recover the Korean jets immediately.”
   When this announcement was made thirty old-fashioned propeller planes were already lashed down on the after part of the flight deck in precisely that area needed for landing the jets which now appeared overhead. The prop planes had been stowed there to permit catapult take-offs, and now they must be moved forward. So on the wooden deck, swept by icy winds, hundreds of young men in varicolored uniforms sped to the task of clearing the landing space. Men in green stowed the catapult gear so that no remnant of the powerful machine was visible. Other men in yellow leaped upon the deck and began to indicate the course each plane must follow on its way to forward stowage. Dozens of tough young men in blue leaned their shoulders against the planes, swung them laboriously into position and pushed them slowly into the biting wind. In blazing red uniforms other men checked guns or fueled empty craft while plane captains in brown sat in cockpits and worked the brakes to prevent accident. Darting about through the milling, pushing, shouting deck hands three-wheeled jeeps of vivid yellow and lumbering tractors in somber gray hurried to their jobs, while over all towered the mighty arms of the enormous black and sinister crane. Behind it lurked two weird men in fantastic suits of ashen gray asbestos, their faces peering from huge glassine boxes, ready to save the pilot if a crashed plane should burn, while in back of them, clothed in snowy white, the doctor waited, for death was always close upon the carrier deck.
   So in an age of flight, in the jet age of incredible speed, these men pushed and pulled and slipped upon the icy deck and ordered the heavy planes with their bare hands. Upon trailing edges burdened with ice they pushed, their faces open to the freezing wind, their eyes heavy with frozen salt and the knuckles of their hands covered long since with protecting scars. And as they moved, their bright colors formed the pattern of a dance and after they had swarmed upon the deck for some minutes the Savo was transformed and from the lowering shadows the jets prepared to land.
   This intricate operation was guided by one man. From the admiral’s country he had directed the task force to run toward the communist coast. The last four jets had been dispatched at his command. He had placed the ships so that the operations of one would not trespass the allotted space of the other, and it was his responsibility to see that his carriers faced the wind in such position that smoke trailed off to one side rather than directly aft and into the faces of incoming pilots. Now he stood upon his bridge and watched the mountains of Korea moving perilously close.
   Admiral George Tarant was a tall narrow man with a sharp face that was sour and withdrawing like those of his Maine ancestors. Battle-wizened, he had fought the Japanese with his own carrier at Saipan, at Iwo Jima and at Okinawa, where his austere and lonely presence had brought almost as much terror to his own fliers as it had to the enemy.
   He was known through the navy as George the Tyrant, and any aviator who wanted to fetch a big laugh would grab a saucer in his left hand, a coffee cup in his right, lean back in his chair and survey the audience sourly, snorting, “Rubbish.” Then the mimic would stare piercingly at some one pilot, jab the coffee cup at him and growl, “You, son. What do you think?”
   But men who served with Tarrant soon forgot his tyranny and remembered his fantastic skill in operating a task force. His men said flatly, “He can do it better than anyone else in the world.” He knew the motion of the sea and could estimate whether a morning swell would rise to prevent recovery of afternoon planes or subside so that even jets could land freely. He was able to guess when new gales of bitter Siberian air would rush the line of snowstorms out to sea and when the snow would come creeping softly back and throw a blizzard about the task force as it slept at night. And he had a most curious ability to foresee what might trouble the tin-can sailors serving in the remote destroyers.
   He fought upon the surface of the sea and in the sky. He sent his planes inland to support ground troops or far out to sea to spot Russian submarines. His was the most complex combat command of which one man’s mind was capable and on him alone depended decisions of the gravest moment.
   For example, the position he was now in, with mountains closing down upon him, was his responsibility. Early that morning his aerologist had warned, “Wind’s coming up, sir. You might run out of ocean by late afternoon.”
   He studied the charts and growled, “We’ll make it.”
   Now his navigator warned, “We can’t hold thus course more than sixteen minutes, sir.” The young officer looked at the looming coastline as if to add, “After that we’ll have to turn back and abandon the planes.”
   “We’ll make it,” Tarrant grumbled as his ships plowed resolutely on toward the crucial hundred fathom curve which he dare not penetrate for fear of shoals, mines and submarines. But he turned his back upon his problem, for he could do nothing about it now. Instead, he checked to be sure the Savo’s deck was ready and in doing so he saw something which reassured him. Far aft, standing upon a tiny platform that jutted out over the side of the carrier, stood a hulking giant, muffled in fur and holding two landing-signal paddles in his huge hands. It was Beer Barrel, and if any man could bring jets surely and swiftly home, it was Beer Barrel.
   He was an enormous man, six feet three, more than 250 pounds, and his heavy suit, stitched with strips of fluorescent cloth to make his arms and legs easier to read, added to his bulk. He was a farmer from Texas who before the perilous days of 1943 had never seen the ocean, but he possessed a fabulous ability to sense the motion of the sea and what position the carrier deck would take. He could judge the speed of jets as they whirled down upon him, but most of all he could imagine himself in the cockpit of every incoming plane and he seemed to know what tired and jittery pilots would do next and he saved their lives. He was a fearfully bad naval officer and in some ways a disgrace to his uniform, but everyone felt better when he came aboard a carrier, for he could do one thing. He could land planes.
   He could reach out with his great hands and bring them safely home the way falconers used to bring back birds they loved. In the Pentagon they knew he broke rules and smuggled beer aboard each ship he served upon. Carrier captains knew it, and even Admiral Tarrant, who was a terror on navy rules, looked the other way when Beer Barrel staggered back after each drunken liberty, lugging his two ridiculous golf bags. The huge Texan had never once played golf and the two clubs sticking out were dummies. Once a deck hand, fearful that drunken Beer Barrel might slide back down the gangplank, had grabbed one of the outsize golf bags to help, but the surprising weight of it had crumpled. him to the deck. Beer Barrel, barely able to heft the bag himself, had got it onto his massive shoulder, whispering beerily to the boy, “Thanks, Junior, but this is man’s work.” And he had carried the bags full of beer into his quarters.
   For he believed that if he had a can of cold beer in his belly it formed a kind of gyroscope which made him unusually sensitive to the sea and that when this beer sloshed about it harmonized with the elements and he became one with the sea and the sky and the heaving deck and the heart of the incoming pilot.
   “Land jets!” moaned the bull horn.
   “Let’s hear the checks,” Beer Barrel said to his spotters, staring aft to catch the first jet as it made its 180° turn for the cross leg and the sharp final turn into the landing run. Now the jet appeared and Beer Barrel thought, “They’re always pretty comin’ home at night.”
   “All down!” the first watcher cried as he checked the wheels, the flaps and the stout hook which now dangled lower than the wheels.
   “All down,” Beer Barrel echoed unemotionally.
   “Clear deck!” the second watcher shouted as he checked the nylon barriers and the thirteen heavy steel wires riding a few inches off the deck, waiting to engage the hook.
   “Clear deck,” Beer Barrel grunted phlegmatically.
   He extended his paddles out sideways from his shoulders, standing like an imperturbable rock, and willed the plane onto the deck. “Come on, Junior,” he growled. “Keep your nose up so’s your hook’ll catch. Good boy!” Satisfied that all was well, he snapped his right paddle dramatically across his heart and dropped his left arm as if it had been severed clean away from his body. Instantly the jet pilot cut his flaming speed and slammed his Banshee onto the deck. With violent grasp the protruding hook engaged one of the slightly elevated wires and dragged the massive plane to a shuddering stop.
   Beer Barrel, watching from his platform, called to the clerk who kept records on each plane, “1593. Junior done real good. Number three wire.” Never did Beer Barrel feel so content, not even when guzzling lager, as when one of his boys caught number three wire. “Heaven,” he explained once, “is where everybody gets number three wire. Hell is where they fly wrong and catch number thirteen and crash into the barrier and burn. And every one of you’s goin’ straight to hell if you don’t follow me better.”
   From his own bridge, Admiral Tarrant watched the jets come home. In his life he had seen many fine and stirring things: his wife at the altar, Japanese battleships going down, ducks rising from Virginia marshes and his sons in uniform. But nothing he knew surpassed the sight of Beer Barrel bringing home the jets at dusk.
   There always came that exquisite moment of human judgment when one man—a man standing alone on the remotest corner of the ship, lashed by foul wind and storm—had to decide that the jet roaring down upon him could make it. This solitary man had to judge the speed and height and the pitching of the deck and the wallowing of the sea and the oddities of this particular pilot and those additional imponderables that no man can explain. Then, at the last screaming second he had to make his decision and flash it to the pilot. He had only two choices. He could land the plane and risk the life of the pilot and the plane and the ship if he had judged wrong. Or he could wave-off and delay his decision until next time around. But he could defer his job to no one. It was his, and if he did judge wrong, carnage on the carrier deck could be fearful. That was why Admiral Tarrant never bothered about the bags of beer.
   On they came, the slim and beautiful jets. As they roared upwind the admiral could see their stacks flaming. When they made their far turn and roared downwind he could see the pilots as human beings, tensed up and ready for the landing that was never twice the same. Finally, when these mighty jets hit the deck they weighed well over seven tons and their speed exceeded 135 miles an hour, yet within 120 feet they were completely stopped and this miracle was accomplished in several ways. First, Tarrant kept his carriers headed into the wind, which on this day stormed in at nearly 40 miles an hour, which cut the plane’s relative speed to about 95 miles. Then, too, the carrier was running away from the plane at 11 miles an hour, which further cut the plane’s speed to 84, and it was this actual speed that the wires had to arrest. They did so with brutal strength, but should they miss, two slim nylon barriers waited to drag the plane onto the deck and chop its impetus, halting it so that it could not proceed forward to damage other planes. And finally, should a runaway jet miss both the wires and the barriers, it would plunge into a stout nylon barricade which would entwine itself about the wings and wheels and tear the jet apart as if it were a helpless insect.
   But it was Beer Barrel’s job to see that barriers and the barricade were not needed and he would shout curses at his pilots and cry, “Don’t fly the deck, Junior. Don’t fly the sea. Fly me.” An air force colonel watching Beer Barrel land jets exclaimed, “Why, it isn’t a landing at all! It’s a controlled crash.” And the big Texan replied in his beery voice, “Difference is that when I crash ’em they’re safe in the arms of God.”
   Now he brought in three more, swiftly and surely, and Admiral Tarrant, watching the looming mountains of Korea as they moved in upon his ships, muttered, “Well, we’ll make it again.”
   But as he said these words his squawk box sounded, and from deep within the Savo the combat intelligence director reported coolly, “1591 has been hit. Serious damage. May have to ditch.”
   “What’s his position?”
   “Thirty-five miles away.”
   “Who’s with him?”
   “His wingman, 1592.”
   “Direct him to come on in and attempt landing”
   The squawk box clicked off and Admiral Tarrant looked straight ahead at the looming coast. Long ago he had learned never to panic, but he had trained himself to look at situations in their gloomiest aspects so as to be prepared for ill turns of luck. “If this jet limps in we may have to hold this course for ten or fifteen more minutes. Well, we probably can do it.”
   He studied the radar screen to estimate his probable position in fifteen minutes. “Too close,” he muttered. Then into the squawk box which led to the air officer of the Savo he said, “Recovery operations must end in ten minutes. Get all planes aboard.”
   “The admiral knows there’s one in trouble?”
   “Yes. I’ve ordered him to try to land.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   The bull horn sounded. “All hands. We must stop operations within ten minutes. Get those barriers cleared faster. Bring the planes in faster.”
   The telephone talker at the landing platform told Beer Barrel, “We got to get ’em all aboard in ten minutes.”
   “What’s a matter?” Beer Barrel growled. “Admiral running hisself out of ocean?”
   “Looks like it,” the talker said.
   “You tell him to get the planes up here and I’ll get ’em aboard.”
   So the nineteen dark ships of the task force sped on toward the coastline and suddenly the squawk box rasped, “Admiral, 1591 says he will have to ditch.”
   “Can he ditch near the destroyers?”
   “Negative.”
   “Is his wingman still with him?”
   “Affirmative.”
   “How much fuel?”
   “Six hundred pounds.”
   “Have you a fix on their positions?”
   “Affirmative.”
   “Dispatch helicopter and tell wingman to land immediately.”
   There was a long silence and the voice said, “Wingman 1592 requests permission stay with downed plane till copter arrives.”
   The admiral was now faced with a decision no man should ha 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.
   Realization that Mike intended to battle it out here made Harry shiver and he asked, “You think there’s any chance they’d allow us to surrender?”
   “Those apes?” Mike asked.
   The two Americans piled the last rocks before their faces and Harry asked, “Why do you hate them so much?”
   “Simple. One Sunday morning in the cathedral I heard the cardinal explain it all,” Mike said. A bullet zinged into the mud behind them and Mike grabbed Brubaker’s arm. “You understand, sir, I came out here to save you. I don’t want to die. There was a fightin’ chance or I wouldn’t have come. But now we’re here, let’s go down really swingin’.”
   He watched one of the communists creep forward for a better shot. “Don’t fire too soon at these apes,” he whispered. He kept his hand on Harry’s arm for at least two minutes. Then, just as the enemy soldier got into position Mike blasted him right in the face. When Mike looked back he saw that Brubaker was busy with his hip knife, slashing away at his poopy suit.
   “What are you doin’?” the Irishman exploded.”
   “Letting some air in.”
   “Have you gone nuts, sir?”
   “Ever since I climbed into my first poopy suit I’ve been weighed down. I’ve been sweating and unable to breathe. Like a zombie. Today I want to feel like a human being.” He stripped away large chunks of his burdensome gear and stood reasonably free. “I feel better already,” he said.
   Mike was sure the lieutenant had gone off his rocker but there wasn’t anything he could do about it so he laughed and said, “I’m the same way. I couldn’t fight these apes without my green hat.”
   “Why do you wear that?” Harry asked.
   “I want people to know I’m around.”
   “That’s what you told the captain. But what’s the real dope?”
   Mike stopped, looked frankly at Brubaker and said, “When I was a kid we lived. ...” He stopped abruptly and asked, “Tell me the truth, sir, wasn’t that captain a pathetic ape?”
   “The way he used windmill all the time.”
   “In about three minutes now,” Mike said, pointing to the trees.
   The communists moved slowly and with deliberate plan. Four of them came in from the south, three from the mountain quarter. “I’m gonna keep my eye on those four out there,” Mike said.
   Some minutes passed and there was a flurry of fire from the three soldiers in the mountain quarter but Forney yelled, “Forget them!” and he was right for the other four lunged forward and tried to overrun the ditch. Calmly Mike and Harry waited until the communists were close upon them. Then they started to fire rapidly. The communists fired back but Mike yelled, “They’re crumblin’,” and he chopped them down.
   “’That’ll take care of the boys,” he shouted. “Now bring on the men.” But as he turned to congratulate Brubaker an unseen communist who had sneaked in from the sea quarter hurled two grenades into the ditch. One of them Mike managed to throw back but as he lifted the second it exploded and tore him apart. His body, motivated by the driving forces that had occupied his mind, stumbled forward toward the unseen enemy and pitched into the snow.
   Now the sky was empty and the helicopter stood burned out in the rice field and in the ditch there was no one beside him. Harry Brubaker, a twenty-nine-year-old lawyer from Denver, Colorado, was alone in a spot he had never intended to defend in a war he had not understood. In his home town at that moment the University of Colorado was playing Denver in their traditional basketball game. The stands were crowded with more than 8,000 people and not one of them gave a damn about Korea. In San Francisco a group of men were finishing dinner and because the Korean war was a vulnerable topic, they laid plans to lambaste it from one end of the country to the other, but none of them really cared about the war or sought to comprehend it. And in New York thousands of Americans were crowding into the night clubs where the food was good and the wine expensive, but hardly anywhere in the city except in a few homes whose men were overseas was there even an echo of Korea.
   But Harry Brubaker was in Korea, armed with two carbines. He was no longer afraid nor was he resentful. This was the war he had been handed by his nation and in the noonday sun he had only one thought: he was desperately in love with his wife and kids and he wanted to see them one more time.
   The memory of his family was too much to bear and for an instant he pressed his right hand across his eyes and thought, “The girls will be in the garden now. ...”
   He did not complete the picture for the hidden communist who had tossed the grenades had remained close and now with one carefully planned shot sped a bullet directly through the right hand that covered the American’s face. In that millionth of a second, while ten slim Banshees roared in from the sea to resume command of the sky, Harry Brubaker understood in some fragmentary way the purpose of his being in Korea. But the brief knowledge served no purpose, for the next instant he plunged face down into the ditch.
   Through the long afternoon that followed, Admiral Tarrant haunted his telephone, waiting word of the miracle that would save his son. When Mike Forney left the scow with his helicopter, the admiral had said, “Well, Mike’ll get him.” Then the leader of the F4U’s reported the copter burning.
   Now, from the clandestine broadcaster near Wonsan came the facts: “Jet plane crash. Helicopter crash. Three Americans killed by communist troops.”
   Shaken, the lean, hard-bitten admiral left flag plot and walked gravely to his tiny room, for he knew that he must report these facts to Nancy Brubaker, in Yokosuka. But as he stared at the paper he asked, “How do you explain to a wife that her husband has died for his nation? How do you tell that to a woman with two children?” And he thought of his own wife, sitting somewhere in a dark room knitting a child’s garment ... but it was already more than seven feet long.
   The job was too much for him. Later, maybe, he would know what to write. Then he thought of the Cag, who had led this ill-starred mission. He burned with fury and summoned the Cag to him, lashing at the bullet-headed commander as soon as he appeared.
   “Why was Brubaker abandoned?”
   Cag’s eyes were red and tired from too much flying but he controlled his nerves and said, “We kept an air cap over him.”
   “If one helicopter crashed, why didn’t you send another?”
   “Sir, its not my job to dispatch copters. You ask for volunteers. And there are never enough Mike Forneys.”
   “How was Brubaker hit in the first place?”
   “He was working over the dumps.”
   The admiral pounced on this. “What was he doing at the dumps?”
   Patiently Cag explained. “Before we took off we agreed. If we get the bridges, we expend our ammo on the dumps.”
   Icily, from the empty bitterness of his bosom, the old man asked, “Was that wise?”
   Cag had taken enough. He’d stood this angry old tyrant long enough and there was no promotion in the navy that would make him take any more. “Admiral,” he said grimly, “this was a good mission. We did everything just right. I put Brubaker in charge of the third division because I could trust him to fly low and bore in with his bombs. He did just that.”
   Cag, trembling with anger, rushed on, “Admiral, everybody in the air group knows that you selected Brubaker as your special charge. You do that on every command and we know why you do it. Some kid your own boy’s age. So today I led your boy to death. But it was a good mission. We did everything just right. And it was your boy who helped destroy the bridges. Admiral, if my eyes are red it’s for that kid. Because he was mine too. And I lost him.”
   The old man stood there, staring stonily at the shaking commander with the bullet head while Cag shot the works. “I don’t care any longer what kind of fitness report you turn in on me because this was a good mission. It was a good mission.” Without saluting he stormed from flag country, his fiery steps echoing as he stamped away.
   For many hours the admiral remained alone. Then toward morning he heard the anti-submarine patrol go out and as the engines roared he asked, “Why is America lucky enough to have such men? They leave this tiny ship and fly against the enemy. Then they must seek the ship, lost somewhere on the sea. And when they find it, they have to land upon its pitching deck. Where did we get such men?”
   He went out to watch the launching of the dawn strike. As streaks of light appeared in the east, pilots came on deck. Bundled like animals awakened from hibernation, they waddled purposefully to their jets. The last to climb aboard was Cag, stocky and round like a snowball. He checked each jet, then studied his own. Finally, as if there were nothing more he could do, he scrambled into his plane and waited. Majestically, the task force turned into the wind, the bull horn jangled and a voice in the gloom cried, “Launch jets.”
   Admiral Tarrant watched them go, two by two from the lashing catapult, planes of immortal beauty whipping into the air with flame and fury upon them. They did not waste fuel orbiting but screamed to the west, seeking new bridges in Korea.
   
   
   
THE END.

About the Author
James A. Michener was born in 1907 and raised by a Quaker woman in Pennsylvania. During World War II he served with the U.S. Navy and traveled across the Pacific. His TALES OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC won the Pulitzer Prize in 1947. He lives with his wife in Coral Gables, Florida and is a professor at the University of Miami.
James A. Michener ? THE BRIDGES AT TOKO-RI




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