Modern Screen (Aug-Dec 1943)

Robert Jordan cursed to himself. "And more,'' said Anselmo. "Coming back there was huge movement over the road across the bridge. Many troops and machines. Armor and tank." So they knew it was coming. And suddenly Jordan felt the hopelessness creep up in him, and he had to fight it off as if it were something physical. "And when the attack comes." said Anselmo, "they will be waiting and they will shoot our men down like a scythe harvesting a wheat field." Jordan said tensely: "You're sure you saw the movement?" "With my own eyes," said Anselmo. Jordan called in one of the young ones, a lad named Andres. "Listen carefully," he said. "I want you to go through the lines. Go to General Golz. Tell him the attack is known. You have seven hours to get there. I will give you a written dispatch, but if that is lost, tell him the message by mouth. Do you hear?" He wrote out the dispatch, knowing all the time that it was no use. That there was no stopping the attack even if Andres got there on time. For an attack has a terrible momentum, and once it is planned and conceived and set in motion, it cannot be stopped. He stood up wearily: "I am going out," he said. "I will see you in the morning." Maria was waiting for him at the sleeping bag in the meadow. "You think it will go badly?" she said. "Do not lie to me," she said. "This is our last night." "Guapa," he said softly. "Rabbit. . ." He took the cropped head in his arms and he bent to her. "You love me?" she said. "I love you," he said gravely. "Truly?" "With all my heart." She leaned back against the crook of his arm and they looked up together at the stars. "What will it be like later?" she said. "Later?" "After the war." "We will go to America," he said. "You will take me?" she said. "You will be my wife," he said softly. "What will it be like in America?" "Ah," he said, "it will be wonderful." "And my hair will be long?" "If you want it so." "And I will be beautiful?" "You always are." "I want to be beautiful for you." ".Hush," he said and bent over her so that the shadow of his face fell over her eyes, and there was nothing in the world to see but the curve of her lips and nothing in the world to hear but the sound of his voice saying over and over again: "My sweet, my lovely . . ." In the dark, before the first false dawn, they awoke. Pilar was already moving about the camp, and there was a low steady hum of voices from the patch where the horses were pastured. There were only fight traces of snow on the ground; the weather was perfect. He heard Pablo's voice. "Are you awake?" He stood up. Pablo waited uneasily. "Listen to me," he said. "I have come back." "You were away?" Pilar said, "He ran off in the night like a dog with his tail between his legs." "I admit it," said Pablo. "But I have come back. I am with you in this." He thought wearily: I don't care anymore, I don't care what they do or what they don't do. Let him come. Let him stay away; it is all the same. no returning . . . They packed the camp swiftly, for there was no return now. It was blow the bridge and go elsewhere. After the blowing of the bridge, they would no longer be able to stay in the hills. A half mile away from the bridge, they tethered the horses. It was dark. "Wait here with the horses," he said. "I will go, too," she said. "Wait here," he said harshly. "You will only be in the way below." She reached for him wordlessly, and for a moment they clung together; then gently he moved away, calling her name. He heard her call to him once and then he walked swiftly to the group of men huddled together in the gathering flicker of the dawn. "Ready." he said. And silently they dispersed, each to the prearranged point. Two for the sentry box at one end of the bridge. Three for the group in the sawmill that flanked the span — he and Anselmo carrying the dynamite. Lying flat in the grass watching the dawn stain the sky, he wondered again if the attack would be called off. He could almost see the bombs fall and then distinctly he heard the clustered sound of their thudding. Below they had already heard the signal. He heard the spat of a rifle, and one of the bridge guards toppled over slowly like a man kneeling to pray. Then he was on his feet and he could feel Anselmo panting beside him. They broke cover and headed out for the middle of the bridge. Indistinctly around him, he heard the clatter of shots, the spang of rifles, the bitter chatter of a Lewis gun. At the far end of the bridge another of the sentries had his rifle up and Anselmo, stopping, fired and the sentry fell. At the middle of the bridge, over the V of the span, Jordan stopped. He swung himself swiftly below the crotch of the supports. "Anselmo," he called. work done . . . The old man began passing the dynamite down to him. Working coolly, he stuffed the dynamite into the supports. He laid the pack carefully and wired it. Then he swung across the girders to the opposite side of the bridge and again the old man passed down the charges. "Take the wire off the first charge," Jordan said to Anselmo. "If the tanks come, pull the charge — " "And you?" said Anselmo. "Pull the charge!" He had the second charge packed against the supports and, unstringing the wire, he pulled himself onto the bridge and found Anselmo still waiting. At the opposite end of the bridge an armored car came down the road, spitting fire from the turret. "Anselmo!" Jordan called. The old man waited stubbornly. Jordan cursed and gathered the two wires swiftly in his own hands. He pulled sharply and dove for a ditch that lay along the river bank, beneath the span of the arch. The roaring was like the thunder of a hundred storms in his ears. He lay there until the last echo died and then he rose. 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