The Bridge at Dong Ha by John Grider Miller

Author:John Grider Miller [Miller, John Grider]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781612511573
Publisher: Naval Institute Press

SEVEN

The downstream side of the bridge was relatively quiet. Most of the infantrymen on both banks had dug in upstream where the road ran up to the bridge, the foliage was thinner, and fields of fire were better. The flurry of shooting that started during the final dash to the bridge had settled into a measured, deliberate duel across the water. Single rifle shots and short bursts from machine guns sounded in random sequence as the men took more careful aim, conserving their ammunition. Behind the staccato of small-arms fire rolled the distant rumble of artillery searching ceaselessly along Highways 9 and 1 for more victims.

It was almost peaceful as he began to climb the chain-link fence. A deceptive peace. There had to be thousands of NVA troops stacked up on the north bank by now. Against a couple hundred Marines, at most. The fragment of an old ditty stuck in his head: “Ten thousand gobs laid down their swabs / To fight one sick Marine.”

He got to the yoke at the top of the fence and reached up and back to grasp the lower flanges of the downstream stringer. The gritty surface of the I-beam bit into his fingers when he pushed off the fence, swinging his legs backwards. There wasn’t much of a handhold. He’d have to swing his legs up again and hook his heels on the flanges to take the strain off his hands and arms. He began to rock back and forth, legs building into wider and wider swings until he was able to kick up with his heels. Now he could start to inch his way through the concertina.

Smock hung on the fence below him pulling on the concertina, trying to flatten it. “How you doing, Jarhead?” he said.

“Getting there. About halfway through. This wire doesn’t snag as bad as the old stuff. But it’s slicing the shit out of my legs. They’re wet, and I’m not sweating that much yet.”

“Roger, wet. You’re dripping blood all over my arms.”

“It’s got to get better. My web gear and all this stuff slung on my back should help once I get farther into the wire.”

“Just don’t bleed to death before you make it through, Rip. And watch your head.”

His head. There was no web gear to protect it. He tried to pull it up toward the stringer, out of the wire. That strained his neck and made everything twice as hard. He was sweating heavily. The sweat rolled into his cuts and they began to burn. He tried to ignore the pain and keep going, legs pushing past hundreds and hundreds of small razors, each sending new pain up through his body to replace the old pain as he pushed deeper and deeper into the wire.

Then he was through. Out of the wire. He shinnied a few more feet, tightened his grip on the I-beam, and let his legs drop free, clear of the wire. He was dangling at arm’s length looking up at the underside of the bridge.

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