by High Citadel
"Then why did you decide to fight?" she said in wonder.
O'Hara chuckled. "Armstrong put up some pretty cogent arguments," he said, and told her about it. Then he added. "But I'd have fought anyway. I don't like those boys across the river; I don't like what they do to people. It makes no difference if their skins are yellow, white or brown -- they're all of the same stripe."
"Senor Forester was telling me that you fought together in Korea," Benedetta said.
"We might have -- we probably did. He was in an American squadron which we flew with sometimes. But I never met him."
"It must have been terrible," she said. "All that fighting."
"It wasn't too bad," said O'Hara. "The fighting part of it." He smiled. "You do get used to being shot at, you know. I think that people can get used to anything if it goes on long enough -- most things, anyway. That's the only way wars can be fought -- because people can adapt and treat the craziest things as normal. Otherwise they couldn't go through with it."
She nodded. "I know. Look at us here. Those men shoot at us and Miguel shoots back -- he regards it as the normal thing to do."
"It is the normal thing to do," said O'Hara harshly. "The human being is a fighting animal; it's that quality which has put him where he is -- the king of this planet." His lips twisted. "It's also the thing that's maybe holding him back from bigger things." He laughed abruptly. "Christ, this is no time for the philosophy of war -- I'd better leave that to Armstrong."
"You said something strange," said Benedetta. "You said that Korea wasn't too bad -- the fighting part of it. What was bad, if it wasn't the fighting?"
O'Hara looked into the distance. "It was when the fighting stopped -- when I stopped fighting -- when I couldn't fight any more. Then it was bad."
"You were a prisoner? In the hands of the Chinese? Forester said something of that."
O'Hara said slowly. "I've killed men in combat -- in hot blood -- and I'll probably do it again, and soon, at that. But what those communist bastards can do intellectually and with cold purpose is beyond ..." He shook his head irritably. "I prefer not to talk about it."
He had a sudden vision of the bland, expressionless features of the Chinese lieutenant, Feng. It was something that had haunted his dreams and woken him screaming ever since Korea. It was the reason he preferred to go to sleep in a sodden, dreamless and mindless coma. He said. "Let's talk about you. You speak good English -- where did you learn it?"
She was aware that she had trodden on forbidden and shaky ground. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you, Senor O'Hara," she said contritely.
"That's all right. But less of the Senor O'Hara; my name is Tim."
She smiled quickly. "I was educated in the United States, Tim. My uncle sent me there after Lopez made the revolution." She laughed. "I was taught English by a teacher very like Miss Ponsky."
"Now there's a game old trout," said O'Hara. "Your uncle sent you? What about your parents?"
"My mother died when I was a child. My father -- Lopez had him shot."
O'Hara sighed. "We both seem to be scraping on saw nerves, Benedetta. I'm sorry."
She said sadly. "It's the way the world is, Tim."
He agreed sombrely. "Anyone who expects fair play in this world is a damn fool. That's why we're in this jam.
Come on, let's get back; this isn't getting us anywhere." He pinched off his cigarette and carefully put the stub back in the packet.
As Benedetta rose she said, "Do you think that Senor Armstrong's idea of a crossbow will work?"
"I don't," said O'Hara flatly. "I think that Armstrong is a romantic. He's specialised as a theoretician in wars a thousand years gone, and I can't think of anything more futile than that. He's an ivory-tower man -- an academician -- bloodthirsty in a theoretical way, but the sight of blood will turn his stomach. And I think he's a little bit nuts."
iii
Armstrong's pipe gurgled as he watched Willis rooting about in the rubbish of the workshop. His heart was beating rapidly and he felt breathless, although the altitude did not seem to affect him as much as the previous time he had been at the hutted camp. His mind was turning over the minutiae of his profession -- the science of killing without gunpowder. He thought coldly and clearly about the ranges, trajectories and penetrations -that could be obtained from pieces of bent steel and twisted gut, and he sought to adapt the ingenious mechanisms so clearly diagrammed in his mind to the materials and needs of the moment. He looked up at the roof beams of the hut and a new idea dawned on him. But he put it aside -- the crossbow came first.
Willis straightened, holding a flat spring. "This came from an auto -- will it do for the bow?"
Armstrong tried to flex it and found it very stiff. "It's very strong," he said. "Probably stronger than anything they had in the Middle Ages. This will be a very powerful weapon. Perhaps this is too strong -- we must be able to bend it."
"Let's go over that problem again," Willis said.
Armstrong drew on the back of an envelope. "For the light sporting bows they had a goafs-foot lever, but that is not strong enough for the weapon we are considering. For the heavier military bows they had two methods of bending -- the cranequin, a ratchet arranged like this, which- was demounted for firing, and the other was a windlass built into the bow which worked a series of pulleys."
Willis looked at the rough sketches and nodded. "The windlass Is our best bet," he said. "That ratchet thing would be difficult to make. And if necessary we can weaken the spring by grinding it down." He looked around. "Where's Peabody?"
"I don't know," said Armstrong. "Let's get on with This."
"You'd better find him," Willis said. "We'll put him on to making arrows -- that should be an easy job." "Bolts or quarrels," said Armstrong patiently. "Whatever they're called, let's get on with it," Willis said. They found Peabody taking it easy in one of the huts, beating a can of beans. Reluctantly he went along to the workshop and they got to work. Armstrong marvelled at the dexterity of Willis's fingers as he contrived effective parts from impossible materials and worse tools. They found the grindstone to be their most efficient cutting tool, although i it tended to waste material. Armstrong sweated in turning the crank and could not keep it up for long, so they took it in turns, he and Willis silently, Peabody with much cursing. They ripped out electric wiring from a hut and tore down conduit tubing. They cut up reinforcing steel into lengths and slotted the ends to take flights. It was cold and their hands were numb and the blood oozed from the cuts made when their makeshift tools slipped.
They worked all night and dawn was brightening the sky as Armstrong took the completed weapon in his hands and' looked at it dubiously. "It's a bit different from how I imagined it, but I think it will do." He rubbed his eyes wearily. "Ill take it down now -- they might need it."
Willis slumped against the side of the hut. "I've got an idea for a better one," he said. "That thing will be a bastard to cock. But I must get some sleep first -- and food." His voice trailed to a mumble and he blinked his eyes rapidly.
All that night the bridge had been illuminated by the headlamps of the enemy vehicles and it was obviously hopeless to make a sortie in an attempt to cut the cables. The enemy did not work on the bridge at night, not relishing being in a spotlight when a shot could come out of the darkness.
Forester was contemptuous of them. "The goddam fools," he said. "If we can't hit them in daylight then it's sure we can't at night -- but if they'd any sense they'd see that they could spot our shooting at night and they'd send a man on to the bridge to draw our fire -- then they'd fill our man full of holes."
But during the daylight hours the enemy had worked on the bridge, and had been less frightened of the shots fired at them. No one had been hit and it had become obvious that there was little danger other than that from a freakishly lucky shot. By morning there were but six bullets left for Rohde's pistol and there were nine more planks in the bridge.
By nine o'clock Rohde had expended two more bullets and i
t was then that Armstrong stumbled down the road carrying a contraption. "Here it is," he said. "Here's your crossbow." He rubbed his eyes which were red-rimmed and tired. "Professionally speaking, I'd call it an arbalest."
"My God, that was quick," said O'Hara.
"We worked all night," Armstrong said tiredly. "We thought you'd need it in a hurry."
"How does it work?" asked O'Hara, eyeing it curiously.
"The metal loop on the business end is a stirrup," said Armstrong. "You put it on the ground and put your foot in it. Then you take this cord and clip the hook on to the bowstring and start winding on this handle. That draws back the bowstring until it engages on this sear. You drop a bolt in this trough and you're ready to shoot. Press the trigger and the sear drops to release the bowstring."
The crossbow was heavy in O'Hara's hands. The bow itself was made from a car spring and the bowstring was & length of electric wire woven into a six-strand cord to give i: strength. The cord which drew it back was also electric wire woven of three strands. The seat and trigger were carved from wood, and the trough where the bolt went was made from a piece of electric conduit piping.
It was a triumph of improvisation.
"We had to weaken the spring," said Armstrong. "But it's still got a lot of bounce. Here's a bolt -- we made a dozen."
The bolt was merely a length of round steel, three-eighths of an inch in diameter and fifteen inches long. It was very rusty. One end was slotted to hold metal flights cut from a dried-milk can and the other end was sharpened to a point O'Hara hefted it thoughtfully; it was quite heavy. "If this thing doesn't kill immediately, anyone hit will surely die c: blood-poisoning. Does it give the range you expected?"
"A little more," said Armstrong. "These bolts are heavier than the medieval originals because they're steel throughout instead of having a wooden shaft -- but the bow is very powerful and that makes up for it. Why don't you try it out?"
O'Hara put his foot in the stirrup and cranked the windlass handle. He found it more difficult than he had anticipated -- the bow was very strong. As he slipped a bolt into the trough he said, "What should I shoot at?"
"What about that earth bank over there?"
The bank was about sixty yards away. He raised the crossbow and Armstrong said quickly. "Try it lying down, the way we'll use it in action. The trajectory is very flat so you won't have much trouble with sighting. I thought we'd wait until we got down here before sighting in." He produced a couple of gadgets made of wire. "We'll use a ring-and-pin sight."
O'Hara lay down and fitted the rough wooden butt awkwardly into his shoulder. He peered along the trough and sighted as best he could upon a brown patch of earth on the bank. Then he squeezed the trigger and the crossbow bucked hard against his shoulder as the string was released.
There was a puff of dust from the extreme right of the target at which he had aimed. He got up and rubbed his shoulder. "My God!" he said with astonishment. "She's got a hell of a kick."
Armstrong smiled faintly. "Let's retrieve the bolt."
They walked over to the bank but O'Hara could not see it. "It went in about here," he said. "I saw the dust distinctly -- but where is it?"
Armstrong grinned. "I told you this weapon was powerful. There's the bolt."
O'Hara grunted with amazement as he saw what Armstrong meant. The bolt had penetrated more than its own length into the earth and had buried itself completely. As Armstrong dug it out, O'Hara said. "We'd better all practise with this thing and find out who's the best shot." He looked at Armstrong. "You'd better get some sleep; you look pooped."
"I'll wait until I see the bow in action," said Armstrong. "Maybe it'll need some modification. Willis is making another -- he has some ideas for improvements -- and we put Peabody to making more bolts." He stood upright with the bolt in his hands. "And I've got to fix the sights."
All of them, excepting Aguillar and Rohde, practised with the crossbow, and -- perhaps not surprisingly -- Miss Ponsky turned out to be the best shot, with Forester coming next and O'Hara third. Shooting the bow was rough on Miss Ponsky's shoulder, but she made a soft shoulder-pad and eight times out of ten she put a bolt into a twelve-inch circle, clucking deprecatingly when she missed.
"She's not got the strength to crank it," said Forester. "But she's damned good with the trigger."
"That settles it," said O'Hara. "She gets first crack at the enemy-if she'll do it." He crossed over to her and said with a smile. "It looks as though you're elected to go into action first. Will you give it a go?"
Her face paled and her nose seemed even sharper. "Oh, my!" she said, flustered. "Do you think I can do it?"
"They've put in another four planks," said O'Hara quietly. "And Rohde's saving his last four bullets until he's reasonably certain of leaking a hit. This is the only other chance we've got -- and you're the best shot."
Visibly she pulled herself together and her chin rose in determination. "All right," she said. "I'll do my best."
"Good! You'd better come and have a look at the bridge to get your range right -- and maybe you'd better take a few practice shots at the same range."
He took her up to where Rohde was lying. "Miss Ponsky's going to have a go with the crossbow," he said.
Rohde looked at it with interest. "Does it work?"
"It's got the range and the velocity," O'Hara told him. "It should work all right." He turned his attention to the bridge. Two men had just put in another plank and were retreating. The gap in the bridge was getting very small -- soon it would be narrow enough for a determined man to leap. "You'd better take the nearest man the next time they come out," he said. "What would you say the range is?" . Miss Ponsky considered. "A little less than the range I've been practising at," she said. "I don't think I need to practise any more." There was a tremor in her voice.
O'Hara regarded her. "This has got to be done, Miss Ponsky. Remember what they did to Mrs. Coughlin -- and what they'll do to us if they get across the bridge."
"I'll be all right," she said in a low voice.
O'Hara nodded in satisfaction. "You take Rohde's place. I'll be a little way along. Take your time -- you needn't hurry. Regard it as the target practice you've just been doing."
Forester had already cocked the bow and handed it up to Miss Ponsky. She put a bolt in the trough and slid forward on her stomach until she got a good view of the bridge. O'Hara waited until she was settled, then moved a little way farther along the edge of the gorge. He looked back and saw Forester talking to Armstrong, who was lying full-length on the ground, his eyes, closed.
He found a good observation post and lay waiting. Presently the same two men appeared again, carrying a plank. They crawled the length of the bridge, pushing the plank before them until they reached the gap -- even though none of them had been hit, they weren't taking unnecessary chances. Once at the gap they got busy, lashing the plank to the two main ropes.
O'Hara found his heart thumping and the wait seemed intolerably long. The nearest man was wearing a leather jacket similar to his own and O'Hara could see quite clearly the flicker of his eyes as he gazed apprehensively at the opposite bank from time to time. O'Hara clenched his fist. "Now!" he whispered. "For God's sake -- now!"
He did not hear the twang as the crossbow fired, but he saw the spurt of dust from the man's jacket as the bolt hit him, and suddenly a shaft of steel sprouted from the man's back just between the shoulder blades. There was a faint cry above the roar of the river and the man jerked his legs convulsively. He thrust his arms forward, almost in an imploring gesture, then he toppled sideways and rolled off the edge of the bridge, to fall in a spinning tangle of arms and legs into the raging river.
The other man paused uncertainly, then ran back across the bridge to the other side of the gorge. The bridge swayed under his pounding feet and as he ran he looked back fear-fully. He joined the group at the end of the bridge and O'Hara saw him indicate his own back and another man shaking his head in disbelief.
Gent
ly he withdrew and ran back to the place from which Miss Ponsky had fired the shot. She was lying on the ground, her body racked with sobs, and Forester was bending over her. "It's all right, Miss Ponsky," he was saying. "It had to be done."
"But I've killed a man," she wailed. "I've taken a life."
Forester got her to her feet and led her away, talking softly to her all the time. O'Hara bent and picked up the crossbow. "What a secret weapon!" he said in admiration. No noise, no flash -- just zing." He laughed. "They still don't know what happened -- not for certain. Armstrong, you're a bloody genius."
But Armstrong was asleep.
iv
The enemy made no further attempts to repair the bridge that morning. Instead, they kept up a steady, if slow, light barrage of rifle fire, probing the tumble of rocks at the edge of the gorge in the hope of making hits. O'Hara withdrew everyone to safety, including Rohde. Then he borrowed a small mirror from Benedetta and contrived a makeshift periscope, being careful to keep the glass in the shadow of a rock so that it would not reflect direct sunlight. He fixed it so that an observer could lie on his back in perfect cover, but could still keep an eye on the bridge. Forester took first watch.
O'Hara said. "If they come on the bridge again use the gun -- just one shot. We've got them off-balance now and a bit nervous. They don't know if that chap fell off the bridge by accident, whether he was shot and they didn't hear the report, or whether it was something else. We know it was something else and so does the other man who was on the bridge, but I don't thin k they believe him. There was a hell of an argument going on the last I saw of it. At any rate, I think they'll be leery of coming out now, and a shot ought to put them off."