Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

Tuco beamed. “You think so, Captain?”

“Definitely. Anybody who wants to join either side in this our has to be an imbecile—and every army loves imbeciles. They make the best cannon fodder and the best commanding offishers. You two might even become generals. Here—” He pawed into an open box and brought up a lone necked wine bottle wrapped in straw. He stripped off the straw, knocked out the cork and solemnly handed over the bottle. He brought another bottle, half-empty, from beside his chair. “Drink to the future—may it be short.”

The hunter drank, then passed the bottle to Tuco who tilted it, lowered it, smacked his lips and cocked bis head critically.

“Not bad, Captain. It doesn’t grab the gut like whisky, but it’s not bad at all.”

The captain drained his bottle and leaned toward them.

“Do you know which side will win this war? I’ll tell you. The side with the most bottles to keep their soldiers drunk enough to go out and get slaughtered. That’s who wins a war. We and those Johnny Rebs over on the other side of the river—we have one thing in common. The stink of alcohol.” He paused to open another bottle for himself. “What did you say your names are? Ah, never mind. What does it matter? Soon you’ll be just two more brave, honoured heroes who fell at Langston Bridge. For one side or the other. And you’ll fall—make no mistake about that. We make two attacks on the bridge every day to give every man a chance to be a dead hero. The army believes in equal opportunity for all. Even captured spies.”

“Two attacks a day?” Tuco blurted.

“Every day—and you’re just in time to lead today’s second round of slaughter. There’ll be guns behind you and guns ahead.” He drank again and belched. “A short while ago the Confederates were peacefully running away on their side of the river and here we were on our side, peacefully seeing to it that they did. Nobody that at anybody and everything was fine.”

He drank again, the wine dribbling down on to his shirt front. His head wagged loosely and he had difficulty keeping his red-veined eyes in focus. Tuco finished his own wine and rubbed a sleeve across his mouth.

“Then,” the captain continued, “some genius at headquarter looked at the map, saw a flyspeck marked Langston Bridge and decided it was the key to this whole area. We have to take it and hold it, no matter how many lives it costs. The Rebs stumbled over the same idea—so here we’ll stay and fight until every man on both sides is dead. I don’t really give a damn whether you’re spies or not—you’ll drop, boys. You’ll rot under the earth or in that damn river. But that worthless bridge will still be standing.”

“Why don’t you just blow the damn thing up?” the hunter demanded.

“You think I haven’t blown it up, eh? I’ve blown it up a thousand times. Up here.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger. “In my mind. In my dreams. But to do so in fact would be the most serious of crimes. I could be court-martialled for even thinking of blowing up Langston Bridge. Here, let me show you.”

He lurched to his feet and led the way to another room. This one had an observation slit between the wall and the roof, running around two sides of the room. Through the slit they could look down across the Union lines and into the Confederate fortifications on the opposite shore.

All around the walls of the room stood cases of dynamite, blasting caps and coils of fuse. The captain teetered and gestured at the store of explosives.

“You see? I have everything to de it with. I even have my plan all worked out. The best time to mine the bridge would be right after an attack, when there’s a truce for both sides to collect their dead and wounded. El carried my plan through, I would save the lives of hundreds of men. And my sanity—what’s left of it.”

“Then why don’t you?” the hunter asked.

“Because I haven’t got the guts to face the court-martial and the loss of such and command.”

“If you want your stinkin’ bridge blown up,” Tuco said, “we’ll blow it up for you. Eh, Whitey? We’ll give the captain his big boom. We haven’t any rank or command to lose.”

Before Clinton could reply a mortar across the river let go a thunderous bellow. Moments later a blossom of scarlet flame erupted on the slope below the command post

“The afternoon massacre begins—this time they seem to have started it. You two might as well stay here and enjoy the show today. It’ll be a preview of what you’ll experience more directly tomorrow.”

Both hillsides gushed a solid sheet of smoke and flume. An almost tangible wall of incredible sound hammered them and the earth rocked to the fearful concussion. Shells burst among the crowded trenches. A severed leg sailed through the air and bounded off the edge of the observation slit. A mortar below was blown off its base. It fell backward on to its own gun crew, crushing its screaming men.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the fierce bornbardment tapered off. In the silence that followed could be heard the groans and screams of the wounded on both hillsides. An aide appeared in the door and saluted.

“Captain, the men are waiting for you to give the order to attack.”

“I’ll be right there.” He turned a haggard face toward the hunter and Tuco. “Stay right here and watch. Don’t try to escape—there are guards outside. You mustn’t miss the exciting second act in our daily drama.”

He staggered out and in a moment they heard his slurred voice acknowledging the roster of companies. When the last officer had reported ready Clinton’s voice rose to a bellowing order to attack.

Blue-clad, troops surged from the trenches and streamed down the hillside toward the bridge, yelling fiercely. Across the river lines of grey were racing towards their end of the disputed crossing.

Each side opened a withering fire as the first columns of soldiers advanced on to the heavy planking. The front ranks literally melted away and the men behind leaped over bodies to rush into the same deadly hail of lead.

Tuco suddenly grabbed the hunter’s arm.

“Whitey, that captain, he looks to me like a man who is begging for a bullet in his guts, eh?”

Captain Clinton was staggering down the slope toward the bridge, a wine bottle tucked under his arm. He seemed blind or indifferent to the hail of bullets from the fighting on the bridge that hissed around him and kicked up spurts of dirt at his feet

“I think he probably is,” the bounty-hunter said grimly. He shook his head in wonder. “I never saw so many men die, and die so uselessly. This war looks like a long and nasty business.”

“Ah—Whitey.”

“What?”

“Our money—it’s over on the other side of that river.”

“Yes? Whereabouts on the other side?”

Tuco grimaced. “On the other side is enough. But I will tell you one thing, Whitey. No one will get to it where it is as long as the Confederate army is there.”

“And if both sides get reinforcements—they could stay right where they are now for months or years, killing each other over the bridge.”

“But if someone should blow it up—”

“Then they just might go away and kill one another somewhere else. You know, Tuco, for once in your life you actually sound smart.”

The firing outside was dying down. Both sides were falling back, leaving the middle of the bridge a tangle of twisted bodies and writhing wounded.

“This must be about time for the truce the captain spoke of,” the hunter said, “when everybody’ll be too busy collecting his dead and wounded to pay any attention to the bridge.”

From somewhere close by a man’s voice bawled, ’Doctor! Doctor—on the double’ The captain’s been hit and hit bad.”