The Bridge: A short story



  THE BRIDGE

  A short story

  WILLIAM E. THOMAS

  Copyright 2012 by William Edward Thomas

  The right of William Edward Thomas to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Cover design by Mike Harris

  Cover image Copyright Milos Stojanovic, 2012

  Used under license from Shutterstock.com

  ISBN 9780956229984

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organisations, places and incidents are either imaginative or are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (alive or dead), organisations, locations or events is purely coincidental.

  PARENTAL ADVISORY: This book contains adult themes and occasional strong language.

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  The Bridge - a short story

  About the author

  Pegasus Falling - Available now

  It Never Was You - Coming soon

  FOREWORD

  What you are about to read are the very first words written by William E. Thomas after he bought himself a word processor and decided to sit down and write a book. The year was 1992, he had not long retired and had become bored of the life of a pensioner.

  He called his first work simply ‘Opus 1’. I have given it a title which I believe befits it.

  Although Opus 1 was initially written as a standalone work, elements of it ended up becoming part of his much larger work, The Cypress Branches, which he started to write almost immediately after completing his first short story. Although it underwent a considerable amount of editing and the story was changed to integrate it into the longer storyline, some readers will recognise it as forming the basis of the first chapter of Pegasus Falling - part 1 of the Cypress Branches trilogy, which is available now as a paperback and ebook.

  On completing Opus 1, William sent the manuscript to his eldest daughter (my mother) for review. A simple, typed memo attached declared, ‘Of course there is some artistic licence and more than a suspicion of hyperbole, but the tale is in general, true.’

  As with his subsequent work, William drew on many and varied incidents from his own life and weaved them together into a gripping and heartbreaking work of fiction. William was a paratrooper, and was involved in the ill-fated operation to capture the bridge at Oosterbeek, near Arnhem in Holland, the fabled Operation Market Garden which ended so badly for the troops involved. William was one of the lucky few who managed to escape back home and tell the tale. Many of his friends were not so fortunate. To read more about William, please see the About The Author section, found at the end of the story.

  Opus 1, ‘The Bridge’, is presented here exactly as it was written in October 1992 as an introduction to William’s works.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. If you enjoy reading it, please feel free to forward it to family and friends who you think may enjoy it too. Please also consider purchasing the books in the Cypress Branches trilogy, the details of which follow the story.

  Mike Harris

  William’s grandson & publisher

  London, February 2012

  THE BRIDGE

  1

  The woman moved to the window, attracted by the hubbub. She looked toward the river. A large articulated truck had broken down on the bridge and traffic was backed up in both directions as far as she could see.

  ‘What is it, Druschke?’

  She inclined her head back slightly, turning to glance at her husband. ‘Another of those big Bosche trucks has broken down on the bridge, it’s mayhem down there.’

  ‘They never had much luck crossing that bridge, did they?’

  A police car had stopped across the bridge ramp and the officers were remonstrating with the driver of the truck. Many drivers had left their vehicles to try to see what was going on. While she watched, her attention was drawn to one driver in particular. A short, middle-age man was leaning on the top of his car and talking to someone inside through the open sunroof. There should have been nothing unusual about this, yet she was drawn to look at him by some vague sense of de ja vu.

  ‘Per, come here.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter, just come and look at this man.’

  ‘Why? What’s he doing?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Per.’

  ‘Alright, I’m coming.’ He crossed to the window and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Bloody hell, what a mess. They’ll be backed up to Venlo.’

  ‘Never mind that, look at that man down there, the one leaning on that red car.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Does he look familiar to you? I feel as though I know him.’

  ‘No, he’s just another English tourist.’

  ‘How do you know he’s English?’

  ‘Well, I can see the steering wheel is on the wrong side of the car so he can drive on the wrong side of the road.’

  She smiled. ‘He would say it’s so he can drive on the left side of the road.’

  ‘I knew it was the opposite of right.’

  These harmless, chiding words prompted a more poignant memory. She raised her right hand to cover her mouth and her eyes widened with apprehension. She turned to face her husband. He looked hard into her face then turned his head slowly to look down at the man again.

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Per? Can it be? Do you think it’s him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Drush. Christ, it’s been nearly thirty years.’

  He drew her closer to him. She felt stiff and still held her hand to her mouth. They stared for what seemed an age at the man, then slowly turned to look at the chaos on the street, at the German truck blocking the bridge, then back at the man again. It was as though he felt some presentiment, for the man straightened, scratched the back of his head with both hands, elbows out, and looked up at the house. When she saw his face, she knew.

  ‘Per, it’s him.’

  ‘How can you say that, Drush? Good God, the man has a white beard and weighs at least eighty kilos. How could you possibly tell? He looks like Nikolas.’

  ‘How did you know, Per? And you did know, didn’t you?’

  The man was still looking up at them with a slightly quizzical tilt to his head, then raised his hand and gave them a little wave.

  ‘We’ve got to be wrong, Drush. You look pale. Let’s go down and I’ll make us some coffee.’

  2

  The doctor cycled quickly up the path, raised himself on the pedal and, swinging his leg over the frame, dismounted on the run letting the bicycle fall onto the path. He bounded up the front steps and into the house.

  ‘Marie! Marie Doorn, where are you? They’re here! They’ve come! They’ve come at last!’

  His wife came out of the kitchen wiping her floured hands on her apron. She looked at her husband, incredulous at his excitement. She had never seen him so animated, never heard him shout like this.

  ‘Jan, what on Earth’s the matter with you? Who’s come at last?’

  ‘The Allies. They’ve landed, thousands of them.’

  ‘What do you mean landed? Landed where? On what?’

  ‘Landed, parachutists, thousands of parachutists. I was over at old Mrs Mies’s place at Apeldoorn, she’s had another fall by the way, anyway, we heard the noise of aircraft, very loud, and we went out to see what was happening and there they were, flight after flight of big transporters dropping thousands of paras. The sky was black with them. I came back as fast as I could.’

  He followed his wife into the kitchen and sat down at the large oak tr
estle table. He watched her back as she busied herself at the stove. She had gone very quiet. He shook his head in frustration.

  ‘My God, don’t you see what this means, Marie? It’s over. Those bastards are finished. They will have to go back to Germany with their tails between their legs.’

  ‘Oh yes? Go back will they? Without a fight, will they? Jan, we’re talking about the German Army, they never give up without a fight. And what about all those Panzers that have recently arrived at Elst?’

  ‘Well, the Allies know about them. The underground has reported their presence already. That’s why they’ve dropped all those paras so near at Apeldoorn.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re right. You’ve always been an optimist, Jan.’

  He pulled a large Hunter from his pocket and looked at the time. ‘Where’s Druschke?’

  ‘She went out with young Pieter down to the river, I think. I told them to be back before curfew.’

  ‘I had better go and look for them. Things could get a bit hectic around here soon.’

  After he had gone, she sat down at the table and looked out of the window at the pretty garden. The leaves were just beginning to turn, which reminded her that the fruit would have to be picked soon. Two Panzer divisions at Elst and thousands of English paratroops at Apeldoorn only twenty kilometres apart. God save us, not the stuff from which idyllic autumn evenings are made, she thought. Why was Jan so stupid? Did he really believe the Bosche would just pack up and leave? She must put that pie in the oven or they wouldn’t be eating tonight. She smiled to herself. ‘The condemned men ate a hearty meal.’

  The girl regarded herself in the mirror. She pouted. ‘Must get something done about this hair, get it cut and set. I’m sixteen now, too old for these stupid plaits. All I need is a bonnet and some clogs and I’ll be everybody’s idea of the typical Dutch maid. The girl on the Edam poster. God, I hate that stuff, like rubber and that awful red wax. Do you remember how we used to roll it into balls and throw it at each other? Mummy would go mad because it made greasy marks on the walls and ceiling.’

  When she didn’t get a reply, she looked at the boy in the mirror. Good old Per, she thought, head stuck in a book again.

  The jeep screeched to a stop outside the cafe across the street and the girl ran to the window to see what all the noise was about.

  ‘Per, come here quickly. Look at this soldier.’

  The boy was already behind her. ‘He’s a para, Drush. Those are English paratroops.’

  The soldier had alighted from the jeep and was leaning on the canopy of the vehicle, talking to another soldier inside.

  ‘What are they doing, Per?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They looked down, their young faces alive with excitement. The other soldier climbed from the jeep and began to cross the road toward the house. The one who remained straightened up, removed his red beret and began to scratch the back of his head with both hands, elbows held out wide. He looked toward the house and, noticing the two young people at the window, he tilted his head slightly, then raising his hand, he gave them a little wave.

  ‘Oh God, Per, look. Isn’t he gorgeous?’

  The boy shrugged but before he could respond they heard the doorbell. They both ran from the room and down the stairs to the front door.

  They opened it to a large, thickset man with a stern face under his red beret. He wore a green and brown camouflaged smock over his British khaki uniform and a large pistol hung