The Old Man at the Bridge

An old man with steel-rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. A pontoon bridge stretched across the river, crowded with carts, trucks, and men, women, and children crossing it. Mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge, soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. Trucks ground their way up and away, heading out of it all, while peasants plodded along through the ankle-deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther. It was my task to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond, and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. By then, there were fewer carts and very few people on foot — yet the old man was still there. “Where do you come from?” I asked him. “From San Carlos,” he said, and smiled. That was his native town, and it gave him some pleasure to mention it. “I was taking care of animals,” he explained. “Oh,” I said, not quite understanding. “Yes,” he said. “I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos.” He didn’t look like a shepherd or herdsman. I looked at his black, dusty clothes and his gray, dusty face, and his steel-rimmed spectacles, and asked, “What animals were they?” “Various animals,” he said, shaking his head. “I had to leave them.” I watched the bridge and the African-looking country of the Ebro Delta, wondering how long it would be before we would see the enemy, listening for the first noises that would signal that ever-mysterious event called contact — and the old man still sat there. “What animals were they?” I asked again. “There were three animals altogether,” he explained. “Two goats and a cat, and then there were four pairs of pigeons.” “And you had to leave them?” I asked. “Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery.” “And you have no family?” I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts hurried down the slope of the bank. “No,” he said. “Only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the others.” “What politics have you?” I asked. “I am without politics,” he said. “I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think I can go no farther.” “This is not a good place to stop,” I said. “If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa.” “I will wait a while,” he said, “and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?” “Towards Barcelona,” I told him. “I know no one in that direction,” he said, “but thank you very much. Thank you again very much.” He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, then said, needing to share his worry with someone, “The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?” “Why, they’ll probably come through it all right.” “You think so?” “Why not,” I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts. “But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?” “Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?” I asked. “Yes.” “Then they’ll fly.” “Yes, certainly they’ll fly. But the others. It’s better not to think about the others,” he said. “If you are rested, I would go,” I urged. “Get up and try to walk now.” “Thank you,” he said, got to his feet, swayed from side to side, then sat down backwards in the dust. “I was taking care of animals,” he said dully, no longer to me. “I was only taking care of animals.” There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday, and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray, overcast day with a low ceiling, so their planes were not up. That — and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves — was all the good luck that old man would ever have.