Warden would have liked to get rid of the whole lot as cunningly as possible, but his caution and reason prompted him to abandon this final delight. There was a risk of their being discovered, and the priority target was too important to warrant such a risk. A sentry coming across one of these traps would be enough to put the Japs on their guard against a possible sabotage attack.
Dawn was approaching. Warden wisely but reluctantly decided to go no further and started back for the observation post. He was fairly pleased to be leaving behind him a well-prepared area seasoned with spices designed to give an added zest to the main attack.
19
One of the partisans made a sudden movement. He had heard an unusual crackling in the forest of giant ferns which covered the hilltop. For a few seconds the four Siamese kept absolutely still. Warden had seized his Tommy gun and stood ready for any eventuality. Three low whistles were heard a little below them. One of the Siamese whistled back, then waved his arm and turned to Warden.
"Number One," he said.
Presently Shears and a couple of natives joined the group at the observation post.
"What's the latest?" he anxiously asked as soon as he caught sight of Warden.
"Everything under control. Nothing new. I've been here three days. It's all set for tomorrow. The train leaves Bangkok sometime during the night and should get here about ten in the morning. What about you?"
"Everything's ready," said Shears, lowering himself to the ground with a sigh of relief.
He had been horribly afraid that the Japanese plans might have been changed at the last moment. Warden, too, had been on tenterhooks since the evening before. He knew that the bridge was being prepared that night and had spent hours listening blindly for the slightest sound from the River Kwai, thinking of his two friends at work in the water just below him, constantly weighing their chances of success, visualizing each successive stage of the operation, and trying to think of any snag that might possibly crop up. He had heard nothing unusual. According to the program, Shears was to rejoin him at daybreak. It was now past ten o'clock.
"I'm glad you've turned up at last. I was getting a little worried."
"We were hard at it all night."
Warden looked at him more closely and saw that he was utterly exhausted. His clothes, which were still damp, steamed in the sun. His drawn features, the dark circles under his eyes, the growth of beard on his chin, made him look like nothing on earth. Warden handed him a flask of brandy and noticed how he fumbled as he seized it. His hands were covered with scratches and cuts, the dead-white skin wrinkled and hanging in strips. He could hardly move his fingers. Warden gave him a dry shirt and a pair of shorts which he had put out for him, then waited.
"You're quite sure nothing's planned for today?" Shears repeated.
"Absolutely. Another signal came in this morning."
Shears took a gulp, then gingerly started massaging his legs.
"Rather a tough job," he remarked with a shudder. "I think I'll remember that cold water for the rest of my life. But everything went off all right."
"What about the youngster?"
"The youngster was terrific. Didn't let up for a second. He was at it harder than I was, yet showed no sign of fatigue. He's now in position on the right bank. He insisted on settling in at once and staying put until the train arrives."
"Supposing they get wind of him?"
"He's well concealed. It's a risk, I know, but it's worth it. We've got to avoid a lot of movement round the bridge at this stage. And then the train might turn up earlier than we think. I'm sure they won't catch him napping today. He's young, and he's tough. He's lying up in a thicket which can only be reached from the river, and the bank there is steep. We can probably see the place from here. All he can see, through a gap in the branches, is the bridge. But he'll be able to hear the train approaching."
"Did you go there yourself?"
"I went with him. He was right. It's a perfect position."
Shears took out his field glasses and tried to spot the place in a landscape which was strange to him.
"It's hard to pin-point it," he said. "It all looks so different from here. But I think it's over there, about ten yards behind that large red tree with its branches trailing in the water."
"So now everything depends on him."
"Yes, everything depends on him, and I feel completely confident."
"Has he got his knife?"
"He's got his knife. And I'm sure he'll be capable of using it."
"One can never really tell till the time comes."
"I know one can't. All the same, I'm pretty sure."
"And afterwards?"
"It took me five minutes to get across the river, but he swims nearly twice as fast as I do. We'll be able to cover his withdrawal."
Warden told Shears what arrangements he had made. The evening before, he had climbed down from the observation post, this time before it was quite dark, but had not gone as far as the stretch of flat, open ground. On his way he had selected a suitable spot for the team's light machine gun and had reconnoitered positions for the partisans, who were to provide rifle fire in the event of a counterattack. Each position had been carefully noted down. This barrage, in conjunction with the mortar shells, would provide ample protection for quite a long time.
Number One approved of the plan in general. Then, since he felt too tired to sleep, he described to his friend how the previous night's operation had been carried out. As he listened carefully to this account, Warden felt almost relieved that he himself had not taken part in the preparations. Meanwhile, there was nothing else for them to do until the next day. As they had said, everything now depended on Joyce—on Joyce and the fortunes of war. They tried hard to curb their impatience and to stop worrying about the principal actor, who now lay hidden in the bushes over on the enemy bank.
As soon as he had decided to put his plan into action, Number One had drawn up a detailed program. He had assigned the various roles so as to enable each individual member of the team to think out in advance what he would have to do and to rehearse each move that he would have to make. In this way, when the time came, they would all be able to keep their minds free to deal with any unforeseen eventuality.
It would be childish to think that a bridge can be blown up without a great many preparations. Working from Joyce's sketch and notes, Warden, like Captain Reeves, had made a plan—a destruction plan: a large- scale drawing of the bridge in which every pile was numbered and every charge marked in at the exact spot where it would be needed, the intricate network of electric wire and detonating cord which would set the whole thing off being indicated in red pencil. Each of them soon had this plan engraved on his memory.
But these paper-work preparations had not been sufficient for Number One. He had made them go through several rehearsals at night on an old derelict bridge lying across a stream not far from their camp, the charges, of course, being represented by sacks of earth. The men who were to fix the explosives in position—himself, Joyce, and two local volunteers—had practiced swimming silently, pushing in front of them a light bamboo raft specially built for the purpose, on which all the kit was fastened. Warden was the umpire. He had been quite ruthless, and had made them repeat the drill until the operation was a hundred per cent perfect. The four men had gotten used to working in the water without making a splash, fastening the dummy charges firmly onto the piles, and connecting them together by means of the intricate network of fuses worked out in the destruction plan. At last they had managed to do it to Number One's satisfaction. All that now remained was to prepare the genuine material and see to a mass of important details, such as waterproof sheeting for whatever needed protection from the damp.
The party had then started off. Along paths known only to themselves, the guides had taken them to a point on the river a long way upstream from the bridge, where the launching could take place in complete security. Several native volunteers were acting as porters.
/> The plastic was made up into twelve-pound charges, each of which had to be fastened to a separate pile. The destruction plan called for the preparation of six consecutive piles in each row, making a total of twenty-four charges. All the supporting beams would thus be shattered for a stretch of nearly thirty yards, which would be quite sufficient to bring the bridge down under the weight of a train. Shears had wisely brought a dozen extra charges in case of accident. They might eventually be fixed in some suitable position to cause the enemy further alarm. He was not one to forget the maxims of Force 316.
These various quantities had not been chosen at random. They had been determined after much calculation and long discussion, and were based on the measurements that Joyce had taken during his reconnaissance. A formula, which all three knew by heart, gave the weight of charge required for shattering a beam of any given material, according to its shape and size. In this case six pounds of plastic would have been enough, in theory. With eight, the margin of security would have been ample for any ordinary operation. Number One eventually decided to increase die amount still further.
He had good reasons for adopting such measures.
Another of the Plastic and Destructions Company's principles was to add a little on to every figure provided by the technicians. At the end of the theoretical training, Colonel Green, who ran the Calcutta school at a very high level, used to deliver a short address on this subject, based on common sense and his own personal experience of engineering.
"When you work out the weight needed by means of the formula," he would say, "make a generous allowance —then add even a little more on. On a tricky operation you must make absolutely certain. If you're in the least doubtful, it's better to use a hundred pounds too much than a pound too little. You'd look pretty silly if, after slaving away, for several nights perhaps, in order to prepare the target, after risking your life and your men's fives, after getting so far after God knows how many difficulties—you'd look pretty silly if, for the sake of saving a few pounds of explosive, the destruction was only a partial success—beams knocked about a bit but still in position, and so quite easy to repair. I'm speaking from personal experience. That's what happened to me once, and I can't think of anything in the world that's more demoralizing."
Shears had sworn he would never allow such a disaster to happen to him, and he generously applied the principle. On the other hand, one had to guard against going to the opposite extreme and cluttering oneself up with a lot of useless material when there was only a small team available.
In theory, the launching of the material presented no difficulty. One of the many qualities of plastic is that it has about the same density as water. A swimmer can easily tow quite a large amount of it behind him.
They had reached the River Kwai at dawn. The porters had been sent back. The four men had waited till nightfall, hidden in the undergrowth.
"The hours must have dragged by," said Warden. "Did you manage to get to sleep?"
"Hardly at all. We tried to, but you know what it's like just before zero hour. Joyce and I spent the whole afternoon chatting. I wanted to keep his mind off the bridge. We had the whole night to think about that."
"What did you talk about?" said Warden, who wanted to know every detail.
"He told me a little about his civilian life. A rather sad type at heart, that lad. A pretty dull career on the whole—draftsman in a big engineering firm; nothing brilliant about it, and he doesn't pretend there was. A sort of glorified office boy. I'd always imagined it was something like that. Two dozen chaps of the same age sitting all day long over their drawing boards in a communal workroom—can't you see what it was like? When he wasn't drawing, he was working out sums—with formulae and a slide rule. Nothing particularly exciting. I don't think he was too keen on the job—he seems to have welcomed the war as the chance of his lifetime. Strange that a chap chained to a desk should have landed up in Force 316."
"Well, after all, there are professors in it as well," said Warden. "I've known quite a few like him. They're not necessarily the worst of the bunch."
"And not necessarily the best, either. You can't make a general rule about it. But he's not at all bitter when he talks about his past. Just rather sad, that's all."
"He's all right, I'm sure. What sort of drawing did he have to do?"
"By a strange coincidence, the firm had something to do with bridges. Not wooden bridges, of course. And they didn't handle construction work, either. Articulated bridges in metal—a standard model. They used to make them in separate pieces and deliver them all together to the contractors—just like a Meccano set! He was never out of the office. For two years before the war he drew the same piece over and over again. Specialization and all the rest of it—you can imagine what it was like. He didn't find it terribly exciting. It wasn't even a very big piece—a girder, that's what he said. His job was to work out the shape that would give the greatest resistance for the smallest weight of metal, at least that's what I understood him to say. I don't know anything about the subject. It was a question of economy—the firm didn't like wasting material. He spent two years doing that—a boy of his age! You should have heard him talk about that girder! His voice was trembling. You know, Warden, I think the girder was partly responsible for his enthusiasm for the present job."
"I must admit," said Warden, "I've never seen anyone quite so keen on the idea of destroying a bridge. I'm beginning to think, Shears, that Force 316 is a heaven-sent opportunity for men like that. If it didn't exist, we'd have had to invent it. Take yourself, now; if you hadn't been fed up with regimental soldiering . . ."
"And if you, for instance, had been completely satisfied with lecturing at a university . . . Well, whatever the reason, at the outbreak of the war he was still completely absorbed in that girder. He told me quite seriously that in two years he had succeeded in saving a pound and a half of metal, on paper. That wasn't too b#d, it seems, but the firm thought he could do still better. He would have had to go on like that for months on end. He joined up during the first few days. When he heard about Force 316, he could hardly wait. And people still say there's nothing to predestination. It's a funny thing, though. If it hadn't been for that girder, he probably wouldn't at this very moment be lying flat on his face in the undergrowth a hundred yards from the enemy, with a knife in his belt and an instrument of wholesale destruction by his side."
20
Shears and Joyce had chatted like this all day, while the two Siamese conversed in an undertone about the expedition. Shears had an occasional twinge of conscience, wondering whether he had chosen the right man for the most important role, the one who, of the three of them, had the best chance of succeeding; or whether he had simply succumbed to the earnestness of Joyce's entreaties.
"Are you quite sure you'll be able to act as decisively ill as Warden or myself no matter what the circumstance?" he had solemnly asked for the last time.
"I'm absolutely certain now, sir. You must give me this chance."
Shears had not pressed the point and had not reconsidered his decision.
They had started the launching just before dusk. The bank was deserted. The bamboo raft—which they had themselves built, since they trusted no one else to do the job properly—consisted of two separate, parallel sections, to make it easier to carry through the jungle. They slid it into the river and fastened the two halves together by lashing a couple of shafts across them. When in position, they made a rigid platform. Then they fixed the charges on as firmly as possible. There were other parcels containing the rolls of cord, the battery, electric wire, and the generator. The fragile material, of course, was wrapped in waterproof sheeting. As for the detonators, Shears had brought an extra set. He had given one to Joyce and carried the other himself. They were wearing them in their belts. These were the only really tricky things to carry, plastic being in principle immune to rough handling.
"All the same, you must have felt uncomfortably weighed down with those parcels round your w
aist," Warden observed.
"You know, one never thinks of that sort of thing— anyway, that was the least dangerous part of the voyage. Yet we were shaken about, I can tell you. Damn those Siamese who promised us an easy stretch of water!"
According to the information of the natives, they had calculated that the trip would last less than half an hour. So they had not set out until it was pitch dark. Actually, they had taken over an hour, and it was heavy going all the way. The current in the River Kwai, except for a calm stretch around the bridge, was like a torrent. As soon as they started, the rapids swept them away into the darkness, past rocks which they could not avoid, while they clung desperately to their precious, dangerous cargo.
"If I had known what the river was like, I should have chosen a different line of approach and taken the risk of launching the stuff nearer the bridge. It's always the simple information like this that turns out false, Warden, whether it comes from native sources or European. I've often noticed that. I was led up the garden path once again. You can't imagine how hard it was to maneuver the submarine in that torrent."
The "submarine" was the name they had given the raft, which, weighted down at each end with bits of iron, floated half under water most of the time. Its trim had been carefully worked out so as to make it only just buoyant when launched. In this way the mere pressure of a finger was enough to submerge it completely.
"In the first rapids, which sounded as loud as Niagara, we were tossed around, buffeted about, and whirled over and under the submarine from one bank to the other, sometimes scraping the river bed, at other times the branches. When I got things more or less under control (which took me some time—I was half drowned) I ordered each man to hang on to the submarine and not let go at any price, to concentrate on that and nothing else. That was all we could do, and it's a miracle no one had his head bashed in. A really splendid tonic, just what we needed to put us in the right mood for the serious job ahead. The waves were like a storm in mid-ocean. I was nearly seasick; and there was no way we could avoid the obstacles. Sometimes—would you believe it, Warden—sometimes we could not even tell if we were going backwards or forwards. Do you thing that's strange? When the river begins to narrow and the jungle closes over you, I defy you to know for certain what direction you're moving in. We were being swept down with the current, you'll say. Yes, but compared to us, the water, apart from the waves, was as calm as a lake. It was only the obstacles that gave us some idea of our direction and speed—when we bumped into them. A question of relativity! I wonder if you can imagine . . ."