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masks whenever they went on operations. These particular five were in no state to offer any resistance. The vodka bottle had obviously been circulating and they were lying in a heap with their arms around one another and their mouths wide open. We disposed of them quickly and callously and threw their bodies into the marsh, then spent the night in the hut disposing of the remains of their vodka and a case of dried fish we found there.
    The following day we arrived at our objective: the bridge that we were to blow up. It was a big, heavy, unexpectedly imposing bridge. The prospect of destroying it was quite daunting, and I began to wonder whether our journey might have been a waste of time.
    Halfway across, snug in his box, stood the sentry. He was leaning back smoking, his rifle propped negligently at his side. As far as we could see, the reports had been wrong and the bridge was guarded by only the one man. On the other hand, it was strong enough to defeat the most determined of sabotage efforts and it was so well camouflaged that it would certainly have been invisible from the air.
    As we watched, a column of tanks and light trucks rolled across. The sentry stubbed out his cigarette, snatched up his rifle and stood to attention until they had passed, when he at once relapsed into his daydreams. He lit another cigarette and the air became alive with the sharp smell of the pungent Russian machorka tobacco. I guessed that, like us, this man was quite indifferent to the outcome of the war if only he could be left in peace to follow his own life. He was not young. They had probably dragged him away from his farm or his village to come and strut and pose on their ridiculous bridge night after night, and he made a sad figure, with his drooping Chinese-style mustache, his fur bonnet, his long crumpled boots and his thin summer tunic.
    "Look at that," whispered Tiny gleefully. "Fancy wearing a thing like that in this weather! He's either crazy or they're just as badly off as what we are--you can have boots or a coat, but not both. Sorry, pal, but you'll just have to take your choice."
    We crawled along in the darkness, underneath the bridge, fixing up the explosives. It was a long and tedious job, with the Legionnaire doing more than anyone. He seemed able to see perfectly well in the dark, and he swung like a monkey from one arch to the next. We finally withdrew to a safe spot and listened to Tiny and Porta arguing about which of them should be allowed the privilege of pressing the plunger.
    Another column of trucks came across the bridge. They were preceded by a jeep flying a red flag, and Porta looked at them longingly. "Ammo trucks! Let's blow 'em up along with the bridge!" He looked appealingly at the Old Man. "Think of the show it would make! Come on, don't be a spoilsport! I'm game if you are."
    "Shut up and sit down," said the Old Man curtly. "I have no wish to be blown to kingdom come for the sake of a pretty firework display, thank you very much."
    We waited until the bridge was clear, and then crept away to the shelter of some rocks. Dawn was drifting across the sky in feathery pink trails and I felt sorry about the unsuspecting guy in the sentry box. Tiny and Porta were still having words on the question of precedence. I don't know which of them finally set the thing off, but the noise was shattering. Seconds later my eardrums were still ringing, the sound still banging from side to side of my head. I picked myself up and looked toward the bridge--and then looked again. The damned thing was still there! The main supports had been blown clean away and the metal superstructure was a twisted heap, but the bridge itself, the actual span of the bridge, had been dropped bodily into the water and now lay only a few feet below the surface. It was a ruined bridge, certainly; but still, at a pinch, a very usable bridge.
    Gregor let out a shrill hoot of laughter and went running across it, with the rest of us following, singing and