He approached the crowd at the bridge, worked his way through it to advance part way up the structure and stand with his hand shading his eyes, peering at Iowa land. The exploded hole in the center was too wide to cross and he realized he would have to locate a boat of some kind. In the distance he saw someone observing him through field glasses, and waved at him. The wave was not returned. Gary shrugged, turned his back on Iowa to retreat to the highway.
He approached a browned, unshaven character who looked as if he might be a riverman, a man who leaned indolently on an automobile fender and chewed tobacco. “Any boats around here?” Gary asked him.
“Not now,” the man answered him.
“I've got to get across and get back to the army.”
“You a soldier?” the riverman shot at him.
“Yes.”
The oldster spat. “Not a chance.”
“Not a chance of what? Where can I find a boat?”
The other raised a lean finger to point downstream. “There goes the last one.” Gary's squinting eyes followed the finger but could see nothing on the river. The man spat again, raked him with an amused yet bitter glance. “You can't get across. That feller didn't.”
“I don't see anyone. What fellow?”