Gary retreated to the automobile and sat down facing the bridge. Shortly thereafter the officer and the other man left the truck and the two machine gunners returned to their perpetual watch of the bridge. Gary looked at them, felt a sudden resentment rising within him and cupped his hands to shout a single, descriptive word. The word had its beginning root in muttonhead.
“That goes for me too,” a quiet voice cut in.
Gary whirled, startled and alert. A tousled, unshaven soldier leaned against a bridge girder not far away. The man's uniform was in rags.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Gary demanded.
“The field over yonder" — he pointed with a lazy thumb. “Was sleeping — until that shot woke me. Warm welcome, huh?”
“I'm going to get across this damned bridge if I have to break every one of their damned heads!”
“Sure. I said that, two-three days ago.”
Gary stared at him. “Yeah?” He came to a decision. “Sit down and take a load off your feet.”
“Was waiting for the invitation,” the soldier grinned. “Some folks are touchy about company any more.” He crossed the roadway and sat down beside Gary. “Anything to smoke?”
Gary passed him a package of cigarettes. “Won't they let us come over?”