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“The Old Man at the Bridge” - A Short Story

edited March 2022 in Off-Topic
An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.
It was my business 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. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but 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 so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.
“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 did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel rimmed spectacles and said, “What animals were they?”
“Various animals,” he said, and shook his head. “I had to leave them.”
I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while 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.
“There were three animals altogether,” he explained. “There were 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 were hurrying 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 now I can go no further.” “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, having to share his worry with some one, “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 and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.
“I was taking care of animals,” he said dully, but 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.

- By Ernest Hemingway

Comments

  • Yeah, I figured Hemmingway. Just sounds like him.
  • Yes, the cat.
  • edited March 2022
    A PBS interview last evening with a refugee mother and daughter worried about their pets back home drove me to post the story. The war in the story was the Spanish Civil War, fought a few years before WW II and with the involvement of some big global powers. Some have described it as a “testing ground” for the weapons and strategies later employed in the global conflict.

    From Wikipedia: “The Nationalist forces received munitions, soldiers, and air support from Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany, while the Republican side received support from the Soviet Union and Mexico.”

    Yes, the cat. About all the old man had in this world.
  • Old_Joe said:

    Yeah, I figured Hemmingway. Just sounds like him.

    +1.

    Hemingway-esque version of why did the chicken cross the road:
    To die. Alone. In the rain.
  • edited March 2022
    LOVE Hemingway. But the movie version ending of "Snows of Kilimanjaro" did not do it justice. Spencer Tracey was great in "Old Man & The Sea." My favorite. In the short story above, there's not a word from the old man about which side is winning or losing. The old man was doing what he could for those he could help. Then he was required to go. His years tell him (unstated) that there are always "winners" and "losers" but, does it matter in the end? What is real is the never-ending pattern. A lull, then more violence and killing, always. It has ceased to shock him. He worries for the goats, though. Hemingway took his own life, and that sucks.
  • edited March 2022
    Yes, “The Old Man and the Sea” is delightful. Beautifully concise. Set in & near Cuba.

    “Hemingway became a fixture of Havana, and stayed in the country longer than many Americans chose to after relations between Cuba and the United States began to deteriorate. He fished extensively aboard his boat, Pilar, and enjoyed the island lifestyle, hanging out in Havana, and entertaining guests at the Finca. His home, with many original furnishings, hunting trophies, and personal artifacts can be viewed today. When not fishing or traveling, Hemingway wrote a great deal from his Cuban home” - Source

    Hemingway spent his younger years in northern Michigan. His earliest short stories are set there. His parents owned a cottage on Walloon Lake near Petoskey. But, when they returned home one autumn (Chicago area) he stayed behind. He was a regular in the area pubs … well known in the area.
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