The Old Man at the Bridge

“The Old Man at the Bridge” by Ernest Hemingway

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 "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