I Thought I Was Dreaming

We all knew that we were near the bridge. In the rain we felt lost and alone even though there were eight of us.  A single shot rang out that sent us to hug the slimy bank.  The sound of the rain and the river had muffled it, but we all knew it was a pistol shot.  We looked around and there was not a thing we could see, but again a single shot tore through the perpetual noise.  These shots were not at us; we had not been discovered.  Moving onward, we began to make out the outline of a bridge in the failing light.  The sergeant made a motion for us to stay close to the bank and no talking.  There were some electric lights on the bridge and, near the center, we could see soldiers through the wet glow of light. 

Our plan was to blow the center support columns of the structure and the rest would be dragged into the river by the current.  Each step of the way closer to the bridge my head hurt more and my fever was now quite high.  The trip there had been exhausting, but the sight of the bridge had caused the adrenalin to flow, which gave us the necessary strength to move.  Now we were close enough to see what the men were doing on the bridge.  They had taken some people from a village that they thought were helping the Americans.  We could now hear much begging and pleading from the people, as the soldiers pulled their children away from them and, one-by-one, they executed them with a pistol.  In the wet light of the river mist, we could see twenty or thirty adults standing on this end of the bridge.  They were being guarded by some soldiers at gunpoint. A heavyset man in the center of the bridge would motion to other soldiers to bring him another child.