That same dark, rainy night, Jessie and I, together with John and Fran and little John, headed to the Roberts home which had become a kind of hangout for Christian military personnel. About half-way across the bridge, we noticed a man standing on the crosswalk, one foot on the bottom rail and both hands on the top rail, as he pushed and pulled himself back and forth. His car was parked in the passing lane, blocking traffic. We quickly concluded that he was about to attempt suicide by jumping over the railing. John slammed on his brakes, and he and I flew out of the car. We vaulted over the rail that separated automotive traffic from the pedestrian lane, and seized the man who never noticed us until we were at his side. Our ladies didn’t appreciate being left in busy traffic at risk of receiving lectures or tickets from traffic cops.
The 27-year-old man sobbed as he struggled to free himself from John’s and my grasp. “Don’t try to stop me, you damn fools, or you’ll get hurt. I just want to get this over with now.” Our plan to secure him was cemented with imperceptible nods. I grabbed his legs in a standing tackle, while John grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to the deck. The poor guy realized we had him pinned; seeing the gathered crowd and hearing the shrieking sirens, he slowly relaxed. The police’s arrival relieved John and me of our struggle.
“Nice going, fellows,” an officer said. “Call this number tomorrow and I’ll let you know where this guy will be held, if you should want to visit him. You might bring the poor man some cheer, pull him out of the doldrums.”
