The Hour of The Donkey

by Anthony Price

  Batty looked unhappy, but resigned. ‘Sir!’

  Wimpy nodded at him, as if to emphasize the orders, then smiled uneasily at Bastable. ‘Any trouble—the first one back here takes the car and gets back to Colembert like a blue-arsed fly, without waiting … No trouble—and we’ll have our lunch here—rather delayed, but still lunch, eh?’ He paused. ‘Okay, Harry?’

  Bastable suddenly realized that he was quite hungry. The Messerschmitts were already a dream—a nightmare from a disturbed night in another time, another place. Almost, someone else’s dream.

  He smiled back. ‘Right-o, Wimpy, old boy—agreed!’

  He was Harry now. Barstable had been left behind en route.

  But as Batty unloaded the car, and then started to try and back it into a convenient space between the trees ready to move in either direction, Wimpy inclined his head towards him conversationally, rather as Nigel Audley had done after breakfast.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Harry —I hope you don’t mind—I’d keep your eye peeled up there …’ Wimpy scuffed the roadside dust with the toe of his boot. ‘… stay on the “qui vive”, as they say, eh?’ He didn’t look up as he spoke.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Bastable stopped basking in his Harry-self and studied Wimpy. He found himself wondering how the chap had become ‘Wimpy’—thanks to Major Tetley-Robinson, he had said it had been—after having been plain ‘Willy’ to his Latin pupils… yet whether he even liked being ‘Wimpy’—he didn’t seem to mind, but Tetley-Robinson was nobody’s friend, and his least of all … Because if he didn’t —

  But that wasn’t what Wimpy was worried about now, and he was surely worried about something.

  ‘That French soldier said something?’ Bastable remembered that he never had received any answer to that question.

  ‘No, not really.’ Wimpy looked at him at last. ‘He said the Germans were everywhere. But he’d been running for a long time, that lad had. And he’d been bombed half out of his wits, I think, too … No, Harry—it’s… it’s more something I feel… It’s… like, we’re by ourselves, but we’re not alone.’

  Bastable shared the embarrassment. It didn’t make sense, that; so he didn’t know what to say to it.

  ‘I read this story once, Harry—a sort of ghost story, by some foreign writer chap … never heard of him before —can’t remember his name now … about this Austrian cavalry patrol in the fourteen-eighteen War, scouting in the Carpathian Mountains or somewhere …’ Wimpy tailed off, suddenly even more embarrassed. ‘Oh, damn! It doesn’t matter, anyway.’

  But it did matter, Bastable knew that as surely as he knew the wholesale and retail prices of soft furnishings, ladies’ gloves and dining-room suites. The chap wanted to talk, and when a chap wanted to talk—especially a naturally talkative chap like Wimpy—it was better to let him get it off his chest. Batty was taking his time backing the car, anyway.

  ‘No, do go on, old chap,’ he said. ‘Sounds a jolly interesting story—let’s hear it.’

  Wimpy remained silent for a moment. ‘All right, then . .. They were scouting, and they ambushed a Russian force at a bridge—charged over the bridge and cut ‘em to pieces … and then they pushed on. Only the country was empty, or almost empty—the people in it were strange … and so were the narrator’s fellow officers—he was a cavalry lieutenant, the fellow telling the story—and they got stranger and stranger. And so did the countryside—kind of misty and shimmery as well as empty. Until they came to another bridge.’

  He stopped again. He was no longer looking at Bastable, who now thought it sounded a damn funny story, and that Wimpy was behaving in a damn funny way, too. But then he hadn’t exactly covered himsef with glory back in the car. In fact, he had nearly covered himself with something else.

  ‘Another bridge—yes?’ If Wimpy was windy, it was best to know about it here and now.

  Wimpy swallowed. ‘A great golden bridge over a shining river of silver. And then he knew.’

  ‘Knew where they were, you mean?’

  Wimpy swung towards him. ‘He knew they were all dead. They’d been ambushed at the first bridge, not the Russians—They’d been cut to pieces, not the Russians. All except him, and he was badly wounded, hovering between life and death. So that was where they were—he was still in the no-man’s-land between life and death, where time stands almost stationary. Only they were fading as they crossed their final bridge, a second or two after they’d been killed, but he had a final choice—don’t you see?’

  Bastable didn’t see at all. Except that it was a damn weird story, and this was not the time or place for it, and he was glad no one else was around to hear it.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ repeated Wimpy.

  ‘Yes.’ Bastable humoured him. ‘Jolly interesting … in a creepy sort of way — ghost story, of course, you said? So I take it he made the right choice, what? Obviously he did —otherwise there wouldn’t have been any story!’

  ‘No—I don’t mean that —‘ Wimpy gestured despairingly, and then swept his hand towards the ridge and the wood. ‘It was like the country we’re in, Harry … It’s not right, somehow. And now we’re making our decision.’

  Bastable stared up the road which wound between its sunken banks and occasional bushes to another wood on the skyline. It was undeniably empty, but it was no stranger than any other bit of French countryside. It was rather dull really, not nearly as steep as his own beautiful downland above Eastbourne and between Polegate and Lewes … a bit like the Lewes road, maybe … But certainly neither misty nor shimmery. And with no golden bridges and silver rivers.

  Perhaps Wirnpy was sickening for the mumps, it occurred to him. It couldn’t be drink, because the fellow had been in plain sight for the last hour or more, and there wasn’t a whiff of it on his breath.

  ‘Sir!’ squeaked Fusilier Batty Evans at his elbow.

  With a very great effort Bastable clapped Wimpy on the shoulder. Normally he hated touching people—anyone —beyond the obligatory handshake. But Harry Bastable wasn’t Henry Barstable. And there was that line from his favourite peom, by Sir Henry Newbolt, to remember —

  But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote —

  ‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’

  —which really summed up the situation, literally. Because by those three weeks of seniority he, Harry Bastable, was Wimpy’s Captain, by God!

  ‘Don’t worry, old boy—I’ll keep my eyes open—‘Qui vive’ and ‘verb.sap.’ and all that. Don’t worry!’

  He had quoted those lines in the mess once, on a rather drunken evening a few months ago, and everyone had roared with laughter—Wimpy most of all.

  But Wimpy wasn’t laughing now, he was pleased to observe.

  IV

  THE ROAD WAS definitely not misty and shimmery, any more than it was in the Carpathian Mountains. But it was deceptively steep in spite of its zig-zag and, because of that zigzag, much longer than it had seemed from below, even to an officer used to Prince Regent’s Own’s route-marches. Or perhaps his legs had simply stiffened up in the constriction of DPT 912’s rear seat.

  Also, its high banks prevented ready observation of the land on either side except at the cost of regular side-scrambles, which further delayed the reconnaissance; and as Wimpy’s scout through the wood must necessarily be more quickly completed, and the sooner they were on their way again the better, Bastable contented himself with cautious peerings round each blind bend after the first few hundred yards, with Batty crunching along stolidly five paces behind him.

  At length, however, they began to get closer to the trees at the top, and through the thick spring vegetation Bastable made out the shape of what must be farm buildings.

  The last turning revealed these as presenting a solid blank wall, topped by an orange-red tiled roof in a sorry state of repair, along some seventy-five yards of empty roadside—a barn, or stable, or collection of covered pens of some sort opening on to an inner courtyard, decided Bastable. He had
seen run-down farms like this, more or less, on the outskirts of Colembert, unwelcoming from the front but with an entrance round the side. And in this case that entrance must be at the far end, judging by the lack of any side track through the trees at this end. It would be at the far end, too, that he would most likely get a view of the plain—or the next empty undulation—beyond.

  But now, quite clearly, was the moment of maximum danger, if there was any. Which there probably wasn’t, because he could still hear no other sounds than the distant rumble of bombs and drone of aircraft engines which were as natural and unremarkable now as the birdsong in his own garden, and the raucous squawking of the gulls in Devonshire Park in the morning.

  The memory was suddenly painful, as he longed for those other long-lost sounds, and smells, and all the sensations of England, Eastbourne, Home and Beauty —even girls with fat legs.

  He turned back towards Fusilier Batty Evans and put his finger to his lips, and pointed to the scatter of weeds and coarse grass and young stinging nettles growing under the barn wall alongside the road, which would deaden their footfalls. Then he set out along the side of the wall.

  Half-way along he thought he’d caught the sound of voices, but a renewed rumble from the east… or maybe it was from the north, he couldn’t mate out … overlaid the sound before he could confirm it in liis mind. But at least it served to draw his attention to the emptiness of his hands.

  He unbuttoned the flap of his webbing holster and drew out the Webley.

  This, it occurred to him, was the first time he had ever drawn the weapon in what might loosely be called ‘anger’, though now it was happening ‘trepidation’ seemed a more appropriate word.

  Yet, oddly enough, it was not trepidation—damn it! that was only jargon for windiness —fear—fear of what might be round the next corner, but only of not doing things right, according to the book, and thereby making an ass of himself.

  The book came vividly to mind: Lesson 2 of it, complete with diagram of British soldier in battledress ready for action—Fig 6—Point-blank range—

  Drill cartridges will NOT be used in this lesson. The common faults in firing are …

  He peered round the end of the building. There was a track here, between the end of the barn-like building and the next belt of trees, but it was quite empty.

  And, as he stepped out on to the empty track, he could see that there was an opening in the farm wall—a gateway about ten yards down, opposite another gateway into a field, at the end of the trees.

  So …so he would go down and peer into the gateway in the wall, and satisfy himself that the farmyard was empty. And then he would use Wimpy’s field-glasses, which hung awkwardly on top of his respirator, to scan the countryside on the other side of the track, through the farm-gate of the field, which promised a fine view of the countryside below and beyond.

  But, as it turned out, he didn’t do things in that order at all.

  As he came abreast of the farmyard gateway, edging cautiously along the wall, a flash of light from the sun on glass or metal drew his attention into the open gap of the field gateway.

  The gap—the gate itself lay flat and crushed—did fulfil its promise of a fine view of the countryside below and beyond the farm buildings.

  Bastable stared at the fine view with disbelief.

  Rank upon rank of German tanks and vehicles were drawn up, motionless, in field after field for as far as he could see—as far as he could imagine—beyond his furthest imagining, because he had never seen so many vehicles at one time.

  It wasn’t possible that they could be there, his brain told him—without his having heard them—without everyone knowing it—or someone knowing it —

  — it wasn’t possible—

  The sun flashed again on the same metallic surface, on a tank far down the valley, and suddenly it was possible, and Bastable graduated from disbelief to belief, and from belief to absolute panic.

  He turned to run, and saw what was behind him.

  In the centre of the farmyard was the Humber staff car he had seen that morning outside battalion headquarters. And he knew it was the same car because the same beak-nosed brigadier who had barked at them that morning was standing beside it.

  He had found the Germans right enough.

  Or, since he was talking to two of them, they had found him —

  As Bastable observed the tableau of the car and the Brigadier and the Germans talking to him in that split-second, one of the Germans raised his arm in the Hitler-salute he had seen in dozens of newsreels and photographs, and the Brigadier also raised his arm —

  He had to rescue the Brigadier, it was his plain duty —The Webley came up automatically.

  ‘Hands up!’ shouted Harry Bastable. ‘Brigadier—‘

  The three men turned towards him, thunderstruck. A German soldier in a steel helmet appeared from behind a farm cart, a rifle in his hands.

  Bastable fired at the soldier in the helmet, and knew he’d missed even as he fired. And fired again, and missed again. The German soldier worked the bolt of his rifle feverishly, and the two German officers started fumbling with their holsters. The Brigadier pointed at Bastable and shouted in German to the soldier with the rifle.

  Bastable fled back down the cart track towards the road Batty Evans appeared in front of him, rifle at the ready, bayonet fixed.

  ‘Germans!’ shouted Bastable. ‘Run, Batty!’

  Batty looked strangely at him, then threw his rifle up and fired it down the lane past him.

  Bastable turned the corner. ‘Run, Batty—follow me!’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  There was no time to run back down the road the way they had come. Bastable bounded up the side of the road-bank opposite him and threw himself over the top. The bank was considerably higher on the fieldside than the roadside because of the fall of the hillside, but fear made him as surefooted as a goat and he slid down it accurately on to both feet.

  He heard another rifle-shot behind him, then more shots.

  The field ahead of him was only a few yards wide at this point, owing to the zig-zag of the road, he supposed, and the next bank ahead of him was low enough to hurdle. Only after his feet left the ground did it occur to him that the drop on the other side into the road might be a painful one if the fall was as great as last time. But it wasn’t the road into which he fell, but only another field, with another beautiful surefooted landing.

  He was losing his sense of direction, but there was no time to worry about directions. Wimpy would have heard the shots, and Wimpy would know what they meant.

  Not straight across the next field, then—that would only invite a bullet between the shoulder-blades—he would double to his right, under cover of this bank and in the opposite direction from which he had originally come, so far as he could make out any direction any more —

  There was a low gap in the field-bank ahead of him, and then—like a crowning gift from God!—a thicket of small trees. He plunged over and into them, caught his foot on a tree-root, and fell sprawling. The fall half-winded him, and for a moment he lay gasping, waiting for sounds of pursuit—gutteral German orders—or, worse still, the shrill squealing, clattering of the tanks.

  There came the sound of another shot, but it was not very close to where he lay.

  Hundreds of tanks—there were hundreds of tanks behind him!

  He stuffed his revolver back into his holster—how he hadn’t dropped it … stupid! it was on its lanyard!—and started off again.

  The sound of the shot he had just heard suddenly registered in his brain. Batty was no longer with him, it reminded him.

  He leaned against a tree, to get his breath back.

  He had left Fusilier Evans behind.

  He had abandoned Fusilier Evans.

  He had run away in panic, abandoning Fusilier Evans to the enemy—Captain Bastable had deserted Fusilier Evans!

  But no … that wasn’t quite fair. He had ordered Batty Evans to follow him, and if Batty had
n’t obeyed that order it was his look-out. They hadn’t gone up the hill to fight the whole German Army —

  The thought of the whole German Army started his legs moving again and stopped him thinking about anything else except the lie of the land ahead of him and behind him. It was mostly flat now, and from the position of the sun, he was moving more or less westwards—the refugee direction. But also the direction in which the German Army was advancing.

  He had to get back to the battalion!

  Of course, Wimpy would be making for the battalion, and Wimpy had the car, God willing … And also Wimpy was no fool, schoolmaster notwithstanding—in fact Wimpy had smelt danger when he had felt nothing, and had diagnosed a dose of incipient mumps, if not a bad case of windiness. And, by God, he knew what that last felt like now!

  But not even Wimpy could take that Austin Seven past a German tank, and then it would be doubly his duty to get back to the battalion —

  His head seemed to spin with the effort of thinking things out while steadily putting more distance between himself and the German Army.

  There was something else that was his duty—there were probably lots of other things that were his duty. But getting back to the battalion was the first one, the most urgent one, and that meant bearing far more to the south than he was going at present. So bear southwards, Bastable, damn your eyes!

  And southwards might even be safer from those tanks, too … The main road, with the refugees on it, would give him his bearings, anyway. But the important thing was to keep moving steadily at the trot, preferably with something solid between himself— dead ground would do best, but any cover was better than none—between himself and all those Germans —