The Hour of The Donkey

by Anthony Price

  At least the disgrace was shared, then! So it was a proper moment for confession. ‘I’m afraid I lost Fusilier Evans, Willis. That is to say … I told him to follow me, but he didn’t.’

  Wimpy accepted the loss of Fusilier Evans philosophically. ‘Batty never was very quick on the uptake, you can’t blame yourself for that—it would have happened sooner or later. We should never have taken him in the PROs— another of that old swine Tetley-Robinson’s errors of judgement.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Like taking on damn useless schoolmasters … you know, you’re absolutely right—she is a good baby. See how she’s got her thumb in her mouth and her arm round that kangaroo!’

  ‘Rabbit,’ corrected Bastable automatically.

  ‘Rabbit, is it? So it is, by golly! Alice’s White Rabbit—we shall have to call her “Alice”, Harry. Poor little Alice …’ He trailed off. ‘I just hope he got close enough to them to use his bayonet. That was all he ever wanted, poor old Batty —just to take one with him. I hope he got his chance.’

  Under the cold-bloodedly philosophical Wimpy, so sharp and eloquent, there was another one he had never glimpsed before until now, thought Bastable. But there was nothing to be gained by mentioning that final burst of small-arms fire if that was the way of it.

  Abbeville.

  ‘You were under this bridge—?’

  ‘Culvert.. . yes.’ Wimpy pulled himself together. ‘I drove out of the wood like the clappers, over the next rise .. . And as I was going down the other side I saw a Jerry tank on the next skyline—a Mark Two—so I knew I wasn’t going to make it. Thank God, he didn’t see me … But when I pulled up at the bottom I could hear the blighters, they seemed to be all around me by the sound of them. So I whipped out of the car. But then I didn’t know which way to go—the fields were so damn open … And there was this stream … Or it wasn’t really a stream, it was just where the rainwater comes down under the road in winter, I suppose, and takes off down the lowest part of the land—that was open too, they’d have seen me for sure. I really didn’t know where to go, as I said … but I naturally jumped straight into the ditch . .. And there was this culvert, under the road. So I thought “The blighters haven’t seen me yet, but they’ll see the car any moment now, and if there’s no one in it they’ll think the driver has run away. So I’ll just crawl into the culvert and keep my fingers crossed.” And I did. And they did, thank God!’

  He drew a deep breath, almost a sigh.

  ‘What actually saved me, you know, was these two Jerry officers, though … One of them was brass, and the other one sounded like a very young regimental commander—a real fire eater. He was the one who wanted to go like hell, a proper cavalry-type. The older was more cautious, he said “Just because you haven’t had anyone to fight, you think war is all roses.” Or something like that—they were pacing up and down right over my head. And the younger one said “When I find someone to fight, then I’ll fight him. I’m only trying to find someone.’”

  Another deep breath.

  ‘During which I was lying in the mud with all my fingers crossed, hoping that it wasn’t me the blighter was going to find —I was praying that he would win the argument—by that time they were arguing about how much fuel there was, and where the fuel-tankers were, I think … They lost me there rather … But I was hoping the young one would convince the old one quickly—and I was bloody lucky that he didn’t. Or not right at that point, because —

  He took a deep breath, and little Alice sucked furiously at her thumb, her eyes closed tight, aid hugged her white rabbit, oblivious of British and Germans.

  ‘Because … then there was this sound of boots running on the road, and a new argument started with someone else—another officer. And the older fellow finally shouted “No, no, no! We have been here all the time, you fool! Go away, and don’t bother me!” And then they went back to the original argument, and finally the older one gave in and said “All right, all right! Go and find someone to fight—and find this English officer for that idiot—he’ll be out there somewhere, running like a jack-rabbit”—‘

  Harry Bastable stared down at Alice’s rabbit. That was just about how he had been running at the time, the description tallied exactly.

  ‘Which was me, of course,’ said Wimpy. ‘Except I was burrowing into the mud by then—‘

  ‘Me, actually,’ murmured Bastable.

  ‘—right under their feet. And then the whole bloody Sixth Panzer division and half the Luftwaffe came over. I was stuck there for hours, I tell you—‘

  By which time I was safe under a Bren carrier, thought Harry Bastable, and dead to the world and the German Army both.

  ‘After which I had other adventures too boring and horrendous to relate. I could write a definitive monograph on the nature of French ditches and water-courses, Harry, I tell you. I even got quite close to Belléme before I gave up. But I’m afraid that’s all finished now, though they must have put up one hell of a fight, the Mendips—there was a lot more dive-bombing at one stage. Real Stuka stuff.. . while I was face-down in another ditch, naturally, quietly shitting myself.’

  Bastable had missed that. Or, he had been quietly dying under the carrier at the time, anyway. Time and Harry Bastable, and the German Army and Captain Willis, had all been inextricably mixed up yesterday afternoon and evening, more than somewhat at cross-purposes.

  ‘Me, actually,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean “me actually”?’ queried Wimpy.

  ‘They were after me, I think,’ he said. ‘Not you.’

  At that moment the front nearside wheel on Alice’s pram came off, and Alice’s rabbit jumped out of her grasp. Naturally she began to cry.

  VII

  THEY KNEW there had been trouble a mile or more before they reached Colembert.

  The first signs were clear enough to Harry Bastable, he could recognize them very well from his own limited military experience. Where soldiers passed through the countryside in any numbers there was always mess and minor destruction. Even back in England, the inevitable aftermath of any field exercise involving more than a dozen men was a rich crop of complaints from the farmers whose land they had crossed. It was only natural that where German troops were crossing the lands of their hereditary enemy their passage would be even more evident.

  So all in all, it was just as well that he had been reduced to carrying little Alice in his arms, even though her dampness was beginning to penetrate the double-thickness wrapping of the shawl now, thought Bastable. The pram, even in its prime, had never been designed to cross the ruin of the road-bank which had been crushed into the road, which he had just negotiated; or the fallen branches of the young tree over which he was now stepping.

  Wimpy came back down the road towards him. Bastable was glad to observe that he was returning from his scouting expedition confidently, not furtively. Indeed, allowing for the appalling state of his uniform, he really did appear quite bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as he would hardly have done if the woods ahead were crawling with Germans.

  Alice continued to sleep peacefully, thumb and rabbit in their regulation positions. One of the rabbit’s ears tickled Bastable’s chin slightly, rasping against his unshaven stubble. It embarrassed him to think what a sight he must look, not only filthy and dishevelled, but bare-headed and blue-chinned against the strictest PRO regulations. The obstinate growth of black stubble on his chin had always been a source of irritation to him, and whenever possible he had shaved twice a day for fear of Major Tetley-Robinson, so now he could only hope and pray that Wimpy’s more outrageous appearance would take the first cutting-edge of the Tetley-Robinson tongue.

  Wimpy grinned at him, and lifted something grey and black—a garment of some sort—which he had been carrying in his hand, trailing it in the dust behind him.

  ‘Battle trophy!’ he lifted it for Bastable to see. ‘One SS tunic, complete with Lightning and Skull and Crossbones slightly shop-soiled.’

  Bastable observed with a sick feeling that th
e tunic was soaked with dried blood.

  ‘They came round from the west and attacked from the north, so far as I can make out,’ said Wimpy. ‘And—that was Nigel Audley’s sector— and by God they must have taken one hell of a pasting … Attacked with infantry and armoured cars— no tank tracks that I can see. And then pulled out again double-quick, it looks like. One up to Nigel, if you ask me!’

  Harry Bastable breathed a sigh of relief. Alice was safe, and so was C Company, and those were the only two things he cared about. And, while he had no doubts about Alice’s abilities to face up to the harsh world, he had had the gravest doubts about C Company’s capabilities, under that overlooking ridge and in the care of the diffident Lieutenant Waterworth. Even young Chris Chichester would have been a safer acting-company commander than little Waterworks, as Tetley-Robinson had dubbed him.

  But that was an illusory worry now, thank God!

  ‘I met an old Froggie peasant in the woods,’ said Wimpy. ‘He was picking over the remains of their forward Aid Post—blood and used bandages and field dressings everywhere! That’s where I picked up this—‘ he lifted the battle-trophy again,’ —I nearly brought along a very nice camouflaged cape … But then I thought—if I wear it I could get myself shot by Nigel’s chaps … See the Lightning badge—that’s the SS badge. Adolf’s own special thugs—and the good old PROs scuppered them, by golly! Blood everywhere—great pools of it— ‘

  His enthusiasm for blood was positively ghoulish. ‘And the Germans have gone?’ Bastable held Alice protectively.

  ‘No Germans in Colembert—that’s what the Froggie said. Only British … Typical Froggie—picking over the remains, like the Belgian peasants after Waterloo.’

  ‘You think he was telling the truth?’

  ‘Well… I put the fear of God up him—or tried to.’ Wimpy nodded. ‘I told him we were the advance-guard of the British Expeditionary Force, coming to drive the Germans out of France—with the help of the glorious French Army … And if he didn’t speak the truth I would personally see that his own people would put him up against the nearest wall, and—pouf-pouf.’ Wimpy turned his hand into a pistol. ‘I don’t think he was very bright—but I’m damn sure he was very scared. So we’d best get moving again double-quick, for little Alice’s sake, if not for our own.’

  Bastable looked down at Alice. He could do nothing more for her, except to give her away to someone who could give her all the things she needed.

  Damn and damnation! The sooner Alice was where she ought to be, the better for her and the better for him—he had other things to do than to think about babies. Much more important things.

  ‘Come on, Harry,’ said Wimpy. ‘It’ll be better for her. And we’ve got to get that message off, about that Fifth Columnist swine of yours in the red tabs—we’ve really got to get that off double-quick, old man, before he does any more damage.’

  Bastable was aware that he was bring quite ridiculous, mooning over a small, damp, rather smelly baby, when the fate of thousands of British soldiers, and French soldiers, and even the war itself, was in the balance.

  Little Alice and Harry Bastable counted for nothing in that reckoning.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ He stepped out smartly down the road, the rabbit’s ear scuffing at his chin.

  As the trees thinned, at the last corner of the road, where it curved into the long straight stretch at the end of which Major Audley’s trees and his company had been waiting for the enemy, Wimpy cautioned him to halt.

  Bastable crouched down carefully, so as not to disturb Alice, sinking on to one knee behind Wimpy.

  ‘Place has taken a pounding,’ said Wimpy over his shoulder. ‘The church spire has gone—but I suppose that was only to be expected …’ he reached back without taking his eyes off Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts. ‘Give me my field-glasses, there’s a good fellow.’

  Even without Alice in his arms Bastable could not have granted that request.

  ‘Wimpy … ah … I’m afraid I’ve lost them, old chap.’

  Wimpy snapped his fingers. ‘Field-glasses—quick!’

  ‘I haven’t got them.’

  Wimpy turned quickly. ‘I’m sorry—I forgot about Alice. Where are they, my field-glasses?’

  Bastable closed his teeth. ‘I’ve lost them. The strap broke when I was running away from the farm—I’m sorry.’

  Wimpy frowned. ‘Damn!’ Then he shook his head. ‘Damn—those were good glasses! My Uncle Tom gave me those glasses—‘

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bastable. ‘The strap broke.’

  ‘Damn!’ Wimpy swore again, sharply. Then the expected PRO nonchalance-in-adversity reasserted itself. ‘Oh, well —misfortunes of war, I suppose. I don’t expect I can ask the German Army if they’ve seen one pair of field-glasses marked “W. M. Willis”—and I’m damned certain the British Army isn’t going to reimburse me.’

  This was the Unacceptable Willis the Schoolmaster. ‘As soon as we get home,’ said Bastable stiffly, ‘I will personally replace your field-glasses, Willis.’

  ‘Nonsense, old boy!’ replied Wimpy. ‘It’s just …’ He swivelled back to scan Colembert again. ‘It’s just, I can’t see anybody moving there at this distance, that’s all.’

  Bastable moved up alongside him.

  Colembert, what he could see of it, certainly had taken a pounding, that was no understatement. But he could only see the northern and highest fringe of the little town—or large village would have been an equally accurate description of it, except that it had a mayor; it had developed on a loop in the stream between its deux ponts, and had only recently spread up the plain above its valley at this point, so there would never have been a lot of it to see from here. Yet … this had been the better part of the place, with the bigger houses of the more substantial citizens—a sort of Colembert equivalent of his own Meads at Eastbourne … and now he couldn’t see any of them, as they had been, only piles of rubble and shattered roofs. Also, the spire of the church—it had been built further down the slope, but the spire had still appeared above the skyline on the northern side—that had gone too, as Wimpy had observed.

  ‘This was the side where they attacked, of course,’ said Wimpy. ‘It obviously took the brunt of things—you’d expect that.’

  Bastable narrowed his eyes. ‘There are people moving there.’

  ‘Your eyes must be better than mine! What sort of people?’

  ‘Civilians.’ Bastable pointed. ‘Over there—alongside the bit of red roof.’

  ‘I’ve got them. Yes—those are civilians, you’re right. No field-grey there, thank the Lord!’

  ‘No khaki, either.’

  ‘No. But our chaps’ll be in their slit-trenches, ready for the next attack. If the Germans were there they’d be walking about in the open now.’

  ‘Hmm . ..’ Bastable had the uneasy feeling that there was something not right about the view. But it was Wimpy who had ‘feelings’ like this, and clearly he had none at the moment.

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Wimpy, ‘if they did expect another attack, those civilians wouldn’t be picking over the ruins either—they’d be down in their cellars.’

  That was it! From what they had seen, and from the sad silence of defeat from the direction of Belléme, it was obvious that the Germans had been successful in this sector of the front. So, if they’d got a bloody nose at Colembert —then where were they now?

  ‘I wonder why they haven’t attacked again?’ said Bastable, half to himself.

  Of course, Colembert wasn’t important; and, it also had to be faced the Prince Regent’s Own presented no threat to the sort of German forces he’d seen. So perhaps they’d simply repelled a chance encounter with a smaller un-armoured unit which had lost its way and blundered off the main line of advance, and been thereafter left alone?

  ‘My God!’ murmured Wimpy suddenly. ‘And we’ve got no patrols out, either—Nigel would have had patrols out in the woods, watching the road—‘

  No threat,
Bastable was thinking grimly The false Brigadier would have apprised the enemy of that for sure. ‘What—?’

  ‘They could have pulled out,’ said Wimpy. ‘I rather think they have, too.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The South. Towards the Somme—where the French Army will be.’

  ‘But if the Germans are at Peronne?’ Bastable couldn’t bring himself to mention Abbeville. Anyway, even if the Germans had set out for Abbeville, there was no proof that they’d reached it. The further they went, the more of the BEF they’d encounter. ‘If they were at Peronne yesterday …’

  ‘Christ! I don’t know!’ snapped Wimpy. ‘But that old Froggie peasant said there were no Germans in Colembert—and I can’t see any, either. So let’s bloody well go in and find out for ourselves. Harry—come on!’

  They advanced cautiously down the road, dodging in and out of the trees at its side.

  Harry Bastable worried desperately for little Alice in his arms. He ought to have put her down, he felt. But then, if he had put her down she would inevitably have woken up, and then she would have realized how wet and hungry and thirsty she was, and then she would have shrieked out as loudly as she had done when the pram had collapsed… until he had picked her up again.

  This way, at least, they were approaching Colembert quietly.

  There was a motor-cycle ahead, at the edge of the field just off the road—a big, grey-painted motor-cycle, smashed and surrounded by a scatter of earth.

  But there was no sign of its rider …

  And then a great tangled wall of fallen branches—the first of Major Audley’s blocking-trees. In fact, the whole road from here on, into the ruins, was a mass of fallen trees.

  ‘We got one of the blighters!’ exclaimed Wimpy, pointing into the tangle.

  There was a German armoured car in the tangle. It looked as though one of the trees had actually hit it, and from the shredded look of the tangle as though it had then been fiercely attacked with machine-gun and mortar fire. The hatch on the top was open.