The Hour of the Donkey

Wimpy looked at him. 'You would too—wouldn't you!'

For his own sake he had to believe it. And . . . damned Fifth Columnists—damned traitors!... he was already more than half-way to believing it. 'Yes. I would, Willis.'

Wimpy smiled at him—and that was the last bloody straw on the donkey's back: weak, stupid Harry Bastable not capable of shooting a damn traitor, the last bloody straw—

'F—'

'I believe you!' Wimpy cut off the obscenity. 'You're a genius, Harry! I'd never have thought of it— and that makes it perfect. .. the reward—and the risk . .. the risk—and the reward . . . absolutely perfect. You-really-are-a-genius!'

'What?'

'To catch a traitor—and that's what it's all about—and it doesn't matter what happens to us ... to catch a traitor—'

Wimpy started to crumple the paper in his fist, and then caught himself doing it, and opened his hand guiltily. 'God!

We mustn't spoil the ticket to Colembert, must we!'

'W-what?'

Wimpy pointed into the cart. 'Get the wine—get the bread . . .

bread and wine for the last communion . . . We have to reach the St Pol crossroads as soon as possible, old boy, and we need to stoke your boiler for pushing me there.'

dummy4

The what clogged in Bastable's throat this time.

'There's bound to be Jerry transport moving that way, said Wimpy. 'And there's a road—I saw it on the map— pretended to be short-sighted, and civilian . . . St Pol to Fruges, Fruges to Desevres ... Desevres to Colembert. And then—what's the word?—hitching? No—hitch-catching? To catch a traitor, anyway—eh, Harry?'

The names meant nothing to Bastable—except Colembert; but Wimpy's eyes were feverish; or, it was Wimpy's voice, and he was imagining the look that went with the voice.

'I didn't think we could do it. And maybe we can't... but we can try, Harry—we can try!'

And there was only one traitor.

Damned, bloody traitor!

But not at Colembert—

'But he—he won't be at Colembert, Willis,' he heard himself.

It was what he should have said all along, fuck it!

'Of course not, old boy. If he's anywhere, he'll be on the bridge between Les Moulins and Carpy at noon tomorrow. So let's hope there's only one bridge, and we can be there too—if that's the Destined Will, Harry.'

He was mad. He was insane. They were both insane—in the middle of nowhere.

'The bridge between Les Moulins and Carpy—Carpy's on the map, I saw it. It's just off the Route Nationale from Arras to dummy4

Boulogne—the Germans must think they'll be there by tomorrow.'

'Boulogne?' The insanity was catching—even the Germans had caught it. Boulogne was as unthinkable as ... as Colembert?

Wimpy drew a deep breath. 'I know. It doesn't seem possible . . . But if they've reached Abbeville today—or Amiens today—they can reach Boulogne tomorrow, can't they? Can't they?'

It wasn't insanity any more: it was the terrible logic of defeat struggling against hope. If there had been nothing to stop the Germans from driving all the way across northern France to the Channel, then perhaps there was also nothing to stop them pushing northwards to Boulogne?

But Boulogne!

That wasn't a lost battle—that was the war itself— that was the British Army itself—lost!

And that was impossible: after Boulogne, only Calais was left on the map.

He shrugged the impossibility off. And besides, there was another impossibility to set against it: Colembert was to the south—Wimpy was an idiot—

And that was another impossibility—

Christ! He was the idiot!

There were two Colemberts: the right one and the wrong one—the one he knew and the other one—and the other one dummy4

was the right one—near Boulogne—the real Colembert!

'Harry. Get the wine—I need a drink if you don't, old boy.

Because I'm going to need some Dutch courage, I think. I certainly don't think I can do it stone-cold sober, anyway.'

Do what?

Idiot, idiot!