The Hour of the Donkey

'I heard it. When we were under the table— the bridge between Carpy and Les Moulins—midday— that's what they said. And this is the bridge, Harry — and all we have to do is wait!

Bastable was too beaten to argue, but not too beaten to want not to go on living when there was still a chance of life.

'But—'

'No, Harry. I know what you want to do—you want to go at everything like a bull-in-a-china-shop—'

That wasn't what Harry Bastable wanted at all. But there wasn't any way of admitting what he wanted, now that what he had dreamed of had actually happened—and had become a nightmare.

'—but it won't do—with only two bullets ... it won't do. Being brave isn't enough—we have to think—'

It wasn't being brave at all—that was what Harry Bastable was thinking.

Wimpy shook his head. 'We can't risk it, that's all. He's dummy4

coming here, so we're staying here.'

Think—

Wimpy looked at him. 'The Destined Will, Harry—you thought of it first. You always think of everything first! And when there wasn't a chance in hell of getting here, you still thought of it.'

But that wasn't it at all! Or, if he had, then he had thought of it when he thought it couldn't happen.

Think—

He saw the child staring at him with her solemn eyes out of her dirty face. What would happen to the child? 'What about her?' She had always helped him: she would help him now!

'You can't look after her—you can't bloody well walk, Willis!'

Wimpy looked at him, and at the child, and then back at him, and smiled—that was the first glimpse of that terrible obstinate serenity.

'Harry, Harry . . . trust you to get it wrong, old boy!'

'What?'

The serene smile. 'That's the point, Harry—trust you to want to do it!'

Do it?

'I can't get away—that's the whole point—the jolly old Destined Will, old boy, eh?'

'What d'you mean, Willis?'

Wimpy pointed towards Les Moulins. 'The Brigadier—our dummy4

own special Fifth Columnist, the bastard—has to come up that road, to this bridge— there—' he pointed to the middle of the road, at the mouth of the bridge '— while Jerry trots along from his side side—from Carpy—eh?'

Bastable stared down the empty road towards Carpy, and then back to Wimpy.

Serene smile. 'And since when could you ever hit a barn door

—at point-blank range, Harry old boy? Since when?'

Since never. The only shot he'd ever fired in anger—two shots

— had been at point-blank range, at the German soldier two yards from the Brigadier's shoulder, and God only knew where they had gone, but they certainly hadn't hit anything.

'Since when?' challenged Wimpy.

A smaller part of Bastable wanted to deny the truth. But only a smaller part.

'We wait here until the Brigadier turns up—you take the child and the cart and snug 'em down in the wood there first—'

Wimpy pointed into the undergrowth '—and then we wait until he comes in view—' Wimpy pointed down the road to Les Moulins'—and you scarper and keep the child quiet... and bang-bang!— you lie low until the coast is clear again right?'

Logical.

Wimpy couldn't run away.

Wimpy couldn't run anywhere.

'And if I can't hit a barn door— you take the child and head for home, and tell 'em what happened. Which makes you the dummy4

small print on the bottom of the Destined Will, old boy.

Like ... an insurance policy, eh?'

It did seem a very good idea—

'Logical?' suggested Wimpy serenely.

Very logical. A very good idea, and also logical.