The Hour of the Donkey

There were men left and right of him, staring at him in astonishment. He swung the revolver left and right, searching for khaki-and-red-tabs—but encountering only a brown leather coat: it fell away from him is though it had been jerked from behind—but there was no khaki-and-red-tabs that side—Christ! there was no khaki at all—only civilians— Christ!—

'What the devil—?' began the Brigadier angrily.

The Brigadier was wearing a pork-pie hat, and a sports jacket, and a striped tie.

'Traitor!' shouted Bastable, and pointed the revolver at the Brigadier, stiff-armed across the railway lines, and shot him twice in the face.

The force of the bullets hurled the Brigadier backwards into the civilian behind him. Bastable's head was filled with a loud ringing noise, but he was aware of the other brown coat coming at him. He dodged sideways and threw the empty revolver at the German soldier, who was standing in his way

— and ran—

Sunlight burst around him.

And ran—

He was twenty yards—thirty yards—out into the cutting before any shred of thought came back to him.

He was running, his boots crashing and crunching into the granite chippings beneath him. The silver railway lines stretched away ahead of him, shimmering into infinity—

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there was a small concrete hut recessed into the side of the cutting just ahead, which he didn't recognize—it was alongside—he had passed it—

He had run right through the bridge, and now he was heading north, towards, the British lines! Towards safety!

The cutting was coming to an end; he could see the edge of it dropping, and the land opening up on each side—

There was someone running behind him!

The air pounded in his chest painfully— he must go on running—if he could only go on running—he had run away before—he had escaped before!

But he was weaker now. All the weary miles and hours, and the lack of sleep and proper food, and all the fears which had sapped his strength, were accumulating in his legs now, slowing him down.

He looked from one side of the shallower cutting to the other, to the lines of the embankment ahead: on this side was open country, but there were trees and there was undergrowth on the other. His pursuer would run him down in the open, but in those bushes—perhaps— perhaps—

'Stop!'

The bushes were nearer. Just a few more yards, and he could cross the line and throw himself into them— down the embankment—

'Stop ... or I fire!'

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— only ten yards away. Nothing in the world was going to stop him now— not lead nor steel—

He altered direction slightly, to leap across the lines.

First one line—the sleepers were black and greasy-looking, and he judged their distance to match his running strides, to avoid them .. Now the other one—he heard the shot behind him as he leaped, and knew that it had missed him a fraction of a second before the toe of his boot caught the edge of the line. For the following fraction he was airborne, legs lost behind him; then he crashed headlong into the granite chippings, their sharp edges tearing into his chin and his palms and his knees.

He tried to get up, scrabbling at the chippings, but his leg gave way under him.

'Halt! Don't move!'

The voice was at his back. He stared at the bushes in front of him with utter despair.

'Are you hit? Did I hit you?'

Bastable sank sideways on to one buttock and one hand, and looked his pursuer in the face.

Sandy hair—no hat—double-breasted grey suit, bad ly cut, with a foreign look, but the voice was unmistakably British.

The sharp-faced staff captain, remembered Bastable belatedly. He wasn 't there in the farmyard with the Germans so I forgot all about him! I should have saved the second bullet for him! But now it was a million years too late.

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'English?' Sandy-hair was sweating, red-faced and breathless.

He didn't have to answer. It was all the same now. It was finished. It didn't matter what he said.

'Get stuffed!' he said.

Sandy-hair nodded. 'English. Who are you?'

Damn! He should have held his tongue.

'Ten seconds.' Sandy-hair pointed the pistol.

Bastable was disappointed to discover that he was still very frightened, even though it didn't matter any more. On the other hand, maybe it did matter: if the swine was still on the look-out for Wimpy—for Captain W. M. Willis—