Operation Dynamo back to Berlin, the better.'
'Hmmm . . . well, I'm glad you didn't have to put that theory to the test. Keller's awkward enough as it is.' The Brigadier lifted his arm to bring his wrist-watch level with his eyes.
'And we've not got a lot of time, anyway.'
The railway line will be safe until thirteen-thirty hours, sir.
Keller was positive about that. We've a clear thirty minutes.'
'If you say so ... But I wouldn't like to come a cropper at the last fence.' The Brigadier lowered his arm. 'Very well—he's yours. Only just remember that my vote is for shooting him here and now. Better to be safe than sorry is my motto.'
His wish was going to be granted, thought Bastable bleakly: they were going to kill him.
'But he did try to shoot you, sir,' said Sandy-hair. That's pretty strong evidence on his behalf.'
'True.' The Brigadier fixed his fierce pale eyes on Bastable.
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'But he missed.'
'Only by a hair's-breadth.'
'Also true.' The Brigadier lifted his free hand to touch his neck gingerly. 'It undoubtedly wasn't for lack of trying ...' The eyes bored into Bastable. 'You're a monstrously bad shot, whoever you are.'
'Willis, sir,' said Sandy-hair quickly. 'Captain, Prince Regent's Own—those Terriers at Colembert, remember?'
'Yes. The ones the Huns scuppered.' The Brigadier's eyes flickered. 'I remember.'
'Do you recognize him?'
The eyes ran up and down Bastable, chilling him. 'Never saw him before in my life, so far as I can recall, Freddie. Looks a damned ugly customer—doesn't look like a British officer to me, even a Territorial. They used to be fairly presentable.'
'He's not the one who took a shot at you in the yard at Beaumont Farm, then?'
Again the eyes flickered. 'Can't honestly say for sure, you know—it all happened rather quickly, as I recall. It was a British officer—captain's pips . . . and a fancy lanyard like the one you showed to Keller back there under the bridge, right enough. But he had his tin hat tipped over his eyes and the strap across his chin . . . Could be him, I suppose—and he was a damn bad shot too, that's a similarity if you like! But I can't say for sure, Freddie ... my eyes aren't what they were . ..' He squinted at Bastable. 'But you say he's Willis?'
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'He says he's Willis.'
'And you're inclined to believe him? Hmmm . . . Keller would have found out quickly enough, with his experience from Poland. And Spain . . .' He started to nod again, and caught himself just too late. 'Damn! Just get on with it, Freddie—
that's all!'
Sandy-hair stared at Bastable. 'You are Captain Willis?'
Bastable stared back at him sullenly. The Brigadier seemed older and tireder, and far less formidable, but the sandy-haired staff officer had become larger and foxier, and infinitely more dangerous. And yet together they were outwardly a typical enough pair of British officers, and somehow that made their treason infinitely more despicable.
'Go to hell!' he croaked, before he could stop himself.
Sandy-hair continued to stare at him. 'How did you get here, Willis?'
It was a silly question, and its silliness surprised Bastable. Of all the things which might matter, the fact of his arrival at the bridge between Carpy and Les Moulins mattered least. And then it struck him that if Sandy-hair— Freddie—wanted to know the answer, then it couldn't be a silly question; it was simply that Harry Bastable was too stupid to see its significance.
'How did you get here, Willis?' repeated Freddie patiently.
Therefore... if Freddie wanted an answer, then he wasn't going to get one. Because, in a world of defeat and failure, dummy4
one thing was certain: Freddie was the enemy.
And because they were going to kill him anyway—that was another certainty.
Why they hadn't killed him already was beyond him. But they hadn't turned him over to the Germans, and they couldn't take him with them when they returned to the British lines, and they couldn't leave him here free. So they had no choice in the matter.
'How did you get here?' Freddie paused. 'Last time, Willis.'
Bastable was about to say 'Go to hell' again, if he could find enough moisture in his mouth to do so, when it came to him suddenly that he hadn't any choice in the matter either.
Wimpy and the child were up there somewhere, by the bridge; and they couldn't help him, but he could still do something for them; and, what was more, it was something that he could do.
All his life he had never—or very rarely—been able to find the right words, the clever words, in an emergency. He could think of them afterwards, but never at the time. But now, in this last emergency, it didn't matter. Because now words could only betray him— or, what was worse, they could only betray Wimpy and the child. So all he had to do was to say nothing. And then, however frightened he was, he would be doing the right thing.
The Brigadier stiffened. 'Hold on there, Freddie—I know the answer to that one. He must have overheard us at
