The Hour of the Donkey

'He said . . .' Wimpy tailed off as lie surveyed the scene. 'Now if we go straight on, on to that other side road ahead, we can take the first turning to the right, and maybe get to Beleme by one of the back roads . . .'

That obviously hadn't been what the French soldier had said; Wimpy was merely thinking aloud, trying to solve their problem.

'What did he say?' Bastable fumed impotently among the piled equipment.

'He said—' This time Wimpy bit the answer off. ' Batty! Back into the car double- quick— drive straight on!'

Batty moved back into his seat almost as fast as he had left it, driven by the urgency of the command.

' Put your boot down, man!' Wimpy shouted. ' Fast!'

The car juddered forward, scattering the refugees ahead of it as it moved across the main road on to the other, minor arm of the crossroad which matched the narrow road from Colembert by which they had come. There was a crunch of metal as one wing caught the front of a hand-cart piled with possessions. The car checked for a fraction of a second, then the cart overturned, scattered its consents.

'Faster!' shouted Wimpy.

Loud cries of anger and sorrow mingled with the insistent hooting which filled Bastable's ears. Then, as though released from all restraint, the little engine roared into life under Batty's boot and the car shot away down the empty, dusty dummy4

side road, throwing Bastable against the rear seat and tipping his helmet over his eyes.

'What the devil—?' Bastable swore, grabbing for the strap Lord Austin had thoughtfully supplied for nervous passengers and trying to pull himself upright.

'Messerschmitts!' snapped Wimpy.

'What?' Bastable twisted to peer out of the rear window, but the road was an impenetrable dust cloud behind them.

'Square wing-tips—remember 'em from the aircraft recognition posters. Quite unmistakable—saw 'em banking—

make for those trees ahead, Batty.' He was back below roof level now. 'Hurricanes are rounded, Spitfires are pointed —

Messerschmitts are square—the wing tips. Saw 'em turning .. . Nearly there— don't slow down, Batty!'

Bastable had never seen a German aircraft for absolutely certain. During the last thirty-six hours plenty of aircraft had flown over Colembert, but always too far away or too high up to be identified beyond doubt, and even though the self-styled experts had all agreed that these had been enemy aircraft, he himself had remained unconvinced.

Besides, assuming every plane one heard to be an E/A was also in the realm of Alarm and Despondency. There were known to be a substantial number of RAF squadrons in the Advanced Air Striking Force, not to mention the two thousand planes of the French Air Force. So it was on the very tip of his tongue to say 'nonsense', except that one dummy4

officer didn't say things like that to another officer in the presence of another rank.

And, also, the Germans had undoubtedly been bombing Belleme—and judging by the continuance of that distant thunder were still doing so, too. So the aircraft Wimpy had spotted could very well be a German, whatever the shape of its wing-tips . . .

They were into the trees.

'Stop!' commanded Wimpy.

DPT 912 stopped abruptly with a squeal of brakes, in obedience to its driver's incompetence, and at once stalled.

The aircraft noise increased behind them, and was suddenly punctuated by a loud staccato rattling, at once quite different from and yet entirely reminiscent of the noise on the field firing range during the last Bren gun course.

Machine-gun fire. Machine-gun fire in bursts, growing louder

—approaching—stopping . . . starting again and growing louder again—the sound pattern repeating itself behind him, along and above the road.

The road —

The road had been jammed with refugees—women and children, old women and young children, and old men —old men like the one with the smashed-up grandfather clock on the cart Batty had backed into the ditch—and the drab, dusty people who had wailed over the cart they had knocked over—

Christ! even a single Bren fired down that line would tear dummy4

them to pieces . . . and those Messerschmitts had three or four machine-guns each in them.

He had read about it all before. In Poland and Norway . . .

and it had begun again in Holland and Belgium a week or so ago ... But this was here and now, a quarter of a mile behind him, among human beings he had just passed—the old men in their shapeless suits, and the old women in their black shawls and the children in their dirty frocks— Christ — oh Christ!— but this was real. 'My God!' he said. 'My . . . God!'

'Harry—for God's sake don't be sick in the car, man,' said Wimpy anxiously. 'There isn't anything we can do— we've got to get round to the Mendips to stop the bastards, that's all—

so don't throw up on me, there's a good chap! Start the engine, Batty—'