The Hour of the Donkey

there was that line from his favourite peom, by Sir Henry Newbolt, to remember —

But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote —

'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

—which really summed up the situation, literally. Because by those three weeks of seniority he, Harry Bastable, was Wimpy's Captain, by God!

'Don't worry, old boy—I'll keep my eyes open—'Qui vive' and

'verb.sap.' and all that. Don't worry!'

He had quoted those lines in the mess once, on a rather drunken evening a few months ago, and everyone had roared with laughter—Wimpy most of all.

But Wimpy wasn't laughing now, he was pleased to observe.

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IV

The road was definitely not misty and shimmery, any more than it was in the Carpathian Mountains. But it was deceptively steep in spite of its zig-zag and, because of that zigzag, much longer than it had seemed from below, even to an officer used to Prince Regent's Own's route-marches. Or perhaps his legs had simply stiffened up in the constriction of DPT 912's rear seat.

Also, its high banks prevented ready observation of the land on either side except at the cost of regular side- scrambles, which further delayed the reconnaissance; and as Wimpy's scout through the wood must necessarily be more quickly completed, and the sooner they were on their way again the better, Bastable contented himself with cautious peerings round each blind bend after the first few hundred yards, with Batty crunching along stolidly five paces behind him.

At length, however, they began to get closer to the trees at the top, and through the thick spring vegetation Bastable made out the shape of what must be farm buildings.

The last turning revealed these as presenting a solid blank wall, topped by an orange-red tiled roof in a sorry state of repair, along some seventy-five yards of empty roadside—a barn, or stable, or collection of covered pens of some sort opening on to an inner courtyard, decided Bastable. He had seen run-down farms like this, more or less, on the outskirts dummy4

of Colembert, unwelcoming from the front but with an entrance round the side. And in this case that entrance must be at the far end, judging by the lack of any side track through the trees at this end. It would be at the far end, too, that he would most likely get a view of the plain—or the next empty undulation—beyond.

But now, quite clearly, was the moment of maximum danger, if there was any. Which there probably wasn't, because he could still hear no other sounds than the distant rumble of bombs and drone of aircraft engines which were as natural and unremarkable now as the birdsong in his own garden, and the raucous squawking of the gulls in Devonshire Park in the morning.

The memory was suddenly painful, as he longed for those other long-lost sounds, and smells, and all the sensations of England, Eastbourne, Home and Beauty —even girls with fat legs.

He turned back towards Fusilier Batty Evans and put his finger to his lips, and pointed to the scatter of weeds and coarse grass and young stinging nettles growing under the barn wall alongside the road, which would deaden their footfalls. Then he set out along the side of the wall.

Half-way along he thought he'd caught the sound of voices, but a renewed rumble from the east... or maybe it was from the north, he couldn't mate out . . . overlaid the sound before he could confirm it in liis mind. But at least it served to draw his attention to the emptiness of his hands.

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He unbuttoned the flap of his webbing holster and drew out the Webley.

This, it occurred to him, was the first time he had ever drawn the weapon in what might loosely be called 'anger', though now it was happening 'trepidation' seemed a more appropriate word.

Yet, oddly enough, it was not trepidation—damn it! that was only jargon for windiness —fear— fear of what might be round the next corner, but only of not doing things right, according to the book, and thereby making an ass of himself.

The book came vividly to mind: Lesson 2 of it, complete with diagram of British soldier in battledress ready for action— Fig 6—Point-blank range—

Drill cartridges will NOT be used in this lesson. The common faults in firing are ...

He peered round the end of the building. There was a track here, between the end of the barn-like building and the next belt of trees, but it was quite empty.

And, as he stepped out on to the empty track, he could see that there was an opening in the farm wall—a gateway about ten yards down, opposite another gateway into a field, at the end of the trees.

So ...so he would go down and peer into the gateway in the wall, and satisfy himself that the farmyard was empty. And then he would use Wimpy's field-glasses, which hung awkwardly on top of his respirator, to scan the countryside dummy4

on the other side of the track, through the farm-gate of the field, which promised a fine view of the countryside below and beyond.

But, as it turned out, he didn't do things in that order at all.

As he came abreast of the farmyard gateway, edging cautiously along the wall, a flash of light from the sun on glass or metal drew his attention into the open gap of the field gateway.

The gap—the gate itself lay flat and crushed—did fulfil its promise of a fine view of the countryside below and beyond the farm buildings.

Bastable stared at the fine view with disbelief.

Rank upon rank of German tanks and vehicles were drawn up, motionless, in field after field for as far as he could see—