Bastable was aleady getting up before he received the order.
'E's an orficer!' exclaimed the second voice.
Bren carrier—of course, that was why the sound had been so recognizable! Bastable cursed himself, his stupidity, his cowardice; yet at the same time he wanted to embrace the machine and to kiss it, and its crew, out of sheer love and dummy4
gratitude.
And with the Mendips' divisional sign on it, too!
'Bastable—captain, Prince Regent's Own,' said Bastable quickly with what shred of dignity he could find among the rags he had left. 'You're Mendips—from Belleme?'
'I didn't say 'oo we was.' The carrier sergeant whipped out a revolver and pointed at Bastable. 'And I didn't ask 'oo you was, neither.'
'Bastable, Sergeant.' The revolver bewildered Bastable. 'From the Prince Regent's Own South Downs Fusiliers —at Colembert.'
'That's them Terriers down south, sarge,' said the driver familiarly. 'That funny lot wot don't belong to no one, an'
shouldn't be there—you remember!'
'I also remember there's a lot of dodgy boogers around 'oo ain't so funny, Darkie,' said the Sergeant. 'An' this one's a long way from home, if 'e's wot 'e sez 'e is.'
It was clear that they were going to take him for a Fifth Columnist until proved otherwise, Bastable realized.
'I have identification on me,' he said haughtily.
'An' you could 'ave got that from anywhere,' said the Sergeant suspiciously. 'You could be Adolf-bloody-Hitler for all I know!'
'Oo won the cup in 1938?' challenged the driver.
Bastable stared at him in horror. 'Which cup?'
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By the expressions on their faces he might just as well have phrased the question in German. Of course, it was a football cup—and he was a crass idiot not to have realized it. All the other ranks were mad on football, of the soccer variety, so that it had been a source of dissension in the Prince Regent's Own that the regimental game was rugger. But he knew nothing about that either, although he had been forced to play it—at considerable cost to his person in bruises and contusions—and yet to admit knowing nothing about either sport now would be disastrous.
Fear honed up his wits. 'Who won Wimbledon?' he challenged the driver. The mixed doubles?'
'Wimbledon?' the driver looked to his sergeant. 'What's that?'
'Tennis,' said the Sergeant shortly. 'Who —' He cut off the question unasked. 'No! Who's Len Mutton?'
So the Sergeant was smart enough not to ask a question which his Fifth Columnist could answer. Which was just as well, because he hadn't the faintest idea who had won the mixed doubles in '38. But he did know who Hutton was.
'Test cricketer.'
But he must retain the initiative. He plucked the only name he could think of out of his memory. 'Who's Sydney Wooderson?' he slammed the question in before the Sergeant could counter-attack him. Father had been a notable athlete in his youth, and Wooderson's record mile was one of his favourite Great British Triumphs.
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The revolver drooped slightly. The Sergeant evidently didn't know who Sydney Wooderson was, but remembered the name.
'Look, Sergeant —' Bastable pressed his advantage,' —
whoever I am—and I'm Captain Bastable of the PROs, I assure you—whoever I am, I suggest we all get the blazes out of here before the Germans arrive!'
The Sergeant's jaw tightened. 'Why were you tryin' to hide from us—shammin' dead?'
'From you?' Bastable looked round over the open field in surprise. 'I was . . . taking cover from those German planes!'
'But they'd gone—we took cover from them. An' you stayed flat. . . sir.' There was doubt in the Sergeant's voice.
Humiliation stared Bastable in the face—and he embraced it like a sinner in the Confessional. 'Because I was scared shitless, Sergeant—that's why! We haven't been bombed at Colembert—we haven't even seen enemy aircraft close up. I was heading for your chaps at Belleme, to get ammunition for our anti-tank rifles, when I ran into their tanks, just not far from here.'
Suddenly the Mendip sergeant's face cracked into friendliness. Not knowing who had won the Cup was one thing —but being frightened was a password he understood.
'Hop on, sir!' he commanded. 'Get moving, Darkie!'
Bastable threw himself into the carrier. 'Where's your Number Three?'
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The carrier squealed and jerked forward. 'Lost 'im near Doullens,' shouted the Sergeant. 'Jerry armoured car— but we knocked the bastard out with the Bren then—God knows how . . . Where's Jerry, sir?'
'Over the ridge, back there somewhere,' shouted Bastable.
'In what strength, sir?'
