The Hour of the Donkey

which had attached itself to him. Everybody in the mess had either a Christian name or a nickname to distinguish him socially from the formal military world of 'sirs' and 'misters' outside—

everybody, that was, except himself, who had somehow become frozen into 'Bastable' in the mess (and usually the more insulting variant rhyming with barstard); which was a source of constant, nagging, irritating, bewildering and unfair pain to him. 'What's mad about drill, man?'

Captain Willis looked at him in surprise, as though he hadn't expected the faculty of speech in Captain Bar stable , but before he could reveal his heart's desire the burly figure of the battalion medical officer filled the doorway beside him.

'I don't know what you want to do, Wimpy—and frankly I couldn't care less,' said Captain Saunders. 'But I want my breakfast—Steward! Ham and eggs—three eggs—and don't toast the bread ... And send across to the cafe over the road for a large pot of coffee on the double—and say It's for

'M'sieur le medicin', don't forget that—a large pot!'

Captain Willis chuckled dryly. 'Trust the medical profession!

I take it you have been feathering your nest with the locals, Doc? Touching up les jeunes demoiselles as part of the Anglo-French entente cordiale? '

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Captain Saunders reached across the table and tore a six-inch hunk from one of the long French loaves. 'I have delivered a French baby—male. 'Class of 1940' I suppose they'd call the poor little devil, when they finally call him up ... in 1958 which they probably will.' He ate a piece of bread from the hunk, without benefit of butter. 'And the Germans are across the Somme, at Peronne.'

For a moment no one at the table spoke, or even moved. The medical officer's words seemed to hang in the air, like an unthinkable wisp of smoke over a dry cornfield on a still day.

'What?' said Major Tetley-Robinson.

'Where?' said Captain Willis.

'Who said?' said Major Audley simultaneously.

'Nonsense!' said Major Tetley-Robinson.

Captain Saunders munched his mouthful of bread. 'That's what the French say—the people I've just been talking to.'

'Refugees,' said Major Tetley-Robinson contemptuously.

'We've heard enough rumours from them to keep us going for a year. If we start believing what they say, they'll have the bloody Boche in Calais next week, queuing for the cross-channel ferries.'

Captain Saunders continued munching. 'A week is right—' he nodded '—they say the Germans'll be on the Channel coast in a week. Hundreds of tanks, driving like hell—that's what they say . . . Actually, they said 'thousands', but that seemed to be stretching it a bit, I thought.' He nodded, but then turned the dummy4

nod into a negative shake. 'These weren't refugees though, Charlie. It was the station-master's wife's baby I delivered.

He had it from an engine-driver—the information, I mean, not the baby. And all the lines are down now, he says—to Peronne.'

'Fifth Columnists!' snapped Tetley-Robinson. 'A lot of those refugees that came through on the main road, to the south, yesterday... they looked suspiciously able-bodied to me.'

'Peronne . . .' murmured Major Audley. He turned towards Lieutenant Davidson. 'You're alleged to be our IO, Dickie—so where the devil were the Germans supposed to be as of last night?'

Lieutenant Davidson squirmed uncomfortably. 'Well, sir . . .

things have been a bit knotted-up at Brigade—or they were yesterday.'

'What d'you mean 'knotted-up' boy?'

'Well . . . actually . . . things seem to be a bit confused, don't you know . . . rather.' Lieutenant Davidson manoeuvred the crumbs on his plate into a neat pile.

'No, Dickie,' said Major Audley.

'No, sir—Nigel?' Lieutenant Davidson blinked.

'No, Dickie. No—I don't know. And no, I'm not confused. To be confused one must know something. But as I know nothing I am not confused, I am merely unenlightened. So enlighten me, Dickie—enlighten us all.'

'Or at least—confuse us,' murmured Willis. 'What does dummy4

Brigade say?'

'Well, actually . . .' Lieutenant Davidson began to rearrange the crumbs, ' . . . actually, Brigade says we don't belong to them at all. So they haven't really said anything, actually.'

'What d'you mean, 'don't belong to them'?' asked Major Audley.

'They say we should be at Colembert, sir—Nigel.'

'But we are at Colembert, dear boy.'

'No, sir ... That is to say, yes—but actually no, you see.'

Lieutenant Davidson tried to attract Major Tetley-Robinson's attention.

'Ah! Now we're getting somewhere,' Major Audley nodded encouragingly. 'Now I am beginning to become confused at least. We are at Colembert—but we're not. Please confuse me further, Dickie.'

Lieutenant Davidson abandoned the crumbs. 'This is Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts, sir. But apparently there's