The Hour of the Donkey

another Colembert, with no ponts, up towards St Omer. It seems the MCO at Boulogne attached us to the wrong convoy, or something—that's what Brigade says—'

'Good God!' exclaimed Major Audley. 'But St Omer's miles from here—it's near Boulogne.'

'Yes . . .' nodded Willis. 'And that would account for Jackie Johnson and the whole of 'A' Company being absent without leave, of course. Only poor old Jackie didn't lose us after all—

he just went off to the right Colembert. . . and we lost him, dummy4

eh?'

But Major Audley had his eye fixed on Major Tetley-Robinson now. 'So what the hell are we doing about it, Charlie?'

Major Tetley-Robinson almost looked uncomfortable. 'The matter is in hand, Nigel. That's all I can tell you.'

Willis smiled. ''Theirs not to reason why—theirs but to do and die', Nigel. Same thing happened to the jolly old Light Brigade.'

'Same thing happens in hospital,' observed Captain Saunders wisely, nodding to the whole table.

'What same thing, Doc?' enquired Willis.

'Wrong patient gets sent to surgery to have his leg cut off.

Always causes a devil of a row afterwards. Somebody gets the push, somebody else gets promoted. Hard luck on the patient. And hard luck on us if the Huns are in Peronne, I suppose.'

Major Audley considered Captain Saunders for a moment, and then turned back to Lieutenant Davidson. 'Are the Germans in Peronne, Dickie? What does Brigade say?'

Lieutenant Davidson looked directly at Major Tetley-Robinson. 'Sir . . . ?' he appealed.

'Harrumph!' Major Tetley-Robinson brushed his moustache with the back of his hand. 'That would be telling!'

'It would indeed, Charlie,' said Major Audley cuttingly.

dummy4

'They must be in touch with the French,' said Captain Willis.

'The French are supposed to be north-west of us here, and Peronne is . . .' he frowned,' ... is bloody south-west, if my memory serves me correctly—bloody south-west!'

Willis's memory did serve him correctly, thought Bastable uneasily. In fact, Peronne was so far south as to be impossible; there just had to be two Peronnes, in the same way as there had been two Colemberts.

'What does Brigade say, Dickie?' Willis pressed the intelligence Officer.

'Well, . . . actually, we've lost touch with—'

'That's enough!' Major Tetley-Robinson snapped ' The disposition of the French Army—and the enemy—are none of our business at the moment.'

'I hope you're right, Charlie,' said Captain Willis.

Major Tetley-Robinson glared at him. 'We are a lines-of-communication battalion. Company commanders and other officers will be briefed as necessary—at the proper time.'

'Hmmm...' Major Audley exchanged glances with Willis, and even spared Bastable a fleeting half-glance. 'Well, I shall look forward to that, Charlie.' He extracted a cigarette from his slim gold case. 'I shall indeed.'

Major Tetley-Robinson brushed his moustache again.

'There's a lot of loose talk going around, Nigel. Damned loose talk.'

Captain Saunders stopped eating. 'Are you referring to me, dummy4

by any chance? Or to my friends the station-master and his engine-driver colleague?'

'I didn't mean you, Doc,' said the Major hastily.

'No?' Captain Saunders pointed with his knife. 'Well, Major, my friend the station-master is a man of sound commonsense, and pro-British too, however contradictory those two conditions may appear to be at this moment, diagnostically speaking.'

Major Tetley-Robinson's expression changed from one of apology to that of bewilderment. 'I don't quite take your meaning, Doc.'

'But I do,' said Major Audley. 'Did the station-master see the Boches, Doc? At Peronne?'

'No. Not with his own eyes—that's true,' Captain Saunders shook his head. 'But he spoke to the driver who claims to have taken the last train out of Peronne. And he claimed to have been machine-gunned by tanks with large black crosses on them.'

'Tanks or aeroplanes?' Audley leaned forward intently.

They've been bombing all round us the last couple of days, remember. We seem to be the only place they've missed out on, for some reason . . . But their dive-bombers will have been making a dead set on trains, for sure— could it have been planes, not tanks?'

For a moment Bastable was tempted to speak, to explain why Colembert—Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts—had been missed, if dummy4

not overlooked, by the German Luftwaffe. Simply (which one glance at the map had confirmed) it was not worth attacking

—a small town in the middle of a triangle of main roads, the destruction of which would block none of those