The Hour of the Donkey

Never again—

The motor-cycle bucked and jumped and jarred under them, the noise and the wind deafening and blinding him.

But why?

Why?

Dear God—it had been hard to think before, to do anything but hold on, as though the speed and the incessant bumping dummy4

jumbled all his thoughts into one indistinguishable porridge of thought where nothing made sense. But now there were too many thoughts, and all of them were out of nightmares.

The wind stung tears from his eyes, he closed them tight and smelt that same antiseptic smell on the coarse material of Doc Saunders's battledress blouse.

Doc Saunders, too—Tetley-Robinson and Captain Harbottle and Chris Chichester and Corporal Smithers and CQMS

Gammidge and Nigel Audley—and—and—and—

Why?

He had to think however hard it was to think, because there was something in the back of his mind, like a lump in the porridge, and if he could only isolate it he would know what it was. But every time he came close to it some bone-jarring bump and the terrifying wheel-wobble which followed the bump drove coherent thought out of his head, and he could only hear Wimpy cursing and praying as he fought to control the Norton.

But why—?

'Oh, God!' said Wimpy suddenly, in a voice quite different from the one in which he had been cursing and praying. The motor-cycle decelerated sharply, began to wobble again—

then accelerated again.

dummy4

'Oh, God!' repeated Wimpy.

Again he decelerated, and this time the wobble came close to becoming uncontrollable. As Bastable opened his eyes he caught a glimpse of something huge and grey flashing past them—or they were flashing past it—a vehicle —and white faces—

'We've had it,' said Wimpy, almost conversationally.

The wobble was uncontrollable now—

'Let's go!' shouted Wimpy.

There was a grating metallic screech, and then a loud bang as they heeled over and the machine seemed to slide out from under them. Bastable bounced on to the road in a great starburst of shock which turned suddenly green.

Then oblivion—

X

There were shapes, moving—

And he looked up, and said, I see men as trees, walking. And after that He put His hands upon his eyes, and made him look up: and he was restored, and saw every man clearly—

But the men he saw clearly were Germans.

Bastable closed his eyes again.

This was the reality. It was what had always been going to dummy4

happen: what had happened since he had left the battalion had only delayed the inevitable. He had escaped the enemy once by the purest fluke, but his plans—his plans and Wimpy's plans—for escaping them again ... for crossing the line of march of a whole army as though it didn't exist... had been innocent and childish to the point of idiocy. They had had as much real hope of success as two lambs from a scattered flock in the midst of a pack of wolves.

His head ached abominably. And his soul ached abominably too, with the humiliation and helplessness of failure and defeat and captivity. A tide of misery washed over him and pulled him down into darkness.

'Are you all right, Captain?' said Wimpy.

As Bastable opened his eyes again something cold and wet touched his forehead. Wimpy was kneeling beside him, wiping his face with a damp rag.

'Don't move, there's a good chap,' continued Wimpy. 'Just lie still while I check you for broken bones... Captain.'

Instinctively, Bastable twitched his arms and legs to find out if they were still under his orders.

'I said... don't move.' This time Wimpy's tone had a hint of command in it as he ran his hands over Bastable's legs. 'I'm the doctor, remember— and you're the patient, Captain.'

'I'm all right,' said Bastable hoarsely. 'I'm— ouch!'

'So you are, so you are,' murmured Wimpy gently, in strange contrast with the fierce ungentle squeeze which he had just dummy4

applied to Bastable's knee-cap. 'No bones broken . . . but just remember that I'm the doctor, and you're the patient, Captain ... So—lie back again—'

Before Bastable could protest Wimpy pushed him down flat, placed one thumb on his eye, lifted his eyelid, and