The Hour of the Donkey

Atrocities?

What had Wimpy done?

Captain W. M. Willis?

But—

Wimpy had told him, in that breathless pack of lies a moment ago, what he must say. But he could never stand up to any prolonged interrogation in support of it—what cellar, where? What fusilier?

What had Wimpy done?

But—

'Captain Bast-abell—do you hear me?' The German officer leaned over him. 'Do-you-hear-me?'

Bastable groaned realistically, and heard himself groan, and reflected that the sound was convincing because most of it was made up of genuine pain and fear and bewilderment.

'Bastable . .. Captain ... 210498,' he whispered feebly.

'Bastable . . . Captain . . . 210498 . . .' and closed his eyes.

One of the other Germans spoke, snapping out harsh words which sounded uncomfortabiy like disbelief in his performance.

'He can't tell you anything about atrocities,' said Wimpy sharply. ' But I can.'

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For a moment no one spoke. Bastable didn't dare open his eyes, but he could feel the pressure on him lifting.

'What?'

'I can tell you about the atrocities,' said Wimpy. 'But you won't like what I have to tell.'

'What do you mean, Doctor?' The German officer seemed to have forgotten his earlier threat. But then Wimpy had side-stepped that neatly, and not only with that promise to tell all, thought Bastable admiringly. For by also telling the blighter that what he had to say contained an unpleasant surprise he had challenged him to listen to it.

'I thought you would already know—when you asked me about Captain Willis I thought you knew,' said Wimpy. 'But when you mentioned ... atrocities ... I realized at once that you didn't know.'

There was a pause. Bastable wondered fearfully whether Wimpy wasn't overdoing the mystei'y.

'Know what, Doctor?' The suggestion of irritation was there, but the German had it well under control.

'Who is it that wants to interview the late Captain Willis so badly ... sir?' Wimpy remembered his military manners belatedly. Bastable opened one eye wide enough to examine the German officer more carefully. The man looked hard as nails, no longer young but still in the prime of life, and carried an air of authority which established his seniority as surely as the badges on his collar. There was also something dummy4

else about him which eluded Bastable for a moment—it was almost a touch of Nigel Audley ... an indefinable touch of class, if the Germans had such a thing.

Or perhaps it was simply that his present silence was reminiscent of Audley's self-control when he was beginning to get angry. With Audley it was often the quieter, the angrier.

'Not the fellows with the skull-and-crossbones and the zigzag lightning flashes, by any chance... sir?' enquired Wimpy almost casually.

'Doctor...' now the self-control was like a danger-signal.

'They would.' Suddenly Wimpy was grim. 'And I can guess why they want to lay their murdering hands on every man who wears that lanyard—' he pointed at Bastable's shoulder,

'—every man who wears that lanyard and who's still in the land of the living—because they don't want one of them to live to tell the tale, that's why!'

One of the other German officers, a fresh-faced young man, said something then, and there was a brief instant of silence.

But when the young man opened his mouth again the senior German officer cut him off with a raised, leather- gloved hand.

'You want to know about an atrocity, sir—' Wimpy plunged straight into the gap. '—well, I can show you one! It's just down the road, in Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts—by God! if you want to know about an atrocity, I can show you one! My dummy4

battalion—the battalion in which I was medical officer . . .' he stumbled over his mistake, suddenly incoherent, lifting a hand which Bastable saw was skinned and bloody from contact with the road ' ... my battalion— my battalion, sir—'

his voice lifted '—we are the battalion now. There's no need to send us back to the skull-and-crossbones brigade. You can shoot us both here, by the roadside, and have done with it. At least we'll have been shot by soldiers, not bloody butchers!'

Bastable sensed that everyone was listening to Wimpy, the soldiers beside the lorries as well as the knot of officers in front of them. And that, he supposed, was what Wimpy intended, if Wimpy was still play-acting: to make what he was saying as public as possible, for all to hear and remember.

If Wimpy was still play-acting—

'Control yourself, Captain Saunders!' said the German officer sharply. 'There is no question of your being shot. You are a prisoner-of-war—and a medical officer—'