The Hour of the Donkey

were out cold

—I didn't know whether it was Christmas or Hogmanay ...

But they had poor old Doc's book of words off me before I knew what was happening. It didn't occur to me that they'd add two-and-two together and make five, I assure you. But it dummy4

was bloody lucky for both of us that they did. Because . . .' He paused, and for a moment his eyes left Bastable's, to stare at something else.

'Because what?'

'Because it was you they were interested in, Harry.' Again Wimpy paused, and his eyes came back to Bastable's. 'Or rather, it was your lanyard that excited them—the good old PRO yellow-and-grey badge of distinction, that's what!'

Die Abuzsleine.

'When they came back to me, they called me 'Doctor', and they asked me about Captain Willis straight off. And as they seemed rather disappointed that you weren't Captain Willis, old boy, I decided that I wouldn't volunteer for the job.

Because if they want Captain Willis so badly I reckoned it'd be safer to find out why before owning up.'

At last they had come round to the question which Bastable had wanted to ask all the time, but which had eluded him.

'I know it's a hell of a risk, claiming to be poor old Doc,'

admitted Wimpy. 'And it's an even bigger risk to throw Colembert at them—if they're wrong 'uns, then we've had it—

they'll shut us up, and that'll be that. .. And if they duck the job themselves, and hand us over to those bastards who did for our chaps, we've had it too . . . But if I'm any judge of character, he won't, not after saying we're prisoners of the German Army—and in front of his officers, that's a good sign, I think . . . Besides all of which, once I'd answered to being dummy4

Doc, I couldn't let you talk too much. I had to say something, just to take the heat off you, old boy!'

'But if they find out you're not Doc . . .' Bastable trailed off as he remembered that wasn't what he had intended to say a moment before. But everything was so confusing that he was unable to hold anything in his mind, it seemed.

'No reason why they should.' Wimpy shrugged. 'And what we've got to concentrate on is giving them the slip before that can happen, anyway.'

Bastable's wits returned to him with a jolt. To his shame, he realized that the idea of escaping hadn't even occurred to him. But Wimpy was right, and doubly right too: it was not only their duty to try to escape at the first opportunity, as British soldiers—it was also an absolute necessity that they did so in order to stop the false Brigadier in his tracks before he could do irreparable damage.

'And ... the sooner we do that, the better.' Wimpy took a surreptitious glance around him. 'No chance at the moment, I'm afraid. But we can't afford to wait too long...' His eyes came back to Bastable. 'Old chap I knew at school—taught physics and chemistry very badly—he was taken prisoner twice in the last war, once near Ypres in 'fifteen and again near Bapaume during the retreat in 'eighteen. Got away both times . . . and he said the longer you put it off, the harder it is. His formula was to make 'em think he was glad to be out of it, that put them off their guard .. . We can't very well do that. . . but so long as they think you're injured and I'm in the dummy4

RAMC they may not watch us too closely. That'll be our best chance, so don't recover for the time being, Harry old boy, while I mop your fevered brow.'

He leaned over Bastable and applied the damp rag again, and winked encouragingly as he did so. Bastable felt hope rekindle inside him like a tiny candle flame which had almost been extinguished by a fierce draught, but which was now burning more steadily behind the shield of Wimpy's irrepressible confidence. He recognized, with a twinge of guilt, that his dislike of the fellow in the past had been grounded on pure envy—impure envy: Wimpy was cleverer than he was, but he had always half-uuspected that and had even tried to devalue it into mere schoolmasterish general knowledge which he could dismiss his being inferior to the practical commonsense of businessmen like himself. Now he could acknowledge that cleverness for the resourceful intelligence it really was, and the natural leadership that went with it.

'And when we do start running, remember that it's every man for himself,' murmured Wimpy casually. 'I shan't worry about you, and you mustn't look for me—that'll double our chances of getting away. Agreed?'

Bastable frowned up at him.

'Agreed, old man?' Wimpy pressed him, massaging his thumbs again one after another. Once more Bastable observed that his hands were trembling.

Suddenly, with unbearable clarity, he remembered that dummy4

Wimpy had complained of a sprained ankle, and he knew exactly what lay behind that casual, selfish-sounding insistence. When it came to running, Wimpy didn't think that he could make it. But he was doing his utmost to see that his sprained ankle didn't ruin Harry Bastable's chances, even though he was scared half out of his wits. The casual voice and the endless chatter concealed the reality and the desperation which the hands betrayed.

An emotion which was more than mere admiration flooded over Bastable. He himself was too stupid and too unimaginative to know what real fear was like—his pale version of fear was simple self-regarding cowardice. But Wimpy was too intelligent not to recognize his own fear for what it was, and to fight against it for all his worth.

Up until yesterday, Bastable realized, he had never had any doubts about his own courage—he had taken it for granted, because there wasn't any choice in the matter. In the battalion, courage was a group activity; the only thing that had frightened any officer was that he might not do his job properly in full view of the CO, or Major Tetley-Robinson, or his own company sergeant-major.

But courage wasn't like that at all, and now he knew that he was a coward, and that Wimpy was a brave man.

'Agreed, Harry?' said Wimpy for the third time.