The Hour of the Donkey

question about Nigel Audley, or Nigel Audley's young David, who had known all the answers to Wimpy's questions, and was therefore exceptional among his fellow schoolboys—like father, like son, for God's sake: Nigel Audley had never been at a loss to know what to say—unlike Herbert Bastable's young Henry, who could never make head nor tail of hic, hoec, hoc and Caesar's Gallic Wars, any more than he could conjugate e tre and avoir in all their variation, or handle the Boys anti-tank rifle properly—

'What did you do?'

It was exactly like Why are you called ' Wimpy', except that it was the real question at last, inadequately phrased but still the one he had been searching for all along in the midst of the other questions.

'What d'you mean—what did I do?' Wimpy frowned.

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Bastable seized the chance of elaborating what he had said, necessity cancelling out the delicacy of the enquiry. 'Why do they want... Captain Willis? What have you done?'

'Oh—I see!' Wimpy's face cleared. 'You haven't got the point, old boy—I thought you had! I haven't done anything—'

'What?'

'Not a damn thing! Except run away, that is — and hide in a drain, and a lot of other uncomfortable places, like in hedges and behind dungheaps, don't you know.'

'But—but . . . ?'

'You haven't got the point at all. But then neither did I at first... But... it's you they want, Harry—don't you see? It isn't me at all—' Wimpy cut off the explanation quickly '—now, just lie back and take it easy, Captain—and that's an order . . .

doctor's orders, in fact. Right?'

Bastable was aware that there were Germans in his immediate vision, to Wimpy's left. He rolled his eyes uneasily to take them in more accurately as Wimpy rose to his feet to face them.

They were new Germans—or at least not the senior officer and the young fresh-faced one, certainly. With a sudden spasm of fear he searched their collars for the deadly lightning zig-zag which he had first seen on the tunic Wimpy had exhibited as a trophy on the edge of the wood outside Colembert. But these soldiers, he saw with relief, had no such distinguishing marks of death: they were heavily armed, and dummy4

dusty and dirty like the men lounging among the vehicles a few yards away, but they appeared to be ordinary, run-of-the-mill soldiers.

Also, they bore themselves deferentially, almost apologetically, not like captors with prisoners but more as other ranks in the presence of officers.

The foremost one, who was built like a tank and had badges of rank on his arm, came to attention in front of Wimpy, clicking his heels and raising his arm in a military salute.

'Yes?' said Wimpy sharply, half-lifting his arm to return the salute, and then remembering at the last moment that he was wearing nothing on his head. 'But nicht . . . nicht speaken . . .

Deutsch, old boy. Understand—comprenez?'

Evidently Wimpy was not going to reveal that he had a good working knowledge of German, as well as French and Latin and Greek, so long as that secret might be of service to them.

The German started to say something, the tone of his voice matching his bearing, but then thought better of it and stood to one side, gesturing to the men behind him. The ranks parted to reveal two men carrying a stretcher.

'Oh, Christ!' murmured Wimpy.

The stretcher-bearers advanced towards the ex-schoolmaster and deposited the stretcher at his feet. Bastable lifted himself on to his elbows to get a better view of its occupant.

The wounded man was a German soldier.

Bastable craned his neck. The German was dark-haired and dummy4

white-faced, and very young, and his tunic and trousers were undone, but there was no sign of any wound on him. As Bastable stared at him the boy moved his head and for an instant their eyes met. Then he twisted his head away, as though embarrassed, and at the same time arched his body and gripped the side of the stretcher as if the sudden movement had hurt him.

'Oh, Christ!' murmured Wimpy again, even more under his breath.

The German who had saluted and spoken to him launched himself into a pantomime of slowly-pronounced words and exaggerated gestures, such as a white explorer might have used to communicate with an African tribesman, the burden of which seemed to be that his comrade had eaten something that didn't agree win him and had a bad stomach-ache as a result.

Wimpy listened and nodded gravely at intervals until the German had completed his description of events.

'Has he been sick?' He pointed to his mouth. 'Sick?'

The German frowned at him. 'Bitte?'

'Sick—' Wimpy pantomimed the act of vomiting.

'Ja, ja!' said one of the other Germans, nodding vigorously.

'Uh-huh.. .' Wimpy nodded again A curious change had corne over him: where the usual Wimpy expression was one of casual, almost cynical detachment from the world, as though he found its events somewhat ridiculous and was taking part dummy4

in them against his better judgement, now he displayed an almost magisterial gravily, with his chin tucked