The Hour of the Donkey

'Arras—' The name came to Bastable's lips involuntarily, almost like a groan. 'But . . . but . . .'

Towards Arras.' The German regarded him with a flicker of sympathy, which only made the news more unbearable. 'Oh, yes, Captain . . . your comrades are still in Arras. And they defend the town as you would wish them to do—with great courage.'

The very fact that he was sugaring the pill finally confirmed Bastable's fears about its fatal contents.

'But I do not think they will be there very long. General Rommel's column is already to the south-west of the town, he has only to swing northwards, on to Vimy Ridge ...' The gloved hand completed the encirclement of what had been the General Headquarters of the British Expeditionary Force only a few days earlier, and Bastable's heart sank finally into the bottomless hole in the centre of that circle. For four unconquerable years in the last war Arras had been Britain's other Gibralter, second only to Ypres. Now it was about to fall, with all that blood-soaked ground, in a matter of hours—

that ground in which his own flesh-and-blood already lay in Uncle Arthur's unmarked grave—not in a matter of days and weeks and months and years, but in a matter of hours, dummy4

perhaps even minutes.

Bastable stared at the German with a despair which made what he had experienced under the wrecked Bren carrier seem like a happy time. Every disaster, every humiliation, had been a false crest, concealing a worse one behind it; but this was too much, the last straw, the final reality of defeat And now even the slim chance that he could do anything to avert that awful reality was gone-even worse, it was revealed to him for what it really was and had always been: a silly, hopeless, useless gesture that would have made no difference either way, even if he had succeeded.

'Defeat is something every soldier must learn to accept, Captain,' said the German Colonel, his voice hardening suddenly as though he could read Bastable's face, and despised the weakness he saw on it. 'Now, Doctor—there will be other prisoners . . . wounded prisoners too, who will require your skill... and you will be able to join them. And ... I will naturally send the Captain with you, of course.' He paused. 'I think that will be ... better for you both —do you not agree?'

Wimpy glanced quickly at Bastable, then back to the Colonel.

'If you say so, sir.'

The Colonel nodded. 'I do say so. Also . . . there has not yet been time to investigate . . . that which you spoke of earlier, I must tell you, Doctor.'

Wimpy opened his mouth, but then closed it again without dummy4

saying anything, which struck Bastable as being quite out of the ordinary, and very odd indeed.

The German gave him a long look. 'In war ... in war, Doctor, there are things which happen, which should not happen—

which are to be regretted. And also there are things which ought to happen—which ought to be done—which cannot in the circumstances be done ... For which there can be regrets also.' He paused again. 'And there are also times to remain silent, Doctor—in the best interests of one's patient, shall we say?'

Before Wimpy could reply to any of that incomprehensible advice (and, just as incomprehensibly to Bastable, Wimpy showed no sign of wanting to reply to it), the German Colonel turned to look down the road. 'Ah!' His manner changed. 'I think your transport is ready—it is even being backed up the road to save you unnecessary exertion, Doctor!' He smiled frostily. 'I suspect that is a way of showing gratitude for your service, perhaps . . . The soldier you treated is ... what is your word—'mascot', I think ... he is only seventeen years of age. They think I do not know, naturally.' He looked down at Bastable. 'I was nineteen years of age, Captain, when I was captured at Bourlon Wood in 1917

—I remember that I wept at the time, it was my first fight . . .'

He looked away, and then back to Wimpy. 'My men are still sentimental, Doctor—they haven't been properly blooded yet

—which is just as well for both of us, I think . . . You do understand, Doctor?'

dummy4

'I understand, sir,' said Wimpy. Thank you, sir.'

'Good.' The Colonel turned away without another word. His men made way for him as he passed between the parked lorries and the smaller truck which had backed up the road towards them. Bastable caught a last glimpse of him as he stopped for a moment to speak to one of them. There was a sudden burst of laughter, the slightly forced laughter of men who required half a second to work out whether it was proper to laugh and had decided that it was, and then he was gone.

'Get up, Harry,' murmured Wimpy. 'But try and look groggy.'

Bastable levered himself off the grass verge. It didn't take much acting ability to simulate grogginess, his knees were like water and Wimpy's supporting arm was for a moment a necessity.

'Ouch!' said Wimpy sharply in his ear. 'My bloody ankle!'

Instantly shamed by a genuine injury, Bastable swung his own arm to support Wimpy and they hobbled together to the dropped tailboard of the truck. With clumsy gentleness, almost with embarrassment, a large German soldier helped him up on to the vehicle's floor.

The German grinned at him and breathed a mixture of alcohol and garlic into his face. 'War over, Tommy!' said encouragingly. 'Goot—yes?'

Whatever it was, it wasn't goot, thought Bastable desperately. But he could feel the thought weakening him, dummy4

that he was still alive when so many others were dead, and that being alive was immeasurably better than being dead—

yet when he thought that he would be a total prisoner, and as good as dead, and that would add treason to cowardice.

'Thank you,' he said stiffly.