The Hour of the Donkey

The blanket was ripped from him before he had time to draw breath, and he found himself staring at a German face which had been thrust under the table.

The German's eyes widened in astonishment and his mouth opened even wider. All Bastable's rage transferred itself in that instant from the rest of the world to this one man, the final disturber of his misery.

The German dropped the edge of the blanket, and started to draw back and to shout at the same time as— Bastable caught his wrist. The grip was too weak—it was too slow off the mark to tighten in time—but it held the man just long enough to destroy his co-ordination: instead of ducking back and straightening up and shouting, he failed to clear the table in time and caught the back of his head with a loud crack on the underside of it, which reduced the shout to an exclamation of dummy4

pain. At the same time his soft forage cap tipped over his eyes and he let go his rifle, which fell with a clatter on the stone floor.

Bastable grabbed wildly with his other hand, and felt his fingers close round the leather ankle of a jackboot. He pulled back with all his might, felt the German begin to overbalance, and rolled himself violently off the stretcher against the man's legs in an attempt to sweep him off his feet.

The space between the table and the wall on this side of the room was so constricted that for a desperate moment he thought the man wasn't going to fall. Then the hobnails on the jackboots lost their purchase with the stone, and the man fell with a scrape and a crash in the narrow aisle, with Bastable's face between his legs. A field-grey knee raked the side of his head in passing, and then a thigh pressed against his face: he bit into the thigh savagely, like an animal, through the thick material. One of his arms was now imprisoned under the German's leg, but with his other he could reach upwards, towards a face—a snapping mouth, like his own—a rough chin—and a throat—

He clamped his fingers on the throat, but as he did so a hand fastened on his own throat, the thumb digging agonizingly into the soft angle of his jaw. He lashed out furiously with his leg, which was half across the German's chest. For a moment the fingers on his throat lost their grip, but then the German managed to wrap his other arm round the leg and the fingers tightened again, pushing his head back. He abandoned the dummy4

attempt to free his leg and concentrated on his enemy's throat, but the pain of the grip on his own windpipe was too great.

Suddenly, he realized that he was no longer trying to subdue the German, he was fighting for his life. The realization caused him to heave wildly in an attempt to break free, but the convulsion failed to loosen the pressure—it was his own grip that was weakening as his neck was forced back towards breaking point, which he could only relieve by pressing downwards into the very neck-grip that was squeezing the life out of him. He could feel his strength ebbing.

His enemy was the stronger man— his consciousness was slipping into darkness— he had taken his enemy at a disadvantage, but his enemy was the stronger man—and defeat was red agony as the carrier burst into flame and cane crushing down on top of him—

A great fiery gulp of air, more painful than anything he had ever experienced, burned his chest, straining it to breaking point.

And now another gulp of air— and light: and shapes swimming out of focus in the pain, under a crushing weight—

'Harry!'

The air was cold now, and he was swimming in sweat, and the weight was gone, and Wimpy was bending over him—

Wimpy's face expanding like a balloon, then receding, then dummy4

expanding again, and finally stabilizing.

He tried to speak, but the words clogged around a great lump in his throat.

'Come on, Harry—we've got to get out of here, old boy—come on!' Wimpy pulled ineffectually at his hand from far away.

His throat hurt abominably, and his ears were ringing.

Wimpy's voice, and other noises, came from beyond the ringing, muted by it. He felt sick, and utterly confused by his surroundings.

Wimpy was supporting himself on a rifle, steadying himself with it. He reached out again.

Bastable came to himself with a jolt. He was still lying between the table and the wall, alongside the German —his right arm was still imprisoned under the German's legs.

There was a loud bang, and the house shook under him, around him. Pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling, exploding on the table.

'We're being shelled—come on!' Wimpy's voice rose. For Christ's sake, Harry—come on, man! Now's the time!'

Bastable struggled to his feet from under the dead weight of the German, steadying himself on the edge of the table.

Wimpy turned, and began to hobble towards the outside door. Bastable could see the bright sunshine through the glass panels of the door. It surprised him that the glass wasn't broken. It surprised him that he was still alive. The glass ought to be broken, and he ought to be dead.

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He looked down. The German's face was grey-white, except where there was a great bloody contusion on his temple, just above his left eye—the blood was bright red, and as he stared at it a globule of it rolled sideways into the hairline above the man's ear, into a congealing clot.

Dead men didn't bleed— the thought came into Bastable's brain as a matter-of-fact observation, divorced from reality.

Then, suddenly, he remembered everything, and was very frightened.

Wimpy was fumbling with the door handle. As he opened the door Bastable's fear had resolved itself into its component parts: he didn't want to go out into that fearful outside world of sunlight and Germans, but he couldn't