The Hour of the Donkey

It didn't matter now.

She would get in the way—and that mattered.

She would be a burden. Escaping the Germans was bad enough, but to be saddled with a child as well—he could recall vividly how little Alice had weighed him down, and how glad he had been to be rid of her at last—but to be dummy4

saddled with a child was an unfair burden. She might be the very difference, the last straw of the burden, which held them back and betrayed them.

But it didn't matter, because there wasn't any choice any more than there had been a choice leaving little Alice crying by the roadside. He hated it, and he hated the damned child, and it was stupid, and he despised himself for the irrational sentimentality of it—there must be hundreds of children like this one—bloody hundreds of them— children lost, or left behind, or orphaned—bloody hundreds of them—and this one was only ene more among them . . . and maybe one of the lucky ones at that, because she was still alive, and because someone would look after her, sooner or later.

So what he was about to do certainly didn't make any sense.

But it didn't matter: there still wasn't any choice.

He couldn't reach her quickly enough. Even before he was within arm's reach of her he opened his arms to her. Then she was in them again, and holding him tightly again, and sharing her fear and her need with him.

For a moment her hair was in his face, obscuring the view until he shifted one hand to press her head gently against his shoulder.

Nothing had changed outside. There was Wimpy, standing awkwardly on one-and-a-half feet, and there was the German officer; and beyond them there was the group of officers beside the staff car, still engrossed in their argument; and dummy4

behind them, on the roadway, the dust and the din rose together from moving vehicles and marching men in an endless single-file.

Nothing had changed. For an instant Bastable forgot everything else in the sickened realization that this was the enemy—this was the German Army—and that he was still a helpless spectator, a fugitive from a defeated army.

No! He tightened his grip on the child. No! It was impossible that it could happen like this. This was only one corner of the battlefield, and he wouldn't believe it—he must force himself not to believe it, never to believe it!

He could hear the guns in the distance, and his head ached, and he was bone-weary.

The German officer looked at him briefly, just one quick dismissive glance, and then turned back to Wimpy, raising his hand to the brim of his cap.

'M'sieur—je vous rr-mercy.'

He was turning away—

'M'sieur!' cried Wimpy suddenly. 'Siv-oo-play, M'sieur—

Capitaine!'

Please?

The German caught himself in mid-turn, and turned back.

'M'sieur?'

Was Wimpy mad? For Christ's sake—the German had been leaving them, and Wimpy had stopped him—for Christ's sake!

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Wimpy hopped forward towards him painfully. 'M'sieur—

Capitaine—'—and plunged into another stream of French, of which Bastable could only catch the pleading tone.

'Kommon?' The German frowned, following the words and the gestures doubtfully—Wimpy gesticulated to himself, and to his bandaged foot as he spoke, and to Bastable himself, and to the child, finally towards the road.

'Colembert,' concluded Wimpy.

Colembert?

'Kolombert?' repeated the German.

'Oui, m'sieur,' Wimpy nodded obsequiously, pointing again.

'Sate-oh-sood . . . oon-peteet-vee . . . va-kilomatre—Co-lem-bear . . .' He pronounced the name with appalling clarity.

'Pray de Belleme.'

The German consulated his map, still frowning. 'Ko-lem-bear . . . Ach-so! Kolembert! Oui!'

This time Wimpy really was mad—stark, staring, raving mad!

There was no other possible explanation. On the outside he still presented the nervous and voluble servility to be expected of a French civilian in his predicament. But on the inside . . .

The German officer looked up again from his map, pursing his lip as though he shared Bastable's doubts. 'Hmmm . . .'