The moment of doubt and uncertainty elongated, stretching Bastable's nerves with it until their tautness became a dummy4
physical sensation quivering down his back. With the child in his arms, he knew that it would be useless to try and run. But with his knees trembling like this he couldn't have run if he'd wanted to. And there was still nowhere to run, anyway.
The German stiffened suddenly. 'Zair-voll—' he gave Wimpy an abrupt nod, and reversed the map case '—votre nom, m'sieur?'
Wimpy swallowed. 'Ah—ahem!—Laval, m'sieur—Gaston Laval.'
The German had produced a stub of indelible pencil: he was writing on a piece of greyish paper — on a message pad clipped to the back of the map case.
He nodded towards Bastable. 'Ay votre fee?'
'Alys—Alys Dominique Marie Laval—'
'Alys... Laval...' The German looked at Bastable again.
'Bloch—Onri Bloch,' supplied Wimpy.
Onri?
'Bloch . . .' The German continued to write, moistening the tip of the pencil from time to time on his tongue—an action which reduced him from a figure of terrifying menace to one of everyday ordinariness, who had the same problems with army-issue indelible pencils as Harry Bastable himself had experienced.
'Say sar,' The German signed the paper with a flourish.
dummy4
But. . . Gaston Laval, and Alys Laval—Alys! and
Onri Block-headed Bastable . . . what the blue-blazes had the German written?
And now he was handing the paper to Wimpy—and Wimpy was gabbling effusive gratitude, and bobbing and bowing over the scrap of paper in his hand, until the German finally cut him off with a curt 'M'sieur', half embarrassed and half contemptuous (or maybe simply scared, like any British officer in the same position, thought Bastable, that he was about to be embraced and kissed on both cheeks by an unshaven, garlic-breathed Froggie).
But whatever it was, it turned him away hastily, and marched him back down the pathway towards the group by the staff car at the roadside. Bastable watching him incredulously, aware that he had understood only a tenth of what he had seen with his own eyes, and that even that tenth was unbelievable.
'Quite a decent fellow, that,' murmured Wimpy. 'For a damn Jerry . . .'
'W—'
'Sssh, old boy!'
The German had reached his colleagues. He presented the map to the most formidable of them and pointed to something on it.
'Better not show too much interest in the proceedings.' said Wimpy softly, swivelling awkwardly towards Bastable, trying dummy4
to keep his weight off his bad ankle. 'Don't stare, old boy—
come on and get some of the things out of this damn cart, and help me into it—the sooner we remove ourselves from the scene, the better, I shouldn't wonder.
Bastable started guiltily, aware that he had been watching the Germans pore over their map with a fascination unbecoming a French peasant.
'Put the child down—here, give her to me—' Wimpy held out his arms.
The limpet was again unwilling to leave Bastable's arms at first, and Bastable himself was almost as unhappy to surrender her; but with reassuring squeezes and comforting noises the thing was done again at last.
He started to unload the cart.
Leave me something soft to sit on.' murmured Wimpy at his elbow. 'And . . . that parcel there looks like the one in the kitchen—if it's food, we need it ... Is it?'
Bastable tore at the corner of the long package.
It's bread—leave it in,' hissed Wimpy. 'And those bottles of wine—leave them in too.'
Bastable grunted irritably at the unnecessary instructions.
The schoolmaster in Wimpy, which was never far below the surface, seemed to have assumed control of both of them.
'Hurry it up, old boy—hurry it up!'
Damn the man! thought Bastable hotly. There was a welter of dummy4
unanswered questions in his head, jostling each other furiously for precedence.
What had Wimpy said to the German?
What was written on that piece of paper?
And . . . Colembert—for Christ's sake—Colembert!
