The Hour of The Donkey (21 page)

Wimpy flexed his thumbs for a moment or two, and then set about massaging his right ankle. ‘My thumbs are just about workable—last time I came off I dislocated both of them … but I think this ankle is going to be a problem,’ he murmured to himself.

Bastable gave up trying to find the right question. ‘What did you … why did you say … what you said?’ he whispered inadequately.

Wimpy stared at him. ‘Well … it seemed the right thing—for him, I mean, don’t you know …’

‘Who?’

‘The German officer, old boy—the Colonel chappie… he’s one of your old-fashioned regular-soldier types—an officer and a gentleman, you might say.’

‘What?’

Wimpy stopped massaging his ankle. ‘A regular, Harry—a regular. And they’re all the same, aren’t they!’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘A regular—a professional …’ Wimpy looked round furtively to make sure no one was listening. ‘Don’t you remember that time we did that exercise with that battalion of the Rifles—they were regulars… And I was with their CO—a real fire-eater, absolutely covered with medals and that sort of thing. But when he heard the Divisional Commander was in the next field he went quite white with terror—it was pathetic really, because I wasn’t at all scared, but he was
white
with fear, in case he’d blotted his copybook—I didn’t know any better, so I didn’t care. But he did.’

He continued massaging his ankle. And, very strangely, his hands were shaking.

‘I mean … if I complained to you about the Geneva Convention, Harry, you wouldn’t know what I was talking about—I might just as well quote the Thirty-nine Articles of the Church of England at you. But
he
knew about it—it’s his business to know about it.’

‘You know about the Geneva Convention?’

‘Good God, no! But I assume it draws the line at shooting prisoners, and bombing hospitals and killing doctors, and all that,.. And the point is, proper soldiers have to follow the rules, it’s a matter of professional ethics for them when they’re winning, and pure self-preservation when they’re losing, don’t you see?’

‘But—‘ It seemed to Bastable that Wimpy was forgetting their own hideous experience. ‘But—‘

‘Colembert?’ Wimpy nodded. ‘But the swine who murdered our chaps there weren’t the ones who captured them, Harry. Those murdering bastards weren’t real soldiers, they were SS thugs in uniform. Like … suppose we had a unit made up of the worst of the Reds or Mosley’s Blackshirts . . But these fellows here, they’re
soldiers—
and the
Oberst
is a soldier too—if you put him into khaki battledress he’d pass for one of ours any day, old boy. He knows the rules, and he has to obey them—
that
was what I was betting on. What would his Divisional Commander say if he caught him shooting prisoners? And, what’s more, I’ve read somewhere that the proper German Army doesn’t much like the Nazis and the SS—did you see the way the
Oberst
went rigid when I mentioned them? And how he went out of his way to tell us that we’re the prisoners of the German Army—the
Wehrmacht!
’

That hadn’t been quite how Bastable had interpreted the German Colonel’s reaction at the time. But the anger he had sensed in the German could—just
could
, by an additional stretch of the imagination—have been directed at someone other than Wimpy himself.

Except that if the German Colonel discovered that Wimpy was no more a medical officer than Harry Bastable was a Chaplain to the Forces, then that anger would be very quickly re-directed in their direction.

‘Why are you trying to pass yourself off as Doc Saunders?’

Wimpy grimaced at him. ‘I didn’t start it, old boy: when they picked me up and dusted me down—while you were out cold—I didn’t know whether it was Christmas or Hogmanay … But they had poor old Doc’s book of words off me before I knew what was happening. It didn’t occur to me that they’d add two-and-two together and make five, I assure you. But it was bloody lucky for both of us that they did. Because …’ He paused, and for a moment his eyes left Bastable’s, to stare at something else.

‘Because what?’

‘Because it was you they were interested in, Harry.’ Again Wimpy paused, and his eyes came back to Bastable’s. ‘Or rather, it was your lanyard that excited them—the good old PRO yellow-and-grey badge of distinction, that’s what!’

Die Abuzsleine.

‘When they came back to me, they called me “Doctor”, and they asked me about Captain Willis straight off. And as they seemed rather disappointed that you weren’t Captain Willis, old boy, I decided that I wouldn’t volunteer for the job. Because if they want Captain Willis so badly I reckoned it’d be safer to find out why before owning up.’

At last they had come round to the question which Bastable had wanted to ask all the time, but which had eluded him.

‘I know it’s a hell of a risk, claiming to be poor old Doc,’ admitted Wimpy. ‘And it’s an even bigger risk to throw Colembert at them—if they’re wrong ‘uns, then we’ve had it—they’ll shut us up, and that’ll be that. .. And if they duck the job themselves, and hand us over to those bastards who did for our chaps, we’ve had it too … But if I’m any judge of character,
he
won’t, not after saying we’re prisoners of the German Army—and in front of his officers, that’s a good sign, I think … Besides all of which, once I’d answered to being Doc, I couldn’t let you talk too much. I had to say something, just to take the heat off you, old boy!’

‘But if they find out you’re not Doc …’ Bastable trailed off as he remembered that wasn’t what he had intended to say a moment before. But everything was so confusing that he was unable to hold anything in his mind, it seemed.

‘No reason why they should.’ Wimpy shrugged. ‘And what we’ve got to concentrate on is giving them the slip before that can happen, anyway.’

Bastable’s wits returned to him with a jolt. To his shame, he realized that the idea of escaping hadn’t even occurred to him. But Wimpy was right, and doubly right too: it was not only their duty to try to escape at the first opportunity, as British soldiers—it was also an absolute necessity that they did so in order to stop the false Brigadier in his tracks before he could do irreparable damage.

‘And … the sooner we do that, the better.’ Wimpy took a surreptitious glance around him. ‘No chance at the moment, I’m afraid. But we can’t afford to wait too long…’ His eyes came back to Bastable. ‘Old chap I knew at school—taught physics and chemistry very badly—he was taken prisoner twice in the last war, once near Ypres in ‘fifteen and again near Bapaume during the retreat in ‘eighteen. Got away both times … and he said the longer you put it off, the harder it is. His formula was to make ‘em think he was glad to be out of it, that put them off their guard .. . We can’t very well do that… but so long as they think you’re injured and I’m in the RAMC they may not watch us too closely. That’ll be our best chance, so don’t recover for the time being, Harry old boy, while I mop your fevered brow.’

He leaned over Bastable and applied the damp rag again, and winked encouragingly as he did so. Bastable felt hope rekindle inside him like a tiny candle flame which had almost been extinguished by a fierce draught, but which was now burning more steadily behind the shield of Wimpy’s irrepressible confidence. He recognized, with a twinge of guilt, that his dislike of the fellow in the past had been grounded on pure envy—impure envy: Wimpy was cleverer than he was, but he had always half-uuspected that and had even tried to devalue it into mere schoolmasterish general knowledge which he could dismiss his being inferior to the practical commonsense of businessmen like himself. Now he could acknowledge that cleverness for the resourceful intelligence it really was, and the natural leadership that went with it.

‘And when we do start running, remember that it’s every man for himself,’ murmured Wimpy casually. ‘I shan’t worry about you, and you mustn’t look for me—that’ll double our chances of getting away. Agreed?’

Bastable frowned up at him.

‘Agreed, old man?’ Wimpy pressed him, massaging his thumbs again one after another. Once more Bastable observed that his hands were trembling.

Suddenly, with unbearable clarity, he remembered that Wimpy had complained of a sprained ankle, and he knew exactly what lay behind that casual, selfish-sounding insistence. When it came to running, Wimpy didn’t think that he could make it. But he was doing his utmost to see that his sprained ankle didn’t ruin Harry Bastable’s chances, even though he was scared half out of his wits. The casual voice and the endless chatter concealed the reality and the desperation which the hands betrayed.

An emotion which was more than mere admiration flooded over Bastable. He himself was too stupid and too unimaginative to know what real fear was like—his pale version of fear was simple self-regarding cowardice. But Wimpy was too intelligent not to recognize his own fear for what it was, and to fight against it for all his worth.

Up until yesterday, Bastable realized, he had never had any doubts about his own courage—he had taken it for granted, because there wasn’t any choice in the matter. In the battalion, courage was a group activity; the only thing that had frightened any officer was that he might not do his job properly in full view of the CO, or Major Tetley-Robinson, or his own company sergeant-major.

But courage wasn’t like that at all, and now he knew that he was a coward, and that Wimpy was a brave man.

‘Agreed, Harry?’ said Wimpy for the third time.

Bastable knew that he couldn’t agree, but that he couldn’t not agree—and that he couldn’t let Wimpy know that he
knew.

But he had to say something.

‘Why does everyone call you “Wimpy”?’ He plucked the question out of his subconscious in desperation. It still wasn’t the question he wanted answered, but it was the first one to answer his call for volunteers.

‘What?’ Wimpy was clearly taken by surprise. ‘Oh… That—that was that old b— ,’ he caught the
bastard
before it could escape his lips ‘no!
De Mortuis nil nisi bonum
applies to the late Major Tetley-Robinson, I suppose … I never thought that it would, but it does …’ He cocked his head on one side and gazed thoughtfully at nothing. ‘They must have asked him the ultimate
viva voce
question!’

‘What?’

Wimpy looked at him. ‘They pulled him out of the barn, Harry. And then I think they asked him where Captain W. M. Willis might be found— at least, that’s what I suspect they asked him, just as they asked you about Captain W. M. Willis, Harry—don’t you remember’?’

‘W—?’ This time the idiotic
what
? stifled itself.

‘Poor old bastard!’ Wimpy shook his head sadly. ‘
De mortuis
and all that, but he was an old bastard … And it must have been the last straw if they did—with the battalion in ruins around him … to be reminded of Captain Willis, of all people! The ultimate
viva voce
question: even if he’d answered it, they’d probably have shot him. But I’ll bet he didn’t answer it—not him!’

Wimpy continued to stare at hirn, and through him into the past of yesterday evening, outside the barn beside the stream, beside the bridge, on the edge of Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts, in the middle of nowhere that mattered in the whole of France—

‘I’ll bet he told them to get stuffed. So they shot him
pour encourager les autres
’
said Wimpy. ‘And of course that’s exactly what it did, by God! But not in the way they expected. Because once they’d shot Tetley-Robinson, they got the same answer from the next man—
get stuffed—
and the next man—‘

Abruptly he was no longer looking through Harry Bastable, but at him. ‘He coined “Wimpy”, old boy, did Major Tetley-Robinson, because he was a man of limited reading.
The Times
was much too difficult for him—too many words, and not enough pictures, don’t you know. He pretended to read it but he always preferred the popular papers—the yellow press. Don’t you remember how he used to grab the
News of the World
in the Mess at breakfast on Sunday, Harry? “Vicar’s daughter tells of Night of Terror” and “Scoutmaster jailed after campfire Orgies”, that was his favourite reading. And first look at
Lilliput
and
London Opinion
for the girl with the bare tits? Don’t you remember?’

Bastable remembered. Everybody in the Mess knew which papers and magazines not to touch until the Second-in-Command of the Prince Regent’s Own South Downs Fusiliers had abstracted them from the array on the huge mahogany table and tossed them down, crumpled and dogeared on the floor beside his chair. Green subalterns had been mercilessly savaged (since, by custom, nobody warned them) for contravening that unwritten law.

But what did that have to do with ‘Wimpy’? And ‘that ultimate
viva voce
question’, whatever that meant? And outside the barn at Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts, where it had all ended in senseless bloody murder?

‘My dear chap—“Wimpy” is a character in a comic strip in one of those awful rags,’ said Wimpy simply. ‘”J. Wellington Wimpy” is one of Popeye’s friends—he has a weakness for eating some sort of American toasted meat bun—a sort of hot sandwich, I suppose …
And
for speaking in complete sentences—that was what Tetley-Robinson found so absolutely outrageous in me … Let’s say … let’s just say he thought that I talked too much, old boy, eh?’

He regarded Bastable with the merest twitch of a smile. ‘Which I do, of course. But then, it comes from being exposed to whole generations of small sullen boys—and larger boys too, I’m sorry to say—who don’t know the subjunctive of
amo
and haven’t mastered their reflexive pronouns in any recognizable form of the Latin language … I’m afraid that a captive audience of recalcitrant middle-class boys is bound to bring out the worst in a man, he has to fill the silence with his own voice … It isn’t often that one encounters a really clever boy like Nigel Audley’s young David—Latin irregular verbs were a Goliath well within reach of that young David’s slingshot. He had no trouble with them, but then he was an exception—‘ he caught the expression on Bastable’s face ‘—but have I said something wrong now, old boy?’