The Hour of The Donkey (36 page)

‘Ahhh … that’s better!’ said Wimpy, easing himself gingerly into a more comfortable position, and then finally succeeding in turning his head sufficiently to look at Bastable. ‘Still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, old boy?’

‘I’m all right.’ Bastable returned the look without betraying himself. ‘How’s your ankle?’

‘Ah … inconvenient, let’s say.’ Wimpy considered the bandaged extremity in silence for a moment. ‘I think … if you could help me to alight … we might make a structural adjustment in my chariot which might make life easier for me, if not for you …
Also
… I think it’s time for a spot of refreshment, too.’ He swivelled to Bastable again, smiling lopsidedly. ‘And then we can discuss the Destined Will perhaps, eh?’

The old, well-worn feeling stirred within Bastable’s breast, half irritation, half admiration. Even in pain and weariness the blighter couldn’t resist mocking him. But also, even in pain and weariness, the blighter was still unbeaten, and thinking for himself when Harry Bastable was full of despair and self-pity.

He was the better man still, damn it!

Wimpy shifted his hold of the child. ‘However… if I help our little Alice Mark Two over the side first—and if she helps to steady my descent—do you think you could avoid unloading me like a ton of coal this time, Harry old boy?’

Without the child’s weight, it was easy. Or maybe it was easy simply without the onlooking presence of the German Army?

He rubbed his aching arms and looked at Wimpy.

‘But first things first while it’s still light enough to read…’ Wimpy balanced himself on one leg, steadying himself with one hand on the cart, and felt in the top pocket of the Frenchman’s jacket. ‘It’s here somewhere—‘

‘What?’

‘What everyone needs—what Mr Chamberlain brought back from Munich …’ Wimpy dug down deeper. ‘Ah! And what we need most of all, Onri Bloch, mon ami—‘

A scrap of paper?

The German officer’s note—of course!

‘What did you—‘ Bastable broke off helplessly as too many temporarily forgotten questions came flooding back.

Colembert?

‘What did I ask him for?’ Wimpy shook the paper one-handed in an attempt to flutter it open. ‘I asked him for our ticket, Harry—damn thing!—for a
laissay-passay—
He looked up at Bastable ‘— for a pass—a chit—a bit of paper . .. What all armies run on—and all schools, too—“Have you got your chit?”—oh, damn!’

He had dropped the paper. Bastable stooped to retrieve it. It was some sort of German Army message form, not unlike its British equivalent—except for the stylized Wehrmacht eagle which clutched a wreathed swastika in its talons, and for the totally indecipherable foreign scrawl slanting across it.

Wimpy reached out and snatched it back. ‘Thanks, old boy. Now … let’s see …’ He squinted at the scrawl. “
To
all whom it may concern
”
would be a nice start, but I don’t see that—‘

‘You asked him for a pass?’

‘Yes …’ Wimpy frowned at the paper. ‘Chap writes as illegibly as Tetley-Robinson, almost—but .. “
To all German troops
”
—
well, that’s actually better than “To all whom it may concern”, I shouldn’t wonder—yes, I asked him for a pass .. .
der Vorzeiger—
because one good turn deserves another—
der Vorzeiger
?’

‘One good turn?’

‘
Der Vorzeiger dieses
…
“the bearer of this”, that must be, with our old friend Gaston Laval following, and his daughter Alys, and his servant Onri Bloch—Vorzeiger must be “bearer”, it can’t be anything else—‘

‘What good turn?’

‘What good turn …
Vorzeiger
… I told him where the British Army was—‘

‘You did
what?
’

Wimpy continued to frown at the paper.

‘You
told
him where the British Army was?’

‘Ye-es… Dug in on Vimy Ridge, I said—told him I’d seen ‘em with my own eyes: lots of tanks and little guns—didn’t think I ought to be able to identify them as anti-tank guns, being a civilian, but I described them so he couldn’t be in much doubt … but surely “bear” is
tragen
, isn’t it?’

Bastable was appalled. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘It must be “bearer”—because he asked me, old boy,’ Wimpy looked up at him, ‘and I thought it prudent in the circumstances to be as helpful as possible. And also because it put the fear of God up him—all those imaginary tanks and anti-tank guns—so maybe they’ll think twice before trying to outflank Arras. What the hell would you have done?’

There was no answer to that.

Wimpy regarded him obstinately. ‘He came up and said he regretted what had happened to the old lady—“une tragedie de guerre”, he called it—and that was when I guessed he was after information, if he could get it. So I blamed the British—I gave him a bit of the old perfidious Albion fighting to the last Frenchman, and then betraying France—and he liked that. He said Germany wasn’t the enemy of France, and I agreed with him. I said France had been betrayed by Daladier and the British, and the sooner we got rid of both, the better—and the Communists too.

‘And I also let slip that I was an assistant deputy sub-prefect, and I implied that if God and the Germans spared me I would work for a better Franco-German understanding, preferably against the British.

‘And he liked that too. Because the next thing he asked me was if I had been in Arras, and what things were like there.

So that was when I gave him a cock-and-bull story about tanks and guns—and lots of Scotsmen with kilts playing bagpipes, because that ought to put the fear of God into him too—and he was
grateful .
. and
that
’
s
when it occurred to me to ask for
this—
‘
Wimpy lifted the paper ‘— so, for Christ’s sake, Harry, let me read the bloody thing and find out what he’s written before it gets dark!’

Bastable opened his mouth, and then shut it again. What Wimpy had done was… it was beyond his imagination, and there was no word for it—cheek? treason? daring?—and no words, either!

‘
To all German troops
…
The bearer of this
…
Gaston Laval
… et cetera, et cetera …
Onri Block
…
is to be permitted and assisted—
by God! that is “assisted”—
assisted
…
to proceed to Colembert—
signed—squiggle-squiggle,
staff-captain
et cetera …
permitted and assisted
—splendid fellow! If I really was the assistant deputy sub-prefect I’d be halfway to heiling Hitler for this piece of paper—‘ Wimpy waved the paper under Bastable’s nose ‘— wouldn’t you, Harry? wouldn’t you, by God?’

Colembert?

Bastable goggled at him: the lines of fatigue were twisted into an extraordinary mask of elation, and the fellow was bobbing on his one good leg as though the paper in his hand was the winning ticket in the Irish Sweepstake—

Colembert!

In all the world, from Berlin to Abbeville, Colembert was the very last place Bastable wanted to go to—to go back to. It was unthinkable, and Wimpy was stark, staring mad to think of it.

‘Harry—‘

‘I’m damned if I’m going back to—to Colembert—I’m, damned if I will!’

‘Not
back
, Harry—don’t you see?’

Not back?

Harry Bastable didn’t see.

‘I saw his map—he showed me his map—so I could show him where our chaps were, on the Ridge … I told him I’d come from Calais to collect my daughter from her grandparents—I told him I wanted to take her to my sister at Colembert—to the south, inside the German lines, don’t you see? It didn’t worry him—he didn’t know what’s happened there, why should he? And even if he did . . why should he worry?’

Why indeed? thought Bastable bitterly. ‘I’m … not going back to Colembert—and that’s final.’

‘So … where do you want to go, old boy?’

So where did he want to go?

Harry Bastable stared at Wimpy for a moment; and beyond him, to the closing-in distance behind him.

This alien place—this filthy nowhere-in-France—this empty no-man
’
s-land which might as well be that country-of-the-dying with which Wimpy had frightened him yesterday—

‘So where do you want to go?’ Wimpy looked at him slyly, as though he already knew, lifting his damned scrap of paper again.

‘Not to Colembert!’

‘No?’

Bastable looked at the child, and then back to Wimpy. He knew now that he hated Wimpy, but that he still needed him more than he hated him—he was so tired that he couldn’t think straight, but he needed Wimpy all the more for that reason, to think for him, to make his decisions.

And yet now he had to think for himself, to dissuade Wimpy from returning to Colembert.

So—why should Wimpy want to go back?
Why
?

Of all places, Colembert was the last one in which the Germans would look for them now! But even if that was a reason for going back there he still wasn’t going back.

The damned paper waved under his nose.
Damned paper
!

‘If anyone catches us with that—anyone other than the Germans—they’ll shoot us,’ he snapped.

They will?’ Wimpy echoed the thought carelessly. ‘You think so?’

‘They’ll take us for Fifth Columnists.’ Bastable pressed his point without quite knowing how it might help him.

‘They will?’ Wimpy looked at the paper. ‘I hadn’t thought of that …’

‘You bet your life they will!’ Bastable stared at the paper. ‘If I caught a damn Frenchman with that—or an Englishman—I’d put him up against the nearest wall.’

‘You would?’ Wimpy continued to study the paper. ‘Hmm …’

There were no British troops between where they were standing in a darkening nowhere and the ruins of Colembert, so the execution was purely hypothetical, thought Bastable hysterically. And even if there were, and he was the officer-in-charge, he wouldn’t shoot a dog on such evidence, never mind a lame Frenchman with a child in tow.

Or would he?

‘Without a second thought, man!’ he said, trying to inject brutality into his voice. ‘The nearest wall. And no damned court martial, either.’

Perhaps he would.

Wimpy looked at him. ‘You would too—wouldn’t you!’

For his own sake he had to believe it. And … damned Fifth Columnists—damned traitors!… he was already more than half-way to believing it. ‘Yes. I would, Willis.’

Wimpy smiled at him—and that was the last bloody straw on the donkey’s back: weak, stupid Harry Bastable not capable of shooting a damn traitor, the last bloody straw—

‘F—‘

‘I believe you!’ Wimpy cut off the obscenity. ‘You’re a genius, Harry! I’d never have thought of it— and that makes it perfect. .. the reward—and the risk . .. the risk—and the reward … absolutely
perfect
. You-really-are-a-genius!’

‘What?’

‘To catch a traitor—and that’s what it’s all about—and it doesn’t matter what happens to us … to catch a traitor—‘ Wimpy started to crumple the paper in his fist, and then caught himself doing it, and opened his hand guiltily. ‘God! We mustn’t spoil the ticket to Colembert, must we!’

‘W-what?’

Wimpy pointed into the cart. ‘Get the wine—get the bread … bread and wine for the last communion … We have to reach the St Pol crossroads as soon as possible, old boy, and we need to stoke your boiler for pushing me there.’

The
what
clogged in Bastable’s throat this time.

‘There’s bound to be Jerry transport moving that way, said Wimpy. ‘And there’s a road—I saw it on the map—pretended to be short-sighted, and civilian … St Pol to Fruges, Fruges to Desevres … Desevres to Colembert. And then—what’s the word?—hitching? No—hitch-catching? To catch a traitor, anyway—eh, Harry?’

The names meant nothing to Bastable—except Colembert; but Wimpy’s eyes were feverish; or, it was Wimpy’s voice, and he was imagining the look that went with the voice.

‘I didn’t think we could do it. And maybe we can’t… but we can try, Harry—we can try!’

And there was only one traitor.

Damned, bloody
traitor!

But not at Colembert—

‘But he—he won’t be at Colembert, Willis,’ he heard himself. It was what he should have said all along, fuck it!

‘Of course not, old boy. If he’s anywhere, he’ll be on the bridge between Les Moulins and Carpy at noon tomorrow. So let’s hope there’s only one bridge, and we can be there too—if that’s the Destined Will, Harry.’

He was mad. He was insane. They were both insane—in the middle of nowhere.

‘The bridge between Les Moulins and Carpy—Carpy’s on the map, I saw it. It’s just off the Route Nationale from Arras to Boulogne—the Germans must think they’ll be there by tomorrow.’

‘Boulogne?’ The insanity was catching—even the Germans had caught it. Boulogne was as unthinkable as … as Colembert?

Wimpy drew a deep breath. ‘I know. It doesn’t seem possible … But if they’ve reached Abbeville today—or Amiens today—they can reach Boulogne tomorrow, can’t they?
Can
’
t they
?”

It wasn’t insanity any more: it was the terrible logic of defeat struggling against hope. If there had been nothing to stop the Germans from driving all the way across northern France to the Channel, then perhaps there was also nothing to stop them pushing northwards to Boulogne?

But Boulogne!

That wasn’t a lost battle—that was the war itself— that was the British Army itself—lost!

And that was impossible: after Boulogne, only Calais was left on the map.

He shrugged the impossibility off. And besides, there was another impossibility to set against it: Colembert was to the south—Wimpy was an idiot—

And that was another impossibility—

Christ! He was the idiot!

There were two Colemberts: the right one and the wrong one—the one he knew and the other one—and the other one was the right one—near Boulogne—the real Colembert!