The Hour of The Donkey (2 page)

‘I said
deus quos
—‘ began Captain Willis.

‘Heard you. Euripides, Joshua Barnes’s translation is the best one.’

It didn’t surprise Captain Bastable that major Audley could instantly identify Captain Willis’s Latin quotation, which his own eight agonized years of Latin had left him incapable of translating. Indeed, it surprised him less than the quotation itself, though as a former schoolmaster Captain Willis was full of quotations, and as he had been a classics master, most of them were in Latin or Greek, and all of them might just as well have been in Swahili for any sense Captain Bastable could make of them. (It was an added coincidence, and the only virtue he had yet found in Willis, that the man had numbered Major Audley’s only son amongst his pupils, and had spoken glowingly of the boy’s intellectual capacity; but that had merely confirmed Captain Bastable’s views on heredity—like father, like son, was the natural order of things; he himself, and the success and prosperity of Bastable’s of Eastbourne, was proof of that.)

Major Audley squinted down the breakfast table. That pot … Cooper’s?’ he enquired.

‘It is,’ said Major Tetley-Robinson obsequiously. ‘Help yourself, Nigel. Here, Bastable—push it on down. There’s still a good scraping in it, round the sides.’

Major Audley scrutinized the faces round the table. ‘Whose pot?’ he enquired.

Bastable examined the crumbs of bread on his plate. It was certainly true that the mess cook’s attempts to turn French bread into toast had been disastrous. But the bread itself, although strange and foreign, was quite tasty when un-toasted. It seemed to him (although he knew he would never dare advance such a suggestion in public) that it was a mistake to attempt to convert French food into English food: when in Rome—even though the thought smacked of Captain Willis—it would be more sensible to eat as the Romans did. Or in this case the French, deplorable people though they were in most other respects.

‘Yours, Bastable?’ asked Major Audley.

Bastable blushed to the roots of his hair: he could literally feel the blush suffuse his face. But he forced himself to look Major Audley in the eye because he did not wish the Major to think him a coward. ‘Do please help yourself, Nigel,’ he croaked, wondering only for a moment how Major Audley had identified him from the rest. But of course. Major Audley had identified him because Major Audley was Major Audley. The question contained its own answer, simply.

‘Thank you, Bastable.’ Major Audley applied the last of the marmalade to his bread. ‘Since I assume the rest of you gentlemen have consumed Bastable’s delicacy, then his drinks in the mess tonight are on you.’ He lifted the piece of bread in Bastable’s direction. ‘Meanwhile… your continued health, Bastable … the condemned man eats his hearty breakfast.’

‘Hah!’ said Captain Willis, with immense feeling, as though Major Audley had vindicated his protest. ‘Precisely!’

Bastable experienced an indigestible mixture of conflicting emotions. Major Audley had acknowledged his existence, and in a most generous and gentlemanly fashion; yet he had done so in more words than were seemly, at least for him; and (what was worse) there had definitely been something in those words—a mere suggestion, perhaps, but an undoubted suggestion nevertheless—that his inclination was to support Captain Willis against Major Tetley-Robinson.

Bastable frowned at his plate again. Beyond the fact that Willis didn’t want to drill his men he wasn’t at all sure what it was which was so aggravating the ex-schoolmaster. The majority of the recent replacements were little better than civilians in uniform, notwithstanding their yellow-and-grey lanyards, and drill was something they could do straight away which at least might make them feel more like soldiers.

He clenched his fists under the table and nerved himself to speak.

‘What is it that you want to do, Willis?’ He couldn’t bring himself to give the man the inexplicable nickname which had attached itself to him. Everybody in the mess had either a Christian name or a nickname to distinguish him socially from the formal military world of ‘sirs’ and ‘misters’ outside—everybody, that was, except himself, who had somehow become frozen into ‘Bastable’ in the mess (and usually the more insulting variant rhyming with
barstard
); which was a source of constant, nagging, irritating, bewildering and unfair pain to him. ‘What’s mad about drill, man?’

Captain Willis looked at him in surprise, as though he hadn’t expected the faculty of speech in Captain Barstable
, but before he could reveal his heart
’
s desire the burly figure of the battalion medical officer filled the doorway beside him.

‘I don’t know what you want to do, Wimpy—and frankly I couldn’t care less,’ said Captain Saunders. ‘But I want my breakfast—Steward! Ham and eggs—three eggs—and don’t toast the bread … And send across to the café over the road for a large pot of coffee on the double—and say It’s for “M’sieur le médicin”, don’t forget that—a large pot!’

Captain Willis chuckled dryly. ‘Trust the medical profession! I take it you have been feathering your nest with the locals, Doc? Touching up les jeunes demoiselles as part of the Anglo-French
entente cordiale?
‘

Captain Saunders reached across the table and tore a six-inch hunk from one of the long French loaves. ‘I have delivered a French baby—male. “Class of
1940
”
I suppose they’d call the poor little devil, when they finally call him up … in 1958 which they probably will.’ He ate a piece of bread from the hunk, without benefit of butter. ‘And the Germans are across the Somme, at Peronne.’

For a moment no one at the table spoke, or even moved. The medical officer’s words seemed to hang in the air, like an unthinkable wisp of smoke over a dry cornfield on a still day.

‘What?’ said Major Tetley-Robinson.

‘Where?’ said Captain Willis.

‘Who said?’ said Major Audley simultaneously.

‘Nonsense!’ said Major Tetley-Robinson.

Captain Saunders munched his mouthful of bread. ‘That’s what the French say—the people I’ve just been talking to.’

‘Refugees,’ said Major Tetley-Robinson contemptuously. ‘We’ve heard enough rumours from them to keep us going for a year. If we start believing what they say, they’ll have the bloody Boche in Calais next week, queuing for the cross-channel ferries.’

Captain Saunders continued munching. ‘A week is right—‘ he nodded ‘—they say the Germans’ll be on the Channel coast in a week. Hundreds of tanks, driving like hell—that’s what they say … Actually, they said “thousands”, but that seemed to be stretching it a bit, I thought.’ He nodded, but then turned the nod into a negative shake. ‘These weren’t refugees though, Charlie. It was the station-master’s wife’s baby I delivered. He had it from an engine-driver—the information, I mean, not the baby. And all the lines are down now, he says—to Peronne.’

‘Fifth Columnists!’ snapped Tetley-Robinson. ‘A lot of those refugees that came through on the main road, to the south, yesterday… they looked suspiciously able-bodied to me.’

‘Peronne …’ murmured Major Audley. He turned towards Lieutenant Davidson. ‘You’re alleged to be our IO, Dickie—so where the devil were the Germans supposed to be as of last night?’

Lieutenant Davidson squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Well, sir … things have been a bit knotted-up at Brigade—or they were yesterday.’

‘What d’you mean “knotted-up” boy?’

‘Well … actually … things seem to be a bit confused, don’t you know … rather.’ Lieutenant Davidson manoeuvred the crumbs on his plate into a neat pile.

‘No, Dickie,’ said Major Audley.

‘No, sir—Nigel?’ Lieutenant Davidson blinked.

‘No, Dickie. No—I don’t know. And no, I’m not confused. To be confused one must know something. But as I know nothing I am not confused, I am merely unenlightened. So enlighten me, Dickie—enlighten us all.’

‘Or at least—confuse us,’ murmured Willis. ‘What does Brigade say?’

‘Well, actually …’ Lieutenant Davidson began to rearrange the crumbs, ‘ … actually, Brigade says we don’t belong to them at all. So they haven’t really said anything, actually.’

‘What d’you mean, “don’t belong to them”?’ asked Major Audley.

‘They say we should be at Colembert, sir—Nigel.’

‘But we are at Colembert, dear boy.’

‘No, sir … That is to say, yes—but actually no, you see.’ Lieutenant Davidson tried to attract Major Tetley-Robinson’s attention.

‘Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere,’ Major Audley nodded encouragingly. ‘Now I am beginning to become confused at least. We are at Colembert—but we’re not. Please confuse me further, Dickie.’

Lieutenant Davidson abandoned the crumbs. ‘This is Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts, sir. But apparently there’s another Colembert, with no ponts, up towards St Omer. It seems the MCO at Boulogne attached us to the wrong convoy, or something—that’s what Brigade says—‘

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Major Audley. ‘But St Omer’s miles from here—it’s near Boulogne.’

‘Yes …’ nodded Willis. ‘And that would account for Jackie Johnson and the whole of “A” Company being absent without leave, of course. Only poor old Jackie didn’t lose
us
after all—he just went off to the right Colembert… and we lost
him
, eh?’

But Major Audley had his eye fixed on Major Tetley-Robinson now. ‘So what the hell are we doing about it, Charlie?’

Major Tetley-Robinson almost looked uncomfortable. ‘The matter is in hand, Nigel. That’s all I can tell you.’

Willis smiled. ‘”Theirs not to reason why—theirs but to do and die”, Nigel. Same thing happened to the jolly old Light Brigade.’

‘Same thing happens in hospital,’ observed Captain Saunders wisely, nodding to the whole table.

‘What same thing, Doc?’ enquired Willis.

‘Wrong patient gets sent to surgery to have his leg cut off. Always causes a devil of a row afterwards. Somebody gets the push, somebody else gets promoted. Hard luck on the patient. And hard luck on us if the Huns are in Peronne, I suppose.’

Major Audley considered Captain Saunders for a moment, and then turned back to Lieutenant Davidson. ‘Are the Germans in Peronne, Dickie? What does Brigade say?’

Lieutenant Davidson looked directly at Major Tetley-Robinson. ‘Sir … ?’ he appealed.

‘Harrumph!’ Major Tetley-Robinson brushed his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘That would be telling!’

‘It would indeed, Charlie,’ said Major Audley cuttingly.

‘They must be in touch with the French,’ said Captain Willis. ‘The French are supposed to be north-west of us here, and Peronne is …’ he frowned,’ … is bloody
south-west
, if my memory serves me correctly—bloody south-west!’

Willis’s memory did serve him correctly, thought Bastable uneasily. In fact, Peronne was so far south as to be impossible; there just had to be two Peronnes, in the same way as there had been two Colemberts.

‘What
does
Brigade say, Dickie?’ Willis pressed the intelligence Officer.

‘Well, … actually, we’ve lost touch with—‘

‘That’s enough!’ Major Tetley-Robinson snapped ‘ The disposition of the French Army—and the enemy—are none of our business at the moment.’

‘I hope you’re right, Charlie,’ said Captain Willis.

Major Tetley-Robinson glared at him. ‘We are a lines-of-communication battalion. Company commanders and other officers will be briefed as necessary—at the proper time.’

‘Hmmm…’ Major Audley exchanged glances with Willis, and even spared Bastable a fleeting half-glance. ‘Well, I shall look forward to that, Charlie.’ He extracted a cigarette from his slim gold case. ‘I shall indeed.’

Major Tetley-Robinson brushed his moustache again. ‘There’s a lot of loose talk going around, Nigel. Damned loose talk.’

Captain Saunders stopped eating. ‘Are you referring to me, by any chance? Or to my friends the station-master and his engine-driver colleague?’

‘I didn’t mean you, Doc,’ said the Major hastily.

‘No?’ Captain Saunders pointed with his knife. ‘Well, Major, my friend the station-master is a man of sound commonsense, and pro-British too, however contradictory those two conditions may appear to be at this moment, diagnostically speaking.’

Major Tetley-Robinson’s expression changed from one of apology to that of bewilderment. ‘I don’t quite take your meaning, Doc.’

‘But I do,’ said Major Audley. ‘Did the station-master see the Boches, Doc? At Peronne?’

‘No. Not with his own eyes—that’s true,’ Captain Saunders shook his head. ‘But he spoke to the driver who claims to have taken the last train out of Peronne. And
he
claimed to have been machine-gunned by tanks with large black crosses on them.’

‘Tanks or aeroplanes?’ Audley leaned forward intently. They’ve been bombing all round us the last couple of days, remember. We seem to be the only place they’ve missed out on, for some reason … But their dive-bombers will have been making a dead set on trains, for sure—could it have been planes, not tanks?’

For a moment Bastable was tempted to speak, to explain why Colembert—Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts—had been missed, if not overlooked, by the German Luftwaffe. Simply (which one glance at the map had confirmed) it was not worth attacking—a small town in the middle of a triangle of main roads, the destruction of which would block none of those roads. It had struck him as odd at the time that a Lines-of-Communication unit should have been despatched to a place on no line of communication. But he had assumed that the high command knew its business much better than he did, and that assumption was still strong enough in him to dry up his private opinion.

‘Planes, for sure,’ snapped Major Tetley-Robinson. ‘It’s just possible they could have pushed the French back over the Sambre-Oise line.’ He nodded meaningfully at Lieutenant Davidson, as if to give his blessing to that admission. ‘But that means they’ve already come the deuce of a way from the Dyle-Meuse line—their tanks’ll be running out of fuel—the ones that haven’t broken down … and their infantry’ll be dead on its feet by now. And that’s the moment when the French will counter-attack, by God! It’ll be the Marne all over again!’ He glanced fiercely up and down the table. ‘The Marne all over again—only this time we’ll make a proper job of it!’