The Hour of The Donkey Read Free

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