The Story of Dr. Wassell by James Hilton

to pick out side roads which he knew
were tree-shaded, so as to lessen the risk of Jap planes spotting the convoy.
This meant longer, slower, and (unfortunately for Sun and Francini) much
bumpier travel. And there was an increasing amount of opposite
traffic—Dutch Army cars loaded with soldiers, Staatswacht troops in
forest-green uniforms, Red Cross ambulances, gaudily decorated native oxcarts
which were the worst peril of all. The doctor began to fear those oxcarts
more than bombs.
    He did not talk much during the journey, except now and then a few
sentences over his shoulder to Sun and Francini—to the former, of
course, in Chinese. Whenever he spoke in Chinese, Wilson would rib him about
it—“Aw, for heaven’s sake, what sort of a lingo is that? How long did
it take you to learn it?”
    “About ten years,” answered the doctor quietly. “And I still don’t know it
very well.”
    “I guess they could use you as an interpreter, though.”
    The doctor agreed. “I rather thought they would, but they sent me to look
after you fellows instead. And what a job!” He laughed, fishing in his pocket
meanwhile for a cigarette.
    “Keep both your hands on the wheel, man,” Wilson shouted. “I’ll light one
for you.”
    It was not easy for Wilson to use his hands, but at last he succeeded in
getting a cigarette alight; then he leaned over and found the cigarette
holder in the doctor’s breast pocket. “And don’t turn round and poke me in
the eye with it,” he added.
    The more tired they became and the more arduous and perilous the journey
the more they grumbled at each other, jokingly, meaninglessly,
affectionately. It passed the time, and the doctor thought it probably helped
to cheer up Francini behind. Once, when he had said “Sorry” after a
particularly bad bump, and the boy had moaned slightly, the doctor continued:
“It’s just luck that you’re here, Francini, and not in that British officer’s
car instead of Muller. I’d be scared stiff if I was driving with that fellow
for two hundred miles…Oh no, he’s all right—I’ve nothing against him—matter of fact, he was pretty good to take
us—but he sort of looks at you as if you weren’t there.”
    “We won’t be there, either,” said ‘Wilson, “if you don’t keep your eye on
the road.”
    And so they went on, throughout the long hot afternoon. Once they saw
planes overhead that looked like a Jap reconnaissance, and for half and hour
afterwards thought of nothing but bombers, but presently the very fear in
their hearts grew bored with waiting. Then the doctor began to feel sleepy
again, and the effort to keep awake drove everything else out of his mind. He
would shut his eyes tight for a few seconds and then open them again sharply;
he hit himself on the forehead to produce actual pain; and at every stretch
of road where there was good shelter he hoped and even prayed that the convoy
might decide on a halt. Surely they must stop soon; even soldiers could not
keep up the strain indefinitely. Wilson, Francini, and Sun had all fallen
asleep—Wilson was snoring, and at first the doctor had thought the
snore was a lap bomber approaching over the roadside hedges. He laughed aloud
when he found out what it really was, and the laugh kept him awake for
another half mile. Then he resumed the struggle, and once—for perhaps
ten seconds—he must have been absolutely asleep, for he found the car
swerving way out to the right along the other lane. He pulled back sharply,
thanking heaven there had been no oxcart. His three passengers were still
asleep; no one would ever know how nearly he had come to meeting disaster.
The thought nerved him to another effort of wakefulness, and just when this
was about spent he saw arms waving from the truck a hundred yards in front.
It was the signal for a halt.
    He pulled over to the side of the road and clamped on the brake with his
last ounce of energy.
    Then all was