The Valley of Bones

by Anthony Powell

  He had draped a rubber groundsheet round him like a cloak, which, with his flattish-brimmed steel helmet, transformed him into a figure from the later Middle Ages, a captain-of-arms of the Hundred Years War, or the guerrilla campaigning of Owen Glendower. I suddenly saw that was where Gwatkin belonged, rather than to the soldiery of modern times, the period which captured his own fancy. Rain had wetted his moustache, causing it to droop over the corners of the mouth, like those belonging to effigies on tombs or church brasses. Persons at odds with their surroundings not infrequently suggest an earlier historical epoch. Gwatkin was not exactly at odds with the rest of the world. In many ways, he was the essence of conventional behaviour. At the same time, he never mixed with others on precisely their own terms. Perhaps people suspected – disapproved – his vaulting dreams. The platoons had by this time, after much shouting and commanding, unwillingly withdrawn from the comfort of the buses into the pouring rain, and were gloomily forming up.

  ‘Rowland is in a bloody rotten temper this morning,’ said Breeze. ‘What did he want to bite our heads off for?’

  ‘He’s in a state,’ said Kedward. ‘He nearly left his maps behind. He would have done, if I had not reminded him. Why were you late, Nick? That started Rowland being browned off.’

  ‘Had some trouble with Sergeant Pendry. He doesn’t seem well today.’

  ‘I heard the Sergeant-Major say something about Pendry last night,’ said Breeze. ‘Did you hear what it was, Idwal?’

  ‘Something about his leave,’ said Kedward. ‘Just like old Cadwallader to tackle Rowland about an NCO’s leave when he was in the middle of preparing for the exercise.’

  Gwatkin returned some minutes later, the transparent talc surface of his map-cover marked all over with troop dispositions shown in chinagraph pencil of different colours. ‘The Company is in support,’ he said. ‘Come over here, Platoon Commanders, and look at the map.’

  He started to explain what we had to do, beginning with a few general principles regarding a company ‘in support’; then moving on to the more specific technical requirements of the moment. These two aspects of the operation merged into an interwoven mass of instruction and disquisition, no doubt based, in the first instance, on sound military doctrine, but not a little confusing after being put through the filter of Gwatkin’s own complex of ideas. He had obviously pondered the theory of being ‘in support’, poring in his spare time over the pages of Infantry Training. In addition, Gwatkin had also memorized with care phrases used by the Commanding Officer in the course of his issue of orders … start-line … RVs … forming-up areas … B echelon … These milestones in the efficiency of the manoeuvre were certainly intended to be considered in relation to ground and other circumstances; in short, left largely to the discretion of the junior commander himself. However, that was not the way Gwatkin looked at things. Although he liked saying that he wanted freedom to make his own tactical arrangements, he always found it hard to disregard the words of the textbook, or those of a comparatively senior officer. By the time he had finished talking, it was clear the Company was to be put through every movement possible to associate with the state of being ‘in support’.

  ‘Right,’ said Gwatkin. ‘Any questions?’

  There were no questions; chiefly because of the difficulty in disentangling one single item from the whole. We checked map references; synchronised watches. Rain had stopped falling. The day was still grey, but warmer. When I returned to my platoon trouble was in progress. Sayce, the near criminal, was having an altercation with Jones, D., who carried the anti-tank rifle. As usual, Sayce was morally in the wrong, though technically perhaps on this occasion in the right. That was if Sayce were telling the truth, in itself most improbable. The row was something to do with a case of ammunition. In ordinary circumstances, Sergeant Pendry would have cleared up in a moment anything of this sort. In his present state, higher authority had to be brought in. I adjudicated, leaving both contestants with a sense of grievance. We moved off across open country. At first I closely followed Gwatkin’s instructions; then, finding my Platoon lagging behind Breeze and his men, took them on at greater speed. Even so, when we arrived, later in the morning, at the field where the Company was to reassemble, much time had been lost by the formality of the manoeuvring. The men were ‘stood easy’, then allowed to lie on the grass with groundsheets beneath them.

  ‘Wait orders here,’ said Gwatkin.

  He was still in that tense state which desire to excel always brought about in him. However, his temper was better than earlier in the day. He spoke of the ingenuity of the tactical system as laid down in the book, the manner in which the Company had put this into practice.

  ‘It’s all worked out to the nearest minute,’ he said.

  Then he strolled away, and began to survey the country through field-glasses.

  ‘That’s bloody well wrong,’ said Kedward, under his breath. ‘We ought to be a mile further on at least, if we’re going to be any use at the Foremost Defended Localities when the moment comes.’

  Holding no strong views on the subject myself, I was inclined to think Kedward right. All was confusion. I had only a very slight idea what was happening by now, and what role the Company should rightly play. I should have liked to lie on the ground and stretch my legs out like the men, instead of having to be on the alert for Gwatkin’s next order and superintend a dozen small matters. Some minutes later a runner came up with a written message for Gwatkin.

  ‘Good God,’ he said.

  Something had evidently gone badly amiss. Gwatkin took off his helmet and shook the rain from it. He looked about him hopelessly.

  ‘It hasn’t worked out right,’ he said agitatedly.

  ‘What hasn’t?’

  ‘Fall in your men at once,’ he said. ‘It’s long past the time when we should have been in position. That’s what the message says.’

  Instead of being close up behind the company we were supposed to support, here we were, in fact, hanging about miles away; still occupied, I suppose, with some more preliminary involution of Gwatkin’s labyrinthine tactical performance. Kedward was right. We ought to have been advancing at greater speed. Gwatkin had done poorly. Now, he began to issue orders right and left. However, before anything much could happen, another runner appeared. This one carried an order instructing Gwatkin to halt his company for the time being, while we ‘let through’ another company, by now close on our heels. Like golfers who have lost their ball, we allowed this company to pass between our deployed ranks. They were on their way to do the job assigned to ourselves. Bithel was one of their platoon commanders. He trotted by quite near me, red in the face, panting like a dog. As he came level, he paused for a moment.

  ‘Haven’t got an aspirin about you?’ he asked.

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Forgot to bring mine.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said, loosening the helmet from his forehead for a moment, ‘just felt an aspirin might be the answer.’

  His teeth clicked metallically. He hurried on again to catch up his men, rejoining the platoon as they were already beginning to disappear from sight. We ‘stood by’ for ages, awaiting an order.

  ‘Can the men sit down again?’ asked Breeze.

  ‘No,’ said Gwatkin.

  He was deeply humiliated by these circumstances, standing silent, fidgeting with his revolver holster. At last the order came. Gwatkin’s company was to proceed by road to Battalion Headquarters in the field. He was himself to report to the Commanding Officer forthwith.

  ‘I’ve let the whole Battalion down,’ he muttered, as he went off towards his Company Commander’s truck.

  Kedward thought the same.

  ‘Did you ever see such frigging about,’ he said. ‘Why, even as it was, I was behindhand in bringing my platoon up level with the main body of the Company, and by then I’d cut out at least half the things Rowland had told me to do. If I’d done them all, it would have taken a w
eek. We wouldn’t even have got as far as that field where we had a breather.’

  We set off for Battalion HQ. By the time I brought my platoon in, it was late in the afternoon. Rain had begun to fall again. The place was a clearing in some woods where field kitchens had been set up. At last there was prospect of something to eat, a subject much on the men’s minds, scarcely less on my own. I was very ready for a meal, breakfast soon after 5 a.m. by now a long way off. For some reason, probably because it was becoming hard to obtain, I carried no chocolate in my haversack. Gwatkin was waiting for us when we arrived. From his appearance it was clear he had been hauled pretty roughly over the coals by the Commanding Officer for failure to bring up the Company in time earlier that day. His face was white.

  ‘You are to take your platoon out at once on patrol,’ he said.

  ‘But they’ve had no dinner.’

  ‘The men just have time for a mouthful, if they’re quick. You can’t. I’ve got to go over the map with you. You are to make a recce, then act as a Standing Patrol. It can’t be helped that you haven’t eaten yourself.’

  He gave the impression of rather enjoying this opportunity for working off his feelings. There seemed no necessity to underline the fact that I was to starve until further notice. Whatever the Commanding Officer had said had certainly not improved Gwatkin’s state of mind. He was thoroughly upset. His hand shook when he pointed his pencil at names on the map. He was in a vile temper.

  ‘You will take your men up to this point,’ he said. ‘There you will establish an HQ. Here is the canal. At this map reference the Pioneers have thrown a rope bridge across. You will personally cross by the rope bridge and make a recce of the far bank from here to here. Then return to your platoon and carry out the duties of a Standing Patrol as laid down in Infantry Training, having reported the map reference of your HQ by runner to me at this point here. In due course I shall come and inspect the position and receive your report. All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He handed over some map references.

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘None.’

  Gwatkin strode off. I returned to my platoon, far from pleased. The fact that missing a meal or two in the army must be regarded – certainly by an officer – as all in the day’s work, makes these occasions no more acceptable. Sergeant Pendry was falling in the men when I returned to the area of the wood that had been allotted to the Platoon. They were grumbling at the hurried nature of dinner, complaining the stew had ‘tasted’ from being kept in the new containers. The only bright spot was that we were to be transported by truck some of the distance towards the place where we were to undertake these duties. Thirty men take an age to get on, or off, a vehicle of any kind. Jones, D., slipped while climbing up over the wheel, dropping the anti-tank rifle – that inordinately heavy, already obsolete weapon – on the foot of Williams, W. H., the platoon runner, putting him temporarily out of action. Sayce now began a long story about feeling faint, perhaps as a result of eating the stew, and what the MO had said about some disease he, Sayce, was suffering from. These troubles were unwillingly presented to me through the sceptical medium of Corporal Gwylt. I was in no mood for pity. If the meal had made Sayce feel queasy, that was better than having no meal at all. Such was my answer. All these things obstructed progress for about ten minutes. I feared Gwatkin might return to find reasonable cause for complaint in this delay, but Gwatkin had disappeared, bent on making life uncomfortable for someone else, or perhaps anxious only to find a quiet place where he could himself mope for a short period, while recovering his own morale. Sergeant Pendry was still showing less than his usual vigour in keeping things on the move. There could be no doubt Breeze had been right about Pendry, I thought, unless he turned out to be merely unwell, sickening for some illness, rather than suffering from a hangover. He dragged his feet when he walked, hardly able to shout out a command. I took him aside as the last man settled into the truck.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Sergeant?’

  He looked at me as if he did not understand.

  ‘All right, sir?’

  ‘You got something to eat with the others just now?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir.’

  ‘Enough?’

  ‘Plenty there, sir. Didn’t feel much like food, it was.’

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘Not too good, sir.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Don’t know just what, sir.’

  ‘But you must know if you’re feeling ill.’

  ‘Had a bit of a shock back home, it was.’

  This was no time to go into the home affairs of the platoon’s personnel, now that at last we were ready and I wanted to give the driver the order to move off.

  ‘Have a word with me when we get back to barracks.’

  ‘All right, sir.’

  I climbed into the truck beside the driver. We travelled several miles as far as some crossroads. There we left the truck, which returned to its base. Platoon HQ was set up in a dilapidated cowshed, part of the buildings of a small farm that lay not far away across the fields. When everything was pretty well established in the cowshed, including the siting of the imaginary 2-inch mortar which travelled round with us, I went off to look for the rope bridge over the canal. This was found without much difficulty. A corporal was in charge. I explained my mission, and enquired about the bridge’s capacity.

  ‘It do wobble a fair trifle, sir.’

  ‘Stand by while I cross.’

  ‘That I will, sir.’

  I started to make the transit, falling in after about three or four yards. The water might have been colder for the time of year. I swam the rest of the way, reaching the far bank not greatly wetter than the rain had left me. There I wandered about for a time, making notes of matters to be regarded as important in the circumstances. After that, I came back to the canal, and, disillusioned as to the potentialities of the rope bridge, swam across again. The canal banks were fairly steep, but the corporal helped me out of the water. He did not seem in the least surprised to find that I had chosen this method of return in preference to his bridge.

  ‘Very shaky, those rope bridges,’ was all he said.

  By now it was dark, rain still falling. I returned to the cowshed. There a wonderful surprise was waiting. It appeared that Corporal Gwylt, accompanied by Williams, W. H., had visited the neighbouring farm and managed to wheedle from the owners a jug of tea.

  ‘We saved a mug for you, sir. Wet you are, by Christ, too.’

  I could have embraced him. The tea was of the kind Uncle Giles used to call ‘a good sergeant-major’s brew’. It tasted like the best champagne. I felt immediately ten years younger, hardly wet at all.

  ‘She was a big woman that gave us that jug of tea, she was,’ said Corporal Gwylt.

  He addressed Williams, W. H.

  ‘Ah, she was,’ agreed Williams, W. H.

  He looked thoughtful. Good at running and singing, he was otherwise not greatly gifted.

  ‘She made me afraid, she did,’ said Corporal Gwylt. ‘I would have been afraid of that big woman in a little bed.’

  ‘Indeed, I would too that,’ said Williams, W. H., looking as if he were sincere in the opinion.

  ‘Would you not have been afraid of her, Sergeant Pendry, a great big woman twice your size?’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ said Sergeant Pendry, with unexpected force. ‘Must you ever be talking of women?’

  Corporal Gwylt was not at all put out.

  ‘I would be even more afeared of her in a big bed,’ he said reflectively.

  We finished our tea. A runner came in, brought by a sentry, with a message from Gwatkin. It contained an order to report to him at a map reference in half an hour’s time. The place of meeting turned out to be the crossroads not far from the cowshed.

  ‘Shall I take the jug back, Corporal?’ asked Williams, W. H.

  ‘No, lad, I’ll return that jug,’ said Corporal Gwylt. ‘If I have your permissio
n, sir?’

  ‘Off you go, but don’t stay all night.’

  ‘I won’t take long, sir.’

  Gwylt disappeared with the jug. The weather was clearing up now. There was a moon. The air was fresh. When the time came, I went off to meet Gwatkin. Water dripped from the trees, but a little wetness, more or less, was by then a matter of indifference. I stood just off the road while I waited, expecting Gwatkin would be late. However, the truck appeared on time. The vehicle drew up in the moonlight just beside me. Gwatkin stepped out. He gave the driver instructions about a message he was to take and the time he was to return to this same spot. The truck drove off. Gwatkin began to stride slowly up the road. I walked beside him.

  ‘Everything all right, Nick?’

  I told him what we had been doing, giving the results of the reconnaissance on the far side of the canal

  ‘Why are you so wet?’

  ‘Fell off the rope bridge into the canal.’

  ‘And swam?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was good,’ he said, as if it had been a brilliant idea to swim.

  ‘How are things going in the battle?’

  ‘The fog of war has descended.’

  That was a favourite phrase of Gwatkin’s. He seemed to derive support from it. There was a pause. Gwatkin began to fumble in his haversack. After a moment he brought out quite a sizeable bar of chocolate.

  ‘I brought this for you,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks awfully, Rowland.’

  I broke off a fairly large portion and handed the rest back to him.