‘Tell the Orderly Corporal Mr Bithel is reporting sick this morning, Williams,’ he said.
‘Right you are, sir.’
Williams went off down the stairs two at a time.
‘I’ll come and have a look at old Bithel later,’ said Kedward. ‘Tell him he’s been reported sick. Nothing much will be expected of him this morning, Sunday and newly joined.’
This was prudent handling of the situation. Kedward clearly knew how to act in an emergency. I suspected that Gwatkin, confronted with the same situation, might have made a fuss about Bithel’s state. This show of good sense on Kedward’s part impressed me. I indicated to him the false teeth gripping the cigar, but their horror left him cold. We moved on to breakfast. It had to be admitted Bithel had not made an ideal start to his renewed army career.
‘I expect old Bithel had a glass too much last night,’ said Kedward, as we breakfasted. ‘I once drank more than I ought. You feel terrible. Ever done that, Nick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Awful, isn’t it?’
‘Awful, Idwal.’
‘We’ll go along early together, and you can take over your platoon for Church Parade.’
He told me where to meet him. However, very unexpectedly, Bithel himself appeared downstairs before it was time for church. He smiled uncomtortably when he saw me.
‘Never feel much like breakfast on Sundays for some reason,’ he said.
I warned him that he had been reported sick.
‘I found that out from the boy, Williams, who is acting as my batman,’ said Bithel. ‘Got it cancelled. While I was talking to him, I discovered there was another boy called Daniels from my home town who might take on being my regular servant. Williams got hold of him for me. I liked the look of him.’
We set off up the street together. Bithel was wearing the khaki side-cap that had been set on the sponge-bag the night before. A size too small for him, it was placed correctly according to Standing Orders – in this respect generally disregarded in wartime – squarely on the centre of his head. The cap was also cut higher than normal (like Saint-Loup’s, I thought), which gave Bithel the look of a sprite in pantomime; perhaps rather – taking into consideration his age, bulk, moustache – some comic puppet halfway between the Walrus and the Carpenter. His face was pitted and blotched like the surface of a Gruyère cheese, otherwise he seemed none the worse from the night before, except for some shortness of breath. He must have seen me glance at his cap, because he smiled ingratiatingly.
‘Regulations allow these caps,’ he said. ‘They’re more comfortable than those peaked SD affairs. Cheaper, too. Got this one for seventeen bob, two shillings off because slightly shop-soiled. You don’t notice the small stain on top, do you?’
‘Not at all.’
He looked behind us and lowered his voice.
‘None of the rest of them were at the ’varsity,’ he said. ‘I’ve been making inquiries. What do you do in Civvy Street – that’s the correct army phrase, I believe.’
I indicated that I wrote for the papers, not mentioning books because, if not specifically in your line, authorship is an embarrassing subject for all concerned. Besides, it never sounds like a serious occupation. Up to that moment, no one had pressed inquiries further than that, satisfied that journalism was a known form of keeping body and soul together, even if an esoteric one.
‘I thought you might do something of the sort,’ said Bithel, speaking with respect. ‘I was trained for professional life too – intended for an auctioneer, like my pa. Never cared for the work somehow. Didn’t even finish my training, as a matter of fact. Always been more or less interested in the theatre. Had walk-on parts once or twice but I’m no actor. I’m quite aware of that. I like doing odd jobs in any case. Can’t bear being tied down. Worked for a time in our local cinema, for instance. Didn’t have to do much except turn up in the evening wearing a dinner jacket.’
‘Does that sort of thing bring in enough?’
‘Not much cash in it, of course. You’ll never make a fortune that way, but I rub along all right with the few pennies I have already. Helps not being married. I expect you’re married?’
‘I am, as a matter of fact.’
He made marriage sound as if it required some excuse.
‘I thought you would be,’ he said. ‘As I mentioned, I’m not. Never found the right girl somehow.’
Bithel looked infinitely uncomfortable when he admitted that. There was a pause in our conversation. I could not think of anything to suggest. Girls certainly did not appear much in his line, though you never could tell. I asked how he came to be in the Territorial Army Reserve, which seemed to require explanation.
‘Joined the Terriers years ago,’ he said. ‘Seemed the thing to do. Never thought I’d wear uniform again when I gave them up. Rather glad to get back now and have some regular money rolling in. I’ve been out of a job, as a matter of fact, and what I’ve got doesn’t support me. We draw Field Allowance here, so I heard last night. I expect you know that already. Makes a nice addition to the pay. Funds were running rather low, to tell the truth. Always such a lot to spend money on. Reading, for instance. I expect you’re an omnivorous reader, if you’re a journalist. What digests do you take?’
At first I thought he referred to some sort of medical treatment, harking back to the conversation of the chaplains the night before, then realized the question had something to do with reading. I had to admit I did not take any digests. Bithel seemed disappointed at this answer.
‘I don’t really buy a lot of digests myself,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps not as many as I should. They have interesting articles in them sometimes. About sex, for instance. Sex psychology, I mean. Do you know about that?’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘I don’t mean the cheap stuff just to catch the eye, girls and legs, all that. There are abnormal sides you’d never guess. It’s wiser to know about such things, don’t you think?’
‘Certainly.’
Bithel moved nearer as we walked, lowering his voice again. There was a faint suggestion of scented soap at this close, too close, range.
‘Did they say anything about me before I arrived?’ he asked in a troubled tone.
‘Who?’
‘Anybody in the Battalion?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Any details about my family?’
‘Somebody said you were a brother of the VC.’
‘They did?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you say when they told you that?’
‘I thought you must be too young to be his brother – more likely his nephew.’
‘Quite right. I’m not Bithel VC’s brother.’
‘You are his nephew?’
‘I never said so, did I? But don’t let’s talk any more about that. There was something else I wanted to ask you. Did they say anything about games?’
‘What sort of games?’
‘Did they say I played any special game?’
‘There was some talk of your having played rugger for Wales.’
Bithel groaned.
‘There was talk of that?’ he asked, as if to make sure he had heard right.
‘Yes.’
‘I knew there’d been a misunderstanding,’ he said.
‘What about?’
‘Why, about my playing football – about rugger. You know what it is when you’ve had a few drinks. Very easy to give a wrong impression. I must have done that when I phoned that officer dealing with TA Reservists. Talked too much about local matters, sport, other people of the name of Bithel and so on.’
‘So the VC is no relation, and you didn’t play rugger for Wales?’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was no relation. Never know who you may be related to in this part of the world. He’s not a brother or uncle anyway. I must have managed to mislead that fellow completely if he got that idea into his head. He didn’t sound very bright on the phone. I thought so at the tim
e. One of these old dug-outs, I suppose. Colonel Blimp type. But it isn’t Bithel VC who worries me so much. It’s this rugger misunderstanding.’
‘How did it arise?’
‘God knows. Something misheard on the phone too, I should think. I believe there was a merchant called Bithel in the Welsh Fifteen one year. Perhaps there was a Bithel who played cricket for Glamorgan and I’ve muddled it. One or the other, I’m sure. It was a few years back anyway. I must have mentioned it for some reason.’
‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’
‘It would if we had to play rugger.’
‘That isn’t very likely.’
‘The fact is I’ve never played rugger in my life,’ said Bithel. ‘Never had the chance. Not particularly keen to either. Do you think we shall have to play?’
‘Not much time with all the training, I should imagine.’
‘I hope not,’ he said, rather desperately. ‘There’s a rumour we’re going to move almost at once in any case.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘People seem to think Northern Ireland. I say, this parade ground is a long way off, isn’t it. Hope we shan’t be inspected too closely, I’m not all that well shaved. I cut myself this morning. Hand shaky, for some reason’
‘That dance was a splendid affair.’
‘What dance?’
‘The dance you did round the dummy in your bed last night.’
‘Ah,’ said Bithel laughing, ‘I’ve heard that one before – having somebody on by pretending he made a fool of himself the night before. I know when I’m having my leg pulled. As a matter of fact I was rather relieved when everyone went off quietly to bed last night. I thought there might be some ragging, and I was feeling tired after the journey. They used to rag a lot when I was in Territorial camp years ago. I never liked it. Not cut out for that sort of thing. But to get back to razors – what shaving soap do you use? I’m trying a new kind. Saw it advertized in Health and Strength. Thought I’d experiment. I like a change of soaps from time to time. It freshens you up.’
By that time we had reached the parade ground. Kedward was already there. He took me off to the platoon I was to command. Bithel disappeared in another direction. Kedward explained certain matters, then we marched up and down side by side until officers were ordered to fall in. The service was held in one of the parish churches of the town. Later, from the pulpit, Popkiss, transformed now from the pale, embarrassed cleric of the saloon bar, orated with the ease and energy shared by officers and men throughout the Battalion. His text was from Ezekiel. Popkiss read the passage at length:
‘The hand of the Lord was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones, and caused me to pass them round about: and, behold, there were very many in the open valley: and, lo, they were very dry. And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord God thou knowest. Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say unto them, O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live. And I will lay sinews upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath into you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord. So I prophesied as I was commanded; and as I prophesied there was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to bone. And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came upon them, and the skin covered them above; and there was no breath in them. Then he said unto me, Prophesy unto the wind, prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord God; Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain that they may live. So I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came unto them and they lived, and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army . . .’
Popkiss paused, looked up from his Testament, stretched out his arms on either side. The men were very silent in the pitch-pine pews.
‘. . . Oh, my brethren, think on that open valley, think on it with me . . . a valley, do I picture it, by the shaft of a shut-down mine, where, under the dark mountain side, the slag heaps lift their heads to the sky, a valley such as those valleys in which you yourselves abide . . . Journey with me, my brethren, into that open valley, journey with me . . . Know you not those same dry bones? . . . You know them well. . . . Bones without flesh and sinew, bones without skin or breath . . . They are our bones, my brethren, the bones of you and of me, bones that await the noise and the mighty shaking, the gift of the four winds of which the prophet of old did tell . . . Must we not come together, my brethren, everyone of us, as did the bones of that ancient valley, quickened with breath, bone to bone, sinew to sinew, skin to skin . . . Unless I speak falsely, an exceeding great army . . .’
2
THE MOVEMENT ORDER came not much more than a week afterwards, before I had properly awakened from the dream through the perspectives of which I ranged, London as remote from me as from Kedward, Isobel’s letters the only residuum of a world occupied by other matters than platoon training or turning out the guard. As if by the intoxication of a drug, or compulsive hypnotic influences on the will, another world had been entered by artificial means, through which one travelled irresistibly, ominously, like Dr Trelawney and his fellow magicians, borne by their spells out on to the Astral Plane. Now, at last, I was geared to the machine of war, no longer an extraneous organism existing separately in increasingly alien conditions. For the moment, routine duties scarcely allowed thought. There was a day frantically occupied with packing. Then the whole Battalion was on parade. Orders were shouted. We moved off in column of route, leaving behind us Sardis, one of the Seven Churches of Asia, where the garments were white of those few who remained undefiled. The men, although departing from their own neighbourhoods and country, were in a fairly buoyant mood. Something was beginning at last. They sang softly:
‘Guide me, O thou great Jehovah,
Pilgrim through this barren land:
I am weak, but thou art mighty,
Hold me with thy powerful hand,
Bread of heaven,
Bread of heaven
Feed me till I want no more . . .’
This singing on the march, whatever form it took, always affirmed the vicissitudes of life, the changes, so often for the worse, that beset human existence, especially in the army, especially in time of war. After a while they abandoned the hymn, though not those accustomed themes of uncertainty, hardship, weariness, despondency, vain effort, contemplation of which gives such support to the soldier:
‘We had ter join,
We had ter join,
We had ter join Belisha’s army:
Ten bob a week,
Bugger all to eat,
Great big boots and blisters on yer feet.
We had ter join,
We had ter join,
We had ter join Belisha’s army:
Sitting on the grass,
Polishing up the brass,
Great black spiders running up yer – back.
We had ter join – we had ter join—
We had ter join – we had ter join . . .’
Gwatkin was in a state of unconcealed excitement. He bawled out his commands, loud as if through a megaphone, perpetually checking Kedward, Breeze and myself about minor matters. I could just see Bithel plodding along with his platoon at the rear of the company immediately ahead of us. He had turned up on parade carrying a small green leather dressing-case, much battered, which he grasped while he marched.
‘Didn’t like to trust it with the heavy baggage,’ he said, adjusting the worn waterproof cover, while we stood easy at the railway station. ‘The only piece of my mother’s luggage I have left. She’s gone to a Better Place now, you know.’
The train set out towards the north. This was the beginning of a long journey to an unknown destination. Night fell. Hours later, we detrained in stygian darkness. Here was a port. Black craft floated on a pitchy, infernal lake. Beyond the mouth
of the harbour, the wash of waves echoed. The boat on which the Battalion embarked was scarcely large enough to accommodate our strength. The men were fitted in at last, sitting or lying like the cargo of a slave ship. The old steamer chugged away from the jetty, and into open sea. Wind was up. We heaved about in choppy waters. There was not going to be much sleep for anyone that night. After much scurrying about on the part of officers and NCOs, Sergeant Pendry reported at last that all was correct. He was accompanied by Corporal Gwylt, one of the Company’s several wits, tiny, almost a dwarf, with a huge head of black curly hair; no doubt a member of that primitive race of which the tall, fair Celt had become overlord. Not always to be relied upon to carry out purely military duties to perfection, Gwylt was acceptable as an NCO because he never stopped talking and singing, so that his personality, though obtrusive, helped the Platoon through some of the tedium inseparable from army life.
‘Has everyone had their cocoa issue, Sergeant Pendry?’
‘That they have, sir, very good it was.’
‘Some of the boys was too sick to drink their cocoa, sir,’ said Corporal Gwylt, who felt his comment always required.
‘Are a lot of the Platoon sea-sick?’
‘I told them to lie still and it would pas s,’ said Sergeant Pendry. ‘They do make a lot of fuss, some of them.’
‘Oh, bloody sick, some of them,’ said Corporal Gwylt, like a Greek chorus. ‘That fair boy, Jones, D., bloody sick he has been.’
The boat ploughed through wind and wave. Was this the night journey on the sea of a thousand dreams loaded with hidden meaning? Certainly our crossing was no less mysterious than those nocturnal voyages of sleep. Towards morning I retired below to shave, feeling revived when I returned to deck. The sky was getting lighter and land was in sight. An easterly breeze was blowing when we went ashore, which sprayed about a gentle drizzle. Beyond the harbour stretched a small town, grey houses, factory chimneys. In the distance, mountains were obscured by cloud. Everything looked mean and down-at-heel. There was nothing to make one glad to have arrived in this country.
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 3 Page 4