‘Nick’s just off to Div HQ,’ said Gwatkin.
‘Oh, are you, Nick?’ said Kedward. ‘Well best of luck, but you will sign for the galantine first, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye, Idwal, and good luck.’
Kedward hastily shook my hand, then rushed off to the scene of the butter robbery, saying: ‘Don’t be long, Rowland.’
Gwatkin shook my hand too. He smiled in an odd sort of way, as if he dimly perceived it was no good battling against Fate, which, seen in right perspective, almost always provides a certain beauty of design, sometimes even an occasional good laugh.
‘I leave you to your galantine, Nick,’ he said. ‘Best of luck.’
I gave him a salute for the last time, feeling he deserved it. Gwatkin marched away, looking a trifle absurd with his little moustache, but somehow rising above that. I went off in the other direction, where the burial certificate of the galantine awaited signature. A blazing sun was beating down. For this, my final duty at Castlemallock, Corporal Gwylt, who was representing the Messing Corporal, elsewhere engaged in the butter investigation, had arranged the galantine, an immense slab of it, in its wrappings on a kind of bier, looking like a corpse in a mortuary. Beside the galantine, he had placed a pen and the appropriate Army Form.
‘Oh, that galantine do smell something awful, sir,’ he said. ‘Sign the paper without smelling it, I should, sir.’
‘I’d better make sure.’
I inclined my head with caution, then quickly withdrew it. Corporal Gwylt was absolutely right. The smell was appalling, indescribable. Shades of the Potemkin, I thought, wondering if I were going to vomit. After several deep breaths, I set my name to the document, confirming animal corruption.
‘I’m leaving now, Corporal Gwylt. Going up to Division. I’ll say goodbye.’
‘You’re leaving the Company, sir?’
‘That I am.’
The Battalion’s form of speech was catching.
‘Then I’m sorry, sir. Good luck to you. I expect it will be nice up at Division.’
‘Hope so. Don’t get into too much mischief with the girls.’
‘Oh, those girls, sir, they never give you any peace, they don’t.’
‘You must give up girls and get a third stripe. Then you’ll be like the Sergeant-Major and not think of girls any longer.’
‘That I will, sir. It will be better, though I’ll not be the man the Sergeant-Major is, I haven’t the height. But don’t you believe the Sergeant-Major don’t like girls. That’s just his joke. I know they put something in the tea to make us not want them, but it don’t do boys like me no good, it seem, nor the Sergeant-Major either.’
We shook hands on it. Any attempt to undermine the age-old army legend of sedatives in the tea would be as idle as to lecture Gwatkin on Vigny. I returned to the truck, and climbed up beside the driver. We rumbled through the park with its sad decayed trees, its Byronic associations. In the town, Maureen was talking to a couple of corner-boys in the main street. She waved and blew a kiss as we drove past, more as a matter of routine, I thought, than on account of any flattering recognition of myself, because she seemed to be looking in the direction of the men at the back of the truck, who, on passing, had raised some sort of hoot at her. Now they began to sing:
‘She’ll be wearing purple socks,
And she’s always in the pox,
And she’s Mickey McGilligan’s daughter,
Mary-Anne . . .’
There were no villages in the country traversed, rarely even farms or hovels. One mile looked like another, except when once we passed a pair of stone pillars, much battered by the elements, their capitals surmounted by heraldic animals holding shields. Here were formerly gates to some mansion, the gryphons, the shields, the heraldry, nineteenth century in design. Now, instead of dignifying the entrance to a park, the pillars stood starkly in open country, alone among wide fields: no gates; no wall; no drive; no park; no house. Beyond them, towards the far horizon, stretched hedgeless ploughland, rank grass, across the expanses of which, like the divisions of a chess-board, squat walls of piled stone were beginning to rise. The pillars marked the entrance to Nowhere. Nothing remained of what had once been the demesne, except these chipped, over-elaborate coats of arms, emblems probably of some lord of the Law, like the first Castlemallock, or business magnate, such as those who succeeded him. Here, too, there had been no heirs, or heirs who preferred to live elsewhere. I did not blame them. North or South, this country was not greatly sympathetic to me. All the same, the day was sunny, there was a vast sense of relief in not being required to settle the Company butter problem, nor take the Platoon in gas drill. Respite was momentary, but welcome. At the back of the vehicle the hospital party sang gently:
‘Open now the crystal fountain,
Whence the healing stream doth flow:
Let the fire and cloudy pillar
Lead me all my journey through:
Strong Deliverer,
Strong Deliverer
Be thou still my strength and shield . . .’
Gwatkin, Kedward and the rest already seemed far away. I was entering another phase of my war. By this time we had driven for an hour or two. The country had begun to change its character. Mean dwellings appeared more often, then the outer suburbs of a large town. The truck drove up a long straight road of grim houses. There was a crossroads where half a dozen ways met, a sinister place such as that where Oedipus, refusing to give passage, slew his father, a locality designed for civil strife and street fighting. Pressing on, we reached a less desolate residential quarter. Here, Divisional Headquarters occupied two or three adjacent houses. At one of these, a Military Policeman stood on duty.
‘I want the DAAG’s office.’
I was taken to see a sergeant-clerk. No one seemed to have heard I was to arrive. The truck had to move on. My kit was unloaded. The DAAG’s office was consulted from the switchboard, a message returned that I was to ‘come up’. A soldier-clerk showed the way. We passed along passages, the doors of which were painted with the name, rank and appointment of the occupants, on one of them:
Major-General H. de C. Liddament, DSO, MC. Divisional Commander
The clerk left me at a door on which the name of the former DAAG – ‘Old Square-arse’, as Maelgwyn-Jones designated him – was still inscribed. From within came the drone of a voice apparently reciting some endless chant, which rose and fell, but never ceased. I knocked. No one answered. After a time, I knocked again. Again there was no answer. Then I walked in, and saluted. An officer, wearing major’s crowns on his shoulder, was sitting with his back to the door dictating, while a clerk with pencil and pad was taking down letters in shorthand. The DAAG’s back was fat and humped, a roll of flesh at the neck.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said, waving his hand in the air, but not turning.
He continued his dictation while I stood there.
‘. . . It is accordingly felt . . . that the case of the officer in question – give his name and personal number – would be more appropriately dealt with – no – more appropriately regulated – under the terms of the Army Council Instruction quoted above – give reference – of which para II, sections (d) and (f), and para XI, sections (b) and (h). as amended by War Office Letter AG 27/9852/73 of 3 January, 1940, which, it would appear, contemplate exceptional cases of this kind . . . It is at the same time emphasised that this formation is in no way responsible for the breakdown in administration – no, no, better not say that – for certain irregularities of routine that appear to have taken place during the course of conducting the investigation of the case, vide page 23, para 17 of the findings of the Court of Inquiry, and para VII of the above quoted ACI, section (e) – irregularities which it is hoped will be adjusted in due course by the authorities concerned . . .’
The voice, like so many other dictating or admonitory voices of even that early period of the war, had assumed the ti
mbre and inflexions of the Churchill broadcast, slurred consonants, rhythmical stresses and prolations. These accents, in certain circumstances, were to be found imitated as low as battalion level. Latterly, for example, Gwatkin’s addresses to the Company could be detected, by an attentive ear, to have veered away a little from the style of the chapel elder, towards the Prime Minister’s individualities of delivery. In this, Gwatkin’s harangues lost not a little of their otherwise traditional charm. If we won the war, there could be no doubt that these rich, distinctive tones would be echoed for a generation at least. I was still thinking of this curious imposition of a mode of speech on those for whom its manner was totally incongruous, when the clerk folded his pad and rose.
‘Will you sign these, sir?’ he asked.
‘“For Major General”,’ said the DAAG, ‘I’ll sign them “for Major-General”.’
He turned in his chair.
‘How are you?’ he said.
It was Widmerpool. He brought his large spectacles to bear on me like searchlights, and held out his hand. I took it. I felt enormously glad to see him. One’s associations with people are regulated as much by what they stand for, as by what they are, individual characteristics becoming from time to time submerged in more general implications. At that moment, although I had never possessed anything approaching a warm relationship with Widmerpool, his presence brought back with a rush all kinds of things, more or less desirable, from which I had been cut off for an eternity. I wondered how I could ever have considered him in the disobliging light that seemed so innate since we had been at school together.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
I looked about. The shorthand clerk had been sitting on a tin box. I chose the edge of a table.
‘Anyway, between these four walls,’ said Widmerpool, ‘don’t feel rank makes a gulf between us.’
‘How did you know it was me when I came into the room?’
Widmerpool indicated a small circular shaving-mirror, which stood on his table, almost hidden by piles of documents. He may have thought this question already presumed too far on our difference in rank, because he stopped smiling at once, and began to tap his knee. His battle-dress, like his civilian clothes, seemed a little too small for him. At the same time, he was undeniably a somewhat formidable figure in his present role.
‘I’ll put you in the picture right away,’ he said. ‘In the first place, I do not mean to stay on this staff long. That is between ourselves, of course. The Division is spoken of as potentially operational. So far as I am concerned, it is a backwater. Besides, I have to do most of the work here, Ack-and-Quack, a Regular, is a good fellow, but terribly slow. He is not too bad on supply, but possesses little or no grasp of personnel.’
‘What about the General?’
Widmerpool took off his spectacles. He leant towards me. His face was severe under his blinking. He spoke in a low voice.
‘I despair of the General,’ he said.
‘I thought everyone admired him.’
‘Quite a wrong judgment.’
‘As bad as that?’
‘Worse.’
‘He has a reputation for efficiency.’
‘Mistakenly.’
‘They like him in the units.’
‘People love buffoonery,’ said Widmerpool, ‘soldiers like everyone else. Incidentally, I don’t think General Liddament cares for me either. However, that is by the way. I make sure he can find nothing to complain of in my work. As a result, he contents himself with adopting a mock-heroic style of talk whenever I approach him. Very undignified in a relatively senior officer. I repeat, I do not propose to stay with this formation long.’
‘What job do you want?’
‘That’s my affair,’ said Widmerpool, ‘but in the meantime, so long as I remain, the work will be properly done. Now it happens lately there has been a spate of courts-martial, none of special interest, but all requiring, for one reason or another, a great deal of work from the DAAG. With his other duties, it has been more than one man can cope with. It was too much for my predecessor. That was to be expected. Now I thrive on work, but I saw at once that even I must have assistance. Accordingly, I have obtained War Office authority for the temporary employment of a junior officer to aid me in such matters as taking Summaries of Evidence. Various names were put forward within the Division, yours among them. I noticed this. I had no reason to suppose you would be the most efficient, but, since none of the others had any more legal training than yourself, I allowed the ties of old acquaintance to prevail. I chose you – subject to your giving satisfaction, of course.’
Widmerpool laughed.
‘Thanks very much.’
‘I take it you did not find yourself specially cut out to be a regimental officer.’
‘Not specially.’
‘Otherwise, I doubt if your name would have been submitted to me. Let’s hope you will be better adapted to staff duties.’
‘We can but hope.’
‘I remember when we last met, you came to see me with a view to getting help in actually entering the army. How did you get in?’
‘In the end I was called up. As I told you at the time, my name was already on the Emergency Reserve. I merely consulted you as to the best means of speeding up that process.’
I saw no reason to give Widmerpool further details about that particular subject. It had been no thanks to him that the calling-up process had been accelerated. By now he had succeeded in dispelling, with extraordinary promptness, my earlier apprehension that army contacts were necessarily preferable with people one knew in civilian life. I began to wonder whether I was not already regretting Gwatkin and Kedward.
‘Like so many units and formations at this moment,’ said Widmerpool, ‘the Division is under-establishment. You will be expected to help while you are here in other capacities than purely “A” duties. When in the field – on exercises, I mean – you will be something of a dogsbody, to use a favourite army phrase, with which you are no doubt familiar. You understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good. You will be in F Mess. F is low, but not the final dregs of the Divisional Headquarters staff, if they can be so called. The Mobile Bath Officer, and his like, are in G Mess. By the way, a body from your unit, one Bithel, is coming up to command the Mobile Laundry.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Brother of a VC, I understand, and was himself a notable sportsman when younger. Pity they could not find him better employment, for he should be a good type. But we must get on with the job, not spend our time coffee-housing here. Your kit is downstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will give orders for it to be taken round to your billet – you had better go with it to see the place. Come straight back here. I will run through your duties, then take you back to the Mess to meet some of the staff.’
Widmerpool picked up the telephone. He spoke for some minutes about my affairs. Then he said to the operator: ‘Get me Major Farebrother at Command.’
He hung up the receiver and waited.
‘My opposite number at Command is one, Sunny Farebrother, a City acquaintance of mine – rather a slippery customer to deal with. He was my Territorial unit’s Brigade-Major at the beginning of the war.’
‘I met him years ago.’
The telephone bell rang.
‘Well, get cracking,’ said Widmerpool, without commenting on this last observation. ‘The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back. There’s a good deal to run through.’
He had already begun to speak on the telephone when I left the room. I saw that I was now in Widmerpool’s power. This, for some reason, gave me a disagreeable, sinking feeling within. On the news that night, motorized elements of the German army were reported as occupying the outskirts of Paris.
The Soldier’s Art
For Roy Fuller
1
WHEN, AT THE start of the whole business, I bought an army greatcoat, it was at one of those places in the neighbour
hood of Shaftesbury Avenue, where, as well as officers’ kit and outfits for sport, they hire or sell theatrical costume. The atmosphere within, heavy with menace like an oriental bazaar, hinted at clandestine bargains, furtive even if not unlawful commerce, heightening the tension of an already novel undertaking. The deal was negotiated in an upper room, dark and mysterious, draped with skiing gear and riding-breeches, in the background of which, behind the glass windows of a high display case, two headless trunks stood rigidly at attention. One of these effigies wore Harlequin’s diagonally spangled tights; the other, scarlet full-dress uniform of some infantry regiment, allegorical figures, so it seemed, symbolising dualisms of the antithetical stock-in-trade surrounding them . . . Civil and Military . . . Work and Play . . . Detachment and Involvement . . . Tragedy and Comedy . . . War and Peace . . . Life and Death . . .
An assistant, bent, elderly, bearded, with the congruous demeanour of a Levantine trader, bore the greatcoat out of a secret recess in the shadows and reverently invested me within its double-breasted, brass-buttoned, stiffly pleated khaki folds. He fastened the front with rapid bony fingers, doing up the lapels to the throat; then stepped back a couple of paces to judge the effect. In a three-sided full-length looking-glass nearby I, too, critically examined the back view of the coat’s shot-at-dawn cut, aware at the same time that soon, like Alice, I was to pass, as it were by virtue of these habiliments, through its panes into a world no less enigmatic.
‘How’s that, sir?’
‘All right, I think.’
‘Might be made for you.’
‘Not a bad fit.’
Loosening now quite slowly the buttons, one by one, he paused as if considering some matter, and gazed intently.
‘I believe I know your face,’ he said.
‘You do?’
‘Was it The Middle Watch?’
‘Was what the middle watch?’
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 3 Page 23