The Soldier's Art

by Anthony Powell

  “You’ve got promotion?”

  “In the sense of immediate accession of rank – no. With the connotation that my employment will now be established in a more lofty – an incalculably more lofty – sphere than a Divisional Headquarters – yes.”

  “The War Office?”

  Widmerpool raised his hand slightly, at the same time allowing a brief smile to lighten his face in indication of the superiority, stratospheric in degree, towards which he was about to soar beyond the range of any institution so traditionally prosaic, not to say sordid in function, as the War Office. He folded his arms.

  “No,” he said, “not the War Office, I am thankful to say.”

  “Where, then?”

  “The Cabinet Offices.”

  “I’m rather vague about them.”

  “An admission that does not surprise me.”

  “It’s the top thing of all?”

  “You might describe it that way.”

  “How else?”

  “The Cabinet Offices comprise, in one aspect, the area of action where the Ministry of Defence – the Chiefs of Staff, if you prefer – are in immediate contact with each other and with the Government of this country – with the Prime Minister himself.”

  “I see.”

  “So you will appreciate the fact that my removal of Stringham from these Headquarters will not affect me in the smallest way.”

  “You go at once?”

  “I have only heard unofficially at present. I imagine it will be the matter of a week, perhaps less.”

  “Have you any idea what will happen to me when you’re gone?”

  “None.”

  There was something impressive in his total lack of interest in the fate of all persons except himself. Perhaps it was not the lack of interest in itself – common enough to many people – but the fact that he was at no pains to conceal this within some more or less hypocritical integument.

  “I shall be left high and dry?”

  “I certainly doubt if my successor will be allowed an assistant. My own particular methods, more energetic than most, led to an abnormal amount of work for a mere D.A.A.G. Even so, there has been recent pressure from above to encourage me to dispense with your services.”

  “You haven’t anything in mind for me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You said you might try and fix something.”

  “I have no recollection of doing so – and, anyway, what could I fix?”

  “So it will be the Infantry Training Centre?”

  “I should imagine.”

  “Not much of a prospect.”

  “The army more often than not offers uninviting prospects,” said Widmerpool. “Look at the months I have been stuck here, wasting my time, and, if I may say so, my abilities. We are not soldiers just to enjoy ourselves. We are waging a war. You seem aggrieved. Let me point out there is nothing startlingly brilliant in your own work – your industry and capabilities – to make me press for a good appointment for you. In addition to what can only be regarded as mediocre qualities as a staff officer, it was you, and no other, who saw fit to involve me in the whole Bithel-Stringham hash. That might well have turned out very awkwardly for me. No, Nicholas, if you examine your conscience, you will find you have very little to grumble at.”

  He sighed, whether at my own ingratitude or human frailty in general, I was uncertain. Cocksidge appeared in the doorway.

  “A. & Q. wants to see you, sir,” he said. “Right away. Very urgent. He’s got the D.A.P.M. with him.”

  “Right.”

  “I hear you may be leaving us, sir,” said Cocksidge.

  He spoke more with unction than servility.

  “It’s got round, has it?” said Widmerpool approvingly.

  I had the impression he had put the rumour round himself. He went off down the passage. Cocksidge turned towards me, at the same time sharply adjusting his manner from that of lower-middle-grade obsequiousness to a major ard staff officer, to one more in keeping for employment towards a second-lieutenant not even a member of the staff.

  “The night you were last Duty Officer, Jenkins, the Field Park Company received their routine telephone contact five minutes later than the time noted on your report.”

  “It went out in the normal manner with the others.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I suppose the Sapper Duty Officer didn’t note it down immediately or else his watch was wrong.”

  “I shall have to look into this,” said Cocksidge.

  He spoke threateningly, as if expecting further explanation. I remembered now I had indeed effected the Field Park contact a few minutes later than the others for some trivial reason. However, I stuck to my guns. The matter was not of the smallest practical importance. If Cocksidge wanted to make trouble, he would have to undertake researches at some considerable labour to himself. That was unlikely with such meagre advantages in view. He left the room, slamming the door behind him. The telephone bell rang.

  “Major Farebrother, from Command, downstairs, sir. Wants to see the D.A.A.G.”

  “Send him up.”

  This was the first time Sunny Farebrother had ever paid a visit to Divisional Headquarters. Recently, he and Widmerpool had been less in conflict, less even in direct contact. Either old enmities had died down, or, I supposed, other more important matters had been occupying both of them. The news about himself Widmerpool had just released, in his own case confirmed that view. Farebrother was likely to have been similarly engaged, unless he had greatly changed. At that moment he came through the door, stopping short for a second, while he saluted with parade ground formality. Military psychology could to some extent be gauged by this business of saluting when entering a room. Officers of field rank would sometimes omit the convention, if, on entering, they immediately sighted only a subaltern there. These officers, one noticed, were often wanting when more serious demands were made on their capacity. However, few, even of those who knew how to behave, brought out the movement with such a click and snap as Farebrother had done. When he had relaxed, I explained Widmerpool had been summoned by Colonel Pedlar and might be away from the office for some little time.

  “I’m in no particular hurry,” said Farebrother. “I had another appointment in the neighbourhood and thought I would look in on Kenneth. I’ll wait, if I may.”

  He accepted a chair. His manner was kindly but cold. He did not recognise me. There was little reason why he should after nearly twenty years, when we had travelled together to London after staying with the Templers. I remembered the taxi piled high with miscellaneous luggage and sporting equipment, as our ways had parted at the station. There had been a gun-case, a cricket bat and a fishing rod; possibly two squash racquets.

  “You must come and lunch with me one of these days,” he had said, giving one of his very open smiles.

  He was surprisingly unchanged from that moment. A suggestion of grey threaded, here and there, neat light-coloured hair. This faint powdering of silver increased the air of distinction, even of moral superiority, which his outward appearance always conveyed. The response he offered – that he was a person of self-denying, upright life – had nearly been allowed to become tinged with a touch of self-righteousness. Any such outgrowth was kept within bounds by the soldierly spruceness of his bearing. I judged him now to be in his early fifties. Middle-age caused him to look more than ever like one’s conception of Colonel Newcome, though a more sophisticated, enterprising prototype of Thackeray’s old warrior. Sunny Farebrother could never entirely conceal his own shrewdness, however much he tried. He was a Colonel Newcome who, instead of collapsing into bankruptcy, had become, on retirement from the army, a brisk business executive; offered a seat on the East India Company’s Board, rather than mooning round the precincts of the Charterhouse. At the same time, Farebrother would certainly know the right phrase to express appreciation of any such historic buildings or sentimental memories with which he might himself have been associated
. One could be sure of that. He was not a player to overlook a useful card. Above all, he bestowed around him a sense of smoothness, ineffable, unstemmable smoothness, like oil flowing ever so gently from the spout of a vessel perfectly regulated by its pourer, soft lubricating fluid, gradually, but irresistibly, spreading; and spreading, let it be said, over an unexpectedly wide, even a vast area.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jenkins, sir.”

  “Ah, we’ve spoken sometimes together on the telephone.”

  Uniform – that of a London Territorial unit of Yeomanry cavalry – hardly changed Farebrother at all, unless to make him seem more appropriately clad. Cap, tunic, trousers, all battered and threadbare as his former civilian suits, had obviously served him well in the previous war. Frayed and shiny with age, they were far from making him look down-at-heel in any inadmissible way, their antiquity according a patina of impoverished nobility – nobility of the spirit rather than class – a gallant disregard for material things. His Sam Browne belt was limp with immemorial polishing. I recalled Peter Templer remarking that Farebrother’s D.S.O. had been “rather a good one”; of the O.B.E. next door to it, Farebrother himself had commented : “told them I should have to wear it on my backside, as the only medal I’ve ever won sitting in a chair.” Whether or not he had in fact said any such thing, except in retrospect, he was well able to look after himself and his business in that unwarlike position, however assured he might also be in combat. It was not surprising Widmerpool hated him. Leaning forward a little, puckering his face, as if even at this moment he found a sedentary attitude unsympathetic, he gazed at me suddenly as if he were dreadfully sorry about something.

  “I’ve got some rather bad news for Kenneth, I’m afraid,” he said, “but I expect I’d better keep it till he returns. I’d better tell him personally. He might be hurt otherwise.”

  He spoke in a tone almost of misery. I thought the point had arrived when it should be announced that we had met before. Farebrother listened, with raised eyebrows and a beaming smile, while I briefly outlined the circumstances.

  “That must have been seventeen or eighteen years ago.”

  “Just after I’d left school.”

  “Peter Templer,” he said. “That’s a curious coincidence.”

  “You’ve heard about him lately?”

  “I have, as a matter of fact. Of course I often used to run across him in the City before the war.”

  “He’s attached to some ministry now in an advisory capacity, isn’t he?”

  “Economic Warfare,” said Farebrother.

  He fixed his very honest blue eyes on me. There was something a bit odd about the look.

  “He told me he wasn’t very happy where he was,” he said, “and hearing I was making a change myself, thought I might be able to help.”

  I did not see quite how Farebrother could help, but assumed that might be through civilian contacts, rather than from his own military status. Farebrother seemed to decide that he wanted to change the subject from Templer’s immediate career, giving almost the impression that he felt he might himself have been indiscreet. He spoke quickly again.

  “The old man died years ago, of course,” he said. “He was an old devil, if ever there was one. Devil incarnate.”

  I was a little surprised to hear Farebrother describe Peter Templer’s father in such uncomplimentary terms, because, when we had met before, he had emphasised what a “fine old man” he had thought Mr. Templer; been positively sentimental about his good qualities, not to mention having contributed a laudatory footnote of personal memoir to the official obituary in The Times. I was more interested to talk of Peter than his father, but Farebrother would allow no further details.

  “Said more than I should already. You surprised it out of me by mentioning the name so unexpectedly.”

  “So you’re leaving Command yourself, sir?”

  “As I’ve begun being indiscreet, I’ll continue on that line. I’m going to one of the cloak-and-dagger shows.”

  From time to time one heard whispers of these mysterious sideshows radiating from out of the more normal activities of the Services. In a remote backwater like the Divisional Headquarters where I found myself, they were named with bated breath. Farebrother’s apparent indifference to the prospect of becoming part of something so esoteric seemed immensely detached and nonchalant.

  Nevertheless, the manner in which he made this statement, in itself not in the least indiscreet, was at the same time perhaps a shade self-satisfied.

  “Getting a step too,” he said. “About time at my age.”

  It was all at once clear as day that one of his reasons for coming round to Div. H.Q. was to inform Widmerpool of this promotion to lieutenant-colonel. The discovery that we had known each other in the past had removed all coolness from Farebrother’s manner. Now, he seemed, for some reason, even anxious to acquire me as an ally.

  “How do you get on with our friend Kenneth?” he asked. “A bit difficult at times? Don’t you find that?”

  I made no effort to deny the imputation. Widmerpool was grading low in my estimation at that moment. I saw no reason to conceal hard feelings about him. Farebrother was pleased at getting this affirmative reaction.

  “I’ve no objection to a fellow liking to do things his own way,” he said, “but I don’t want a scrimmage about every new Army Council Instruction as soon as it appears. Don’t you agree? In that sort of respect Kenneth doesn’t know where to stop. Not only that, I found he’s behaved rather badly behind my back with your Corps’ M.G.A.”

  It was news that Widmerpool’s activities behind the scenes had taken him as far up in that hierarchy as so relatively august a personage as the Major-General in charge of Administration at Corps H.Q.

  “I mention that in confidence, of course,” said Farebrother, “and for your own guidance. Kenneth can be a little thoughtless at times about his own subordinates. I daresay you’ve found that. Not that I would say a word against Kenneth as a man or a staff officer. In many ways he’s wasted in this particular job.”

  “He’s leaving it.”

  “He is?”

  In spite of a conviction that Widmerpool’s gifts were not being given sufficient scope, Farebrother did not sound altogether pleased to hear this matter was going to be put right. He asked the question with more open curiosity than he had showed until then.

  “I don’t think it’s a secret.”

  “Even if it is, it will go no further with me. What’s ahead of him?”

  “The Cabinet Offices, he told me, though I believe it’s not official yet.”

  Farebrother whistled, one of those crude expressions of feeling he would allow himself from time to time, which seemed hardly to accord with the dignity of the rest of his demeanour. I remembered him making a similar popping sound with his lips, at the same time snapping his fingers, when some beautiful woman’s name had come into the conversation staying at the Templers’.

  “The Cabinet Offices, by God,” he said. “Has he been promoted?”

  “I gather he goes there in his present rank, but thinks there’s a good chance of going up pretty soon.”

  “I see.”

  Farebrother showed a little relief at Widmerpool’s promotion being delayed, if only briefly. He had plainly been disturbed by what he had heard.

  “The Cabinet Offices,” he repeated with emphasis. “Well, that’s very exalted. I only hope what I’ve come to tell him won’t make any difference. However, as I said before, better not refer to that until I’ve seen him.”

  He shook his head. Widmerpool came back to the room at that moment. He was fidgeting with the collar of his battle-dress, always a sign he was put out. It looked as if the interview with A. & Q. had not gone too well. Seeing Farebrother sitting there was not welcome to him either.

  “Oh, hallo, Sunny,” he said, without much warmth.

  “I came along to bid you farewell, Kenneth, and now I hear from Nicholas you’re on the move li
ke myself.”

  Widmerpool showed a touch of surprise at Farebrother using my first name, then remembered we had formerly known each other.

  “I forgot you’d both met,” he said. “Yes, I’m going. Did Nicholas tell you where?”

  “Scarcely revealed anything,” said Farebrother.

  Not for the first time, I noted his caution, and was grateful for it, though Widmerpool seemed to want his destination known.

  “The Cabinet Offices.”

  Widmerpool could not conceal his own satisfaction.

  “I say, old boy.”

  The comparative enthusiasm Farebrother managed to infuse into this comment was something of a masterpiece in the exercise of dissimulation.

  “It will mean work, morning, noon and night,” said Widmerpool. “But there’ll undoubtedly be interesting contacts.”

  “There will, old boy, I bet there will – and promotion.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Quite soon.”

  “Oh, you never know in the bloody army,” said Widmerpool, thought of his new job inducing a better humour, marked as usual by the assumption of his hearty military manner, “but what’s happening to you, Sunny, if you say you’re going too?”

  “One of these secret shows.”

  “Baker Street?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Promotion too?”

  Farebrother nodded modestly.

  “That’s the only reason I’m taking it. Need the pay. Much rather do something straightforward, if I had the choice.”