Men at Arms

  Colonel Tickeridge continued: ‘Of course all these appointments are just a try-out. We may have a reshuffle later. But they’re the best we can think of at the moment.’

  The meeting broke up. The orderly behind the bar busily served pink gins.

  ‘Congratulations, Apthorpe,’ said Guy.

  ‘Thanks, old man. I confess I never expected the Headquarter Company. It’s twice the size of any other, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll manage it very well.’

  ‘Yes. I may have to sit on my 2IC a bit.’

  ‘On your what, Apthorpe? Is that a new sort of thunder-box?’

  ‘No, no, no. Second-in-command, of course. You really ought to get the correct terms, you know. It’s the kind of thing they notice higher up. By the way I think it’s bad luck you didn’t do better. I heard a buzz that one of our batch was going to be a 2IC. I quite thought that meant you.’

  ‘Leonard’s very efficient.’

  ‘Yes. They know best, of course. Still I’m sorry it wasn’t you. If it’s a bore to move your gear immediately, you can use my tent for tonight.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  ‘But get it clear first thing tomorrow, won’t you, old man.’

  It was so cold in the mess-tent that they dined in great-coats. In accordance with regimental custom, Apthorpe and Leonard stood drinks to all.

  Several of the temporary officers said: ‘Bad luck, Uncle.’ Guy’s reverse seemed to have made him more simpatico.

  Hayter said: ‘You’re Crouchback, aren’t you? Have a drink. Time I got to know my little flock. You won’t find me a hard chap to work with, when you’re used to my ways. What did you do in the piping days of peace?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What’s Major Erskine like?’

  ‘Brainy. He’s spent a lot of his service in rather special jobs. But you’ll get on all right with him if you do what you’re told. He won’t expect anything much of you new chaps at first.’

  ‘What time do the men arrive tomorrow?’

  ‘The Brig. was shooting rather a line about that. It’s only the old sweats who come tomorrow. The National Service chaps won’t be here for some days.’

  They drank pink gin together and eyed one another without confidence.

  ‘Which are de Souza and Jervis? I ought to have a word with them, too, I suppose.’

  That evening when Guy went in for the last time to Apthorpe’s tent, he found his host awake and illuminated.

  ‘Crouchback,’ he said, ‘there’s something I have to say to you. I never want to hear another word about that happening at Southsand. Never. Do you understand? Otherwise I shall have to take action.’

  ‘What sort of action, Apthorpe?’

  ‘Drastic action.’

  Rum. Very rum indeed.

  7

  NEARLY three weeks later there appeared Army Training Memorandum. No. 31 War. April 1940. A canvas letter rack with a stitched section for every officer was one of the pieces of furniture which, with hired arm-chairs, a wireless set and other amenities, had lately appeared in the mess of the Second Battalion. Returning from an afternoon of ‘company schemes’ each of them found a copy of the tract protruding from his pouch. General Ironside commended it with the words: ‘I direct all commanding officers to ensure that every junior officer is thoroughly examined in the questions set in Part 1 of this Memorandum and not to rest content until the answers are satisfactory.’

  Colonel Tickeridge said: ‘You chaps had better take a dekko at the ATM this month. It seems to be important for some reason or other.’

  There were one hundred and forty-three questions in the tract.

  April 21st; the nine o’clock news announced that General Paget was at Lillehammer and that all was going well in Norway. When the news was over, music began. Guy found an arm-chair as far from the wireless as possible and in an atmosphere in which the scents of trodden grass, gin and roast beef were subdued by paraffin and hot iron, he began to study the ‘life and death responsibilities of a sub unit commander’.

  Many of the questions related either to the regular routine, of which no Halberdier officer could conceivably be negligent, or to abstruse technicalities quite outside his ken.

  ‘I say, have you acquired – out of your grant – an old motorcar chassis and engine parts to assist M.T. training?’

  ‘No. How many men in your platoon have you earmarked for signallers?’

  ‘None.’

  It was like a game of ‘Happy Families’.

  ‘Can you tell me why camouflage done late is more dangerous than no camouflage at all?’

  ‘I suppose you might get stuck on the wet paint.’

  ‘Are your men’s arrangements for drying their clothes as good as yours?’

  ‘They couldn’t possibly be worse,’

  ‘I say, Uncle, have you tested whether your platoon can cook in their mess-tins?’

  ‘Yes. We did it last week.’

  ‘What are the advantages during training of beginning night operations an hour before dawn?’

  ‘They can only last an hour, I suppose.’

  ‘No, seriously.’

  ‘It seems a great advantage to me.’

  The camp seemed to whisper and chatter with the questionnaire like Apthorpe’s home-jungle at sundown. Guy dreamily turned the pages. It was all rather like the advertisement of a correspondence course in Business Efficiency. ‘How to catch the boss’s eye in five lessons.’ ‘Why didn’t I get promoted?’ … But a question here and there set him thinking about the last three weeks.

  Are you trying to make yourself competent to take over the job of the next senior man to you?

  Guy had no respect for Hayter. He was confident he could now do his job much better than Hayter. Moreover, he had lately learned that when he did take over another job, it would not be Hayter’s.

  Major Erskine had arrived on the same day as the National Service men. His ‘braininess’ was not oppressive. The imputation derived chiefly from the facts that he read Mr J. B. Priestley’s novels, and was strangely dishevelled in appearance. His uniform was correct and clean but it never seemed to fit him, not through any fault of the tailor’s, but rather because the major seemed to change shape from time to time during the day. One moment his tunic seemed too long, the next, too short. His pockets were too full. His anklets got twisted. He was more like a Sapper than a Halberdier. But he and Guy got on well together. Major Erskine did not talk much, but when he did it was with great simplicity and frankness.

  One evening when Hayter had been more cocky than usual, Major Erskine and Guy walked back together from the company lines to the mess.

  ‘That little tick wants his bottom kicked,’ said Major Erskine. ‘I think I shall kick it. Good for him and pleasant for me.’

  ‘Yes. I can see that.’

  Major Erskine then said: ‘I shouldn’t talk to you like that about your superior officer. Did anyone ever tell you why you’re only commanding a platoon, Uncle?’

  ‘No. I didn’t think any explanation necessary.’

  ‘They ought to have. You see, you were down for a company. Then the Brig said he wouldn’t have anyone commanding a fighting company who hadn’t had a platoon first. I see his point. Headquarters is different. Old Uncle Apthorpe will stay there until he becomes GSO2(Q) or something wet like that. None of the temporary officers who’ve started high will ever get a rifle company. You will, before we go into action, unless you blot your copy-book in a pretty sensational way. I thought I’d tell you, in case you felt depressed about it.’

  ‘I did rather.’

  ‘Yes, I thought as much.’

  Who runs the platoon – you or your platoon sergeant?

  Guy’s platoon sergeant was named Soames. Neither found the other simpatico. The normal relationship in the Halberdiers between platoon commander and sergeant was that of child and nannie. The sergeant should keep his officer out of mischief. The officer?
??s job was to sign things, to take the blame and quite simply to walk ahead and get shot first. And, as an officer, he should have a certain intangibility belonging, as in old-fashioned households, to the further side of the baize-doors. All this was disordered in the relationship of Guy and Sergeant Soames. Soames reverenced officers in a more modern way, as men who had been sharp and got ahead; moreover he distinguished between regulars and temporaries. He regarded Guy as a nannie might some child not of ‘the family’ but of inferior and suspicious origin, suddenly by a whim of the mistress of the house, dumped as a guest of indefinite duration, in her nursery. Moreover he was far too young, and Guy far too old, for him to be a nannie at all. Soames had signed on for long service in 1937. He had been a corporal for three months when the declaration of war and the formation of the brigade had precociously exalted him. He often bluffed and was exposed: Guy ran the platoon, but not in easy cooperation. Sergeant Soames wore his moustache in a gangster’s cut. There was a great deal in him that reminded Guy of Trimmer.

  How many men have you earmarked in your mind as possible candidates for a commission?

  One. Sergeant Soames. Guy had done more than earmark him in his mind. He had presented a slip of paper bearing Sergeant Soames’s name, number and history, to Major Erskine at the Company Office some days ago.

  Major Erskine had said: ‘Yes. I can’t blame you. I have this morning sent in Hayter’s name as an officer suitable for special training in Air Liaison, whatever Air Liaison may be. I expect it means he will be a full colonel in a year. Now you want to make Soames an officer just because he’s a nasty bit of work. Jolly sort of army we’re going to have in two years time when all the shits have got to the top.’

  ‘But Soames won’t come back to the Corps if he’s commissioned.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I’m sending his name up. The same with Hayter, if he gets through his course on whatever it is.’

  How many of your men do you know by name and what do you know of their characters?

  Guy knew every name. The difficulty was to identify them. Each had three faces: an inhuman and rather hostile mask when he stood at attention; a vivacious and variable expression, mostly clownish, sometimes furious, sometimes heartsore, as he saw the men amongst themselves off duty or at stand-easies, going to the N.A.A.F.I. or arguing in the company lines; and thirdly a guarded but on the whole amiable grin when he spoke to them personally at these times or at stand-easies. Most English gentlemen at this time believed that they had a particular aptitude for endearing themselves to the lower classes. Guy was not troubled by this illusion, but he believed he was rather liked by these particular thirty men. He did not greatly care. He liked them. He wished them well. He did well by them so far as his limited knowledge of ‘the ropes’ allowed. He was perfectly ready, should need arise, to sacrifice himself for them throw himself on a grenade, give away the last drop of water – anything like that. But he did not distinguish between them as human beings, any more or less than he did between his brother officers; he preferred Major Erskine to the young man, Jervis, with whom he shared a tent; he nursed a respect and slight suspicion for de Souza. For his platoon and company and battalion and for all Halberdiers everywhere he had a warmer sentiment than for anyone outside his family. It was not much but it was something to thank God for.

  And at the very opening of this heterogeneous catechism stood the question that was quintessential to his very presence among those unchosen companions.

  What are we fighting for?

  The Training Memorandum mentioned with shame that many private soldiers had been found to entertain hazy ideas on the subject. Could Box-Bender have given a clear answer? Guy wondered. Could Ritchie-Hook? Had he any idea what all this biffing was for? Had General Ironside himself?

  Guy believed he knew something of this matter that was hidden from the mighty. England had declared war to defend the independence of Poland. Now that country had quite disappeared and the two strongest states in the world guaranteed her extinction. Now General Paget was at Lillehammer and it was announced that all was going well. Guy knew things were going badly. They had no well-informed friends here in Penkirk, they had access to no intelligence files, but the smell of failure had been borne to them from Norway on the east wind.

  But Guy’s spirit was as high as on the day he had bade farewell to St Roger.

  He was a good loser, but he did not believe his country would lose this war; each apparent defeat seemed strangely to sustain it. There was in romance great virtue in unequal odds. There were in morals two requisites for a lawful war, a just, cause and the chance of victory. The cause was now, past all question, just. The enemy was exorbitant. His actions in Austria and Bohemia had been defensible. There was even a shadow of plausibility in his quarrel with Poland. But now, however victorious, he was an outlaw. And the more victorious he was the more he drew to himself the enmity of the world and the punishment of God.

  Guy thought of this as he lay in his tent that night. He clasped Gervase’s medal as he said his night prayers. And, just before sleep, came a personal comforting thought. However, inconvenient it was for the Scandinavians to have Germans there, it was very nice for the Halberdiers. They had been assigned their special role of Hazardous Offensive Operations, but until last month there seemed little opportunity for playing it. Now a whole new coastline was open for biffing.

  8

  ON the day that Mr Churchill became Prime Minister, Apthorpe was promoted Captain.

  He had been forewarned by the adjutant and his servant was standing by in the Headquarter Company’s office. As the first note of Battalion orders sounded from the orderly-room – before the cyclostyled sheets announcing the appointment had been collected, much less distributed – Apthorpe’s pips were up. The rest of the forenoon passed in solemn ecstasy. He sauntered round the transport lines, called on the medical officer, ostensibly to inquire about a tonic he thought he needed, he flushed the quartermaster drinking tea in his store, but no one seemed to notice the new constellation. He was content to bide.

  At midday the companies could be heard marching into camp from their training areas and dismissing. Apthorpe was waiting serenely in the mess-tent to welcome his brother officers.

  ‘Ah, Crouchback, what can I offer you to drink?’

  Guy was surprised, for Apthorpe had almost ceased to speak to him in the last few weeks.

  ‘Oh, that’s very nice of you. I’ve marched miles this morning. Can I have a glass of beer?’

  ‘And you Jervis? de Souza?’

  This was more surprising still, since Apthorpe had never at any stage of incubation spoken to de Souza or Jervis.

  ‘Hayter, old man, what’s yours?’

  Hayter said: ‘What’s this? A birthday?’

  ‘I understand it’s usual in the Halberdiers to stand drinks on these occasions.’

  ‘What occasions?’

  It was unfortunate that he had chosen Hayter. Hayter thought nothing of temporary officers and was himself still a lieutenant.

  ‘Good God,’ said Hayter. ‘You don’t mean to say they’ve made you a captain?’

  ‘With effect from April 1st,” said Apthorpe with dignity. ‘Quite a suitable date. Still I don’t mind taking a pink gin off you.’

  There were moments, as in the gym barracks, when Apthorpe rose above the ridiculous. This was one of them.

  ‘Give these young officers what they require, Crock,’ he said and royally turned to new arrivals at the bar: ‘Draw up, Adj. Drinks are on me, Colonel, I hope you’ll join us.’

  The mess-tent was filled for luncheon. Apthorpe dispensed hospitality. No one but Hayter much grudged him his elevation.

  There was less interest in the change of Prime Ministers. Politics were considered an unsoldierly topic among the Halberdiers. There had been some rejoicing and dispute at Mr Hore-Belisha’s fall in the winter. Since then Guy had not heard a politician’s name mentioned. Some of Mr Churchill’s broadcasts had been played on the
mess wireless-set. Guy had found them painfully boastful and they had, most of them, been immediately followed by the news of some disaster, as though in retribution from the God of Kipling’s Recessional.

  Guy knew of Mr Churchill only as a professional politician, a master of sham-Augustan prose, a Zionist, an advocate of the Popular Front in Europe, an associate of the press-lords and of Lloyd George. He was asked:

  ‘Uncle, what sort of fellow is this Winston Churchill?’

  ‘Like Hore-Belisha except that for some reason his hats are thought to be funny.’

  ‘Well, I suppose they had to make someone carry the can after the balls-up in Norway.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He can’t be much worse than the other fellow?’

  ‘Better, if anything.’

  Here Major Erskine leant across the table.

  ‘Churchill is about the only man who may save us from losing this, war,’ he said.

  It was the first time that Guy had heard a Halberdier suggest that any result, other than complete victory, was possible. They had had a lecture, it is true, from an officer lately returned from Norway; who had spoken frankly about the incompetent loading of ships, the disconcerting effect of dive-bombing, the activities of organized traitors and such matters. He had even hinted at the inferior fighting qualities of British troops. But he had made little impression. Halberdiers always assumed that ‘the Staff’ and ‘the Q side’, were useless, that all other regiments were scarcely worthy of the name of soldier, that foreigners let one down. Naturally things were going badly in the absence of the Halberdiers. No one thought of losing the war.