Sword of Honor

  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 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.

  Apthorpe’s promotion was a matter of more immediate interest.

  Brigadier Ritchie-Hook could disappear behind his Victorian battlements, and lose his personality. Not so Apthorpe. That afternoon, the day of his promotion, Guy happened to pass him on the battalion parade ground and with one of those pathetic spasms of fourth-form fun that came easily in military life, Guy solemnly saluted him. Apthorpe as solemnly returned the attention. He was a little unsteady on his pins after the morning’s celebrations, his face was oddly grave, but the incident passed off cheerfully.

  Later that evening, just before dark, they met again. Apthorpe had evidently stuck close to the bottle, and was now in the state he called “merry”—a state recognizable by his air of preternatural solemnity. As he approached, Guy with amazement saw him go through all the motions they used to practice in barracks before passing a senior officer. He put his stick under his left arm, he swung his right with exaggerated zest and he fixed his glassy eyes straight before him. Guy walked on with a genial “Evening, Captain” and too late noticed that Apthorpe’s hand was shoulder high, in the rudimentary stage of a salute. The hand fell, the eyes fixed themselves far ahead on the other side of the valley and Apthorpe passed, stumbling over a night bucket.

  Somehow the memory of Guy’s first, jocular salute had fixed itself indelibly in Apthorpe’s mind; it survived his evening’s merriment. Next day he was out of the clouds, slightly disturbed internally, but with a new idée fixe.

  Before the first parade he said to Guy: “I say, old man, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d salute me when we pass one another in the camp area.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Well, I salute Major Trench.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “The difference between him and me is only the same as between you and me if you see what I mean.”

  “My dear fellow, it was all explained to us when we first joined, whom we saluted and when.”

  “Yes, but don’t you see that I am an exceptional case. There is no precedent for me in regimental customs. We all started equal not so long ago. I happen to have forged ahead a bit so naturally I have to do more to assert my authority than if I had years of seniority. Please, Crouchback, salute me. I am asking you as a friend.”

  “I’m sorry, Apthorpe, I simply can’t. I should feel such an ass.”

  “Well, anyway, you might tell the other chaps.”

  “You really mean that? You’ve thought the matter out?”

  “I’ve thought of nothing else.”

  “All right, Apthorpe. I’ll tell them.”

  “I can’t order them, of course. Just say it is my wish.”

  Apthorpe’s “wish” became quickly known and for some days he suffered a concerted persecution. He could always be seen approaching yards off, tensely self-conscious preparing for he knew not what. Sometimes his junior officers would salute him with unsmiling correctness; sometimes they would stroll past ignoring him; sometimes they would give a little flick of the cap and say: “Hullo, uncle.”

  The cruelest technique was devised by de Souza. On sighting Apthorpe he would put his stick under his left arm and march at attention gazing straight into Apthorpe’s eyes with an expression of awe. Then two paces away he would suddenly relax, switch negligently at a weed, or on one occasion, drop suddenly on one knee and, still fixing the captain with his worshipping stare, fiddle with a bootlace.

  “You know you’ll drive that unhappy man stark mad,” said Guy to him.

  “I think I shall, uncle; I honestly think I shall.”

  The fun came to an end one evening when Colonel Tickeridge summoned Guy to the orderly room.

  “Sit down, Guy. I want to speak to you unofficially. I’m getting worried about Apthorpe. Frankly, is he quite right in the head?”

  “He has his peculiarities, colonel. I don’t think he’s likely to do anything dangerous.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’m getting the most extraordinary reports of him from all sides.”

  “He had a rather nasty accident the morning we left Southsand.”

  “Yes, I heard about it. Surely that could not have affected his head? Let me tell you his latest. He’s just formed up and asked me to put it in orders that the junior officers should salute him. That’s not quite normal you’ll admit.”

  “No, colonel.”

  “Either that, he says, or will I put it in orders that you’re n
ot to salute him. That’s not normal either. What exactly has been going on?”

  “Well, I think he’s been ragged a bit.”

  “I’m bloody sure he has and it’s gone far enough. Just pass it round that it’s got to stop. You may find yourself in his shoes before long. Then you’ll find you have plenty on your hands without being ragged by a lot of young asses.”

  This happened, though the news did not reach Penkirk for some time, on the day when the Germans crossed the Meuse.

  IX

  Guy passed the colonel’s order round the mess and the affair, which de Souza preciously dubbed “The Matter of the Captain’s Salutation,” came to an abrupt end. But in other ways, too, Apthorpe had been showing marked abnormality.

  There was the question of the castle. From the first day of his appointment, while still a lieutenant, Apthorpe took to dropping in there two or three times a week without ostensible cause, at the eleven-o’clock break, when tea was drunk in various ante-rooms and dens. Apthorpe would join the staff-captain and his peers and they, supposing he was on an errand from his battalion, entertained him. In this way he heard much “shop” and was often able to surprise the adjutant with prior information on matters of minor policy. When tea was over and the staff went back to their rooms, Apthorpe would saunter into the chief clerk’s room and say: “Anything special today about the Second Battalion Staff?” After the third of these visits the sergeant clerk reported to the brigade major and asked whether these inquiries were authorized. The result was an order reminding all officers that they must not approach Brigade Headquarters except through the proper channels.

  When this was posted Apthorpe said to the adjutant: “I take this to mean that they come to me for permission?”

  “For Christ’s sake, why to you?”

  “Well, after all I am the headquarters commander here, am I not?”

  “Apthorpe, are you tight?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Well, come and see the C.O. about this. He can explain it better than I.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is rather a nice point.”

  It was not often that Colonel Tickeridge “went off the handle.” That morning the whole camp heard the roars in his orderly room. But Apthorpe emerged as bland as ever.

  “My God, uncle, that was a rocket. We could hear it on the parade ground. What was it about?”

  “Just a bit of red tape, old man.”

  Since the loss of his thunder-box Apthorpe was impervious to shock.

  His wildest aberration was his one-man war with the Royal Corps of Signals. This campaign was his predominant obsession during all his difficult days at Penkirk and from it he emerged with the honors of war.

  It began by a simple misunderstanding.

  Studying his duties by the light of his incandescent lamp, Apthorpe learned that the regimental signalers of his battalion came under his command for administrative purposes.

  From the first this statement bulked over-large in Apthorpe’s imagination. It was plain to him that this was where he joined, indeed, controlled, the battle. There were ten of these signalers on the fateful 1st of April, volunteers for what they had supposed was a light duty, little trained, equipped with nothing but flags. Apthorpe was a man of certain odd accomplishments, among them a mastery of Morse. Accordingly for several days he made these men his special care and spent many chilly hours wagging a flag at them.

  Then brigade signals arrived under their own officer, laden with radio telegraphy sets. These were men of the Royal Corps of Signals. By chance they were allotted lines next to the Second Battalion. Their officer was invited to mess with the battalion, rather than at the castle a mile distant; their quartermaster was instructed to draw rations from the Second Battalion quartermaster. They thus became accidentally, but quite closely, associated with the battalion.

  The situation was clear enough to all except Apthorpe, who conceived that they were under his personal command. He was still a lieutenant at this time. The signals officer was also a lieutenant, much younger than Apthorpe and younger than his age in looks. His name was Dunn. On his first appearance in the mess Apthorpe took him in charge, introducing him with courtly patronage as “my latest subaltern.” Dunn did not quite know what to make of this, but since it involved many free drinks and since he was by nature slow to the point of gaucherie, he submitted cheerfully.

  Next morning Apthorpe sent an orderly to the brigade signalers’ lines.

  “Mr. Apthorpe’s compliments and will Mr. Dunn kindly report when his lines are ready for inspection.”

  When Dunn received this message he asked:

  “What inspection? Is the brigadier coming round? No one told me.”

  “No, sir. As I understand, Mr. Apthorpe’s inspection.”

  Dunn was a slow man but this was too much for him.

  “Tell Mr. Apthorpe that when I have finished inspecting my own lines I shall be quite ready to come and inspect Mr. Apthorpe’s head.”

  The Halberdier, a regular, showed no emotion. “Could I have that message in writing, please, sir?”

  “No. On second thoughts, I’ll see his adjutant.”

  This first skirmish was treated lightly and unofficially.

  “Don’t be an ass, uncle.”

  “But, Adj., it’s in my establishment. Signalers.”

  “Battalion signals, uncle. Not brigade signals.” Then, speaking as he supposed Apthorpe spoke to his men in Africa: “No savvy? These boys, Royal Corps of Signals boys. Your boys, Halberdier boys. Damn it, d’you want me to draw you the badges?”

  But the adjutant, in his haste, had made things too simple, for in fact the battalion signalers, though Halberdiers for all purposes except signaling, came under the brigade signals officer for training. This fact, Apthorpe could not or would not, and certainly never did, grasp. Whenever Dunn ordered a training exercise, Apthorpe devised camp duties for all his signal section. He did more. He paraded his Halberdiers and told them they were never to accept orders from anyone but himself. The matter was moving up to an official level.

  Apthorpe’s case, though untenable, was strengthened by the fact that no one liked Dunn. When he formed up at the Second Battalion orderly room, the adjutant told him coldly that he was merely a guest in their mess and that for all official purposes he was at the castle. Any complaints against his hosts should be addressed to the brigade major. Dunn tramped to the castle and was told by the brigade major to settle the thing sensibly with Colonel Tickeridge. Colonel Tickeridge duly told Apthorpe that his men must work with brigade signals. Apthorpe immediately sent them all away on urgent compassionate leave. Back to the castle went Dunn, all slowness shed. The brigadier was then absent on one of his trips to London. The brigade major was the busiest man in Scotland. He said he would raise the matter at the next battalion commanders’ conference.

  Apthorpe, meanwhile, withdrew his friendship from Dunn, and refused to speak to him. This quarrel in high places quickly spread to the men. There were hard words in the N.A.A.F.I. and between lines. Dunn put six Halberdiers on a charge of prejudicial conduct. In the orderly room they drew on the limitless pool of fellow Halberdiers who were always ready to give false witness in defense of the corps, and Colonel Tickeridge dismissed the case.

  So far it had been a feud of a normal military kind, differing from others only in the fact that Apthorpe had no case at all. In the middle of it he got his captaincy. In Apthorpe’s story that event corresponds to Alexander’s visit to Siwa. It was an illumination that changed all the colors and shapes about him. Fiends like de Souza lurked in black shadow, but a shining path led upward to the conquest of Dunn.

  On the afternoon following the day of his promotion he proceeded to inspect the signalers’ lines. Dunn found him there and stood momentarily confounded by what he saw.

  It was Apthorpe’s old interest, boots. He had found one that was in need of repair, and there he stood in the center of a curious circle of signalmen, carefully dismembering it wit
h a clasp knife.

  “Apart from the quality of the leather,” he was saying, “this boot is a disgrace to the service. Look at the stitching. Look how the tongue has been fitted. Look at the construction of the eyeholes. Now in a well-made boot”… and he raised his foot placing it where all might admire it, on the nearby gas-detector.

  “What the devil are you doing?” asked Dunn.

  “Mr. Dunn, I think you forget you are addressing a superior officer.”

  “What are you doing in my lines?”

  “I am verifying my suspicion that your boots are in need of attention.”

  Dunn realized that for the moment he was beaten. Nothing short of physical violence would suit the occasion and that way lay endless disaster.

  “We can discuss that later. At the moment they ought to be on parade.”

  “You mustn’t blame your sergeant. He reminded me of that fact more than once. It was I detained them.”

  The two officers separated, Dunn to the castle to lay his case before the brigade major, Apthorpe with a much stranger purpose. He sat down in his company office and penned a challenge to Dunn to meet him, armed with a heliograph, before their men, for a Trial by Combat in proficiency in Morse.

  The brigadier was at the castle. He had just returned from London on the night train, hag-ridden by the news from France.

  The brigade major said: “I am afraid I’ve a serious disciplinary problem for you, sir. It will probably involve an Officer’s Court Martial.”

  “Yes,” said the brigadier, “yes.” He was gazing out of the window. His mind was far away, still trying to comprehend the unspeakable truths he had learned in London.

  “An officer of the Second Battalion,” continued the brigade major, in rather louder tones, “has been accused of entering Brigade Headquarters’ lines and deliberately destroying the men’s boots.”

  “Yes,” said the brigadier. “Drunk?”

  “Sober, sir.”

  “Any excuse?”