The Soldier''s Art

  “Did you sack him?”

  “Sack who?”

  “The other Mess waiter.”

  “What’s he got to do with you?”

  “Just wondered.”

  “He was transferred to the Laundry from one day to the next. Bloody inconvenient for this Mess. He’d have done the job all right if Biggy hadn’t been on at him all the time. I complained to the D.A.A.G. about losing a waiter like that, but he said it had got to go through.”

  Biggs, present at table, but in one of his morose moods that day, neither denied nor confirmed his own part in the process of Stringham’s dislodgement. He chewed away at a particularly tough piece of meat, looking straight in front of him. Soper, as if Biggs himself were not sitting there, continued to muse on the aversion felt by Biggs for Stringham.

  “That chap drove Biggy crackers for some reason,” he said. “Something about him. Wasn’t only the way he talked. Certainly was a dopey type. Don’t know how he got where he was. Had some education. I could see that. You’d think he’d have found better employment than a Mess waiter. Got a bad record, I expect. Trouble back in Civvy Street.”

  That Stringham had himself engineered an exchange from F Mess to avoid relative persecution at the hands of Biggs was, I thought unlikely. In his relationship with Biggs, even a grim sort of satisfaction to Stringham might be suspected, one of those perverse involutions of feeling that had brought him into the army in the first instance. Such sentiments were hard to unravel. They were perhaps no more tangled than the rest of the elements that made up Stringham’s life – or anybody else’s life when closely examined. Not only had he disregarded loopholes which invited avoidance of the Services – health, and, at that period, age too – but, in face of much apparent discouragement from the recruiting authorities, had shown uncharacteristic persistence to get where he was. One aspect of this determination to carry through the project of joining the army was no doubt an attempt to rescue a self-respect badly battered during the years with Miss Weedon; however much she might also have accomplished in setting Stringham on his feet. An innate restlessness certainly played a part too; taste for change, even for adventure of a sort; all perhaps shading off into a vague romantic patriotism that especially allured by its own ironic connotations, its very lack, so to speak, of what might be called contemporary intellectual prestige.

  “Awfully chic to be killed,” he had said.

  Death was a prize, at least on the face of it, that war always offered. Lovell’s case had demonstrated how the unexpected could happen within a few hours to those who deplored a sedentary job. Thinking over Stringham’s more immediate situation, it seemed likely that, hearing of a vacancy in the ranks of the Mobile Laundry, he had decided on impulse to explore a new, comparatively exotic field of army life in his self-imposed military pilgrimage. Bithel could even have marked down Stringham as a man likely to do credit to the unit he commanded. That, I decided, was even more probable. These speculations had taken place during one of the Mess’s long silences, less nerve-racking than those at the general’s table, but also, in most respects, even more dreary. Biggs suddenly, unexpectedly, returned to the subject.

  “Glad that bugger’s gone,” he said. “Got me down. It’s a fact he did. I’ve got worries enough as it is, without having him about the place.”

  He spoke as if it were indeed a great relief to him. I had to admit to myself that Stringham’s physical removal was a great relief to me too. This sense of deliverance, of moral alleviation, was at the same time tempered with more than a trace of guilt, because, so far as potential improvement in his state was in question, Stringham had left F Mess without the smallest assistance from myself. I dispelled such twinges of conscience by reflecting that the Mobile Laundry, at least while Bithel remained in command, led for the moment a raggle-taggle gipsy life, offering, at least on the face of it, a less thankless daily prospect than being a Mess waiter. If absorbed into the Divisional Concert Party, he might even bring off a vocalist’s stage debut, something he used to talk of on the strength of having been briefly in the choir at school. In short, the problem seemed to me to resolve itself – after an honourable, even quixotic gesture on Stringham’s part – to finding the least uncongenial niche available in the circumstances. That supposition was entirely my own. It was probably far removed from Stringham’s personal ambitions, if these were at all formulated.

  “What’s on your mind, Biggy?” said Soper. “You’re not yourself to-day.”

  “Oh, stuff it up,” said Biggs, “I’ve got a pile of trouble. Those lawyers are going to skin me.”

  When I saw Widmerpool that afternoon I spoke about Stringham going to the Mobile Laundry.

  “It was my idea to send him there.”

  “A very good one.”

  “It seemed the solution.”

  Widmerpool did not elaborate what he had done. I was surprised, rather impressed, by the speed with which he had taken action, especially after earlier remarks about leaving Stringham where he was. It looked as if Widmerpool had thought things over and decided there was something to be said for trying to make Stringham’s existence more agreeable, however contrary that might be to a rule of life that taught disregard for the individual. I felt I had for once misjudged Widmerpool, too readily accepted the bleak façade displayed, which, anyway in Stringham’s case, might screen a complex desire to conceal good nature, however intermittent.

  General Liddament had to be faced on the subject of my own missed Free French opportunities. The matter was not one of sufficient importance – at the General’s end – to ask for an interview through Greening, so I had to wait until the Divisional Commander was to be found alone. As I rarely saw him during daily routine, this took place once again on an exercise. Defence Platoon duties usually brought me to breakfast first on those mornings, even before Cocksidge, otherwise in the vanguard of the rest of the staff. The General varied in his habits, sometimes early, sometimes late. That morning, he had appeared at table before Cocksidge himself, who, as it turned out later, had been delayed by breaking a bootlace or cutting his rubber-like face shaving. When the General had drunk some tea, I decided to tackle him.

  “I saw Major Finn in London, sir.’

  “Finn?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How was he?”

  “Very well, sir. Sent his respects. He said my French was not up to liaison work at battalion level.”

  “Ah.”

  That was General Liddament’s sole comment. He drank more tea in huge gulps, while he studied a map. The fact that Cocksidge entered the room a minute or two later did not, I think, affect the conversation in any way; I mean so far as further discussion of my own affairs by the General might have taken place. That was already at an end. Cocksidge was quite overcome by finding the Divisional Commander already almost at the end of breakfast.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I do believe they’ve given you the chipped cup. I’ll change it at once, sir. I wonder how often I’ve spoken to the Mess Sergeant about that cup, sir, and told him never to give it to a senior officer, and above all not yourself, sir. I’ll make sure it never happens again, sir.”

  Military action in Syria had been making it clear why there had been call for more British liaison officers with the Free French overseas. I thought of the 9th Regiment of Colonial Infantry being harangued by someone with better command of the language – and more histrionic talent – than myself. Then the Germans attacked in Crete. The impression was that things were not going too well there. Meanwhile, the Division continued to train; policies, units, began to take more coherent shape, to harden: new weapons were issued: instructors improved. The Commanding Officer of the Reconnaissance Unit remained unappointed. I asked Widmerpool if he had progressed further in placing his own candidate. The question did not please him.

  “Difficulties have arisen.”

  “Someone else getting the command?”

  “I can’t quite understand what is happening,??
? said Widmerpool. “There has been no opportunity to go into the matter lately. This Diplock case has been taking up so much of my time. The more I investigate, the more incriminated Diplock seems to be. There’s going to be hell to pay. Hogbourne-Johnson is behaving very badly, making himself offensive to me personally, and doing his best to shield the man and cause obstruction. That is quite useless. I am confident I shall be able to show that Diplock’s behaviour has been not merely irregular, but criminal. Pedlar is almost equally unwilling to believe the worst, but at least Pedlar approaches the matter with a reasonably open mind, even if a slow one.”

  “Does the General know about Diplock?”

  “Hogbourne-Johnson says there is not sufficient evidence yet to lay before him.”

  In the matter of Diplock, I believed Widmerpool to be on the right track. Few things are more extraordinary in human behaviour than the way in which old sweats like this chief clerk Warrant Officer will suddenly plunge into serious misdoing – usually on account of a woman. Diplock might well have a career of petty dishonesty behind him, but this looked like something far more serious.

  “Talking of the Recce Unit,” said Widmerpool, “there’s still some sorting out to be done about the officer establishment. At least one of the captaincies assigned to that unit, before it came into existence, is still – owing to some whim of the General’s – in use elsewhere as a local rank. That is one of the things I want you to go into among the stuff I am leaving to-night.”

  “Establishments without troops always make one think of Dead Souls. A military Chichikov could first collect battalions, then brigades, finally a Division – and be promoted major-general.”

  I said that to tease Widmerpool, feeling pretty certain be had never read a line of Gogol, though he would rarely if ever admit to failure in recognising an allusion, literary or otherwise. On this occasion he merely nodded his head several times; then returned to the fact that, contrary to his usual practice, he would not be working after dinner that evening.

  “For once I shall cut office hours to-night,” he said. “I’m giving dinner to that fellow – for the moment his name escapes me – from the Military Secretary’s branch, who is doing a tour of duty over here.”

  “Is this in the interests of the Recce Unit appointment?”

  Widmerpool winked, a habit of his only when in an exceptionally good temper.

  “More important than that,” he said.

  “Yourself?”

  “Dinner may put the finishing touches to something.”

  “Promotion?”

  “Who knows? It’s been in the air for some time, as a matter of fact.”

  Widmerpool rarely allowed himself a night off in this manner. He worked like an automaton. Work, civil or military, was his sole interest. If it came to that, he never gave his assistant a night off either, if he could help it, because everyone who served under him was expected to do so to the fullest extent of his powers, which was no doubt reasonable enough. The result was that a great deal of work was completed in the D.A.A.G.’s office, some useful, some less useful. On the whole the useful work, it had to be admitted, made up for a fair percentage of time and energy wasted on Widmerpool’s pet projects, of which there were several. I was thinking of such things while stowing away papers in the safe that night, preparatory to leaving Headquarters for bed. I shut the safe and locked it. The time was ten o’clock or thereabouts. The telephone bell began to ring.

  “DAA.G.’s office.”

  “Nick?”

  The voice was familiar. All the same, I could not immediately place it. No officer at Div. H.Q. used just that intimate inflexion when pronouncing my name.

  “Speaking,”

  “It’s Charles.”

  That took me no further. So far as I could remember, none of the local staff were called “Charles.” It must be someone recently arrived in the place, who knew me.

  “Charles who?”

  “Private Stringham, sir – pardon the presumption.”

  “Charles – yes – sorry.”

  “Bit of luck catching you in.”

  “I’m just leaving, as a matter of fact. How did you know I was here?”

  “I rang up F Mess first – in the character of General Fauncefoot-Fritwell’s A.D.C.”

  “Who on earth is General Fauncefoot-Fritwell?”

  “Just a name that occurred to me as belonging to the sort of officer of senior rank who would own an A.D.C. – so don’t worry if Captain Biggs, who I think answered the telephone, mentions the General to you. He will say there was no message. Captain Biggs, if it was indeed he, sounded quite impressed, even rather frightened. He told me you were probably still working, unless on your way back now. I must say, you officers are kept at it.”

  “But, Charles, what is all this about?”

  I thought he must be drunk, and began to wonder how best to deal with him. This was just the sort of embarrassment Widmerpool had envisaged. It could be awkward. I experienced one of those moments – they cropped up from time to time – of inwardly agreeing there was something to be said for Widmerpool’s point of view. However Stringham sounded perfectly sober; though to sound sober was not unknown as one of the characteristics he was apt to display after a great deal to drink. That was especially true of the period immediately preceding his going under entirely. I felt apprehensive.

  “Yes, I must come to the point, Nick,” he said. “I’m getting dreadfully garrulous in old age. It’s barrack-room life. Look, forgive me for ringing up at this late hour, which I know to be contrary to good order and discipline. The fact is I find myself with a problem on my hands.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “You know my officer, Mr. Bithel?”

  “Of course.”

  “You will therefore be aware that – like my former un-regenerate self – he is at times what our former mentor, Mr. Le Bas, used to call a devotee of Bacchus?”

  “Bithel’s drunk?”

  “Got it in one. Rather overdone the Dionysian rites.”

  “Passed out?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “I’ve just tripped over his prostrate form on the way back to bed. When I was suddenly, quite unexpectedly, whisked away from F Mess, and enlisted under Mr. Bithel’s gallant command, he behaved very kindly to me on arrival. He has done so ever since. I therefore feel grateful towards him. I thought – to avoid further danger to himself, physical or moral – you might have some idea of the best way of getting him back without undue delay to wherever he belongs. Otherwise some interfering policeman, civil or military, will feel it his duty to put the Lieutenant in the cooler. I’m not sure where he’s housed. G Mess, is it? Anyway, I can’t manage him all on my own-io, as the Edwardian song used to say. I wondered if you had any suggestions.”

  This emergency had noticeably cheered Stringham. That was plain, even on the telephone. There was only one thing to do.

  “I’ll come along. What about yourself? Are you all right for time?”

  “I’m on a late pass.”

  “And where are you exactly?”

  Stringham described a spot not far from where we had met in the street on that earlier occasion. The place was about ten minutes’ walk from Headquarters; rather more from G Mess, where Bithel slept.

  “I’ll stand guard over Mr. B. until you arrive,” Stringham said. “At the moment he’s propped up out of harm’s way on the steps of a bombed house. Bring a torch, if you’ve got one. It’s as dark as hell and stinks of something far worse than cheese.”

  By some incredibly lucky concatenation of circumstances, Bithel had managed, though narrowly, to escape court-martial over the affair of the bouncing cheque that had worried him the night of the biggish raid of several weeks before. However, Widmerpool had now stated categorically he was on the point of removing Bithel from the Mobile Laundry command as soon as he could negotiate that matter satisfactorily with the authority to whom the Laundry was ultimately
responsible. That might be a judgment from which there was no appeal, but, even so, gave no reason to deny a hand in getting Bithel as far as his own bed that night, rather than leave him to be picked up by the Provost Marshal or local constabulary. It was even possible that definite official notification of his final sacking might have brought about this sudden alcoholic downfall; until now kept by Bithel within reasonable bounds. He would certainly be heartbroken at losing the command of the Mobile Laundry, of which he was, indeed, said to have made a fair success. If this intimation bad reached him, he might be additionally upset because dismissal would almost certainly mark the first stage of final ejection from the army. Bithel was proud of being in the army; it also brought him a livelihood. Apart from any of that, Stringham had to be backed up in undertaking Bithel’s rescue. That was how things looked. I made a last inspection of the office to make sure no papers had been left outside the safe that should have been locked away, then left Headquarters.

  Outside in the street, it was impossible to see a yard ahead without a torch. In spite of that, I found the place without much difficulty. Stringham, hands in his pockets, was leaning against the wall of a house that had been burnt out by an incendiary bomb a week or two before. He was smoking a cigarette.

  “Hallo, Nick.”

  “Where’s Bithel?”

  “At the top of these steps. I pulled him up there out of the way. He seemed to be coming-to a moment ago. Then he sank back again. Let’s go and have a look at him.”

  Bithel was propped up under a porch against the front door of the house, his legs stretched down the steps, head sunk on one shoulder. This was all revealed by a flash of the torch. He was muttering a little to himself. We examined him.

  “Where’s he got to go?” asked Stringham.

  “G Mess. That’s not too far from here.”

  “Can we carry him feet first?”

  “Not a very tempting prospect in the blackout. Can’t we wake him up and force him to walk? Everyone must realise they have to make a special effort in wartime. Why should Bithel be absolved from that?”