Soldier's Art

THREE

The first meal eaten in Mess after return from leave is always dispiriting. Room, smell, food, company, at first seemed unchanged; as ever, unenchanting. On taking a seat at table I remembered with suddenly renewed sense of internal discomfort that Stringham would be on duty. In the pressure of other things that had been happening, I had forgotten about him. However, when the beef appeared, it was handed round by a red-haired gangling young soldier with a hare-lip and stutter. There was no sign of Stringham. The new waiter could be permanent, or just a replacement imported to F Mess while Stringham himself was sick, firing a musketry course, temporarily absent for some other routine reason. Opportunity to enquire why he was gone, at the same time to betray no exceptional interest in him personally, arose when Soper complained of the red-haired boy’s inability to remember which side of the plate, as a matter of common practice, were laid knife, fork and spoon.

“Like animals, some of them,” Soper said. “As for getting a message delivered, you’re covered with spit before he’s half-way through.”

“What happened to the other one?”

If asked a direct question of that sort, Soper always looked suspicious. Finding, after a second or two, no grounds for imputing more than idle curiosity to this one, he returned a factual, though reluctant, reply.

“Went to the Mobile Laundrv.”

“For the second time of asking, Soper,” said Macfie, “will you pass the water jug?”

“Here you are, Doc. Those tablets come in yet?”

Macfie was gruff about the tablets, Soper persuasive. The Cipher Officer remarked on the amount of flu about. There was general agreement, followed by some discussion of prevalent symptoms. The subject of Stringham had to be started up again from scratch.

“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?”

“How severe you always are to human weakness, Nick.”

We shook Bithel, who was again showing slight signs of revival, at least in so much that protests were wrong from him by this rough treatment.

“… Don’t shake us, old man … don’t shake us like that … whatever are you doing it for? … makes me feel awful… I’ll throw up … I will really …”

“Bith, you’ve got to pull yourself together, get back to your billet.”

“What’s that you’re saying …”

“Can you stand up? If so, we’ll hold you on either side.”

“… Can’t remember your name, old man … didn’t see you in that last pub … couldn’t see any officers there … rather glad of that. prefer talking to those young fellows without a lot of majors poking their noses in … keep in touch with the men … never go far wrong if you do that … take an interest in them off duty … then it got late … couldn’t find the way home…”

“It is late, Bith. That’s why we’ve got to take you back to bed. It’s Nick Jenkins. We’re going to pilot you to G Mess.”

“Nick Jenkins … in the Regiment together… Do you remember … Mr. Vice — the Loyal Toast … then, you …”

“That’s it.”

“The King …”

Bithel shouted the words, turning on one elbow and making as if to raise a glass in the air.

“The King, Bith.”

“Loved the old Regiment… Give you The Regiment … no heelers… Age shall not … something … nor the years condemn …”

“Come on, Bith, make an effort.”

“… at the going down of the sun … that’s it… we shall remember them…”

He suddenly began to sing in a thin piping voice, not unlike Max Pilgrim’s.

“Fol-low, fol-low, we will fol-low Davies –

We will follow Davies, everywhere he leads…”

“Bith.”

“Remember how we went romping all over the house that Christmas night after dinner … when the Mess was in those former bank premises … trailing along behind Colonel Davies … under the tables … over the chairs … couldn’t do it this moment for five pounds … God, I do really believe I’m going to throw up…”

We got him to his feet with a tremendous heave. This sudden change of posture was too much for Bithel, who had rightly judged his own digestive condition. After much vomiting, he seemed appreciably more sober. We had allowed him to sink on all fours to the ground while relieving his stomach. Now we raised him again on his feet to prepare for the journey back to G Mess.

“If you can walk, Bith, we’ll take you home now. Stringham, one of your own chaps, is here to help.”

“String …”

“Here, sir,” said Stringham, who had begun to laugh a lot. “Stringham of the Mobile Laundry, present and correct.”

The name, coupled with that of his command, faintly animated Bithel. Perhaps it suggested to him the title of one of those adventure stories he had enjoyed as a boy; certainly the picaresque operation of a Mobile Laundry would have made an enthralling Henty volume.

“That ’varsity man the D.A.A.G. sent to me?”

“That’s the one, sir.”

“Only good turn Major Widmerpool’s ever done me…”

Stringham was now laughing so much we had to lower Bithel to the ground again.

“I know just how you’re feeling, sir,” said Stringham. “Nobody better.”

“Stringham’s a ’varsity man, like yourself, Nick … Did you know that? … good type … got some fine boys in the Laundry … proud to command them … Sergeant Ablett … splendid type… You should hear him sing The Man who broke the Bank at Monte Carlo … brings back the old music halls … but Stringham’s the only ’varsity man …”

The access of emotion that had now descended on Bithel was in danger of changing once more to stupor. He began to breathe heavily. We tried to lift him again from the pavement.

“One of the things I like about him,” said Stringham, “is the fact there’s so little difference when he’s sober. Drink doesn’t make him turn nasty. On the contrary. How well one knows the feeling of loving the whole world after downing a few doubles. As I no longer drink, I no longer love the whole world — nor, if it comes to that, even a small part of it.”

“All the same, you took the trouble to be a Good Samaritan on this occasion.”

“After all, he is my Commanding Officer — and has been very gracious to me. I still have some gratitude, even if no general goodwill towards mankind. I like gratitude, because it’s the rarest of virtues and a very difficult one to cultivate. For example, I never feel nearly grateful enough to Tuffy. In some respects, I’m ashamed to say I’m even conscious of a certain resentment towards her. Tonight’s good deed was just handed me on a plate. Such a conscience have I now developed, I even feel grateful to Widmerpool. That does me credit, doesn’t it? Do you know, Nick, he went out of his way to get me moved from F Mess to the Mobile Laundry — just as an act of pure kindness. Who’d have thought that of Widmerpool? I learnt the fact from Mr. Bithel himself, who was equally surprised at the D.A.A.G. finding suitable personnel for him. I must say I was at once attracted by the idea of widening my military experience. Besides, there are some real treasures in the Laundry. I don’t know how I can show Widmerpool gratitude. Keep out of the way, I suppose. The one thing I can’t understand is Mr. Bithel’s obsession with university life. I explained to him, when he brought up the subject, that my own college days had been among the most melancholic of a life not untinged by shadow.”

All the time Stringham had been speaking, we were trying to galvanise Bithel from his spell of total collapse into a state of renewed awareness. We achieved this, finally bringing him into actual motion,

“Now, if you’ll guide us, Nick, we’ll have the Lieutenant tucked up between sheets in no time.”

Once we had Bithel traversing the pavement between us, the going was quite good in spite of Stygian darkness. In fact, we must have been within a hundred and fifty yards of G Mess before anything inopportune occurred. Then was disaster. The worst happened. Stringham and I were rounding a corner, Bithel mumbling incomprehensibly between us, when a figure, walking hurriedly from the other direction, collided violently with our party. The effect of this strong oncoming impact was for Stringham to let go of Bithel’s arm, so that, taken by surprise and unable to support the full weight alone, I too became disengaged from Bithel, who sank heavily to the ground. The person who had obstructed us also stumbled and swore, a moment later playing a torch on my face, so that I could not see him or anything else.

“What the hell is happening?”

The voice was undoubtedly Widmerpool’s, especially recognisable when angry. His quarters were also in this neighbourhood. He was on his way back to B Mess after dinner with his acquaintance from the Military Secretary’s branch. This was a most unfortunate encounter. The only thing to do was to fabricate as quickly as possible some obvious excuse for Bithel’s condition, and hope for the best.

“This officer must have tripped in the black-out,” I said. “He had knocked himself out. We’re taking him back to his billet.”

Widmerpool played his torch on each of us in turn.

“Nicholas …” he said, “Bithel … Stringham …”

He spoke Stringham’s name with surprise, not much approval. Since identities were now revealed, there was now no hope of proceeding without further explanation,

“Charles Stringham found Bithel lying stunned. He got in touch with me. We’re taking him back to G Mess.”

That might have sounded reasonably convincing, if only Bithel himself had kept quiet. However, the last fall seemed, if not to have sobered him, at least to have shaken off the coma into which he had sunk at an earlier stage. Now, without any help from the rest of us, he picked himself up off the pavement. He took Widmerpool by the arm.

“Ought to go home …” he said. “Ought to go home … had too much of that bloody porter … sickly stuff when you mix it with gin-and-italian … never do if we run into the A.P.M. …”

Then he began to sing again, though in a lower key than before.

“Fol-low, fol-low, we will follow Davies…”

The words of the rest of the song were drowned at that moment by the sudden note of the Air-raid Warning. For me, the ululating call registered a routine summons not to be disregarded. Bithel’s troubles, however acute, must now be accepted as secondary to overseeing that the Defence Platoon reported for duty, without delay mounted their brens for aircraft action. A chance remained that this diversion might distract Widmerpool’s attention from the business of getting Bithel home. There was no reason for Widmerpool to hang about in the streets after the Warning had gone. His orderly mind might indicate that correct procedure for him was to take shelter. However, he made no such move, only disengaging himself from Bithel by pushing him against the wall. He must have grasped the situation perfectly, seen at once that the first thing to do was to get Bithel himself out of the way. Certainly he retained no doubts as to why Bithel had been found lying on the pavement, but accepted at the same time the fact that there was no point in making a fuss then and there. Disciplinary action, if required, was to be attended to later. This was neither the time nor the place.

“I’ll have to leave him on your hands now. I’ve got to get those bren posts distributed forthwith.”

“Yes, get off to the Defence Platoon right away,” said Widmerpool. “Look sharp about it. Stringham and I will get this sot back to bed. I’ll see this is the last time the army’s troubled with him. It will only be a matter of expediting matters already in hand. Take one side, Stringham.”

Bithel was still leaning against the wall. Stringham once more took him by the arm. At the same time, he turned towards Widmerpool.

“It’s interesting to recall, sir,” he said, “the last time we met, I myself was the inert frame. It was you and Mr. Jenkins who so kindly put me to bed. It shows that improvement is possible, that roles can be reversed. I’ve turned over a new leaf. Stringham is enrolled in the ranks of the sober, as well as the brave.”

I did not wait to hear Widmerpool’s reply. The guns had started up. A helmet had to be collected before doing the rounds of the sections. After acquiring the necessary equipment, I set about my duties. The Defence Platoon got off the mark well that night.

“They always come a Wednesday,” said Sergeant Harmer. “Might as well sit up for them.”

As blitzes went, that night’s was not too bad a one. They went home early. We were in bed by half-past twelve.

“No more news about me, I suppose, sir?” asked Corporal Mantle, before he marched away his section.

I told him I would have another word with the D.A.A.G. As it happened, the following morning had to be devoted to Defence Platoon affairs, so I did not see Widmerpool until the afternoon. I was not sorry about that, because it gave a time for cooling off. After the Bithel affair, an ill humour, even a downright row, was to be expected. However, this turned out to be a wrong appraisal. When I arrived in the room Widmerpool gave the impression of being more than usually pleased with himself. He pushed away the papers in front of him, evidently intending to speak at once of what had happened the night before, rather than get through the afternoon’s routine, and institute a disagreeable post mortem on the subject at the end of the day’s work, a rather favourite practice of his when he wanted to make a fuss about something.

“Well,” he said.

“Did you deal with Bithel?”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

I meant, by that question, to ask what had taken place over the next hundred yards or so of pavement leading to G Mess, how Bithel had been physically conveyed to his room. Widmerpool chose to understand the enquiry as referring to the final settlement of Bithel as a local problem.

“I had a word with A. & Q. this morning,” he said.

Bithel’s been sent on immediate leave. He will shortly be removed from the army.”

“By court-martial?”

“Unnecessary — purely administrative relegation to civilian life will save both time and trouble.”

“That can be done?”

“Bithel himself agrees it is the best way.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“I sent for him first thing this morning.”

“How was he feeling?”

“I have no idea. I am not concerned with the state of his health. I simply offered him the alternative of court-martial or acceptance of the appropriate report declaring him unsuitable for retention as an officer. The administrative documents releasing him from the army in the shortest possible period of time are now in motion. He wisely concurred, though not without an extraordinary scene.”

“What sort of scene?”

“Tears poured down his cheeks.”

“He was upset?”

“So it appeared.”

The episode plainly struck Widmerpool as of negative interest. That he should feel no pity for Bithel was reasonable enough, but it was a mark of his absolute lack of interest in human beings, as such, that the several implications of the interview — its sheer physical grotesqueness, for example, in the light of what Bithel must have drunk the night before — had made no impression on him he thought worth repeating. On the other hand, the clean-cut line of action he had taken emphasised his ability in dealing decisively with a problem of the kind Bithel raised by his very existence. Widmerpool’s method was a contrast with that of my former Company Commander, Rowland Gwatkin, earlier confronted with Bithel in another of his unsatisfactory incarnations. When Bithel had drunk too much at the Castlemallock Gas School, Gwatkin had profitlessly put him under close arrest. Then he had omitted to observe the required formalities in relation to army arrest, with the result that the whole procedure collapsed. That, it was true, had not been entirely Gwatkin’s fault; nevertheless, from Gwatkin’s own point of view, the action had totally miscarried. With Widmerpool, on the other hand, there was no melodrama; only effective disposal of the body. The Bithel problem was at an end. If Bithel handicapped the war effort further, that would be in a civilian capacity.

“A pity the Warning went off like that last night,” said Widmerpool, speaking rather savagely. “We could have frog-marched the brute back to his billet. I’ve seen it done with three.”

“Who will command the Laundry?”

“Another officer is already under orders. He will arrive this evening — may even have got here by now. I shall want to see him. There’s a slight flap on, as a matter of fact.”

“What kind?”

“The Mobile Laundry have been ordered to stand in readiness to move at forty-eight hours’ notice. This needs immediate attention with a new officer taking over only to-night. I was expecting the order in a week or two’s time, not quite so soon as it has come. As usual, things will have to be done in a hurry.”

“Bithel was going anyway?”

“Of course — but only to the I.T.C. Now he will leave the army.”

“Is the Div. moving?”

“The Laundry’s orders have nothing to do with this formation, as such. There’s been a call for Mobile Laundries. Between ourselves, I have reason to suppose this one is for the Far East, but naturally the destination is secret — and you are certainly not to mention that I hold that opinion.”

“You’ve known for some time they were going to move?”

“It came through to me when you were on leave.”

“You knew when you transferred Stringham?”

“That was precisely why I posted him to the Laundry.”

“So he’ll go to the Far East?”

“If that’s where the Laundry’s bound.”

This was certainly arbitrary treatment of an old acquaintance.

“Will he want to go?”

“I have no idea.”

Widmerpool looked at me blankly.

“I suppose he could get out of it on grounds of age.”

“Why should he want to get out of it?”

“Well, he doesn’t look as if his health is too good. As you said the other day, he’s put away a good deal of drink in his time.”

“But it was you who suggested shifting him from his job as Mess Waiter,” said Widmerpool, not without impatience. “That’s one of the reasons I acted in the matter. I thought it over and decided, on balance, that you were right in feeling Stringham should not be there — in fact should not be at these Headquarters at all. Now you seem dissatisfied at what has happened. Why should it be your job — still less mine — to keep Stringham wrapped in cotton-wool? In any case, you surely don’t envisage him remaining here after he and two of Div. H.Q.’s officers, one of them its D.A.A.G., have been collectively concerned in putting another officer to bed because he has been found drunk in the street. You assured me Stringham would not be an embarrassment to us. That is exactly what has taken place.”

“But Stringham is quite used to the idea of drunks being put to bed. As he said last night, the pair of us once had to put him to bed ourselves. It couldn’t conceivably affect Stringham’s behaviour that he helped with Bithel — especially as Bithel’s gone.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“What has then?”

“Nicholas, have you never heard of the word discipline?”

“But nobody knows except us — or was Barker-Shaw or somebody about when you got Bithel to G Mess?”

“No one — as it fortunately turned out. But that makes no difference whatever. Stringham could certainly not remain here after an incident of that kind. I applaud my own forethought in making the arrangement about him I did. So far as these Headquarters are concerned, the farther afield he is sent the better. Let me add that all this is entirely a matter of principle. Stringham’s presence would no longer affect me personally.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am leaving this formation.”

That piece of information brought a new, disturbing element into the conversation. I was annoyed, even disgusted, by Widmerpool’s attitude towards Stringham, this utter disregard for what might happen to him, posted away to God knows where. However, worse now threatened. Self-interest, equally unattractive in outer guise and inner essence, is, all the same, a necessity for individual survival. It should perhaps not be too much despised, if only for that reason. Despised or not, its activities are rarely far from the surface. Now, at Widmerpool’s words about leaving, I was unwelcomely conscious of self-interested anxieties throbbing hurriedly into operation. What was Widmerpool’s present intention towards myself, if he were to go elsewhere? Would my fate be as of little interest to him as Stringham’s? That was my instant thought.

“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 like 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.”

Widmerpool could not have been pleased to hear that Farebrother was about to become a lieutenant-colonel, while he himself, however briefly, remained a major. Indeed, it probably irritated him that Farebrother should be promoted at all. At the same time, a display of self-control rare with him, he contrived to show no concern, his manner being even reasonably congratulatory. This was no doubt partly on account of the satisfactory nature of his own promised change of employment, but, as he revealed on a later occasion, also because of the low esteem in which he held the organisation which Farebrother was about to join.

“A lot of scallywags, in my opinion,” he said later.

Farebrother was certainly acute enough to survey their respective future situations from much the same point of view, that is to say appreciating the fact that, although he might himself be now ahead, Widmerpool’s potentialities for satisfying ambition must be agreed to enjoy a wider scope. Indeed, in a word or two, he openly expressed some such conclusion. Farebrother could afford this generosity, because, as it turned out, he had another trick up his sleeve. He brought this trump card out only after they had talked for a minute or two about their new jobs. Farebrother opened his attack by abruptly swinging the subject away from their own personal affairs.

“You’ve been notified Ivo Deanery’s going to get the Recce Unit?” he asked suddenly.

Widmerpool was taken aback by this question. He began to look angry again.

“Never heard of him,” he said.

The answer sounded as if it were intended chiefly to gain time.

“Recently adjutant to my Yeomen,” said Farebrother. “As lively a customer as you would meet in a day’s march. Got an M.C. in Palestine just before the war.”

Widmerpool was silent. He did not show any interest at all in Ivo Deanery’s juvenile feats of daring, whatever they might have been. I supposed he did not want to admit to Farebrother that he himself had been running a candidate for the Recce Unit’s Commanding Officer; and that candidate, from what had been said, must have been unsuccessful.

“Knew you were interested in the Recce Regiment command,” said Farebrother, speaking very casually.

“Naturally.”

“I mean specially interested.”

“There was nothing special about it,” said Widmerpool.

“Oh, I understand there was,” said Farebrother, assuming at once a puzzled expression, as if greatly worried at Widmerpool’s denial of special interest. “In fact that was the chief reason I came round to see you.”

“Look here,” said Widmerpool, “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Sunny. How could you be D.A.A.G. of a formation and not take a keen interest in who’s appointed to command its units?”

He was gradually losing his temper.

“The M.G.A. thinks you were a bit too interested,” said Farebrother, speaking now with exaggerated sadness. “Old boy, there’s going to be the hell of a row. You’ve put your foot in it.”

“What do you mean?”

Widmerpool was thoroughly disturbed now, frightened enough to control his anger. Farebrother looked interrogatively at me, then his eyes travelled back to Widmerpool. He raised his eyebrows. Widmerpool shook his head vigorously.

“Say anything you like in front of him,” he said. “He knows I had a name in mind for the Recce Unit command. Nothing wrong with that. Naturally I regret my chap hasn’t got it. That’s all there is to it. What’s the M.G.A. beefing about?”

Farebrother too shook his head, but slowly and more lugubriously than ever.

“I understand from the M.G.A. that you were in touch with him personally not long ago about certain matters with which I myself was concerned.”

Widmerpool went very red.

“I think I know what you mean,” he said, “but they were just as much my concern as yours.”

“Wouldn’t it have been better form, old boy, to have mentioned to me you were going to see him?”

“I saw no cause to do so,”

Widmerpool was not at all at ease.

“Anyway,” said Farebrother mildly, “the M.G.A., rightly or wrongly, feels you misled him about various scraps of unofficial information you tendered, especially as he had no idea at the time that you were pressing in other quarters for a certain officer to be appointed to a command then still vacant.”

“How did he find that out?”

“I told him,” said Farebrother, simply.

“But look here …” said Widmerpool.

He was too furious to finish the sentence.

“The long and the short of it was the M.G.A. said he was going to get in touch with your General about the whole matter.”

“But I behaved in no way incorrectly,” said WidmerpooL “There is not the smallest reason to suggest…”

“Believe me, Kenneth, I’m absolutely confident you did nothing to which official exception could possibly be taken,” said Farebrother. “On my heart. That’s why I thought it best to put my own cards on the table. The M.G.A. is sometimes hasty. As you know well, amateur soldiers like you and me tend to go about our business in rather a different way from the routine a Regular gets accustomed to. We like to get things done expeditiously. I just thought it was a pity myself you went and told the M.G.A. all those things about me. That was why I decided he ought to know more about you and your own activities. I’m sure everything will be all right in the end, but I believed it right to warn you — as I was coming to say good-bye anyway — simply that my General might be getting in touch with your General about all this.”

Farebrother’s quiet, reassuring tone did not at all soothe Widmerpool, who now looked more disturbed than ever. Farebrother rose to his feet. He squared his shoulders and smiled kindly, pleased, as well he might be, with the devastation his few minutes’ conversation had brought about in the promotion of Widmerpool’s plans. In his own way, as I learnt later, Farebrother was an efficient operator when he wanted something done; very efficient indeed. Widmerpool had made a mistake in trying to double-cross him in whatever matter the visit to the M.G.A. had concerned. He should have guessed that Farebrother, sooner or later, would find out. Perhaps he had disregarded that possibility, ruling out the risk of Farebrother turning to a formidable weapon at hand. However, with characteristic realism, Widmerpool grasped that something must be done quickly, if trouble, by now probably inevitable, was to be reduced in magnitude. He was not going to waste time in recrimination.

“I’ll come with you to the door, Sunny,” he said. “I can explain all that business about going to the M.G.A. It wasn’t really aimed at you at all, though now I see it must look like that.”

Farebrother turned towards me. He gave a nod.

“Good-bye, Nicholas.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

They left the room together. The situation facing Widmerpool might be disagreeable, almost certainly was going to be. One thing at least was certain: whomsoever he had been trying to jockey into the position of commanding the Recce Unit would have done the job as well, if not better, than anyone else likely to be appointed. Widmerpool’s candidate — if only for Widmerpool’s own purposes — would, from no aspect, turn out unsuitable. If his claims were pressed by Widmerpool, he would be a first-class officer, not a personal friend whose competence was no more than adequate. That had to be said in fairness to Widmerpool methods, though I had no cause to like them. So far as that went, Farebrother’s man, Ivo Deanery, as it turned out, made a good job of the command too. He led the Divisional Recce Corps, with a great deal of dash, until within a few days of the German surrender; then was blown up when his jeep drove over a landmine. However, that is equally by the way. The immediate point was that Widmerpool, even if his machinations had not actually transgressed beyond what were to be regarded as the frontiers of discipline, could, at the same time, well have allowed himself liberties with the established scope permissible to an officer of his modest rank, which, if brought to light, would seriously affront higher authority. Probably his original contact with the Major-General at Corps had been on the subject of a petty contention with Farebrother; something better not arranged — certainly better not arranged behind Farebrother’s back; at the same time trivial enough. Widmerpool had no scruples about conduct of that sort.

“No good being too gentlemanly,” he had once said.

The next stage might be guessed. Having gained access to the M.G.A. on this pretext, opportunity had been found to link the subject in hand with matters relating to the Recce Unit. Possibly the M.G.A. was even glad to be provided with one or other of those useful items of miscellaneous private information which Widmerpool was so pre-eminent in storing up his sleeve for use at just that sort of interview. Then, so it seemed, something had gone wrong. The M.G.A. had allowed Farebrother to find out, or at least make a good guess, that Widmerpool had been brewing up trouble for him. Like so many individuals who believe in being “ungentlemanly”, Widmerpool did not allow sufficiently for the eventuality of other people practising the same doctrine. Indeed, he used to complain bitterly if they did. Farebrother was an example of a man equally unprejudiced by scruple. No doubt he had pointed out to the M.G.A. that Widmerpool’s suggested line included contrivances that, when examined in the light of day, revealed — perhaps only to an over-fastidious sense of how things should be done — shreds of what might be regarded as the impertinent intrigue of a junior officer. That, at least, seemed to have been just how the M.G.A. had seen the matter. He had become angry. Now, as Farebrother said, there was going to be the hell of a row; this at a most awkward juncture in Widmerpool’s career. He was evidently having a longish talk with Farebrother on the doorstep. Before he returned Greening looked in.

“D.A.A.G. about?”

“Just gone down the stairs to have a final word with his opposite number from Command. He’ll be back in a second.”

“His Nibs wants Major Widmerpool at once.”

“Shall I tell him?”

“I’ll wait. His Nibs is far from pleased. Absolutely cheesed off, in fact. I don’t dare go back without my man — like the North-West Mounted Police.”

“What’s happened?”

“No idea.”

It looked as if the trouble in question was about to begin. Greening and I had a game of noughts and crosses. Widmerpool returned. Greening delivered his summons. Widmerpool, who was looking worried already, gave a slight twitch, but made no comment. He and Greening went off together in the direction of the General’s room. In the army, long tracts of time when nothing whatever seems to happen are punctuated by sudden unexpected periods of upheaval and change. That is traditional. We had been all at once sucked into one of those whirlpools. Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson was the next person to enter the room. This was a rare occurrence, of which the most likely implication was that some sudden uncontrollable rage was too great to allow him to remain inactive while Widmerpool was summoned by telephone to his own presence. He must have come charging up the passage to prevent it boiling over without release, thereby perhaps doing him some internal injury. However, that turned out to be a wrong guess. The Colonel was, on the contrary, in an unusually good humour.

“Where’s the D.A.A.G.?”

“With the Divisional Commander, sir.”

Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson took the chair on which Farebrother had been sitting a moment before. To remain was as unexpected as arrival here. There could be no doubt he was specially pleased about something. It might well be he already knew Widmerpool was in hot water. He pulled at his short, bristly, dun-coloured moustache.

“Aren’t you some sort of a literary bloke in civilian life?” he asked.

I agreed that was the case.

“The General said something of the kind the other day.”

Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson emitted that curious sound, a kind of hissing gulp issuing from the corner of his mouth, after this comment, apparently, on this occasion, to express the ease he himself felt in the presence of the arts.

“I once wrote rather a good parody myself,” he said.

“You did, sir?”

“On Omar Khayyám.”

I indicated respectful interest.

“Quite amusing, it was,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, without apology.

I was about to entreat him to recite, if not all, at least a few quatrains of what promised to be an essay in pastiche well worth hearing, when Widmerpool’s return prevented further exploration of the Colonel’s Muse.

“Ah, Kenneth,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, assuming his most unctuous manner, “I was hoping you would spare me a moment of your valuable time,”

Widmerpool looked even less pleased to see Hogbourne-Johnson than at Farebrother’s visit. He was by now showing a good deal of wear and tear from the blows raining down on him.

“Yes, sir?” he answered tonelessly.

“Mr. Diplock …” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. “No, you need not go, Nicholas.”

He sat on the chair banging his knees with his clenched fists, taking his time about what he wanted to say. It looked as if he desired a witness to be present at what was to be his humiliation of Widmerpool over the Diplock affair. Use of my own christian name indicated an exceptionally good humour.

“Yes, sir?” repeated Widmerpool.

“I’m afraid you’re going to be proved to have made a big mistake, my son,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.

He snapped the words out like an order on the parade ground. Widmerpool did not speak.

“Barking up the wrong tree,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.

Widmerpool pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. Even in the despondent state to which he had been reduced, he was still capable of anger.

“You brought a series of accusations against an old and tried soldier,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, “by doing so causing a great deal of unpleasantness, administrative dislocation and unnecessary work.”

Widmerpool began to speak, but the Colonel cut him short.

“I had a long talk with Diplock yesterday,” he said, “and I am now satisfied he can clear himself completely. With that end in view, I sanctioned a day’s leave for him to collect certain evidences. Now, I understand you may be leaving us?”

“I …”

Widmerpool hesitated. Then he pulled himself together.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m certainly leaving the Division.”

“Before you go,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, “I consider it will be necessary for you to make an apology.”

“I don’t yet know, sir,” said Widmerpool, “the new facts which have come to light that should so much alter what appeared to be incontrovertible charges. I have been with A. & Q. earlier this afternoon, who told me you had made the arrangement you mention. He had informed the D.A.P.M., thinking Diplock should be kept under some general supervision.”

Even though he said that in a fairly aggressive tone, Widmerpool’s manner still gave the impression that his mind was on other things. No doubt — his own fate in the balance — he found difficulty in concentrating on the Diplock case. It looked as if Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, like a cat with a mouse, wanted to play with Widmerpool for a while before releasing information, because, instead of communicating anything he might know that had fresh bearing on Diplock and his goings-on, he changed the subject.

“Then there’s another matter,” he said. “Certain moves made with regard to the Reconnaissance Battalion.”

“The General has just been speaking on that subject too,” said Widmerpool.

Hogbourne-Johnson was plainly surprised at this admission. His expression showed he had no knowledge of the disturbance proceeding, at a higher level than his own, on the subject of Widmerpool’s Recce Unit intrigues.

“To you?”

“Yes,” said Widmerpool bluntly. “The General told me a Major — now, of course, Lieutenant-Colonel — Deanery has been appointed to that command.”

If he had hoped to score off Widmerpool in the Recce Unit sphere, it seemed Hogbourne-Johnson had overreached himself. He reddened. No doubt he knew Widmerpool had been fishing in troubled waters, but was not up to date as to the outcome. If Widmerpool’s candidate had been turned down, so too, it now appeared, had his own. This fact was most unacceptable to the Colonel. His manner changed from a peculiar assertive, sneering self-assurance, to mere everyday bad temper.

“Ivo Deanery?” \

“A cavalryman.”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s got the command.”

“I see.”

For the moment, Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson had nothing to say. He was absolutely furious, but could not very well admit he had just heard news that showed his own secret plans, whatever they were, had miscarried. That Widmerpool, whom he had come to harass, should be the vehicle of this particular item of information must have been additionally galling. However, something much worse from Hogbourne-Johnson’s point of view, also much more dramatic, happened a second later. The door opened and Keef, the D.A.P.M., came into the room. He was excited about something. Clearly looking for Widmerpool, not at all expecting to find Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson there, Keef appeared taken aback. A gnarled, foxy little man — like most D.A.P.M.s, not a particularly agreeable figure — he was generally agreed to handle soundly his section of Military Police, always difficult personnel of whom to be in charge. Now, he hesitated for a moment, trying to decide, so it seemed, whether, there and then, to make some disclosure he had on his mind, or preferably concoct an excuse, and retire until such time as he could find Widmerpool alone. Keef must have come to the conclusion that immediate announcement of unwelcome tidings would be best, because, straightening himself almost to the position of attention, he addressed Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, as if it were Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson himself he had been looking for all the time. The reason for his momentary reluctance was revealed only too soon.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Yes?”

“A serious matter has come through on the telephone, sir.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Diplock’s deserted, sir.”

This message was so unexpected that Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, already sufficiently provoked by the appointment of Ivo Deanery to the command of the Recce Unit, could find no words at first to register the fact that he fully comprehended what Keef had to report. The awfulness of the silence that followed must have told on Keef’s nerves. Still standing almost to attention, it was he who spoke first.

“Just come through, sir,” he repeated. “A. & Q. issued an order to keep an eye on him, but it was too late. The man’s known to have made his way across the Border. He’s in neutral territory by this time.”

To have trusted Diplock, to have stood by him when accused of peculation, was, so far as I knew from my own experience of Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, the only occasion when he had ever shown a generous impulse. Of course that was speaking from scarcely any knowledge of him at all. In private life he may have displayed qualities concealed during this brief observation of his professional behaviour. Even if that were not so, and he were as un-engaging to his friends and family as to his comrades in arms, even if, with regard to Diplock, his conduct had been dictated by egoism, prejudice, pig-headedness, the fact remained that he had believed in Diplock, had trusted him. He had, for example, called Widmerpool to order for describing the chief clerk as an old woman, simply because he respected the fact that Diplock, years before, had been awarded the Military Medal. Now he had been thoroughly let down. The climax had not been altogether deserved. Widmerpool had been wrong too. Diplock might be an old woman when he fiddled about with Army Forms; not when it came to evading his desserts. Still, that was another matter. It was Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson who had been betrayed. Possibly he felt that himself. He rose to his feet, in doing so managing to sweep to the floor some of the papers from the pile of documents on Widmerpool’s table. Giving a jerk of his head to indicate Keef was to follow him, he left the room. Their steps could be heard thudding down uncarpeted passages. Widmerpool shut the door after them. Then he stopped and laboriously recovered several Summaries of Evidence from the floor. Anxiety about his own future was evidently too grave to allow any satisfaction at Hogbourne-Johnson’s discomfiture. In fact, I had not seen Widmerpool so upset, so reduced to utter despair, since the day, long past, when he had admitted to paying for Gypsy Jones’s “operation.”

“There’s been the devil of a row,” he said.

“What’s happened?”

“The General’s livid with rage.”

“About what Sunny Farebrother said?”

“That bloody M.G.A.’s given him a totally false picture of what I said.”

“What’s the upshot?”

“General Liddament says he’s going to make further enquiries. If he’s satisfied I’ve behaved in a way of which he disapproves, he won’t keep me on his staff. Of course I don’t mind that, as I’m leaving anyway. What I’m worried about is he may take it into his head to ruin my chance of this much better job, when he gets official notification. He seemed to have forgotten that was in the air.”

“Does he know Hogbourne-Johnson was playing about with the same matter?”

“Of course not. Hogbourne-Johnson will be able to cover his tracks now.”

“And Diplock?”

“Oh, yes, Diplock,” said Widmerpool, cheering up a little. “I’d forgotten about Diplock. Well, it was just as I said, though I’d never have guessed he’d go as far as to desert. Perhaps he wouldn’t have deserted, if there hadn’t been a frontier so conveniently near. This is all very worrying. Still, we must get on with some work. What have you got there?”

“The question of Mantle’s name being entered for a commission has come up again.”

Widmerpool thought for a moment.

“All right,” he said, “we’ll by-pass Hogbourne-Johnson and send it in.”

He took the paper from me.

“And Stringham?”

“What about him?”

“If the Mobile Laundry are to be pushed off to the Far East, as you think—”

“Oh, bugger Stringham,” said Widmerpool, his mood suddenly changing. “Why are you always fussing about Stringham? If he wants to get out of going overseas, he can probably do so at his age. That’s his affair. Which reminds me, the officer replacing Bithel in charge of the Mobile Laundry should be reporting in an hour or so. I shall want you to take him round there and give him a preliminary briefing. I’ll go into things myself in more detail later. He’s called Cheesman.”

Nothing much else happened that afternoon. Widmerpool uttered one or two sighs to himself, but did not discuss his own predicament further. As he had said, there was nothing to be done. He could only wait and see how matters shaped. No one knew better than Widmerpool that, in the army, all things are possible. He might ride the storm. On the other hand, he could easily find himself packed off to a static appointment in West Africa, or another distant post unlikely to lead to the sort of promotion he had at present in mind. When Cheesman appeared later on, it was immediately clear that the Laundry, when proceeding overseas, was to have a very different commander from Bithel.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite so punctual as I intended, sir,” he said, “but I’m anxious to get to work as soon as possible.”

Cheesman told me later he was thirty-nine. He looked quite ageless. Greying hair and wire spectacles suited his precise, rather argumentative manner of speech, in which he had not allowed the smallest trace of an army tone to alloy indefectibly civilian accents. Indeed, he spoke as if he had just arrived from a neighbouring firm to transact business with our own. He treated Widmerpool respectfully, as if a mere representative was meeting a managing director, but nothing in the least military supervened. Widmerpool might sometimes behave like this, but he also prided himself on the crispness of his own demeanour as a staff officer, and obviously did not greatly take to Cheesman. However, from whatever reports he had received about Cheesman’s ability, he had evidently satisfied himself the job would be done in an efficient manner. After exchanging a few sentences regarding the taking-over of the Laundry, he told me to act as guide, after Cheesman’s baggage had been delivered to G Mess. No doubt, in the prevailing circumstances, Widmerpool was glad to be left alone for a time to think things over.

“I’ll have a word with you to-morrow, Cheesman,” he said, “when you’ve a better idea of the Laundry’s personnel and equipment, in relation to a move.”

“I shall be glad to have a look round, sir,” said Cheesman.

He and I set off together for the outer confines of the billeting area, where the Mobile Laundry had its being during spells at H.Q. Cheesman told me he was an accountant in civilian life. He had done a good deal of work on laundry accounts at one time or another, accordingly, after getting a commission, had put in for a Mobile Laundry command.

“They seemed surprised I wanted to go to one,” he said. “It struck me as only logical. The O.C. of my O.C.T.U. roared with laughter. He used to do that anyway when I spoke with him. He agreed I was too old for an infantry second-lieutenant and wanted me to go to the Army Pay Corps, or to train as a cipher officer, but in the end I got a Laundry. I hoped to command men. I was transferred to this one because my work seems to have been thought well of. I felt flattered,”

“You’ve got a first-rate sergeant in Ablett.”

“That’s good news. My last one wasn’t always too reliable.”

Sergeant Ablett was waiting for us. As Bithel had asserted in his drunken delirium, the Sergeant added to his qualities as an unusually efficient N.C.O. those required for performing as leading comedian at the Divisional Concert, where he would sing forgotten songs, crack antediluvian jokes and dance unrestrainedly about the stage wearing only his underclothes. Ablett’s was always the most popular turn. Now, however, this talent for vaudeville had been outwardly subdued, in its place assumed the sober, positively severe bearing of an old soldier, whose clean-shaven upper lip, faintest possible proliferation of side-whisker, perhaps consciously characterised a veteran of Wellington’s campaigns. Contact was made between Cheesman and Ablett. It struck me that now would be a good opportunity to try and speak with Stringham.

“There’s a man in your outfit I want a word with. May I do that while the Sergeant is showing you round?”

“By all means,” said Cheesman. “Some personal matter?”

“He’s a chap I know in civilian life.”

Cheesman was the sort of person to be trusted with that information. Anyway, the unit was moving. Sergeant Ablett summoned a corporal. I went off with him to find Stringham, leaving Cheesman to get his bearings.

“Last saw Stringy on his bed in the barrack room,” said the corporal, a genial bottle-nosed figure, who evidently did not take military formalities too seriously.

He went off through a door. I waited in a kind of yard, where the Mobile Laundry’s outlandish vehicles were parked. In a minute or two the corporal appeared again. He was followed by Stringham, who looked as if the unexpected summons had made him uneasy. He was not wearing a cap. When he saw me, his face cleared. He came to attention.

“Thank you, Corporal.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

The bottle-nosed corporal disappeared.

“You gave me quite a turn, Nick,” Stringham said. “I was lying on my bed musing about Tuffy and what a strange old girl she is. I was reading Browning, which always makes me think of her. Browning’s her favourite poet. Did I tell you that? Of course I did, I’m getting hopelessly forgetful. He always makes me feel rather jumpy. That was why I got in a flap when Corporal Treadwell said I was wanted by an officer.”

“I’ve just brought your new bloke round who’s taken Bithel’s place.”

“Poor Bith. That was an extraordinary evening last night. What’s happened to him?”

“Widmerpool’s shot him out.”

“Dear me. Just as well, perhaps, for the army’s sake, but I shall miss him. What’s this one like?”

“He’s called Cheesman. Should be easy to handle if you stay with him.”

“Why shouldn’t I stay with him? I’m wedded to the Laundry by this time. I’ve really begun to know the meaning of esprit de corps, something lamentably lacking in me up to now.”

“I want to talk about all that.”

“Esprit de corps?”

“Can’t we take a stroll for a couple of minutes while Cheesman deals with your Sergeant?”

“Ablett’s a great favourite of mine too,” said Stringham. “I’m trying to memorise some of his jokes for use at dinner parties after the war, if I’m ever asked to any again — indeed, if any are given après la guerre. Ablett’s jokes have an absolutely authentic late nineteenth-century ring that fills one with self-confidence. Wait a moment, I’ll get a cap.”

When he returned, wearing a side-cap, he carried in his hand a small tattered volume. We walked slowly up an endless empty street of small redbrick houses. The weather, for once, was warm and sunny. Stringham held up the book.

“Before we part, Nick,” he said, “I must read you something I found here. I can’t make out just what all of it means, but some has obvious bearing on army life.”

“Charles, you’ve got to do some quick thinking. The Mobile Laundry is due to move,”

“So we heard.”

“There’ve been rumours?”

“One always knows these things first in the ranks. That’s one of the advantages. Where’s it to be?”

“Of course that’s being kept secret, but Widmerpool thinks — for what it’s worth — the destination is probably the Far East.”

“We heard that too.”

“Then you know as much as me.”

“We seem to. Of course, security may be so good, it will really turn out to be Iceland. That sort of thing is always happening.”

“The point is, you could probably — certainly — get out of being sent overseas on grounds of age and medical category.”

“I agree I’m older than the rocks amongst which I sit, and have died infinitely more times than the vampire. Even so, I’d quite like to see the gorgeous East — even the Icelandic geysers, if it comes to that.”

“You’ll go through with it?”

“Not a doubt.”

“I just thought I ought to pass on what was being said — strictly against all the rules.”

“That shan’t go any further. Depend upon it. I suppose Widmerpool saw this coming?”

“So I gather.”

“And all that altruism about F Mess was to get me on the move?”

“That’s about it.”

“He couldn’t have done me a better turn,” said Stringham. “The old boy’s a marvellous example of one of the aspects of this passage I want to read you. Like everything that’s any good, it has about twenty different meanings.”

He stopped and began turning the pages of the book he had brought with him. We stood beside a pillar-box. When he found the place, he began to read aloud:

“I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.

As a man calls for wine before he fights,

I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights

Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.

Think first, fight afterwards — the soldier’s art;

One taste of the old time sets all to rights.”

“Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came?”

“Childe Stringham — in this case.”

“I’m never sure what I feel about Browning.”

“He always gives the impression of writing about people who are wearing very expensive fancy dress. All the same, there’s a lot in what he says. Not that I feel in the least nostalgic about earlier, happier sights. I can’t offhand recall many. The good bit is about thinking first and fighting after.”

“Let’s hope the High Command have taken the words to heart.”

“Odd that Browning should know that was so important.”

“Perhaps he should have been a general.”

“It ought to be equally borne in mind by all ranks. There might be an Order of the Day on the subject. Can’t Widmerpool arrange that?”

“Widmerpool’s leaving Div. H.Q. too.”

“To become a colonel?”

“The Divisional Commander may bitch that up. He’s tumbled on some of Widmerpool’s intriguing and doesn’t approve, but Widmerpool will go either way.”

“How very dramatic.”

“Isn’t it.”

“Then what will happen to you?”

“God knows. The I.T.C., I imagine. Look, I shall have to go back to Cheesman soon, but I must tell you about the hell of a business on my leave the other day.”

I gave some account of the bombing of the Madrid and the Jeavons house.

“The Madrid, fancy that. I once took Peggy there in the early days of our marriage. The evening was a total frost. And then where I used to live in that top floor flat with Tuffy looking after me — where I learnt to be sober. Where Tuffy used to read Browning. Is it all in ashes?”

“Not in the least. The outside of the house looks just the same as usual.”

“Poor Lady Molly — she ought to have stayed doing that job at Dogdene.”

“Much too quiet for her.”

“Poor Ted, too. What on earth will he do with himself now? I used to enjoy occasionally sneaking off to the pub with Ted.”

“He’s going on as before. Camping out in the house and carrying on as an air-raid warden.”

“I chiefly remember your sister-in-law, Priscilla, as making rather good going with some musician for whom my mother once gave an extraordinary party. Weren’t you there, Nick? I associate that night with an odd little woman covered in frills like Little Bo-Peep. I made some sort of dive at her.”

“She was called Mrs. Maclintick. She’s now living with the musician for whom your mother gave the party — Hugh Moreland.”

“Moreland, that was the name. She’s living with him, is she? What lax morals people have these days. The war, I suppose. I do my best to set an example, but no one follows me in my monastic celibacy. That was a strange night. Tuffy arrived to drive me home. It comes back to me fairly clearly, in spite of a great deal too much to drink. That’s a taste of old times, if ever there was one. Makes one ready to fight anybody.”

“Charles, I shall have to get back to Cheesman. You’ve absolutely decided to stick to the Mobile Laundry, come what may?”

“Quis separabit? — that’s the Irish Guards, isn’t it? The Mobile Laundry shares the motto.”

“Are you returning to the billet?”

“I think I’ll go for a stroll. Don’t feel like any more poetry reading at the moment. Poetry always rather disturbs me. I think I shall have to give it up — like drink. A short walk will do me good. I’m off duty till nine o’clock.”

“Good-bye, Charles — if we don’t meet before the Laundry moves.”

“Good-bye, Nick.”

He smiled and nodded, then went off up the street. He gave the impression of having severed his moorings pretty completely with anything that could be called everyday life, army or otherwise. I returned to Cheesman and Sergeant Ablett. They seemed to have got on well together and were still vigorously discussing vehicle maintenance.

“Find that man all right, sir?” asked the Sergeant.

“Had a word with him. Know him in civilian life.”

“Thought you might, sir. He could have been of use in the concert, but now it looks as if we’re moving and there won’t be any concert.”

“I expect you’ll put on a show wherever you go. We shall miss your trouserless tap-dance next time, Sergeant.”

“That’s always a popular item,” said Sergeant Ablett, without false modesty.

I took Cheesman back to G Mess. His mildness did not prevent him from being argumentative about every subject that arose.

“That’s what you think,” he said, more than once, “but there’s another point of view entirely.”

This determination would be useful in running the Laundry, subject, like every small, more or less independent entity, to all sorts of pressures from outside.

“Wait a moment,” he said. “Before I forget, I’d like to make a note of your name, and the Sergeant’s, and the D.A.A.G.’s.”

He loosened the two top buttons of his service-dress tunic to rummage for a notebook. This movement revealed that he wore underneath the tunic a khaki waistcoat cut like that of a civilian suit. I commented on the unexpectedness of this garment, worn with uniform and made of the same material.

“You’re not the first person to mention that,” said Cheesman unsmilingly. “I can’t see why.”

“You just don’t see waistcoats as a rule.”

“I’ve always worn one up to now. Why should I stop because I’m in the army?”

“No reason at all.”

“Even the tailor seemed surprised. He said: ‘We don’t usually supply a vest with service-dress, sir.’ “

“It’s a tailor’s war, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

‘That’s just a thing people say.”

“Why?”

“God knows.”

Cheesman looked puzzled, but pursued the matter no further.

“See you at Church Parade to-morrow.”

Sunday morning was always concerned with getting the Defence Platoon on parade, together with the Military Police and other miscellaneous troops who make up Divisional Headquarters. This parade was not without its worries, because the Redcaps, most of them ex-guardsmen, marched at a more leisurely pace than the Line troops, some of whom, Light Infantry or Fusiliers, were, on the other hand, unduly brisk. Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, whose sympathies were naturally with the “Light Bobs” was always grumbling about its lack of progressional uniformity. That day all went well. After these details had been dismissed, I went to the D.A.A.G.’s office to see if anything had to be dealt with before Monday. As it happened, I had spoken with none of the other officers after church. Widmerpool was not in his room, nor had he been present at the service. It was not uncommon for him to spend Sunday morning working, so that he might already have finished what he wanted to do and gone back to the Mess. Almost as soon as I arrived there the telephone bell rang.

“D.A.A.G.’s office — Jenkins.”

“It’s A. & Q. Is the D.A.A.G. there?”

“No, sir.”

“Has he been in this morning?”

“Not since I came here from Church Parade, sir.”

Colonel Pedlar sounded in an agitated state, it was hard to tell whether pleased or angry.

“Was the D.A.D.M.S. in church?”

“Yes, sir.”

I had noticed Macfie a few pews in front of where I was sitting.

“I can’t get any reply from his room. Tell the man on the switch-board to try and find Major Widmerpool and Major Macfie and send them to me — and come along yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel Pedlar was walking up and down his room.

“Have you told them to find the D.A.D.M.S.?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s not much we can do until he arrives. A very unfortunate thing’s happened. A tragedy, in fact. Most unpleasant.”

“Yes, sir?”

“The fact is the S.O.P.T.’s hanged himself in the cricket pavilion.”

“That hut on the sports field, sir?”

‘That’s it. The one they lost the key of.”

Colonel Pedlar continued to stride backwards and forwards across his office.

‘There’s nothing much to be done until the D.A.A.G. and the D.A.D.M.S. arrive,” he said.

“When was this discovered, sir?”

“Only a short time ago — by a civilian who had to fetch some benches from the place,”

Colonel Pedlar stopped for a moment. Talking seemed to have relieved his feelings. Then he began to move again.

“What do you think of the news?” he asked.

“Well, it’s rather awful, sir. Biggs was in my Mess —”

“Oh, I don’t mean Biggs,” he said. “Haven’t you seen a paper or heard the wireless this morning? Germany’s invaded Russia.”

An immediate, overpowering, almost mystic sense of relief took shape within me. I felt suddenly sure everything was going to be all right. This was something quite apart from even the most cursory reflection upon strategic implications involved.

“I give the Russians three weeks,” said Colonel Pedlar “If you haven’t heard that the German army’s attacked Russia, you probably don’t know General Liddament has been given command of a Corps.”

“I didn’t, sir.”

“He left this morning to take over at once.”

I had never known Colonel Pedlar so talkative. He was no doubt trying to keep his mind off Biggs by imparting all this information, while he wandered about the room,

“And we’re going to lose our D.A.A.G.”

“I’d heard he might be leaving, sir.”

“Though the posting hasn’t come through yet.”

“No, sir.”

Colonel Pedlar ceased pacing up and down. He sat in his chair, holding his hand to his head.

“There was something else I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “Now what was it?”

I waited. The Colonel began looking among the papers on his table. More than ever his face was reminiscent of a dog sniffing about for a lost scent. Suddenly he picked it up and took hold of a scrap of paper.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “About your own disposal,”

“Yes, sir?”

“You were going to the I.T.C.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I’ve just had this. It should go through the D.A.A.G., of course, but as you’re here, you may as well see it.”

He handed across a teleprint message. It quoted my name, rank, number, instructing me to report to a room, number also quoted, in the War Office the following week.

“I don’t know anything about this,” said Colonel Pedlar.

“Nor me, sir.”

“Anyway it solves the problem of what’s going to happen to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

At that moment, Widmerpool and Macfie came into the room. Macfie looked as glum as ever, if possible, glummer, but Widmerpool’s face showed he had received news of the General’s promotion and departure. His manner to Colonel Pedlar indicated that too, when the Colonel began to outline the circumstances of the suicide.

“I don’t think Jenkins needs to stay, does he?” Widmerpool asked brusquely.

“I hardly think he does,” said Pedlar. “You may as well go now. Don’t forget to take necessary action about that signal I passed you.”

I went back to F Mess. Soper was discussing with Keef what had happened. His heavy simian eyebrows contorted in agitation, he looked more than ever like a professional comedian.

“A fine kettle of fish,” he said. “Never thought Biggy would have done that. In the cricket pav, of all places, and him so fond of the game. Worrying about that key did it. More than the wife business, in my opinion. Quite a change it will be, not having him grousing about the food every day.”

That same week the plane was shot down in which Barnby was undertaking a reconnaissance flight with the aim of reporting on enemy camouflage.