The Valley of Bones

1

SNOW FROM YESTERDAY’S FALL still lay in patches and the morning air was glacial. No one was about the streets at this hour. On either side of me in the half-light Kedward and the Company Sergeant-Major stepped out briskly as if on parade. Some time in the past — long, long ago in another existence, an earlier, less demanding incarnation — I had stayed a night in this town, idly come here to cast an eye over a countryside where my own family had lived a century or more before. One of them (rather a hard case by the look of it, from whom Uncle Giles’s failings perhaps stemmed) had come west from the Marches to marry the heiress of a small property overlooking a bay on this lost, lonely shore. The cliffs below the site of the house, where all but foundations had been obliterated by the seasons, enclosed untidy banks of piled-up rock against which spent Atlantic waters ceaselessly dissolved, ceaselessly renewed steaming greenish spray: la mer, la mer, toujours recommençée, as Moreland was fond of quoting, an everyday landscape of heaving billows too consciously dramatic for my own taste. Afterwards, in the same country, they moved to a grassy peninsula of the estuary, where the narrowing sea penetrated deep inland. There moss and ivy spread over ruined, roofless walls on which broad sheets of rain were descending. In the church nearby, a white marble tablet had been raised in memoriam. Those were the visible remains. I did not remember much of the town itself. The streets, built at constantly changing levels, were not without a bleak charm, an illusion of tramping through Greco’s Toledo in winter, or one of those castellated upland townships of Tuscany, represented without great regard for perspective in the background of quattrocento portraits. For some reason one was always aware, without knowing why the fact should be so inescapable, that the sea was not far away. The poem’s emphasis on ocean’s aqueous reiterations provoked in the mind a thousand fleeting images, scraps of verse, fragments of painting, forgotten tunes, disordered souvenirs of every kind: anything, in fact, but the practical matters required of one. When I tried to pull myself together, fresh daydreams overwhelmed me.

Although they had remained in these parts only a couple of generations, there was an aptness, something fairly inexorable, in reporting under the badges of second-lieutenant to a spot from which quite a handful of forerunners of the same blood had set out to become unnoticed officers of Marines or the East India Company; as often as not to lay twenty-year-old bones in the cemeteries of Bombay and Mysore. I was not exactly surprised to find myself committed to the same condition of service, in a sense always knowing that part of a required pattern, the fulfilment of which was in some ways a relief. Nevertheless, whatever military associations were to be claimed with these regions, Bonaparte’s expressed conviction was irrefutable — French phrases seemed to offer support at that moment — A partir de trente ans on commençe à être moins propre à faire la guerre. That was exactly how I felt myself; no more, no less. Perhaps others of the stock, too, had embarked with reservations on a career by the sword. Certainly there had been no name of the least distinction for four or five hundred years. In mediaeval times they had been of more account in war; once, a long way back — in the disconcerting, free-for-all manner of Celtic lineage — even reigning, improbable as that might now appear, in this southern kingdom of a much disputed land. One wondered what on earth such predecessors had been like personally; certainly not above blinding and castrating when in the mood. A pale, mysterious sun opaquely glittered on the circlet of gold round their helmets, as armed men, ever fainter in outline and less substantial, receded into the vaporous, shining mists towards intermediate, timeless beings, at once measurably historical, yet at the same time mythically heroic: Llywarch the Old, a discontented guest at the Arthurian Table: Cunedda — though only in the female line — whose horse men had mounted guard on the Wall. For some reason the Brython, Cunedda, imposed himself on the imagination. Had his expulsion of the Goidels with great slaughter been at the express order of Stilicho, that Vandal captain who all but won the Empire for himself? I reviewed the possibility as we ascended, without breaking step, a short, very steep, very slippery incline of pavement. At the summit of this little hill stood a building of grey stone surrounded by rows of spiked railings, a chapel or meeting house, reposing in icy gloom. Under the heavy portico a carved scroll was inscribed:

SARDIS

1874

Kedward came smartly to a halt at the entrance of this tabernacle. The Sergeant-Major and I drew up beside him. A gale began to blow noisily up the street. Muffled yet disturbing, the war horns of Cunedda moaned in the frozen wind, as far away he rode upon the cloud.

‘This is the Company’s billet,’ said Kedward, ‘Rowland is meeting us here.’

‘Was he in the Mess last night?’

‘Not when you were there. He was on his rounds as Captain of the Week.’

I followed Kedward through the forbidding portals of Sardis — one of the Seven Churches of Asia, I recollected — immediately entering a kind of cave, darker than the streets, though a shade warmer. The Sergeant-Major formally called the room to attention, although no visible presence stirred in an ominous twilight heavy with the smell of men recently departed, a scent on which the odour of escaping gas had been superimposed. Kedward bade’ the same unrevealed beings ‘carry on’. He had explained earlier that ‘as bloody usual’ the Company was ‘on fatigues’ that week. At first it was not easy to discern what lay about us in a Daumier world of threatening, fiercely slanted shadows, in the midst of which two feeble jets of bluish gas, from which the pungent smell came, gave irregular, ever-changing contours to an amorphous mass of foggy cubes and pyramids. Gradually the adjacent shapes contracted into asymmetrical rows of double-decker bunks upon which piles of grey-brown blankets were folded in a regulated manner. Then suddenly at the far end of the cave, like the anthem of the soloist bursting gloriously from a hidden choir, a man’s voice, deep throated and penetrating, sounded, rose, swelled, in a lament of heartbreaking melancholy:

‘That’s where I fell in love,

While stars above

Came out to play;

For it was manaña,

And we were so gay,

South of the border,

Down Mexico way …’

Another barrack-room orderly, for that was whom I rightly judged the unseen singer to be, now loomed up from the darkness at my elbow, joining in powerfully with the last two lines. At the same time, he swung his broom with considerable violence backwards and forwards through the air, like a conductor’s baton, finally banging it with all his force against the wooden legs of one of the bunks.

‘All right, all right, there,’ shouted the Sergeant-Major, who had at first not disallowed the mere singing. ‘Not so much noise am I telling you.’

As one’s eyes grew used to the gloom, gothic letters of enormous size appeared on the walls of the edifice, picked out in red and black and gold above the flickering gas-jets, a text whose message read straight across the open pages of a huge volume miraculously confronting us high above the paved floor, like the mural warning at Belshazzar’s feast:

‘Thou hast a few names even in Sardis

which have not defiled their garments:

and they shall walk with me in white:

for they are worthy.’

Rev. III. 4.

‘Some of these blankets aren’t laid out right yet, Sergeant-Major,’ said Kedward. ‘It won’t do, you know.’

He spoke gravely, as if emphasising the Apocalyptic verdict of the walls. Although he had assured me he was nearly twenty-two, Kedward’s air was that of a small boy who had dressed up for a lark in officer’s uniform, completing the rag by rubbing his upper lip with burnt cork. He looked young enough to be the Sergeant-Major’s son, his grandson almost. At the same time, he had a kind of childish dignity, an urchin swagger, in its way quite impressive, which lent him a right to be obeyed.

‘Some of the new intake was taught different to fold them blankets,’ said the Sergeant-Major cautiously.

‘Look at that — and those.’

‘I thought the lads was getting the idea better now, it was.’

‘Never saw anything like it.’

‘A Persian market, you might think,’ agreed the Sergeant-Major.

Cleanshaven, with the severely puritanical countenance of an Ironside in a Victorian illustration to a Cavalier-and-Roundhead romance, CSM Cadwallader was not as old as he looked, nor for that matter — as I discovered in due course — nearly so puritanical. His resounding surname conjoined him with those half-historical, half-mythical times through which my mind had been straying a minute or two before, the stern nobility of his features suggesting a warrior from an heroic epoch, returned with dragon banners to sustain an army in time of war. Like the rest of the ‘other ranks’ of the Battalion, he was a miner. His smooth skull, entirely hairless, was streaked with an intricate pattern of blue veins, where coal dust of accumulated years beneath the ground had found its way under the skin, spreading into a design that resembled an astrological nativity — his own perhaps — cast in tattoo over the ochre-coloured surface of the cranium. He wore a Coronation medal ribbon and the yellow-and-green one for Territorial long service. The three of us strolled round the bunks.

‘Carry on with the cleaning,’ said Kedward sharply.

He addressed the barrack-room orderlies, who, taking CSM Cadwallader’s rebuke as an injunction to cease from all work until our party was gone, now stood fidgetting and whispering by the wall. They were familiar later as Jones, D., small and fair, with almost white hair, a rarity in the Battalion, and Williams, W. H., tall and dark, his face covered with spots. Jones, D., had led the singing. Now they began to sweep again energetically, at the same time accepting this bidding as also granting permission to sing once more, for, as we moved to the further end of the room, Jones, D., returned to the chant, though more restrainedly than before, perhaps on account of the song’s change of mood:

‘There in a gown of white,

By candlelight,

She stooped to pray …’

The mournful, long-drawn-out notes died for a moment. Glancing round, I thought the singer, too, was praying; then saw his crouched position had been adopted the better to sweep under one of the bunks. This cramped attitude no doubt impeded the rendering, or perhaps he had paused for a second or two, desire provoked by the charming thought of a young girl lightly clothed in shimmering white — like the worthy ones of Sardis — a picture of peace and innocence and promise of a good time, very different from the stale, cheerless atmosphere of the barrack-room. Rising, he burst out again with renewed, agonised persistence:

‘… The Mission bell told me

That I mustn’t stay

South of the border,

Down Mexico way.

The message of the bell, the singer’s tragic tone announcing it, underlined life’s inflexible call to order, reaffirming the illusory nature of love and pleasure. Even as the words trailed away, heavy steps sounded from the other end of the chapel, as if forces of authority were already on the move to effect the unhappy lover’s expulsion from the Mission premises and delights of Mexico. Two persons had just come through the door. Kedward and the Sergeant-Major were still leaning critically over one of the bunks, discussing the many enormities of its incorrectly folded bedclothes. I turned from them and saw an officer approaching, accompanied by a sergeant. The officer was a captain, smallish, with a black moustache like Kedward’s, though much better grown; the sergeant, a tall, broad shouldered, beefy young man, with fair hair and very blue eyes — another Brythonic type, no doubt — that reminded me of Peter Templer’s. The singing had died down again, but the little captain stared angrily at the bunks, as if they greatly offended him.

‘Don’t you call the room to attention when your Company Commander comes in, Sergeant-Major?’ he asked harshly.

Kedward and CSM Cadwalladar hastily straightened themselves and saluted. I did the same. The captain returned a stiff salute, keeping his hand up at the peak of the cap longer than any of the rest of us.

‘Indeed, I’m sorry, sir,’ said the Sergeant-Major, beginning to shout again, though apparently not much put out by this asperity of manner. ‘See you at first, I did not, sir.’

Kedward stepped forward, as if to put an end to further fault finding, if that were possible.

‘This is Mr Jenkins,’ he said. ‘He joined yesterday and has been posted to your company, Captain Gwatkin.’

Gwatkin fixed me with his angry little black eyes. In appearance, he was in several respects an older version of Kedward. I judged him to be about my own age, perhaps a year or two younger. Almost every officer in the unit looked alike to me at that very early stage; Maelgwyn-Jones, the Adjutant, and Parry, his assistant sitting beside him at the table, indistinguishable as Tweedledum and Tweedledee, when I first reported to the Orderly Room the evening before. Later, it was incredible persons so dissimilar could ever for one moment have appeared to resemble one another in any but the most superficial aspects. Gwatkin, although he may have had something of Kedward’s look, was at the same time very different. Even this first sight of him revealed a novelty of character, at once apparent, though hard to define. There was, in the first place, some style about him. However much he might physically resemble the rest, something in his air and movements also showed a divergence from the humdrum routine of men; if, indeed, there is a humdrum routine.

‘It’s no more normal to be a bank-manager or a bus-conductor, than to be Baudelaire or Genghis Khan,’ Moreland had once remarked. ‘It just happens there are more of the former types.’

Satisfied at last that he had taken in sufficient of my appearance through the dim light of the barrack-room, Gwatkin held out his hand.

‘Your name was in Part II Orders, Mr Jenkins,’ he said without smiling. ‘The Adjutant spoke to me about you, too. I welcome you to the Company. We are going to make it the best company in the Battalion. That has not been brought about yet. I know I can rely on your support in trying to achieve it.’

He spoke this very formal speech in a rough tone, with the barest suggestion of sing-song, his voice authoritative, at the same time not altogether assured.

‘Mr Kedward,’ he went on, ‘have the new intake laid out their blankets properly this morning?’

‘Not all of them,’ said Kedward.

‘Why not, Sergeant-Major?’

‘It takes some learning, sir. Some of them is not used to our ways yet. They are good boys.’

‘Never mind whether they are good boys, Sergeant-Major, those blankets must be correct.’

‘Indeed, they should, sir.’

‘See to it, Sergeant-Major.’

‘That I will, sir.’

‘When was the last rifle inspection?’

‘At the pay parade, sir.’

‘Were the Company’s rifles correct?’

‘Except for Williams, T., sir, that is gone on the MT course and taken his rifle with him, and Jones, A., that is sick with the ring-worm, and Williams, H, that is on leave, and those two rifles the Sergeant-Armourer did want to look at that I told you of, sir, and the one with the faulty bolt in the Company Store for the time being, you said, and I will see about. Oh, yes, and Williams, G. E., that has been lent to Brigade for a week and has his rifle with him. That is the lot I do believe, sir.’

Gwatkin seemed satisfied with this reckoning.

‘Have you rendered your report?’ he asked.

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘See I have the nominal roll this evening, Sergeant-Major, by sixteen-hundred hours.’

‘That I will, sir.’

‘Mr Kedward.’

‘Sir?’

‘Your cap badge is not level with the top seam of the cap-band.’

‘I’ll see to it as soon as I get back to the Mess.’

Gwatkin turned to me.

‘Officers of our Battalion wear bronze pips, Mr Jenkins.’

‘The Quartermaster told me in the Mess last night he could get me correct pips by this evening.’

‘See the QM does so, Mr Jenkins. Officers incorrectly dressed are a bad example. Now it happens that Sergeant Pendry here, who is Battalion Orderly Sergeant this week, will be your own Platoon Sergeant.’

Sergeant Pendry grinned with great friendliness, his blue eyes flashing in high-lights caught by the gas-jets, making them more than ever like Peter Templer’s in the old days. He held out his hand. I took it, not sure whether this familiarity would conform with Gwatkin’s ideas about discipline. However, Gwatkin seemed to regard a handshake as normal in the circumstances. His tone had been austere until that moment; intentionally, though perhaps rather unconvincingly austere. Now he spoke in a more friendly manner.

‘What is your Christian name, Mr Jenkins?’

‘Nicholas.’

‘Mine is Rowland. The Commanding Officer says we should not be formal with each other off parade. We are brother officers — like a family, you see. So, when off duty, Rowland is what you should call me. I shall say Nicholas. Mr Kedward told you his name is Idwal.’

‘He has. I’m calling him that. In practice, it’s Nick for me.’

Gwatkin gazed at me fixedly, as if not altogether sure what I meant by ‘in practice’, or whether it was a term properly to be used by a subaltern to his Company Commander, but he did not comment.

‘Come along, Sergeant Pendry,’ he said, ‘I want to look at those urine buckets.’

We saluted. Gwatkin set off on his further duties as Captain of the Week — like the Book of the Month, I frivolously thought to myself.

‘That went off all right,’ said Kedward, as if presentation to Gwatkin might have proved disastrous. ‘I don’t think he took against you. What must I show you now? I know, the ablutions.’

That was my first sight of Rowland Gwatkin. It could hardly have been more characteristic, in so much as he appeared on that occasion almost to perfection in the part for which he had cast himself: in command, something of a martinet, a trifle unapproachable to his subordinates, at the same time not without his human side, above all a man dedicated to duty. It was a clear-cut, hard-edged picture, into which Gwatkin himself, for some reason, never quite managed to fit. Even his name seemed to split him into two halves, poetic and prosaic, ‘Rowland’ at once suggesting high deeds:

… When Rowland brave, and Olivier,

And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles died!

‘Gwatkin’, on the other hand, insinuated nothing more impressive than ‘little Walter’, which was not altogether inappropriate.

‘Rowland can be a bloody nuisance sometimes,’ said Kedward, when we knew each other better. ‘He thinks such a mighty lot of himself, do you know. Lyn Craddock’s dad is manager of Rowland’s branch, and he told Lyn, Rowland’s not all that bloody marvellous at banking. Not the sort that will join the Inspectorate, or anything like that, not by a long chalk. Rowland doesn’t care much about that, I expect. He just fancies himself as a great soldier. You should keep the right side of Rowland. He can be a tricky customer.’

That was precisely the impression of Gwatkin I had myself formed; that he took himself very seriously, was eminently capable of becoming disagreeable if he conceived a dislike for someone. At the same time, I felt an odd kind of interest in him, even attraction towards him. There was about him something melancholy, perhaps even tragic, that was hard to define. His excessively ‘regimental’ manner was certainly over and above anything as yet encountered among other officers of the Battalion. We were still, of course, existing in the comparatively halcyon days at the beginning of the war, when there was plenty to eat and drink, tempers better than they subsequently became. If you were over thirty, you thought yourself adroit to have managed to get into uniform at all, everyone behaving almost as if they were attending a peacetime practice camp (this was a Territorial unit), to be home again after a few weeks’ change of routine. Gwatkin’s manner was different from that. He gave the impression of being something more than a civilian keen on his new military role, anxious to make a success of an unaccustomed job. There was an air of resolve about him, the consciousness of playing a part to which a high destiny had summoned him. I suspected he saw himself in much the same terms as those heroes of Stendhal — not a Stendhalian lover, like Barnby, far from that — an aspiring, restless spirit, who, released at last by war from the cramping bonds of life in a provincial town, was about to cut a dashing military figure against a back-cloth of Meissonier-like imagery of plume and breastplate: dragoons walking their horses through the wheat, grenadiers at ease in a tavern with girls bearing flagons of wine. Esteem for the army — never in this country regarded, in the continental manner, as a popular expression of the national will — implies a kind of innocence. This was something quite different from Kedward’s hope to succeed. Kedward, so I found, did not deal in dreams, military or otherwise. By that time he and I were on our way back to the Mess. Kedward gratifyingly treated me as if we had known each other all our lives, not entirely disregarding our difference in age, it is true, but at least accepting that as a reason for benevolence.

‘I expect you’re with one of the Big Five, Nick,’ he said.

‘Big five what?’

‘Why, banks, of course.’

‘I’m not in a bank.’

‘Oh, aren’t you. You’ll be the exception in our Battalion.’

‘Is that what most of the officers do?’

‘All but about three or four. Where do you work?’

‘London.’

Banks expunged from Kedward’s mind as a presumptive vocation, he showed little further curiosity as to how otherwise I might keep going.

‘What’s London like?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Don’t you ever get sick of living in such a big place?’

‘You do sometimes.’

‘I’ve been in London twice,’ Kedward said. ‘I’ve got an aunt who lives there — Croydon — and I stayed with her. I went up to the West End several times. The shops are bloody marvellous. I wouldn’t like to work there though.’

‘You get used to it.’

‘I don’t believe I would.’

‘Different people like different places.’

‘That’s true. I like it where I was born. That’s quite a long way from where we are now, but it’s not all that different. I believe you’d like it where my home is. Most of our officers come from round there. By the by, we were going to get another officer reinforcement yesterday, as well as yourself, but he never turned up.’

‘Emergency commission?’

‘No, Territorial Army Reserve.’

‘What’s he called?’

‘Bithel — brother of the VC. Wouldn’t it be great to win a VC.’

‘He must be years younger than his elder brother then. Bithel got his VC commanding one of the regular battalions in 1915 or I’ve heard my father speak of him. That Bithel must be in his sixties at least.’

‘Why shouldn’t he be much younger than his brother? This one played rugger for Wales once, I was told. That must be great too. But I think you’re right. This Bithel is not all that young. The CO was complaining about the age of the officers they are sending him. He said it was dreadful, you are much too old. Bithel will probably be even older than you.’

‘Not possible.’

‘You never know. Somebody said they thought he was thirty-seven. He couldn’t be as old as that, could he. If so, they’ll have to find him an administrative job after the Division moves.’

‘Are we moving?’

‘Quite soon, they say.’

‘Where?’

‘No one knows. It’s a secret, of course. Some say Scotland, some Northern Ireland. Rowland thinks it will be Egypt or India. Rowland always has these big ideas. It might be, of course. I hope we do go abroad. My dad was in this battalion in the last war and got sent to the Holy Land. He brought me back a prayer-book bound in wood from the Cedars of Lebanon. I wasn’t born then, of course, but he got the prayer-book for his son, if he had one. Of course that was if he didn’t get killed. He hadn’t even asked my mum to marry him then.’

‘Do you use it every Sunday?’

‘Not in the army. Not bloody likely. Somebody would pinch it. I want to hand it on to my own son, you see, when I have one. Are you engaged?’

‘I was once. I’m married as a consequence.’

‘Are you really. Well, I suppose you would be at your age. Yanto Breeze — that’s Rowland’s other Platoon Commander — is married now. The wedding was a month ago. Yanto’s nearly twenty-five, of course. What’s your wife’s name?’

‘Isobel.’

‘Is she in London?’

‘She’s living in the country with her sister. She’s waiting to have a baby.’

‘Oh, you are lucky,’ said Kedward, ‘I wonder whether it will be a daughter. I’d love a little daughter. I’m engaged. Would you like me to show you a photograph of my fiancée?’

‘Very much.’

Kedward unbuttoned the breast-pocket of his tunic. He took out a wallet from one of the compartments of which he extracted a snapshot. This he handed over. Much worn by constant affectionate reference, the features of the subject, recognisably the likeness of a girl, were otherwise all but effaced. I expressed appreciation.

‘Bloody marvellous, isn’t she,’ said Kedward.

He kissed the faded outlines before returning the portrait to the notecase.

‘We’re going to get married if I become a captain,’ he said.

‘When will that be, do you think?’

Kedward laughed.

‘Not for ages, I suppose,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see why I shouldn’t be promoted one of these days, if the war goes on for a while and I work hard. Perhaps you will too, Nick. You never know. There’s this bloody eighteen months to get through as second-lieutenant before you get your second pip. I think the war is going on, don’t you? The French will hold them in the Maginot Line until this country builds up her air strength. Then, when the Germans try to advance, chaps like you and me will come in, do you see. Of course we might be sent to the help of Finland before that, fight the Russkis instead of the Germans. In any case, the decisive arm is infantry. Everybody agrees about that — except Yanto Breeze who says it’s the tank.’

‘We shall see.’

‘Yanto says he’s sure he will remain with two pips all the war. He doesn’t care. Yanto has no ambition.’

I had met Evan Breeze — usually known by the diminutive ‘Yanto’ — in the Mess the previous night, a tall, shambling, unmoustached figure, not at all military, who, as an accountant, stood like myself a little apart from the norm of working in a bank. Gwatkin, so I found in due course, did not much like Breeze. In fact it would be true to say he hated him, a sentiment Breeze quietly returned. Mutual antipathy was in general attributed to Gwatkin’s disapproval of Breeze’s unsmart appearance, and unwillingness to adapt himself to army methods and phraseology. That attitude certainly brought him some persecution at the hands of Gwatkin and others in authority. Besides, Breeze always managed to give the impression that he was laughing at Gwatkin, while at the same time allowing no word or act of his to give reasonable cause for offence. However, there was apparently another matter. When we knew each other better, Kedward revealed that Gwatkin, before his marriage, had been in love with Breeze’s sister; had been fairly roughly treated by her.

‘Rowland falls like a ton of bricks when he does, believe me,’ Kedward said, ‘when he takes a fancy to a girl. He was so stuck on Gwenllian Breeze, you would have thought he had the measles.’

‘What happened?’

‘She wouldn’t look at him. Married a college professor. One of those Swansea people.’

‘And Rowland married someone else?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. He married Blodwen Davies that had lived next door all their lives.’

‘How did that work out?’

Kedward looked at me uncomprehendingly.

‘Why, what do you mean?’ he said. ‘All right. Why should it not? They’ve been married a long time now, though they haven’t any kids. All that about Gwen Breeze was years ago. Yanto must have forgotten by now that Rowland could ever have been his brother-in-law. What a couple they would have been in one family. They would have been at each other like a dog-fight. Rowland always knows best. He likes bossing it. Yanto likes his own way too, but different. Yanto should clean himself up. He looks like an old hen in uniform.’

All the same, although Breeze might not possess Kedward’s liveliness, ambition, capacity for doing everything with concentrated energy, I found later that he was not, in his own way, a bad officer, however unkempt his turnout. The men liked him; he was worth consulting about the men.

‘Keep an eye on Sergeant Pendry, Nick,’ he said, when he heard Pendry was my Platoon Sergeant. ‘He is making a great show-off now, but I am not sure he is going on that way. He has only just been promoted and at present is very keen. But he was in my platoon for a time as a corporal and I am not certain about him, that he can last. He may be one of those NCOs who put everything into it for two or three weeks, then go to pieces. You’ll find a lot like that. They have to be stripped. There is nothing else to do.’

It was Breeze, on the evening of the day I had been shown round the lines by Kedward, who took me to the bar of the hotel where the officers of the unit were billeted. After dinner, subalterns were inclined to leave the ante-room of the Mess to the majors and captains, retiring to where talk was less restricted and rounds of drinks could be ‘stood’. This saloon bar was smoky and very crowded. In addition to a large civilian clientele and a sprinkling of our own Regiment, were several officers from the Divisional signals unit located in the town, also two or three from the RAF. Pumphrey, one of our subalterns, was leaning against the bar talking to a couple of army chaplains, and a lieutenant I had not seen before, wearing the Regiment’s badges. This officer had a large, round, pasty face and a ragged moustache, the tangled hairs of which glistened with beer. His thick lips were closed on the stub of a cigar. In spite of the moustache and the fact that he was rather bald, he shared some of Kedward’s look of a small boy dressed up in uniform for fun, though giving that impression for quite different reasons. In strong contrast with Kedward’s demeanour, this man had an extraordinary air of guilt which somehow suggested juvenility; a schoolboy wearing a false moustache (something more than burnt cork this time), who only a few minutes before had done something perfectly disgusting, and was pretty sure that act was about to be detected by the headmaster with whom he had often been in trouble before. Before I could diagnose more, Kedward himself came into the bar. He joined us.

‘I will buy you a bitter, Idwal,’ said Breeze.

Kedward accepted the offer.

‘Finland is still knocking the Red Army about on the news,’ he said. ‘We may go there yet.’

Pumphrey, another of our non-banking officers (he sold second-hand cars), beckoned us to join the group with the chaplains. Red-haired, noisy, rather aggressive, Pumphrey was always talking of exchanging from the army into the RAF.

‘This is our new reinforcement, Yanto,’ he shouted, ‘Lieutenant Bithel. He’s just reported his arrival at the Orderly Room and has been shown his quarters. Now he’s wetting his whistle with me and the padres.’

We pushed through the crowd towards them.

‘Here is Iltyd Popkiss, the C. of E.,’ said Breeze, ‘and Ambrose Dooley that saves the souls of the RCs, and is a man to tell you some stories to make you sit up.’

Popkiss was small and pale. It was at once evident that he had a hard time of it keeping up with his Roman Catholic colleague in heartiness and avoidance of seeming strait-laced. Dooley, a large dark man with an oily complexion and appearance of not having shaved too well that morning, accepted with complaisance this reputation as a retailer of hair-raising anecdote. The two chaplains seemed on the best of terms. Bithel himself smiled timidly, revealing under his straggling moustache a double row of astonishingly badly fitting false teeth. He hesitantly proffered a flabby hand. His furtiveness was quite disturbing.

‘I’ve just been telling them what an awful journey I had coming here from where I live,’ he said. ‘The Adjutant was very decent about the muddle that had been made. It was the fault of the War Office as usual. Anyway, I’m here now, glad to be back with the Regiment and having a drink, after all I’ve been through.’

I thought at first he might be a commercial traveller by profession, as he spoke as if accustomed to making social contacts by way of a kind of patter, though he seemed scarcely sure enough of himself for that profession. The way he talked might be caused by mere embarrassment. The cloth of his tunic was stained on the lapels with what seemed egg, the trousers ancient and baggy. He looked as if he had consumed quite a few drinks already. There could be no doubt, I saw with relief, that he was older than myself. If he had ever played rugby for Wales, he had certainly allowed himself to run disastrously to seed. There could be no doubt about that either. He seemed almost painfully aware of his own dilapidation, also of the impaired state of his uniform, at which he now looked down apologetically, holding out the flap of one of the pockets from its tarnished button for our inspection.

‘When I’m allotted a batman, I’ll have to get this tunic pressed,’ he said. ‘Haven’t worn it since I was in Territorial camp fifteen or more years ago. Managed to spill a glass of gin-and-italian over the trousers on the way here, I don’t know how.’

‘You won’t get any bloody marvellous valeting from your batman here, I’m telling you,’ said Pumphrey. ‘He’ll be more used to hewing coal than pressing suits, and you’ll be lucky if he even gets a decent polish on those buttons of yours, which are needing a rub up.’

‘I suppose we mustn’t expect too much now there’s a war on,’ said Bithel, unhappy that he might have committed a social blunder by speaking of pressing tunics. ‘But what about another round. It’s my turn, padre.’

He addressed himself to the Anglican chaplain, but Father Dooley broke in vigorously.

‘If I go on drinking so much of this beer, it will have a strong effect on my bowels,’ he said, ‘but all the same I will oblige you, my friend.’

Bithel smiled doubtfully, evidently not much at ease with such plain speaking in the mouth of the clergy.

‘I don’t think one more will do us any harm,’ he said. ‘I drink a fair amount of ale myself in civilian life without bad results.’

‘You want to keep your bowels open anyway,’ said

Dooley, pursuing the subject. ‘That’s what I believe in. Have a good sluicing every day. Nothing like it.’

He held up his glass to the light, as if assessing the aperient potentialities of the contents.

‘Army food gives me squitters anyway,’ he went on, roaring with delight at the thought. ‘I’ve hardly had a moment’s peace since we mobilized.’

‘It makes me as constipated as an owl,’ said Pumphrey. ‘I should just about say so.’

Dooley finished his beer at a gulp, again giving his jolly monk’s laugh at the thought of man’s digestive vicissitudes.

‘Even if I’m all bound up, I always carry plenty of toilet paper round with me,’ he said. ‘Never be without it. That’s my rule. You can’t know when you’re not going to be taken short in the army.’

‘That’s a good notion,’ said Pumphrey. ‘We must follow His Reverence’s advice, mustn’t we. Take proper precautions in case we have to spend a penny. Perhaps you do already, Iltyd. The Church seems to teach these things.’

‘Oh, why, yes, I do indeed,’ said Popkiss.

‘What do you take Iltyd for?’ said Dooley. ‘He’s an old campaigner, aren’t you, Iltyd?’

‘Why, yes, indeed,’ said Popkiss, evidently pleased to be given this opening, ‘and what do you think? In my last unit, when I took off my tunic to play billiards one night, they did such a trick on me. You’d never guess. They wrapped a french letter, do you know, between those sheets of toilet paper in my pocket.’

There was a good deal of laughter at this, in which the RC chaplain amicably joined, although it was clear from his expression that he recognised Popkiss to have played a card he himself might find hard to trump.

‘And did it fall out in the middle of Church Parade?’ asked Pumphrey, after he had finished guffawing.

‘No, indeed, thank to goodness. I just found it next day on my dressing table by my dog-collar. I threw it down the lavatory and pulled the chain. Very thankful I was when it went away, which was not for a long time. I pulled the chain half a dozen times, I do believe.’

‘Now listen to what happened to me when I was with the 2nd/14th—’ began Father Dooley.

I never heard the climax of this anecdote, no doubt calculated totally to eclipse in rough simplicity of language and narrative force anything further Popkiss might attempt to offer, in short to blow the Anglican totally out of the water. I was sorry to miss this consummation, because Dooley obviously felt his own reputation as a raconteur at stake, a position he was determined to retrieve. However, before the story was properly begun, Bithel drew me to one side.

‘I’m not sure I like all this sort of talk,’ he muttered in an undertone. ‘Not used to it yet, I suppose. You must feel the same. You’re not the rough type. You were at the University, weren’t you?’

I admitted to that.

‘Which one?’

I told him. Bithel had certainly had plenty to drink that day. He smelt strongly of alcohol even in the thick atmosphere of the saloon bar. Now, he sighed deeply.

‘I was going to the ’varsity myself,’ he said. ‘Then my father decided he couldn’t afford it. Business was a bit rocky at that moment. He was an auctioneer, you know, and had run into a spot of trouble as it happened. Nothing serious, though people in the neighbourhood said a lot of untrue and nasty things at the time. Nothing people won’t say. He passed away soon after that. I suppose I could have sent myself up to college, so to speak. The money would just about have run to it in those days. Somehow, it seemed too late by then. I’ve always regretted it. Makes a difference to a man, you know. You’ve only got to look round this bar.’

He swayed a little, adjusting his balance by clinging to the counter.

‘Had a tiring day,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll smoke just one more cigar and go to bed. Soothing to the nerves, a cigar. Will you have one? They’re cheap, but not bad.’

‘No, thanks very much.’

‘Come on. I’ve got a whole box with me.’

‘Don’t really like them, thanks all the same.’

‘A ’varsity man and don’t smoke cigars,’ said Bithel, speaking with disappointment. ‘I shouldn’t have expected that. What about sleeping pills? I’ve got some splendid ones, if you’d like to try them. Must use them if you’ve had just the wrong amount to drink. Fatal to wake up in the night when that’s happened.’

By this time I had begun to feel pretty tired myself, in no need of sleeping pills. The bar was closing. There was a general move towards bed. Bithel, after gulping down a final drink by himself, went off unsteadily to search for a greatcoat he had mislaid. The rest of us, including the chaplains, made our way upstairs. I was sleeping in the same bedroom as Kedward, Breeze and Pumphrey.

‘Old Bithel’s been allotted that attic on the top floor to himself,’ said Pumphrey. ‘He’ll feel pretty lonely up there. We ought to make a surprise for him when he comes to bed. Let’s give him a good laugh.’

‘Oh, he’ll just want to go quietly to bed,’ said Breeze, ‘not wish for any tomfoolery tonight.’

Kedward took the opposite view.

‘Why, yes,’ he said, ‘Bithel seems a good chap. He would like some sort of a rag. Make him feel at home. Show him that we like him.’

I was glad no such welcome had been thought necessary for myself the previous night, when there had been no sign of horseplay, merely a glass or two of beer before bed. There was perhaps something about Bithel that brought into being such schemes. What shape the joke should best take was further discussed. The end of it was we all climbed the stairs to the top floor of the hotel, where Bithel was housed in one of the attics. The chaplains came too, Dooley particularly entering into the idea of a rag. At first I had envied Bithel the luxury of a room to himself, but, when we arrived there, it became clear that such privacy, whatever its advantages, was paid for by a severe absence of other comfort. The room was fairly big, with a low ceiling under the eaves. Deep shelves had been built along one side, so that in normal times the attic was probably used as a large linen cupboard. The walls were unpapered. There was a strong smell of mice.

‘What shall we do?’ asked Kedward.

‘Put his bed upside down,’ suggested Pumphrey.

‘No,’ said Breeze, ‘that’s plain silly.’

‘Make it apple-pie.’

‘That’s stale.’

The padres wanted to see the fun, but without too deeply involving themselves. The idea that we should all lie on the shelves, then, when Bithel was already in bed, appear as a horde of ghosts, was abandoned as impracticable. Then someone put forward the project of making an effigy. This was accepted as a suitable solution to the problem. Pumphrey and Kedward therefore set about creating a figure to rest in Bithel’s camp-bed, the theory being that such a dummy would make Bithel suppose that he had come into the wrong room. The shape of a man that was now put together was chiefly contrived by rolling up the canvas cover of Bithel’s valise, which, under the blankets, gave the fair semblance of a body. Two of Bithel’s boots were placed so that they stuck out at the foot of the bed, a head on the pillow represented by his sponge-bag, surmounted by Bithel’s ‘fore-and-aft’ khaki cap. No doubt there were other properties too, which I have forgotten. The thing was quite well done in the time available, a mild enough joke, perfectly good natured, as the whole affair would not take more than a couple of minutes to dismantle when Bithel himself wanted to go to bed. The effigy was just completed when the sound came of Bithel plodding heavily up the stairs.

‘Here he is,’ said Kedward.

We all went out on to the landing.

‘Oh, Mr Bithel,’ shouted Pumphrey. ‘There is something you should look at here. Something very worrying.’

Bithel came slowly on up the stairs. He was still puffing at his cigar as he held the rail of the banisters to help him on his way. He seemed not to hear Pumphrey’s voice. We stood aside for him to enter the room.

‘Such a fat officer has got into your bed, Bithel,’ shouted Pumphrey, hardly able to control himself with laughter.

Bithel lurched through the door of the attic. He stood for several seconds looking hard at the bed, as if he could not believe his eyes; not believe his luck either, for a broad smile spread over his face, as if he were delighted beyond words. He took the cigar from his mouth and placed it with great care in the crevice of a large glass ashtray marked with a coloured advertisement for some brand of beer, the sole ornament in the room. This ashtray stood on a small table, which, with a broken chair and Bithel’s camp-bed, were its only furniture. Then, clasping his hands together above his head, Bithel began to dance.

‘Oh, my,’ said Breeze. ‘Oh, my.’

Bithel, now gesticulating whimsically with his hands, tripped slowly round the bed, regularly changing from one foot to the other, as if following the known steps of a ritual dance.

‘A song of love …’ he intoned gently. ‘A song of love …’

From time to time he darted his head forward and down, like one longing to embrace the figure on the bed, always stopping short at the moment, overcome by coyness at being seen to offer this mark of affection — perhaps passion — in the presence of onlookers. At first everyone, including myself, was in fits of laughter. It was, indeed, an extraordinary spectacle, unlike anything before seen, utterly unexpected, fascinating in its strangeness. Pumphrey was quite scarlet in the face, as if about to have an apoplectic fit, Breeze and Kedward equally amused. The chaplains, too, seemed to be greatly enjoying themselves. However, as Bithel’s dance continued, its contortions became increasingly grotesque. He circled round the bed quicker and quicker, writhing his body, undulating his arms in oriental fashion. I became gradually aware that, so far as I was myself concerned, I had had sufficient. A certain embarrassment was making itself felt. The joke had gone on long enough, perhaps too long. Bithel’s comic turn should be brought to a close. It was time for him, and everyone else, to get some sleep. That was how I felt. At the same time, I had nothing but admiration for the manner in which Bithel had shown himself equal to being ragged; indeed, the way in which he had come out completely on top of those who had tried to make him look silly. In similar circumstances I should myself have fallen far short of any such mastery of the situation. Nevertheless, an end should now be made. We had seen enough. You could have too much of a good thing. It must, in any case, stop soon. These were idle hopes. Bithel showed no sign whatever of wanting to terminate his dance. Now he placed the palms of his hands together as if in the semblance of prayer, now violently rocked his body from side to side in religious ecstasy, now whirled past kicking out his feet before him in a country measure. All the time he danced, he chanted endearments to the dummy on the bed. I think Popkiss was the first, after myself, to begin to tire of the scene. He took Dooley by the arm.

‘Come along, Ambrose,’ he said, ‘Sunday tomorrow. Busy day. It’s our bedtime.’

At that moment, Bithel, no doubt by this time dizzy with beer and dervish-like dancing, collapsed on top of the dummy. The camp-bed creaked ominously on its trestles, but did not buckle under him. Throwing his arms round the outline of the valise, he squeezed it with abandon, at the same time covering the sponge-bag with kisses.

‘Love ‘o mine …’ he mumbled, ‘Love ‘o mine …’

I was wondering what would happen next, when I realized that he and I were alone in the room. Quite suddenly the others must have decided to leave, drifting off to bed, bored, embarrassed, or merely tired. The last seemed the most probable. Their instincts told them the rag was at an end; that time had come for sleep. Bithel still lay face downwards on the bed, fondling and crooning.

‘Will you be all right, Bithel P We are all going to bed now.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We’re all going to bed.’

‘You lucky people, all going to bed …’

‘I’ll say good night, Bithel.’

‘Night-night,’ he said, ‘Night-night. Wish I’d decided to be a ’varsity man.’

He rolled over on his side, reaching across the dummy for the remains of his cigar. It had gone out. He managed to extract a lighter from his trouser pocket and began to strike wildly at its mechanism. Hoping he would not set fire to the hotel during the night, I shut the door and went down the stairs. The others in the room were at various stages of turning in for the night.

‘He’s a funny one is old Bithel,’ said Breeze, who was already in bed.

‘A regular caution,’ said Kedward. ‘Never saw anything like that dance.’

‘Went on a bit long, didn’t it,’ said Pumphrey, removing a toothbrush from his mouth to speak. ‘Thought he’d be at it all night till he fell down.’

However, although there was general agreement that Bithel had unnecessarily prolonged the dance, he did not, so far as his own personality was concerned, seem to have made a bad impression. On the contrary, he had established a certain undoubted prestige. I did not have much time to think over the incident, because I was very tired. In spite of unfamiliar surroundings, I went to sleep immediately and slept soundly. The following morning, although there was much talk while we dressed, nothing further was said of Bithel. He was forgotten in conversation about Church Parade and the day’s routine. Breeze and Pumphrey had already finished their dressing and gone downstairs, when Pumphrey’s soldier-servant (later to be identified as Williams, I.G.) came up to Kedward in the passage as we were on the way to breakfast. He was grinning.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

‘What is it, Williams?’

‘I was ordered to look after the new officer till he had a batman for hisself.’

‘Mr Bithel?’

‘The officer don’t seem well.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Better see, sir.’

Williams, I.G., enjoyed giving this information.

‘We’ll have a look,’ said Kedward.

We went upstairs again to the attic. Kedward opened the door. I followed him, entering a stratosphere of stale, sickly beer-and-cigar fumes. I half expected to find Bithel, still wearing his clothes, sleeping on the floor; the cap — surmounted sponge-bag still resting on the pillow. However, in the manner of persons long used to turning in for the night the worse for drink, he had managed to undress and get to bed, even to make himself reasonably comfortable there. His clothes were carefully folded on the floor beside him, one of the habits of the confirmed alcoholic, who knows himself incapable of arranging garments on a chair. The dummy had been ejected from the bed, which Bithel himself now occupied. He lay under the grey-brown blankets in a suit of yellow pyjamas, filthy and faded, knees raised to his chin. His body in this position looked like a corpse exhumed intact from some primitive burial ground for display in the showcase of a museum. Except that he was snoring savagely, cheeks puffing in and out, the colour of his face, too, suggested death. Watch, cigar-case, sleeping pills, stood on the broken chair beside the bed. In addition to these objects was another exhibit, something of peculiar horror. At first I could not imagine what this might be. It seemed either an ornament or a mechanical contrivance of complicated design. I looked closer. Was it apparatus or artifact? Then the truth was suddenly made plain. Before going to sleep, Bithel had placed his false teeth in the ashtray. He had removed the set from his mouth bodily, the jaws still clenched on the stub of the cigar. The effect created by this synthesis was extraordinary, macabre, surrealist. Again one thought of an excavated tomb, the fascination aroused in archaeologists of a thousand years hence at finding these fossilized vestiges beside Bithel’s hunched skeleton; the speculations aroused as to the cultural significance of such related objects. Kedward shook Bithel. This had no effect whatever. He did not even open his eyes, though for a moment he ceased to snore. The sleeping pills must have been every bit as effective as Bithel himself had proclaimed them. Apart from gasping, snorting, animal sounds, which issued again so soon as his head touched the pillow, he gave no sign of life. Kedward turned to Williams, I.G., who had followed us up the stairs and was now standing in the doorway, still grinning.

‘Tell the Orderly Corporal Mr Bithel is reporting sick this morning, Williams,’ he said.

‘Right you are, sir.’

Williams went off down the stairs two at a time.

‘I’ll come and have a look at old Bithel later,’ said Kedward. ‘Tell him he’s been reported sick. Nothing much will be expected of him this morning, Sunday and newly joined.’

This was prudent handling of the situation. Kedward clearly knew how to act in an emergency. I suspected that Gwatkin, confronted with the same situation, might have made a fuss about Bithel’s state. This show of good sense on Kedward’s part impressed me. I indicated to him the false teeth gripping the cigar, but their horror left him cold. We moved on to breakfast. It had to be admitted Bithel had not made an ideal start to his renewed army career.

‘I expect old Bithel had a glass too much last night,’ said Kedward, as we breakfasted. ‘I once drank more than I ought. You feel terrible. Ever done that, Nick?’

‘Yes.’

‘Awful, isn’t it?’

‘Awful, Idwal.’

‘We’ll go along early together, and you can take over your platoon for Church Parade.’

He told me where to meet him. However, very unexpectedly, Bithel himself appeared downstairs before it was time for church. He smiled uncomfortably when he saw me.

‘Never feel much like breakfast on Sundays for some reason,’ he said.

I warned him that he had been reported sick.

‘I found that out from the boy, Williams, who is acting as my batman,’ said Bithel. ‘Got it cancelled. While I was talking to him, I discovered there was another boy called Daniels from my home town who might take on being my regular servant. Williams got hold of him for me. I liked the look of him.’

We set off up the street together. Bithel was wearing the khaki side-cap that had been set on the sponge-bag the night before. A size too small for him, it was placed correctly according to Standing Orders — in this respect generally disregarded in wartime — squarely on the centre of his head. The cap was also cut higher than normal (like Saint-Loup’s, I thought), which gave Bithel the look of a sprite in pantomime; perhaps rather — taking into consideration his age, bulk, moustache — some comic puppet halfway between the Walrus and the Carpenter. His face was pitted and blotched like the surface of a Gruyere cheese, otherwise he seemed none the worse from the night before, except for some shortness of breath. He must have seen me glance at his cap, because he smiled ingratiatingly.

‘Regulations allow these caps,’ he said. ‘They’re more comfortable than those peaked SD affairs. Cheaper, too. Got this one for seventeen bob, two shillings off because slightly shop-soiled. You don’t notice the small stain on top, do you?’

‘Not at all.’

He looked behind us and lowered his voice.

‘None of the rest of them were at the ’varsity,’ he said.

‘I’ve been making inquiries. What do you do in Civvy Street — that’s the correct army phrase, I believe.’

I indicated that I wrote for the papers, not mentioning books because, if not specifically in your line, authorship is an embarrassing subject for all concerned. Besides, it never sounds like a serious occupation. Up to that moment, no one had pressed inquiries further than that, satisfied that journalism was a known form of keeping body and soul together, even if an esoteric one.

‘I thought you might do something of the sort,’ said Bithel, speaking with respect. ‘I was trained for professional life too — intended for an auctioneer, like my pa. Never cared for the work somehow. Didn’t even finish my training, as a matter of fact. Always been more or less interested in the theatre. Had walk-on parts once or twice but I’m no actor. I’m quite aware of that. I like doing odd jobs in any case. Can’t bear being tied down. Worked for a time in our local cinema, for instance. Didn’t have to do much except turn up in the evening wearing a dinner jacket.’

‘Does that sort of thing bring in enough?’

‘Not much cash in it, of course. You’ll never make a fortune that way, but I rub along all right with the few pennies I have already. Helps not being married. I expect you’re married?’

‘I am, as a matter of fact.’

He made marriage sound as if it required some excuse.

‘I thought you would be,’ he said. ‘As I mentioned, I’m not. Never found the right girl somehow.’

Bithel looked infinitely uncomfortable when he admitted that. There was a pause in our conversation. I could not think of anything to suggest. Girls certainly did not appear much in his line, though you never could tell. I asked how he came to be in the Territorial Army Reserve, which seemed to require explanation.

‘Joined the Terriers years ago,’ he said. ‘Seemed the thing to do. Never thought I’d wear uniform again when I gave them up. Rather glad to get back now and have some regular money rolling in. I’ve been out of a job, as a matter of fact, and what I’ve got doesn’t support me. We draw Field Allowance here, so I heard last night. I expect you know that already. Makes a nice addition to the pay. Funds were running rather low, to tell the truth. Always such a lot to spend money on. Reading, for instance. I expect you’re an omnivorous reader, if you’re a journalist. What digests do you take?’

At first I thought he referred to some sort of medical treatment, harking back to the conversation of the chaplains the night before, then realized the question had something to do with reading. I had to admit I did not take any digests. Bithel seemed disappointed at this answer.

‘I don’t really buy a lot of digests myself,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps not as many as I should. They have interesting articles in them sometimes. About sex, for instance. Sex psychology, I mean. Do you know about that?’

‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘I don’t mean the cheap stuff just to catch the eye, girls and legs, all that. There are abnormal sides you’d never guess. It’s wiser to know about such things, don’t you think?’

‘Certainly.’

Bithel moved nearer as we walked, lowering his voice again. There was a faint suggestion of scented soap at this close, too close, range.

‘Did they say anything about me before I arrived?’ he asked in a troubled tone.

‘Who?’

‘Anybody in the Battalion?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Any details about my family?’

‘Somebody said you were a brother of the VC.’

‘They did?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you say when they told you that?’

‘I thought you must be too young to be his brother — more likely his nephew.’

‘Quite right. I’m not Bithel VC’s brother.’

‘You are his nephew?’

‘I never said so, did I? But don’t let’s talk any more about that. There was something else I wanted to ask you. Did they say anything about games?’

‘What sort of games?’

‘Did they say I played any special game?’

‘There was some talk of your having played rugger for Wales.’

Bithel groaned.

‘There was talk of that?’ he asked, as if to make sure he had heard right.

‘Yes.’

‘I knew there’d been a misunderstanding,’ he said.

‘What about?’

‘Why, about my playing football — about rugger. You know what it is when you’ve had a few drinks. Very easy to give a wrong impression. I must have done that when I phoned that officer dealing with TA Reservists. Talked too much about local matters, sport, other people of the name of Bithel and so on.’

‘So the VC is no relation, and you didn’t play rugger for Wales?’

‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was no relation. Never know who you may be related to in this part of the world. He’s not a brother or uncle anyway. I must have managed to mislead that fellow completely if he got that idea into his head. He didn’t sound very bright on the phone. I thought so at the time. One of these old dug-outs, I suppose. Colonel Blimp type. But it isn’t Bithel VC who worries me so much. It’s this rugger misunderstanding.’

‘How did it arise?’

‘God knows. Something misheard on the phone too, I should think. I believe there was a merchant called Bithel in the Welsh Fifteen one year. Perhaps there was a Bithel who played cricket for Glamorgan and I’ve muddled it. One or the other, I’m sure. It was a few years back anyway. I must have mentioned it for some reason.’

‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘It would if we had to play rugger.’

‘That isn’t very likely.’

‘The fact is I’ve never played rugger in my life,’ said Bithel. ‘Never had the chance. Not particularly keen to either. Do you think we shall have to play?’

‘Not much time with all the training, I should imagine.’

‘I hope not,’ he said, rather desperately. ‘There’s a rumour we’re going to move almost at once in any case.’

‘Any idea where?’

‘People seem to think Northern Ireland. I say, this parade ground is a long way off, isn’t it. Hope we shan’t be inspected too closely, I’m not all that well shaved. I cut myself this morning. Hand shaky, for some reason’

‘That dance was a splendid affair.’

‘What dance?’

‘The dance you did round the dummy in your bed last night.’

‘Ah,’ said Bithel laughing, ‘I’ve heard that one before — having somebody on by pretending he made a fool of himself the night before. I know when I’m having my leg pulled. As a matter of fact I was rather relieved when everyone went off quietly to bed last night. I thought there might be some ragging, and I was feeling tired after the journey. They used to rag a lot when I was in Territorial camp years ago. I never liked it. Not cut out for that sort of thing. But to get back to razors — what shaving soap do you use? I’m trying a new kind. Saw it advertized in Health and Strength. Thought I’d experiment. I like a change of soaps from time to time. It freshens you up.’

By that time we had reached the parade ground. Kedward was already there. He took me off to the platoon I was to command. Bithel disappeared in another direction. Kedward explained certain matters, then we marched up and down side by side until officers were ordered to fall in. The service was held in one of the parish churches of the town. Later, from the pulpit, Popkiss, transformed now from the pale, embarrassed cleric of the saloon bar, orated with the ease and energy shared by officers and men throughout the Battalion. His text was from Ezekiel. Popkiss read the passage at length:

‘The hand of the Lord was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones, and caused me to pass them round about: and, behold, there were very many in the open valley: and, lo, they were very dry. And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord God thou knowest. Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say unto them, O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live. And I will lay sinews upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath into you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord. So I prophesied as I was commanded; and as I prophesied there was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to bone. And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came upon them, and the skin covered them above; and there was no breath in them. Then he said unto me, Prophesy unto the wind, prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord God; Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain that they may live. So I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came unto them and they lived, and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army …’

Popkiss paused, looked up from his Testament, stretched out his arms on either side. The men were very silent in the pitch-pine pews.

‘… Oh, my brethren, think on that open valley, think on it with me … a valley, do I picture it, by the shaft of a shut-down mine, where, under the dark mountain side, the slag heaps lift their heads to the sky, a valley such as those valleys in which you yourselves abide … Journey with me, my brethren, into that open valley, journey with me … Know you not those same dry bones? … You know them well … Bones without flesh and sinew, bones without skin or breath … They are our bones, my brethren, the bones of you and of me, bones that await the noise and the mighty shaking, the gift of the four winds of which the prophet of old did tell … Must we not come together, my brethren, everyone of us, as did the bones of that ancient valley, quickened with breath, bone to bone, sinew to sinew, skin to skin … Unless I speak falsely, an exceeding great army …’