The Soldier's Art (2 page)

He smiled
uncomfortably, looking, as always, as if he expected a rebuff. Some months before,
he had shaved off the untidy moustache worn when – from some forlorn hope of
the Territorial Army Reserve – he had first joined our former Battalion. The
physical change, more in keeping with his other natural characteristics,
additionally emphasised, in a large moonlike face, the unbelievably inexpert
adjustment of his false teeth. That Bithel had lasted so comparatively long in
charge of the Mobile Laundry was little short of a miracle. Survival was
chiefly due to the fact that this unit was attached only for purposes of
administrative convenience, never officially part of the Divisional
establishment, therefore liable to be removed at short notice. Accordingly, it
never received quite the same disciplinary attention; and, in any case, he was
lucky in having Sergeant Ablett as subordinate, who probably did most of the
administration. Another reason, too, may have played a part in delaying Bithel’s
dislodgement, ultimately inevitable. He was accustomed to speak
enthusiastically of his own affiliations with the theatrical world, boasts
reduced on closer examination to having worked as “front of House,” for a few
months, at the theatre of the provincial capital where for a time he had
existed precariously. The job had come to an end when that playhouse had been
transformed into a cinema, but some shreds of Thespian prestige still clung to
Bithel, anyway in his own eyes, so that when the officer in charge of the
Mobile Bath Unit – traditional impresario of the Divisional Concert party –
went sick in the middle of rehearsal, the enterprise was handed over to Bithel,
who, as producer and director, mounted a very tolerable show.

All the same,
ejection sooner or later could not be in doubt. Widmerpool, as D.A.A.G.
conveniently placed for furthering
this measure, was anxious to oust Bithel at the first opportunity; undoubtedly
would have done so long before
had the Laundry been of our own establishment. Widmerpool’s disapproval was not
only on understandable general grounds; but, in addition, because he had – rather
uncharacteristically, since usually well informed on such matters – swallowed
Bithel’s intermittently propagated myth about being brother of an officer of
the same name and regiment who had won a V.C. in the ’14-’18 war. There seemed
no reason why even a V.C.’s younger brother should not fall short in commanding
a Mobile Laundry, but for some reason, at an earlier stage, Widmerpool’s
imagination had been temporarily captured by the legend, so that he felt
bitterly about it when the story was shown to be patently untrue. Now, Bithel
stood gazing at the bren with close attention, as if he had never before seen
such a weapon.

“So far as
Div. H.Q. are concerned, only the Defence Platoon stands-to when there’s a raid
– one of the General’s ideas to keep everyone on their toes,” I said.

Bithel nodded
gravely at this explanation of why we were on guard over the sports field. As
it happened, he and I had hardly spoken since the night when, in his own
phrase, he had “taken a glass too much” after traversing the gas-chamber at the
Castlemallock School of Chemical Warfare. The peregrinations of the Laundry, by
definition, kept its officer, a subaltern, in a state of almost permanent
circuit throughout the formation’s area, while my own duties, however trivial,
were too numerous and dispersed to offer much time for hobnobbing with other
branches of H.Q. We had therefore done no more up to that moment than exchange
an odd word together, usually as neighbours at periodical assemblies of all
Headquarters officers to attend a lecture or listen to harangues delivered from
time to time by the General. This was the first occasion we had met without a
crowd of other people round about.

“Bit of a
sweat to have to get up like this night after night,” he said. “Shall we take a
turn up the field?”

His sympathy
was not without a touch of despair. Few officers could have looked less on
their toes than himself at that moment.

“Wait till I’ve
checked this bren.”

The section
was found correct. Bithel and I strolled across the grass towards a broken-down
cricket pavilion or changing room, a small wooden structure, not much more than
a hut. The place had been the cause of trouble lately, because Biggs, Staff
Officer Physical Training, had mislaid the key just at the moment when the
civilian owners of the requisitioned sports field wanted to store benches or
garden seats there. Widmerpool had complained greatly of time wasted on this
matter, and, with justice, had been very cross with Biggs, to whom the hut and
its key had become almost an obsession. I tried the door to see if it had been
properly locked again after the key had been found and the seats moved there.
It would not open. Biggs must have seen to that.

The noise of the cannonade round about
was deepening. An odour like smouldering rubber imposed a rank, unsavoury
surface smell on lesser exhalations of soot and smoke. Towards the far side of
the town – the direction of the harbour – thin greenish rays of searchlight
beams rapidly described wide intersecting arcs backwards and forwards against
the eastern horizon, their range ever reducing, ever extending, as they sliced
purposefully across each other’s tracks. Then, all at once, these several
zigzagging angles of light would form an apex on the same patch of sky,
creating a small elliptical compartment through which, once in a way, rapidly
darted a tiny object, moving like an insect confined in a bottle. As if
reacting in deliberately regulated unison to the searchlights’ methodical
fluctuations, shifting masses of cloudbank alternately glowed and faded,
constantly redesigning by that means half-a-dozen intricately pastelled
compositions of black and lilac, grey and saffron, pink and gold. Out of this
resplendent firmament – which, transcendentally speaking, seemed to threaten
imminent revelation from on high – slowly descended, like Japanese lanterns at
a fete, a score or more of flares released by the raiding planes. Clustered
together in twos and threes, they drifted at first aimlessly in the breeze,
after a time scarcely losing height, only swaying a little this way and that,
metamorphosed into all but stationary lamps, apparently suspended by immensely
elongated wires attached to an invisible ceiling. Suddenly, as if at a
prearranged signal for the climax of the spectacle – a set-piece at midnight – high
swirling clouds of inky smoke rose from below to meet these flickering airborne
torches. At ground level, too, irregular knots of flame began to blaze away
like a nest of nocturnal forges in the Black Country. All the world was dipped
in a livid, unearthly refulgence, theatrical yet sinister, a light neither of
night nor day, the penumbra of Pluto’s frontiers. The reek of scorched rubber
grew more than ever sickly. Bithel fidgeted with the belt of his mackintosh.

“There’s been
a spot of bother about a cheque,” he said,

“Yours?”

“I think that’s
what was really keeping me awake as much as lack of those pills. Things may
work out all right because I’ve paid up – borrowed a trifle from the Postal
Officer, as a matter of fact – but cheques are always a worry. They ought to be
abolished.”

“Perhaps they
will after the war.”

“That’ll be
too late for me,” said Bithel.

He spoke quite
seriously.

“Large sum?”

“Matter of a
quid or two – but it did bounce.”

“Can’t you
keep it quiet?”

“I don’t think
the D.A.A.G. knows up to date.”

That was an
important factor from Bithel’s point of view. Otherwise Widmerpool might find
the opportunity for which he was waiting. I was about to commiserate further,
when a deep, rending explosion, that seemed to split the earth, sounded above
the regular thud-thud-thud of the guns, vibrations of its crash echoing back in
throbbing, shuddering waves from the surrounding hills. Bithel shook his head,
his attention distracted for the moment from his own troubles, no doubt worrying
enough.

“That must
have got home,” he said.

“Sounded like
it.”

He began to
speak again, then for some reason stopped, apparently changing his mind about
the way he was going to put a question. Having evidently decided to frame it in
a different form, he made the enquiry with conscious diffidence.

“Told me you
were a reader – like me – didn’t you?”

“Yes, I am. I
read quite a lot.”

I no longer
attempted to conceal the habit, with all its undesirable implications. At least
admitting to it put one in a recognisably odd category of persons from whom
less need be expected than the normal run.

“I love a good
book when I have the time,” said Bithel. “St. John Clarke’s
Match Me Such Marvel
, that sort of
thing. Something serious that takes a long time to get through.”

“Never read
that one, as it happens.”

Bithel seemed
scarcely aware of my answer. St. John Clarke’s novel was evidently a side
issue, not at all the goal at which these ranging shots were aimed. Though
rarely possible to guess, when in a mood for intimate conversation, what he
would say next, such pronouncements of Bithel’s were always worth attention.
Something special was on his mind. When he put the next question, there was a
kind of fervour in his voice.

“Ever buy
magazines like
Chums
and the
Boy’s Own Paper
when you were a nipper?”

“Of course – used
to read them in bound annuals as a rule. I’ve a brother-in-law who still does.”

It was Erry’s
only vice, though one he tried to keep dark, as showing in himself a lack of
earnestness and sense of social obligation. Bithel made some reply, but a
sudden concentrated burst of ack-ack fire, as if discharged deliberately for
that purpose, drowned his utterance.

“What was that
you said?”

Bithel spoke
again.

“Still can’t
hear.”

He came
closer.

“… hero…” he
shouted.

“You feel a
hero?”

“No … I…”

The noise
lessened, but he still had to yell at the top of his voice to make himself
heard.

“… always
imagined myself the hero
of those
serials
.”

The shouted
words were just audible above the clatter of guns. He seemed to think they
offered a piece of unparalleled psychological revelation on his own part.

“Every boy
does,” I yelled back.

“Everyone?”

He was
disappointed at that answer.

“I’m sure my
brother-in-law does to this day.”

Bithel was not
at all interested in my own, or anyone else’s, brother-in-law’s tendency to
self-identification while reading fiction. That was reasonable, because he knew
nothing of Erridge’s existence. Besides, he wanted only to talk about himself.
Although wholly concentrated on that subject,
he remained at the same time apologetic as well
as intense.

“Only I was
thinking the other night – when Jerry first came
over – that I was having the very experience
I used to read about as a lad.”

“How do you
mean?”

“ ‘Coming
under fire for the first time’ – that was always a great moment in the hero’s
career. You must remember. Where he ‘showed his mettle,’ as the story usually
put it.”

He laughed, as
if trying to excuse such reckless flights of fancy, in doing so displaying the
double row of Low Comedy teeth.

‘“The rattle
of musketry from distant hills’ – ’a little shower of sand churned up by a
bullet in front of the redoubt’?”

These
conventional phrases from boys’ adventure stories might encourage Bithel to
plunge further into observations about life. The clichés did indeed stir him.

“That’s it,”
he said, speaking with much more animation than usual, “that’s just what I
meant. Wonderful memory you’ve got. What you said brings those yarns right
back. I was a great reader as a lad. One of those thoughtful little boys. Never
kept it up as I should.”

This was all a
shade reminiscent of Gwatkin, my former Company Commander, poring secretly in
the Company office over the
Hymn to
Mithras
;
but, whereas Gwatkin had meditated such literary material as a consequence of
his own infatuation with the mystique of a soldier’s life, Bithel’s ruminations
were quite other. In Bithel, memory of his former partiality for tales of
military prowess merely gave rise to a very natural surprise that he was not
himself more personally frightened at this moment of comparative danger.

“Strictly
speaking, one experienced raids – coming under fire, if you like – when still
reading the
Boy’s Own Paper
. During
the earlier war, I mean.”

“Oh, I didn’t,”
said Bithel. “The Zeppelins never came near any of the places we lived when I
was a kid. That’s just why I was surprised not to mind this sort of thing more.
I’m the nervy type, you see. I once had to give evidence in court, rather a
nasty case – nothing to do with me, I’m glad to say, just a witness – and I
thought my legs were going to give way under me. But this business we’re
listening to now really doesn’t worry me. Worst moment’s when the Warning goes,
don’t you think?”

The question
of fear inevitably propounds itself from time to time if a state of war exists.
Will circumstances arise when its operation on the senses might become
uncomfortably hard to control? Like Bithel, I, too, had thought a certain
amount about that subject, reaching the very provisional conclusion that fear
itself was less immediately related to unavoidable danger than might at first
be supposed; although no doubt that danger, more or less indefinitely increased
in motive power, might – indeed certainly would – cause the graph to rise
steeply. In bed at night, months before the blitz struck the locality, I would
occasionally feel something like abject fear, turning this way and that in my
sleeping-bag, for no special reason except that life seemed so utterly out of
joint. That was a kind of nervous condition – as Bithel had said of himself – perfectly
imaginable in time of peace; perhaps even experienced then, now forgotten, like
so much else of that lost world. In the same way, I would sometimes lie awake
enduring torments of thwarted desire, depraved fantasies hovering about the
camp-bed, reveries of concupiscence that seemed specifically generated by
unprepossessing military surroundings. Indeed, it was often necessary to remind
oneself that low spirits, disturbed moods, sense of persecution, were not
necessarily the consequence of serving in the army, or being part of a nation
at war, with which all-inclusive framework depressive mental states now seemed automatically
linked.