The Soldier's Art (23 page)

“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.