The Soldier's Art (26 page)

“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 thinkin
g
. 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?”