The Soldier's Art (27 page)

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

“Are you returning to the billet?”

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

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

“Good-bye, Nick.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No reason at
all.”

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

“It’s a tailor’s
war, anyway.”

“What do you
mean?”

‘That’s just a
thing people say.”

“Why?”

“God knows.”

Cheesman
looked puzzled, but pursued the matter no further.

“See you at
Church Parade to-morrow.”

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

“D.A.A.G.’s
office – Jenkins.”

“It’s A. &
Q. Is the D.A.A.G. there?”

“No, sir.”

“Has he been
in this morning?”

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

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

“Was the
D.A.D.M.S. in church?”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel Pedlar
was walking up and down his room.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Yes, sir?”

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

“That hut on
the sports field, sir?”

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

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

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

“When was this
discovered, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t,
sir.”

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

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

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

“I’d heard he
might be leaving, sir.”

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

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir?”

“You were
going to the I.T.C.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

“Nor me, sir.”

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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