The Soldier's Art (7 page)

Again I could
think of no reply. I was also not sure he was not teasing. In one sense,
certainly he was; in another, he seemed to have some project in mind. This
became more explicit.

“The point is,”
he said, “people like you may be more useful elsewhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not a
personal matter.”

“No, sir.”

“We live such
a short time in the world, it seems a pity not to do the jobs we’re suited for.”

These
sentences were closer to Widmerpool’s views, though more sanely interpreted;
their reminder that life was dust had a flavour, too, of Sergeant Harmer’s
philosophy.

“I’m going to
send a signal to Finn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever heard of
Finn?”

“No, sir.”

“Finn was with
me at the end of the last war – a civilian, of course – in the City in those
days.”

“Yes, sir.”

General
Liddament mentioned “the City” with that faint touch of awe, a lowering of the
voice, somewhere between reverence and horror, that regular soldiers, even
exceptional ones like himself, are apt to show for such mysterious, necromantic
means of keeping alive.

“But he put up
a good show when he was with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“An excellent
show.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got a V.C.”

“I see, sir.”

“Then, after
the war, Finn gave up the City. Went into the cosmetic business – in Paris.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Made a good
thing out of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now he’s come
back here with the Free French.”

“I see, sir.”

“I understand
Finn’s looking for suitable officers for the work he’s doing. I suggest you
drop in on him during your leave. Give him my compliments. Robin will issue you
with an instruction when we get back to base.”

“Robin” was
Greening, the A.D.C.

“Shall I
mention this to the D.A.A.G., sir?”

General
Liddament thought for a moment. For a split second he looked as if he were
going to smile. However, his mouth finally remained at its usual enigmatically
set position when in repose.

“Keep it under
your hat – keep it under your hat – just as well to keep it under your hat.”

Before I could
thank him, or indeed any more might be said between us, the door of the room
opened violently. Brigadier Hawkins, Commanding the Divisional artillery, came
in almost at a run. Tall, lean, energetic, the C.R.A. was the officer
Widmerpool had commended for “knowing how to behave when speaking on the
telephone,” in contrast with Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. Widmerpool was right
about that. Brigadier Hawkins, who had seen to it the Gunner Mess was the best
run in the Division, was one of the few members of its staff who set about his
duties with the “gaiety,” which, according to Dicky Umfraville, Marshal Lyautey
regarded as the first requirement of an officer. Both Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson
and Colonel Pedlar had to be admitted to fall unequivocally short in that
respect. Not so, in his peculiar way, the General, whose old friend the
Brigadier was said to be.

“Glad to find
you still up, sir,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but you should
see a report at once they’ve just brought in. I thought I’d come myself, to cut
out a lot of chat. The Blue Force we thought encircled is moving men in
driblets across the canal.”

General Liddament
once
more kicked away the
chair from
his feet, sending it sliding across the room. He picked up a
map-case lying beside
him,
and began to clear a space on the table, littered with a pipe, tobacco, other
odds and ends.
Trollope – I could not see
which novel he had been reading – he slipped into the thigh pocket of his
battle-dress. Brigadier
Hawkins began to outline the situation. I
made a move to
retire from their conference together.

“Wait…”
shouted the General.

He scribbled
some notes on a pad, then pointed towards me with his finger.

“Wake Robin,”
he said. “Tell him to come down at once – before dressing. Then go and alert
the Defence Platoon to move forthwith.”

I went quickly
up the stairs to Greening’s room. He was asleep. I shook him until he was more
or less awake. Greening was used to that sort of thing. He jumped out of bed as
if it were a positive pleasure to put an end to sleep, be on the move again. I
gave him the General’s orders, then returned to the Defence Platoon in the
loft. They were considerably less willing than Greening to be disturbed. In
fact there was a lot of grousing. Not long after that the Movement Order was
issued. Advance Headquarters set off to a new location. This was the kind of
thing General Liddament thoroughly enjoyed, unexpected circumstances that
required immediate action. Possibly, in its minuscule way, my own case had
suggested itself to him in some such terms.

“They do never
want us to have no sleep,” said Sergeant-Major Harmer, “but at least it’s all
on the way home.”

The Blue Force
was held in check before the time limits of the exercise ran out. In short, the
battle was won. It was nearly morning when Advance Headquarters were again
ordered to move, this time in preparation for our return to base. We were on this
occasion brought, contrary to habit in such manoeuvres, into direct contact
with our own Rear Headquarters; both branches of the staff being assembled
together in a large farm building, cowshed or barn, waiting there while
transport arrangements went forward. It was here that the episode took place
which so radically altered Widmerpool’s attitude towards Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson.

Cars and
trucks were being marshalled along a secondary road on the other side of a
ploughed field on which drizzle was falling. A short time earlier, a message
had come through from base stating that the raid during the night had done
damage that would affect normal administration on return to the town.
Accordingly, Colonel Pedlar had driven back at once to arrange any modification
of routine that might be required. Colonel Pedlar’s presence with the rest of
the staff could possibly, though by no means certainly, have provided a buffer
between Widmerpool and Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. As things fell out, those two
came into direct impact just before we moved off. Widmerpool, with the two
other officers who normally shared the same staff car, was about to leave the
cowshed where we were hanging about, sleepless and yawning, when Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson came suddenly through the doorway. He was clearly very angry,
altogether unable to control the rage surging up within him. Even for a
professionally bad-tempered man, he was in a notably bad temper. “Where’s the
D.A.A.G.?” he shouted at the top of his voice.

Widmerpool
came forward with that serious, self-important air of his, which, always giving
inadequate impression of his own capabilities, was often calculated to provoke
irritation in people he dealt with, even if not angry already.

“Here I am,
sir.”

Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson turned on Widmerpool as jf he were about to strike him.

“What the
bloody hell do you think of yourself?” he asked,
still speaking very loudly.

“Sir?”

Widmerpool was
not in the least prepared at that moment for such an onslaught. Only a few
minutes before he had been congratulating himself aloud on how successfully had
gone his share of the exercise. Now he stood staring at Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson in a way that was bound to make matters worse rather than
better.

“Traffic
circuits!” shouted Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. “What in God’s name have you done
about them? Don’t you know that’s a D.A.A.G.’s job? I suppose you don’t. You’re
not fit to organise an outing for a troop of Girl Guides in the vicarage
garden. Divisional Headquarters has been ordered to move back to base
forthwith. Are you aware of that?”

“Certainly,
sir.”

“You’ve read
the Movement Order? Have you got as far as that?”

“Of course,
sir.”

“And made
appropriate arrangements?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why is
the Medium Field Regiment coming in at right angles across our route? That’s
not all. It has just been reported to me that Divisional Signals, and all their
technical equipment, are being held up at another crossroads half a mile up the
same road by the Motor Ambulance Convoy making a loop and entering the main
traffic artery just ahead of them.”

“I talked with
the D.A.P.M. about distributory roads, Sir” began Widmerpool.

“I don’t want
to hear who you talked to,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, his voice rising quite high with fury. “I want an
immediate explanation of the infernal muddle your incompetence has made.”

If Widmerpool
were not allowed to mention recommendations put forward by Keef, Captain
Commanding Military Police at Div. H.Q., also to some extent responsible for
traffic control, it was obviously impossible for him to give a clear picture of
what arrangements had been made for moving the column back. Brigadier Hawkins
used to advocate two sovereign phrases for parrying dissatisfaction or awkward
interrogation on the part of a superior: “I don’t know, sir, I’ll find out,”
and its even more potent alternative : “the officer/man in question has been
transferred to another unit.” On this occasion, neither of those great
international army formulae of exorcism were applicable. Matters were in any
case too urgent. For once, those powerful twin spells were ineffective.
However, Widmerpool, as it turned out, could do far better than fall back on
such indecisive rubric, however magical, to defend his own position. He
possessed chapter and verse. Instead of answering at once, he allowed Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson to fume, while he himself drew from the breast pocket of his
battle-dress blouse a fat little notebook. After glancing for a second or two
at one of its pages, he looked up again, and immediately began to recite a
detailed account of troop movements, unit by unit, throughout the immediate
area of Divisional activities.

“…  Medium
Field Regiment proceeding from … on the move at … must have reached … in fact,
sir, should already have passed that point on the road twenty minutes ago …
Motor Ambulance Convoy … shouldn’t be anywhere near the Royal Signals route …
proceeding to base via one of the minor roads parallel to and south of our main
body … I’ll show you on the map in a second, sir … only thing I can think of is
some trouble must have occurred on that narrow iron bridge crossing the
canal. That bridge wasn’t built for heavy traffic. I’ll send
a D.R. right away …”

These details showed commendable knowledge
of local transport
conditions. Widmerpool recapitulated a
lot more in the same vein, possessing apparently the movement-tables of the
entire Division, an awareness that certainly did
him credit as D.A.A.G. The information should have satisfied Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson that, whatever else could
have happened, Widmerpool, at least on the face of it, was not to blame for any
muddle that might have taken place. However, Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson was in
no state of mind to give consideration to any such possibility; nor, indeed, to
look at the problem, or anything else, in the light of reason. There was
something to be said for this approach. It is no good being too philosophical
about such questions as a
column of troops in a
traffic jam. Action is required, not explanation. Such action may have to transcend
reason. Historical instances would not be difficult to find. That concept
provided vindication for Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson’s method, hard otherwise to
excuse.

“You’ve made a
disgraceful mess of things,” he said. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I
know we have to put up these days with a lot of amateur staff officers who’ve
had little or no experience, and possess even less capacity for learning the
A.B.C. of military affairs. Even so, we expect something better than this. Off
you go now and find out immediately what’s happened. When you’ve done so,
report back to me. Look sharp about it.”

Widmerpool’s
face had gone dark red. It was an occasion as painful to watch as the time when
Budd had hit him between the eyes full-pitch with an overripe banana; or that
moment, even more portentous, when Barbara Goring poured sugar over his head at
a ball. Under the impact of those episodes, Widmerpool’s bearing had indicated,
under its mortification, masochistic acceptance of the assault – ”that slavish
look” Peter Templer had noted on the day of the banana. Under Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson’s tirade, Widmerpool’s demeanour proclaimed no such thing.
Perhaps that was simply because Hogbourne-Johnson was not of sufficiently high
rank, in comparison with Budd (then captain of the Eleven), not a person of any
but local and temporary importance in the eyes of someone like Widmerpool, who
thought big – in terms of the Army Council and beyond – while Barbara had
invoked a passion in him which placed masochism in love’s special class. All the
same, the difference is worth recording.

“Right, sir,”
he said.

He saluted,
turned smartly on his heel (rather in the manner of one of Bithel’s boyhood
heroes), and tramped out of the cowshed. Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson showered a
hail of minor rebukes on several others present, then went off to raise hell
elsewhere. In due course, not without delays, matters were sorted out. The
dispatch-rider sent by Widmerpool returned with news that one of the field
ambulances, skidding in mud churned up by the passing and repassing of tanks,
had wedged its back wheels in a deep ditch. Meanwhile, the Light Aid
Detachment, occupied some miles away with an infantry battalion’s damaged
carrier tracks, was not allowed – as too heavy in weight – to cross the iron
bridge mentioned by Widmerpool. The L.A.D. had therefore been forced to make a
detour. The blocked road necessitated several other traffic diversions, which
resulted in the temporary hold-up. That had already been cleared up by the time
the D.R. reached the crossroads. No one was specially to blame, certainly not
Widmerpool, such accidents as that of the ambulance representing normal
wear-and-tear to be expected from movement of most of the available Command
transport across country where roads were few and bad.