Anthony Powell - The Valley of Bones

‘Oh, I do like to ride in a smart motor-car,’ said Corporal Gwylt. ‘A real pleasure it is to spin along.’

Sergeant Pendry, usually as noisy as any of them, sat silent at the back of the bus, looking as if he might vomit at any moment. Outside, it was raining as usual. We drove across a desolate plain set against a background of vast grey skies, arriving at our destination an hour or two later. Gwatkin had gone ahead in his Company Commander’s truck. He was waiting impatiently by the road when the platoons arrived.

‘Get the men off the buses at once,’ he said, ‘and on to the other side of the road — and get some ack-ack defence out, and an anti-gas scout — and have the buses facing up the lane towards that tree, with No. 2 Platoon’s vehicle at the head, not where it is now. Do that right away. Then send a runner to B Company to cancel the earlier message that we are going to recce the country on the left flank between us. That order has been changed to the right flank. Now, I want to say a word of warning to all Platoon Commanders before I attend the Commanding Officer’s conference for Company Commanders. I wish to make clear that I am not at all satisfied so far today. You’ve none of you shown any drive up to date. It’s a bad show. You’ve got to do better, or there will be trouble. Understand? Right. You can rejoin your platoons.’

He had draped a rubber groundsheet round him like a cloak, which, with his flattish-brimmed steel helmet, transformed him into a figure from the later Middle Ages, a captain-of-arms of the Hundred Years War, or the guerrilla campaigning of Owen Glendower. I suddenly saw that was where Gwatkin belonged, rather than to the soldiery of modern times, the period which captured his own fancy. Rain had wetted his moustache, causing it to droop over the corners of the mouth, like those belonging to effigies on tombs or church brasses. Persons at odds with their surroundings not infrequently suggest an earlier historical epoch. Gwatkin was not exactly at odds with the rest of the world. In many ways, he was the essence of conventional behaviour. At the same time, he never mixed with others on precisely their own terms. Perhaps people suspected — disapproved — his vaulting dreams. The platoons had by this time, after much shouting and commanding, unwillingly withdrawn from the comfort of the buses into the pouring rain, and were gloomily forming up.

‘Rowland is in a bloody rotten temper this morning,’ said Breeze. ‘What did he want to bite our heads off for?’

‘He’s in a state,’ said Kedward. ‘He nearly left his maps behind. He would have done, if I had not reminded him. Why were you late, Nick? That started Rowland being browned off.’

‘Had some trouble with Sergeant Pendry. He doesn’t seem well today.’

‘I heard the Sergeant-Major say something about Pendry last night,’ said Breeze. ‘Did you hear what it was, Idwal?’

‘Something about his leave,’ said Kedward. ‘Just like old Cadwallader to tackle Rowland about an NCO’s leave when he was in the middle of preparing for the exercise.’

Gwatkin returned some minutes later, the transparent talc surface of his map-cover marked all over with troop dispositions shown in chinagraph pencil of different colours. ‘The Company is in support,’ he said. ‘Come over here, Platoon Commanders, and look at the map.’

He started to explain what we had to do, beginning with a few general principles regarding a company ‘in support’; then moving on to the more specific technical requirements of the moment. These two aspects of the operation merged into an interwoven mass of instruction and disquisition, no doubt based, in the first instance, on sound military doctrine, but not a little confusing after being put through the filter of Gwatkin’s own complex of ideas. He had obviously pondered the theory of being ‘in support’, poring in his spare time over the pages of Infantry Training. In addition, Gwatkin had also memorized with care phrases used by the Commanding Officer in the course of his issue of orders … start-line … RVs … forming-up areas … B echelon … These milestones in the efficiency of the manoeuvre were certainly intended to be considered in relation to ground and other circumstances; in short, left largely to the discretion of the junior commander himself. However, that was not the way Gwatkin looked at things. Although he liked saying that he wanted freedom to make his own tactical arrangements, he always found it hard to disregard the words of the textbook, or those of a comparatively senior officer. By the time he had finished talking, it was clear the Company was to be put through every movement possible to associate with the state of being ‘in support’.

‘Right,’ said Gwatkin. ‘Any questions?’

There were no questions; chiefly because of the difficulty in disentangling one single item from the whole. We checked map references; synchronised watches. Rain had stopped falling. The day was still grey, but warmer. When I returned to my platoon trouble was in progress. Sayce, the near criminal, was having an altercation with Jones, D., who carried the anti-tank rifle. As usual, Sayce was morally in the wrong, though technically perhaps on this occasion in the right. That was if Sayce were telling the truth, in itself most improbable. The row was something to do with a case of ammunition. In ordinary circumstances, Sergeant Pendry would have cleared up in a moment anything of this sort. In his present state, higher authority had to be brought in. I adjudicated, leaving both contestants with a sense of grievance. We moved off across open country. At first I closely followed Gwatkin’s instructions; then, finding my Platoon lagging behind Breeze and his men, took them on at greater speed. Even so, when we arrived, later in the morning, at the field where the Company was to reassemble, much time had been lost by the formality of the manoeuvring. The men were ‘stood easy’, then allowed to lie on the grass with groundsheets beneath them.

‘Wait orders here,’ said Gwatkin.

He was still in that tense state which desire to excel always brought about in him. However, his temper was better than earlier in the day. He spoke of the ingenuity of the tactical system as laid down in the book, the manner in which the Company had put this into practice.

‘It’s all worked out to the nearest minute,’ he said.

Then he strolled away, and began to survey the country through field-glasses.

‘That’s bloody well wrong,’ said Kedward, under his breath. ‘We ought to be a mile further on at least, if we’re going to be any use at the Foremost Defended Localities when the moment comes.’

Holding no strong views on the subject myself, I was inclined to think Kedward right. All was confusion. I had only a very slight idea what was happening by now, and what role the Company should rightly play. I should have liked to lie on the ground and stretch my legs out like the men, instead of having to be on the alert for Gwatkin’s next order and superintend a dozen small matters. Some minutes later a runner came up with a written message for Gwatkin.

‘Good God,’ he said.

Something had evidently gone badly amiss. Gwatkin took off his helmet and shook the rain from it. He looked about him hopelessly.

‘It hasn’t worked out right,’ he said agitatedly.

‘What hasn’t?’

‘Fall in your men at once,’ he said. ‘It’s long past the time when we should have been in position. That’s what the message says.’

Instead of being close up behind the company we were supposed to support, here we were, in fact, hanging about miles away; still occupied, I suppose, with some more preliminary involution of Gwatkin’s labyrinthine tactical performance. Kedward was right. We ought to have been advancing at greater speed. Gwatkin had done poorly. Now, he began to issue orders right and left. However, before anything much could happen, another runner appeared. This one carried an order instructing Gwatkin to halt his company for the time being, while we ‘let through’ another company, by now close on our heels. Like golfers who have lost their ball, we allowed this company to pass between our deployed ranks. They were on their way to do the job assigned to ourselves. Bithel was one of their platoon commanders. He trotted by quite near me, red in the face, panting like a dog. As he came level, he paused for a moment.