Anthony Powell - The Valley of Bones

‘Any room?’

There was no definite denial of the existence of a spare place, but the reception could not be called welcoming. The light grudgingly conceded by the fishy globules flickering in the shallows was too slight to distinguish more than a tall man wearing a British Warm, the shoulder straps of which displayed no badges of rank. The voice was authoritative precise, rather musical, a voice to be associated with more agreeable, even more frivolous circumstances than those now on offer. One might even have heard it against the thrumming of a band a thousand years before. If so, the occasion was long forgotten. While he shook himself out of his overcoat, the new passenger made a certain amount of disturbance before he settled down, among other things causing the quartermaster to move his kit a few necessary inches along the rack, where it was certainly taking up more than a fair share of room. The quartermaster made some demur at this. His reluctance was confronted with absolute firmness. The man in the British Warm had his way in the end. The kit was moved. Having disposed of his own baggage, he took the place next to me.

‘Last seat on the train,’ he said.

He laughed; then apparently passed into sleep. We rumbled on for hours through the night. I slept too, beset with disturbing dreams of administrative anxieties. The quartermaster left his seat at five, returning after an age away, still muttering and grumbling to himself. Morning came, a sad, pale light gently penetrating the curtains. Some hidden agency extinguished the blue lamps. It grew warmer. People began to stretch, blow noses, clear throats, light cigarettes, move along the corridor to shave or relieve themselves. I examined the other occupants of the carriage. Except for the middle-aged captain, all had one pip, including the new arrival next to me. I took a look at him while he was still asleep. His face was thin, rather distinguished, with a hook nose and fairish hair. The collar badges were ‘Fortnum & Mason’ General Service. The rest of the compartment was filled by two officers of the Royal Corps of Signals, a Gunner, a Green Howard (Ted Jeavons’s first regiment in the previous war, I remembered) and a Durham Light Infantryman. The thin man next to me began to wake up, rubbing his eyes and gently groaning.

‘I think I shall wait till London for a shave,’ he said.

‘Me too.’

‘No point in making a fetish of elegance.’

‘None.’

We both dozed again. When it was light enough to read, he took a book from his pocket. I saw it was in French, but could not distinguish the title. Again, his manner struck me as familiar; again, I could not place him.

‘Is there a breakfast car on this train?’ asked the Green Howard.

‘God, no,’ said the Durham Light Infantryman. ‘Where do you think you are — the Ritz?’

One of the Signals said there was hope of a cup of tea, possibly food in some form, at the next stop, a junction where the train was alleged to remain for ten minutes or more. This turned out to be true. On arrival at this station, in a concerted move from the carriage, I found myself walking along the platform with the man in General Service badges. We entered the buffet together.

‘Sitting up all night catches one across the back,’ he said.

‘It certainly does.’

‘I once sat up from Prague to the Hook and swore I’d never do it again. I little knew one was in for a lifetime of journeys of that sort.’

‘Budapest to Vienna by Danube can be gruelling at night too,’ I said, not wishing to seem unused to continental discomforts. ‘Do you think we are in a very strategic position for getting cups of tea?’

‘Perhaps not. Let’s try the far end of the counter. One might engage the attention of the lady on the second urn.’

‘Also stand a chance of buying one of those faded, but still beautiful, sausage rolls, before they are all consumed by Other Ranks.’

We changed our position with hopeful effect.

‘Talking of Vienna,’ he said, ‘did you ever have the extraordinary experience of entering that gallery in the Kunsthistorisches Museum with the screen across the end of it? On the other side of the screen, quite unexpectedly, you find those four staggering Bruegels.’

‘The Hunters in the Snow is almost my favourite picture.’

‘I am also very fond of the Two Monkeys in the Kaiser Friedrich in Berlin. I’ve just been sharing a room with a man in the Essex Regiment who looked exactly like the ape on the left, the same shrewd expression. I say, we’re not making much headway with the tea.’

There were further struggles at the counter, eventually successful. The reward was a sausage roll apiece.

‘Should we return to the train now? I don’t feel absolutely confident about that corner seat.’

‘In that case I shall take this sausage roll with me.’

Back in the carriage, the quartermaster went to sleep again; so did the two Signals and the Gunner. Both the Durham Light Infantryman and the Green Howard brought out button-sticks, tins of polish, cloths, brushes. Taking off their tunics, they set to work energetically shining themselves up, while they discussed allowances.

‘Haven’t we met before somewhere?’ I asked.

‘My name is Pennistone — David Pennistone.’

I knew no one called that. I told him my own name, but we did not establish a connexion sufficiently firm to suggest a previous encounter. Pennistone said he liked Moreland’s music, but did not know Moreland personally.

‘Are you going on leave?’

‘To a course — and you?’

‘I’ve just come from a course,’ he said. ‘I’m on leave until required.’

‘That sounds all right.’

‘I’m an odd kind of soldier in any case. Certain specific qualifications are my only excuse. It will be rather nice to be on one’s own for a week or two. I’m trying to get something finished. A case of earn while you learn.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Oh, something awfully boring about Descartes. Really not worth discussing. Cogito ergo sum, and all that. I feel quite ashamed about it. By the way, have you ever read this work? I thought one might profit by it in one’s new career.’

He held out to me the book he had been reading. I took it from his hand and read the title on the spine: Servitude et Grandeur Militaire: Alfred de Vigny.

‘I thought Vigny was just a poet — Dieu! que le son du Cor est triste au fond des bois!…’

‘He also spent fourteen years of his life as a regular soldier. He ended as a captain, so there is hope for all of us.’

‘In the Napoleonic wars?’

‘Too young. Vigny never saw action. Only the most irksome sort of garrison duty, spiced with a little civil disturbance — having to stand quietly in the ranks while demonstrators threw bricks. That kind of thing.’

‘I see.’

‘In some ways the best viewpoint for investigating army life. Action might have confused the issue by proving too exciting. Action is, after all, exciting rather than interesting. Anyway, this book says what Vigny thought about soldiering.’

‘What were his conclusions?’

‘That the soldier is a dedicated person, a sort of monk of war. Of course he was speaking of the professional armies of his day. However, Vigny saw that in due course the armed forces of every country would be identified with the nation, as in the armies of antiquity.’

‘When the bombing begins here, clearly civilians will play as dangerous a role as soldiers, if not more dangerous.’

‘Of course. Even so, Vigny would say those in uniform have made the greater sacrifice by losing the man in the soldier — what he calls the warrior’s abnegation, his renunciation of thought and action. Vigny says a soldier’s crown is a crown of thorns, amongst its spikes none more painful than passive obedience.’