Anthony Powell - The Valley of Bones

‘Then you should report sick,’ said the sergeant severely, ‘see the MO. That’s what you want to do, if your back hurts.’

‘Seen him.’

‘See him again then.’

‘The Adjutant-Quartermaster said if I did any more malingering he’d give me more CB.’

The sergeant’s face was almost as unhappy as the private’s. He looked at me as if he thought I might be able to offer some brilliant solution to their problems. He was wrong about that. I saw no way out. Anyway, they were neither of them within my province.

‘Well, go away, and don’t make a disturbance outside here again.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

The two of them went off quietly, but, as they reached the far end of the stone passage, I heard it all starting up again. They were not our men, of course, amongst whom such a scene would have been inconceivable, even when emotions were allowed full rein, which sometimes happened. In such circumstances the display would have taken a far less dismal form. This sort of incident lowered the spirits to an infinitely depressed level. Even though there might be less to do here than with the Battalion, no road-blocks to man, for example, there were also no amusements in the evening, beyond the grubby pubs of a small, down-at-heel town a mile or two away.

‘There isn’t a lot for the lads to do’ said CSM Cadwallader.

He was watching, unsmilingly, a Red Indian war-dance a group of men were performing, led by Williams, I. G., whose eccentric strain probably accounted for his friendship with Lance-Corporal Gittins, the storeman. The dancers, with tent-peg mallets for tomahawks, were moving slowly round in a small circle, bowing their heads to the earth and up again, as they gradually increased the speed of their rotation. I thought what a pity that Bithel was not there to lead them in this dance.

‘What about organising some football?’

‘No other company there is to play, sir.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Personnel of the School, C.3., they are.’

‘But there are plenty of our own fellows. Can’t they make up a game among themselves?’

‘The boys wouldn’t want that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Another company’s what they like to beat.’

That was a good straightforward point of view, no pretence that games were anything but an outlet for power and aggression; no stuff about their being enjoyable as such. You played a game to demonstrate that you did it better than someone else. If it came to that, I thought, how few people do anything for its own sake, from making love to practising the arts.

‘How do they amuse themselves when not doing Indian war-dances?’

‘Some of the lads has found a girl.’

The Sergeant-Major smiled quietly to himself, as if he might have been of that number.

‘Corporal Gwylt?’

‘Indeed, sir, Corporal Gwylt may have a girl or two.’

Meanwhile, since my return from Aldershot, I was aware of a change that had taken place in Gwatkin, though precisely what had happened to him, I could not at first make out. He had been immensely gratified, so Kedward told me, to find himself more or less on his own as a junior commander, keenly jealous of this position in relation to the Castlemallock Commandant, always making difficulties with him when men were wanted for demonstrational purposes. On the other hand, Gwatkin had also developed a new vagueness, even bursts of apparent indolence. He would pass suddenly into a state close to amnesia, sitting at his table in the Company Office, holding in the palm of his hand, lettering uppermost, the rubber-stamp of the Company, as if it were an orb or other symbol of dominion, while he gazed out on to the cobbled yard, where outbuildings beyond had been transformed into barrack rooms. For several minutes at a time he would stare into space, scanning the roofs as if he could descry beyond the yard and stables vision of battle, cavalry thundering down, long columns of infantry advancing through the smoke, horse artillery bringing up the guns. At least, that was what I supposed. I thought Gwatkin had at last ‘seen through’ the army as he had formerly imagined it, was experiencing a casting out of devils within himself, the devils of his old military ideas. Gwatkin seemed himself to some extent aware of these visitations, because, so soon as they were passed, his ‘regimental’ manner would become more obtrusive than ever. On such occasions he would indulge in tussles with the Commandant, or embark on sudden explosions of energy and extend hours of training. However, side by side with exertions that insisted upon an ever-increased standard of efficiency, he became no less subject to these lethargic moods. He talked more freely, too, abandoning all pretence of being a ‘man of few words’, formerly one of his favourite roles. Again, these bursts of talkativeness alternated with states of the blackest, most silent gloom.

‘Anything wrong with Rowland?’ I asked Kedward.

‘Not that I know of.’

‘He doesn’t seem quite himself.’

‘All right, so far as I’ve heard.’

‘Just struck me as a bit browned off.’

‘Has he been on your tail?’

‘Not specially.’

‘I thought he’d been better tempered lately. But, my God, it’s true he’s always forgetting things. We nearly ran out of Acquittance Rolls last Pay Parade owing to Rowland having shoved a lot of indents the CQMS gave him into a drawer. Perhaps you’re right, Nick, and he’s not well.’

For some reason, the matter of the Alarm brought home to me these developments in Gwatkin. Command had issued one of their periodic warnings that all units and formations were to be on their guard against local terrorist action of the Deafy Morgan sort, which, encouraged by German successes in the field, had recently become more common. A concerted attack by subversive elements was thought likely to take shape within the next week or two in the Castlemallock area. Accordingly, every unit was instructed to devise its own local Alarm signal, in addition to the normal Alert. The Alert was, of course, based on the principle that German invasion had taken place south of the Border, where British troops would consequently move forthwith. For training purposes, these Alerts were usually issued in code by telephone or radio — in the case of Gwatkin’s company, routine procedure being to march on the main body of the Battalion. For merely local troubles, however — to which the warning from Command referred — different action would be required, therefore a different warning given. At Castlemallock, for example, the Commandant decided that any such outbreak should be made known by blowing the Alarm on the bugle. All ranks were paraded to hear the Alarm sounded, so that its notes should at once be recognised, if need arose. Afterwards, Gwatkin, Kedward, CSM Cadwallader and I assembled in the Company Office to check arrangements. The question obviously arose of those men insufficiently musical to register in the head the sound they had just heard.

‘All those bugle calls have words to them,’ said Kedward. ‘What are the ones for the Alarm?’

‘That’s it,’ said Gwatkin, pleased at this opportunity to make practical use of military lore, Cookhouse, for instance:

Come to the cookhouse door, boys,

Come to the cookhouse door,

Officers’ wives have puddings and pies,

Soldiers’ wives have skilly.

How does the Alarm go, Sergeant-Major? That must have words too.’

It was the only time I ever saw CSM Cadwallader blush.

‘Rather vulgar words they are, sir,’ he said.

‘Well, what are they?’ said Gwatkin.

The Sergeant-Major seemed still for some reason unwilling to reveal the appropriate assonance.