Anthony Powell - The Valley of Bones

‘Ever been to Paris, Captain Gwatkin?’ he asked.

Gwatkin shot out a glance of profound disapproval.

‘No,’ he said sharply.

The answer conveyed that Gwatkin considered the question a ridiculous one, as if Bithel had asked if he had ever visited Lhasa or Tierra del Fuego. He continued to lecture Kedward on the principles of mobile warfare.

‘I’ve been to Paris,’ said Bithel.

He made a whistling sound with his lips to express a sense of great conviviality.

‘Went there for a weekend once,’ he said.

Gwatkin looked furious, but said nothing. A Mess waiter appeared and began to collect glasses on a tray. He was, as it happened, the red-faced, hulking young soldier, who, weeping and complaining his back hurt, had made such a disturbance outside the Company Office. Now, he seemed more cheerful, answering Bithel’s request for a final drink with the information that the bar was closed. He said this with the satisfaction always displayed by waiters and barmen at being in a position to make that particular announcement.

‘Just one small Irish,’ said Bithel. ‘That’s all I want.’

‘Bar’s closed, sir.’

‘It can’t be yet.’

Bithel tried to look at his watch, but the figures evidently eluded him.

‘I can’t believe the bar’s closed.’

‘Mess Sergeant’s just said so.’

‘Do get me another, Emmot — it is Emmot, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Do, do get me a whiskey, Emmot.’

‘Can’t sir. Bar’s closed.’

‘But it can be opened again.’

‘Can’t, sir.’

‘Open it just for one moment — just for one small whiskey.’

‘Sergeant says no, sir.’

‘Ask him again.’

‘Bar’s closed, sir.’

‘I beseech you, Emmot.’

Bithel rose to his feet. Afterwards, I was never certain what happened. I was sitting on the same side as Bithel and, as he turned away, his back was towards me. He lurched suddenly forward. This may have been a stumble, since some of the floorboards were loose at that place. The amount he had drunk did not necessarily have anything to do with Bithel’s sudden loss of balance. Alternatively, his action could have been deliberate, intended as a physical appeal to Emmot’s better feelings. Bithel’s wheedling tone of voice a minute before certainly gave colour to that interpretation. If so, I am sure Bithel intended no more than to rest his hand on Emmot’s shoulder in a facetious gesture, perhaps grip his arm. Such actions might have been thought undignified, bad for discipline, no worse. However, for one reason or another, Bithel lunged his body forward, and, either to save himself from falling, or to give emphasis to his request for a last drink, threw his arms round Emmot’s neck. There, for a split second, he hung. There could be no doubt about the outward impression this posture conveyed. It looked exactly as if Bithel were kissing Emmot — in farewell, rather than in passion. Perhaps he was. Whether or not that were so, Emmot dropped the tray, breaking a couple of glasses, at the same time letting out a discordant sound. Gwatkin jumped to his feet. His face was white. He was trembling with rage.

‘Mr Bithel,’ he said, ‘consider yourself under arrest.’

I had begun to laugh, but now saw things were serious. This was no joking matter. There was going to be a row. Gwatkin’s eyes were fanatical.

‘Mr Kedward,’ he said, ‘go and fetch your cap and belt.’

The alcove where we had been sitting was not far from the door leading to the great hall. There, on a row of hooks, caps and belts were left, before entering the confines of the Mess, so Kedward had not far to go. Afterwards, Kedward told me he did not immediately grasp the import of Gwatkin’s order. He obeyed merely on the principle of not questioning an instruction from his Company Commander. Meanwhile, Emmot began picking up fragments of broken glass from the floor. He did not seem specially surprised by what had happened. Indeed, considering how far I knew he could go in the direction of hysterical loss of control, Emmot carried off the whole situation pretty well. Perhaps he understood Bithel better than the rest of us. Gwatkin, who now seemed to be in his element, told Emmot to be off quickly, to clear up the rest of the debris in the morning. Emmot did not need further encouragement to put an end to the day’s work. He retired from the ante-room at once with his tray and most of the broken glass. Bithel still stood. As he had been put under arrest, this position was no doubt militarily correct. He swayed a little, smiling to himself rather foolishly. Kedward returned, wearing his cap and buckling on his Sam Browne.

‘Escort Mr Bithel to his room, Mr Kedward,’ said Gwatkin. ‘He will not leave it without permission. When he does so, it will be under the escort of an officer. He will not wear a belt, nor carry a weapon.’

Bithel gave a despairing look, as if cut to the quick to be forbidden a weapon, but he seemed to have taken in more or less what was happening, even to be extracting a certain masochistic zest from the ritual. Gwatkin jerked his head towards the door. Bithel turned and made slowly towards it, moving as if towards immediate execution. Kedward followed. I was relieved that Gwatkin had chosen Kedward for this duty, rather than myself, no doubt because he was senior in rank, approximating more nearly to Bithel’s two pips. When they were gone, Gwatkin turned to me. He seemed suddenly exhausted by this output of disciplinary energy.

‘There was nothing else I could do,’ he said.

‘I wasn’t sure what happened.’

‘You did not see?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Bithel kissed an Other Rank.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Haven’t you got eyes?’

‘I could only see Bithel’s back. I thought he lost his balance.’

‘In any case, Bithel was grossly drunk.’

‘That’s undeniable.’

‘To put him under arrest was my duty. It was the only course I could follow. The only course any officer could follow.’

‘What’s the next step?’

Gwatkin frowned.

‘Cut along to the Company Office, Nick,’ he said in a rather calmer tone of voice. ‘You know where the Manual of Military Law is kept. Bring it to me here. I don’t want Idwal to come back and find me gone. He’ll think I’ve retired to bed. I must have a further word with him.’

When I returned with the Manual of Military Law, Gwatkin was just finishing his instructions to Kedward. At the end of these he curtly said good night to us both. Then he went off, the Manual under his arm, his face stern. Kedward looked at me and grinned. He was evidently surprised, not absolutely staggered, by what had taken place. It was all part of the day’s work to him.

‘What a thing to happen,’ he said.

‘Going to lead to a lot of trouble.’

‘Old Bith was properly pissed.’

‘He was.’

‘I could hardly get him up the stairs.’

‘Did you have to take his arm?’

‘Heaved him up somehow,’ said Kedward. ‘Felt like a copper.’

‘What happened when you arrived in his room?’

‘Luckily the other chap there went sick and left the course yesterday. Bith’s got the room to himself, so things weren’t as awkward as they might have been. He just tumbled on to the bed, and I left him. Off to bed myself now. You’re for the Company Office tonight, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’

‘Good night, Nick.’

‘Good night, Idwal.’

The scene had been exhausting. I was glad to retire from it. Confused dreams of conflict pursued throughout the night. I was in the middle of explaining to the local builder at home — who wore a long Chinese robe and had turned into Pinkus, the Castlemallock Adjutant-Quartermaster — that I wanted the front of the house altered to a pillared façade of Isobel’s own design, when a fire-engine manned by pygmies passed, ringing its bell furiously. The bell continued in my head. I awoke. It had become the telephone. This was exceptional in the small hours. There were no curtains to the room, only shutters for the blackout, which were down, so that, opening my eyes, I saw the sky was already getting light above the outbuildings of the yard. I grasped the instrument and gave the designation of the unit and my name. It was Maelgwyn-Jones, Adjutant of our Battalion.