Anthony Powell - The Valley of Bones

‘Fishcake,’ he said.

I was only half awake. It was almost as if the dream continued. As I have said, Maelgwyn-Jones’s temper was not of the best. He began to get very angry at once, as it turned out, with good reason.

‘Fishcake …’ he repeated. ‘Fishcake — fishcake — fishcake …’

Obviously ‘Fishcake’ was a codeword. The question was: what did it mean? I had no recollection ever of having heard it before.

‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Fishcake!’

‘I heard Fishcake. I don’t know what it means.’

‘Fishcake, I tell you …’

‘I know Leather and Toadstool …’

‘Fishcake has taken the place of Leather — and Bathwater of Toadstool. What the hell are you dreaming about?’

‘I don’t think—’

‘You’ve bloody well forgotten.’

‘First I’ve heard of Fishcake.’

‘Rot.’

‘Sure it is.’

‘Do you mean to say Rowland hasn’t told you and Kedward? I gave him Bathwater a week ago — in person — when he came over to the Orderly Room to report.’

‘I don’t know about Fishcake or Bathwater.’

‘Oh, Christ, is this one of Rowland’s half-baked ideas about security? I suppose so. I told him the new code came into force in forty-eight hours from the day before yesterday. Didn’t he mention that?’

‘Not a word to me.’

‘Oh, Jesus. Was there ever such a bloody fool commanding a company. Go and get him, and look sharp about it.’

I went off with all speed to Gwatkin’s room, which was in the main part of the house. He was in deep sleep, lying on his side, almost at the position of attention. Only the half of his face above the moustache appeared over the grey-brown of the blanket. I agitated his shoulder. As usual, a lot of shaking was required to get him awake. Gwatkin always slept as if under an anaesthetic. He came to at last, rubbing his eyes.

‘The Adjutant’s on the line. He says it’s Fishcake. I don’t know what that means.’

‘Fishcake?’

‘Yes.’

Gwatkin sat upright in his camp-bed.

‘Fishcake?’ he repeated, as if he could hardly believe his ears.

‘Fishcake.’

‘But we were not to get Fishcake until we had been signalled Buttonhook.’

‘I’ve never heard of Buttonhook either — or Bathwater. All I know are Leather and Toadstool.’

Gwatkin stepped quickly out of bed. His pyjama trousers fell from him, revealing sexual parts and hairy brown thighs. The legs were small and boney, well made, their nakedness suggesting something savage and untaught, yet congruous to his nature. He grabbed the garments to him and held them there, standing scratching his head with the other hand.

‘I believe I’ve made a frightful balls,’ he said.

‘What’s to be done?’

‘Didn’t I mention the new codes to you and Idwal?’

‘Not a word.’

‘God, I remember now. I thought I’d leave it to the last moment for security reasons — and then I went out with Maureen, and forgot I’d never told either of you.’

‘Well, I should go along to the telephone now, or Maelgwyn-Jones will have apoplexy.’

Gwatkin ran off quickly down the passage, still holding up with one hand the untied pyjama trousers, his feet bare, his hair dishevelled. I followed him, also running. We reached the Company Office. Gwatkin took up the telephone.

‘Gwatkin…’

There was the hum of the Adjutant’s voice at the other end. He sounded very angry, as well he might.

‘Jenkins didn’t know …’ Gwatkin said, ‘I thought it best not to tell junior officers until the last moment … I didn’t expect to get a signal the first day it came into operation … I was going to inform them this morning …’

This answer must have had a very irritating effect on Maelgwyn-Jones, whose voice crepitated for several minutes. I could tell he had begun to stutter, a sure sign of extreme rage with him. Whatever the Adjutant was asserting must have taken Gwatkin once more by surprise.

‘But Bathwater was to take the place of Walnut,’ he said, evidently appalled.

Once more the Adjutant spoke. While he listened, Gwatkin’s face lost its colour, as always when he was agitated.

‘To take the place of Toadstool? Then that means—’

There was another burst of angry words at the far end of the line. By the time Maelgwyn-Jones had ceased to speak, Gwatkin had recovered himself sufficiently to reassume his parade ground manner.

‘Very good,’ he said, ‘the Company moves right away.’

He listened for a second, but Maelgwyn-Jones had hung up. Gwatkin turned towards me.

‘I had to tell him that.’

‘Tell him what?’

‘That I had confused the codewords. The fact is, I forgot, as I said to you just now.’

‘Forgot to pass on the new codewords to Idwal and me?’

‘Yes — but not only are the codewords new, the instructions that go with them are amended in certain respects too. But what I said was partly true. I had muddled them in my own mind. I’ve been thinking of other things. God, what a fool I’ve made of myself. Anyway, we mustn’t stand here talking. The Company is to march on the Battalion right away. Wake Idwal and tell him that. Send the duty NCO to CSM Cadwallader, and tell him to report to me as soon as the men are roused — he needn’t bother to be properly dressed. Get your Platoon on parade, Nick, and tell Idwal to do the same.’

He hurried off, shaking up NCOs, delivering orders, amplifying instructions altered by changed arrangements. I did much the same, waking Kedward, who took this disturbance very well, then returning to the Company Office to dress as quickly as possible.

‘This is an imperial balls-up,’ Kedward said, as we were on the way to inspect our platoons. ‘What the hell can Rowland have been thinking about?’

‘He had some idea of keeping the codeword up his sleeve till the last moment.’

‘There’ll be a God Almighty row about it all.’

I found my own Platoon pretty well turned out considering the circumstances. With one exception, they were clean, shaved, correctly equipped. The exception was Sayce. I did not even have to inspect the Platoon to see what was wrong. It was obvious a mile off. Sayce was in his place, no dirtier than usual at a casual glance, even in other respects properly turned out, so it appeared, but without a helmet. In short, Sayce wore no headdress at all. His head was bare.

‘Where’s that man’s helmet, Sergeant?’

Sergeant Basset had replaced Sergeant Pendry as Platoon Sergeant, since Corporal Gwylt, with his many qualities, did not seriously aspire to three stripes. Basset, basically a sound man, had a mind which moved slowly. His small pig eyes set in a broad, flabby face were often puzzled, his capacities included none of Sergeant Pendry’s sense of fitness. Sergeant Pendry, even at the time of worst depression about his wife, would never have allowed a helmetless man to appear on parade, much less fall in. He would have found a helmet for him, told him to report sick, put him under arrest, or devised some other method of disposing of him out of sight. Sergeant Basset, bull-necked and worried, began to question Sayce. Time was getting short. Sayce, in a burst of explanatory whining, set forth a thousand reasons why he should be pitied rather than blamed.

‘Says somebody took his helmet, sir.’

‘Tell him to fall out and find it in double-quick time, or he’ll wish he’d never been born.’

Sayce went off at a run. I hoped that was the last we should see of him that day. He could be dealt with on return. Anything was better than the prospect of a helmetless man haunting the ranks of my platoon. It would be the last straw as far as Gwatkin was concerned, no doubt Maelgwyn-Jones too. However, while I was completing the inspection, Sayce suddenly appeared again. This time he was wearing a helmet. It was too big for him, but that was an insignificant matter. This was no time to be particular, still less to ask questions. The platoon moved off to take its place with the rest of the Company. Gwatkin, who looked worried, but had now recovered his self-possession, made a rapid inspection and found nothing to complain of. We marched down the long drives of Castlemallock, out on to the road, through the town. As we passed the alley leading to Maureen’s pub, I saw Gwatkin cast an eye in that direction, but it was too early in the morning for Maureen herself, or anyone else much, to be about.