Anthony Powell - The Military Philosophers

‘They sound all right.’

‘One small snag — Lannoo was given promotion the other day, and has already left for his new job. The Belgian authorities still won’t make up their minds whom to appoint in his place. I’ve been dealing with Gauthier de Graef for weeks, who of course can’t take the decisions his boss could. I suppose this delay is the sort of thing the Belgians themselves grumble about.’

As it turned out, the official appointment of Kucherman came through only on the day when Hewetson left the Section. There was some misunderstanding about certain customary formalities, one of those departmental awkwardnesses that take place from time to time and can cause coolness. The fact was Kucherman himself was a figure of much more standing at home than the average officer likely to be found in that post. Possibly some of the Belgian Government thought this fact might overweigh the job; others, that more experience was desirable in purely military matters. At least that was the explanation given to Hewetson when things were in the air. As he had said, a particular charm possessed by the Belgians was, in a world everyday increasingly cautious about hazarding in public opinions about public affairs, no Belgian minded in the least criticizing his Government, individually or collectively.

‘One of their best points,’ Hewetson repeated.

In short, by the time I introduced myself to Kucherman, a faint sense of embarrassment had been infused into the atmosphere by interchanges at a much higher level than Finn’s. Kucherman was only a major, because the Belgians were rather justly proud of keeping their ranks low.

‘After all the heavy weather that’s been made, you’ll have to be careful not to get off on the wrong foot, Nicholas,’ said Finn. ‘Kucherman’s own people may have been to blame for some of that, but we’ve been rather stiff and unaccommodating ourselves. You’ll have to step carefully. Kucherman’s a well known international figure.’

I repeated these remarks of Finn’s to Pennistone.

‘Kucherman’s a big shot all right,’ said Pennistone. ‘I used to hear a lot about him and his products when I was still in business. He’s head of probably the largest textile firm. That’s just one of his concerns. He’s also a coal owner on an extensive scale, not to mention important interests in the Far East — if they still survive. We shall expect your manner to alter after a week or two of putting through deals with Kucherman.’

The picture was a shade disconcerting. One imagined a figure, younger perhaps, but somewhat on the lines of Sir Magnus Donners: tall: schoolmasterish; enigmatic. As it turned out, Kucherman’s exterior was quite different from that. Of medium height, neat, brisk, with a high forehead and grey hair, he seemed to belong to the eighteenth- century, the latter half, as if he were wearing a wig of the period tied behind with a black bow. This, I found later, was one of the Belgian physical types, rather an unexpected one, even in a nation rich in physiognomies recalling the past.

On the whole, a march-past of Belgian troops summoned up the Middle Ages or the Renaissance, emaciated, Memling-like men-at-arms on their way to supervise the Crucifixion or some lesser martyrdom, while beside them tramped the clowns of Teniers or Brouwer, round rubicund countenances, hauled away from carousing to be mustered in the ranks. These latter types were even more to be associated with the Netherlands contingent — obviously a hard and fast line was not to be drawn between these Low Country peoples — Colonel Van der Voort himself an almost perfect example. Van der Voort’s features seemed to have parted company completely from Walloon admixtures — if, indeed it was Walloon blood that produced those mediaeval faces. Van der Voort’s air had something faintly classical about it too, something belonging not entirely to domestic pot-house or kermesse scenes, a touch of the figures in the train of Bacchus or Silenus; though naturally conceived in Dutch or Flemish terms. Kucherman’s high forehead and regular features — the French abbé style — was in contrast with all that, a less common, though a fairly consistent Belgian variant that gave the impression, on such occasions as the parade on their National Day, of the sudden influence of a later school of painting.

The first day at Eaton Square — by then almost a preserve of the Belgian ministries — the name of Sir Magnus Donners did indeed crop up. He had been in the headlines that morning on account of some more or less controversial statement made in public on the subject of manpower. Kucherman referred to this item of news, mentioning at the same time that he had once lunched at Stourwater. We talked about the castle. I asked if, since arrival in England, he had seen Sir Magnus. Kucherman laughed.

‘A member of your Cabinet does not want to be bothered by a major in one of the smaller Allied contingents.’

‘All the same, it might be worth while letting him know you are here.’

‘You think so?’

‘Sure of it.’

‘Certainly he showed great interest in Belgium when we met — knowledge of Belgian affairs. You know Belgium yourself?’

‘I’ve been there once or twice. When my father was at the War Office, I remember him bringing two Belgian officers to our house. It was a great excitement.’

‘Your father was officier de carrière?’

‘He’d come back from Paris, where he’d been on the staff of the Peace Conference. By the way, several Belgian officers are living at the same block of flats as myself. I don’t know any of them.’

Cucherman asked the name of the place.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Clanwaert is there. You will be dealing with him about Congo matters. An amusing fellow.’

‘I have an appointment with him tomorrow.’

‘He was formerly in the Premier Regiment des Guides — like your Life Guards, one might say. I believe he fought his first engagement in 1914 wearing what was almost their parade uniform — green tunic, red breeches, all that. Then a love affair went wrong. He transferred to La Force Publique. A dashing fellow with a romantic outlook. That was why he never married.’

The Force Publique was the Congo army, quite separate from the Belgian army, officered somewhat on the lines, so it seemed, of our own Honourable East India Company’s troops in the past.

‘Kucherman’s going to be all right,’ said Finn.

Even Gauthier de Graef, who had all his countrymen’s impatience with other people’s methods, and would not have hesitated to grumble about his new chief, agreed with that judgment. He was a tall young man with a large moustache, who, after a frantic drive to the coast to catch up the remnant of the Belgian forces embarked for England, had jumped the last yard or so over water, as the boat had already set sail from harbour.

‘I needed a drink after that,’ he said. ‘A long one, let me assure you.’

I was just off to see Kucherman or Hlava one morning, when General Bobrowski was put through on my telephone. Bobrowski, even for himself, was in a tremendous state of excitement. He explained that he had been unable to make contact with Finn, and now he was told that neither Pennistone nor Slade were available. It was a matter of the most urgent importance that he had an appointment with Finn as soon as possible. He appealed to me as Pennistone’s former assistant in Polish liaison. Finn was at that moment with one of the brigadiers; Pennistone probably at the Titian — where it was quite likely he would learn of whatever was on Bobrowski’s mind — and Slade was no doubt somewhere in the building negotiating with another section. Slade returned at that moment and I handed Bobrowski over to him. I wondered what the trouble was. Bobrowski became easily excited, but this seemed exceptional. Pennistone outlined the enormity on my return.