Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“Come on, Doc, give the V.D. stats a rest at mealtimes,” said Biggs, who had perhaps drunk more beer than usual before dinner. “God, I’m looking forward to some grub. Feel as empty as a bloody drum.”

He began stamping his feet loudly on the bare boards of the floor, at the same time banging with his clenched fists on the table.

“Buck up, waiter!” he shouted. “When are we going to get something to eat, you slow bugger?”

“I want to swop night duty to-morrow,” said Soper. “Take it on, Jenkins?”

“Mine’s next Friday.”

“That’ll do me.”

“They won’t change the system again?”

“I’ll act for you even if they do.”

“O.K.”

Soper had caught me out once on a reorganised Duty Roster, avoiding my turn for night duty as well as his own. He was sharp on matters of that kind. I did not want to fall for a second confidence trick. Biggs ceased his tattoo on the surface of the table.

“Couldn’t get a bloody staff car all day,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to put in a report to A. & Q.”

“Fat lot of good that would do,” said Soper,

He seemed satisfied now the fork was fairly clean, replacing it by the side of his plate. A spoon now attracted his attention.

“Organising that bloody boxing next week’s going to be a bugger,” said Biggs. “Don’ t have an easy life like you, Sopey, you old sod. driving round the units in state and tasting the sea-pie and Bisto. Hope this bloody beef isn’t as tough to-night as it was yesterday. I’ll be after you, Sopey, if it is. God, what a day it’s been. A. & Q. on my tail all the time about that bloody boxing, and Colonel H.-J. giving me the hell of a rocket about a lot of training pamphlets I’d never heard of. He came through on the blower after I’d locked the safe and was looking forward to downing a pint. I’m just about brassed off, I can tell you. Went to see Bithel of the Mobile Laundry this afternoon. He’s a funny bugger, if ever there was one. We had a pint together all the same. He soaks up that porter pretty easy. It was about one of his chaps that’s done a bit of boxing. Might represent Div. H.Q., if he’s the right weight. We could win that boxing compo, you know. That would put me right with Colonel H.-J. Command’s best welterweight had a bomb dropped on him in the blitz the other night, when they hit the barracks. Gives us a chance.”

Plates of meat were handed round by a waiter.

“Potatoes, sir?”

I was thinking of other things; thinking, to be precise, that I could do with a bottle of wine, then and there, however rough or sour. The Mess waiter was holding a dish towards me. I took a potato; then, for some reason, looked up at him. His enquiry, though quietly made, had penetrated incisively into these fantasies of the grape, cutting a neat channel, as it were, through both vinous daydreams and a powerful conversational ambience generated by Biggs in his present mood. I glanced at the waiter’s face for a second, then looked away, feeling, as I took a second potato, faintly, indeterminately uneasy. The soldier was tall and thin, about my own age apparently, with a pale, washed-out complexion, high forehead, dark hair receding at the temples and slightly greying. Bloodshot eyes, with dark, bluish rims, were alive, but gave at the same time an impression of poor health, this vitiated look increased by the fact of a battle-dress blouse with a collar too big in circumference for a long thin neck. I replaced the spoon in the potato dish, still aware of a certain inner discomfort. The waiter moved on to Biggs, who took four potatoes, examining each in turn, as, one after another, they rolled on to his plate, splashing gravy on the cloth. I followed the waiter with my eyes, while he offered the dish to Macfie.

“Spuds uneatable again,” said Biggs. “Like bloody golf balls. They haven’t been done long enough. That’s all about it. Here, waiter, tell the chef, with my compliments, that he bloody well doesn’t know how to cook water.”

“I will, sir.”

“And he can stick these spuds up his arse.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Repeat to him just what I’ve said.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Where’s he to stick the spuds?”

“Up his arse, sir.”

“Bugger off and tell him.”

So far as cooking potatoes went, I was wholly in agreement with Biggs. However, purely gastronomic considerations were submerged in confirmation of a preliminary impression; an impression upsetting, indeed horrifying, but correct. There could no longer be any doubt of that. What I had instantaneously supposed, then dismissed as inconceivable, was, on closer examination, no longer to be denied. The waiter was Stringham. He was about to go through to the kitchen to deliver Bigg’s message to the cook, when Soper stopped him.

“Half a tick,” said Soper. “Who laid the table?”

“I did, sir.”

“Where’s the salt?”

“I’ll get some salt, sir.”

“Why didn’t you put any salt out?”

“I’m afraid I forgot, sir.”

“Don’t forget again.”

“I’ll try not to, sir.”

“I didn’t say try not to, I said don’t.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“Haven’t they got any cruets in the Ritz?” said Biggs. “Hand the pepper and salt round personally to all the guests, I suppose.”

“Mustard, sir — French, English, possibly some other more obscure brands — so far as I remember, sir, rather than salt and pepper,” said Stringham, “but handing round the latter too could be a good idea.”

He went out of the room to find the salt, and tell the cook what Biggs thought about the cooking. Soper turned to Biggs. He was plainly glad of this opportunity to put the S.O.P.T. in his place.

“Don’t show your ignorance, Biggy,” he said. “Handing salt round at the Ritz. I ask you. You’ll be going into the Savoy next for a plate of fish and chips or baked beans and a cup o’ char.”

“That’s no reason why we shouldn’t have any salt here, is it?” said Biggs.

He spoke belligerently, disinclined for once to accept Soper as social mentor, even where a matter so familiar to the D.C.O. as restaurant administration was in question.

“Something wrong with that bloke,” he went on. “Man’s potty. You can see it. Hear what he said just now? Talks in that la-di-da voice. Why did he come to this Mess? What happened to Robbins? Robbins wasn’t much to look at, but at least he knew you wanted salt.”

“Gone to hospital with rupture,” said Soper. “This one’s a replacement for Robbins. Can’t be much worse, if you ask me.”

“This one’ll have to be invalided too,” said Biggs. “Only got to look at him to see that. Bet I’m right. No good having a lot of crazy buggers about, even as waiters. Got to get hold of blokes who are fit for something. Jesus, what an army.”

“Always a business finding a decent Mess waiter,” said Soper. “Can’t be picking and choosing all the time. Have to take what you’re bloody well offered.”

“Don’t like the look of this chap,” said Biggs. “Gets me down, that awful pasty face. Can’t stick it. Reckon he tosses off too much, that’s what’s wrong with him, I shouldn’t wonder. You can always tell the type.”

From the rubber valve formed by pressure together of upper and lower lip, he unexpectedly ejected a small morsel of fat, discharging this particle with notable accuracy of aim on to the extreme margin of his plate, just beyond the potatoes left uneaten. It was a first-rate shot of its kind.

“When did the new waiter arrive?” I asked.

Nothing was to be gained by revealing previous acquaintance with Stringham.

“Started here at lunch to-day,” said Soper,

“I’ve run across him before,” said Biggs.