Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“At Div. H.Q.?”

“One of the fatigue party fixing up the boxing ring,” said Biggs. “Ever so grand the way he talks, you wouldn’t believe. Needs taking down a peg or two in my opinion. That’s why I asked him about the Ritz. Don’t expect he’s ever been inside the Ritz more than I have.”

Soper did not immediately comment. He stared thoughtfully at the scrap of meat rejected by Biggs, either to imply censure of too free and easy table manners, or, in official capacity as D.C.O., professionally assessing the nutritive value of that particular cube of fat — and its waste — in wartime. Macfie also gave Biggs a severe glance, rustling his typewritten report admonishingly, as he propped the sheets against the water jug, the better to absorb their contents while he ate.

“He’ll do as a waiter so long as we keep him up to the mark,” said Soper, after a while. “You’re always grousing about something, Biggy. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Why don’t you put a bloody sock in it?”

“There’s enough to grouse about in this bloody Mess, isn’t there?” said Biggs, his mouth full of beef and cabbage, but still determined to carry the war into Soper’s country. “Greens stewed in monkeys’ pee and pepper as per usual.”

Stringham had returned by this time with the salt. Dinner proceeded along normal lines. Food, however unsatisfactorily cooked, always produced a calming effect on Biggs, so that his clamour gradually died down. Once I caught Stringham’s eye, and thought he gave a faint smile to himself. Nothing much was said by anyone during the rest of the meal. It came to an end. We moved to the anteroom. Later, when preparing to return to the D.A.A.G.’s office, I saw Stringham leave the house by the back door. He was accompanied by a squat, swarthy lance-corporal, no doubt the cook so violently stigmatised by Biggs. At Headquarters, when I got back there, Widmerpool was already in his room, going through a pile of papers. I told him about the appearance of Stringham in F Mess. He listened, showing increasing signs of uneasiness and irritation.

“Why on earth does Stringham want to come here?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“He might easily prove a source of embarrassment if he gets into trouble.”

“There’s no particular reason to suppose he’ll get into trouble, is there? The embarrassment is for me, having him as a waiter in F Mess.”

“Stringham was a badly behaved boy at school,” said Widmerpool. “You must remember that. You knew him much better than I did. He took to drink early in life, didn’t he? I recall at least one very awkward incident when I myself had to put him to bed after he had had too much.”

“I was there too — but he is said to have been cured of drink.”

“You can never be sure with alcoholics.”

“Perhaps he could be fixed up with a better job.”

“But being a Mess waiter is one of the best jobs in the army,” said Widmerpool impatiently. “It’s not much inferior to sanitary lance-corporal. In that respect he has nothing whatever to grumble about.”

“So far as I know, he isn’t grumbling. I only meant one might help in some way.”

“In what way?”

“I can’t think at the moment. There must be something.”

“I have always been told,” said Widmerpool, “ — and rightly told — that it is a great mistake in the army, or indeed elsewhere, to allow personal feelings about individuals to affect my conduct towards them professionally. I mentioned this to you before in connection with Corporal Mantle. Mind your own business is a golden rule for a staff officer.”

“But you’re not minding your own business about who’s to command the Recce Corps.”

“That is quite different,” said Widmerpool. “In a sense the command of the Recce Corps is my business — though perhaps someone like yourself cannot see that. The point is this. Why should Stringham have some sort of preferential treatment just because you and I happen to have been at school with him? That is exactly what people complain about — and with good reason. You must be aware that such an attitude of mind — that certain persons have a right to a privileged existence — causes a lot of ill feeling among those less fortunately placed. War is a great opportunity for everyone to find his level. I am a major — you are a second-lieutenant — he is a private. I have no doubt that you and I will achieve promotion. So far as you are concerned, you will in any case receive a second pip automatically at the conclusion of eighteen months’ service as an officer, which in your case cannot be far off by now. I think I can safely say that my own rank will not much longer be denoted by a mere crown. Of Stringham, I feel less certain. A private soldier he is, and, in my opinion, a private soldier he will remain.”

“All the more reason for trying to find him a suitable billet. It can’t be much fun handing round the vegetables in F Mess twice a day.”

“We are not in the army to have fun, Nicholas.”

I accepted the rebuke, and said no more about Stringham. However, that night in bed, I reflected further on his arrival at Div. H.Q. We had not met for years; not since the party his mother had given for Moreland’s symphony — where all the trouble had started about Moreland and my sister-in-law, Priscilla. Priscilla, as it happened, was in the news once more, from the point of view of her family. Rumours were going round that, separated from Chips Lovell by the circumstances of war, she was not showing much discretion about her behaviour. A “fighter-pilot” was said often to be seen with her, this figment, in another version, taking the form of a “commando,” loose use of the term to designate an individual, rather than the unit’s collective noun. However, all this was by the way. The last heard of Stringham himself had been from his sister, Flavia Wisebite, who had described her brother as cured of drink and serving in the army. At least the second of these two statements was now proved true. It was to be hoped the first was equally reliable. Meanwhile, there could be no doubt it was best to conceal the fact that we knew each other. Widmerpool also agreed on this point, when he himself brought up the subject again the following day. He too appeared to have pondered the matter during the night.

“So you think something else should be found for Stringham?” he asked that afternoon.

“I do.”

“I’ll give my mind to it,” he said, speaking more soberly than on the earlier occasion. “In the meantime, we are none of us called upon to do more than fulfil the duties of our respective ranks and appointments, vegetables or no vegetables. Now go and find out from the D.A.P.M. whether he has proceeded with the enquiries to be made in connection with Diplock and his dealings. Get cracking. We can’t talk about Stringham all day.”

So far as Stringham’s employment in F Mess was concerned, nothing of note happened during the next day or two. On the whole he did what was required of him with competence — certainly better than Robbins — though he would sometimes unsmilingly raise his eyebrows when waiting on me personally. For one reason or another, circumstances always prevented speech between us. I began to think we might not be able to find an opportunity to talk together before I went on leave. Then one evening, I saw Stringham coming towards me in the twilight. He saluted, looking straight ahead of him, was going to pass on, when I put out a hand.

“Charles.”

“Hullo, Nick.”

“This is extraordinary.”

“What is?”

“Your turning up here.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Let’s get off the main road.”

“If you like.”

We went down into a kind of alley-way, leading to a block of office buildings or factory works, now closed for the night.