Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

He spoke as if it were indeed a great relief to him. I had to admit to myself that Stringham’s physical removal was a great relief to me too. This sense of deliverance, of moral alleviation, was at the same time tempered with more than a trace of guilt, because, so far as potential improvement in his state was in question, Stringham had left F Mess without the smallest assistance from myself. I dispelled such twinges of conscience by reflecting that the Mobile Laundry, at least while Bithel remained in command, led for the moment a raggle-taggle gipsy life, offering, at least on the face of it, a less thankless daily prospect than being a Mess waiter. If absorbed into the Divisional Concert Party, he might even bring off a vocalist’s stage debut, something he used to talk of on the strength of having been briefly in the choir at school. In short, the problem seemed to me to resolve itself — after an honourable, even quixotic gesture on Stringham’s part — to finding the least uncongenial niche available in the circumstances. That supposition was entirely my own. It was probably far removed from Stringham’s personal ambitions, if these were at all formulated.

“What’s on your mind, Biggy?” said Soper. “You’re not yourself to-day.”

“Oh, stuff it up,” said Biggs, “I’ve got a pile of trouble. Those lawyers are going to skin me.”

When I saw Widmerpool that afternoon I spoke about Stringham going to the Mobile Laundry.

“It was my idea to send him there.”

“A very good one.”

“It seemed the solution.”

Widmerpool did not elaborate what he had done. I was surprised, rather impressed, by the speed with which he had taken action, especially after earlier remarks about leaving Stringham where he was. It looked as if Widmerpool had thought things over and decided there was something to be said for trying to make Stringham’s existence more agreeable, however contrary that might be to a rule of life that taught disregard for the individual. I felt I had for once misjudged Widmerpool, too readily accepted the bleak façade displayed, which, anyway in Stringham’s case, might screen a complex desire to conceal good nature, however intermittent.

General Liddament had to be faced on the subject of my own missed Free French opportunities. The matter was not one of sufficient importance — at the General’s end — to ask for an interview through Greening, so I had to wait until the Divisional Commander was to be found alone. As I rarely saw him during daily routine, this took place once again on an exercise. Defence Platoon duties usually brought me to breakfast first on those mornings, even before Cocksidge, otherwise in the vanguard of the rest of the staff. The General varied in his habits, sometimes early, sometimes late. That morning, he had appeared at table before Cocksidge himself, who, as it turned out later, had been delayed by breaking a bootlace or cutting his rubber-like face shaving. When the General had drunk some tea, I decided to tackle him.

“I saw Major Finn in London, sir.’

“Finn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How was he?”

“Very well, sir. Sent his respects. He said my French was not up to liaison work at battalion level.”

“Ah.”

That was General Liddament’s sole comment. He drank more tea in huge gulps, while he studied a map. The fact that Cocksidge entered the room a minute or two later did not, I think, affect the conversation in any way; I mean so far as further discussion of my own affairs by the General might have taken place. That was already at an end. Cocksidge was quite overcome by finding the Divisional Commander already almost at the end of breakfast.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I do believe they’ve given you the chipped cup. I’ll change it at once, sir. I wonder how often I’ve spoken to the Mess Sergeant about that cup, sir, and told him never to give it to a senior officer, and above all not yourself, sir. I’ll make sure it never happens again, sir.”

Military action in Syria had been making it clear why there had been call for more British liaison officers with the Free French overseas. I thought of the 9th Regiment of Colonial Infantry being harangued by someone with better command of the language — and more histrionic talent — than myself. Then the Germans attacked in Crete. The impression was that things were not going too well there. Meanwhile, the Division continued to train; policies, units, began to take more coherent shape, to harden: new weapons were issued: instructors improved. The Commanding Officer of the Reconnaissance Unit remained unappointed. I asked Widmerpool if he had progressed further in placing his own candidate. The question did not please him.

“Difficulties have arisen.”

“Someone else getting the command?”

“I can’t quite understand what is happening,” said Widmerpool. “There has been no opportunity to go into the matter lately. This Diplock case has been taking up so much of my time. The more I investigate, the more incriminated Diplock seems to be. There’s going to be hell to pay. Hogbourne-Johnson is behaving very badly, making himself offensive to me personally, and doing his best to shield the man and cause obstruction. That is quite useless. I am confident I shall be able to show that Diplock’s behaviour has been not merely irregular, but criminal. Pedlar is almost equally unwilling to believe the worst, but at least Pedlar approaches the matter with a reasonably open mind, even if a slow one.”

“Does the General know about Diplock?”

“Hogbourne-Johnson says there is not sufficient evidence yet to lay before him.”

In the matter of Diplock, I believed Widmerpool to be on the right track. Few things are more extraordinary in human behaviour than the way in which old sweats like this chief clerk Warrant Officer will suddenly plunge into serious misdoing — usually on account of a woman. Diplock might well have a career of petty dishonesty behind him, but this looked like something far more serious.

“Talking of the Recce Unit,” said Widmerpool, “there’s still some sorting out to be done about the officer establishment. At least one of the captaincies assigned to that unit, before it came into existence, is still — owing to some whim of the General’s — in use elsewhere as a local rank. That is one of the things I want you to go into among the stuff I am leaving to-night.”

“Establishments without troops always make one think of Dead Souls. A military Chichikov could first collect battalions, then brigades, finally a Division — and be promoted major-general.”

I said that to tease Widmerpool, feeling pretty certain be had never read a line of Gogol, though he would rarely if ever admit to failure in recognising an allusion, literary or otherwise. On this occasion he merely nodded his head several times; then returned to the fact that, contrary to his usual practice, he would not be working after dinner that evening.

“For once I shall cut office hours to-night,” he said. “I’m giving dinner to that fellow — for the moment his name escapes me — from the Military Secretary’s branch, who is doing a tour of duty over here.”

“Is this in the interests of the Recce Unit appointment?”

Widmerpool winked, a habit of his only when in an exceptionally good temper.

“More important than that,” he said.

“Yourself?”

“Dinner may put the finishing touches to something.”

“Promotion?”

“Who knows? It’s been in the air for some time, as a matter of fact.”

Widmerpool rarely allowed himself a night off in this manner. He worked like an automaton. Work, civil or military, was his sole interest. If it came to that, he never gave his assistant a night off either, if he could help it, because everyone who served under him was expected to do so to the fullest extent of his powers, which was no doubt reasonable enough. The result was that a great deal of work was completed in the D.A.A.G.’s office, some useful, some less useful. On the whole the useful work, it had to be admitted, made up for a fair percentage of time and energy wasted on Widmerpool’s pet projects, of which there were several. I was thinking of such things while stowing away papers in the safe that night, preparatory to leaving Headquarters for bed. I shut the safe and locked it. The time was ten o’clock or thereabouts. The telephone bell began to ring.