Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“DAA.G.’s office.”

“Nick?”

The voice was familiar. All the same, I could not immediately place it. No officer at Div. H.Q. used just that intimate inflexion when pronouncing my name.

“Speaking,”

“It’s Charles.”

That took me no further. So far as I could remember, none of the local staff were called “Charles.” It must be someone recently arrived in the place, who knew me.

“Charles who?”

“Private Stringham, sir — pardon the presumption.”

“Charles — yes — sorry.”

“Bit of luck catching you in.”

“I’m just leaving, as a matter of fact. How did you know I was here?”

“I rang up F Mess first — in the character of General Fauncefoot-Fritwell’s A.D.C.”

“Who on earth is General Fauncefoot-Fritwell?”

“Just a name that occurred to me as belonging to the sort of officer of senior rank who would own an A.D.C. — so don’t worry if Captain Biggs, who I think answered the telephone, mentions the General to you. He will say there was no message. Captain Biggs, if it was indeed he, sounded quite impressed, even rather frightened. He told me you were probably still working, unless on your way back now. I must say, you officers are kept at it.”

“But, Charles, what is all this about?”

I thought he must be drunk, and began to wonder how best to deal with him. This was just the sort of embarrassment Widmerpool had envisaged. It could be awkward. I experienced one of those moments — they cropped up from time to time — of inwardly agreeing there was something to be said for Widmerpool’s point of view. However Stringham sounded perfectly sober; though to sound sober was not unknown as one of the characteristics he was apt to display after a great deal to drink. That was especially true of the period immediately preceding his going under entirely. I felt apprehensive.

“Yes, I must come to the point, Nick,” he said. “I’m getting dreadfully garrulous in old age. It’s barrack-room life. Look, forgive me for ringing up at this late hour, which I know to be contrary to good order and discipline. The fact is I find myself with a problem on my hands.”

“What’s happened?”

“You know my officer, Mr. Bithel?”

“Of course.”

“You will therefore be aware that — like my former un-regenerate self — he is at times what our former mentor, Mr. Le Bas, used to call a devotee of Bacchus?”

“Bithel’s drunk?”

“Got it in one. Rather overdone the Dionysian rites.”

“Passed out?”

“Precisely.”

“Whereabouts?”

“I’ve just tripped over his prostrate form on the way back to bed. When I was suddenly, quite unexpectedly, whisked away from F Mess, and enlisted under Mr. Bithel’s gallant command, he behaved very kindly to me on arrival. He has done so ever since. I therefore feel grateful towards him. I thought — to avoid further danger to himself, physical or moral — you might have some idea of the best way of getting him back without undue delay to wherever he belongs. Otherwise some interfering policeman, civil or military, will feel it his duty to put the Lieutenant in the cooler. I’m not sure where he’s housed. G Mess, is it? Anyway, I can’t manage him all on my own-io, as the Edwardian song used to say. I wondered if you had any suggestions.”

This emergency had noticeably cheered Stringham. That was plain, even on the telephone. There was only one thing to do.

“I’ll come along. What about yourself? Are you all right for time?”

“I’m on a late pass.”

“And where are you exactly?”

Stringham described a spot not far from where we had met in the street on that earlier occasion. The place was about ten minutes’ walk from Headquarters; rather more from G Mess, where Bithel slept.

“I’ll stand guard over Mr. B. until you arrive,” Stringham said. “At the moment he’s propped up out of harm’s way on the steps of a bombed house. Bring a torch, if you’ve got one. It’s as dark as hell and stinks of something far worse than cheese.”

By some incredibly lucky concatenation of circumstances, Bithel had managed, though narrowly, to escape court-martial over the affair of the bouncing cheque that had worried him the night of the biggish raid of several weeks before. However, Widmerpool had now stated categorically he was on the point of removing Bithel from the Mobile Laundry command as soon as he could negotiate that matter satisfactorily with the authority to whom the Laundry was ultimately responsible. That might be a judgment from which there was no appeal, but, even so, gave no reason to deny a hand in getting Bithel as far as his own bed that night, rather than leave him to be picked up by the Provost Marshal or local constabulary. It was even possible that definite official notification of his final sacking might have brought about this sudden alcoholic downfall; until now kept by Bithel within reasonable bounds. He would certainly be heartbroken at losing the command of the Mobile Laundry, of which he was, indeed, said to have made a fair success. If this intimation bad reached him, he might be additionally upset because dismissal would almost certainly mark the first stage of final ejection from the army. Bithel was proud of being in the army; it also brought him a livelihood. Apart from any of that, Stringham had to be backed up in undertaking Bithel’s rescue. That was how things looked. I made a last inspection of the office to make sure no papers had been left outside the safe that should have been locked away, then left Headquarters.

Outside in the street, it was impossible to see a yard ahead without a torch. In spite of that, I found the place without much difficulty. Stringham, hands in his pockets, was leaning against the wall of a house that had been burnt out by an incendiary bomb a week or two before. He was smoking a cigarette.

“Hallo, Nick.”

“Where’s Bithel?”

“At the top of these steps. I pulled him up there out of the way. He seemed to be coming-to a moment ago. Then he sank back again. Let’s go and have a look at him.”

Bithel was propped up under a porch against the front door of the house, his legs stretched down the steps, head sunk on one shoulder. This was all revealed by a flash of the torch. He was muttering a little to himself. We examined him.

“Where’s he got to go?” asked Stringham.

“G Mess. That’s not too far from here.”

“Can we carry him feet first?”

“Not a very tempting prospect in the blackout. Can’t we wake him up and force him to walk? Everyone must realise they have to make a special effort in wartime. Why should Bithel be absolved from that?”

“How severe you always are to human weakness, Nick.”

We shook Bithel, who was again showing slight signs of revival, at least in so much that protests were wrong from him by this rough treatment.

“… Don’t shake us, old man … don’t shake us like that … whatever are you doing it for? … makes me feel awful… I’ll throw up … I will really …”

“Bith, you’ve got to pull yourself together, get back to your billet.”

“What’s that you’re saying …”

“Can you stand up? If so, we’ll hold you on either side.”

“… Can’t remember your name, old man … didn’t see you in that last pub … couldn’t see any officers there … rather glad of that. prefer talking to those young fellows without a lot of majors poking their noses in … keep in touch with the men … never go far wrong if you do that … take an interest in them off duty … then it got late … couldn’t find the way home…”

“It is late, Bith. That’s why we’ve got to take you back to bed. It’s Nick Jenkins. We’re going to pilot you to G Mess.”