Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“Nick Jenkins … in the Regiment together… Do you remember … Mr. Vice — the Loyal Toast … then, you …”

“That’s it.”

“The King …”

Bithel shouted the words, turning on one elbow and making as if to raise a glass in the air.

“The King, Bith.”

“Loved the old Regiment… Give you The Regiment … no heelers… Age shall not … something … nor the years condemn …”

“Come on, Bith, make an effort.”

“… at the going down of the sun … that’s it… we shall remember them…”

He suddenly began to sing in a thin piping voice, not unlike Max Pilgrim’s.

“Fol-low, fol-low, we will fol-low Davies –

We will follow Davies, everywhere he leads…”

“Bith.”

“Remember how we went romping all over the house that Christmas night after dinner … when the Mess was in those former bank premises … trailing along behind Colonel Davies … under the tables … over the chairs … couldn’t do it this moment for five pounds … God, I do really believe I’m going to throw up…”

We got him to his feet with a tremendous heave. This sudden change of posture was too much for Bithel, who had rightly judged his own digestive condition. After much vomiting, he seemed appreciably more sober. We had allowed him to sink on all fours to the ground while relieving his stomach. Now we raised him again on his feet to prepare for the journey back to G Mess.

“If you can walk, Bith, we’ll take you home now. Stringham, one of your own chaps, is here to help.”

“String …”

“Here, sir,” said Stringham, who had begun to laugh a lot. “Stringham of the Mobile Laundry, present and correct.”

The name, coupled with that of his command, faintly animated Bithel. Perhaps it suggested to him the title of one of those adventure stories he had enjoyed as a boy; certainly the picaresque operation of a Mobile Laundry would have made an enthralling Henty volume.

“That ’varsity man the D.A.A.G. sent to me?”

“That’s the one, sir.”

“Only good turn Major Widmerpool’s ever done me…”

Stringham was now laughing so much we had to lower Bithel to the ground again.

“I know just how you’re feeling, sir,” said Stringham. “Nobody better.”

“Stringham’s a ’varsity man, like yourself, Nick … Did you know that? … good type … got some fine boys in the Laundry … proud to command them … Sergeant Ablett … splendid type… You should hear him sing The Man who broke the Bank at Monte Carlo … brings back the old music halls … but Stringham’s the only ’varsity man …”

The access of emotion that had now descended on Bithel was in danger of changing once more to stupor. He began to breathe heavily. We tried to lift him again from the pavement.

“One of the things I like about him,” said Stringham, “is the fact there’s so little difference when he’s sober. Drink doesn’t make him turn nasty. On the contrary. How well one knows the feeling of loving the whole world after downing a few doubles. As I no longer drink, I no longer love the whole world — nor, if it comes to that, even a small part of it.”

“All the same, you took the trouble to be a Good Samaritan on this occasion.”

“After all, he is my Commanding Officer — and has been very gracious to me. I still have some gratitude, even if no general goodwill towards mankind. I like gratitude, because it’s the rarest of virtues and a very difficult one to cultivate. For example, I never feel nearly grateful enough to Tuffy. In some respects, I’m ashamed to say I’m even conscious of a certain resentment towards her. Tonight’s good deed was just handed me on a plate. Such a conscience have I now developed, I even feel grateful to Widmerpool. That does me credit, doesn’t it? Do you know, Nick, he went out of his way to get me moved from F Mess to the Mobile Laundry — just as an act of pure kindness. Who’d have thought that of Widmerpool? I learnt the fact from Mr. Bithel himself, who was equally surprised at the D.A.A.G. finding suitable personnel for him. I must say I was at once attracted by the idea of widening my military experience. Besides, there are some real treasures in the Laundry. I don’t know how I can show Widmerpool gratitude. Keep out of the way, I suppose. The one thing I can’t understand is Mr. Bithel’s obsession with university life. I explained to him, when he brought up the subject, that my own college days had been among the most melancholic of a life not untinged by shadow.”

All the time Stringham had been speaking, we were trying to galvanise Bithel from his spell of total collapse into a state of renewed awareness. We achieved this, finally bringing him into actual motion,

“Now, if you’ll guide us, Nick, we’ll have the Lieutenant tucked up between sheets in no time.”

Once we had Bithel traversing the pavement between us, the going was quite good in spite of Stygian darkness. In fact, we must have been within a hundred and fifty yards of G Mess before anything inopportune occurred. Then was disaster. The worst happened. Stringham and I were rounding a corner, Bithel mumbling incomprehensibly between us, when a figure, walking hurriedly from the other direction, collided violently with our party. The effect of this strong oncoming impact was for Stringham to let go of Bithel’s arm, so that, taken by surprise and unable to support the full weight alone, I too became disengaged from Bithel, who sank heavily to the ground. The person who had obstructed us also stumbled and swore, a moment later playing a torch on my face, so that I could not see him or anything else.

“What the hell is happening?”

The voice was undoubtedly Widmerpool’s, especially recognisable when angry. His quarters were also in this neighbourhood. He was on his way back to B Mess after dinner with his acquaintance from the Military Secretary’s branch. This was a most unfortunate encounter. The only thing to do was to fabricate as quickly as possible some obvious excuse for Bithel’s condition, and hope for the best.

“This officer must have tripped in the black-out,” I said. “He had knocked himself out. We’re taking him back to his billet.”

Widmerpool played his torch on each of us in turn.

“Nicholas …” he said, “Bithel … Stringham …”

He spoke Stringham’s name with surprise, not much approval. Since identities were now revealed, there was now no hope of proceeding without further explanation,

“Charles Stringham found Bithel lying stunned. He got in touch with me. We’re taking him back to G Mess.”

That might have sounded reasonably convincing, if only Bithel himself had kept quiet. However, the last fall seemed, if not to have sobered him, at least to have shaken off the coma into which he had sunk at an earlier stage. Now, without any help from the rest of us, he picked himself up off the pavement. He took Widmerpool by the arm.

“Ought to go home …” he said. “Ought to go home … had too much of that bloody porter … sickly stuff when you mix it with gin-and-italian … never do if we run into the A.P.M. …”

Then he began to sing again, though in a lower key than before.

“Fol-low, fol-low, we will follow Davies…”

The words of the rest of the song were drowned at that moment by the sudden note of the Air-raid Warning. For me, the ululating call registered a routine summons not to be disregarded. Bithel’s troubles, however acute, must now be accepted as secondary to overseeing that the Defence Platoon reported for duty, without delay mounted their brens for aircraft action. A chance remained that this diversion might distract Widmerpool’s attention from the business of getting Bithel home. There was no reason for Widmerpool to hang about in the streets after the Warning had gone. His orderly mind might indicate that correct procedure for him was to take shelter. However, he made no such move, only disengaging himself from Bithel by pushing him against the wall. He must have grasped the situation perfectly, seen at once that the first thing to do was to get Bithel himself out of the way. Certainly he retained no doubts as to why Bithel had been found lying on the pavement, but accepted at the same time the fact that there was no point in making a fuss then and there. Disciplinary action, if required, was to be attended to later. This was neither the time nor the place.