Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“I’ll have to leave him on your hands now. I’ve got to get those bren posts distributed forthwith.”

“Yes, get off to the Defence Platoon right away,” said Widmerpool. “Look sharp about it. Stringham and I will get this sot back to bed. I’ll see this is the last time the army’s troubled with him. It will only be a matter of expediting matters already in hand. Take one side, Stringham.”

Bithel was still leaning against the wall. Stringham once more took him by the arm. At the same time, he turned towards Widmerpool.

“It’s interesting to recall, sir,” he said, “the last time we met, I myself was the inert frame. It was you and Mr. Jenkins who so kindly put me to bed. It shows that improvement is possible, that roles can be reversed. I’ve turned over a new leaf. Stringham is enrolled in the ranks of the sober, as well as the brave.”

I did not wait to hear Widmerpool’s reply. The guns had started up. A helmet had to be collected before doing the rounds of the sections. After acquiring the necessary equipment, I set about my duties. The Defence Platoon got off the mark well that night.

“They always come a Wednesday,” said Sergeant Harmer. “Might as well sit up for them.”

As blitzes went, that night’s was not too bad a one. They went home early. We were in bed by half-past twelve.

“No more news about me, I suppose, sir?” asked Corporal Mantle, before he marched away his section.

I told him I would have another word with the D.A.A.G. As it happened, the following morning had to be devoted to Defence Platoon affairs, so I did not see Widmerpool until the afternoon. I was not sorry about that, because it gave a time for cooling off. After the Bithel affair, an ill humour, even a downright row, was to be expected. However, this turned out to be a wrong appraisal. When I arrived in the room Widmerpool gave the impression of being more than usually pleased with himself. He pushed away the papers in front of him, evidently intending to speak at once of what had happened the night before, rather than get through the afternoon’s routine, and institute a disagreeable post mortem on the subject at the end of the day’s work, a rather favourite practice of his when he wanted to make a fuss about something.

“Well,” he said.

“Did you deal with Bithel?”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

I meant, by that question, to ask what had taken place over the next hundred yards or so of pavement leading to G Mess, how Bithel had been physically conveyed to his room. Widmerpool chose to understand the enquiry as referring to the final settlement of Bithel as a local problem.

“I had a word with A. & Q. this morning,” he said.

Bithel’s been sent on immediate leave. He will shortly be removed from the army.”

“By court-martial?”

“Unnecessary — purely administrative relegation to civilian life will save both time and trouble.”

“That can be done?”

“Bithel himself agrees it is the best way.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“I sent for him first thing this morning.”

“How was he feeling?”

“I have no idea. I am not concerned with the state of his health. I simply offered him the alternative of court-martial or acceptance of the appropriate report declaring him unsuitable for retention as an officer. The administrative documents releasing him from the army in the shortest possible period of time are now in motion. He wisely concurred, though not without an extraordinary scene.”

“What sort of scene?”

“Tears poured down his cheeks.”

“He was upset?”

“So it appeared.”

The episode plainly struck Widmerpool as of negative interest. That he should feel no pity for Bithel was reasonable enough, but it was a mark of his absolute lack of interest in human beings, as such, that the several implications of the interview — its sheer physical grotesqueness, for example, in the light of what Bithel must have drunk the night before — had made no impression on him he thought worth repeating. On the other hand, the clean-cut line of action he had taken emphasised his ability in dealing decisively with a problem of the kind Bithel raised by his very existence. Widmerpool’s method was a contrast with that of my former Company Commander, Rowland Gwatkin, earlier confronted with Bithel in another of his unsatisfactory incarnations. When Bithel had drunk too much at the Castlemallock Gas School, Gwatkin had profitlessly put him under close arrest. Then he had omitted to observe the required formalities in relation to army arrest, with the result that the whole procedure collapsed. That, it was true, had not been entirely Gwatkin’s fault; nevertheless, from Gwatkin’s own point of view, the action had totally miscarried. With Widmerpool, on the other hand, there was no melodrama; only effective disposal of the body. The Bithel problem was at an end. If Bithel handicapped the war effort further, that would be in a civilian capacity.

“A pity the Warning went off like that last night,” said Widmerpool, speaking rather savagely. “We could have frog-marched the brute back to his billet. I’ve seen it done with three.”

“Who will command the Laundry?”

“Another officer is already under orders. He will arrive this evening — may even have got here by now. I shall want to see him. There’s a slight flap on, as a matter of fact.”

“What kind?”

“The Mobile Laundry have been ordered to stand in readiness to move at forty-eight hours’ notice. This needs immediate attention with a new officer taking over only to-night. I was expecting the order in a week or two’s time, not quite so soon as it has come. As usual, things will have to be done in a hurry.”

“Bithel was going anyway?”

“Of course — but only to the I.T.C. Now he will leave the army.”

“Is the Div. moving?”

“The Laundry’s orders have nothing to do with this formation, as such. There’s been a call for Mobile Laundries. Between ourselves, I have reason to suppose this one is for the Far East, but naturally the destination is secret — and you are certainly not to mention that I hold that opinion.”

“You’ve known for some time they were going to move?”

“It came through to me when you were on leave.”

“You knew when you transferred Stringham?”

“That was precisely why I posted him to the Laundry.”

“So he’ll go to the Far East?”

“If that’s where the Laundry’s bound.”

This was certainly arbitrary treatment of an old acquaintance.

“Will he want to go?”

“I have no idea.”

Widmerpool looked at me blankly.

“I suppose he could get out of it on grounds of age.”

“Why should he want to get out of it?”

“Well, he doesn’t look as if his health is too good. As you said the other day, he’s put away a good deal of drink in his time.”

“But it was you who suggested shifting him from his job as Mess Waiter,” said Widmerpool, not without impatience. “That’s one of the reasons I acted in the matter. I thought it over and decided, on balance, that you were right in feeling Stringham should not be there — in fact should not be at these Headquarters at all. Now you seem dissatisfied at what has happened. Why should it be your job — still less mine — to keep Stringham wrapped in cotton-wool? In any case, you surely don’t envisage him remaining here after he and two of Div. H.Q.’s officers, one of them its D.A.A.G., have been collectively concerned in putting another officer to bed because he has been found drunk in the street. You assured me Stringham would not be an embarrassment to us. That is exactly what has taken place.”

“But Stringham is quite used to the idea of drunks being put to bed. As he said last night, the pair of us once had to put him to bed ourselves. It couldn’t conceivably affect Stringham’s behaviour that he helped with Bithel — especially as Bithel’s gone.”