Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“What has then?”

“Nicholas, have you never heard of the word discipline?”

“But nobody knows except us — or was Barker-Shaw or somebody about when you got Bithel to G Mess?”

“No one — as it fortunately turned out. But that makes no difference whatever. Stringham could certainly not remain here after an incident of that kind. I applaud my own forethought in making the arrangement about him I did. So far as these Headquarters are concerned, the farther afield he is sent the better. Let me add that all this is entirely a matter of principle. Stringham’s presence would no longer affect me personally.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am leaving this formation.”

That piece of information brought a new, disturbing element into the conversation. I was annoyed, even disgusted, by Widmerpool’s attitude towards Stringham, this utter disregard for what might happen to him, posted away to God knows where. However, worse now threatened. Self-interest, equally unattractive in outer guise and inner essence, is, all the same, a necessity for individual survival. It should perhaps not be too much despised, if only for that reason. Despised or not, its activities are rarely far from the surface. Now, at Widmerpool’s words about leaving, I was unwelcomely conscious of self-interested anxieties throbbing hurriedly into operation. What was Widmerpool’s present intention towards myself, if he were to go elsewhere? Would my fate be as of little interest to him as Stringham’s? That was my instant thought.

“You’ve got promotion?”

“In the sense of immediate accession of rank — no. With the connotation that my employment will now be established in a more lofty — an incalculably more lofty — sphere than a Divisional Headquarters — yes.”

“The War Office?”

Widmerpool raised his hand slightly, at the same time allowing a brief smile to lighten his face in indication of the superiority, stratospheric in degree, towards which he was about to soar beyond the range of any institution so traditionally prosaic, not to say sordid in function, as the War Office. He folded his arms.

“No,” he said, “not the War Office, I am thankful to say.”

“Where, then?”

“The Cabinet Offices.”

“I’m rather vague about them.”

“An admission that does not surprise me.”

“It’s the top thing of all?”

“You might describe it that way.”

“How else?”

“The Cabinet Offices comprise, in one aspect, the area of action where the Ministry of Defence — the Chiefs of Staff, if you prefer — are in immediate contact with each other and with the Government of this country — with the Prime Minister himself.”

“I see.”

“So you will appreciate the fact that my removal of Stringham from these Headquarters will not affect me in the smallest way.”

“You go at once?”

“I have only heard unofficially at present. I imagine it will be the matter of a week, perhaps less.”

“Have you any idea what will happen to me when you’re gone?”

“None.”

There was something impressive in his total lack of interest in the fate of all persons except himself. Perhaps it was not the lack of interest in itself — common enough to many people — but the fact that he was at no pains to conceal this within some more or less hypocritical integument.

“I shall be left high and dry?”

“I certainly doubt if my successor will be allowed an assistant. My own particular methods, more energetic than most, led to an abnormal amount of work for a mere D.A.A.G. Even so, there has been recent pressure from above to encourage me to dispense with your services.”

“You haven’t anything in mind for me?”

“Nothing.”

“You said you might try and fix something.”

“I have no recollection of doing so — and, anyway, what could I fix?”

“So it will be the Infantry Training Centre?”

“I should imagine.”

“Not much of a prospect.”

“The army more often than not offers uninviting prospects,” said Widmerpool. “Look at the months I have been stuck here, wasting my time, and, if I may say so, my abilities. We are not soldiers just to enjoy ourselves. We are waging a war. You seem aggrieved. Let me point out there is nothing startlingly brilliant in your own work — your industry and capabilities — to make me press for a good appointment for you. In addition to what can only be regarded as mediocre qualities as a staff officer, it was you, and no other, who saw fit to involve me in the whole Bithel-Stringham hash. That might well have turned out very awkwardly for me. No, Nicholas, if you examine your conscience, you will find you have very little to grumble at.”

He sighed, whether at my own ingratitude or human frailty in general, I was uncertain. Cocksidge appeared in the doorway.

“A. & Q. wants to see you, sir,” he said. “Right away. Very urgent. He’s got the D.A.P.M. with him.”

“Right.”

“I hear you may be leaving us, sir,” said Cocksidge.

He spoke more with unction than servility.

“It’s got round, has it?” said Widmerpool approvingly.

I had the impression he had put the rumour round himself. He went off down the passage. Cocksidge turned towards me, at the same time sharply adjusting his manner from that of lower-middle-grade obsequiousness to a major ard staff officer, to one more in keeping for employment towards a second-lieutenant not even a member of the staff.

“The night you were last Duty Officer, Jenkins, the Field Park Company received their routine telephone contact five minutes later than the time noted on your report.”

“It went out in the normal manner with the others.”

“What happened then?”

“I suppose the Sapper Duty Officer didn’t note it down immediately or else his watch was wrong.”

“I shall have to look into this,” said Cocksidge.

He spoke threateningly, as if expecting further explanation. I remembered now I had indeed effected the Field Park contact a few minutes later than the others for some trivial reason. However, I stuck to my guns. The matter was not of the smallest practical importance. If Cocksidge wanted to make trouble, he would have to undertake researches at some considerable labour to himself. That was unlikely with such meagre advantages in view. He left the room, slamming the door behind him. The telephone bell rang.

“Major Farebrother, from Command, downstairs, sir. Wants to see the D.A.A.G.”

“Send him up.”

This was the first time Sunny Farebrother had ever paid a visit to Divisional Headquarters. Recently, he and Widmerpool had been less in conflict, less even in direct contact. Either old enmities had died down, or, I supposed, other more important matters had been occupying both of them. The news about himself Widmerpool had just released, in his own case confirmed that view. Farebrother was likely to have been similarly engaged, unless he had greatly changed. At that moment he came through the door, stopping short for a second, while he saluted with parade ground formality. Military psychology could to some extent be gauged by this business of saluting when entering a room. Officers of field rank would sometimes omit the convention, if, on entering, they immediately sighted only a subaltern there. These officers, one noticed, were often wanting when more serious demands were made on their capacity. However, few, even of those who knew how to behave, brought out the movement with such a click and snap as Farebrother had done. When he had relaxed, I explained Widmerpool had been summoned by Colonel Pedlar and might be away from the office for some little time.

“I’m in no particular hurry,” said Farebrother. “I had another appointment in the neighbourhood and thought I would look in on Kenneth. I’ll wait, if I may.”