Anthony Powell: Soldier's Art

“I once wrote rather a good parody myself,” he said.

“You did, sir?”

“On Omar Khayyám.”

I indicated respectful interest.

“Quite amusing, it was,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, without apology.

I was about to entreat him to recite, if not all, at least a few quatrains of what promised to be an essay in pastiche well worth hearing, when Widmerpool’s return prevented further exploration of the Colonel’s Muse.

“Ah, Kenneth,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, assuming his most unctuous manner, “I was hoping you would spare me a moment of your valuable time,”

Widmerpool looked even less pleased to see Hogbourne-Johnson than at Farebrother’s visit. He was by now showing a good deal of wear and tear from the blows raining down on him.

“Yes, sir?” he answered tonelessly.

“Mr. Diplock …” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. “No, you need not go, Nicholas.”

He sat on the chair banging his knees with his clenched fists, taking his time about what he wanted to say. It looked as if he desired a witness to be present at what was to be his humiliation of Widmerpool over the Diplock affair. Use of my own christian name indicated an exceptionally good humour.

“Yes, sir?” repeated Widmerpool.

“I’m afraid you’re going to be proved to have made a big mistake, my son,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.

He snapped the words out like an order on the parade ground. Widmerpool did not speak.

“Barking up the wrong tree,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.

Widmerpool pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. Even in the despondent state to which he had been reduced, he was still capable of anger.

“You brought a series of accusations against an old and tried soldier,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, “by doing so causing a great deal of unpleasantness, administrative dislocation and unnecessary work.”

Widmerpool began to speak, but the Colonel cut him short.

“I had a long talk with Diplock yesterday,” he said, “and I am now satisfied he can clear himself completely. With that end in view, I sanctioned a day’s leave for him to collect certain evidences. Now, I understand you may be leaving us?”

“I …”

Widmerpool hesitated. Then he pulled himself together.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m certainly leaving the Division.”

“Before you go,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, “I consider it will be necessary for you to make an apology.”

“I don’t yet know, sir,” said Widmerpool, “the new facts which have come to light that should so much alter what appeared to be incontrovertible charges. I have been with A. & Q. earlier this afternoon, who told me you had made the arrangement you mention. He had informed the D.A.P.M., thinking Diplock should be kept under some general supervision.”

Even though he said that in a fairly aggressive tone, Widmerpool’s manner still gave the impression that his mind was on other things. No doubt — his own fate in the balance — he found difficulty in concentrating on the Diplock case. It looked as if Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, like a cat with a mouse, wanted to play with Widmerpool for a while before releasing information, because, instead of communicating anything he might know that had fresh bearing on Diplock and his goings-on, he changed the subject.

“Then there’s another matter,” he said. “Certain moves made with regard to the Reconnaissance Battalion.”

“The General has just been speaking on that subject too,” said Widmerpool.

Hogbourne-Johnson was plainly surprised at this admission. His expression showed he had no knowledge of the disturbance proceeding, at a higher level than his own, on the subject of Widmerpool’s Recce Unit intrigues.

“To you?”

“Yes,” said Widmerpool bluntly. “The General told me a Major — now, of course, Lieutenant-Colonel — Deanery has been appointed to that command.”

If he had hoped to score off Widmerpool in the Recce Unit sphere, it seemed Hogbourne-Johnson had overreached himself. He reddened. No doubt he knew Widmerpool had been fishing in troubled waters, but was not up to date as to the outcome. If Widmerpool’s candidate had been turned down, so too, it now appeared, had his own. This fact was most unacceptable to the Colonel. His manner changed from a peculiar assertive, sneering self-assurance, to mere everyday bad temper.

“Ivo Deanery?” \

“A cavalryman.”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s got the command.”

“I see.”

For the moment, Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson had nothing to say. He was absolutely furious, but could not very well admit he had just heard news that showed his own secret plans, whatever they were, had miscarried. That Widmerpool, whom he had come to harass, should be the vehicle of this particular item of information must have been additionally galling. However, something much worse from Hogbourne-Johnson’s point of view, also much more dramatic, happened a second later. The door opened and Keef, the D.A.P.M., came into the room. He was excited about something. Clearly looking for Widmerpool, not at all expecting to find Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson there, Keef appeared taken aback. A gnarled, foxy little man — like most D.A.P.M.s, not a particularly agreeable figure — he was generally agreed to handle soundly his section of Military Police, always difficult personnel of whom to be in charge. Now, he hesitated for a moment, trying to decide, so it seemed, whether, there and then, to make some disclosure he had on his mind, or preferably concoct an excuse, and retire until such time as he could find Widmerpool alone. Keef must have come to the conclusion that immediate announcement of unwelcome tidings would be best, because, straightening himself almost to the position of attention, he addressed Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, as if it were Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson himself he had been looking for all the time. The reason for his momentary reluctance was revealed only too soon.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Yes?”

“A serious matter has come through on the telephone, sir.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Diplock’s deserted, sir.”

This message was so unexpected that Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, already sufficiently provoked by the appointment of Ivo Deanery to the command of the Recce Unit, could find no words at first to register the fact that he fully comprehended what Keef had to report. The awfulness of the silence that followed must have told on Keef’s nerves. Still standing almost to attention, it was he who spoke first.

“Just come through, sir,” he repeated. “A. & Q. issued an order to keep an eye on him, but it was too late. The man’s known to have made his way across the Border. He’s in neutral territory by this time.”

To have trusted Diplock, to have stood by him when accused of peculation, was, so far as I knew from my own experience of Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, the only occasion when he had ever shown a generous impulse. Of course that was speaking from scarcely any knowledge of him at all. In private life he may have displayed qualities concealed during this brief observation of his professional behaviour. Even if that were not so, and he were as un-engaging to his friends and family as to his comrades in arms, even if, with regard to Diplock, his conduct had been dictated by egoism, prejudice, pig-headedness, the fact remained that he had believed in Diplock, had trusted him. He had, for example, called Widmerpool to order for describing the chief clerk as an old woman, simply because he respected the fact that Diplock, years before, had been awarded the Military Medal. Now he had been thoroughly let down. The climax had not been altogether deserved. Widmerpool had been wrong too. Diplock might be an old woman when he fiddled about with Army Forms; not when it came to evading his desserts. Still, that was another matter. It was Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson who had been betrayed. Possibly he felt that himself. He rose to his feet, in doing so managing to sweep to the floor some of the papers from the pile of documents on Widmerpool’s table. Giving a jerk of his head to indicate Keef was to follow him, he left the room. Their steps could be heard thudding down uncarpeted passages. Widmerpool shut the door after them. Then he stopped and laboriously recovered several Summaries of Evidence from the floor. Anxiety about his own future was evidently too grave to allow any satisfaction at Hogbourne-Johnson’s discomfiture. In fact, I had not seen Widmerpool so upset, so reduced to utter despair, since the day, long past, when he had admitted to paying for Gypsy Jones’s “operation.”