The Soldier's Art (22 page)

“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.”

“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.

“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.”