The Soldier's Art (6 page)

“Is that a
pipe, by Jove?”

“That’s a
pipe, Eric.”

“I got it
wrong, Derrick.”

“You certainly
did, Eric. You certainly got it wrong. You did, by Jove.”

“You’ve shaken
me, Derrick. I’ll have to do better next time.

“You will,
Eric, you will – or we won’t know what to think of you.”

General
Liddament seemed not to hear them. It was as if he had fallen into a cataleptic
sleep or was under the influence of some potent drug. After this exchange
between the two colonels, another long silence fell, one of those protracted
abstinences from all conversation so characteristic of army Messes – British
ones, at least – during which, as every moment passes, you feel someone is on
the point of giving voice to a startling utterance, yet, for no particular
reason, that utterance is always left pending, for ever choked back, incapable,
from inner necessity, of being finally brought to birth. An old tin alarm-clock
ticked away noisily on the dresser, emphasising the speedy passing of mortal
life. Colonel Pedlar sipped away at his port, relish departed after his
blunder. Cocksidge, with the side of his palm, very quietly scraped together
several crumbs from the surface of the table cloth, depositing them humbly,
though at the same time rather coyly, on his own empty plate, as if to give
active expression, even in the sphere of food, to his perpetual dedication in
keeping spick and span the surroundings of those set in authority over him,
doing his poor best in making them as comfortable as possible. Only that
morning, in the dim light at an early hour in the farmhouse kitchen, I had
tripped over him, nearly fallen headlong, as he crouched on his knees before
the fire, warming the butter ration so that its consistency might be
appropriately emulsified for the General to slice with ease when he appeared at
the breakfast table. No doubt, during all such silences as the one that now had
fallen on the Mess, the mind of Cocksidge was perpetually afire with fresh
projects for self-abasement before the powerful. By now there was no more to
hope for, so far as food was concerned. It seemed time to withdraw from the
board, in other respects unrewarding.

“May I go and
see how the Defence Platoon is getting on, sir?”

General
Liddament appeared not to have heard. Then, with an effort, he jerked himself
from out of his deep contemplation. It was like asking permission from one of
the supine bodies in an opium den. He took a few seconds more to come to,
consider the question. When he spoke it was with almost biblical solemnity.

“Go, Jenkins,
go. No officer of mine shall ever be hindered from attending to the needs of
his men.”

A sergeant
entered the room at that moment and approached the General.

“Just come
through on the W/T, sir, enemy planes over the town again.”

“Right – take
routine action.”

The sergeant
retired. I followed him out into a narrow passage where my equipment hung from
a hook. Then, buckling on belt and pouches, I made for the outbuildings. Most
of the platoon were pretty comfortable in a loft piled high with straw, some of
them snoring away. Sergeant Harmer was about to turn in himself, leaving things
in the hands of Corporal Mantle. I ran through the matter of sentry duties. All
was correct.

“Just come
through they’re over the town again, Sergeant.”

“Are they
again, the buggers.”

Harmer, a
middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows, largely built, rather slow, given to
moralising, was in civilian life foreman in a steel works.

“We haven’t
got to wake up for them to-night.”

“It’s good
that, sir, besides you never know they won’t get you.”

“True enough.”

“Ah, you don’t,
life’s uncertain, no mistake. Here to-day, gone to-morrow. After my wife went
to hospital last year the nurse met me, I asked how did the operation go, she
didn’t answer, said the doctor wanted a word, so I knew what he was going to
say. Only the night before when I’d been with her she said ‘I think I’ll get
some new teeth.’ We can’t none of us tell.”

“No, we can’t.”

Even the first
time I had been told the teeth story, I could think of no answer than that.

“I’ll be
getting some sleep. All’s correct and Corporal Mantle will take over.”

“Good night,
Sergeant.”

Corporal
Mantle remained. He wanted to seize this opportunity for speaking a word in
private about the snag arisen about his candidature for a commission. Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson had decided to make things as difficult as possible. Mantle
was a good N.C.O. Nobody wanted to lose him. Indeed, Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson
had plans to promote him sergeant, eventually perhaps sergeant-major, when
opportunity arose to get rid of Harmer, not young enough or capable of
exceptional energy, even if he did the job adequately. Widmerpool, through whom
such matters to some extent circulated, was not interested either way in what
happened to Mantle. He abetted Hogbourne-Johnson’s obstructive tactics in that
field, partly as line of least resistance, partly because he was himself never
tired of repeating the undeniable truth that the army is an institution
directed not towards the convenience of the individual, but to the production
of the most effective organisation for an instrument designed to win wars.

“At the
present moment there are plenty of young men at O.C.T.U.s who are potentially
good officers,” Widmerpool said. “Good corporals, on the other hand, are always
hard to come by. That situation could easily change. If we get a lot of casualties,
it
will
change so far as officers are concerned – though no doubt good corporals will
be harder than ever to find. In the last resort, of course, officer material is
naturally limited to the comparatively small minority who possess the required
qualifications – and do not suppose for one moment that I presume that minority
to come necessarily, even primarily, from the traditional officer class. On the
contrary.”

“But Mantle
doesn’t come from what you call the traditional officer class. His father keeps
a newspaper shop and he himself has some small job in local government.”

“That’s as may
be,” said Widmerpool, “and more power to his elbow. Mantle’s a good lad. At the
same time I see no reason for treating Mantle’s case with undue bustle. As I’ve
said before, I have no great opinion of Hogbourne-Johnson’s capabilities as a
staff officer – on that particular point I find myself in agreement with the
General – but Hogbourne-Johnson is within his rights, indeed perfectly correct,
in trying to delay the departure of an N.C.O., if he feels the efficiency of
these Headquarters will be thereby diminished.”

There the
matter rested. Outside the barn I had a longish talk with Mantle about his
situation. By the time I returned to the house, everyone appeared to have gone
to bed; at least the room in which we had eaten seemed at first deserted,
although the oil lamp had not been extinguished. It had, however, been moved
from the dinner table to the dresser standing on the right of the fireplace.
Then, as I crossed the room to make for a flight of stairs on the far side I
saw General Liddament himself had not yet retired to his bedroom. He was
sitting on a kitchen chair, his feet resting on another, while he read from a
small blue book that had the air of being a pocket edition of some classic. As
I passed he looked up.

“Good night,
sir.”

“How goes the
Defence Platoon?”

“All right,
sir. Guards correct. Hay to sleep on.”

“Latrines?”

“Dug two lots,
sir.”

“Down wind?”

“Both down
wind, sir.”

The General
nodded approvingly. He was rightly keen on sanitary discipline. His manner
showed he retained the unusually good mood of before dinner. There could be no
doubt the day’s triumph over the Blue Force had pleased him. Then, suddenly, he
raised the book he had been reading in the air, holding it at arm’s length
above his head. For a moment I thought he was going to hurl it at me. Instead,
he waved the small volume backwards and forwards, its ribbon marker flying at
one end.

“Book reader,
aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you
think of Trollope?”

“Never found
him easy to read, sir.”

The last time
I had discussed books with a general had been with General Conyers, a much
older man than General Liddament, one whose interests were known to range from
psychoanalysis to comparative religion; and in many other directions too. Long
experience of the world of courts and camps had given General Conyers easy
tolerance for the opinions of others, literary as much as anything else.
General Liddament, on the other hand, seemed to share none of that indulgence
for those who did not equally enjoy his favourite authors. My answer had an
incisive effect. He kicked the second chair away from him with such violence
that it fell to the ground with a great clatter. Then he put his feet to the
floor, screwing round his own chair so that he faced me.

“
You’ve never found Trollope easy to
read
?”

“No, sir.”

He was clearly
unable to credit my words. This was an unhappy situation. There was a long
pause while he glared at me.

“Why not?” he
asked at last.

He spoke very
sternly. I tried to think of an answer. From the past, a few worn shreds of
long-forgotten literary criticism were just pliant enough to be patched
hurriedly together in substitute for a more suitable garment to cover the
dialectic nakedness of the statement just made.

“… the style …
certain repetitive tricks of phrasing … psychology often unconvincing …
sometimes downright dishonest in treating of individual relationships … women
don’t analyse their own predicaments as there represented … in fact, the author
does more thinking than feeling …  of course, possessor of enormous narrative
gifts … marshalling material … all that amounting to genius … certain sense of
character, even if stylised … and naturally as a picture of the times …”

“Rubbish,”
said General Liddament.

He sounded
very angry indeed. All the good humour brought about by the defeat of the Blue
Force had been dissipated by a thoughtless expression of literary prejudice on
my own part. It might have been wiser to have passed some noncommittal judgment.
Possibly I should be put under arrest for holding such mutinous views. The
General thought for a long time, perhaps pondering that question. Then he
picked up the second chair from the floor where it had fallen on its side. He
set it, carefully, quietly, at the right distance and angle in relation to
himself. Once more he placed his feet on the seat. Giving a great sigh, he
tilted back his own chair until its joints gave a loud crack. This physical
relaxation seemed to infuse him with a greater, quite unexpected composure.

“All I can say
is you miss a lot.”

He spoke
mildly.

“So I’ve often
been told, sir.”

“Whom do you
like, if you don’t like Trollope?”

For the
moment, I could not remember the name of a single novelist, good or bad, in the
whole history of literature. Who was there? Then, slowly, a few admired figures
came to mind – Choderlos de Laclos – Lermontov – Svevo. … Somehow these did not
have quite the right sound. The impression given was altogether too recondite,
too eclectic. Seeking to nominate for favour an author not too dissimilar from
Trollope in material and method of handling, at the same time in contrast with
him, not only in being approved by myself – in possessing great variety and
range, the
Comédie Humaine
suddenly suggested itself.

“There’s
Balzac, sir.”

“
Balzac
!”

General
Liddament roared the name. It was impossible to know whether Balzac had been a
very good answer or a very bad one. Nothing was left to be considered between.
The violence of the exclamation indicated that beyond argument. The General
brought the legs of the chair down level with the floor again. He thought for a
moment. Fearing cross-examination, I began to try and recall the plots of all
the Balzac books, by no means a large number in relation to the whole, I had
ever read. However, the next question switched discussion away from the sphere
of literary criticism as such.

“Read him in
French?”

“I have, sir.”

“Get along all
right?”

“I’m held up
with occasional technical descriptions – how to run a provincial printing press
economically on borrowed money, what makes the best roofing for a sheepcote in
winter, that sort of thing. I usually have a fairly good grasp of the
narrative.”

The General
was no longer listening.

“You must be
pretty bored with your present job,” he said.

He pronounced
these words deliberately, as if he had given the matter much thought. I was so
surprised that, before I could make any answer or comment, he had begun to
speak again; now seeming to have lost all his former interest in writers and
writing.

“When’s your
next leave due?”

“In a week’s
time, sir.”

“It is, by
God?”

I gave the
exact date, unable to imagine what might be coming next.

“Go through
London?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’d
like a change from what you’re doing?”

“I should,
sir.”

It had never
struck me that General Liddament might be sufficiently interested in the
individuals making up Divisional Headquarters to have noticed any such thing.
Certainly, as a general, he was exceptional enough in that respect. He was
also, it occurred to me, acting in contrast with Widmerpool’s often propagated
doctrines regarding the individual in relation to the army. His next remark was
even more staggering.

“You’ve been
very patient with us here,” he said.