The Soldier's Art

by Anthony Powell

  He loosened the two top buttons of his service-dress tunic to rummage for a notebook. This movement revealed that he wore underneath the tunic a khaki waistcoat cut like that of a civilian suit. I commented on the unexpectedness of this garment, worn with uniform and made of the same material.

  “You’re not the first person to mention that,” said Cheesman unsmilingly. “I can’t see why.”

  “You just don’t see waistcoats as a rule.”

  “I’ve always worn one up to now. Why should I stop because I’m in the army?”

  “No reason at all.”

  “Even the tailor seemed surprised. He said: ‘We don’t usually supply a vest with service-dress, sir.’ “

  “It’s a tailor’s war, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  ‘That’s just a thing people say.”

  “Why?”

  “God knows.”

  Cheesman looked puzzled, but pursued the matter no further.

  “See you at Church Parade to-morrow.”

  Sunday morning was always concerned with getting the Defence Platoon on parade, together with the Military Police and other miscellaneous troops who make up Divisional Headquarters. This parade was not without its worries, because the Redcaps, most of them ex-guardsmen, marched at a more leisurely pace than the Line troops, some of whom, Light Infantry or Fusiliers, were, on the other hand, unduly brisk. Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, whose sympathies were naturally with the “Light Bobs” was always grumbling about its lack of progressional uniformity. That day all went well. After these details had been dismissed, I went to the D.A.A.G.’s office to see if anything had to be dealt with before Monday. As it happened, I had spoken with none of the other officers after church. Widmerpool was not in his room, nor had he been present at the service. It was not uncommon for him to spend Sunday morning working, so that he might already have finished what he wanted to do and gone back to the Mess. Almost as soon as I arrived there the telephone bell rang.

  “D.A.A.G.’s office – Jenkins.”

  “It’s A. & Q. Is the D.A.A.G. there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Has he been in this morning?”

  “Not since I came here from Church Parade, sir.”

  Colonel Pedlar sounded in an agitated state, it was hard to tell whether pleased or angry.

  “Was the D.A.D.M.S. in church?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I had noticed Macfie a few pews in front of where I was sitting.

  “I can’t get any reply from his room. Tell the man on the switch-board to try and find Major Widmerpool and Major Macfie and send them to me – and come along yourself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Pedlar was walking up and down his room.

  “Have you told them to find the D.A.D.M.S.?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s not much we can do until he arrives. A very unfortunate thing’s happened. A tragedy, in fact. Most unpleasant.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The fact is the S.O.P.T.’s hanged himself in the cricket pavilion.”

  “That hut on the sports field, sir?”

  ‘That’s it. The one they lost the key of.”

  Colonel Pedlar continued to stride backwards and forwards across his office.

  ‘There’s nothing much to be done until the D.A.A.G. and the D.A.D.M.S. arrive,” he said.

  “When was this discovered, sir?”

  “Only a short time ago – by a civilian who had to fetch some benches from the place,”

  Colonel Pedlar stopped for a moment. Talking seemed to have relieved his feelings. Then he began to move again.

  “What do you think of the news?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s rather awful, sir. Biggs was in my Mess —”

  “Oh, I don’t mean Biggs,” he said. “Haven’t you seen a paper or heard the wireless this morning? Germany’s invaded Russia.”

  An immediate, overpowering, almost mystic sense of relief took shape within me. I felt suddenly sure everything was going to be all right. This was something quite apart from even the most cursory reflection upon strategic implications involved.

  “I give the Russians three weeks,” said Colonel Pedlar “If you haven’t heard that the German army’s attacked Russia, you probably don’t know General Liddament has been given command of a Corps.”

  “I didn’t, sir.”

  “He left this morning to take over at once.”

  I had never known Colonel Pedlar so talkative. He was no doubt trying to keep his mind off Biggs by imparting all this information, while he wandered about the room,

  “And we’re going to lose our D.A.A.G.”

  “I’d heard he might be leaving, sir.”

  “Though the posting hasn’t come through yet.”

  “No, sir.”

  Colonel Pedlar ceased pacing up and down. He sat in his chair, holding his hand to his head.

  “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “Now what was it?”

  I waited. The Colonel began looking among the papers on his table. More than ever his face was reminiscent of a dog sniffing about for a lost scent. Suddenly he picked it up and took hold of a scrap of paper.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “About your own disposal,”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You were going to the I.T.C.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But I’ve just had this. It should go through the D.A.A.G., of course, but as you’re here, you may as well see it.”

  He handed across a teleprint message. It quoted my name, rank, number, instructing me to report to a room, number also quoted, in the War Office the following week.

  “I don’t know anything about this,” said Colonel Pedlar.

  “Nor me, sir.”

  “Anyway it solves the problem of what’s going to happen to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At that moment, Widmerpool and Macfie came into the room. Macfie looked as glum as ever, if possible, glummer, but Widmerpool’s face showed he had received news of the General’s promotion and departure. His manner to Colonel Pedlar indicated that too, when the Colonel began to outline the circumstances of the suicide.

  “I don’t think Jenkins needs to stay, does he?” Widmerpool asked brusquely.

  “I hardly think he does,” said Pedlar. “You may as well go now. Don’t forget to take necessary action about that signal I passed you.”

  I went back to F Mess. Soper was discussing with Keef what had happened. His heavy simian eyebrows contorted in agitation, he looked more than ever like a professional comedian.

  “A fine kettle of fish,” he said. “Never thought Biggy would have done that. In the cricket pav, of all places, and him so fond of the game. Worrying about that key did it. More than the wife business, in my opinion. Quite a change it will be, not having him grousing about the food every day.”

  That same week the plane was shot down in which Barnby was undertaking a reconnaissance flight with the aim of reporting on enemy camouflage.