“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 …”