I went quickly up the stairs to Greening’s room. He was asleep. I shook him until he was more or less awake. Greening was used to that sort of thing. He jumped out of bed as if it were a positive pleasure to put an end to sleep, be on the move again. I gave him the General’s orders, then returned to the Defence Platoon in the loft. They were considerably less willing than Greening to be disturbed. In fact there was a lot of grousing. Not long after that the Movement Order was issued. Advance Headquarters set off to a new location. This was the kind of thing General Liddament thoroughly enjoyed, unexpected circumstances that required immediate action. Possibly, in its minuscule way, my own case had suggested itself to him in some such terms.
“They do never want us to have no sleep,” said Sergeant-Major Harmer, “but at least it’s all on the way home.”
The Blue Force was held in check before the time limits of the exercise ran out. In short, the battle was won. It was nearly morning when Advance Headquarters were again ordered to move, this time in preparation for our return to base. We were on this occasion brought, contrary to habit in such manoeuvres, into direct contact with our own Rear Headquarters; both branches of the staff being assembled together in a large farm building, cowshed or barn, waiting there while transport arrangements went forward. It was here that the episode took place which so radically altered Widmerpool’s attitude towards Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.
Cars and trucks were being marshalled along a secondary road on the other side of a ploughed field on which drizzle was falling. A short time earlier, a message had come through from base stating that the raid during the night had done damage that would affect normal administration on return to the town. Accordingly, Colonel Pedlar had driven back at once to arrange any modification of routine that might be required. Colonel Pedlar’s presence with the rest of the staff could possibly, though by no means certainly, have provided a buffer between Widmerpool and Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. As things fell out, those two came into direct impact just before we moved off. Widmerpool, with the two other officers who normally shared the same staff car, was about to leave the cowshed where we were hanging about, sleepless and yawning, when Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson came suddenly through the doorway. He was clearly very angry, altogether unable to control the rage surging up within him. Even for a professionally bad-tempered man, he was in a notably bad temper. “Where’s the D.A.A.G.?” he shouted at the top of his voice.
Widmerpool came forward with that serious, self-important air of his, which, always giving inadequate impression of his own capabilities, was often calculated to provoke irritation in people he dealt with, even if not angry already.
“Here I am, sir.”
Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson turned on Widmerpool as jf he were about to strike him.
“What the bloody hell do you think of yourself?” he asked, still speaking very loudly.
“Sir?”
Widmerpool was not in the least prepared at that moment for such an onslaught. Only a few minutes before he had been congratulating himself aloud on how successfully had gone his share of the exercise. Now he stood staring at Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson in a way that was bound to make matters worse rather than better.
“Traffic circuits!” shouted Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. “What in God’s name have you done about them? Don’t you know that’s a D.A.A.G.’s job? I suppose you don’t. You’re not fit to organise an outing for a troop of Girl Guides in the vicarage garden. Divisional Headquarters has been ordered to move back to base forthwith. Are you aware of that?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“You’ve read the Movement Order? Have you got as far as that?”
“Of course, sir.”
“And made appropriate arrangements?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why is the Medium Field Regiment coming in at right angles across our route? That’s not all. It has just been reported to me that Divisional Signals, and all their technical equipment, are being held up at another crossroads half a mile up the same road by the Motor Ambulance Convoy making a loop and entering the main traffic artery just ahead of them.”
“I talked with the D.A.P.M. about distributory roads, Sir” began Widmerpool.
“I don’t want to hear who you talked to,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, his voice rising quite high with fury. “I want an immediate explanation of the infernal muddle your incompetence has made.”
If Widmerpool were not allowed to mention recommendations put forward by Keef, Captain Commanding Military Police at Div. H.Q., also to some extent responsible for traffic control, it was obviously impossible for him to give a clear picture of what arrangements had been made for moving the column back. Brigadier Hawkins used to advocate two sovereign phrases for parrying dissatisfaction or awkward interrogation on the part of a superior: “I don’t know, sir, I’ll find out,” and its even more potent alternative: “the officer/man in question has been transferred to another unit.” On this occasion, neither of those great international army formulae of exorcism were applicable. Matters were in any case too urgent. For once, those powerful twin spells were ineffective. However, Widmerpool, as it turned out, could do far better than fall back on such indecisive rubric, however magical, to defend his own position. He possessed chapter and verse. Instead of answering at once, he allowed Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson to fume, while he himself drew from the breast pocket of his battle-dress blouse a fat little notebook. After glancing for a second or two at one of its pages, he looked up again, and immediately began to recite a detailed account of troop movements, unit by unit, throughout the immediate area of Divisional activities.
“… Medium Field Regiment proceeding from … on the move at … must have reached … in fact, sir, should already have passed that point on the road twenty minutes ago … Motor Ambulance Convoy … shouldn’t be anywhere near the Royal Signals route … proceeding to base via one of the minor roads parallel to and south of our main body … I’ll show you on the map in a second, sir … only thing I can think of is some trouble must have occurred on that narrow iron bridge crossing the canal. That bridge wasn’t built for heavy traffic. I’ll send a D.R. right away …”
These details showed commendable knowledge of local transport conditions. Widmerpool recapitulated a lot more in the same vein, possessing apparently the movement-tables of the entire Division, an awareness that certainly did him credit as D.A.A.G. The information should have satisfied Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson that, whatever else could have happened, Widmerpool, at least on the face of it, was not to blame for any muddle that might have taken place. However, Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson was in no state of mind to give consideration to any such possibility; nor, indeed, to look at the problem, or anything else, in the light of reason. There was something to be said for this approach. It is no good being too philosophical about such questions as a column of troops in a traffic jam. Action is required, not explanation. Such action may have to transcend reason. Historical instances would not be difficult to find. That concept provided vindication for Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson’s method, hard otherwise to excuse.
“You’ve made a disgraceful mess of things,” he said. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I know we have to put up these days with a lot of amateur staff officers who’ve had little or no experience, and possess even less capacity for learning the A.B.C. of military affairs. Even so, we expect something better than this. Off you go now and find out immediately what’s happened. When you’ve done so, report back to me. Look sharp about it.”
Widmerpool’s face had gone dark red. It was an occasion as painful to watch as the time when Budd had hit him between the eyes full-pitch with an overripe banana; or that moment, even more portentous, when Barbara Goring poured sugar over his head at a ball. Under the impact of those episodes, Widmerpool’s bearing had indicated, under its mortification, masochistic acceptance of the assault — ”that slavish look” Peter Templer had noted on the day of the banana. Under Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson’s tirade, Widmerpool’s demeanour proclaimed no such thing. Perhaps that was simply because Hogbourne-Johnson was not of sufficiently high rank, in comparison with Budd (then captain of the Eleven), not a person of any but local and temporary importance in the eyes of someone like Widmerpool, who thought big — in terms of the Army Council and beyond — while Barbara had invoked a passion in him which placed masochism in love’s special class. All the same, the difference is worth recording.