“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.