‘Big crowd?’
‘Pretty big.’
‘Dull day for an affair like that.’
‘Very dull.’
‘How did the King look.’
‘I was too far away to sec.*
‘All your foreigners?’
‘Yes.’
Later in the afternoon I took some letters up to Finn for signature. He was sitting in his chair looking straight ahead of him.
‘I got that fish.’
‘You did, sir?’
‘Home and dry.’
‘A great relief?’
Finn nodded.
‘Did I tell you David Pennistone is going to join our Paris firm?’ he said.
Pennistone, though he would not reveal before he left what his post-war plans were, had said they would make me laugh when I heard them.
‘I think the work will appeal to him,’ said Finn. ‘He wants a change. Tired of all that…’
He paused, searching for the right word.
‘Liaison?’
‘No, no,’ said Finn. ‘I don’t mean his work here. All that… philosophy.’
He smiled at the absurdity of the concept.
‘Any idea what you’re going to do yourself when you get out of uniform, Nicholas?’
I outlined a few possibilities. Even on my own ears, they sounded grotesque figments of a fevered imagination. Finn accepted them apparently; anyway for what they were worth. I excused myself by adding that the whole idea of starting up all that sort of thing again after six years seemed strange enough.
‘Remember Borrit?’ asked Finn.
It already seemed a hundred years since Borrit had been with the Section, but I admitted his image faintly lingered on. Finn pushed back his chair. He spoke slowly.
‘Borrit told me when he was serving on the Gold Coast, one of the Africans said to him: “What is it white men write at their desks all day?” ’
Finn nodded his head several times.
‘It’s a question I’ve often asked myself,’ he said. ‘Ah, well. Let’s see those files, Nicholas.’
Just before my own release was due, I went to take formal leave of General Philidor, whose staff by this time lived in one of the streets off Grosvenor Square. I looked in on Kernével’s room on the way out, but he was not at home. Then, when I reached the pavement outside, someone shouted from a top storey window. It was Kernével himself.
‘Wait a moment — I’m coming down.’
I returned to the hall. Kernével came clattering down the stairs. Travelling at high speed, he was red in the face.
‘Some wine’s arrived from France. Come and have a glass. We’re in one of the upper rooms.’
We climbed the stairs. I told him this was probably the last time we should meet officially.
‘You know that French writer you spoke about? Something to do with a plage — in Normandie?’
‘Proust?’
‘That’s the one. I’ve been into it about him. He’s not taught in the schools.’
Kernével looked severe. He implied that the standards of literature must be kept high. We reached a room on the top floor with which I was not familiar. Borda, Kernével’s assistant — who came from Roussillon and afterwards married an English girl — was there, with a French captain called Montsaldy, who seemed responsible for the wine. There were several bottles. It was a red Bordeaux, soft and fruity after the Algerian years. We talked about demobilization.
‘It is true your army gives you a suit of clothes when you retire?’ asked Borda.
‘More than just a suit — shirt, tie, vest, pants, socks, shoes, hat, mackintosh.’
‘Some of the uniform I wore in North Africa will do for civilian life, I think,’ said Borda. ‘In the hot weather.’
‘I carried tropical uniform in the other war,’ said Montsaldy, who looked a grizzled fifty. ‘It wears out quickly.’
‘Me, too,’ said Kernével. ‘Tropical uniform always makes me think of Leprince. He was a big fellow in our platoon. Ah, Leprince, c’était un lapin. What a fellow. We used to call him le prince des cons. That man was what you call well provided. I remember we were being inspected one day by a new officer. As I say, we were in tropical uniform. The major came to the end of the line where Leprince stood. He pointed to Leprince. “A quoi, cet homme?’”
Kernével jumped to attention and saluted, as if he were the platoon sergeant.
‘ “C’est son sexe, mon commandant.”
“C’est dégoûtant!” ’
Kernével made as if to march on, now acting the outraged major.
‘He was an old fellow,’ he said, ‘white haired and very religious.’
We all laughed.
‘Borda’s blushing,’ said Kernével. ‘He’s going to be married quite soon.’
That was the last time Kernével and I met in uniform, but we used to see each other occasionally afterwards, because he continued to work in London. Indeed, we shared a rather absurd incident together a few years after the war was over. Kernével had been awarded an MBE for his work with us, but for some reason, the delay probably due to French rather than British red tape, this decoration did not ‘come through’ for a long time. Kernével, at last told by his own authorities he could accept the order, was informed by ours that it would be presented by the CIGS; not, of course, the same one who had held the post during the war. Kernével, also notified that he might bring a friend to witness the ceremony, invited me to attend. We were taken to the Army Council Room — Vasassor, too, seemed by now to have faded away — where it turned out the investiture consisted of only half-a-dozen recipients, of whom Kernével was the only Frenchman. When the citations were read out, it appeared the rest had performed prodigies of bravery. There were two Poles, an American, an Australian and a New Zealander, perhaps one or two more, all equally distinguished operationally, but whose awards had for one reason or another been deferred. The Field-Marshal now CIGS — again not the one whose Tactical HQ we had visited — was a very distinguished officer, but without much small talk. Huge, impressive, serieux to a degree, he was not, so it appeared, greatly at ease in making the appropriate individual remark when the actual medal was handed out. Before this was done, an officer from the Military Secretary’s branch read aloud each individual citation:
‘In the face of heavy enemy fire … total disregard for danger … although already twice wounded … managed to reach the objective … got through with the message … brought up the relief in spite of … silenced the machine-gun nest…’
Kernével came last.
‘Captain Kernével,’ announced the MS officer.
He paused for a second, then slightly changed his tone of voice.
‘Citation withheld for security reasons.’
For a moment I was taken by surprise, almost immediately grasping that a technicality of procedure was involved. Liaison duties came under ‘Intelligence’, which included all sorts of secret activities; accordingly, ‘I’ awards were automatically conferred without citation. It was one of those characteristic regulations to which the routine of official life accustoms one. However, the CIGS heard the words with quite other reactions to these. Hitherto, as I have said, although perfectly correct and dignified in his demeanour, his cordiality had been essentially formal, erring if anything on emphasis of the doctrine that nothing short of unconditional courage is to be expected of a soldier. These chronicles of the brave had not galvanized him into being in the least garrulous. Now, at last, his face changed and softened. He was deeply moved. He took a step forward. A giant of a man, towering above Kernével, he put his hand round his shoulder.