He laid his pipe on his table and extinguished his light. Soon, invisible in his netting, embraced in cloud, soothed and wooed and gently overborne like Hera in the arms of Zeus, he was asleep.
Guy turned down his lantern and lay long awake, cold and aching but not discontented.
He was thinking of this strange faculty of the army of putting itself into order. Shake up a colony of ants and for some minutes all seems chaos. The creatures scramble aimlessly, frantically about; then instinct reasserts itself. They find their proper places and proper functions. As ants, so soldiers.
In the years to come he was to see the process at work again and again, sometimes in grim circumstances, sometimes in pleasant domesticity. Men unnaturally removed from wives and family began at once to build substitute homes, to paint and furnish, to make flower-beds and edge them with white-washed pebbles, to stitch cushion-covers on lonely gun-sites.
He thought, too, about Apthorpe.
Apthorpe had been in his proper element during the building operations.
When his turn had come to be inoculated that first evening he had insisted on waiting until last and had then given the medical officer such an impressive account of the diseases from which he had, from time to time, suffered, of the various inoculations he had undergone and their precise effects, of the warnings he had been given by eminent specialists about the dangers of future inoculations, of idiosyncratic allergies and the like, that the medical officer readily agreed to perform a purely ceremonial injection of quite non-injurious matter.
He was thus in full vigor of mind and was usually to be found in consultation with the Pioneer officer giving sage advice about the siting of camp kitchens in relation to the prevailing wind, or pointing out defects in the guy-ropes.
He had taken advantage of the two days’ mucking-in with the brigade staff to make himself well known to them all. He had discovered an old friendship with a cousin of the brigade major’s. He had done very well indeed.
And yet, Guy thought, and yet there was something rum about him; not “off color”; far from it; gloriously over-colored. It was not anything that could be defined. Just a look in the eye; not even that—an aura. But it was distinctly rum.
So fitfully sleeping and thinking he passed the hours until reveille.
VI
On the fourth afternoon the last tent went up. Across and down the valley, from the castle to the main road, lay the battalion lines, the kitchens, stores, mess-tents, latrines. Much was missing, much had been scamped, but it was ready for occupation. On the morrow the men were due to arrive. That evening the officers assembled in the castle, which for now was the Brigade Headquarters, and the brigadier addressed them:
“Gentlemen,” he began, “tomorrow you meet the men you will lead in battle.”
It was the old, potent spell, big magic. Those two phrases, “the officers who will command you…,” “the men you will lead…,” set the junior officers precisely in their place, in the heart of the battle. For Guy they set swinging all the chimes of his boyhood.
The brigadier continued. It was the first of April, a day which might have provoked him to fun, but he was serious and for once Guy listened with only half his mind. This crowd of officers, many quite strange to him, seemed no longer his proper habitat. In less than forty-eight hours he had made his new, more hallowed home with the Second Battalion and his thoughts were with the men who were coming next day.
The assembly was dismissed and from that moment the brigadier, who until then had been the dominant personality in their lives, became for the time remote. He lived in his castle with his staff. He came and went, to London, to Edinburgh, to the Training Depot, and no one knew why or when. He became the source of annoying, impersonal orders. “Brigade says we have to dig slit trenches…” “Brigade says only a third of the battalion can be absent from camp at any given time…”
“More bumf from Brigade…” That was Ritchie-Hook with his wounds and his escapades; a stupendous warrior shrunk to a mean abstraction—“Brigade.”
Each battalion went to its lines. There were four oil-stoves in the mess-tent now but the evening chill entered the Second Battalion as they sat on the benches to hear Colonel Tickeridge’s list of appointments.
He read slowly: first the headquarters: himself, the second-in-command, the adjutant, all regulars; intelligence-gas-welfare-transport-assistant-adjutant and “general dogsbody,” Sarum-Smith; Headquarter Company: commander, Apthorpe; second-in-command, one of the very young regulars.
This caused a stir of interest. There had been rumors among the temporary officers that one or two of them might be promoted; no one except Apthorpe supposed he might get his own company at this early stage; not even Apthorpe imagined he would be put in command of a regular, however juvenile.
It was a shock, too, to the regulars, who looked at one another askance.
A Company had a regular commander and second-in-command, three temporary officers as platoon commanders. B Company followed the same plan. In C Company Leonard was second-in-command. There were now left Guy, two other temporary officers and one of the cockiest young regulars, named Hayter.
“D Company,” said Colonel Tickeridge. “Commander Major Erskine, who apparently can’t be spared at the moment. He ought to be with us in the next few days. Meanwhile the second-in-command, Hayter, will be in command single-handed. Platoon commanders, de Souza, Crouchback and Jervis.”
It was a bitter moment. At no previous stage in his life had Guy expected success. The very few, very small distinctions that had come to him had all come as a surprise. But in the Halberdiers he had had a sense of well-doing. There had been repeated hints. He had not expected or desired much but he had looked forward rather confidently to promotion of some kind and he had come to want it simply as a sign that he had, in fact, done well in training and that the occasional words of approbation had not been merely “the deference due to age.” Well, now he knew. He was not as bad as Trimmer, not quite as bad as Sarum-Smith, whose appointment was contemptible; he had just scraped through without honors. He should have realized, he saw now, that Leonard was obviously the better man. Moreover he was the poorer man and newly a father; Leonard needed the extra pay that would come eventually with his captaincy. Guy felt no resentment; he was a good loser—at any rate an experienced one. He merely felt a deep sinking of spirit; Sir Roger, maybe, had felt thus when he drew his dedicated sword in a local brawl, not foreseeing that one day he would acquire the odd title of “il Santo Inglese.”
Colonel Tickeridge continued: “Of course all these appointments are just a try-out. We may have a reshuffle later. But they’re the best we can think of at the moment.”
The meeting broke up. The orderly behind the bar busily served pink gins.
“Congratulations, Apthorpe,” said Guy.
“Thanks, old man. I confess I never expected the Headquarter Company. It’s twice the size of any other, you know.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage it very well.”
“Yes, I may have to sit on my 2I.C. a bit.”
“On your what, Apthorpe? Is that a new sort of thunder-box?”
“No, no, no. Second-in-command, of course. You really ought to get the correct terms, you know. It’s the kind of thing they notice higher up. By the way, I think it’s bad luck you didn’t do better. I heard a buzz that one of our batch was going to be a 2I.C. I quite thought that meant you.”
“Leonard’s very efficient.”
“Yes. They know best, of course. Still I’m sorry it wasn’t you. If it’s a bore to move your gear immediately, you can use my tent for tonight.”
“Thanks. I will.”
“But get it clear first thing tomorrow; won’t you, old man?”
It was so cold in the mess-tent that they dined in great-coats. In accordance with regimental custom, Apthorpe and Leonard stood drinks to all.
Several of the temporary officers said: “Bad luck, uncle.” Guy’s reverse seemed to have made h
im more simpatico.
Hayter said: “You’re Crouchback, aren’t you? Have a drink. Time I got to know my little flock. You won’t find me a hard chap to work with, when you’re used to my ways. What did you do in the piping days of peace?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh.”
“What’s Major Erskine like?”
“Brainy. But you’ll get on all right with him if you do what you’re told. He won’t expect anything much of you new chaps at first.”
“What time do the men arrive tomorrow?”
“The brig was shooting rather a line about that. It’s only the old sweats who come tomorrow. The militiamen won’t be here for some days.”
They drank pink gin together and eyed one another without confidence.
“Which are de Souza and Jervis? I ought to have a word with them, too, I suppose.”
That evening when Guy went in for the last time to Apthorpe’s tent, he found his host awake and illuminated.
“Crouchback,” he said, “there’s something I have to say to you. I never want to hear another word about that happening at Southsand. Never. Do you understand? Otherwise I shall have to take action.”
“What sort of action, Apthorpe?”
“Drastic action.”
Rum. Very rum indeed.
VII
Nearly three weeks later there appeared Army Training Memorandum No. 31 War. April 1940. General Ironside commended it with the words: “I direct all commanding officers to ensure that every junior officer is thoroughly examined in the questions set in Part I of this Memorandum and not to rest content until the answers are satisfactory.”
Colonel Tickeridge said: “You chaps had better take a dekko at the A.T.M. this month. It seems to be important for some reason or other.”
There were 143 questions in the tract.
April 21st; the nine o’clock news announced that General Paget was at Lillehammer and that all was going well in Norway. When the news was over, music began. Guy joined de Souza as far from the wireless as possible and in an atmosphere in which the scents of trodden grass and roast beef were subdued by paraffin and hot iron, began to study the “life and death responsibilities of a sub-unit commander.”
“I say, have you acquired—out of your grant—an old motor-car chassis and engine parts to assist M.T. training?”
“No. How many men in your platoon have you earmarked for signalers?”
“None.”
It was like a game of “Happy Families.”
“Can you tell me why camouflage done late is more dangerous than no camouflage at all?”
“I suppose you might get stuck on the wet paint.”
“Are your men’s arrangements for drying their clothes as good as yours?”
“They couldn’t possibly be worse.”
“I say, uncle, have you tested whether your platoon can cook in their mess-tins?”
“Yes. We did it last week.”
“What are the advantages during training of beginning night operations an hour before dawn?”
“They can only last an hour.”
Guy dreamily turned the pages. It was all rather like the advertisement of a correspondence course in Business Efficiency. “How to catch the boss’s eye in five lessons.” “Why didn’t I get promoted?”… But a question here and there set him thinking about the last three weeks.
Are you trying to make yourself competent to take over the job of the next senior man to you?
Guy had no respect for Hayter. He was confident he could now do his job much better than Hayter. Moreover, he had lately learned that when he did take over another job, it would not be Hayter’s.
Major Erskine had arrived on the same day as the militiamen. His “braininess” was not oppressive. The imputation derived chiefly from the facts that he read Mr. J. B. Priestley’s novels, and was strangely disheveled in appearance. His uniform was correct and clean but it never seemed to fit him, not through any fault of the tailor’s, but rather because the major seemed to change shape from time to time during the day. One moment his tunic seemed too long, the next, too short. His pockets were too full. His anklets got twisted. He was more like a Sapper than a Halberdier. But he and Guy got on well together. Major Erskine did not talk much, but when he did it was with great simplicity and frankness.
One evening when Hayter had been more cocky than usual, Major Erskine and Guy walked back together from the company lines to the mess.
“That little tick wants his bottom kicked,” said Major Erskine. “I think I shall kick it. Good for him and pleasant for me.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
Major Erskine then said: “I shouldn’t talk to you like that about your superior officer. Did anyone ever tell you why you’re only commanding a platoon, uncle?”
“No, I didn’t think any explanation necessary.”
“They ought to have. You see, you were down for a company. Then the brig said he wouldn’t have anyone commanding a fighting company who hadn’t had a platoon first. I see his point. Headquarters is different. Old Uncle Apthorpe will stay there until he becomes D.A.Q.M.G. or something wet like that. None of the temporary officers who’ve started high will ever get a rifle company. You will, before we go into action, unless you blot your copy-book in a pretty sensational way. I thought I’d tell you, in case you felt depressed about it.”
“I did rather.”
“Yes, I thought as much.”
Who runs the platoon—you or your platoon sergeant?
Guy’s platoon sergeant was named Soames. Guy ran the platoon, but not in easy cooperation. Sergeant Soames wore his mustache in a gangster’s cut. There was a great deal in him that reminded Guy of Trimmer.
How many men have you earmarked in your mind as possible candidates for a commission?
One. Sergeant Soames. Guy had done more than earmark him in his mind. He had presented a slip of paper bearing Sergeant Soames’s name, number and history, to Major Erskine at the Company Office some days ago.
Major Erskine had said: “Yes, I can’t blame you. I have this morning sent in Hayter’s name as an officer suitable for special training in Air Liaison, whatever Air Liaison may be. I expect it means he will be a full colonel in a year. Now you want to make Soames an officer just because he’s a nasty bit of work. Jolly sort of army we’re going to have in two years’ time when all the shits have got to the top.”
“But Soames won’t come back to us if he’s commissioned.”
“That’s exactly why I’m sending his name up. The same with Hayter, if he gets through his course on whatever it is.”
How many of your men do you know by name and what do you know of their characters?
Guy knew every name. The difficulty was to identify them. Each had three faces: an inhuman and rather hostile mask when he stood at attention; a vivacious and variable expression, mostly clownish, sometimes furious, sometimes heartsore, as he saw the men amongst themselves off duty, going to the N.A.A.F.I. or arguing in the company lines; and thirdly, a guarded but on the whole amiable grin when he spoke to them personally at these times or at stand-easies. Most English gentlemen at this time believed that they had a particular aptitude for endearing themselves to the lower classes. Guy was not troubled by this illusion, but he believed he was rather liked by these particular thirty men. He did not greatly care. He liked them. He wished them well. He did well by them so far as his limited knowledge of “the ropes” allowed. He was perfectly ready, should need arise, to sacrifice himself for them—throw himself on a grenade, give away the last drop of water—anything like that. But he did not distinguish between them as human beings, any more or less than he did between his brother officers; he preferred Major Erskine to the young man, Jervis, with whom he now shared a tent; he nursed a respect and slight suspicion for de Souza. For his platoon and company and battalion and for all Halberdiers everywhere he had a warmer sentiment than for anyone outside his family. It was not much but it was something to thank God
for.
And at the very opening of this heterogeneous catechism stood the question that was quintessential to his very presence among those unchosen companions.
What are we fighting for?
The Training Memorandum mentioned with shame that many private soldiers had been found to entertain hazy ideas on the subject. Could Box-Bender have given a clear answer? Guy wondered. Could Ritchie-Hook? Had he any idea what all this biffing was for? Had General Ironside himself?
Guy believed he knew something of this matter that was hidden from the mighty.
England had declared war to defend the independence of Poland. Now that country had quite disappeared and the two strongest states in the world guaranteed her extinction. Now General Paget was at Lillehammer and it was announced that all was going well. Guy knew things were going badly. They had no well-informed friends, here in Penkirk, they had access to no intelligence files, but the smell of failure had been borne to them from Norway on the east wind.
Guy thought of this as he lay in his tent that night. He clasped Gervase’s medal as he said his night prayers. And, just before sleep, came a personal comforting thought. However inconvenient it was for the Scandinavians to have Germans there, it was very nice for the Halberdiers. They had been assigned their special role of Hazardous Offensive Operations, but until last month there seemed little opportunity for playing it. Now a whole new coastline was open for biffing.
VIII
On the day that Mr. Churchill became Prime Minister, Apthorpe was promoted Captain.
He had been forewarned by the adjutant and his servant was standing by in the Headquarter Company’s office. As the first note of Battalion orders sounded from the orderly room—before the cyclostyled sheets announcing the appointment had been collected, much less distributed—Apthorpe’s pips were up. The rest of the forenoon passed in solemn ecstasy. He sauntered round the transport lines, called on the medical officer, ostensibly to inquire about a tonic he thought he needed, he flushed the quartermaster drinking tea in his store, but no one seemed to notice the new constellation. He was content to bide.