The military philosophers (12 page)

‘Is Sunny personally involved?’

‘So it’s believed – though he did not turn up himself at the prison gates.’

‘Is it known who did?’

‘One of them was called Stevens. I believe rather a tough nut, quite young, with an MC. He’s said to have been wounded in the Middle East, and came back to join Farebrother’s show.’

‘Odo Stevens?’

‘I don’t know his first name.’

‘Will they re-arrest Szymanski?’

‘How can they? He’s been disposed of abroad probably. Anyway undergoing training at some secret place.’

‘He’ll be dropped somewhere?’

‘To do something pretty unpleasant, I should imagine.’

‘And the Poles are angry?’

‘Our ones are livid. Can you blame them? I’ve never seen Bobrowski in such a state. It’s understandable. At one end of the scale, our authorities make a great parade of the letter of the Law. The Home Office, if it possibly can, displays its high-mindedness in hampering the smaller Allies from arresting their deserters – they’d be much too afraid to obstruct the Americans or Russians – then a thing like this happens. All we can do is to grin feebly, and say we hope no offence will be taken.’

Although this incident had its being in the half-light encompassing those under-the-counter activities from which Finn liked to keep his Section so rigorously apart, Finn himself, not to mention Pennistone, had to suffer most of the consequences of what had taken place, so far as the Polish authorities were concerned. They were not at all pleased, saying, not without reason, that a serious blow had been struck against discipline. The episode strongly suggested that the British, when it suited them, could carry disregard of all convention to inordinate lengths; indulge in what might be described as forms of military bohemianism of the most raffish sort. Finn was, of course, entirely on the Polish side in thinking that. It was hard that he himself should have to bear most of the brunt of their complaint. The undertaking was no less remarkable in that Farebrother, outwardly so conventional, was prepared to lend himself to such a plot. It was just another view as to how the war should be won; perhaps the right one.

‘A great illusion is that government is carried on by an infallible, incorruptible machine,’ Pennistone said. ‘Officials – all officials, of all governments – are just as capable of behaving in an irregular manner as anyone else. In fact they have the additional advantage of being able to assuage their conscience, if they happen to own one, by assuring themselves it’s all for the country’s good.’

I wondered if Pamela Flitton had known these monkey-tricks were on the way, when she had enquired about Szymanski. Her own exploits continued to be talked about. Clanwaert was the next Ally to mention her. That was a month or two later. We met one evening on the way back to the block of flats. Outwardly, Clanwaert suppressed any indication of the romanticism at which Kucherman had hinted. He had a moustache even larger than Gauthier de Graef’s, and an enormous nose to which it seemed attached, as if both were false. The nose was a different shape from Finn’s, making one think more of Cyrano de Bergerac. Clanwaert used to tap it, in the old-fashioned traditional gesture, when he knew the answer to some question. Like Kucherman, he talked excellent English, though with a thicker, more guttural accent, a habit of spitting all his words out making most of his remarks sound ironic. Perhaps that was intended. I asked if it were true he had fought his first battle in red breeches.

‘Not
red
, my friend – this is important –
amaranthe
. How do you say that in English?’

‘Just the same – amaranth.’

‘That’s the name of a colour?’

‘An English writer named St John Clarke called one of his books
Fields of Amaranth
. It was a novel. The flower is supposed to be unfading in legend. The other name for it in English is Love-lies-bleeding. Much play was made about these two meanings in the story.’

‘Love-lies-bleeding? That’s a strange name. Too good for a pair of breeches.’

‘Not if they were unfading.’

‘Nothing’s unfading, my friend,’ said Clanwaert ‘Nothing in Brussels, at least.’

‘I’ve enjoyed visits there before the war.’

‘It was a different city after ’14-’18. Most places were. That was why I transferred to la Force Publique. I can assure you the Congo was a change from la Porte Louise. For a long time, if you believe me, I was Elephant Officer. Something to hold the attention. I would not mind going back there at the termination of this war. Indeed, one may have no choice – be lucky if one reaches Africa. Nevertheless, there are times when the Blacks get on one’s nerves. One must admit that. Perhaps only because they look at the world in a different manner from us – maybe a wiser one. I shall be writing you another letter about those officers in the Congo who want a share in this war of ours. As I told you before, they feel out of it, afraid of people saying afterwards – “As for you, gentlemen, you were safe in the Congo.” It is understandable. All the same your High Command say they cannot see their way to employ these Congo officers. I understand that too, but I shall be writing you many letters on the subject. You must forgive me. By the way, I met a young lady last night who told me she knew you.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Mademoiselle Flitton.’

‘How was she?’

Clanwaert laughed, evidently aware of the impression the name would make.

‘She told me to remind you of the Pole she mentioned when you last met.’

‘She did?’

‘That was some joke?’

‘Some people thought so. I hope Mademoiselle Flitton is in good Belgian hands now.’

‘I think she has higher aspirations than that.’

Clanwaert laughed, but revealed no secrets. As it turned  the implications of the words were clarified through the agency of the Czechs.

‘Colonel Hlava is an excellent man’ Hewetson had said. ‘More ease of manner than most of his countrymen, some of whom like to emphasize their absolute freedom, as a nation, from the insincere artificialities of social convention. Makes them a bit dour at times. Personally, I find it oils the wheels when there’s a drop of Slovak, Hungarian or Jewish blood. Not so deadly serious.’

‘Hlava’s a flying ace?’

‘With innumerable medals for gallantry in the last war – where he served against the Russians, whom he’s now very pro – not to mention international awards as a test pilot. He is also rather keen on music, which I know nothing about. For example, he asked me the other day if I didn’t get rather tired of Egyptian music. As I’m almost tone deaf, I’d no idea Egypt was in the forefront as a musical country.’

‘Tzigane – gipsy.’

‘I thought he meant belly-dancing,’ said Hewetson. ‘By the way, when you’re dealing with two Allies at once, it’s wiser never to mention one to the other. They can’t bear the thought of your being unfaithful to them.’

It was at one of Colonel Hlava’s musical occasions that the scene took place which showed what Clanwaert had been talking about. This was a performance of
The Bartered Bride
mounted by the Czechoslovak civil authorities in the interests of some national cause. I was not familiar with the opera, but remembered Maclintick and Gossage having a music critics’ argument about Smetana at Mrs Foxe’s party for Moreland’s symphony. No recollection remained of the motif of their dispute, though no doubt, like all musical differences of opinion, feelings had been bitter when aroused. I was invited, with Isobel, to attend
The Bartered Bride
in a more or less official capacity. We sat with Colonel Hlava, his staff and their wives.

‘The heroine is not really a bride, but a fiancée,’ explained Hlava. ‘The English title being not literal for German
Die Verkaufte Braut
.’

In most respects very different from Kucherman, the Czech colonel possessed the same eighteenth-century appearance. Perhaps it would be truer to say Hlava recalled the nineteenth century, because there was a look of Liszt about his head and thick white hair, together with a certain subdued air of belonging to the Romantic Movement. This physical appearance was possibly due to a drop of Hungarian blood – one of the allegedly lubricating elements mentioned by Hewetson – though Hlava himself claimed entirely Bohemian or Moravian origins. Quiet, almost apologetic in manner, he was also capable of firmness. His appointment dated back to before the war, and, during the uncertainties of the immediately post-Munich period, he had armed his staff, in case an effort was made to take over the military attaché’s office by elements that might have British recognition, but were regarded by himself as traitorous. Hlava liked a mild joke and was incomparably easy to work with.

‘Smetana’s father made beer,’ he said. ‘Father wanted son to make beer too, but Smetana instead make Czechoslovak national music.’

These wartime social functions had to take place for a variety of reasons: to give employment: raise money: boost morale. They were rarely very enjoyable. Objection was sometimes aimed at them on the grounds that they made people forget the war. Had such oblivion been attainable, they would, indeed, have provided a desirable form of recuperation. In fact, they often risked additionally emphasizing contemporary conditions, the pursuits of peace, especially the arts, elbowed out of life, being hard to re-establish at short notice. Conversations, on such occasions as this opera, were apt to hover round semi-political or semi-official matters, rather than break away into some aesthetic release.

‘Your other great national composer is, of course, Dvorak.’

‘Dvorik poor man like Smetana. Dvorak’s father poor pork butcher.’

‘But a musical pork butcher?’

‘Played the bagpipes in the mountains,’ said Hlava. ‘Like in Scotland.’

Most of the theatre was occupied with Allied military or civil elements, members of the Diplomatic Corps and people with some stake in Czech organizations. In one of the boxes, Prince Theodoric sat with the Huntercombes and a grey-haired lady with a distinguished air, probably one of his household, a countrywoman in exile. Lord Huntercombe, now getting on in age, was shown in the programme as on the board staging this performance. He was closely connected with many Allied causes and charities, and looked as shrewd as ever. He and Theodoric were wearing dark suits, the grey-haired lady in black – by this stage of the war not much seen – beside Lady Huntercombe, in rather a different role from that implied by her pre-war Gainsborough hats, was formidable in Red Cross commandant’s uniform.

‘Who’s the big man with the white moustache three rows in front?’ asked Isobel.

‘General van Strydonck de Burkel, Inspector-General of the Belgian army and air force – rather a figure.’

The overture began. The curtain had already gone up on the scene of the country fair, when a woman came through one of the doors of the auditorium, paused and looked about her for a moment, then, showing no sign of being embarrassed by her own lateness, made her way to an empty seat beside another woman, in the same row as General van Strydonck, but nearer the middle. In doing this she caused a good deal of disturbance. Several men stood up to let her get by, among them Widmerpool, whom I had not before noticed. It was surprising to see him at a show like this, as he was likely to be working late every night at his particular job. When the lights went on again, he was revealed as being in the company of a youngish major-general. Our party went out during the entr’acte,

‘How unpunctual Miss Flitton is,’ said Isobel.

Pamela Flitton came into the foyer at that moment. She was wearing a bright scarlet coat and skirt, and accompanied by a woman in uniform, Lady McReith, someone I had not seen for the best part of twenty years.

‘She must have blown every coupon she’s got on that outfit.’

‘Or taken them off some poor chap who received a special issue for overseas.’

Apart from hair now iron-grey, very carefully set, Lady McReith remained remarkably unaltered. She was thinner than ever, almost a skeleton, the blue veins more darkly shaded in on her marble skin. She retained her enigmatic air, that disconcerting half-smile that seemed to be laughing at everyone, although at this moment she did not look in the best of humours. Probably she had paid for Pamela’s ticket and was cross at her lateness. If Lady McReith were at the head of a detachment of drivers, she would know about discipline. However, annoyance showed only in her eyes, while she and Pamela stood in a corner watching the crowd. Widmerpool and his general, who was of unknown identity, were behaving as if something important was brewing between them, strolling up and down in a preoccupied manner like men talking serious business, rather than a couple of opera-lovers having a night off duty. On the way back to our seats, we found ourselves next to them in the aisle. Widmerpool, who had met Isobel in the past, peered closely to make sure I was out with my wife, and said good evening. Then he muttered a question under his breath.

‘Do you happen to know the name of the girl in red who came in late? I’ve seen her before. With some Americans at one of Biddle’s big Allied gatherings.’

‘Pamela Flitton.’

‘So that’s Pamela Flitton?’

‘She’s a niece of Charles Stringham’s. You heard he was at Singapore when the Japs moved in?’

‘Yes, yes, poor fellow,’ said Widmerpool.

He made no reference to the fact that he had been in some measure responsible for sending Stringham there, indeed, there was no time to do so before he went back to his seat. During the second entr’acte he did not appear, possibly having left the theatre with his companion. The Huntercombes, who had remained in their box on this earlier opportunity for the audience to stretch its legs, now entered the foyer with Theodoric and the foreign lady. Theodoric, always very conscious of the social demands imposed by royal rank, began to look about him for people to whom it was a requirement to make himself agreeable. No doubt feeling the disfavour Czechs, in principle, affected for persons of high degree had first claim on his good manners, he came over to shake hands with Hlava’s party.

‘How is Colonel Finn? Busy as ever?’