The Soldier's Art (4 page)

All the same,
although the soldier might abnegate thought and action, it has never been
suggested that he should abnegate grumbling. There seemed no reason why I
alone, throughout the armies of the world, should not be allowed to feel that
military life owed me more stimulating duties, higher rank, increased pay,
simply because the path to such ends was by no means clear. Even if Widmerpool
left Divisional Headquarters for what he himself used to call “better things,”
my own state, so far from improving, would almost certainly be worsened. The
Battalion, made up to strength with a flow of young officers increasingly
available, would no longer require my services as platoon commander, still less
be likely to offer a company. Indeed, those services, taking them all in all,
were not to be exaggerated in value to a unit set on streamlining its
efficiency. I was prepared to admit that myself. On the other hand, without
ordination by way of the War Intelligence Course, or some similar apostleship,
there was little or no likelihood of capturing an appointment here or on any
other staff. For a course of that sort I should decidedly not be recommended so
long as Widmerpool found me useful When, for one reason or another, that
subjective qualification ceased to be valid – when, for example, Widmerpool
went to “better things” – it looked like pretty certain relegation to the
Regiment’s Infantry Training Centre, a fate little to be desired, and one
unlikely to lead to name and fame. Widmerpool himself was naturally aware of
these facts. Once, in an expansive mood, he had promised to arrange a future
preferable to assignment – as an object to be won, rather than as a competitor
– to the lucky-dip provided by an I.T.C.

“I look after
people who’ve been under me,” Widmerpool said, in the course of cataloguing
some of his own good qualities. “I’ll see you get fixed up in a suitable job
when I move up the ladder myself. That shouldn’t be long now, I opine. At very
least I’ll get you sent on a course that will make you eligible for the right
sort of employment. Don’t worry, my boy, I’ll keep you in the picture.”

That was a
reasonable assurance in the circumstances, and, I felt, not undeserved. “Putting
you in the picture,” that relentlessly iterated army phrase, was a special
favourite of Widmerpool’s. He had used it when, on my first arrival at
Headquarters, he had sketched in for me the characteristics of the rest of the
Divisional staff. Widmerpool had begun with General Liddament himself.

“Those dogs on
a lead and that hunting horn stuck in the blouse of his battle-dress are pure
affectation,” he said. “Come near to being positively undignified in my
opinion. Still, of the fifteen thousand men in the Division, I can think of
only one other fit to command it “

“Who is?”

“Modesty
forbids my naming him.”

Widmerpool
allowed some measure of jocularity to invest his tone when he said that, which
increased, rather than diminished, the impression that he spoke with complete
conviction. The fact was he rather feared the General. That was partly on
account of General Liddament’s drolleries, some of which were indeed hard to
defend; partly because, when in the mood, the Divisional Commander liked to
tease his officers. Widmerpool did not like being teased. The General was not,
I think, unaware of Widmerpool’s qualities as an efficient, infinitely
industrious D.A.A.G., while at the same time laughing at him as a man. In this
Widmerpool was by no means his only victim. Generals are traditionally
represented as stupid men, sometimes with good reason; though Pennistone, when
he talked of such things later, used to argue that the pragmatic approach of
the soldier in authority – the basis of much of this imputation – is required
by the nature of military duties. It is an approach which inevitably
accentuates any individual lack of mental flexibility, an ability, in itself,
to be found scarcely more among those who have risen to eminence in other
vocations; anyway when operating outside their own terms of reference. In
General Liddament, so I was to discover, this pragmatic approach, even if
paramount, was at the same time modified by notable powers of observation. A
bachelor, devoted to his profession, he was thought to have a promising future
ahead of him. Earlier in the war he had been wounded in action with a battalion,
a temporary disability that probably accounted for his not already holding a
command in the field.

When the
General himself was present, Widmerpool was prepared to dissemble his feelings
about the two attendant dogs (he disliked all animals), which could certainly
become a nuisance when their double-leashed lead became entangled between the
legs of staff officers and their clerks in the passages of Headquarters. All
the same, Widmerpool was not above saying “wuff-wuff” to the pair of them, if
their owner was in earshot, which he would follow up by giving individual,
though unconvincing, pats of encouragement.

“Thank God,
the brutes aren’t allowed out on exercise,” he said. “At least the General
draws the line there. I think Hogbourne-Johnson hates them as much as I do. Now
Hogbourne-Johnson is a man you must take care about. He is bad-tempered,
unreliable, not more than averagely efficient and disliked by all ranks,
including the General. However, I can handle him.”

Hogbourne-Johnson,
a full colonel with red tabs, was in charge of operational duties, the staff
officer who represented the General in all routine affairs. A Regular,
decorated with an M.C. from the previous war, he was tall, getting decidedly
fat, with a small beaky nose set above a pouting mouth turning down at the
corners. He somewhat resembled an owl, an angry, ageing bird, recently baulked
of a field-mouse and looking about for another small animal to devour. The M.C.
suggested that he was presumably a brave man, or, at very least, one who had
experienced enough active service to make that term almost beside the point.
Widmerpool acknowledged these earlier qualities.

“Hogbourne-Johnson’s
had a disappointing career up to date,” he said. “Unrealised early hopes. At
least that’s his own opinion. Sword of Honour at Sandhurst, all that sort of
thing. Then he made a balls-up somewhere – in Palestine, I think – just before
the war. However, he hasn’t by any means given up. Still thinks he’ll get a
Division. If he asked me, I could tell him he’s bound for some administrative
backwater, and lucky if he isn’t bowler-hatted before the cessation of
hostilities. The General’s going to get rid of him as soon as he can lay hands
on the particular man he wants.”

“But the
General could sack him to-morrow.”

“For some
reason it doesn’t suit him to do that. Hogbourne-Johnson is also given to
putting on a lot of swank about being a Light Infantryman. To tell the truth, I’m
surprised any decent Line regiment could put up with him. They might at least
have taught him not to announce himself to another officer on the telephone as ‘
Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson.’ I know Cocksidge says, ‘This
is
Captain
Cocksidge speaking,’ if he’s talking to a subaltern. You expect that from
Cocksidge. Hogbourne-Johnson is supposed to know better. The C.R.A. doesn’t
say, ‘This is
Brigadier
Hawkins,’ he says ‘Hawkins here.’ However, I suppose I shouldn’t grumble. I can
manage the man. That’s the chief thing. If he hasn’t learnt how to behave by
now, he never will.”

All this
turned out to be a pretty just description of Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson and his
demeanour, from which in due course I saw no reason to dissent. The army is a
place where simple characterisation flourishes. An officer or man is able,
keen, well turned out; or awkward, idle, dirty. He is popular or detested. In
principle, at any rate, few intermediate shades of colour are allowed to the
military spectrum. To some extent individuals, by the very force of such
traditional methods of classification, fall into these hard and fast categories.
Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson was one of the accepted army types, disappointed,
sour, on the look-out for trouble; except by his chief clerk, Diplock, not much
loved. On the other hand, although he may have had his foolish moments as well
as his disagreeable ones, Hogbourne-Johnson was not a fool. Where Widmerpool,
as it turned out, made a mistake, was in supposing he had Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson eating out of his hand. The Colonel’s failings, such as they
were, did not include total lack of grasp of what Widmerpool himself was like
in his dealings. Indeed, Hogbourne-Johnson showed comparatively deep
understanding of Widmerpool eventually, when the titanic row took place about
Diplock, merging – so far as Widmerpool and Hogbourne-Johnson were concerned – into
the question of who was to command the Divisional Reconnaissance Regiment.

The
Reconnaissance Unit, then in process of generation, was one in which Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson took a special interest from the start, though not an
entirely friendly interest.

“These Recce
fellows are doing no more than we Light Bobs used to bring off on our flat
feet,” he would remark. “Nowadays they want a fleet of armoured vehicles for
their blasted operations and no expense spared. There’s a lot of damned
nonsense talked about this so-called Recce Battalion.”

The
Reconnaissance Corps – as in due course it emerged – was indeed, on first
coming into being, a bone of considerable contention among the higher
authorities. Some pundits thought like Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson; others, just
the opposite. One aspect of the question turned on whether the Recce Corps – to
some extent deriving in origin from the Anti-tank Companies of an earlier phase
of the war – should be used as a convenient limbo for officers, competent, but judged,
for one reason or another, less than acceptable in their parent unit; or, on
the other hand, whether the Corps should be moulded into one of the Elites of
the army, having its pick of the best officers and men available. Yanto Breeze,
for example, of my former Battalion, had transferred to an Anti-tank Company
after the never-explained death – suicide or murder –  of Sergeant Pendry.
Breeze had been implicated only to the extent of being Orderly Officer that
night, sufficient contact – bringing
the unpleasantness of a Court of Inquiry – to make him want to leave the
Battalion. A good, though not particularly ornamental officer, he was felt to
be entirely
suitable for the Anti-tank Company. Adherents of a more stylish Recce Corps
might, rightly or wrongly, have required rather more outward distinction from
their officer in-take than Breeze could show. That was much how things stood.
The whole question also appealed greatly to Widmerpool, both as an amateur
soldier in relation to tactical possibilities, and, as a professional
trafficker in intrigue, a vehicle offering all sorts of opportunity for
personal interference.

“Hogbourne-Johnson
is playing a double game about the Recce Corps,” he said. “I happen to know
that. The Divisional Commander is very keen on this new unit. The Generals at
Corps and Command, on the other hand, are neither of them enthusiastic on the
subject, not helpful about speeding things up. Hogbourne-Johnson thinks – in my
opinion rightly – that General Liddament plans to get rid of him. Accordingly,
he is doing his best to suck up to the other two Generals by backing their
policy. He’ll then expect help if relieved of his appointment”

“Like the
Unjust Steward.”

“Who was he?”

“In the Bible.”

“I thought you
meant an officer of that name.”

“The one who
said write ten, when it ought to have been fifty.”

“There’s
nothing unjust about it,” said Widmerpool, always literal-minded. “Naturally
Hogbourne-Johnson has to obey his own Divisional Commander’s orders. I do not
for a moment suggest he is overstepping the bounds of discipline. After all,
Recce developments are a matter of opinion. A regular officer of his standing
has a perfect right to hold views. However, what our General would not be specially pleased to hear is that Hogbourne-Johnson is
also moving heaven and earth to get a friend from his own regiment appointed to
this new unit’s command.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I too have my candidate.”

“To command
the Recce Corps?”

“Going into
the matter, I discovered Hogbourne-Johnson’s tracks. However, I can circumvent
him.”

Widmerpool
smiled and nodded in a manner to indicate extreme slyness.

“Who?”

“No one you
would have met. An excellent officer of my acquaintance called Victor Upjohn.
Knew him as a Territorial. First-rate man.”

“Won’t they
appoint a cavalryman, in spite of Hogbourne-Johnson and yourself?”

“They’ll
appoint my infantryman – and be glad of him.”

“If the
General is likely to be annoyed about Hogbourne-Johnson messing about behind
his back as to appointments to command in his Division, he’ll be even less
pleased to find you at the same game.”

“He won’t find
out. Neither will Hogbourne-Johnson. Upjohn will simply be gazetted. In the
meantime, so far as it goes, I am prepared to play ball with Hogbourne-Johnson
up to a point. After all, if I know the right man to command the Recce Corps,
it’s surely my duty to get him there.”

There was
something to be said for this view. If you want your own way in the army, or
elsewhere, it is no good following the rules too meticulously, a canon all
great military careers – and most civil ones – abundantly illustrate. What
Widmerpool had not allowed for, as things turned out, was a sudden
deterioration of his own relations with Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. No doubt one
reason for his assurance about that, in spite of the Colonel’s uncertain
temper, was that most of Widmerpool’s dealings were with his own immediate
superior, Colonel Pedlar, so less likelihood of friction existed in the other
more explosive quarter. Naturally he was in touch with Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson
from time to time, but there was no day-to-day routine, during which
Hogbourne-Johnson was likely, sooner or later, to make himself disagreeable as
a matter of principle.