The Soldier's Art (9 page)

“Wouldn’t you
like to know,” was all he replied, adding to the table in general, “Suppose if
I complain about the washing up, we’ll just be told there’s not enough water.”

The raid that
had taken place while we were on the Command exercise had damaged one of the
local mains, so that F Mess was suffering from a water shortage; produced as
excuse for every inadequacy in the kitchen.

“What do you
say, Doc?” said Biggs, turning in the other direction. “Couldn’t you do with a
nice cut of rump steak with a drop of blood on it? I know I could. Makes my
mouth water, the thought. I’d just about gobble it up.”

Macfie,
D.A.D.M.S., a regular Royal Army Medical Corps major, who had seen some pre-war
service in India, gaunt, glum, ungenial, rarely spoke at meals or indeed at any
other time. Now, glancing at Biggs with something like aversion, he
made no answer beyond jerking his head slightly a couple of times before
returning to the typewritten report he was thumbing over.
No
one among the two or three others
at the table seemed any more disposed to comment.

“Come on, Doc,
give the V.D. stats a rest at mealtimes,” said Biggs, who
had perhaps drunk more beer than usual before dinner. “God, I’m looking forward
to some grub. Feel as empty as a bloody drum.”

He began
stamping his feet loudly on the bare boards of the floor, at the same time
banging with his clenched fists on the table.

“Buck up,
waiter!” he shouted. “When are we going to get something to eat, you slow bugger?”

“I want to
swop night duty to-morrow,” said Soper. “Take it on, Jenkins?”

“Mine’s next
Friday.”

“That’ll do
me.”

“They won’t
change the system again?”

“I’ll act for
you even if they do.”

“O.K.”

Soper had
caught me out once on a reorganised Duty Roster, avoiding my turn for night
duty as well as his own. He was sharp on matters of that kind. I did not want
to fall for a second confidence trick. Biggs ceased his tattoo on the surface
of the table.

“Couldn’t get
a bloody staff car all day,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to put in a report to
A. & Q.”

“Fat lot of
good that would do,” said Soper,

He seemed
satisfied now the fork was fairly clean, replacing it by the side of his plate.
A spoon now attracted his attention.

“Organising
that bloody boxing next week’s going to be a bugger,” said Biggs. “Don’ t have
an easy life like you, Sopey, you old sod. driving round the units in state and
tasting the sea-pie and Bisto. Hope this bloody beef isn’t as tough to-night as
it was yesterday. I’ll be after you, Sopey, if it is. God, what a day it’s
been. A. & Q. on my tail all the time about that bloody boxing, and Colonel
H.-J. giving me the hell of a rocket about a lot of training pamphlets I’d
never heard of. He came through on the blower after I’d locked the safe and was
looking forward to downing a pint. I’m just about brassed off, I can tell you.
Went to see Bithel of the Mobile Laundry this afternoon. He’s a funny bugger,
if ever there was one. We had a pint together all the same. He soaks up that
porter pretty easy. It was about one of his chaps that’s done a bit of boxing.
Might represent Div. H.Q., if he’s the right weight. We could win that boxing
compo, you know. That would put me right with Colonel H.-J. Command’s best
welterweight had a bomb dropped on him in the blitz the other night, when they
hit the barracks. Gives us a chance.”

Plates of meat
were handed round by a waiter.

“Potatoes,
sir?”

I was thinking
of other things; thinking, to be precise, that I could do with a bottle of
wine, then and there, however rough or sour. The Mess waiter was holding a dish
towards me. I took a potato; then, for some reason, looked up at him. His
enquiry, though quietly made, had penetrated incisively into these fantasies of
the grape, cutting a neat channel, as it were, through both vinous daydreams
and a powerful conversational ambience generated by Biggs in his present mood.
I glanced at the waiter’s face for a second, then looked away, feeling, as I
took a second potato, faintly, indeterminately uneasy. The soldier was tall and
thin, about my own age apparently, with a pale, washed-out complexion, high
forehead, dark hair receding at the temples and slightly greying. Bloodshot
eyes, with dark, bluish rims, were alive, but gave at the same time an
impression of poor health, this vitiated look increased by
the fact of a battle-dress blouse with a collar too big in circumference for a
long thin neck. I replaced the spoon in the potato dish, still aware of a
certain inner discomfort.
The waiter moved on to Biggs, who took four potatoes, examining each in turn,
as, one after another, they rolled on to his plate, splashing gravy on the
cloth. I followed the waiter with my eyes, while he offered the dish to Macfie.

“Spuds
uneatable again,” said Biggs. “Like bloody golf balls. They haven’t been done
long enough. That’s all about it. Here, waiter, tell the chef, with my
compliments, that he bloody well doesn’t know how to cook water.”

“I will, sir.”

“And he can
stick these spuds up his arse.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Repeat to him
just what I’ve said.”

“Certainly,
sir.”

“Where’s he to
stick the spuds?”

“Up his arse,
sir.”

“Bugger off
and tell him.”

So far as
cooking potatoes went, I was wholly in agreement with Biggs. However, purely
gastronomic considerations were submerged in confirmation of a preliminary
impression; an impression upsetting, indeed horrifying, but correct. There
could no longer be any doubt of that. What I had instantaneously supposed, then
dismissed as inconceivable, was, on closer examination, no longer to be denied.
The waiter was Stringham. He was about to go through to the kitchen to deliver
Bigg’s message to the cook, when Soper stopped him.

“Half a tick,”
said Soper. “Who laid the table?”

“I did, sir.”

“Where’s the
salt?”

“I’ll get some
salt, sir.”

“Why didn’t
you put any salt out?”

“I’m afraid I
forgot, sir.”

“Don’t forget
again.”

“I’ll try not
to, sir.”

“I didn’t say
try not to, I said don’t.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“Haven’t they
got any cruets in the Ritz?” said Biggs. “Hand the pepper and salt round
personally to all the guests, I suppose.”

“Mustard, sir
– French, English, possibly some other more obscure brands – so far as I
remember, sir, rather than salt and pepper,” said Stringham, “but handing round
the latter too could be a good idea.”

He went out of
the room to find the salt, and tell the cook what Biggs thought about the
cooking. Soper turned to Biggs. He was plainly glad of this opportunity to put
the S.O.P.T. in his place.

“Don’t show
your ignorance, Biggy,” he said. “Handing salt round at the Ritz. I ask you.
You’ll be going into the Savoy next for a plate of fish and chips or baked
beans and a cup o’ char.”

“That’s no
reason why we shouldn’t have any salt here, is it?” said Biggs.

He spoke
belligerently, disinclined for once to accept Soper as social mentor, even where
a matter so familiar to the D.C.O. as restaurant administration was in
question.

“Something
wrong with that bloke,” he went on. “Man’s potty. You can see it. Hear what he
said just now? Talks in that la-di-da voice. Why did he come to this Mess? What
happened to Robbins? Robbins wasn’t much to look at, but at least he knew you
wanted salt.”

“Gone to
hospital with rupture,” said Soper. “This one’s a replacement for Robbins. Can’t
be much worse, if you ask me.”

“This one’ll
have to be invalided too,” said Biggs. “Only got to look at him to see that.
Bet I’m right. No good having a lot of crazy buggers about, even as waiters.
Got to get hold of blokes who are fit for something. Jesus, what an army.”

“Always a business finding a decent Mess waiter,” said Soper.
“Can’t be picking and
choosing all the time. Have to take
what you’re bloody well
offered.”

“Don’t like
the look of this chap,” said Biggs. “Gets me down, that awful pasty face. Can’t
stick it. Reckon he tosses off too much, that’s what’s wrong with him, I
shouldn’t wonder. You can always tell the type.”

From the
rubber valve formed by pressure together of upper and lower lip, he
unexpectedly ejected a small morsel of fat, discharging this particle with
notable accuracy of aim on to the extreme margin of his plate, just beyond the
potatoes left uneaten. It was a first-rate shot of its kind.

“When did the
new waiter arrive?” I asked.

Nothing was to
be gained by revealing previous acquaintance with Stringham.

“Started here
at lunch to-day,” said Soper,

“I’ve run
across him before,” said Biggs.

“At Div. H.Q.?”

“One of the
fatigue party fixing up the boxing ring,” said Biggs. “Ever so grand the way he
talks, you wouldn’t believe. Needs taking down a peg or two in my opinion. That’s
why I asked him about the Ritz. Don’t expect he’s ever been inside the Ritz
more than I have.”

Soper did not
immediately comment. He stared thoughtfully at the scrap of meat rejected by
Biggs, either to imply censure of too free and easy table manners, or, in
official capacity as D.C.O., professionally assessing the nutritive value of
that particular cube of fat – and its waste – in wartime. Macfie also gave
Biggs a severe glance, rustling his typewritten report admonishingly, as he
propped the sheets against the water jug, the better to absorb their contents
while he ate.

“He’ll do as a
waiter so long as we keep him up to the mark,” said Soper, after a while. “You’re
always grousing about something, Biggy. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.
Why don’t you put a bloody sock in it?”

“There’s
enough to grouse about in this bloody Mess, isn’t there?” said Biggs, his mouth
full of beef and cabbage, but still determined to carry the war into Soper’s
country. “Greens stewed in monkeys’ pee and pepper as per usual.”

Stringham had
returned by this time with the salt. Dinner proceeded along normal lines. Food,
however unsatisfactorily cooked, always produced a calming effect on Biggs, so
that his clamour gradually died down. Once I caught Stringham’s eye, and
thought he gave a faint smile to himself. Nothing much was said by anyone
during the rest of the meal. It came to an end. We moved to the anteroom.
Later, when preparing to return to the D.A.A.G.’s office, I saw Stringham leave
the house by the back door. He was accompanied by a squat, swarthy
lance-corporal, no doubt the cook so violently stigmatised by Biggs. At
Headquarters, when I got back there, Widmerpool was already in his room, going
through a pile of papers. I told him about the appearance of Stringham in F
Mess. He listened, showing increasing signs of uneasiness and irritation.

“Why on earth
does Stringham want to come here?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“He might
easily prove a source of embarrassment if he gets into trouble.”

“There’s no
particular reason to suppose he’ll get into trouble, is there? The
embarrassment is for me, having him as a waiter in F Mess.”

“Stringham was
a badly behaved boy at school,” said Widmerpool. “You must remember that. You
knew him much better than I did. He took to drink early in life, didn’t he? I
recall at least one very awkward incident when I myself had to put him to bed
after he had had too much.”

“I was there too – but he is said to have been cured of drink.”

“You can never be sure with alcoholics.”

“Perhaps he could be fixed up with a better job.”

“But being a
Mess waiter is one of the best jobs in the army,” said Widmerpool impatiently. “It’s
not much inferior to sanitary lance-corporal. In that respect he has nothing
whatever to grumble about.”

“So far as I
know, he isn’t grumbling. I only meant one might help in some way.”

“In what way?”

“I can’t think
at the moment. There must be something.”

“I have always
been told,” said Widmerpool, “ – and rightly told – that it is a great mistake
in the army, or indeed elsewhere, to allow personal feelings about individuals
to affect my conduct towards them professionally. I mentioned this to you
before in connection with Corporal Mantle. Mind your own business is a golden
rule for a staff officer.”

“But you’re
not minding your own business about who’s to command the Recce Corps.”

“That is quite
different,” said Widmerpool. “In a sense the command of the Recce Corps
is
my business – though perhaps someone like
yourself cannot see that. The point is this. Why should Stringham have some
sort of preferential treatment just because you and I happen to have been at
school with him? That is exactly what people complain about – and with good
reason. You must be aware that such an attitude of mind – that certain persons
have a right to a privileged existence – causes a lot of ill feeling among
those less fortunately placed. War is a great opportunity for everyone to find
his level. I am a major – you are a second-lieutenant – he is a private. I have
no doubt that you and I will achieve promotion. So far as you are concerned, you
will in any case receive a second pip automatically at
the conclusion of eighteen months’ service as an officer, which in your case
cannot be far off by now. I think I can safely say that my own rank will not
much longer be denoted by a mere crown. Of Stringham, I feel less certain. A
private soldier he is, and, in my opinion, a private soldier he will remain.”

“All the more
reason for trying to find him a suitable billet. It can’t be much fun handing
round the vegetables in F Mess twice a day.”

“We are not in
the army to have fun, Nicholas.”

I accepted the
rebuke, and said no more about Stringham. However, that night in bed, I
reflected further on his arrival at Div. H.Q. We had not met for years; not
since the party his mother had given for Moreland’s symphony – where all the
trouble had started about Moreland and my sister-in-law, Priscilla. Priscilla,
as it happened, was in the news once more, from the point of view of her
family. Rumours were going round that, separated from Chips Lovell by the
circumstances of war, she was not showing much discretion about her behaviour.
A “fighter-pilot” was said often to be
seen with her, this figment, in another version, taking the form of a “commando,”
loose use of the term to designate an individual, rather than the unit’s
collective noun. However, all this was by the way. The last heard of Stringham
himself had been from his sister, Flavia Wisebite, who had described her
brother as cured of drink and serving in the army. At least the second of these
two statements was now proved true. It was to be hoped the first was equally
reliable. Meanwhile, there could be no doubt it was best to conceal the fact
that we knew each other. Widmerpool also agreed on this point, when he himself
brought up the subject again the following day. He too appeared to have
pondered the matter during the night.