The Military Philosophers - Anthony Powell [48]
‘Why him specially?’
‘He’s quite ruthless, if he doesn’t like the look of you. The other day he said, “I don’t want to see that officer again. I don’t like his face”. Perfectly good man, but they had to get rid of him.’
Widmerpool spoke with infinite dejection. I saw what he meant. Given the CIGS was easily irritated by the faces of staff-officers, Widmerpool’s, where survival was in question, was a bad bet, rather than a good one.
‘No use worrying,’ he said. ‘After all, I was not affected by all the trouble Liddament made.’
‘His Corps seem to have done well in the desert.’
‘No doubt Liddament has his points as a commander in the field. Unfortunately, I was blind to them when serving on the staff of his Division. Tell me – talking of those days made me think of Farebrother – had you left the Poles at the time of the Szymanski scandal?’
‘Yes.’
‘You heard Farebrother was largely responsible?’
‘That was being said.’
‘He’s been unstuck in consequence. Not without some action on my part.’
‘I didn’t know you were involved.’
‘I made it my business to be involved. Strictly between ourselves, the whole disgraceful affair was not unconnected with Prince Theodoric whom we saw at that musical performance the other night.’
‘Where does Theodoric come in?’
‘That is naturally secret, but I don’t mind telling you that the Prince is bringing a lot of pressure to bear one way and another.’
‘You mean from the Resistance point of view.’
‘I hold my own views on that subject,’ said Widmerpool. ‘I hear that young woman in red, whose name I asked, is said to be Theodoric’s mistress.’
‘That’s the gossip.’
‘I have little or no time for social life, but one keeps an eye on these things.’
A full colonel, wearing the red tabs with which Widmerpool himself hoped soon to be equipped, came out of a door under the arch and turned into Whitehall. Widmerpool pointed after him and laughed.
‘Did you see who that was?’ he asked. ‘I really strolled with you across here, out of my way, in case we might catch sight of him.’
‘Was it Hogbourne-Johnson?’
‘Relegated to the Training branch, where, if he’s not kicked out from there too, he will remain until the end of the war. The man who thought he was going to get a Division. Do you remember when he was so abominably rude to me?’
‘That balls-up about traffic circuits?’
‘It won’t be long now before I’m his equal in rank. I may find an opportunity to tell him some home truths, should our paths cross, though that’s unlikely enough. It’s only on the rarest occasions like today that I’m out of my office – and, after all, Hogbourne-Johnson’s a very unimportant cog in the machine.’
He nodded and began to move off. I saluted – the uniform, as one was always told, rather than the man – and took the Belgian documents back to our room.
THREE
One day, several weeks after the Allied Forces had landed in Normandy, I was returning over Westminster Bridge on foot from transacting some minor item of Czechoslovak army business with a ministry housed on the south bank of the river in the former Donners-Brebner Building. It was lovely weather. Even the most pessimistic had begun to concede that the war, on the whole, had taken a turn for the better. Some supposed this might mean the end of raids. Others believed the Germans had a trick or two up their sleeve. Although it was London Bridge to which the poem referred, rather than Westminster, the place from which I had just come, the dark waters of the Thames below, the beauty of the day, brought to mind the lines about Stetson and the ships at Mylae, how death had undone so many. Donners-Brebner – where Howard Craggs, recently knighted, now reigned over one of the branches – had been badly knocked about in the early days of the blitz. The full extent of the damage was not visible, because the main entrance, where Barnby’s frescoes had once been, was heaped with sandbags, access by a side door. Barnby was no longer available to repaint