The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [21]
“Wait…” shouted the General.
He scribbled some notes on a pad, then pointed towards me with his finger.
“Wake Robin,” he said. “Tell him to come down at once – before dressing. Then go and alert the Defence Platoon to move forthwith.”
I went quickly up the stairs to Greening’s room. He was asleep. I shook him until he was more or less awake. Greening was used to that sort of thing. He jumped out of bed as if it were a positive pleasure to put an end to sleep, be on the move again. I gave him the General’s orders, then returned to the Defence Platoon in the loft. They were considerably less willing than Greening to be disturbed. In fact there was a lot of grousing. Not long after that the Movement Order was issued. Advance Headquarters set off to a new location. This was the kind of thing General Liddament thoroughly enjoyed, unexpected circumstances that required immediate action. Possibly, in its minuscule way, my own case had suggested itself to him in some such terms.
“They do never want us to have no sleep,” said Sergeant-Major Harmer, “but at least it’s all on the way home.”
The Blue Force was held in check before the time limits of the exercise ran out. In short, the battle was won. It was nearly morning when Advance Headquarters were again ordered to move, this time in preparation for our return to base. We were on this occasion brought, contrary to habit in such manoeuvres, into direct contact with our own Rear Headquarters; both branches of the staff being assembled together in a large farm building, cowshed or barn, waiting there while transport arrangements went forward. It was here that the episode took place which so radically altered Widmerpool’s attitude towards Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.
Cars and trucks were being marshalled along a secondary road on the other side of a ploughed field on which drizzle was falling. A short time earlier, a message had come through from base stating that the raid during the night had done damage that would affect normal administration on return to the town. Accordingly, Colonel Pedlar had driven back at once to arrange any modification of routine that might be required. Colonel Pedlar’s presence with the rest of the staff could possibly, though by no means certainly, have provided a buffer between Widmerpool and Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. As things fell out, those two came into direct impact just before we moved off. Widmerpool, with the two other officers who normally shared the same staff car, was about to leave the cowshed where we were hanging about, sleepless and yawning, when Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson came suddenly through the doorway. He was clearly very angry, altogether unable to control the rage surging up within him. Even for a professionally bad-tempered man, he was in a notably bad temper. “Where’s the D.A.A.G.?” he shouted at the top of his voice.
Widmerpool came forward with that serious, self-important air of his, which, always giving inadequate impression of his own capabilities, was often calculated to provoke irritation in people he dealt with, even if not angry already.
“Here I am, sir.”
Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson turned on Widmerpool as jf he were about to strike him.
“What the bloody hell do you think of yourself?” he asked, still speaking very loudly.
“Sir?”
Widmerpool was not in the least prepared at that moment for such an onslaught. Only a few minutes before he had been congratulating himself aloud on how successfully had gone his share of the exercise. Now he stood staring at Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson in a way that was bound to make matters worse rather than better.
“Traffic circuits!” shouted Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. “What in God’s name have you done about them? Don’t you know that’s a D.A.A.G.’s job? I suppose you don’t. You’re not fit to organise an outing