The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [27]
“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