The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [31]
“But how did it all come about?”
“How does anything come about in the army?”
“When did you join, for instance?”
“Too long ago to remember – right at the beginning of the Hundred Years War. After enlisting in my first gallant and glorious corps, and serving at their depot, I managed to exchange into the infantry, and got posted to this melancholy spot. You know how – to use a picturesque army phrase – one gets arsed around. I don’t expect that happens any less as an officer. When the Royal Army Ordnance Corps took me to its stalwart bosom, I was not medically graded A.1. – which explains why in the past one’s so often woken up feeling like the wrath of God – so I got drafted to Div. H.Q., a typical example of the odds and sods who fetch up at a place like that. Hearing there was a job going as waiter in F Mess, I applied in triplicate. My candidature was graciously confirmed by Captain Soper. That’s the whole story.”
“But isn’t – can’t we find something better for you?”
“What sort of thing?”
That had been Widmerpool’s question too. Stringham asked it without showing the smallest wish for change, only curiosity at what might be put forward.
“I don’t know. I thought there might be something.”
“Don’t you feel I’m quite up to the mark as waiter?” he said. “Nick, you fill me with apprehension. Surely you are not on the side of Captain Biggs, who, I realise, does not care for my personality. I thought I was doing so well. I admit failure about the salt. I absolutely acknowledge the machine broke down at that point. All the same, such slips befall the most practised. I remember when the Duke of Conn aught lunched with my former in-laws, the Bridgnorths, the butler, a retainer of many years’ standing, no mere neophyte like myself, offered him macaroni cheese without having previously provided His Royal Highness with a plate to eat it off. I shall never forget my ex-father-in-law’s face, richly tinted at the best of times – my late brother-in-law, Harrison Wisebite, used to say Lord Bridgnorth’s complexion recalled Our Artist’s Impression of the Hudson in the Fall. On that occasion it was more like the Dutch bulb fields in bloom. No, forget about the salt, Nick. We all make mistakes. I shall improve with habit”
“I don’t mean —”
“Between you and me, Nick, I think I have it in me to make a first-class Mess waiter. The talent is there. It’s just a question of developing latent ability. I never dreamed I possessed such potentialities. It’s been marvellous to release them.”
“I know, but —”
“You don’t like my style? You feel I lack polish?”
“I wasn’t —”
“After all, you must agree it’s preferable to hand Captain Biggs his food, and retire to the kitchen with Lance-Corporal Gwither, rather than sit with the Captain throughout the meal, to have to watch him masticate, day in day out. Gwither, on the other hand, is a delightful companion. He was a plasterer’s mate before he joined the army, and, whatever Captain Biggs may say to the contrary, is rapidly learning to cook as an alternative. In addition to that, Nick, I understand you yourself work for our old schoolmate, Widmerpool. You’re not going to try and swop jobs, are you? If so, it isn’t on. How did your Widmerpool connection come about, anyway?”
I explained my transference from battalion to Div. H.Q. had been the result of Widmerpool applying for me by name as his assistant. Stringham listened, laughing from time to time.
“Look, Charles, let’s fix up dinner one night. A Saturday, preferably, when most of the stuff at the D.A.A.G.’s office has been cleared up after the week’s exercise. We’ve a mass of things to talk about.”
“My dear boy, are you forgetting our difference in rank?”
“No one bothers about that off duty. How could they? London restaurants are packed with officers and Other Ranks at the same table. Life would be impossible otherwise. My own brothers-in-law, for example, range from George, a major, to Hugo, a lance-bombardier. We needn’t dine