The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [72]
“All the same, you took the trouble to be a Good Samaritan on this occasion.”
“After all, he is my Commanding Officer – and has been very gracious to me. I still have some gratitude, even if no general goodwill towards mankind. I like gratitude, because it’s the rarest of virtues and a very difficult one to cultivate. For example, I never feel nearly grateful enough to Tuffy. In some respects, I’m ashamed to say I’m even conscious of a certain resentment towards her. Tonight’s good deed was just handed me on a plate. Such a conscience have I now developed, I even feel grateful to Widmerpool. That does me credit, doesn’t it? Do you know, Nick, he went out of his way to get me moved from F Mess to the Mobile Laundry – just as an act of pure kindness. Who’d have thought that of Widmerpool? I learnt the fact from Mr. Bithel himself, who was equally surprised at the D.A.A.G. finding suitable personnel for him. I must say I was at once attracted by the idea of widening my military experience. Besides, there are some real treasures in the Laundry. I don’t know how I can show Widmerpool gratitude. Keep out of the way, I suppose. The one thing I can’t understand is Mr. Bithel’s obsession with university life. I explained to him, when he brought up the subject, that my own college days had been among the most melancholic of a life not untinged by shadow.”
All the time Stringham had been speaking, we were trying to galvanise Bithel from his spell of total collapse into a state of renewed awareness. We achieved this, finally bringing him into actual motion,
“Now, if you’ll guide us, Nick, we’ll have the Lieutenant tucked up between sheets in no time.”
Once we had Bithel traversing the pavement between us, the going was quite good in spite of Stygian darkness. In fact, we must have been within a hundred and fifty yards of G Mess before anything inopportune occurred. Then was disaster. The worst happened. Stringham and I were rounding a corner, Bithel mumbling incomprehensibly between us, when a figure, walking hurriedly from the other direction, collided violently with our party. The effect of this strong oncoming impact was for Stringham to let go of Bithel’s arm, so that, taken by surprise and unable to support the full weight alone, I too became disengaged from Bithel, who sank heavily to the ground. The person who had obstructed us also stumbled and swore, a moment later playing a torch on my face, so that I could not see him or anything else.
“What the hell is happening?”
The voice was undoubtedly Widmerpool’s, especially recognisable when angry. His quarters were also in this neighbourhood. He was on his way back to B Mess after dinner with his acquaintance from the Military Secretary’s branch. This was a most unfortunate encounter. The only thing to do was to fabricate as quickly as possible some obvious excuse for Bithel’s condition, and hope for the best.
“This officer must have tripped in the black-out,” I said. “He had knocked himself out. We’re taking him back to his billet.”
Widmerpool played his torch on each of us in turn.
“Nicholas …” he said, “Bithel … Stringham …”
He spoke Stringham’s name with surprise, not much approval. Since identities were now revealed, there was now no hope of proceeding without further explanation,
“Charles Stringham found Bithel lying stunned. He got in touch with me. We’re taking him back to G Mess.”
That might have sounded reasonably convincing, if only Bithel himself had kept quiet. However, the last fall seemed, if not to have sobered him, at least to have shaken off the coma into which he had sunk at an earlier stage. Now, without any help from the rest of us, he picked himself up off the pavement. He took Widmerpool by the arm.
“Ought to go home …” he said. “Ought to go home … had too much of