The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [76]
“I shall be left high and dry?”
“I certainly doubt if my successor will be allowed an assistant. My own particular methods, more energetic than most, led to an abnormal amount of work for a mere D.A.A.G. Even so, there has been recent pressure from above to encourage me to dispense with your services.”
“You haven’t anything in mind for me?”
“Nothing.”
“You said you might try and fix something.”
“I have no recollection of doing so – and, anyway, what could I fix?”
“So it will be the Infantry Training Centre?”
“I should imagine.”
“Not much of a prospect.”
“The army more often than not offers uninviting prospects,” said Widmerpool. “Look at the months I have been stuck here, wasting my time, and, if I may say so, my abilities. We are not soldiers just to enjoy ourselves. We are waging a war. You seem aggrieved. Let me point out there is nothing startlingly brilliant in your own work – your industry and capabilities – to make me press for a good appointment for you. In addition to what can only be regarded as mediocre qualities as a staff officer, it was you, and no other, who saw fit to involve me in the whole Bithel-Stringham hash. That might well have turned out very awkwardly for me. No, Nicholas, if you examine your conscience, you will find you have very little to grumble at.”
He sighed, whether at my own ingratitude or human frailty in general, I was uncertain. Cocksidge appeared in the doorway.
“A. & Q. wants to see you, sir,” he said. “Right away. Very urgent. He’s got the D.A.P.M. with him.”
“Right.”
“I hear you may be leaving us, sir,” said Cocksidge.
He spoke more with unction than servility.
“It’s got round, has it?” said Widmerpool approvingly.
I had the impression he had put the rumour round himself. He went off down the passage. Cocksidge turned towards me, at the same time sharply adjusting his manner from that of lower-middle-grade obsequiousness to a major ard staff officer, to one more in keeping for employment towards a second-lieutenant not even a member of the staff.
“The night you were last Duty Officer, Jenkins, the Field Park Company received their routine telephone contact five minutes later than the time noted on your report.”
“It went out in the normal manner with the others.”
“What happened then?”
“I suppose the Sapper Duty Officer didn’t note it down immediately or else his watch was wrong.”
“I shall have to look into this,” said Cocksidge.
He spoke threateningly, as if expecting further explanation. I remembered now I had indeed effected the Field Park contact a few minutes later than the others for some trivial reason. However, I stuck to my guns. The matter was not of the smallest practical importance. If Cocksidge wanted to make trouble, he would have to undertake researches at some considerable labour to himself. That was unlikely with such meagre advantages in view. He left the room, slamming the door behind him. The telephone bell rang.
“Major Farebrother, from Command, downstairs, sir. Wants to see the D.A.A.G.”
“Send him up.”
This was the first time Sunny Farebrother had ever paid a visit to Divisional Headquarters. Recently, he and Widmerpool had been less in conflict, less even in direct contact. Either old enmities had died down, or, I supposed, other more important matters had been occupying both of them. The news about himself Widmerpool had just released, in his own case confirmed that view. Farebrother was likely to have been similarly engaged, unless he had greatly changed. At that moment he came through the door, stopping short for a second, while he saluted with parade ground formality. Military psychology could to some extent be gauged by this business of saluting when entering a room. Officers of field rank would sometimes omit the convention, if, on entering, they immediately sighted only a subaltern there. These officers, one noticed, were often wanting when more serious demands were made on their capacity. However, few, even of those who knew how to behave, brought out the movement with such a click and snap