The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [80]
“You’ve been notified Ivo Deanery’s going to get the Recce Unit?” he asked suddenly.
Widmerpool was taken aback by this question. He began to look angry again.
“Never heard of him,” he said.
The answer sounded as if it were intended chiefly to gain time.
“Recently adjutant to my Yeomen,” said Farebrother. “As lively a customer as you would meet in a day’s march. Got an M.C. in Palestine just before the war.”
Widmerpool was silent. He did not show any interest at all in Ivo Deanery’s juvenile feats of daring, whatever they might have been. I supposed he did not want to admit to Farebrother that he himself had been running a candidate for the Recce Unit’s Commanding Officer; and that candidate, from what had been said, must have been unsuccessful.
“Knew you were interested in the Recce Regiment command,” said Farebrother, speaking very casually.
“Naturally.”
“I mean specially interested.”
“There was nothing special about it,” said Widmerpool.
“Oh, I understand there was,” said Farebrother, assuming at once a puzzled expression, as if greatly worried at Widmerpool’s denial of special interest. “In fact that was the chief reason I came round to see you.”
“Look here,” said Widmerpool, “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Sunny. How could you be D.A.A.G. of a formation and not take a keen interest in who’s appointed to command its units?”
He was gradually losing his temper.
“The M.G.A. thinks you were a bit too interested,” said Farebrother, speaking now with exaggerated sadness. “Old boy, there’s going to be the hell of a row. You’ve put your foot in it.”
“What do you mean?”
Widmerpool was thoroughly disturbed now, frightened enough to control his anger. Farebrother looked interrogatively at me, then his eyes travelled back to Widmerpool. He raised his eyebrows. Widmerpool shook his head vigorously.
“Say anything you like in front of him,” he said. “He knows I had a name in mind for the Recce Unit command. Nothing wrong with that. Naturally I regret my chap hasn’t got it. That’s all there is to it. What’s the M.G.A. beefing about?”
Farebrother too shook his head, but slowly and more lugubriously than ever.
“I understand from the M.G.A. that you were in touch with him personally not long ago about certain matters with which I myself was concerned.”
Widmerpool went very red.
“I think I know what you mean,” he said, “but they were just as much my concern as yours.”
“Wouldn’t it have been better form, old boy, to have mentioned to me you were going to see him?”
“I saw no cause to do so,”
Widmerpool was not at all at ease.
“Anyway,” said Farebrother mildly, “the M.G.A., rightly or wrongly, feels you misled him about various scraps of unofficial information you tendered, especially as he had no idea at the time that you were pressing in other quarters for a certain officer to be appointed to a command then still vacant.”
“How did he find that out?”
“I told him,” said Farebrother, simply.
“But look here …” said Widmerpool.
He was too furious to finish the sentence.
“The long and the short of it was the M.G.A. said he was going to get in touch with your General about the whole matter.”
“But I behaved in no way incorrectly,” said WidmerpooL “There is not the smallest reason to suggest…”
“Believe me, Kenneth, I’m absolutely confident you did nothing to which official exception could possibly be taken,” said Farebrother. “On my heart. That’s why I thought it best to put my own cards on the table. The M.G.A. is sometimes hasty. As you know well, amateur soldiers like you and me tend to go about our business in rather a different way from the routine a Regular gets accustomed to. We like to get things done expeditiously. I just