The Valley of Bones - Anthony Powell [71]
‘Indeed, they are the maimed, the halt and the blind,’ CSM Cadwallader remarked more than once.
In short, the atmosphere of Castlemallock told on the nerves of all ranks. Once, alone in the Company Office, a former pantry set in a labyrinth of stone passages at the back of the house, I heard a great clatter of boots and a frightful wailing like that of a very small child. I opened the door to see what was happening. A young soldier was standing there, red faced and burly, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hair dishevelled, his nose running. He looked at the end of his tether. I knew him by sight as one of the Mess waiters. He swayed there limply, as if he might fall down at any moment. A sergeant, also young, followed him quickly up the passage, and stood over him, if that could be said of an NCO half the private’s size.
‘What the hell is all this row?’
‘He’s always on at me,’ said the private, sobbing convulsively.
The sergeant looked uncomfortable. They were neither of them Gwatkin’s men.
‘Come along,’ he said.
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘He’s a defaulter, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Come along now, and finish that job.’
‘I can’t do it, my back hurts,’ said the private, mopping his eyes with a clenched hand.
‘Then you should report sick,’ said the sergeant severely, ‘see the MO. That’s what you want to do, if your back hurts.’
‘Seen him.’
‘See him again then.’
‘The Adjutant-Quartermaster said if I did any more malingering he’d give me more CB.’
The sergeant’s face was almost as unhappy as the private’s. He looked at me as if he thought I might be able to offer some brilliant solution to their problems. He was wrong about that. I saw no way out. Anyway, they were neither of them within my province.
‘Well, go away, and don’t make a disturbance outside here again.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
The two of them went off quietly, but, as they reached the far end of the stone passage, I heard it all starting up again. They were not our men, of course, amongst whom such a scene would have been inconceivable, even when emotions were allowed full rein, which sometimes happened. In such circumstances the display would have taken a far less dismal form. This sort of incident lowered the spirits to an infinitely depressed level. Even though there might be less to do here than with the Battalion, no road-blocks to man, for example, there were also no amusements in the evening, beyond the grubby pubs of a small, down-at-heel town a mile or two away.
‘There isn’t a lot for the lads to do’ said CSM Cadwallader.
He was watching, unsmilingly, a Red Indian war-dance a group of men were performing, led by Williams, I. G., whose eccentric strain probably accounted for his friendship with Lance-Corporal Gittins, the storeman. The dancers, with tent-peg mallets for tomahawks, were moving slowly round in a small circle, bowing their heads to the earth and up again, as they gradually increased the speed of their rotation. I thought what a pity that Bithel was not there to lead them in this dance.
‘What about organising some football?’
‘No other company there is to play, sir.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Personnel of the School, C.3., they are.’
‘But there are plenty of our own fellows. Can’t they make up a game among themselves?’
‘The boys wouldn’t want that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Another