The Valley of Bones - Anthony Powell [93]
‘There’s a lot to be said for going straight to the point.’
‘But that’s what I’ve always tried to do since I’ve been in the army,’ Gwatkin said. ‘It doesn’t seem to have worked in my case. Here I am being sent back to the ITC as a dud. It’s not because I haven’t been keen, or slacked in any way – except I know I forgot about those bloody codewords – and other people make balls-ups too.’
He spoke without self-pity, just lack of understanding; deep desire to know the answer why, so far as he was concerned, things had gone so wrong. It would be no good attempting to explain. I was not even sure I knew the explanation myself. All Gwatkin said was true. He had worked hard. In many respects he was a good officer, so far as he went. He was even conscious of such moral aspects of military life as the fact that the army is a world of the will, accordingly, if the will is weak, the army is weak. I could see, however, that one of the fallacies that made him so vulnerable was the supposition that manners, good or bad, had anything to do with the will as such.
‘I loved commanding the Company,’ Gwatkin said. ‘Don’t you enjoy your Platoon, Nick?’
‘I might have once. I don’t know. It’s too late now. That’s certain. Thirty men are merely a responsibility without the least compensatory feeling of power. They only need everlasting looking after.’
‘Do you really feel that?’ he said, astonished. ‘When the war broke out, I was thrilled at the thought I might lead men into action. I suppose I may yet. This could be only a temporary set-back.’
He laughed unhappily. By this time we were approaching the dingle, a glade enclosed by a kind of shrubbery. A large stone seat was on one side of it, ornamental urns set on plinths at either end. All at once there was a sound of singing.
‘Arm in arm together,
Just like we used to be,
Stepping out along with you
Meant all the world to me …’
It was a man’s voice, a familiar one. The song, recalling old fashioned music-hall tunes of fifty years before, was, in fact, contemporary to that moment, popular among the men, perhaps, on account of such nostalgic tones and rhythm. The singing stopped abruptly. A woman began giggling and squeaking. Gwatkin and I paused.
‘One of our fellows?’ he said.
‘It sounds to me like Corporal Gwylt.’
‘I believe you’re right.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
We skirted the dingle by way of a narrow path among the bushes, stepping quietly through the undergrowth that surrounded the glade. On the stone seat a soldier and a girl were sprawled in a long embrace. The soldier’s arm bore two white stripes. The back of the huge head was unmistakably that of Corporal Gwylt. We watched for a moment. Suddenly Gwatkin gave a start. He drew in his breath.
‘Christ,’ he said very quietly.
He began to pick his way with great care through the shrubs and laurels. I followed him. I was not at first aware why he was moving so soon, nor that something had upset him. I thought his exclamation due to the scratch of a thorn, or remembrance of some additional item to be supervised before handing over the Company. When we were beyond the immediate outskirts of the dingle, he began walking quickly. He did not speak until we were on the path leading back to the house.
‘You saw who the girl was?’
‘No.’
‘Maureen.’
‘God, was she?’
There was absolutely no comment to make. This was even more unanswerable than the news that Gwatkin had been superseded in his command. If you are in love with a woman – and Gwatkin was undoubtedly in love – you can recognise her a mile off. The fact that I myself had failed to identify Maureen in the evening light did not make Gwatkin’s certainty in the least suspect. The statement could be accepted as correct.
‘Corporal Gwylt,’ he said. ‘Could you believe it?’
‘It was Gwylt all right.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘There’s nothing to say.’
‘Rolling about with him.’
‘They were certainly in a clinch.’
‘Well, say something.’
‘Gwylt ought to pray more to Mithras.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know – the Kipling poem – “keep