The Soldier's Art by Anthony Powell Read Free Book Online

Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson also favoured this mode of
speech. At his words, Cocksidge was on his feet in an instant, his features
registering, as ever, deference felt for those of higher rank than himself.
Cocksidge’s demeanour to his superiors always recalled a phrase used by Odo
Stevens when we had been on a course together at Aldershot:
    “Good morning,
Sergeant-Major, here’s a sparrow for your cat.”
    Cocksidge was,
so to speak, in a chronic state of providing, at a higher level of rank,
sparrows for sergeant-majors’ cats. His own habitual incivility to subordinates
was humdrum enough, but the imaginative lengths to which he would carry
obsequiousness to superiors displayed something of genius. He took a keen
delight in running errands for anyone a couple of ranks above himself, his
subservience even to majors showing the essence of humility. He had made a
close, almost scientific study of the likes and dislikes of Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson and Colonel Pedlar, while the General he treated with reverence
in which there was even a touch of worship, of deification. In contact with
General Liddament, so extreme was his respect that Cocksidge even abated a
little professional boyishness of manner, otherwise such a prominent feature of
his all-embracing servility, seeming by its appealing tone to ask forbearance
for his own youth and immaturity. Widmerpool, to do him justice, despised
Cocksidge, an attitude Cocksidge seemed positively to enjoy. The two colonels,
on the other hand, undoubtedly approved his fervent attentions, appeared even
appreciative of his exaggeratedly juvenile mannerisms. In addition, it had to
be admitted Cocksidge did his job competently, apart from such elaborations of
his own personality. Now he came hurriedly forward with the situation report.
    “Thanks, Jack,”
said Colonel Pedlar.
    He studied the
paper, gazing at it with that earnest, apparently uncomprehending stare, of
which Widmerpool had more than once complained.
    “I’ve seen
this,” he said. “Seems all right, Derrick. Take it back where it belongs, Jack.”
    “Glad it seems
all right to you, Eric,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, “because I rather
flatter myself the operational staff, under my guidance, did a neat job.”
    The bite in
his tone should have conveyed warning. He terminated this comment, as was his
habit, by giving a smirk, somehow audibly extruded from the left-hand side of
his mouth, a kind of hiss, intended to underline the aptness or wit of his
words. Unless in a bad humour he would always give vent to this muted sound after
speaking. The fact was Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson did not attempt to conceal his
own sense of superiority over a brother officer, inferior not only in
appointment, regiment and mental equipment, but also in a field where Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson felt himself particularly to shine, that is to say in the
arena where men of the world sparklingly perform. The play of his wit was often
directed against the more leisurely intellect of Colonel Pedlar, whose efforts
to keep up with all this parade of brilliance occasionally landed him in
disaster. It was so on that night. After giving a glance at the situation
report, he handed it back to Cocksidge, who received the document with bent
head, as if at Communion or in the act of being entrusted with a relic of supreme
holiness. There could be no doubt that the sit-rep had at least confirmed
Colonel Pedlar in the belief that nothing remained to worry about where the
exercise was concerned.
At such moments as this one he was inclined to overreach himself.
    “Going to finish
up with a glass of port to-night, Derrick,” he asked, “now that our exertions
are almost at an end?”
    “Port, Eric?”
    A wealth of
meaning attached to the tone given by Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson to the name of
the wine. Widmerpool’s mother, years before, had pronounced “port” with a
similar interrogative inflexion in her voice, though probably to imply her
guests