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

cloth, depositing them humbly,
though at the same time rather coyly, on his own empty plate, as if to give
active expression, even in the sphere of food, to his perpetual dedication in
keeping spick and span the surroundings of those set in authority over him,
doing his poor best in making them as comfortable as possible. Only that
morning, in the dim light at an early hour in the farmhouse kitchen, I had
tripped over him, nearly fallen headlong, as he crouched on his knees before
the fire, warming the butter ration so that its consistency might be
appropriately emulsified for the General to slice with ease when he appeared at
the breakfast table. No doubt, during all such silences as the one that now had
fallen on the Mess, the mind of Cocksidge was perpetually afire with fresh
projects for self-abasement before the powerful. By now there was no more to
hope for, so far as food was concerned. It seemed time to withdraw from the
board, in other respects unrewarding.
    “May I go and
see how the Defence Platoon is getting on, sir?”
    General
Liddament appeared not to have heard. Then, with an effort, he jerked himself
from out of his deep contemplation. It was like asking permission from one of
the supine bodies in an opium den. He took a few seconds more to come to,
consider the question. When he spoke it was with almost biblical solemnity.
    “Go, Jenkins,
go. No officer of mine shall ever be hindered from attending to the needs of
his men.”
    A sergeant
entered the room at that moment and approached the General.
    “Just come
through on the W/T, sir, enemy planes over the town again.”
    “Right – take
routine action.”
    The sergeant
retired. I followed him out into a narrow passage where my equipment hung from
a hook. Then, buckling on belt and pouches, I made for the outbuildings. Most
of the platoon were pretty comfortable in a loft piled high with straw, some of
them snoring away. Sergeant Harmer was about to turn in himself, leaving things
in the hands of Corporal Mantle. I ran through the matter of sentry duties. All
was correct.
    “Just come
through they’re over the town again, Sergeant.”
    “Are they
again, the buggers.”
    Harmer, a
middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows, largely built, rather slow, given to
moralising, was in civilian life foreman in a steel works.
    “We haven’t
got to wake up for them to-night.”
    “It’s good
that, sir, besides you never know they won’t get you.”
    “True enough.”
    “Ah, you don’t,
life’s uncertain, no mistake. Here to-day, gone to-morrow. After my wife went
to hospital last year the nurse met me, I asked how did the operation go, she
didn’t answer, said the doctor wanted a word, so I knew what he was going to
say. Only the night before when I’d been with her she said ‘I think I’ll get
some new teeth.’ We can’t none of us tell.”
    “No, we can’t.”
    Even the first
time I had been told the teeth story, I could think of no answer than that.
    “I’ll be
getting some sleep. All’s correct and Corporal Mantle will take over.”
    “Good night,
Sergeant.”
    Corporal
Mantle remained. He wanted to seize this opportunity for speaking a word in
private about the snag arisen about his candidature for a commission. Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson had decided to make things as difficult as possible. Mantle
was a good N.C.O. Nobody wanted to lose him. Indeed, Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson
had plans to promote him sergeant, eventually perhaps sergeant-major, when
opportunity arose to get rid of Harmer, not young enough or capable of
exceptional energy, even if he did the job adequately. Widmerpool, through whom
such matters to some extent circulated, was not interested either way in what
happened to Mantle. He abetted Hogbourne-Johnson’s obstructive tactics in that
field, partly as line of least resistance, partly because he was himself never
tired of repeating the undeniable truth that the army is an institution
directed not towards the convenience of the