The Valley of Bones (13 page)

‘He always meant
to do it,’ Breeze said.

‘It was
murder,’ said Gwatkin, ‘Pendry’s the first. There’ll be others in due course.’

The Court of
Inquiry expressed the opinion that Pendry would have acted more correctly in
taking a man with him to conduct the investigation. It was doubtful, too,
whether he should have loaded his rifle without direct order from an officer.
In this respect, standing instructions for roadblock NCOs showed a certain
ambiguity. The whole question of ammunition
supervision in
relation to road-block guards was re-examined,
the system later overhauled. Breeze had a trying time while the Court was
taking evidence. He was exonerated from all blame, but when opportunity arose,
he volunteered for service with one of the anti-tank companies which were being
organized on a Divisional basis. Breeze understandably wanted to get away from
the Battalion and disagreeable associations. Perhaps he wanted to get away from
Gwatkin too. Gwatkin himself, just as he had blamed Bithel for the Deafy Morgan
affair, was unwilling to accept the findings of the Court of Inquiry in its
complete clearing of Breeze.

‘Yanto was
just as responsible for Sergeant Pendry’s death as if he had shot him down from
the German trenches,’ Gwatkin said.

‘What could
Yanto have done?’

‘Yanto knew,
as we all did, that Pendry had talked of such a thing.’

‘I never knew,
and Pendry was my own Platoon-Sergeant.’

‘CSM
Cadwallader knows more than he will say.’

‘What does the
Sergeant-Major think?’

‘He just spoke
about Pendry once or twice,’ said Gwatkin moodily. ‘It’s only now I see what he
meant. I blame myself too. I should have foreseen it.’

This was
another of Gwatkin’s ritual sufferings for the ills of the Battalion.
Maelgwyn-Jones took a
more robust more objective view, when I went to see him about
arrangements for Pendry’s funeral.

‘These things
happen from time to Ume,’ he said. ‘It’s just
the army. Surprising there aren’t more cases. Here’s the bumph about the firing
party to give Rowland.’

‘Almost every
man in the Company volunteered for it.’

‘They love
this sort of thing,’ said Maelgwyn-Jones. ‘By the way, you’re going to
Aldershot on a course next week. Tell Rowland that too.’

‘What sort of
a course?’

‘General
training.’

I remarked to
Gwatkin, when we were turning in that night, how the men had almost fought to
be included in the firing party.

‘Nothing
brings a company together like death,’ he said sombrely. ‘It looks as though
there might be one in my family too. My wife’s father isn’t at all well.’

‘What does he
do?’

‘In a bank,
like the rest of us,’ said Gwatkin.

He had been
thoroughly upset by the Pendry incident. Over the partition, in the store,
Lance-Corporal Gittins was still awake. When last seen, he had been sorting
huge piles of Army Form ‘ten-ninety-eight’, and was probably still thus
engaged. He, too, seemed preoccupied with thoughts of mortality, for, while he
sorted, he sang quietly to himself:

‘When I tread
the verge of Jordan,
Bid my anxious fears subside,
Death of Death and hell’s destruction,
Land me safe on Canaan’s side:
Songs of praises,
Songs of praises
I will ever give to thee ...’

THE TRAIN, LONG, GRIMY, CLOSELY PACKED, subject
to many delays
en route,
pushed south towards London.
Within the carriage cold fug stiflingly prevailed, dimmed bulbs, just luminous,
like phosphorescent molluscs in the eddying backwaters of an aquarium, hovering
above photographic views of Blackpool and Morecambe Bay: one of those interiors
endemic to wartime. At a halt in the Midlands, night without still dark as the
pit, the Lancashire Fusilier next to me, who had remarked earlier he was going
on leave in this neighbourhood, at once guessed the name of the totally
blacked-out station, collected his kit and quitted the compartment hurriedly.
His departure was welcome, even the more crowded seat now enjoying improved leg-room.
The grey-moustached captain, whose leathery skin and several medal ribbons
suggested a quartermaster, eased himself nearer to where I occupied a corner
seat, while he grunted irritably under his breath, transferring from one pocket
to another thick sheaves of indents classified into packets secured by rubber
bands. Additional space offered hope of less fitful sleep, but, when the engine
was getting up steam again, the carriage door slid open. A figure wearing
uniform looked in.

‘Any room?’

There was no
definite denial of the existence of a spare place, but the reception could not
be called welcoming. The light grudgingly conceded by the fishy globules
flickering in the shallows was too slight to distinguish more than a tall man
wearing a British Warm, the shoulder straps of
which displayed no badges of rank. The voice
was authoritative precise, rather musical, a voice to be associated with more
agreeable, even more frivolous circumstances than those now on offer. One might
even have heard it against the thrumming of a band a thousand years before. If
so, the occasion was long forgotten. While he shook himself out of his
overcoat, the new passenger made a certain amount of disturbance before he
settled down, among other things causing the quartermaster to move his kit a
few necessary inches along the rack, where it was certainly taking up more than
a fair share of room. The quartermaster made some demur at this. His reluctance
was confronted with absolute firmness. The man in the British Warm had his way
in the end. The kit was moved. Having disposed of his own baggage, he took the
place next to me.

‘Last seat on
the train,’ he said.

He laughed;
then apparently passed into sleep. We rumbled on for hours through the night. I
slept too, beset with disturbing dreams of administrative anxieties. The
quartermaster left his seat at five, returning after an age away, still
muttering and grumbling to himself. Morning came, a sad, pale light gently
penetrating the curtains. Some hidden agency extinguished the blue lamps. It
grew warmer. People began to stretch, blow noses, clear throats, light
cigarettes, move along the corridor to shave or relieve themselves. I examined
the other occupants of the carriage. Except for the middle-aged captain, all
had one pip, including the new arrival next to me. I took a look at him while
he was still asleep. His face was thin, rather distinguished, with a hook nose
and fairish hair. The collar badges were ‘Fortnum & Mason’ General Service.
The rest of the compartment was filled by two officers of the Royal Corps of
Signals, a Gunner, a Green Howard (Ted Jeavons’s first
regiment in the previous war, I remembered) and
a Durham Light Infantryman.
The thin man next to me began
to wake up, rubbing his eyes and gently groaning.

‘I think I
shall wait till London for a shave,’ he said.

‘Me too.’

‘No point in
making a fetish of elegance.’

‘None.’

We both dozed
again. When it was light enough to read, he took a book from his pocket. I saw
it was in French, but could
not distinguish the title. Again, his manner struck me as familiar; again, I
could not place him.

‘Is there a
breakfast car on this train?’ asked the Green Howard.

‘God, no,’
said the Durham Light Infantryman. ‘Where do you think you are – the Ritz?’

One of the
Signals said there was hope of a cup of tea, possibly food in some form, at the
next stop, a junction where the train was alleged to remain for ten minutes or
more. This turned out to be true. On arrival at this station, in a concerted
move from the carriage, I found myself walking along the platform with the man
in General Service badges. We entered the buffet together.

‘Sitting up
all night catches one across the back,’ he said.

‘It certainly
does.’

‘I once sat up
from Prague to the Hook and swore I’d never do it again. I little knew one was
in for a lifetime of journeys of that sort.’

‘Budapest to
Vienna by Danube can be gruelling at night too,’ I said, not wishing to seem
unused to continental discomforts. ‘Do you think we are in a very strategic position
for getting cups of tea?’

‘Perhaps not.
Let’s try the far end of the counter. One might engage the attention of the
lady on the second urn.’

‘Also stand a
chance of buying one of those faded, but still beautiful, sausage rolls, before
they are all consumed by Other Ranks.’

We changed our
position with hopeful effect.

‘Talking of
Vienna,’ he said, ‘did you ever have the extraordinary experience of entering
that gallery in the Kunsthistorisches Museum with the screen across the
end of it? On the other side of the
screen, quite unexpectedly, you find those four staggering Bruegels.’

‘The
Hunters in the Snow
is almost my favourite
picture.’

‘I am also
very fond of the
Two Monkeys
in the Kaiser Friedrich
in Berlin. I’ve just been sharing a room with a man in the Essex Regiment who
looked exactly like the ape on the left, the same shrewd expression. I say, we’re
not making much headway with the tea.’

There were
further struggles at the counter, eventually successful. The reward was a
sausage roll apiece.

‘Should we
return to the train now? I don’t feel absolutely confident about that corner
seat.’

‘In that case
I shall take this sausage roll with me.’

Back in the
carriage, the quartermaster went to sleep again; so did the two Signals and the
Gunner. Both the Durham Light Infantryman and the Green Howard brought out
button-sticks, tins of polish, cloths, brushes. Taking off their tunics, they
set to work energetically shining themselves up, while they discussed
allowances.

‘Haven’t we
met before somewhere?’ I asked.

‘My name is
Pennistone – David Pennistone.’

I knew no one
called that. I told him my own name, but we did not establish a connexion
sufficiently firm to suggest a previous encounter. Pennistone said he liked
Moreland’s music, but did not know Moreland personally.

‘Are you going
on leave?’

‘To a course –
and you?’

‘I’ve just
come from a course,’ he said. ‘I’m on leave until required.’

‘That sounds all right.’

‘I’m an odd
kind of soldier in any case. Certain specific qualifications
are my only excuse. It will be rather nice
to be on one’s own for a week or two. I’m
trying to get something finished. A case of earn while you learn.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Oh, something
awfully boring about Descartes. Really not worth discussing.
Cogito ergo sum,
and all that. I feel quite
ashamed about it. By the way, have you ever read this work? I thought one might
profit by it in one’s new career.’

He held out to
me the book he had been reading. I took it from his hand and read the title on
the spine:
Servitude et Grandeur
Militaire: Alfred de Vigny.

‘I thought Vigny was just a poet –
Dieu!
que le son du Cor est triste au fond des bois! ...’

‘He also spent
fourteen years of his life as a regular soldier. He ended as a captain, so
there is hope for all of us.’

‘In the Napoleonic
wars?’

‘Too young.
Vigny never saw action. Only the most irksome sort of garrison duty, spiced
with a little civil disturbance – having to stand quietly in the ranks while
demonstrators threw bricks. That kind of thing.’

‘I see.’

‘In some ways
the best viewpoint for investigating army life. Action might have confused the
issue by proving too exciting. Action is, after all, exciting rather than
interesting. Anyway, this book says what Vigny thought about soldiering.’

‘What were his
conclusions?’

‘That the
soldier is a dedicated person, a sort of monk of war. Of course he was speaking
of the professional armies of his day. However, Vigny saw that in due course
the armed forces of every country would be identified with the nation, as in
the armies of antiquity.’

‘When the
bombing begins here, clearly civilians will play as dangerous a role as
soldiers, if not more dangerous.’

‘Of course.
Even so, Vigny would say those in uniform have made the greater sacrifice by
losing the man in the soldier – what he calls the warrior’s abnegation, his
renunciation of thought and action. Vigny says a soldier’s crown is a crown of
thorns, amongst its spikes none more painful than passive obedience.’

‘True enough.’

‘He sees the
role of authority as essentially artificial, the army a way of life in which
there is as little room for uncontrolled fervour as for sullen indifference.
The impetuous volunteer has as much to learn as the unwilling conscript.’

I thought of
Gwatkin and his keenness; of Sayce, and his recalcitrance. There was something
to be said for this view of the army. By this time, Pennistone and I were the
only ones awake in the compartment. The button cleaners had abandoned their
paraphernalia, resumed their tunics and nodded off like the rest. The
quartermaster began to snore. He did not look particularly saintly, nor even
dedicated, though one never could tell. Probably Vigny knew what he was talking
about after fourteen years of it.

‘All the same,’
I said, ‘it’s a misapprehension to suppose, as most people do, that the army is
inherently different from all other communities. The hierarchy and discipline
give an outward illusion of difference, but there are personalities of every
sort in the army, as much as out of it. On the whole, the man who is successful
in civilian life, all things being equal, is successful in the army.’

‘Certainly – and
there can be weak-willed generals and strong-willed privates.’

‘Look,
for example, at the way you yourself compelled my neighbour to move his kit
last night.’