The Valley of Bones (22 page)

‘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 company’s what they like to
beat.’

That was a good straightforward point
of view, no pretence that games were anything but an outlet for power and
aggression; no stuff about their being enjoyable as such. You played a game to
demonstrate that you did it better than someone else. If it came to that, I
thought, how few people do anything for its own sake, from making love to
practising the arts.

‘How do they amuse themselves when not
doing Indian war-dances?’

‘Some of the lads has found a girl.’

The Sergeant-Major smiled quietly to
himself, as if he might have been of that number.

‘Corporal Gwylt?’

‘Indeed, sir, Corporal Gwylt may have
a girl or two.’

Meanwhile, since my return from
Aldershot, I was aware of a change that had taken place in Gwatkin, though
precisely what had happened to him, I could not at first make out. He had been
immensely gratified, so Kedward told me, to find himself more or less on his
own as a junior commander, keenly jealous of this position in relation to the
Castlemallock Commandant, always making difficulties with him when men were
wanted for demonstrational purposes. On the other hand, Gwatkin had also
developed a new vagueness, even bursts of apparent indolence. He would pass
suddenly into a state close to amnesia, sitting at his table in the Company
Office, holding in the palm of his hand, lettering uppermost, the rubber-stamp
of the Company, as if it were an orb or other symbol of dominion, while he
gazed out on to the cobbled yard, where outbuildings beyond had been
transformed into barrack rooms. For several minutes at a time he would stare
into space, scanning the roofs as if he could descry beyond the yard and
stables vision of battle, cavalry thundering down, long columns of infantry
advancing through the smoke, horse artillery bringing up the guns. At least, that
was what I supposed. I thought Gwatkin had at last ‘seen through’ the army as
he had formerly imagined it, was experiencing a casting out of devils within
himself, the devils of his old military ideas. Gwatkin seemed himself to some
extent aware of these visitations, because, so soon as they were passed, his ‘regimental’
manner would become more obtrusive than ever. On such occasions he would
indulge in tussles with the Commandant, or embark on sudden explosions of
energy and extend hours of training. However, side by side with exertions that
insisted upon an ever-increased standard of efficiency, he became no less
subject to these lethargic moods. He talked more freely, too, abandoning all
pretence of being a ‘man of few words’, formerly one of his favourite roles.
Again, these bursts of talkativeness alternated with states of the blackest,
most silent gloom.

‘Anything wrong with Rowland?’ I asked
Kedward.

‘Not that I know of.’

‘He doesn’t seem quite himself.’

‘All right, so far as I’ve heard.’

‘Just struck me as a bit browned off.’

‘Has he been on your tail?’

‘Not specially.’

‘I thought he’d been better tempered
lately. But, my God, it’s true he’s always forgetting things. We nearly ran out
of Acquittance Rolls last Pay Parade owing to Rowland having shoved a lot of
indents the CQMS gave him into a drawer. Perhaps you’re right, Nick, and he’s
not well.’

For some reason, the matter of the
Alarm
brought home to me these developments in Gwatkin. Command
had issued one of their periodic warnings that all units and formations were to
be on their guard against local terrorist action of the Deafy Morgan sort,
which, encouraged by German successes in the field, had recently become more
common. A concerted attack by subversive elements was thought likely to take shape
within the next week or two in the Castlemallock area. Accordingly, every unit
was instructed to devise its own local
Alarm
signal, in
addition to the normal
Alert.
The
Alert
was, of course, based on the principle that German invasion
had taken place south of the Border, where British
troops would consequently move forthwith. For training
purposes, these
Alerts
were usually issued in code by telephone or radio – in
the
case of Gwatkin’s company,
routine procedure being to march on the main body of the Battalion. For merely
local troubles, however – to which the warning from Command referred – different
action would be required, therefore a different warning given. At
Castlemallock, for example, the Commandant decided that any such outbreak
should be made known by blowing
the
Alarm
on the bugle. All ranks were paraded
to hear the
Alarm
sounded, so that its notes should at once be recognised, if
need arose. Afterwards, Gwatkin, Kedward, CSM Cadwallader and I assembled in
the Company Office to check arrangements. The question obviously arose of those
men insufficiently musical to register in the head the sound they had just
heard.

‘All those bugle calls have words to
them,’ said Kedward. ‘What are the ones for the
Alarm?’

‘That’s it,’ said Gwatkin, pleased at
this opportunity to make practical use of military lore,
Cookhouse,
for instance:

Come to the cookhouse door, boys,
Come to the cookhouse door,
Officers’ wives have puddings and pies,
Soldiers’ wives have skilly.

How does the
Alarm
go, Sergeant-Major? That must have words too.’

It was the only time I ever saw CSM
Cadwallader blush.

‘Rather vulgar words they are, sir,’
he said.

‘Well, what are they?’ said Gwatkin.

The Sergeant-Major seemed still for
some reason unwilling to reveal the appropriate assonance.

‘Think most of the Company know the
call now, sir,’ he said.

‘That’s not the point,’ said Gwatkin. ‘We
can’t take any risks. There may be even one man only who won’t recognise it. He’ll
need the rhyme. What are the words?’

‘Really want them, sir?’

‘I’ve just said so,’ said Gwatkin.

He was half irritated at the
Sergeant-Major’s prevarication, at the same time half losing interest. He had
begun to look out of the window, his mind wandering in the manner I have
described. CSM Cadwallader hesitated again. Then he pursed his lips and gave a
vocalized version of the bugle blaring the
Alarm:

‘Sergeant-Major’s-got-a-horn!
Sergeant-Major’s-got-a-horn! …’

Kedward and I burst out laughing. I
expected Gwatkin to do the same. He was normally capable of appreciating that
sort of joke, especially as a laugh at CSM Cadwallader’s expense was not a
thing to be missed. However, Gwatkin seemed scarcely to have heard the words,
certainly not taken in their import. At first I thought he had been put out by
receiving so broadly comic an answer to his question, feeling perhaps his
dignity was compromised. That would have been a possibility, though unlike
Gwatkin, because he approved coarseness of phrase as being military, even
though he might be touchy about his own importance. It was then I realized he
had fallen into one of his trances in which all around was forgotten: the
Alarm,
the Sergeant-Major, Kedward, myself, the Battalion, the
army, the war itself.

‘Right, Sergeant-Major,’ he said,
speaking abruptly, as if he had just woken from a dream. ‘See those words are
promulgated throughout the Company. That’s all. You can fall out.’

By this time it was summer and very
hot. The Germans had invaded the Netherlands, Churchill become Prime Minister.
I read in the papers that Sir Magnus Donners had been appointed to the
ministerial post for which he had long been tipped. The Battalion was required
to send men to reinforce one of the Regular Battalions in France. There was
much grumbling at this, because we were supposed to be something more than a
draft-finding unit. Gwatkin was particularly outraged by this order, and the
loss of two or three good men from his company. Otherwise things went on much
the same at Castlemallock, the great trees leafy in the park, all water dried
up in the basins of the fountains. Then, one Saturday evening, Gwatkin
suggested he and I should walk as far as the town and have a drink together.
There was no Anti-Gas course in progress at that moment. Kedward was Duty
Officer. As a rule, Gwatkin was rarely to be seen in the Mess after dinner. No
one knew what he did with himself during those hours. It was possible that he
retired to his room to study the
Field Service Pocket Book
or
some other military manual. I never guessed he might make a practice of
visiting the town. However, that was what his next remark seemed to suggest.

‘I’ve found a new place – better than
M’Coy’s,’ he said rather challengingly. ‘The porter there is bloody marvellous.
I’ve drunk it now several times. I’d like to have your opinion.’

I had once visited M’Coy’s with
Kedward. It was, in fact, the only pub I had entered since being stationed at
Castlemallock. I found no difficulty in believing M’Coy’s could be improved
upon as a drinking resort, but it was hard to guess why Gwatkin’s transference
of custom from M’Coy’s to this new place should be an important issue, as
Gwatkin’s manner seemed to suggest. In any case, it was unlike him to suggest
an evening’s drinking. I agreed to make the trip. It would have been
unfriendly, rather impolitic, to have refused. A walk into the town would be a
change. Besides, I was heartily sick of
Esmond.
When
dinner was at an end, Gwatkin and I set off together. We tramped along the
drive in silence. We had almost reached the road, when he made an unexpected
remark.

‘It won’t be easy to go back to the
Bank after all this,’ he said.

‘All what?’

‘The army. The life we’re leading.’

‘Don’t you like the Bank?’

As Kedward had explained at the
outset, most of the Battalion’s officers worked in banks. This was one of the
aspects of the unit which gave a peculiar sense of uniformity, of existing
almost within a family. Even though one was personally outside this sept, its
homogeneous character in itself offered a certain cordiality, rather than the
reverse, to an intruder. Until now, no one had given the impression he
specially disliked that employment, over and above the manner in which most
people grumble about their own job, whatever it is. Indeed, all seemed to
belong to a caste, clearly defined, powerful on its home ground, almost a
secret society, with perfect understanding between its members where outward
things were concerned. The initiates might complain about specific drawbacks,
but never in a way to imply hankering for another occupation. To hear absolute
revolt expressed was new to me. Gwatkin seemed to relent a little when he spoke
again.