The Military Philosophers - Anthony Powell [65]
In one of these secluded pastoral tracts, a Corot landscape of tall poplars and water meadows executed in light greys, greens and blues, an overturned staff-car, wheels in the air, lay sunk in long grass. The camouflaged bodywork was already eaten away by rust, giving an impression of abandonment by that brook decades before. High up in the branches of one of the poplars, positioned like a cunningly contrived scarecrow, the tatters of a field-grey tunic, black-and-white collar patches just discernible, fluttered in the faint breeze and hard cold sunlight. The isolation of the two entities, car and uniform, was complete. There seemed no explanation of why either had come to rest where it was.
At that moment, an old and bearded Frenchman appeared plodding along the road. He was wearing a beret, and, like many of the local population, cloaked in the olive green rubber of a British army anti-gas cape. As our convoy passed, he stopped and waved a greeting. He looked absolutely delighted, like a peasant in a fairy story who has found the treasure. For some reason it was all too much. A gigantic release seemed to have taken place. The surroundings had suddenly become overwhelming. I was briefly in tears. The others were sunk in unguessable reflections of their own; Prasad perhaps among Himalayan peaks; Al Sharqui, the sands of the desert; Gauthier, in Clanwaert’s magic realm, the Porte de Louise. We sped on down the empty roads.
‘This car is like travelling in a coffee-grinding machine,’ said Gauthier.
‘Or a cement-mixer.’
The convoy halted at last to allow the military attachés to relieve themselves. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the worst had happened. We had blundered on a kind of junction of Plutonic equipment. Finn must have instantaneously seen that too. He rushed towards the installation, as if unable to contain himself – perhaps no simulation – taking up his stand in such a place that it would have been doubtful manners to pass in front of him. On the way back to the cars he caught me up.
‘I don’t think they noticed Pluto,’ he whispered.
It was late that night when, after inspecting a mass of things, we reached billets. A clock struck twelve as the cars entered the seaside town where these had been arranged. By the time we arrived I had forgotten the name of the place, evidently a resort in peacetime, because we drew up before the doors of a largish hotel. It was moonlight. We got out. Finn conferred with the Conducting Officer from Army Group, who was still with us. Then he turned to me.
‘They can’t get us all into the Grand.’
‘No room at the inn, sir?’
‘Not enough mattresses or something, though it looks big enough. So, Nicholas, you’ll attend General Asbjornsen, General Bobrowski, General Philidor and Major Prasad to La Petite Auberge. Everything’s been laid on there for the five of you.’
I never knew, then or later, why that particular quartet was chosen to represent the overflow from the Grand. One would have expected four generals – Lebedev, for example, or Cobb, recently promoted brigadier-general – alternatively, four more junior in rank, Gauthier de Graef, Al Sharqui, a couple of lieutenant-colonels. However, that was how it was. One of the cars took the five of us to La Petite Auberge, which turned out to be a little black-and- white half-timbered building, hotel or pension, in Tudor, or, I suppose, Francois Premier or Henri Quatre style. Only one of the rooms had a bathroom attached, which was captured by General Asbjornsen, possibly by being the most senior in rank, more probably because he climbed the stairs first. Obviously I was not in competition for the bath myself, so I did not greatly care who took it, nor by what methods. Prasad, like Asbjornsen, went straight up to his room, but the other two generals and I had a drink in the bar, presided over by the patronne, who seemed prepared to serve Allies all night. Bobrowski and Philidor were talking about shooting wild duck. Then Asbjornsen came down and had a drink too. He started an argument with Bobrowski about the best sort of skiing boots. Philidor and I left them to it. I had already begun to undress, when there was a knock on the door. It was Prasad.