The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [67]
“Yourself?”
“Dinner may put the finishing touches to something.”
“Promotion?”
“Who knows? It’s been in the air for some time, as a matter of fact.”
Widmerpool rarely allowed himself a night off in this manner. He worked like an automaton. Work, civil or military, was his sole interest. If it came to that, he never gave his assistant a night off either, if he could help it, because everyone who served under him was expected to do so to the fullest extent of his powers, which was no doubt reasonable enough. The result was that a great deal of work was completed in the D.A.A.G.’s office, some useful, some less useful. On the whole the useful work, it had to be admitted, made up for a fair percentage of time and energy wasted on Widmerpool’s pet projects, of which there were several. I was thinking of such things while stowing away papers in the safe that night, preparatory to leaving Headquarters for bed. I shut the safe and locked it. The time was ten o’clock or thereabouts. The telephone bell began to ring.
“DAA.G.’s office.”
“Nick?”
The voice was familiar. All the same, I could not immediately place it. No officer at Div. H.Q. used just that intimate inflexion when pronouncing my name.
“Speaking,”
“It’s Charles.”
That took me no further. So far as I could remember, none of the local staff were called “Charles.” It must be someone recently arrived in the place, who knew me.
“Charles who?”
“Private Stringham, sir – pardon the presumption.”
“Charles – yes – sorry.”
“Bit of luck catching you in.”
“I’m just leaving, as a matter of fact. How did you know I was here?”
“I rang up F Mess first – in the character of General Fauncefoot-Fritwell’s A.D.C.”
“Who on earth is General Fauncefoot-Fritwell?”
“Just a name that occurred to me as belonging to the sort of officer of senior rank who would own an A.D.C. – so don’t worry if Captain Biggs, who I think answered the telephone, mentions the General to you. He will say there was no message. Captain Biggs, if it was indeed he, sounded quite impressed, even rather frightened. He told me you were probably still working, unless on your way back now. I must say, you officers are kept at it.”
“But, Charles, what is all this about?”
I thought he must be drunk, and began to wonder how best to deal with him. This was just the sort of embarrassment Widmerpool had envisaged. It could be awkward. I experienced one of those moments – they cropped up from time to time – of inwardly agreeing there was something to be said for Widmerpool’s point of view. However Stringham sounded perfectly sober; though to sound sober was not unknown as one of the characteristics he was apt to display after a great deal to drink. That was especially true of the period immediately preceding his going under entirely. I felt apprehensive.
“Yes, I must come to the point, Nick,” he said. “I’m getting dreadfully garrulous in old age. It’s barrack-room life. Look, forgive me for ringing up at this late hour, which I know to be contrary to good order and discipline. The fact is I find myself with a problem on my hands.”
“What’s happened?”
“You know my officer, Mr. Bithel?”
“Of course.”
“You will therefore be aware that – like my former un-regenerate self – he is at times what our former mentor, Mr. Le Bas, used to call a devotee of Bacchus?”
“Bithel’s drunk?”
“Got it in one. Rather overdone the Dionysian rites.”
“Passed out?”
“Precisely.”
“Whereabouts?”
“I’ve just tripped over his prostrate form on the way back to bed. When I was suddenly, quite unexpectedly, whisked away from F Mess, and enlisted under Mr. Bithel’s gallant command, he behaved very kindly to me on arrival. He has done so ever since. I therefore feel grateful towards him. I thought – to avoid further danger to himself, physical or moral – you might have some idea of the best way of getting him back without undue delay to wherever he belongs. Otherwise some interfering policeman, civil or military, will feel it his duty to put the Lieutenant in the cooler. I’m not sure where he’s housed. G Mess, is it? Anyway, I can’t manage him all on my own-io, as the Edwardian song used to say. I wondered if you had any suggestions.