The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [70]
All the time Stringham had been speaking, we were trying to galvanise Bithel from his spell of total collapse into a state of renewed awareness. We achieved this, finally bringing him into actual motion,
“Now, if you’ll guide us, Nick, we’ll have the Lieutenant tucked up between sheets in no time.”
Once we had Bithel traversing the pavement between us, the going was quite good in spite of Stygian darkness. In fact, we must have been within a hundred and fifty yards of G Mess before anything inopportune occurred. Then was disaster. The worst happened. Stringham and I were rounding a corner, Bithel mumbling incomprehensibly between us, when a figure, walking hurriedly from the other direction, collided violently with our party. The effect of this strong oncoming impact was for Stringham to let go of Bithel’s arm, so that, taken by surprise and unable to support the full weight alone, I too became disengaged from Bithel, who sank heavily to the ground. The person who had obstructed us also stumbled and swore, a moment later playing a torch on my face, so that I could not see him or anything else.
“What the hell is happening?”
The voice was undoubtedly Widmerpool’s, especially recognisable when angry. His quarters were also in this neighbourhood. He was on his way back to B Mess after dinner with his acquaintance from the Military Secretary’s branch. This was a most unfortunate encounter. The only thing to do was to fabricate as quickly as possible some obvious excuse for Bithel’s condition, and hope for the best.
“This officer must have tripped in the black-out,” I said. “He had knocked himself out. We’re taking him back to his billet.”
Widmerpool played his torch on each of us in turn.
“Nicholas …” he said, “Bithel … Stringham …”
He spoke Stringham’s name with surprise, not much approval. Since identities were now revealed, there was now no hope of proceeding without further explanation,
“Charles Stringham found Bithel lying stunned. He got in touch with me. We’re taking him back to G Mess.”
That might have sounded reasonably convincing, if only Bithel himself had kept quiet. However, the last fall seemed, if not to have sobered him, at least to have shaken off the coma into which he had sunk at an earlier stage. Now, without any help from the rest of us, he picked himself up off the pavement. He took Widmerpool by the arm.
“Ought to go home …” he said. “Ought to go home … had too much of that bloody porter … sickly stuff when you mix it with gin-and-italian … never do if we run into the A.P.M. …”
Then he began to sing again, though in a lower key than before.
“Fol-low, fol-low, we will follow Davies…”
The words of the rest of the song were drowned at that moment by the sudden note of the Air-raid Warning. For me, the ululating call registered a routine summons not to be disregarded. Bithel’s troubles, however acute, must now be accepted as secondary to overseeing that the Defence Platoon reported for duty, without delay mounted their brens for aircraft action. A chance remained that this diversion might distract Widmerpool’s attention from the business of getting Bithel home. There was no reason for Widmerpool to hang about in the streets after the Warning had gone. His orderly mind might indicate that correct procedure for him was to take shelter. However, he made no such move, only disengaging himself from Bithel by pushing him against the wall. He must have grasped the situation perfectly, seen at once that the first thing to do was to get Bithel himself out of the way. Certainly he retained no doubts as to why Bithel had been found lying on the pavement, but accepted at the same time the fact that there was no point in making a fuss then and there. Disciplinary action, if required, was to be attended to later. This was neither the time nor the place.