The Valley of Bones - Anthony Powell [32]
‘The men just have time for a mouthful, if they’re quick. You can’t. I’ve got to go over the map with you. You are to make a recce, then act as a Standing Patrol. It can’t be helped that you haven’t eaten yourself.’
He gave the impression of rather enjoying this opportunity for working off his feelings. There seemed no necessity to underline the fact that I was to starve until further notice. Whatever the Commanding Officer had said had certainly not improved Gwatkin’s state of mind. He was thoroughly upset. His hand shook when he pointed his pencil at names on the map. He was in a vile temper.
‘You will take your men up to this point,’ he said. ‘There you will establish an HQ. Here is the canal. At this map reference the Pioneers have thrown a rope bridge across. You will personally cross by the rope bridge and make a recce of the far bank from here to here. Then return to your platoon and carry out the duties of a Standing Patrol as laid down in Infantry Training, having reported the map reference of your HQ by runner to me at this point here. In due course I shall come and inspect the position and receive your report. All right?’
‘Yes.’
He handed over some map references.
‘Any questions?’
‘None.’
Gwatkin strode off. I returned to my platoon, far from pleased. The fact that missing a meal or two in the army must be regarded – certainly by an officer – as all in the day’s work, makes these occasions no more acceptable. Sergeant Pendry was falling in the men when I returned to the area of the wood that had been allotted to the Platoon. They were grumbling at the hurried nature of dinner, complaining the stew had ‘tasted’ from being kept in the new containers. The only bright spot was that we were to be transported by truck some of the distance towards the place where we were to undertake these duties. Thirty men take an age to get on, or off, a vehicle of any kind. Jones, D., slipped while climbing up over the wheel, dropping the anti-tank rifle – that inordinately heavy, already obsolete weapon – on the foot of Williams, W. H., the platoon runner, putting him temporarily out of action. Sayce now began a long story about feeling faint, perhaps as a result of eating the stew, and what the MO had said about some disease he, Sayce, was suffering from. These troubles were unwillingly presented to me through the sceptical medium of Corporal Gwylt. I was in no mood for pity. If the meal had made Sayce feel queasy, that was better than having no meal at all. Such was my answer. All these things obstructed progress for about ten minutes. I feared Gwatkin might return to find reasonable cause for complaint in this delay, but Gwatkin had disappeared, bent on making life uncomfortable for someone else, or perhaps anxious only to find a quiet place where he could himself mope for a short period, while recovering his own morale. Sergeant Pendry was still showing less than his usual vigour in keeping things on the move. There could be no doubt Breeze had been right about Pendry, I thought, unless he turned out to be merely unwell, sickening for some illness, rather than suffering from a hangover. He dragged his feet when he walked, hardly able to shout out a command. I took him aside as the last man settled into the truck.
‘Are you feeling all right, Sergeant?’
He looked at me as if he did not understand.
‘All right, sir?’
‘You got something to eat with the others just now?’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’
‘Enough?’
‘Plenty there, sir. Didn’t feel much like food, it was.’
‘Are you sick?’
‘Not too good, sir.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Don’t know just what, sir.’
‘But you must know if you’re feeling ill.’
‘Had a bit of a shock back home, it was.’
This was no time to go into the home affairs of the platoon’s personnel, now that at last we were ready and I wanted to give the driver the order to move off.
‘Have a word with me when we get back to barracks.’
‘All right, sir.’
I climbed into the truck beside the driver. We travelled several miles as far as some crossroads. There we left the truck, which returned to its base. Platoon HQ was set up in a dilapidated cowshed, part of the buildings of a small farm that lay not far away across the fields. When everything was pretty well established in the cowshed, including the siting of the imaginary 2-inch mortar which travelled round with us, I went off to look for the rope bridge over the canal. This was found without much difficulty. A corporal was in charge. I explained my mission, and enquired about the bridge