The Valley of Bones (25 page)

‘What about Maureen?’

‘I asked her to come out with me.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She agreed.’

‘I said she would.’

‘It was bloody marvellous.’

‘Splendid.’

‘Nick,’ he said, ‘I’m serious. Don’t
laugh. I really want to thank you, Nick, for making me take action – not hang
about like a fool. That’s my weakness. Like the day we were in support and I
made such a balls of it.’

‘And Maureen’s all right?’

‘She’s wonderful.’

That was all Gwatkin said. He gave no
account of the outing. I should have liked to hear a little about it, but
clearly he regarded the latest development in their relationship as too sacred
to describe in detail. I saw that Kedward, in some matters no great
psychologist, had been right in saying that when Gwatkin took a fancy to a girl
it was ‘like having the measles’. This business of Maureen could be regarded
only as a judgment on Gwatkin for supposing Sergeant Pendry’s difficulties easy
of solution. Now, he had himself been struck down by Aphrodite for his pride in
refusing incense at her altars. The goddess was going to chastise him. In any
case, there was nothing very surprising in this sort of thing happening, when,
even after an exhausting day’s training, the camp-bed was nightly a rack of
desire, where no depravity of the imagination was unbegotten. No doubt much
mutual irritation was caused by this constraint, particularly, for example,
something like Gwatkin’s detestation of Bithel.

‘God,’ he said, when he set eyes on him
at Castlemallock, ‘that bloody man has followed us here.’

Bithel himself was quite unaware of
the ferment of rage he aroused in Gwatkin. At least he showed no sign of
recognising Gwatkin’s hatred, even at times positively thrusting himself on
Gwatkin’s society. Some persons feel drawn towards those who dislike them, or
are at least determined to overcome opposition of that sort. Bithel may have
regarded Gwatkin’s unfriendliness as a challenge. Whatever the reason, he
always made a point of talking to Gwatkin whenever opportunity arose, showing
himself equally undeterred by verbal rebuff or crushing moroseness. However,
Gwatkin’s attitude in repelling Bithel’s conversational advances was not
entirely based on a simple brutality. Their relationship was more complicated
than that. The code of behaviour in the army which Gwatkin had set himself did
not allow his own comportment with any brother officer to reach a pitch of
unfriendliness he would certainly have shown to a civilian acquaintance
disliked as much as he disliked Bithel. This code – Gwatkin’s picture of it,
that is – allowed, indeed positively kindled, a blaze of snubs directed towards
Bithel, at the same time preventing, so to speak, any final dismissal of him as
a person too contemptible to waste time upon. Bithel was a brother officer; for
that reason always, in the last resort, handed a small dole by Gwatkin, usually
in the form of an incitement to do better, to pull himself together. Besides,
Gwatkin, with many others, could never finally be reconciled to abandoning the
legend of Bithel’s VC brother. Mythical prestige still hung faintly about
Bithel on that account. Such legends, once taken shape, endlessly proliferate.
Certainly I never heard Bithel himself make any public effort to extirpate the
story. He may have feared that even the exacerbated toleration of himself
Gwatkin was at times prepared to show would fade away, if the figure of the VC
brother in the background were exorcised entirely.

‘Coming to sit with the Regiment
tonight, Captain Gwatkin,’ Bithel would say when he joined us; then add in his
muttered, confidential tone: ‘Between you and me, there’re not much of a crowd
on this course. Pretty second-rate.’

Bithel always found difficulty in
addressing Gwatkin as ‘Rowland’. In early days, Gwatkin had protested once or
twice at this formality, but I think he secretly rather enjoyed the respect
implied by its use. Bithel, like everyone else, possessed one or more initial,
but no one ever knew, or at least seemed to have forgotten, the name or names
for which they stood. He was always called ‘Bith’ or ‘Bithy’, in some ways a
more intimate form of address, which Gwatkin, on his side, could never bring
himself to employ. The relaxation Bithel styled ‘sitting with the Regiment’
took place in an alcove, unofficially reserved by Gwatkin, Kedward and myself
for our use as part of the permanent establishment of Castlemallock, as opposed
to its shifting population of Anti-Gas students. The window seat where I used
to read
Esmond
was in this alcove, and we would occasionally have a drink there. Since the
night when he had first joined the Battalion, Bithel’s drinking, though steady
when drink was available, had not been excessive, except on such occasions as
Christmas or the New Year, when no great exception could be taken. He would get
rather fuddled, but no more. Bithel himself sometimes referred to his own
moderation in this respect.

‘Got to keep an eye on the old Mess
bill,’ he would say. ‘The odd gin-and-orange adds up. I have had the CO after
me once already about my wine bill. Got to mind my p’s and q’s in that
direction.’

As things turned out at Castlemallock,
encouragement to overstep the mark came, unexpectedly, from the army
authorities themselves. At least that was the way Bithel himself afterwards
explained matters.

‘It was all the fault of that silly
old instruction,’ he said. ‘I was tired out and got absolutely misled by it.’

Part of the training on the particular
Castlemallock course Bithel was attending consisted in passing without a mask
through the gas-chamber. Sooner or later, every rank in the army had to comply
with this routine, but students of an Anti-Gas course
naturally experienced a somewhat more elaborate ritual in that respect than
others who merely took their turn with a unit. A subsequent aspect of the test
was first-aid treatment, which recommended,
among other restoratives, for one poisonous gas sampled, ‘alcohol in moderate
quantities’. On the day of Bithel’s misadventure, the gas-chamber was the last
item on the day’s programme for those on the course. When Bithel’s class was
dismissed after this test, some took the advice of the text-book and had a
drink; others, because they did not like alcohol, or from motives of economy,
confined themselves to hot sweet tea. Among those who took alcohol, no one but
Bithel neglected the manual’s admonition to be moderate in this remedial
treatment.

‘Old Bith’s having a drink or two this
evening, isn’t he,’ Kedward remarked, even before dinner.

Bithel always talked thickly, and,
like most people who habitually put an unusually large amount of drink away,
there was in general no great difference between him drunk or sober. The stage
of intoxication he had reached made itself known only on such rare occasions as
his dance round the dummy. At Castlemallock that night, he merely pottered
about the ante-room, talking first to one group of anti-gas students, then to
another, when, bored with him, people moved away. He did not join us in the
alcove until the end of the evening. Everyone used to retire early, so that
Gwatkin, Kedward and myself were alone in the room by the time Bithel arrived
there. We were discussing the German advance. Gwatkin’s analysis of the
tactical situation had continued for some time, and I was making preparations
to move off to bed, when Bithel came towards us. He sat down heavily, without
making his usual rather apologetic request to Gwatkin that he might be included
in the party. For a time he listened to the conversation without speaking. Then
he caught the word ‘Paris’.

‘Ever been to Paris, Captain Gwatkin?’
he asked.

Gwatkin shot out a glance of profound
disapproval.

‘No,’ he said sharply.

The answer conveyed that Gwatkin
considered the question a ridiculous one, as if Bithel had asked if he had ever
visited Lhasa or Tierra del Fuego. He continued to lecture Kedward on the
principles of mobile warfare.

‘I’ve been to Paris,’ said Bithel.

He made a whistling sound with his
lips to express a sense of great conviviality.

‘Went there for a weekend once,’ he
said.

Gwatkin looked furious, but said
nothing. A Mess waiter appeared and began to collect glasses on a tray. He was,
as it happened, the red-faced, hulking young soldier, who, weeping and
complaining his back hurt, had made such a disturbance outside the Company
Office. Now, he seemed more cheerful, answering Bithel’s request for a final
drink with the information that the bar was closed. He said this with the
satisfaction always displayed by waiters and barmen at being in a position to
make that particular announcement.

‘Just one small Irish,’ said Bithel. ‘That’s
all I want.’

‘Bar’s closed, sir.’

‘It can’t be yet.’

Bithel tried to look at his watch, but
the figures evidently eluded him.

‘I can’t believe the bar’s closed.’

‘Mess Sergeant’s just said so.’

‘Do get me another, Emmot – it is
Emmot, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Do, do get me a whiskey, Emmot.’

‘Can’t sir. Bar’s closed.’

‘But it can be opened again.’

‘Can’t, sir.’

‘Open it just for one moment – just
for one small whiskey.’

‘Sergeant says no,
sir.’

‘Ask him again.’

‘Bar’s closed, sir.’

‘I beseech you, Emmot.’

Bithel rose to his feet. Afterwards, I
was never certain what happened. I was sitting on the same side as Bithel and,
as he turned away, his back was towards me. He lurched suddenly forward. This
may have been a stumble, since some of the floorboards were loose at that
place. The amount he had drunk did not necessarily have anything to do with
Bithel’s sudden loss of balance. Alternatively, his action could have been
deliberate, intended as a physical appeal to Emmot’s better feelings. Bithel’s
wheedling tone of voice a minute before certainly gave colour to that
interpretation. If so, I am sure Bithel intended no more than to rest his hand
on Emmot’s shoulder in a facetious gesture, perhaps grip his arm. Such actions
might have been thought undignified, bad for discipline, no worse. However, for
one reason or another, Bithel lunged his body forward, and, either to save
himself from falling, or to give emphasis to his request for a last drink,
threw his arms round Emmot’s neck. There, for a split second, he hung. There
could be no doubt about the outward impression this posture conveyed. It looked
exactly as if Bithel were kissing Emmot – in farewell, rather than in passion.
Perhaps he was. Whether or not that were so, Emmot dropped the tray, breaking a
couple of glasses, at the same time letting out a discordant sound. Gwatkin
jumped to his feet. His face was white. He was trembling with rage.

‘Mr Bithel,’ he said, ‘consider
yourself under arrest.’

I had begun to laugh, but now saw
things were serious. This was no joking matter. There was going to be a row.
Gwatkin’s eyes were fanatical.

‘Mr Kedward,’ he said, ‘go and fetch
your cap and belt.’

The alcove where we had been sitting
was not far from the door leading to the great hall. There, on a row of hooks,
caps and belts were left, before entering the confines of the Mess, so Kedward
had not far to go. Afterwards, Kedward told me he did not immediately grasp the
import of Gwatkin’s order. He obeyed merely on the principle of not questioning
an instruction from his Company Commander. Meanwhile, Emmot began picking up
fragments of broken glass from the floor. He did not seem specially surprised
by what had happened. Indeed, considering how far I knew he could go in the
direction of hysterical loss of control, Emmot carried off the whole situation
pretty well. Perhaps he understood Bithel better than the rest of us. Gwatkin,
who now seemed to be in his element, told Emmot to be off quickly, to clear up
the rest of the debris in the morning. Emmot did not need further encouragement
to put an end to the day’s work. He retired from the ante-room at once with his
tray and most of the broken glass. Bithel still stood. As he had been put under
arrest, this position was no doubt militarily correct. He swayed a little,
smiling to himself rather foolishly. Kedward returned, wearing his cap and
buckling on his Sam Browne.

‘Escort Mr Bithel to his room, Mr
Kedward,’ said Gwatkin. ‘He will not leave it without permission. When he does
so, it will be under the escort of an officer. He will not wear a belt, nor
carry a weapon.’

Bithel gave a despairing look, as if
cut to the quick to be forbidden a weapon, but he seemed to have taken in more
or less what was happening, even to be extracting a certain masochistic zest
from the ritual. Gwatkin jerked his head towards the door. Bithel turned and
made slowly towards it, moving as if towards immediate execution. Kedward followed.
I
was relieved that Gwatkin had chosen Kedward for this duty, rather than myself,
no doubt because he was senior in rank, approximating more nearly to Bithel’s
two pips. When they were gone, Gwatkin turned to me. He seemed suddenly
exhausted by this output of disciplinary energy.

‘There was nothing else I could do,’
he said.

‘I wasn’t sure what happened.’

‘You did not see?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Bithel
kissed
an Other
Rank.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Haven’t you got eyes?’

‘I could only see Bithel’s back. I
thought he lost his balance.’

‘In any case, Bithel was grossly
drunk.’

‘That’s undeniable.’

‘To put him under arrest was my duty.
It was the only course I could follow. The only course any officer could
follow.’

‘What’s the next step?’

Gwatkin frowned.

‘Cut along to the Company Office,
Nick,’ he said in a rather calmer tone of voice. ‘You know where the
Manual of Military Law
is kept. Bring it to me here. I don’t want
Idwal to come back and find me gone. He’ll think I’ve retired to
bed. I must have a further word with him.’