Men at Arms by Evelyn Waugh

Guy supposed. He was no fool but his talents were not soldierly. The corporate self-esteem of the Halberdiers did not impress Trimmer, nor did the solemn comforts of the mess attract him. The moment work ended Trimmer was off, sometimes alone, sometimes with a poor reflection of himself, his only friend, named Sarum-Smith. As surely as Apthorpe was marked for early promotion, Trimmer was marked for ignominy. That morning he had appeared at the precise time stated in orders. Everyone else had been waiting five minutes and Colour Sergeant Cork called out the marker just as Trimmer appeared. So it was twelve-thirty-five when they were dismissed.
    Then they had doubled to their quarters, thrown their rifles and equipment on their beds, and changed into service dress. Complete with canes and gloves (which had to be buttoned before emerging. A junior officer seen buttoning his gloves on the steps would be sent back to dress) they had marched in pairs to the Officers’ House. This was the daily routine. Every ten yards they saluted or were saluted. (Salutes in the Halberdiers’ Barracks were acknowledged as smartly as they were given. The senior of the pair was taught to count: ‘Up. One, two, three. Down.’ In the hall they removed their caps and Sam-Brownes.
    Theoretically there was no distinction of rank in the mess ‘Except, Gentlemen, the natural deference which youth owes to age’, as they were told in the address of welcome on their first evening; Guy and Apthorpe were older than most of the regular captains and were, in fact, treated in many ways as seniors. Together they now went into the mess at a few minutes after one.
    Guy helped himself to steak-and-kidney pie at the sideboard and carried his plate to the nearest place at the table. A mess orderly appeared immediately at his elbow with salad and roast potatoes. The wine butler put a silver goblet of beer before him. No one spoke much. ‘Shop’ was banned and there was little else in their minds. Over their heads two centuries of commanding officers stared dully at one another from their gilt frames.
    Guy had joined the Corps in a mood of acute shyness born of conflicting apprehension and exultation. He knew little of military life save stories he had heard from time to time of the humiliations to which new officers were liable; of ‘subalterns’ courts martial’ and gross ceremonies of initiation. He remembered a friend telling him that in his regiment no one noticed him for a month and that the first words spoken to him were: ‘Well, Mr Bloody, and what may your name be?’ In another regiment a junior officer said ‘Good morning’ to a senior and was answered: ‘Good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning. Let that last you for a week.’ There had been nothing at all like that in the hospitable welcome he and his fellows received from the Halberdiers. It seemed to Guy that in the last weeks he had been experiencing something he had missed in boyhood, a happy adolescence.
    Captain Bosanquet, the adjutant, coming cheerfully into the mess after his third pink gin, stopped opposite Guy and Apthorpe and said: ‘It must have been pretty bloody cold on the square this morning.’
    ‘It was rather, sir.’
    ‘Well, pass the word to your chaps to wear great-coats this afternoon.’
    ‘Very good, sir.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    ‘Oh, you two poops,’ said Frank de Souza, the Cambridge man, opposite. ‘That means we’ll have to let out all our equipment again.’
    So there was no time for coffee or a cigarette. At half past one Guy and Apthorpe put on their belts, buttoned their gloves, looked in the glass to see that their caps were straight, tucked their canes under their arms and strode off in step to their quarters.
    ‘Up. One, two, three. Down.’ They acknowledged a fatigue party called to attention as they passed.
    At their steps they broke into a run. Guy changed, and began hastily adjusting his