individual, but to the production
of the most effective organisation for an instrument designed to win wars.
“At the
present moment there are plenty of young men at O.C.T.U.s who are potentially
good officers,” Widmerpool said. “Good corporals, on the other hand, are always
hard to come by. That situation could easily change. If we get a lot of casualties,
it
will
change so far as officers are concerned – though no doubt good corporals will
be harder than ever to find. In the last resort, of course, officer material is
naturally limited to the comparatively small minority who possess the required
qualifications – and do not suppose for one moment that I presume that minority
to come necessarily, even primarily, from the traditional officer class. On the
contrary.”
“But Mantle
doesn’t come from what you call the traditional officer class. His father keeps
a newspaper shop and he himself has some small job in local government.”
“That’s as may
be,” said Widmerpool, “and more power to his elbow. Mantle’s a good lad. At the
same time I see no reason for treating Mantle’s case with undue bustle. As I’ve
said before, I have no great opinion of Hogbourne-Johnson’s capabilities as a
staff officer – on that particular point I find myself in agreement with the
General – but Hogbourne-Johnson is within his rights, indeed perfectly correct,
in trying to delay the departure of an N.C.O., if he feels the efficiency of
these Headquarters will be thereby diminished.”
There the
matter rested. Outside the barn I had a longish talk with Mantle about his
situation. By the time I returned to the house, everyone appeared to have gone
to bed; at least the room in which we had eaten seemed at first deserted,
although the oil lamp had not been extinguished. It had, however, been moved
from the dinner table to the dresser standing on the right of the fireplace.
Then, as I crossed the room to make for a flight of stairs on the far side I
saw General Liddament himself had not yet retired to his bedroom. He was
sitting on a kitchen chair, his feet resting on another, while he read from a
small blue book that had the air of being a pocket edition of some classic. As
I passed he looked up.
“Good night,
sir.”
“How goes the
Defence Platoon?”
“All right,
sir. Guards correct. Hay to sleep on.”
“Latrines?”
“Dug two lots,
sir.”
“Down wind?”
“Both down
wind, sir.”
The General
nodded approvingly. He was rightly keen on sanitary discipline. His manner
showed he retained the unusually good mood of before dinner. There could be no
doubt the day’s triumph over the Blue Force had pleased him. Then, suddenly, he
raised the book he had been reading in the air, holding it at arm’s length
above his head. For a moment I thought he was going to hurl it at me. Instead,
he waved the small volume backwards and forwards, its ribbon marker flying at
one end.
“Book reader,
aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you
think of Trollope?”
“Never found
him easy to read, sir.”
The last time
I had discussed books with a general had been with General Conyers, a much
older man than General Liddament, one whose interests were known to range from
psychoanalysis to comparative religion; and in many other directions too. Long
experience of the world of courts and camps had given General Conyers easy
tolerance for the opinions of others, literary as much as anything else.
General Liddament, on the other hand, seemed to share none of that indulgence
for those who did not equally enjoy his favourite authors. My answer had an
incisive effect. He kicked the second chair away from him with such violence
that it fell to the ground with a great clatter. Then he put his feet to the
floor, screwing round his own chair so that he faced me.
“
You’ve never found Trollope easy to
read
?”
“No, sir.”
He was clearly
unable to credit my words. This was an unhappy situation. There was a long
pause
of the most effective organisation for an instrument designed to win wars.
“At the
present moment there are plenty of young men at O.C.T.U.s who are potentially
good officers,” Widmerpool said. “Good corporals, on the other hand, are always
hard to come by. That situation could easily change. If we get a lot of casualties,
it
will
change so far as officers are concerned – though no doubt good corporals will
be harder than ever to find. In the last resort, of course, officer material is
naturally limited to the comparatively small minority who possess the required
qualifications – and do not suppose for one moment that I presume that minority
to come necessarily, even primarily, from the traditional officer class. On the
contrary.”
“But Mantle
doesn’t come from what you call the traditional officer class. His father keeps
a newspaper shop and he himself has some small job in local government.”
“That’s as may
be,” said Widmerpool, “and more power to his elbow. Mantle’s a good lad. At the
same time I see no reason for treating Mantle’s case with undue bustle. As I’ve
said before, I have no great opinion of Hogbourne-Johnson’s capabilities as a
staff officer – on that particular point I find myself in agreement with the
General – but Hogbourne-Johnson is within his rights, indeed perfectly correct,
in trying to delay the departure of an N.C.O., if he feels the efficiency of
these Headquarters will be thereby diminished.”
There the
matter rested. Outside the barn I had a longish talk with Mantle about his
situation. By the time I returned to the house, everyone appeared to have gone
to bed; at least the room in which we had eaten seemed at first deserted,
although the oil lamp had not been extinguished. It had, however, been moved
from the dinner table to the dresser standing on the right of the fireplace.
Then, as I crossed the room to make for a flight of stairs on the far side I
saw General Liddament himself had not yet retired to his bedroom. He was
sitting on a kitchen chair, his feet resting on another, while he read from a
small blue book that had the air of being a pocket edition of some classic. As
I passed he looked up.
“Good night,
sir.”
“How goes the
Defence Platoon?”
“All right,
sir. Guards correct. Hay to sleep on.”
“Latrines?”
“Dug two lots,
sir.”
“Down wind?”
“Both down
wind, sir.”
The General
nodded approvingly. He was rightly keen on sanitary discipline. His manner
showed he retained the unusually good mood of before dinner. There could be no
doubt the day’s triumph over the Blue Force had pleased him. Then, suddenly, he
raised the book he had been reading in the air, holding it at arm’s length
above his head. For a moment I thought he was going to hurl it at me. Instead,
he waved the small volume backwards and forwards, its ribbon marker flying at
one end.
“Book reader,
aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you
think of Trollope?”
“Never found
him easy to read, sir.”
The last time
I had discussed books with a general had been with General Conyers, a much
older man than General Liddament, one whose interests were known to range from
psychoanalysis to comparative religion; and in many other directions too. Long
experience of the world of courts and camps had given General Conyers easy
tolerance for the opinions of others, literary as much as anything else.
General Liddament, on the other hand, seemed to share none of that indulgence
for those who did not equally enjoy his favourite authors. My answer had an
incisive effect. He kicked the second chair away from him with such violence
that it fell to the ground with a great clatter. Then he put his feet to the
floor, screwing round his own chair so that he faced me.
“
You’ve never found Trollope easy to
read
?”
“No, sir.”
He was clearly
unable to credit my words. This was an unhappy situation. There was a long
pause
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