The Soldier's Art by Anthony Powell Page B

you’d
like a change from what you’re doing?”
    “I should,
sir.”
    It had never
struck me that General Liddament might be sufficiently interested in the
individuals making up Divisional Headquarters to have noticed any such thing.
Certainly, as a general, he was exceptional enough in that respect. He was
also, it occurred to me, acting in contrast with Widmerpool’s often propagated
doctrines regarding the individual in relation to the army. His next remark was
even more staggering.
    “You’ve been
very patient with us here,” he said.
    Again I could
think of no reply. I was also not sure he was not teasing. In one sense,
certainly he was; in another, he seemed to have some project in mind. This
became more explicit.
    “The point is,”
he said, “people like you may be more useful elsewhere.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “It’s not a
personal matter.”
    “No, sir.”
    “We live such
a short time in the world, it seems a pity not to do the jobs we’re suited for.”
    These
sentences were closer to Widmerpool’s views, though more sanely interpreted;
their reminder that life was dust had a flavour, too, of Sergeant Harmer’s
philosophy.
    “I’m going to
send a signal to Finn.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Ever heard of
Finn?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Finn was with
me at the end of the last war – a civilian, of course – in the City in those
days.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    General
Liddament mentioned “the City” with that faint touch of awe, a lowering of the
voice, somewhere between reverence and horror, that regular soldiers, even
exceptional ones like himself, are apt to show for such mysterious, necromantic
means of keeping alive.
    “But he put up
a good show when he was with us.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “An excellent
show.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Got a V.C.”
    “I see, sir.”
    “Then, after
the war, Finn gave up the City. Went into the cosmetic business – in Paris.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Made a good
thing out of it.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Now he’s come
back here with the Free French.”
    “I see, sir.”
    “I understand
Finn’s looking for suitable officers for the work he’s doing. I suggest you
drop in on him during your leave. Give him my compliments. Robin will issue you
with an instruction when we get back to base.”
    “Robin” was
Greening, the A.D.C.
    “Shall I
mention this to the D.A.A.G., sir?”
    General
Liddament thought for a moment. For a split second he looked as if he were
going to smile. However, his mouth finally remained at its usual enigmatically
set position when in repose.
    “Keep it under
your hat – keep it under your hat – just as well to keep it under your hat.”
    Before I could
thank him, or indeed any more might be said between us, the door of the room
opened violently. Brigadier Hawkins, Commanding the Divisional artillery, came
in almost at a run. Tall, lean, energetic, the C.R.A. was the officer
Widmerpool had commended for “knowing how to behave when speaking on the
telephone,” in contrast with Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. Widmerpool was right
about that. Brigadier Hawkins, who had seen to it the Gunner Mess was the best
run in the Division, was one of the few members of its staff who set about his
duties with the “gaiety,” which, according to Dicky Umfraville, Marshal Lyautey
regarded as the first requirement of an officer. Both Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson
and Colonel Pedlar had to be admitted to fall unequivocally short in that
respect. Not so, in his peculiar way, the General, whose old friend the
Brigadier was said to be.
    “Glad to find
you still up, sir,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but you should
see a report at once they’ve just brought in. I thought I’d come myself, to cut
out a lot of chat. The Blue Force we thought encircled is moving men in
driblets across the canal.”
    General Liddament
once
more kicked away the
chair from
his feet, sending it sliding across the room. He picked up a
map-case lying beside
him,
and began to