Free The Valley of Bones by Anthony Powell Page B

this moment. I mean why
we are all in the army. You must know that, Sayce. We are here for our country.
We are here to repel Hitler. You know that as well as I do. You don’t want
Hitler to rule over you, Sayce, do you?’
    Sayce gulped
again, as if he were not sure.
    ‘No, sir,’ he
agreed, without much vigour.
    ‘We must all,
every one of us, do our best,’ said Gwatkin, now thoroughly worked up. ‘I try
to do my best as Company Commander. Mr Jenkins and the other officers of the
Company do their best. The NCOs and privates do their best. Are you going to be
the only one, Sayce, who is not doing his best?’
    Sayce was now
in almost as emotional a state as Gwatkin himself. He continued to gulp from
time to time, looking wildly round the room, as if for a path of escape.
    ‘Will you do
your best in future, Sayce?’
    Sayce began
sniffing frantically.
    ‘I will, sir.’
    ‘Do you
promise me, Sayce.’
    ‘All right,
sir.’
    ‘And we’re
agreed you’re a good chap, aren’t we?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Indeed, Sayce
seemed moved almost to tears by the thought of all his own hitherto unrevealed
goodness.
    ‘Never had a
chance since I’ve been with the unit,’ he managed to articulate.
    Gwatkin rose
to his feet.
    ‘We’re going
to shake hands, Sayce,’ he said.
    He came round
to the front of the table and held out his palm. Sayce took it gingerly, as if
he still suspected a trick, a violent electric shock, perhaps, or just a terrific
blow on the ear administered by Gwatkin’s other hand. However, Gwatkin did no
more than shake Sayce’s own hand heartily. It was like the termination of some
sporting event. Gwatkin continued to shake hands for several seconds. Then he
returned to his seat behind the table.
    ‘Now,’ he
said, ‘I’m going to call in the escort again, so stand to attention, Sayce. All
right? Get them in, Mr Jenkins.’
    I opened the
door and said the word. CSM Cadwallader and the corporal returned to their
places, guarding Sayce.
    ‘Prisoner
admonished,’ said Gwatkin, in his military voice.
    The
Sergeant-Major was unable to conceal a faint tightening of the lips at the news
of Sayce escaping all punishment. No doubt he had supposed it would be a matter
for the Commanding Officer this time.
    ‘Prisoner and escort – about turn – quick
march – left wheel—’
    They disappeared into the passage,
like comedians retiring in good order from their act, only music lacking, CSM Cadwallader,
with an agility perfected for such occasions, closing the
door behind him without either pausing or turning.
    Gwatkin sat back in his chair.
    ‘How was that?’
he asked.
    ‘All right.
Jolly good.’
    ‘You thought
so?’
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘I think we
shall see a change in Sayce,’ he said.
    ‘I hope so.’
    This straight
talk to Sayce on the part of Gwatkin had a stimulating effect, as it turned
out, on Gwatkin, rather than Sayce. It cheered up Gwatkin greatly, made him
easier to work with; Sayce, on the other hand, remained much what he had been
before. The fact was Gwatkin needed drama in his life. For a brief moment drama
had been supplied by Sayce. However, this love of the dramatic sent Gwatkin’s
spirits both up and down. Not only did his own defeats upset him, but also,
vicariously, what he considered defeats for the Battalion. He felt, for
example, deeply dishonoured by the case of Deafy Morgan, certainly an
unfortunate incident.
    ‘Somebody
ought to have been shot for it,’ Gwatkin said at the time.
    When we had
arrived on this side of the water, Maelgwyn-Jones had given a talk to all ranks
on the subject of internal security.
    ‘This Command
is very different from the Division’s home ground,’ he said. ‘The whole
population of this island is not waging war against Germany – only the North. A
few miles away from here, over the Border, is a neutral state where German
agents abound. There and on our side too elements exist hostile to Britain and
her Allies. There have been cases of