“No room in this bloody Mess as it is,” said Biggs, Staff Officer Physical Training, expressing this opinion when I first turned up there. “Now you come along and add to the crowd, Jenkins, making an extra place at that wretched rickety table we’ve been issued with to eat off, and another body to occupy the tin sink on the top floor they call a bath — no shaving in the bathroom, remember, absolutely verboten. What are you supposed to be doing at Div. anyway?”
A captain with ’14-’18 ribbons, bald as an egg, he had perhaps been good-looking in a heavy classical manner when younger; anyway, had himself so supposed. Now, with chronically flushed cheeks, he was putting on flesh, his large bulbous nose set between fierce frightened eyes and a small cupid’s bow mouth that kept twitching open and shut like a rubber valve. Muscular over-development of chest, shoulder and buttock gave him the air of a strong man at a circus — a strong woman almost — or professional weight-lifter about to present an open-air act to a theatre queue. His voice, harsh and unsure, registered the persecution mania that beset him, that condition, not uncommon in the army, of for ever expecting a superior to appear — bursting like the Demon King out of a trapdoor in the floor — and find fault. In civilian life sports organiser at a sea-side resort, Biggs, so I learnt later, was in process of divorcing his wife, a prolonged undertaking, troublesome and expensive, of which he would often complain.
“I’m attached to the D.A.A.G.’s office.”
“How long for?”
“Don’t know.”
“How’s Major Widmerpool got authority for an assistant, I should like to know?”
“War Office Letter.”
“Go on.”
“It’s to help clear up a lot of outstanding stuff like court-martial proceedings and requisition claims.”
“I’ve got a lot of outstanding stuff too,” said Biggs. “A bloody lot. I’m not given an assistant. Well, I don’t envy you, Jenkins. It’s a dog’s life. And don’t forget this. Don’t forget it. There’s nothing lower in the whole bloody army than a second-lieutenant. Other Ranks have got their rights, a one-pipper’s none. That goes especially for a Div. H.Q., and what’s more Major Widmerpool is a stickler for having things done the right way. He’s been on my own track before now, I can tell you, about procedure he didn’t consider correct. He’s a devil for procedure.”
After that Biggs lost interest in what was not, indeed, a very interesting subject, except in the light indicated, that to acquire an understrapper at all was, on Widmerpool’s part, an achievement worthy of respect. No one but a tireless creator of work for its own sake would have found an assistant necessary in his job, nor, it could be added, in the ordinary course of things been allowed one, even if required. Widmerpool had brought that off. As it happened, a junior officer surplus to establishment was to some extent justified additionally, not long before my arrival at Division, by Prothero, commanding the Defence Platoon, falling from his motor-bicycle and breaking his leg. While he was in hospital I was allotted some of Prothero’s duties as well as those delegated by Widmerpool.
“You’ll find there’s a lot of work to do here,” said Widmerpool, on my first morning. “A great deal. We shall be at it to a late hour most nights.”
This warning turned out to be justified. There were, as it happened, several courts-martial pending, and another, convened in the past, the findings of which Widmerpool considered unsatisfactory in law. A soldier, who had temporarily gone off his head and assaulted two civilians, had been acquitted at his trial. Widmerpool was engaged in a complicated correspondence on this matter with the Judge Advocate General’s Department. Such things took up time, as most of the week was spent out of doors on exercises. Although, since days when we had been at school together, I had been seeing him on and off — very much on and off — for more than twenty years by this time, I found when I worked under him there were still comparatively unfamiliar sides to Widmerpool. Like most persons viewed through the eyes of a subordinate, his nature was to be appreciated with keener insight from below. This new angle of observation revealed, for example, how difficult he was to work with, particularly on account of a secretiveness that derived from perpetual fear, almost obsession, that tasks completed by himself might be attributed to the work of someone else.
On that first morning at Division, Widmerpool spoke at length of his own methods. He was already sitting at his table when I arrived in the room. Removing his spectacles, he began to polish them vigorously, assuming at the same time a manner of hearty military geniality.
“No excuses required,” he said, before I could speak. “Your master is always the first staff officer to arrive at these Headquarters in the morning, and, apart from those on night duty, the last to leave after the sun has gone down. Now I want to explain certain matters before I go off to attend A. & Q.’s morning conference. The first thing is that I never turn work away, neither in the army nor anywhere else. To turn work away is always an error. Never let me find you doing that — unless, of course, it is work another branch is wrongly trying to foist on us, for which they themselves will ultimately reap the credit. A man fond of stealing credit for other people’s work is Farebrother, my opposite number at Command. I do not care for Farebrother. He is too smooth. Besides, he is always trying to get even with me about a certain board-meeting in the City we both once attended.”
“I met Farebrother years ago.”
“So you keep on telling me. You mentioned the fact at least once last night. Twice, I think.”
“Sorry.”
“I hope previous acquaintance will prevent you being taken in by his so-called charm, should you have dealings with him as my representative.”
Widmerpool’s feud with Sunny Farebrother, so I found, was of old standing, dating back to long before this, though, militarily speaking, in especial to the period when Farebrother had been brigade-major to Widmerpool’s Territorials soon after the outbreak of war. The work of the “A” staff, which Widmerpool (under “A. & Q.”, Colonel Pedlar) represented at Division, comprised administration of “personnel” and “interior enonomy,” spheres in which, so it appeared, Farebrother had more than once thwarted Widmerpool, especially in such matters as transfers from one unit to another, candidates for courses and the routine of disciplinary cases. Farebrother was, for example, creating difficulties about Widmerpool’s correspondence with the Judge Advocate’s Department. There were all kinds of ways in which an “opposite number” at Corps or Command could make things awkward for a staff officer at Division. As Command Headquarters were established in one of the blocks of regular army barracks on the other side of the town, I had no contact with Farebrother in the flesh, only an occasional word on the telephone when the D.A.A.G. was not available; so the matter of our having met before had never arisen. It was hard to estimate how justly, or otherwise, Widmerpool regarded this mutual relationship. Farebrother’s voice on the line never showed the least trace of irritation, even when in warm conflict as to how some order should be interpreted. That quiet demeanour was an outstanding feature of Sunny Farebrother’s tactic. On the whole, honours appeared fairly evenly divided between the two of them where practical results were concerned.