Parade's End

intense desire to give them a bit of luck, and he said:

“Captain McKechnie, you can fall out. And you will return to duty. Your own duty. In proper head-dress.”

McKechnie, who had been talking, stopped with his head on one side like a listening magpie. He said:

“What’s this? What’s this?” stupidly. Then he remarked:

“Oh, well, I suppose if you’re in command…”

Tietjens said:

“It’s usual to say ‘sir,’ when addressing a senior officer on parade. Even if you don’t belong to his unit.”

McKechnie said:

“Don’t belong!… I don’t… To the poor b—y old pals!…”

Tietjens said:

“You’re attached to Division Headquarters, and you’ll get back to it! Now! At once!… And you won’t come back here. Not while I’m in command…. Fall out….”

That was really a duty — a feudal duty! — performed for the sake of the rag-time fellows. They wanted to be rid — and at once! — of dipsomaniacs in command of that unit and having the disposal of their lives…. Well, the moment McKechnie had uttered the words: “To the poor b—y old pals,” an illuminating flash had presented Tietjens with the conviction that, alone, the C.O. was too damn good an officer to appear a dipsomaniac, even if he were observably drunk quite often. But, seen together with this fellow McKechnie, the two of them must present a formidable appearance of being alcoholic lunatics!

The rest of the poor b—y old pals didn’t really any more exist. They were a tradition — of ghosts! Four of them were dead: four in hospital, two awaiting court martial for giving worthless cheques. The last of them, practically, if you excepted McKechnie, was the collection of putrescence and rags at that moment hanging in the wire apron…. The whole complexion of Headquarters would change with the going of McKechnie.

He considered with satisfaction that he would command a very decent lot. The Adjutant was so inconspicuous you did not even notice him. Beady-eyed, like a bird! Always preoccupied. And little Aranjuez, the signalling officer! And a fat fellow called Dunne, who had represented Intelligence since the Night Before Last! “A” Company Commander was fifty, thin as a pipe-stem, and bald; “B” was a good, fair boy, of good family; “C” and “D” were subalterns, just out. But clean…. Satisfactory!

What a handful of frail grass with which to stop an aperture in the dam of — of the Empire! Damn the Empire! It was England! It was Bemerton Parsonage that mattered! What did we want with an Empire! It was only a jerry-building Jew like Disraeli that could have provided us with that jerry-built name! The Tories said they had to have someone to do their dirty work…. Well, they’d had it!

He said to McKechnie:

“There’s a fellow called Bemer — I mean Griffiths, O Nine — Griffiths, I understand you’re interested in for the Divisional Follies. I’ll send him along to you as soon as he’s had his breakfast. He’s first-rate with the cornet.”

McKechnie said:

“Yes, sir,” saluted rather limply and took a step.

That was McKechnie all over. He never brought his mad fists to a crisis. That made him still more of a bore. His face would be distorted like that of a wildcat in front of its kittens’ hole in a stone wall. But he became the submissive subordinate. Suddenly! Without rhyme or reason!

Tiring people! Without manners!… They would presumably run the world now. It would be a tiresome world.

McKechnie, however, was saluting. He held a sealed envelope, rather small and crumpled, as if from long carrying. He was talking in a controlled voice after permission asked. He desired Tietjens to observe that the seal on the envelope was unbroken. The envelope contained “The Sonnet.”

McKechnie must, then, have gone mad! His eyes, if his voice was quiet, though with an Oxford-Cockney accent — his prune-coloured eyes were certainly mad…. Hot prunes!

Men shuffled along the trenches, carrying by rope-handles very heavy, lead-coloured wooden cases; two men to each case. Tietjens said:

“You’re ‘D’ Company… Get a move on!”

McKechnie, however, wasn’t mad. He was only pointing out that he could pit his Intellect and his Latinity against those of Tietjens; that he could do it when the great day came!

The envelope, in fact, contained a sonnet. A sonnet Tietjens, for distraction, had written to rhymes dictated by McKechnie… for distraction in a moment of stress.

Several moments of stress they had been in together. It ought to have formed a bond between them. It hadn’t…. Imagine having a bond with a Highland-Oxford-Cockney!

Or perhaps it had! There was certainly the sonnet. Tietjens had written it in two and a half minutes, he remembered, to stave off the thought of his wife who was then being a nuisance…. Two and a half minutes of forgetting Sylvia! A bit of luck!… But McKechnie had insisted on regarding it as a challenge. A challenge to his Latinity. He had then and there undertaken to turn that sonnet into Latin hexameters in two minutes. Or perhaps four….

But things had got in the way. A fellow called O Nine Morgan had got himself killed over their feet. In the hut. Then they had been busy with the Draft!

Apparently McKechnie had sealed up that sonnet in an envelope. In that envelope. Then and there. Apparently McKechnie had been inspired with a blind, Celtic, snorting rage to prove that he was better as a Latinist than Tietjens as a sonneteer. Apparently he was still so inspired. He was mad to engage in competition with Tietjens.

It was perhaps that that made him not quite mad. He kept sane in order to be fit for this competition. He was now repeating, holding out the envelope, seal upwards:

“I suppose you believe I have not read your sonnet, sir. I suppose you believe I have not read your sonnet, sir…. To prepare myself to translate it more quickly.”

Tietjens said:

“Yes! No!… I don’t care.”

He couldn’t tell the fellow that the idea of a competition was loathsome to him. Any sort of competition was loathsome to Tietjens. Even competitive games. He liked playing tennis. Real tennis. But he very rarely played because he couldn’t get fellows to play with, that beating would not be disagreeable…. And it would be loathsome to be drawn into any sort of competition with this Prize Man…. They were moving very slowly along the trench, McKechnie retreating sideways and holding out the seal.

“It’s your seal, sir!” he was repeating. “Your own seal. You see, it isn’t broken…. You don’t perhaps imagine that I read the sonnet quickly and made a copy from memory?”

... The fellow wasn’t even a decent Latinist. Or verse-maker, though he was always boasting about it to the impossible, adenoidy, Cockney subalterns who made up the battalion’s mess. He would translate their chits into Latin verse…. But it was always into tags. Generally from the ?neid. Like:

“Conticuere omnes, or Vino somnoque sepultum!”

That was, presumably, what Oxford of just before the War was doing.

He said:

“I’m not a beastly detective…. Yes, of course, I quite believe it.”

He thought of emerging into the society of little Aranjuez who was some sort of gentle earnest Levantine. Think of thinking of a Levantine with pleasure! He said:

“Yes. It’s all right, McKechnie.”

He felt himself solid. He was really in a competition with this fellow. It was deterioration. He, Tietjens, was crumpling up morally. He had accepted responsibility; he had thought of two hundred and fifty pounds with pleasure; now he was competing with a Cockney-Celtic-Prize Man. He was reduced to that level…. Well, as like as not he would be dead before the afternoon. And no one would know.

Think of thinking about whether any one would know or no!… But it was Valentine Wannop that wasn’t to know. That he had deteriorated under the strain!… That enormously surprised him. He said to his subconscious self:

“What! Is that still there?”

That girl was at least an admirable Latinist. He remarked, with a sort of sardonic glee that, years before, in a