No More Parades, Ford Madox Ford [best ereader for pdf TXT] 📗
- Author: Ford Madox Ford
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The general said:
“That’s pretty well botched, isn’t it?”
Tietjens said without moving a muscle:
“Why, no, sir. Sylvia is to have Groby and you would naturally make it your headquarters … You’ve still got your hunters there …”
The general said:
“Sylvia is really to have Groby … Good God!”
Tietjens said:
“So it was no great conjuring trick, sir, to see that you might not mind …”
The general said:
“Upon my soul. I’d as soon give up my chance of heaven … no, not heaven, but India, as give up Groby.”
“You’ve got,” Tietjens said, “an admirable chance of India … The point is: which way? If they give you the sixteenth section …”
“I hate,” the general said, “to think of waiting for poor Puffles’ shoes. I was at Sandhurst with him …”
“It’s a question, sir,” Tietjens said, “of which is the best way. For the country and yourself. I suppose if one were a general one would like to have commanded an army on the Western front …”
The general said:
“I don’t know … It’s the logical end of a career … But I don’t feel that my career is ending … I’m as sound as a roach. And in ten years’ time what difference will it make?”
“One would like,” Tietjens said, “to see you doing it …”
The general said:
“No one will know whether I commanded a fighting army or this damned Whiteley’s outfitting store …”
Tietjens said:
“I know that, sir … But the sixteenth section will desperately need a good man if General Perry is sent home. And particularly a general who has the confidence of all ranks … It will be a wonderful position. You will have every man that’s now on the Western front at your back after the war. It’s a certain peerage … It’s certainly a sounder proposition than that of a freelance—which is what you’d be—in the House of Commons.”
The general said:
“Then what am I to do with my letter? It’s a damn good letter. I don’t like wasting letters.”
Tietjens said:
“You want it to show through that you back the single command for all you are worth, yet you don’t want them to put their finger on your definitely saying so yourself?”
The general said:
“… That’s it. That’s just what I do want …” He added: “I suppose you take my view of the whole matter. The Government’s pretence of evacuating the Western front in favour of the Middle East is probably only a put-up job to frighten our Allies into giving up the single command. Just as this railway strike is a counter-demonstration by way of showing what would happen to us if we did begin to evacuate …”
Tietjens said:
“It looks like that … I’m not, of course, in the confidence of the Cabinet. I’m not even in contact with them as I used to be … But I should put it that the section of the Cabinet that is in favour of the Eastern expedition is very small. It’s said to be a one-man party—with hangers-on—but arguing him out of it has caused all this delay. That’s how I see it.”
The general exclaimed:
“But, good God! … How is such a thing possible? That man must walk along his corridors with the blood of a million—I mean it, of a million—men round his head. He could not stand up under it … That fellow is prolonging the war indefinitely by delaying us now. And men being killed all the time! … I can’t …” He stood up and paced, stamping up and down the hut … “At Bonderstrom,” he said, “I had half a company wiped out under me … By my own fault, I admit. I had wrong information …” He stopped and said: “Good God! … Good God! … I can see it now … And it’s unbearable! After eighteen years. I was a brigadier then. It was your own regiment—the Glamorganshires … They were crowded into a little nullah and shelled to extinction … I could see it going on and we could not get on to the Boer guns with ours to stop ’em … That’s hell,” he said, “that’s the real hell … I never inspected the Glamorganshires after that for the whole war. I could not bear the thought of facing their eyes … Buller was the same … Buller was worse than I … He never held up his head again after …”
Tietjens said:
“If you would not mind, sir, not going on …”
The general stamped to a halt in his stride. He said: “Eh? … What’s that? What’s the matter with you?”
Tietjens said:
“I had a man killed on me last night. In this very hut; where I’m sitting is the exact spot. It makes me … It’s a sort of … Complex, they call it now …”
The general exclaimed:
“Good God! I beg your pardon, my dear boy … I ought not to have … I have never behaved like that before another soul in the world … Not to Buller … Not to Gatacre, and they were my closest friends … Even after Spion Kop I never …” He broke off and said: “I’ve such an absolute belief in your trustworthiness, I know you won’t betray what you’ve seen … What I’ve just said …” He paused and tried to adopt the air of the listening magpie. He said: “I was called Butcher Campion in South Africa, just as Gatacre was called Backacher. I don’t want to be called anything else because I’ve made an ass of myself before you … No, damn it all, not an ass. I was immensely attached to your sainted mother …” He said: “It’s the proudest tribute any commander of men can have … To be called Butcher and have your men follow you in spite of it. It shows confidence, and it gives you, as commander, confidence! … One has to be prepared to lose men in hundreds at the right minute in order to avoid losing them in tens of thousands at the wrong! …” He said: “Successful military operations consist not in taking
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