Please amplify ...

THE MILITARY PHILOSOPHERS-1 ANTHONY POWELL

Anthony Powell's 'The Military Philosophers,' the ninth novel in his sequence 'A Dance to the Music of Time, is to be published by Heinemann on 14 October. In this pre-publication extract Nicholas Jenkins, now posted to a small sec- tion of the General Staff in wartime London, is on his way to negotiate with a Mr Blackhead on the subject of the supply of straw for sniffing hospital palliasses.

The stairs above the second floor led up into a rookery of lesser activities, some fairly obscure of definition. On these higher storeys dwelt the Civil branches and their subsidiaries, Finance, Internal Administration, Passive Air Defence, all diminishing in official prestige as the altitude steepened. Finally the explorer con- verged on attics under the eaves, where crusty hermits lunched frugally from paper bags, amongst crumb-powdered files and documents ineradicably tattooed with- the circular brand of the teacup. At these heights, vestiges of hastily snatched meals endured throughout all seasons, eternal as the unmelted upland snows. Here, under the leads, like some unjustly con- fined prisoner of the Council of Ten, lived Blackhead. It was a part of the building rarely penetrated, for even Blackhead himself pre- ferred on the whole to make forays on others, rather than that his own fastness should be invaded.

'You'll never get that past Blackhead,' Pennistone had said, during my first week with the Section.

'Who's Blackhead?'

'Until you have dealings with Blackhead, the word "bureaucrat" will have conveyed no meaning to you. He is the super-tchenovnik of the classical Russian novel. Even this building can boast no one else quite like him. As a special treat you can negotiate with Blackhead this afternoon on the subject of the issue of screwdrivers and other tools to Polish civilian personnel tem- porarily employed at military technical establishments.'

This suggested caricature, Pennistone's taste for presenting individuals in dramatic form. On the contrary, the picture was, if anything, toned down from reality. At my former Divisional Headquarters, the chief clerk, Warrant Officer Class I Mr Diplock, had seemed a fair performer in the field specified. To transact business even for a few-minutes with Blackhead was immediately to grasp how pitifully deficient Diplock had, in fact, often, proved himself in evolving a really impreg-

nable system of obstruction and preclusion; awareness of such falling short of perfection perhaps telling on his nerves and finally causing him to embezzle and desert.

'Blackhead is a man apart,' said Pennistone. 'Even his colleagues are aware of that. His minutes have the abstract quality of pure ex- tension.'

It was true. Closely 'in touch' with the Finance branch, he was, for some reason, not precisely categorized as one of them. Indeed, all precision was lacking where the branch to which Blackhead belonged was in question, even the house telephone directory, usually un- equivocal, becoming all at once vagtie, even shifty. The phrase 'inspection and collation of governmental civil and economic administra- tion in relation to Allied military liaison' had once been used by a member of one of the Finance branches themselves, then hastily with- drawn- as if too explicit, something dangerous for security reasons to express so openly. Such prevarication hinted at the possibility that even his fellows by now could not exactly deter- mine—anyway define to a layman—exactly what Blackhead really did. His rank, too, usually so manifest in every civil servant, seemed in Blackhead's case to have become blurred by time and attrition. To whom was he responsible? Whom—if anyone—did he transcend? Obviously in the last resort he was subservient to the Permanent Under-Secretary of State for War, and Blackhead himself would speak of Assistant Under Secretaries—even of Principals—as if their ranks represented un- thinkable heights of official attainment. On the other hand, none of these people seemed to have the will, even the power, to control him. It was as if Blackhead, relatively humble though his grading might be, had become an anonymous immanence of all their kind, a fetish, the Voodoo deity of the whole Civil Service to be venerated and placated, even if better—safer--hidden away out of sight: the mystic holy essence incarnate of arguing, en- cumbering, delaying, hair-splitting, all for the best of reasons. . . .

I opened the door a crack, but further en- largement of entry was blocked by sheer stowage of paper, the files thickly banked about the'-'floor like wholesale goods awaiting allot- ment to retailers, or, more credibly, the residue of a totally unsaleable commodity stored up here out of everyone's way. Blackhead himself was writing. He jumped up for a second and fiercely kicked a great cliff of files aside so that I could squeeze into the room. Then he re-

turned to whatever he was at, his right hand moving feverishly across the paper, while his left thumb and forefinger, both stained with ink, rested on the handle of a saucerless cup.

'I'll attend to you in a minute, Jenkins.'

Not only was Blackhead, so to speak, beyond rank, he was also beyond age; beyond or out- side Time. He might have been a worn— terribly worn—thirty-five; on the other hand (had not superannuation regulations, no doubt as sacred to Blackhead as any other official ordinances, precluded any. such thing), he could easily have achieved three-score years and ten, with a safe prospect-for his century. Emaciated, though obviously immensely strong, he was probably in truth aproaching fifty. His hair, which formed an irregular wiry fringe over a furrowed leathery brow, was of a metallic shade that could .have been natural to him all his, life.

'Glad you've come, Jenkins,' he said, putting his face .still closer to the paper on which he was writing. 'Pennistone minuted me . . . Polish Women's Corps . . . terms I haven't been able fully to interpret . . . In short don't at all comprehend . .

His hand continued to move at immense speed, with a nervous shaky intensity, back- wards and forwards- across the page of the file, ending at last in a signature. He blotted the minute, read through what he had written, closed the covers. Then he placed the file on an already overhanging tower of similar dockets, a vast rickety skyscraper . of official comment, based on the flimsy foundation of a wire tray. At this final burden,' the pyramid began to tremble, at first seemed likely to topple over. Blackhead showed absolute command of the situation. He steadied the pile with scarcely a touch of his practised hand. Then, eyes glint- ing behind his spectacles, he rose jerkily and began rummaging about among similar foot- hills of files ranged on a side table.

'Belgian Women's Corps, bicycle for . . . Norwegian military attaché, office furniture . . . Royal Netherlands Artillery, second echelon lorries . . . Czechoslovak Field -Se- curity, appointment of cook . . . Distribution of Polish Global Sum in relation to other Allied commitments—now we're getting warm . . . Case of Corporal Altmann, legal costs in alleged rape—that's moving away . . . Luxem- bourg shoulder flashes—right out . . . Here we are . . . Polish Women's Corps, soap issue for —that's the one I wanted a word about.'

'I really came about the question of restric- tions on straw for stuffing hospital palliasses in Scotland.'

Blackhead paused, on the defensive at once. You can't be expecting an answer on straw already?'

We were hoping—'

But look here .

'It must be a week or ten days.'

'Week or ten days? Cast your eyes over these, Jenkins.'

Blackhead made a gesture with his pen in the direction of the files stacked on the table amongst which he had been excavating.

'Barely had time to glance at the straw,' he said. 'Certainly not think it out properly. It's a tricky subject, straw.'

'Liaison HQ in Scotland hoped for a quick answer.'

'Liaison HQ in Scotland are going to be dis- appointed.'

'What's so difficult?'

'There's the Ministry of Supply angle.' 'Can't we ignore them for once?' 'Ministry of Agriculture may require noti- fication. Straw interests them . . . We won't talk about that now. What I want you to tell me, Jenkins, is what Pennistone means by this . .

Blackhead held—thrust—the file forward in my direction.

'Couldn't we just cast an eye over the straw file too, if you could find it while I try to solve this one' Blackhead was unwilling, but in the end, after a certain-amount of search, the file about hospital palliasses was found and also ex- tracted.

'Now it's the Women's Corps I want to talk about,' he said. 'Issue of certain items—soap, to be exact, and regulations for same. There's a principle at stake. I pointed that out to Pennistone. Read this . . . where my minute begins . .

To define the length of a `minute'—an official memorandum authorising or recommending any given course—is, naturally, like trying to lay down the size of a piece of chalk. There can be short minutes or long minutes, as there might be a chalk down or a fragment of chalk scarcely perceptible to the eye. Thus a long minute might be divided into sections and sub- headings, running into pages and signed by an authority of the highest rank. On the other hand, just as a piece of chalk might reasonably be thought of as a length of that limestone con- venient for writing on a blackboard, the ordinary run of minutes exchanged between such as Pennistone and Blackhead Might be supposed, in general, to take a fairly brief form—say two or three, to perhaps ten or a dozen, lines. Blackhead pointed severely to what he had written. Then he turned the pages several times. It was a real Marathon of a minute, even for Blackhead. When it came

to an end at last he tapped his finger sharply on a comment written below his signature. 'Look at this,' he said.

He spoke indignantly. I leant forward to examine the exhibit, which was in Pennistone's handwriting. Blackhead had written, in all, three and a half pages on the theory and prac- tice of soap issues for military personnel, with especial reference to the Polish Women's Corps. Turning from his spidery scrawl to Pennistone's neat hand, two words only were inscribed. They stood out on the file:

Please amplify. D. Pennistone. Mal. GS. Blackhead stood back.

'What do you think of that?' he asked.

I could find no suitable answer, in fact had nearly laughed, which would have been fatal, an error from which no recovery would have been possible.

`He didn't mention the matter to me.'

'As if I hadn't gone into it carefully,' said Blackhead.

'You'd better have a word with Pennistone.'

'Word with him? Not before I've made sure about the point I've missed. He wouldn't have said that unless he knew. I thought you'd be able to explain. Jenkins. If he thinks I've omitted something, he'd hardly keep it from you.'

'I'm at a loss but about the palliasse straw--'

'What else can he want to know?' said Blackhead. 'It's me that's asking the questions there, not him.'

'You'll ha‘c to speak together.'

'Amplify indeed.' said Blackhead. 'I spent a couple of hours on that file.'

Blackhead stared down at what Pennistone had written. He was distraught; aghast. Penni- stone had gone too far. We should be made to suffer for this frivolity of his. That was, if Blackhead retained his sanity.

`What would you like me to do about it?' Blackhead took off his spectacles and pointed the shafts at me.

'I'll tell you what,' he said. 'I could send it to F 17 (b) for comments. They're the only ones, in my view, who might take exception to not being consulted. They're a touchy lot. Always have been. I may have slipped up in not asking them, but I'd have never guessed Pennistone would have spotted that.'

The thing we want to get on with is the straw.'

'Get on with?' said Blackhead. 'Get on with? If Pennistone wants to get on with things, why does he minute me in the aforesaid terms? That's what I can't understand.'

'Why not talk to him when he comes back. He's at Polish GHQ at the moment. Can't we just inspect the straw file?'

Blackhead had been put so far off his balance that his usual obstinacy must have become im- paired. Quite unexpectedly, he gave way all at once about the straw. We discussed the sub- ject of palliasses fully, Blackhead noting in the file 'that a measure of agreement had been reached.' It was a minor triumph. I also pre- pared the way for papers about the evacuation, but this Blackhead could hardly take in.

'I can't understand Pennistone writing that,' he said. 'I've never had it written before— please amplify—not in all my service, all the years I've worked in this blessed building. It's not right. It suggests a criticism of my method.'

I left him gulping the chill dregs of his tea.

A further extract will appear next. week.