walked back into the office. The Major always overdid everything, and now he no more thought of the advisability of a major's throwing his arm over a private's shoulder than he thought of the Articles of War or the meaning of morality. He winked, and for an awful moment Michael thought he was going to nuzzle his cheek. But, instead, he sat down at his desk and became very busy.
Gloria, on the telephone, looked up, amused, mock-despair in her eyes. "... No, sir," she was saying, "you have the wrong number. This is the Liaison Office of Special Services.... Not at all." She hung up with a bang.
"Isn't the telephone wonderful," she said. "You can commit any number of atrocities, like wrong numbers, over it and never get caught. I think I'll call up the Provost Marshal and tell him that the Bank of Japan has just been robbed and a perfectly reliable witnessânamely meâsaw little Arthur MacArthur MacArthur scooting away with the loot in his kiddy-car. They'd believe it, you know."
The telephone rang again. "... Oh, you wanted Major Calloway.... I see. ... Very sorry," said Gloria, then turned to the Major. "Same party again. Turns out she thought I'd said it was the Imperial Household or some such thing. At any rate, she's waiting."
The Major picked up the telephone. "Hello," he said, and then was silent for a long time. "But you got me all wrongâI never ... Oh, that's just one of those things." Another long pause, and then: "No, of course it's nothing serious, dear.... Well, I can't.... No, I can't explain right now. . . . All right, I'll see you this afternoon. But listenâHello, hello."
He handed the phone back to Gloria. She gazed at Michael with slightly widened eyes.
The Major looked at both of them and then said: "Must have got cut off."
Gloria put the phone back on the hook; then, with a satisfied grimace in Michael's direction, she began typing again. The hush of industry finallyâat tenâsettled over the office.
In the next room Colonel Ashcroft was looking out of the window. He heard the click of typewriters, the rustle of papers, and the self-important squeaks of Major Calloway's swivel chair. He looked at his gold watch, then shook his head.
Perhaps he was just old-fashioned, yet it did seem to him that when the working day began at nine the work itself should begin at the same time. The work, after all, was important: that was why they were all here. It was for that reason he'd forbidden coffee-hour in his offices and had thus earned the reputation of being a martinetâa reputation he felt he didn't deserve.
He watched the other officers he knew and saw their refusal to take obligations seriously. They consequently enjoyed the reputation of being what the soldiers called good Joes. The Colonel would never be a good Joe, and he knew it. It was the price that conscience and duty exacted of him. But then this, as the Colonel saw it, was life itself.
Long ago he had learned that if you did not take yourself seriously, no one else was likely to. To be sure, it was not the way to become popular. Becoming popular was easy: all one needed was a fairly destructive sense of humor and a complete lack of dignity. The Colonel had often longed for popularity, but eventually he always believed that it was better to take himself seriouslyâto refuse to see himself as others saw him, in the perspective which would have revealed to himself his smallness and his misery; to refuse to turn against himself the damaging glance of humor; to refuse to make fun of himself. This would have made him popular, but it would also have deprived him of all dignity in his own eyes. For the Colonel there was no choice at allâpopularity was as fragile and ephemeral as most things in life; only human dignity was enduring. Only through dignity were you allowed the privilege of a motive and a goal in life.
The Colonel stroked his silver moustaches. As always, this action calmed him. It had also always
Gloria, on the telephone, looked up, amused, mock-despair in her eyes. "... No, sir," she was saying, "you have the wrong number. This is the Liaison Office of Special Services.... Not at all." She hung up with a bang.
"Isn't the telephone wonderful," she said. "You can commit any number of atrocities, like wrong numbers, over it and never get caught. I think I'll call up the Provost Marshal and tell him that the Bank of Japan has just been robbed and a perfectly reliable witnessânamely meâsaw little Arthur MacArthur MacArthur scooting away with the loot in his kiddy-car. They'd believe it, you know."
The telephone rang again. "... Oh, you wanted Major Calloway.... I see. ... Very sorry," said Gloria, then turned to the Major. "Same party again. Turns out she thought I'd said it was the Imperial Household or some such thing. At any rate, she's waiting."
The Major picked up the telephone. "Hello," he said, and then was silent for a long time. "But you got me all wrongâI never ... Oh, that's just one of those things." Another long pause, and then: "No, of course it's nothing serious, dear.... Well, I can't.... No, I can't explain right now. . . . All right, I'll see you this afternoon. But listenâHello, hello."
He handed the phone back to Gloria. She gazed at Michael with slightly widened eyes.
The Major looked at both of them and then said: "Must have got cut off."
Gloria put the phone back on the hook; then, with a satisfied grimace in Michael's direction, she began typing again. The hush of industry finallyâat tenâsettled over the office.
In the next room Colonel Ashcroft was looking out of the window. He heard the click of typewriters, the rustle of papers, and the self-important squeaks of Major Calloway's swivel chair. He looked at his gold watch, then shook his head.
Perhaps he was just old-fashioned, yet it did seem to him that when the working day began at nine the work itself should begin at the same time. The work, after all, was important: that was why they were all here. It was for that reason he'd forbidden coffee-hour in his offices and had thus earned the reputation of being a martinetâa reputation he felt he didn't deserve.
He watched the other officers he knew and saw their refusal to take obligations seriously. They consequently enjoyed the reputation of being what the soldiers called good Joes. The Colonel would never be a good Joe, and he knew it. It was the price that conscience and duty exacted of him. But then this, as the Colonel saw it, was life itself.
Long ago he had learned that if you did not take yourself seriously, no one else was likely to. To be sure, it was not the way to become popular. Becoming popular was easy: all one needed was a fairly destructive sense of humor and a complete lack of dignity. The Colonel had often longed for popularity, but eventually he always believed that it was better to take himself seriouslyâto refuse to see himself as others saw him, in the perspective which would have revealed to himself his smallness and his misery; to refuse to turn against himself the damaging glance of humor; to refuse to make fun of himself. This would have made him popular, but it would also have deprived him of all dignity in his own eyes. For the Colonel there was no choice at allâpopularity was as fragile and ephemeral as most things in life; only human dignity was enduring. Only through dignity were you allowed the privilege of a motive and a goal in life.
The Colonel stroked his silver moustaches. As always, this action calmed him. It had also always