By Nigel Calder. Originally published in the New Statesman, 6 February 1954. Selected by Brian Cathcart
Published a few weeks before the events portrayed in George Clooney's film Good Night, and Good Luck, this sideways look at the transatlantic influence of Joseph McCarthy's paranoia was contributed by the 22-year-old son of Ritchie Calder, who wrote for the New Statesman on science matters for some years. Nigel Calder in turn became (and remains) a leading author and broadcaster on science.
When Lance-Corporal Doveston-Hodge was posted-in, we already had a radio-mechanic. So we used him as a driver. He was not in the least put out by this, because in his previous unit he had been employed as a paint tumbler. Or so he told me, on one of the night-long convoy runs along the Autobahn.
Already I had learnt something of Doveston-Hodge - that his father was an Admiral, that he had been a cabaret singer before going up to Oxford, and that he buried his distaste for the Army under a load of mischief.
"A paint tumbler," I said warily, watching the road. "And what did that involve?"
"Tumbling paint, sir. Green paint mostly."
"You’re getting too close to the truck in front, Corporal," I said.
One day the C.O. sent for me: my squadron commander was there, too, and the door was carefully locked behind me. The Colonel had his special face on, the one he kept for courts martial, battle reports, royal straight flushes and the like.
"What do you know about Doveston-Hodge?" he asked me. I told him; he seemed impressed.
"There may be something very big blowing up about that laddie," the C.O. said. My mind ran over all the administrative blunders I might have made; but he went on: "Intelligence have been onto me. A package with a Warsaw postmark was addressed to him, but they put Lieutenant-Colonel Doveston-Hodge instead of Lance-Corporal, so it wasn’t delivered. The I-boys opened it and found it was full of propaganda stuff ." He looked up through his eyebrows for a reaction.
"Good God!" I said obligingly.
"Damned unpleasant, you see. Suppose there’s a whole gang of Communists in the regiment?" The Colonel’s dog snarled at the word. "It may mean simply a few chaps with unfortunate opinions. We haven’t found any of them yet except Hodge. But it may be worse. It may mean sabotage or espionage." He slammed his fist on the table and stubbed his finger on the pen-rack.
It was decided that Doveston-Hodge should be watched, and I detailed Corporal Smith to do this - after the Colonel had sent for him and asked him whether he loved his country. For the next few days there followed a drama of whispered reports and breathless conferences. After a week the climax came with the post.
"He opened it in front of you, Corporal Smith?" the C.O. asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And what did he do with the contents?"
"I think the same as we all do with our newspapers, sir. The issue never lasts out...."
"That’s all then, Corporal."
I suggested that there was nothing to worry about. "Anyway, there’s nothing to stop a soldier being a Communist," I said.
"That’s just the trouble," said the Colonel. "I’ve been right through the Regulations and I can’t see anything we can get him on. No, I still don’t like it. Talk to him yourself, and find out all you can. Casually, mark you."
So, I had Doveston-Hodge in front of me and asked him casually if he was a Communist.
"Why, yes, sir. Aren’t I wicked?"
"Where did you go on your week’s leave?"
"To Novgorod. Oh no, sir, not really. I went to Frankfurt to look for Goethe’s birthplace. Quite a respectable jaunt. You might even say reactionary. I met a girl with three illegitimate children...."
"And when you’re demobbed, what are you going to do?"
"Start a revolution in Stoke-on-Trent, sir."
Despite my reassurances the Colonel would not be pacified. He bridled every time he caught sight of Doveston-Hodge, and reminded me frequently to be on my guard.
"It’s intolerable!" he said at last. "We must get him discharged."
"I can’t see how, sir," I said, "but I’ll think about it."
When inspiration came to me I saw Doveston-Hodge.
"How would you like a discharge, Corporal?"
"Excellent, sir."
"Then you’ll have to take to bed-wetting."
He blinked. I was gratified. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said.
"Wet your bed. Regularly."
"Very good, sir."
After a couple of days he was back in the office. "I’ve tried, sir, and I can’t. I’m too well brought up."
"A man like you so inhibited?" I queried. "Drink a lot of gin, and that’ll do it."
"I did. The orderly officer told me I was a drunken lout. But it didn’t do any good."
"Then for heaven’s sake take a bottle of Naafi beer to bed with you."
At last I was able to go to the C.O. and say, "Doveston-Hodge is on a charge, sir. It appears he’s an enuritic."
"The hell he is!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Do field security know?"
"Oh no, sir, I mean he wets his bed. Or so my Sergeant tells me. I gather the usual procedure is to get the psychiatrist to recommend a medical discharge."
"Well done," said the Colonel.
Just before Doveston-Hodge left, I asked him: "Tell me, how do you tumble paint?"
"There’s a machine that does it, sir. You put in the paint and switch on. The paint comes out beautifully tumbled, and you don’t have to do that lot again for ages. Good-bye, sir, and thank you."
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