Officers and Gentlemen [antikvár]

BOOK ONE Happy Warriors 1 The sky over London was glorious, ochre and madder, as though a dozen tropic suns were simultaneously setting round the horizon ; everywhere the searchlights clustered and hovered, then swept apart; here and there pitchy clouds drifted and billowed; now and then a huge flash momentarily froze the serene fireside glow. Everywhere the shells sparkled like Christmas baubles. 'Pure Turner,' said Guy Crouchback, enthusiastically; he came fresh to these delights. 'John Martin, surely?' said Ian Kilbannock. 'No,' said Guy firmly. He would not accept correction on matters of art from this former sporting-journalist. 'Not Martin. The sky-line is too low. The scale is less than Babylonian.' They stood at the top of St James's Street. Half-way down Turtle's Club was burning briskly. From Piccadilly to the Palace the whole jumble of incongruous façades was caricatured by the blaze. 'Anyway, it's too noisy to discuss it here.' Guns were banging away in the neighbouring parks. A stick of bombs fell thunderously somewhere in the direction of Victoria Station. On the pavement opposite Turtle's a group of progressive novelists in firemen's uniform were squirting a little jet of water into the morning-room. Guy was momentarily reminded of Holy Saturday at Downside ; early gusty March mornings of boyhood; the doors wide open in the unfinished butt of the Abbey; half the school coughing; fluttering linen ; the glowing brazier and the priest with his hyssop, paradoxically blessing fire with water. ' It was never much of a club,' said Ian. ' My father belonged.' He relit his cigar and immediately a voice near their knees exclaimed: 'Put that light out.' 9