A toast to the field marshals

August may not be the cruellest month but it is often the most dangerous one. Now that it is over, and rosé is giving way to grouse, we can console ourselves. There has not been a world war. We merely face a number of middle–ranking crises.

Over fortifying bottles, I was chatting about such matters with friends who had known the late Peter Inge, a dominating figure even by field marshal standards. It was said that in his company, brigadiers’ coffee cups would rattle with tension. I once taxed him with the contrast between his reputation as a martinet’s martinet and his geniality in private life. ‘If there is any truth in what you say – which of course I deny – remember that as Commander-in-Chief in Germany, I could put brigadiers and indeed major-generals through the fire, just as I had been by Baggy [Field Marshal Nigel Bagnall] and see what they were made of. If one day, God forbid, they had their country’s destiny in their hands, would they be up to it?’ Peter had a story which he enjoyed telling to rising hopefuls at Staff College and similar bodies who expected a forensic analysis of military doctrine. In barracks, newly commissioned in the Green Howards, the young Inge saw a formidable sergeant striding towards him: a man who had won the DCM at Dunkirk. At Sandhurst, cadets avoided NCOs like that, and Lt Inge had not outgrown the habit. So he slipped off on a side path.

Later, he did run into the sergeant. ‘Ah, Mr Inge, sir, I was wanting a word with you. Earlier today, you avoided me.’ Peter made a gargling noise. ‘Yes, sir, you avoided me, and while you were doing so, Private Murphy passed and did not salute you. Now, sir, between you and me, I would not mind if private soldiers didn’t have to salute young officers.