The ODD ANGLE

Auckland Star, Volume LXXIII, Issue 176, 28 July 1942, Page 4

The ODD ANGLE

(By MacCLURE)

• THE ARMCHAIR STRATEGIST

I'd be lucky if I got it at "double that price," the auctioneer had told me when I approached him about the old armchair the storeman was doing his best to make look anything. Seeing I hadn't mentioned any particular sum, I merely put his remark down to pure cussedness. An auctioneer's life is not the bed of roses some folk think it is. I waited until he had taken delivery and signed for two empty, well-rusted kerosene tins and several cracked cups before resuming the discussion. "The trouble is there's a reserve on it," the auctioneer told me, adding that as far as he was concerned I could have it for nothing. Auctioneers have this great weakness in common for giving vendors' goods away buckshee. Time and time again one hears them asking, after some particularly vain attempt to secure any bid at all, "Is there anybody here who will even take it away?" That, of course, is when the article in question is something you have sent in—and value exceedingly. "Here comes the owner himself— you'd better speak to him about it," he finally told me. He indicated a particularly grave-looking old gentleman who seemed to be carrying most of the world's troubles on his shoulders. "The owner, I presume," I asked him in my best Stanley manner. Looking past me he stared into space. It was only then the truth dawned on me. Here was the embodiment of all the armchair critics. 1 reverently took off my hat to him. Sinking into the old armchair, he buried his head in his hands. A lesser man would have buried his in sand.

• THE PLANNER For a full minute he remained thus. One minute's silence! And yet in that minute no man knows what he passed through. You who have read his brilliant anonymous letters to the editor, discussed his (what the heads scoffingly called) "armchair strategy," followed his clear-cut, concise planning of each disastrous campaign, you who looked forward each evening to another of his brilliant, slashing attacks on those who hold the fate of our Empire in their hands—you may understand what those three long tragicyears sitting in that chair, evolving plan after plan in an attempt to hold up Hitler, must have meant. How he must have suffered, sweated, blc*l and toiled! And now it was all over! "If you'd only held out till this second frcnt argument had been decided," I said kindly. He broke down and I passed him my handkerchief. Man and boy, he had sat here planning, he told me, through three wars. Kitchener, Carrington, Methuen, White, Crcnje, Plumer —he rattled off the long list of the men and battles of my school days. Then the Great War; and now this! And now the end had come. • BE CAREFUL "But why,?" I asked. "Whv should it be the end? Whv not steer us through our troubles? Heaven only knows what black days are ahead." "You forget," he said, "the new War Administration," he added. I had forgotten. "Good-bye, Mr. MacClure. God bless you for understanding," he wrung my hand, and, head low on his chest, hurried away. There was only one other bidder. Each time I made a bid, from the bare wall opposite came a higher one. Finally the wall ceased bidding. The priceless object became my property. Carefully wrapping each part that fell away, I carried it home and set it up afresh. This morning as I sit in it writing this I see clearly the moves we should make, but—l am afraid to mention any of them lest I offend our Government. And lest I offend our "best" people. And the British Government. Sometimes I think this armchair's previous owner was a shrewd old lad in getting out of it before "they" got him. I may not be so lucky. Twice this morning men have looked in "to check up on fire precautions"—on my various meters —on all sorts of things. One even took my photo. One offered me a cigarette out of a shiny new cigarette case and I noticed he carefully wrapped a handkerchief round the case and placed it in a little case he carried with him.' One knocked and wanted my autograph. I must be more careful in future. Much more careful.

• ON "BUTTING IN"

"Tell me," one of these visitors asked, "were you in the last war?" "Yes, in a way," I replied. "In whose way?" he asked suspiciously. I hadn't expected that one. As a matter of fact, I shouldn't have gone to that war at all. I knew too much; and men who know too much never get anywhere at all. They're apt, like myself, to come back as full privates—that is, if they come back at all. My own particular weakness in that war was explaining to generals just where they were wrong —on the very eve of a battle. Generals are touchy over little things like that —especially coming from a private. Besides, you're apt to get them excited —the very thing no good general can afford to be. Your no doubt well-meant interference will, nine times out of ten, put them off their stroke; if persisted in it has the effect of making them lose confidence in themselves. The general who can fully appreciate your earnest and well-thought out objections to his plans has yet to be born. Any time you drop in to see him be guarded in your speech, don t throw vour weight about and seek to put him wise." Even if you don t see eve to eye with him he may be right; he may have more facts at his command than you have And don t foreet Save those criticisms of yours till the battle is over—then, if you re right you can have the laugh of him by casually dropping in and saying, "I knew you'd come a cropper, old man." He'd prefer that to the other.. That is, of course, if he shows any preference at all. Some of them don't, though. As a matter of actual fact, the best time to offer either the High Command or the Government any advice is when you are on your death-bed. With your last breath.