An Event
When I arrived at a few minutes before seven, I found the platoon assembled and ready to go. It was cold, and in the ranks the men were shivering and dancing up and down to keep warm. I was only the second-in-command of the platoon at that time, under instruction from a senior lieutenant, who was the platoon commander. Punctually at seven I said to Broadhurst, "March off, Sergeant. To the aerodrome, at the double. "
Broadhurst asked doubtfully whether we shouldn't wait for the platoon commander, who had not turn up. Unversed in the ways of the army, I said, "No, march off. The men are cold. " We doubled off.
Three or four minutes later the platoon commander, who had about fourteen years of service, appeared. He was in a towering rage. He rushed straight up to Broadhurst and asked him furiously what he meant by marching off without permission.
Broadhurst said, "I'm sorry, sir. "
My feet wouldn't move. My mouth wouldn't open. I made a gigantic effort and said, "Sir—" But the lieutenant had given Broadhurst a final blast and taken command. I looked at Broadhurst, but he was busy. After parade I apologized to him, but I never explained-to the lieutenant. Broadhurst told me the incident wasn't worth worrying about.
It was the worst thing that I ever did in the army, because in it I showed cowardice and disloyalty. The only excuses I could find for myself were that it happened quickly and that I was very young. It had a result, though. I had been frightened of the lieutenant, frightened of being reprimanded, frightened of failure even in the smallest endeavor. I discovered now that being ashamed of yourself is worse than any fear. Duty, orders, loyalty, obedience—all things boiled down to one single idea; Whatever the consequences, a man must act so that he can live with himself.
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