Put Out More Flags

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space, three-dimensional war, global war, war eternal--in brief, every kind of war except the war to defeat the enemy. lure his dramatis personae into a Sunday school. But Evelyn Waugh has made a somewhat disconcerting discovery: his loafers and surrealists and “proletarian” poets no longer live on even as ghosts amid the detritus of Bloomsbury. But the owners of the country piles must now 'do their bit' and either have the local militia camped on their lawns with their sprawling tented villages, and the officers made welcome in their drawing rooms, or take in children evacuees despatched from Birmingham and billeted upon them by the local authorities. Meanwhile their husbands seek to use the wheels of patronage and secure an easy wartime occupation.

Put Out More Flags, the sixth novel by Evelyn Waugh, was first published by Chapman and Hall in 1942. The title comes from the saying of an anonymous Chinese sage, quoted and translated by Lin Yutang in The Importance of Living (1937): As he trips along, however, Mr. Waugh pays very laudable respects to those portentous people who pretend always to have the real inside dope about the war. They are the ones who gabble about war in the air, war of attrition, tank war, war They held on precariously through the days when World War II was referred to as the “Great Bore War.” But now even the most epicene among them has been swept up by the new spirit abroad in England. Such, at least, is theThey were both silent, and in the silence Angela knew, by an intuition which defied any possible doubt, exactly what her maid was thinking. She was thinking, “Supposing Mr. Seal gets himself killed. Best thing really for all concerned.” hardest when the chips are down and keep the peace the longest in the intervals are those who know that the only thing worse than war is a lost war. Freddy: “If there’d been more like us and fewer like Basil there’d never have been a war. You can’t blame Ribbentrop for thinking us decadent when he saw people like Basil about. I don’t suppose they’ll have much use for him in the Army. He’s thirty-six. He might get some sort of job connected with censorship. He seems to know a lot of languages.” Like in all of Waugh’s novels, we get a perfect glimpse into the decayed social structure of the pseudo-intellectuals (i.e., Marxists) in Britain. The novel is not necessarily happy, few of Waugh’s are, but its wit is razor sharp. For reasons one can’t fathom, Basil is often in the company of the avant-garde Marxists. He tells one surrealist painter who is frightened by the war, “You know I should have thought an air raid was just the thing for a surrealiste; it ought to give you plenty of compositions--limbs and things lying about in odd places you know” (Waugh 32).

Now, it’s not that Basil’s family is impoverished by any means. On the contrary, his mother provides him a generous allowance for his personal indulgences, but still finds herself frequently paying off his debts when they become over-indulgences. Accordingly, the allowance is suspended. In terms of war heroism, Basil only thinks of achieving this without actually doing anything remotely dangerous or life-threatening—soldierly trench warfare, for example. And so he begins his creative endeavors. But the joys of Put Out More Flags do not reside entirely in its major characters, male and female, drawn at full length; for each of these, there are a dozen vignettes of people and places, sketched, it would seem, in a

Ambrose Silk is a more subtle and nuanced example of fashion. He is a dandy and an aesthete who has been a communist sympathiser – a fellow traveller in the jargon of the time. Waugh pokes fun at him on two fronts. He is terrified of what might happen to him if the Germans invade Britain – since he is aware that the Nazis have persecuted left sympathisers. And more comically, he is writing a memoir Monument to a Spartan which describes his love for Hans, a German brown shirt fascist youth.

Whilst being largely a farcical comedy, it also contains interesting elements of well-observed social history – particularly the decline of the English upper class, the institutions of government, and ideological movements of the period in what we would now call ‘culture wars’. So, amidst all the absurdity and tomfoolery in the rest of the novel, Waugh displays a mature touch as a writer in creating characters who change in time, who are not two-dimensional or vehicles for fun. Another example is Alastair Digby-Vaine Trumpington. He first appeared in the very opening scene of Decline and Fall, a Hooray Henry at Oxford, and he has lived a very conventional upper-class life ever since. Very rich, slightly naive, yet maintaining a ‘schoolboy’ sense of honour:

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can be rated on his terms. He wants a fine commission or a job as a Great Thinker, a maker of grand strategy. But his contribution to the war effort is to spy on harmless people and to suggest the seizure of Liberia, which he dramatizes Alastair Trumpington endures the petty bureaucracy of life in the ranks. Ambrose Silk is working at the Ministry of Information, worried that even fellow-travellers might be at risk. Angela Lyne has shut down her home and is enduring a lonely existence in a Grosvenor Square flat. Alastair Trumpington is involved in absurd training exercises. IMDB recently updated the archival information in its database relating to two little-known BBC TV adaptations of Waugh’s works from 1970. These are Vile Bodies and Put Out More Flags. Both were 90-minute productions on BBC2, but some archival information is still incomplete. For servants, the pay would be better working in a manufacturing industry, but they would also have more personal liberty and be free of the patronising and authoritarian discipline imposed by traditional upper-class employers. They would be free of the stifling deference required by the landed gentry who for generations had regarded themselves as superior beings. For him there was no ‘they’. England was at war; he, Alastair Trumpington was at war. It was not the business of any politician to tell him when or how he should fight. But he could not put this into words

Poppet Green is a feather-brained ‘artist’ who follows whatever the latest fad happens to be – which in 1939 was surrealism. Her subjects are:

I really enjoy Evelyn Waugh, and this witty satire set at the start of WWII and focusing on the lives of several members of the social upper class was the perfect antidote to some of my recent more contemporary (poorly written and boring) reads.