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. But it says in Queen’s Regulations that they must – and in that case, they will. If you let Murphy get into bad habits, next thing we know, he’ll have a dirty rifle. If you should have the honour and the duty of leading him into action, you’ll find that every-thing goes pear-shaped because his rifle won’t work, and that’ll be your fault.’ Peter felt nine inches tall. ‘I’ll never make that mistake again, Sergeant.’ ‘I’m sure you won’t, sir – now come and have a drink.’

Peter was not always solemn in military company. A friend of mine remembers his singing ‘Gaudeamus Igitur’ in an officers’ mess late one night in Germany. He suspects that even had he been sober, his voice would have been noteworthy for quantity rather than quality.

‘Gaudeamus’ is a fine drinking song. Its theme can be summarised as ‘Let us forget life’s perils, not to mention its brevity, and enjoy ourselves while we can.’ A song which forms part of Brahms’s Academic Festival Overture, it is also noteworthy for the praise it heaps on academics.

We did not sing, even under the influence of an Armand Rousseau Gevrey-Chambertin Clos St Jacques 2010. It was one of the finest wines I have drunk recently. Some of us had been lucky enough to taste Rousseau’s Chambertin Clos de Bèze 2002. I have written about it here, without finding the words to do it justice.

There are those who claim that the Rousseau is second only to Romanée-Conti. There are also those who insist that it is entitled to first place. That would be a contest and a half. If there is an afterlife, that might be the sort of tasting which field marshals enjoy. We raised a glass to salute the memory of our dear departed friend. Gaudeamus.