From Arctic Snow to Desert Sand

by Griff Hosker

  He was waiting, “I take it you agreed, Squadron Leader?”

  “I did.”

  He had a leather satchel. He opened it. “In here is all the information that you will need including the authorisation you will require.” He snapped it shut. “Come along to my office and I will take you through it.”

  An hour later my head was buzzing. Mr. Balfour was an organized man. He had meticulously prepared everything that I would need. I knew who my Russian liaison was as well as the Naval Attaché I would be dealing with. I had maps of the area as well as the numbers and types of German aeroplanes. I would be flying a Sopwith Camel. I was happy about that and the two fitters were also experienced armourers and riggers. Both had served on the Western front.

  He handed me two Sam Browne’s. They were fitted with Webleys. “These are for your men; the fitters. This part of the world is dangerous. You need to protect yourselves. I know you have a pistol but your air crew don’t. Be on your guard.” There was something in his eyes which told me that Mr. Balfour had a past. His voice was cheery but his eyes were cold. Mr. Balfour had been more than a clerk. “Now, Squadron Leader, I think we should go to the Surrey Dock for that is where the freighter is waiting.”

  “No, Mr. Balfour. First, we go to the Army and Navy Club. My luggage is there.”

  “But everything you could possibly need is on the freighter.”

  “We go to the club. I have to send a message to my wife and my servant is waiting for me there. There will be no argument, Mr. Balfour. The tide will not turn until later this evening. We have time. You have a car?” He nodded. “Then there will not be a problem as it is still eight hours to high tide.”

  I glared at him and he subsided, “Very well sir but…”

  “No buts. Let’s go.”

  I had walked from the club in about the same time as the car took for the roads were busy. When we arrived, I said, “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Balfour. I intend to have dinner before I leave. Wait here, driver.”

  The driver was an Royal Air Force Corporal and he recognised the tone, “Righto sir. I’ll have a smoke if that is all the same to you.”

  I reached into my pocket and took out a shilling, “There is a café around the corner, get yourself a bite and a brew eh, Corporal?”

  He grinned, “Thanks sir, you are a gentleman!”

  Bates was waiting for me in the foyer. He frowned when he saw my face, “A problem sir?”

  “Just a little one. Let’s go and eat now. I have news.”

  The club was quiet and we were given a quiet table. I ordered drinks and then told Bates most of my news. I omitted the Intelligence I had been given. When the drinks arrived I quickly ordered dinner. Bates knocked the whisky back in one. I smiled, “I have never see you do that before.”

  “Well, sir, you have taken me aback. Fighting again and in Russia.” His hand went to his mouth, “Mr. s. Harsker and the baby!”

  “I need you to drive the car home for me and tell my wife what I have told you. After I leave here I have to take a ship. I shall write to her but you will have to tell her first.” He nodded. “And John?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “I am guessing this has made your mind up about the hotel.”

  He smiled, “Actually sir, I had made it up already. I visited Edith earlier. It is a lovely hotel and would suit me. I was trying to think how to tell you. You made it easy sir. I don’t want to see young men die anymore.”

  I knocked back my drink. “Nor do I but I fear that will be my lot in life. Let us enjoy this meal. It might be the last decent one I have for some time.”

  Part One

  Arkhangelsk

  Chapter 1

  The S.S. Castletown was a relatively new ship. Her captain, however, had been a sailor for thirty years. He knew the waters of the Baltic and the White Sea as well as any man. My two men, one a Sergeant Mechanic and the other an Air Mechanic First Class, and I were the only passengers. The ship was laden with cargo. There was not only my Sopwith Camel and spares, there was also a great quantity of munitions for the allied troops based in the Baltic. I had arrived at the ship in plenty of time and he took me into his cabin to enjoy a companionable pipe.

  “Just so’s you know, Squadron Leader, we are not going to Murmansk. I know it is closer to the front but the waters are dangerous at this time of year. My orders are to deliver this cargo and you to the closest port to the British forces. Between you and me I think the whole idea is daft!”

  I learned, over the next days, that Captain Hesketh was both bluff and honest. I liked bot of those traits. “And let us say I am in agreement but it is orders and we both have to obey them. So where will you be landing us?”

  “The White Russians hold Memel. It is not far from the front and the British Flotilla is there keeping an eye on Kronstadt. That is where the carrier, H.M.S. Vindictive is based. The flotilla is in Finland at Terijoki. I am not risking that. The German battleships at Kronstadt would blow us out of the water.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot for a merchant seaman, Captain?” I took my pipe out and filled it. The captain was smoking his and I could see that he had more to say.

  He laughed, “I have been around a bit. I did convoys during the war and I know about submarines and commerce raiders. The Navy are the ones who know what they are doing. They are happy for me to offload at Memel. Take some advice, Squadron Leader, be careful around these White Russians. I am not saying the Bolsheviks are saints but the White Russians are as bad. This is a nasty war. Anyhow it will take us ten days or so to steam there.” He pointed the stem of his pipe at the satchel. “You will have lots of time to study the papers you are hanging on to. What I will say is I hope this aeroplane of yours can cope with the cold because believe me, we will be chipping ice off the ship before we reach Russia! You and your lads all have your own cabin and there is a steward to look after you. You will eat with the officers in my mess. If you want to eat alone then you can. No skin off my nose.”

  “No, Captain, we will be quite happy to eat with your men. Can you tell me which hold the Camel is in?”

  He laughed, “It isn’t. It is wrapped in canvas on the main deck. It will be as safe as anywhere. We double wrapped it. Your lads saw to it. They looked after it like it was a baby!”

  I shook his hand, “Well I had better go and meet them.”

  “You seem a nice bloke sir. I can see from the medals on your chest that you are no coward but this is not a war we should be getting in to. I will do my best to get you there safely but I don’t envy you your job.” He reached into a drawer and brought out a tin of tobacco. “Here you are Squadron leader. As you smoke a pipe you might like this. I did the Caribbean run a couple of times and picked up some nice baccy. This one is from Cuba. They soak it in rum. Very nice too.”

  “Thank you, Captain. That is kind.”

  He pointed the stem of his pipe at my medals. “You have the Victoria Cross there, Squadron Leader. That tells me that you are a bloke I can respect and trust. I’ll get you there safely and I’ll tell you who you can trust but after that sir, you’ll be on your own.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We sail at midnight so we will eat at seven. We don’t dress.”

  As I left the captain’s cabin I pondered his words. This would not be like the Western front where the enemies spoke German and you could trust everyone else. This was a vicious civil war. I did not think how we could possibly benefit from it but I was under orders. I consoled myself with the fact that it would only be for six months.

  My two men were standing at the gangway watching London. This would be their last sight of England for some time. Throwing their cigarettes over the side they stood to attention and saluted. I smiled, “You can smoke if you like. I will be.”

  The Sergeant nodded, “Thanks sir. Some officers are funny about that sort of thing.” He was about thirty years old and had the oily fingers and bitten down fingernails of a true mechanic.

  I nod
ded, “But not me. I am Squadron Leader Harsker. I only found out about this little mission this afternoon. I am guessing that you two had more warning?”

  “Yes sir. We found out last month. We were just waiting for you, sir.”

  That told me they had probably offered the operation to someone who had refused. “So, let’s get the introductions over and done with.”

  “Sergeant Mechanic Bert Hepplewhite from Bolton sir.”

  “Bolton eh? I come from Burscough. That’s not far from you.”

  “No, sir, but it is a bit cleaner. Some nice pubs out Burscough way.”

  “There are indeed. And you?”

  “Air Mechanic First Class George Baker sir, from Stoke on Trent.”

  I recognised the accent. He was younger. I guessed he was in his early twenties. Well, Bert, George, that is what I shall call you. We will save Sergeant and Air Mechanic for special occasions; how is that?”

  They both smiled, “I heard that you were a decent officer sir. I know some of the lads who were with you in France.” He pointed to my medals. “Where you got the V.C.”

  “Well I don’t think there will be any medals coming out of this little expedition. I have to warn you that it will be pretty cold. I fear that you will have a harder job maintaining the aeroplane than I will flying it.”

  “They are a nice little bus, sir.”

  “I know. I have flown them before. It may well be March before we get to fly though.”

  “It could be worse sir. We could be back on the Western Front!”

  “We will have to be very careful in Russia. I do not speak Russian and I have little diplomatic training. I will rely on you two keeping your mouths shut and your ears open.”

  George flicked his cigarette butt over the side, “What do you mean, sir?”

  “There are Americans, French, Czechs, Serbians and goodness knows who else in this army we are joining not to mention the Russians, Lithuanians, Estonians, Finns and Galicians. You two will have to nurse and guard the Camel like it was your baby. We are getting more personnel but it won’t be until the New Year. For the next month we are going to be it. You two will be the Camel’s babysitters.”

  Bert laughed, “Then it will be a lot more interesting than working in the stores at Wolverhampton.”

  “Stores at Wolverhampton?”

  “We had a choice sir, we could leave the service, have a job in the stores, or come on this jaunt. We both jumped at it. It should be interesting and when we found out we had a genuine ace as our pilot… well sir there was no thinking twice about it was there?”

  I liked them both, they reminded me of every mechanic and fitter with whom I had served. Lumpy would have got on well with them both. “One more thing. There are side arms for you. When we get to White Russia then wear them at all times. Have you used a Webley before?”

  “Only in training sir.”

  “Well I shall give you a couple of refresher lessons. Right then show me to my cabin. Apparently, we eat with the officers so let’s get washed up. Dinner is at seven.”

  There were just eight officers on the freighter. The meal would be unusual in that all of them would be present. As the captain told us after we had said Grace, as soon as we set sail then at least a third would be on duty at all times. They were keen to question us about the war. They had seen it from the sea. It had been the newspapers who had given them their version of the war and they wanted to know the reality. As I had served in the cavalry first I was able to give them a unique insight. Bert and George also had stories which brought looks of sadness to the sailor’s faces.

  In return the sailors told us of submarines and ships lost in the icy waters of the Arctic and Atlantic. “Aye, Squadron Leader, when a man falls into the Arctic he measures his life in seconds, not minutes. That’s why the lads don’t bother with lifejackets.”

  I saw George and Bert exchange a worried look.

  The Captain laughed, “Don’t worry lads there are no U-Boats where we are going and I promise I shall get you to dry land.” He turned to the steward. He was a West Indian called Desmond. “Steward, I think we will end this meal with a rum and a toast.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He poured us all a generous measure. Captain Walter Hesketh stood, “Here’s a toast; to the sailors who never came home and the soldiers who died for their country. Let’s never forget them. To the dead!”

  “To the dead!”

  It was both sombre and apposite. The rum was Navy strength and I saw George’s eyes begin to water. The Captain just licked his lips. “Right lads. Let’s get this boat ready for sea.”

  I had started to write a letter to Beattie in the car coming from the club. After dinner, I hurriedly finished it. I knew that the customs officer would be coming aboard before we sailed and I intended to ask him to post it. In it I tried to explain to Beattie why I had taken the posting. I hoped she would understand. Who knew when I would be able to write to her again?

  The customs officer, who would be my postman, had a limp and a scarred face. He was an ex-soldier; a lieutenant who had served in the Middlesex Regiment. Wounded on the Somme he had still found a way to serve his country. He was more than delighted to post my letter for me. He took in my medals. “How long were you at the front sir?”

  “From Mons until the end.”

  He shook his head, “I was in for just six months, sir. If I had been there any longer I think I would have gone mad at the insanity of it.”

  “I know what you mean but I was luckier. I was a flier. There was death in the skies but it was a slightly old fashioned war. It was not as heroic as the newspapers made out, death in a burning aeroplane is never pleasant, but you had slightly more control over your own destiny.”

  He nodded to the canvas covered shape on the deck. “And you are still serving sir. Will you be fighting?”

  “I would like to say no but that would be a lie. Yes, my war is not over yet.”

  He saluted, “Well mine is over and I thank God for that. Good luck, sir.”

  I stood by the rail as the ship was made ready for sea. The engines were started and the umbilical cords which held us to the shore were severed. We were off. I watched a darkened River Thames and England slip by. The last time I had left by boat had been in 1914. Then it had been a troopship packed with the Yeomanry. Now there were just three of us. I headed for my cabin to read the intelligence which the efficient Mr. Balfour had provided.

  My cabin was cosy. Next to a small sink there was a bed with storage underneath, a bedside cabinet attached firmly to the bulkhead, and a wardrobe. I hung my flying coat and battle dress in the wardrobe and then examined what Mr. Balfour had provided. He had been a resourceful fellow. Apart from the satchel, filled with papers and maps, he had provided winter clothes. There was an oil skin sweater amongst the clothes. I could see that being useful. The sou’wester would be less useful. I did not envisage myself having to brave the decks in a force 8 but it showed how thoughtful the man was. There was a tin of tea, biscuits, a fruit cake and a bottle of brandy. I saw Mr. Churchill’s hand in that. Finally, there was a bag with toiletries. I had my own but after a few months I would run out. It was a good kit.

  I packed everything away; it was the way of the soldier to be neat and tidy. Then I laid out the papers. I was not tired. My mind was too full of the mission. I began with my superior officer. Rear Admiral Alexander-Sinclair commanded the small flotilla which watched the Bolshevik fleet. It was not a large number of ships. The two seaplane carriers and converted carrier were the largest vessels he possessed. It was hard to see what he would do if the Bolsheviks chose to bring him to battle. The Bolshevik ships had twelve inch guns. His largest vessel mounted six inch guns. I saw now why they wanted aeroplanes. The seaplanes could do little for him. They were worse than useless in aerial combat. Even the oldest German aeroplane could outfly an aeroplane which had two huge floats.

  I filled my pipe with some of the Captain’s tobacco. As I puffed the sweet lea
ves I wondered at the wisdom of sending a Camel. There were other aeroplanes which could carry torpedoes and bombs. They would be more use against a fleet. It was then I realised I was not there for the fleet. I was there to shoot down German aeroplanes. I took out the intelligence papers for the enemy aeroplanes. I smiled, ruefully. It was a catalogue of every aeroplane I had fought since the days of the Gunbus. All of them had been terrors in their time from the Fokker Eindecker through to the Red Baron’s Triplane. None of them, however, were new. None was as fast or as manoeuvrable as the Camel. Even the little Sopwith Pup had the firepower to defeat them. The Strutter was an upgraded version of the Pup.

  I put the list to one side. There might be thirty aeroplanes but they were not the worry. I looked at my resources. I ruled out the seaplanes. The Sopwith Baby was as slow as the Germans and, with their huge floats, sitting ducks for the Bolsheviks. It was the Sopwith 1½ Strutters I would be leading. There were three of them and all had been RNAS. They were flown by three lieutenants. From their service records, they all appeared to be young. They were in Finland with the flotilla. That was a problem. I was being landed on the other side of the Baltic. My pipe had gone out and I took that as a sign that I should sleep. I looked at the brandy bottle. I would keep that for the cold of Russia.

  I awoke to a grey day heading, slowly, up the east coast of England. The breakfast was a hearty one and like all old soldiers I took advantage. Who knew when the next decent meal might arrive? The air crew and myself had been on short rations many times. The three of us took a stroll around the deck. It was partly exercise and partly to check on the condition of the Camel. The aeroplane was in three sections: fuselage, wings and undercarriage. Everything else was below decks.