They enjoyed that. Griffin allowed himself a small smile.
“You will live in hovels and share them with lice and fleas. No beer, and the vodka is foul. Nothing can stop your engine oil from freezing. Your pay is good but there is absolutely nothing to spend it on except funerals. Yes, north Russia is a challenge.”
They laughed, and applauded. “What’s he playing at?” Wragge asked Hackett, and got a shrug in reply.
“So, if that’s your meat, I can arrange it,” Griffin said. “Meanwhile I shall be leading my squadron to south Russia, down on the shores of the Black Sea. Climate like the French Riviera. Rich farming country – melons as sweet as honey, cherries as big as plums, beefsteaks as thick as thieves. I don’t care for caviare but maybe you do. You’ll have to sing for your supper, of course. The White Army holds the south. The Red Army wants it. General Denikin leads the Whites. Brilliant commander, splendid patriot, and if Russia has any future, the saviour of his nation. Britain has sent him supplies worth millions of pounds. Our task is simple: we help him duff up the enemy, who are a complete rabble, and we escort his march on Moscow. Oh, and by the way: you’ll get paid one grade higher than your rank for doing it.”
A storm of applause. The adjutant looked around and counted Dextry, Jessop, Bellamy, Wragge and Hackett on their feet, cheering. Good. That should thin out the bloody idiots and make his in-tray lighter.
Two-thirds of the squadron volunteered for south Russia. “I’ll take half,” Griffin told the C.O. “You can keep the drunks and the sex maniacs and the ones who like pulling wings off butterflies.”
“Oh, thanks enormously,” the C.O. said. He began going through the list with a red pencil.
“Is it really true that everyone will get paid above his rank?” the adjutant asked. Griffin nodded. “The only reason I ask,” the adjutant said, “is the squadron hasn’t converted from R.F.C. to R.A.F. ranks. Not totally, that is. Some chaps are captains, some flight lieutenants. What’s the R.A.F. equivalent of a colonel?”
“Don’t know. What matters is each chap gets a bucket of roubles every week.”
“Simpson,” the C.O. said. “Isn’t Simpson the one who wears a corset?” He didn’t wait for an answer. The red pencil thudded through Simpson.
“Roubles, you say,” the adjutant said. “I don’t think we can wait for roubles. Not if you want these officers immediately.” He frowned hard at a mental picture of complex problems. “It’s their Mess bills, you see. I fear they can’t pay them now. In fact I know they can’t.”
Griffin looked him in the eye. Neither man blinked. Each knew that R.A.F. Butler’s Farm wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting money out of a pilot once he was on his way to south Russia. Each also knew that the red pencil had not yet finished its work. The C.O. became aware of their silence, and he looked up.
“The pity is,” the adjutant said, “sometimes the best pilots owe the most money.”
“How much? To wipe the slate clean?”
The adjutant thought fast. “Five hundred pounds.”
While Griffin wrote a cheque, the C.O. finished his list. “Hackett,” he said. “Australian. Tenacious bugger.” He twirled the red pencil.
“Oh, you’ll like him,” the adjutant said quickly.
“Chuck him in,” Griffin said. “I’ll take him instead of a receipt.” He waved the cheque to dry the ink. “This is War Office money. Cash it fast, before they change their minds about saving the Russian Empire from the Reds. By all reports, the Reds are winning hands down.” He saw the look on the C.O.’s face. “Joke,” he said. “I haven’t the faintest idea who’s winning. A pal of mine at the Foreign Office reckons the Reds are surrounded on all sides by White armies. He’s guessing. Hoping, too, probably. All I know is this bloke Denikin’s running the show in the south and he’s been asking for British squadrons for months.”
“I hope you hammer the Bolsheviks good and hard,” the C.O. said, “After what they did to the Tsar.”
“Dirty work. Mind you, we can’t talk,” Griffin said. “We chopped off the king’s head once. Be sure your chaps are at Air Ministry tomorrow, ten a.m. prompt, drunk or sober. Long journey ahead.”
2
Long, slow journey.
Griffin had collected about twenty pilots from the best squadrons. The first plan was to send them by train to somewhere in Greece, probably Salonika, and ship them the rest of the way. They got as far as Calais and were recalled. Nobody knew why. Next plan was to put them on a ship in London docks, a Swedish freighter unloading timber. It had no passenger accommodation. Griffin got on the phone to Air Ministry, who called the Ministry of Shipping, who called the War Office, by which time it was raining so hard the spray was knee-high, and everybody went back to their hotels and unpacked. The train plan was revived and this time they got as far as Paris. But several big avalanches in Austria had closed the line to Salonika and they went to Marseilles instead.
The city was pleasantly sunny in the early spring. Lots of bars, open all day and half the night, unlike the tight-laced pub hours in England. Wine was cheap. On the pilots’ improved pay scales, very cheap. The Marine Landing Officer had his hands full with ships taking troops home to be demobilized, but he managed to find berths for Griffin’s party on a small French liner, got them cheap at short notice. Griffin couldn’t round up his pilots fast enough and the ship sailed. It took the M.L.O. a week to get them on board another vessel, an old Mediterranean ferry that called at Nice, Genoa, Naples and Palermo before it limped into Malta with engine trouble. The captain didn’t trust the Maltese repairs. The ship crawled along the North African coast and finally quit at Alexandria. The captain was Egyptian. He felt at home here.
Griffin was due some luck. A Royal Navy cruiser was about to leave for – thankfully – the Black Sea. The pilots slept four to a cabin. The weather was fine; they lived on deck, playing poker, watching the Aegean Islands drift by, guessing their names, getting them wrong. Past Gallipoli (bloody steep, bloody rocky, you wouldn’t want to attack up there, not with the Turks firing down, what a shambles) and the cruiser didn’t stop at Constantinople, which was on the left while most of Turkey was on the right, very confusing.
After that, the Black Sea turned out to be not at all black. “Red Sea isn’t red, either,” Hackett said. “And the Indian Ocean’s green. I’ve seen it.” That started an argument. It was easy to argue with Hackett and difficult to stop. Prove him wrong, and he said: “Yes, that’s what most people think, but most people have brains fifteen per cent smaller than mine.” He went on, dodging and ducking, slipping and swerving. Angering some, amusing others. It passed the time. There was nothing to look at except the Black Sea. Very boring, the sea. All water. Nobody could understand why the Navy got so excited about it.
Nobody had much to say about Russia because nobody knew much about the Russians. Griffin said the Bolshies needed to be taught a lesson, and that was good enough. There were chaps from all over the British Empire in his squadron, and the Empire was good at keeping the natives in line. None better.
3
A major from the British Military Mission to Denikin (D.E.N.M.I.S.) climbed onto a broken packing case that was leaking puttees, khaki, infantry, for the use of, and raised his megaphone. The dockside at Novorossisk was loud with the bangs and whistles of unloading freighters.
“Keep together!” he shouted. “Put your luggage on that wagon. It will be safe. It has an armed guard. Keep together and follow me! Do not speak to any civilians. Beware pickpockets. Do not buy, sell or exchange anything. Ignore all corpses, beggars, prostitutes, Frenchmen and mad dogs. Keep together! Follow me!” He climbed down.
The sky was gloomy grey to the horizon and it leaked bits of rain that stung like hail. The wind was from the north, fierce and cold as charity.
The pilots climbed onto two lorries. Bellamy found himself sitting next to the major. “Somewhat chilly for the time of year, sir,” he said.
“About normal. Gets a damn sight c
older. Sea of Azov is still frozen.”
“My goodness.”
“You don’t know where that is, do you?”
“Um … to be brutally honest, no sir.”
“Offshoot of the Black Sea. Between us and the Crimea. Hundred and fifty miles across. Solid ice.”
“Heavens. We were led to expect something more like the French Riviera, sir.”
The major hadn’t smiled since he came to Russia and he saw no reason to start now; but he looked at Bellamy and allowed his eyelids to sink a little. “Russia has two seasons. Too bloody cold and too bloody hot. Who told you that French Riviera twaddle?”
“The C.O., sir. But I’m sure he was misinformed.”
“You’re sure, are you? Congratulations. You’re the only person in this bloody country who’s sure of anything.” Already the major was tired of Bellamy. He looked away.
In the other lorry, Jessop and Wragge were trying to decide whether Novorossisk was a dump or a dead loss. “Look at the mud,” Jessop said. “The place is all mud. The streets are deep in mud. It’s supposed to be the biggest port in these parts and everywhere you look it’s mud.”
“But it’s busy. Crowds of people.”
“All mud-coloured. Maybe that’s what they export: mud.”
“Some of them are waving at us. And cheering. Holding flags. So it’s not a dead loss, is it?”
They waved back. Nothing extravagant. A nod and a smile to the grateful natives.
“I’ve just seen a man eating a slice of mud,” Jessop said. “If it wasn’t that, it was a portion of rhubarb crumble, which seems unlikely, don’t you think?”
The lorries splashed through potholes and delivered them to the Novorossisk headquarters of the British Military Mission, in a requisitioned girls’ school. Servants took their caps and greatcoats, brushed them down as if they were prize stallions, and showed them to the cloakrooms. The washbasins were small and low, but the water was hot and more servants stood by with towels, and bottles of hair lotion from Trumper of Bond Street, and boot-polishing requisites to offer a quick brush-up to such footwear as was less than officer-like. Then to lunch.
The dining-room walls were hung with group photographs of unsmiling girls, immaculately dressed in school uniform. So there had been a time when Novorossisk was not entirely made of mud. A portrait picture of the headmistress, with eyes that could penetrate sheet steel at fifty yards, looked down on the crowd of young men drinking sherry. They were many, and a lot of sherry was going down. Lunch at the Mission was clearly an important occasion.
The airmen joined in. A tall, hawk-nosed flight lieutenant called Oliphant, balding and therefore looking older than his twenty-three years, was sinking his second sherry and looking for a servant with more, when Griffin prodded his ribs. “Spread the word, Olly. I’ve just got orders. We entrain to somewhere called Ekaterinodar this afternoon. Off to the wars! Bloody good, eh?”
Lunch was a leisurely affair and excellent. Nobody seemed in a hurry to get back to work. Each pilot had been seated among the hosts. “We don’t get many visitors,” a chubby captain said. His hair was dark blond, as sleek as beaten gold. He stopped a passing waiter. “Rudyard, my dear fellow … Bring butter. Quantities of butter. And fresh mustard. This mustard is medieval. Now be off with you!” He clapped his hands.
Pilot Officer Maynard watched this. He was nineteen, looked seventeen, shaved twice a week whether he needed it or not. “Is his name really Rudyard?” he asked. It was a safe question.
“It is now. He’s what we call a plenny. We have lots of them. Plennys are Russian prisoners-of-war, deserters mainly, quite safe, they make jolly good servants. This one’s Russian name sounds like someone knitting with barbed wire, so we call him Rudyard. He likes it, he’s a happy man, didn’t like fighting for the Bolos. Bolsheviks,” he said before Maynard could ask. “We call them Bolos. What they call us I don’t know. Never met one. Poisonous lot, by all reports. Eat with their mouths open, I expect. You know the sort.”
“You don’t see much of the Front, I take it,” Hackett said.
The captain looked startled. “Good grief, no. We’re the Supplies Mission. The warriors are all up-country. We make sure the ship unloads its cargo. Once the goods are on the quay they belong to Denikin’s lot. Russian responsibility, not ours. What brings you to Novo, may I ask?”
“We’re Royal Air Force,” Maynard said.
“Pilots.” Hackett pointed to his wings. “We fly.”
“Ah, yes. Balloons. Spotting for the guns.”
“Aeroplanes. Scouts, I hope.”
“Flying machines. How amusing. My advice is, do lots of stunts. The Russians will be tremendously impressed. They admire anything modern enormously. Looping the loop, and so on.”
Hackett breathed deeply and ripped a piece of bread in half. Maynard said: “The docks were awfully busy. Is all that stuff for the Russian troops?”
“So my sergeant tells me. I stay away from there. Can’t speak the language, for a start. I write reports.”
“How amusing,” Hackett said through a mouthful of bread.
“Keeps the general happy,” the captain said. “Thing I learned in France, you can’t have too many good reports. And if I say it myself, I’m jolly good at it. Ah … butter. And mustard. Bully for you, Rudyard. Now be about your business, my boy.”
Griffin had been given a seat at the top table, next to the Mission Commandant, an amiable brigadier who told him he wouldn’t have any trouble with the Russians provided he remembered his status. “Training and maintenance, old chap, that’s what we’re here for. Help the White Russians fight, but stay out of the scrap. Advise but don’t intervene. What’s the name of your outfit?”
“Hasn’t got a name, sir. Just an R.A.F. squadron. Should have a number, but …”
“Better off without one, in my opinion. Put a foot wrong, and some base-wallah in London knows who to blame. Ah, soup.”
Griffin supped his soup. “A squadron’s like a club, sir. Pilots like to belong to something. I know numbers are out, but still … In France, there was an outfit called Hornet Squadron. Stung a lot of Huns.”
“A nickname,” the brigadier said. “Let’s see: bees, wasps, termites. No. You want something Russian. A bird? Charles is our resident birdwatcher. Charles! We need a good Russian bird. Something exciting. No sparrows, no pheasant.”
Charles, a tall, tanned lieutenant, didn’t hesitate. “Goshawks, sir. Goshawks are everywhere.”
“Goshawk has been taken already,” Griffin said.
“Oh. Well, I’ve seen larks, some tawny owls, magpie, and of course great tits in abundance. Very handsome.”
“Great Tit Squadron,” Griffin said. “That’s asking for trouble.”
“Bigger and tougher,” the brigadier told Charles.
“Um … let’s see … golden eagles? They’re all over Russia. No? What about the great bustard? Lots of them on the steppes, although I suppose the name is unfortunate. Might lead to jokes in bad taste.” Charles thought hard. “Doesn’t leave much, I’m afraid.” Then he brightened. “Merlin. I’ve seen merlin. Bird of prey, small but dashing, chases and kills other birds.”
“Merlin Squadron,” Griffin said. “Yes. Merlin Squadron.”
“Thank you, Charles,” the brigadier said. “I’ll put you in for a D.S.O.”
Griffin turned to Oliphant. “The squadron’s got a name. Merlin Squadron. Bird of prey. Like a hawk. Merlin Squadron. Pass it on.”
“Certainly, sir. Good choice.” Oliphant was sitting next to an elderly lieutenant with a faded M.C. ribbon. “We’ve got a name. Merlin Squadron,” he told him. “We’re going to somewhere called Ekaterinodar. Not far, I believe.”
“It’s seventy miles, and it’s over the mountains. Last time I went there the trip took fourteen hours. My advice is: eat hearty.” He signalled a waiter. “More soup for this officer … No dining cars on your train. No heat, no lavatories, broken windows, first class means you might get a se
at with springs to poke you in the rump. Plenty of bugs. And plenty of life in the bugs.”
“Seventy miles,” Oliphant said. “Fourteen hours.”
“The mountains are steep, old boy. The locomotive has to take a little rest now and then. If you feel like a walk, get out, stretch your legs, have a pee, pick some flowers. Not yet, of course, too bloody cold for flowers. Travel in this frightful country is a far cry from taking tea on the Brighton Belle.” A waiter poured red wine. “Everything’s a far cry. Cheers.”
Oliphant drank, and finished his soup and got to work on the second bowl. “Ekaterinodar,” he said. “Near the fighting?”
“Hard to say. The war tends to wander about. Tell you one thing: the place is stiff with typhus, smallpox, enteric fever, malaria, influenza, you name it. I wouldn’t linger there, if I were you.”
Oliphant thought the man might be slightly drunk, or perhaps he was inventing these horrors, feeding tall tales to the new boys. He ate a big lunch and he said nothing to Griffin. And then the squadron shook hands and thanked everyone and was trucked to the station, where their train was late and turned out to be even slower and dirtier and colder than the lieutenant had said. The mountains were magnificent but scenic splendour was no substitute for heat.
The pilots spent a bitterly cold and hungry night, and reached Ekaterinodar in time for breakfast. They assembled on the platform, yawning and stamping. Griffin sent Wragge to find the station canteen. He came back, shaking his head. “Bloody awful language,” he said. “Either the Russians don’t eat breakfast, or they do and they’ve eaten it all. Take your pick.”
“Jessop,” Griffin said sharply. “For Christ’s sake stop scratching.”
“I’m being eaten for breakfast, sir,” Jessop said. “The little Russian bastards think I’m bacon and eggs.”
A Splendid Little War Page 2
