A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  “True.”

  Griffin arrived. “Bellamy, Jessop, go and get that officer. Wragge: find some plennys and a stretcher … Hackett, what’s the story here?”

  “Well, Maynard offered to …” That was when Count Borodin’s motorcycle came clattering and backfiring. It spooked the ponies into a stampede, and the Cossacks went after them, shouting and steering them into a tight bend that became a slow and dusty circle. Their leader watched, smiling proudly. He made a short speech. Griffin looked at Borodin.

  “He says we shall ride into Moscow, side by side, before Christmas.”

  “What about Maynard?”

  “Drunk as a lord.”

  “Give him my compliments, and ask him to join me on the train for a drink. That seems to be the universal language in Russia, but you’d better come along too.” Maynard was being stretchered past. His eyes were half-open but unable to focus. “Bloody fine effort, laddie,” Griffin told him. “Damned good show. Best traditions of the squadron.”

  Sergeant Major Lacey mixed up a hangover cure that tasted of mustard and toothpaste and caused Maynard to throw up twice more that afternoon. But by the evening he was in the bar, sipping soda water and discovering that he had become an accepted member of Merlin Squadron. They praised him for his Cossack adventure, and for the five ponies he had brought. It made the whole frightful episode seem almost worthwhile.

  AN ABSOLUTE CAKEWALK

  1

  Griffin had the Flight in the air at fifteen minutes to eight. The servicing had been rushed, and the ground crews weren’t happy, but Griffin believed that God didn’t create war to make ground crews happy. The Camels formed up in the usual arrowhead. Within ten minutes Bellamy turned back with a leaky fuel tank. Petrol was sloshing around his boots. He landed very gently. Maybe his ground crew had been right to be unhappy. He left the cockpit in a hurry and ran. Nothing caught fire.

  The rest of the Flight passed over the six tanks as they crawled towards Tsaritsyn. Not much punch there, Griffin thought. Wouldn’t have dented the Hun front in France. He climbed to a thousand feet and circled, letting everyone take a good look at the Red trenches outside the town. Neat and straight with regular kinks: just like France. Little fountains of mud appeared, some next to the trenches, most not. Wrangel’s artillery barrage had begun. Griffin gave it ten minutes to soften up the defence. Then the Flight fell in line behind him and he steered to attack the length of the trenches.

  The long descent, even at a shallow angle, built up a healthy speed. Griffin was easing back the stick as he fired a short burst into the trenches less than a hundred feet below. His bullets went chasing among the soldiers until he climbed, and levelled, and dived again and fired again. Nobody fired back. It was easy.

  The five Camels followed his example. Maynard, at the tail, was surprised to find what fun it was. Swoop, fire, climb: it had a feeling of fairground gaiety. A few troops got over their surprise and offered some ragged rifle fire, but nobody could catch him. It was simple. Just fire, and men fell down. What sport.

  The Flight climbed away and Maynard climbed after it. Now the tanks had arrived. They began prowling alongside the trenches and shooting down into them. That was more than enough for the defenders. They scrambled out and fled. Griffin saw them running. The Camels went down and chased them until all the ammunition was spent. They turned for home.

  Bellamy watched the Flight land. The pilots strolled over to him, their faces smudged with oil spatter, jubilant at a job well done, and told him what a hoot it had been.

  Bellamy didn’t care. He had breathed too many petrol fumes and his stomach hurt. He felt rotten. “I blame the eggs at breakfast,” he said. Nobody listened. “Huge hoot,” Wragge said. “Not like France. More like skittles. Every bullet found its billet. That’s Kipling.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s bollocks,” Bellamy said. He felt cheated. Bloody eggs. Bloody leaky fuel tank. He’d missed the party.

  “I personally wiped out a whole regiment of Bolos,” Hackett said. “That’s worth a medal, isn’t it?”

  “It was a routine strafe,” Griffin said. “We’re off again in an hour.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Bellamy said.

  “It really was a cakewalk,” Maynard told him. “An absolute cakewalk. You should have seen it.”

  “So everyone says,” Bellamy muttered. “Everyone shot a regiment. Must be easy.”

  “It’s as easy as falling off a bicycle,” Jessop said. “Do it once and you never forget how.”

  “You haven’t got that right,” Wragge said.

  “No? Fetch me a bicycle and I’ll prove it. Look – here comes a motorbike. I get double points for falling off one of those.”

  Griffin said: “You get double points for idiocy, Jessop. Now shut up while we find out what’s next.”

  Borodin gave his machine to an airman to hold, and said, “General Wrangel compliments you on your performance at the enemy trenches, and says he now intends to capture Tsaritsyn on the way to Moscow.” He offered a large envelope. While Griffin was opening it, the count told the others, “Actually, I made up that bit about Moscow. It’s a thousand miles up the Volga to Moscow, and the river is full of Red gunboats.”

  “So what’s the best way to Moscow?” Dextry said.

  “A good question. Perhaps Denikin has a Grand Plan to win the war.”

  “We had all sorts of Grand Plans in France,” Hackett said. “Neuve Chapelle, Loos, the Somme, Ypres, Passchendaele, and lots more. Ask the War Office, Count. They’ve probably got some spare copies going cheap.”

  “We Russians have a surplus of our own, thank you. Remember that there were more German divisions fighting us in the east than you in the west.”

  “Must have been bloody noisy.”

  “Yes, at times. And afterwards bloody quiet, for some.”

  “Alright, shut up, gather round,” Griffin said. “Here’s the plan. Wrangel’s men have the trenches. Stage two is the outer defences, south side. Houses are fortified strongpoints. Wrangel’s guns will put up a short barrage to keep the Bolos’ heads down. Then we go in and do a low-level strafe, all guns blazing, then the tanks go in, then the infantry make a hole for the cavalry. We’ll take along some small bombs, twenty-pounders. Carry them in the cockpit. Toss them out if you see anything juicy.”

  “Try and hit a chap called Trotsky,” Borodin said. “The Daily Telegraph has been very hard on Trotsky lately.”

  “How on earth do you get the Telegraph?” Wragge asked.

  “Oh … Lacey gets it for me. The rugby reporting is excellent.”

  “Take off in an hour,” Griffin said. “Get something to eat. You two.” He pointed to Wragge and Hackett. “Stay.”

  “Bow-wow,” Wragge said. “And I know I speak for Hackett too.”

  The others left.

  Griffin was frowning hard, and his left eye was twitching. He took a deep breath and seemed about to speak, then turned away, stared hard at nothing worth looking at, turned back again. They watched with interest. He was in the grip of strong emotions. They had never seen him like this before.

  “Look here …” Even his voice was different: tight, a bit hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I don’t like your attitude. Any of you. Too jokey. Too casual. We’re here to do a job, not a music-hall act. It’s not good enough.”

  “Oh well,” Wragge said. “You know what the boys are like.”

  “Yes, I do. They treat war like a game.” Griffin’s temper was rising. “Like Eton against Harrow at cricket. And you’re no better.”

  “Not me. I hate the bloody game,” Hackett said.

  “Cricket’s more than a game,” Wragge insisted. “I opened the bowling for Harrow and we were definitely … Here, I say …” He was looking into Griffin’s revolver. It trembled with rage, only six inches away.

  “The bullet in here cost a shilling,” Griffin whispered. “You’re not worth a shilling. You’re not worth a slice of cold toast. I could shoot you now. No loss t
o anyone. You’re an ex flight commander who’s forgotten what war is about.” He used the gun’s muzzle to raise Wragge’s cap from his head and he fired a shot through it. Wragge staggered back. Ground crew stopped working and stared. The cap spun through the air and dropped and rolled in a small circle and flopped. “What is war about?” Griffin demanded.

  “Killing the other bastard,” Hackett said fast.

  Griffin turned to him. “And why are we fighting?”

  Hackett thought, Buggered if I know and buggered if I care. But the smell of the revolver was sharp in his nostrils and Griffin’s finger still curled around the trigger. “Why do lions roar?” he asked. “What makes eagles soar?” He frowned a little to look like he was making an effort.

  Griffin sniffed. He resented the questions because he didn’t see their point, and if he said so, he might look weak. “End of message,” he said, and strode off, heading for the Camels.

  Wragge found his cap. “Half a guinea, that cost.” He poked his finger through the hole. “Just because I opened the bowling for Harrow. I took three for twenty-seven. It wasn’t a very good Eton side, but still … What sort of an idiot shoots a chap’s cap?” They were walking to the train.

  “I shot that R.T.O. in the spurs,” Hackett said.

  “That was different. The man was a buffoon.”

  “Well, the C.O.’s bonkers. And I’m hungry.”

  Chef was serving a second breakfast in the dining-room car. Like most chefs, he had been well built – spend your working life sampling your own cooking and you put on a few pounds – but the Red Army diet had soon changed that. All the plennys were thin. Now Chef was starting to add a few ounces. His shaven head made his inky black moustache, thick and curling at the tips, dominate his face. He never smiled and he never spoke. He put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Jessop, who said, “Oh, thanks awfully, you are a prince among men, Chef, and a scholar with the skillet.” Chef stood erect, thumbs and forefingers gripping the seams of his trousers, until he was sure that Jessop had finished burbling. He collected a couple of dirty plates and went back to his kitchen.

  “Can’t we teach him to say something?” Bellamy said. “Bon appetit, or Rule, Britannia. Anything.”

  “Not possible,” Lacey said. He was sitting in a corner, writing up the day’s menu. “Ever since he saw his entire family slaughtered. Wife, children, parents, grandmother. The Moscow Bolsheviks waded in blood to seize power. Chef was struck dumb, never spoke a word again. Devilled kidneys for lunch, by the way, with fluffy pancakes.”

  Hackett and Wragge came in. “Order up some grub, Lacey,” Hackett said. Chef appeared with two plates of bacon and eggs. “Don’t bother, you’re too slow,” Hackett said. He took his place.

  “What was all that, with the C.O.?” Jessop asked.

  “He shot my hat,” Wragge said. “Shot it dead.” He poked a finger through the hole and waggled it. “See?”

  “You must have done something.”

  “We biffed the Bolos,” Hackett said. “Sent ’em packing. But that’s not good enough for him.” He was stirring an egg yolk with a piece of toast. “We looked happy. We smiled.” He gave a twisted parody of a smile. “And that spoiled everything.” He ate the toast.

  Bellamy stopped sipping milk. “I didn’t smile at anyone,” he said.

  “You didn’t do any Bolo-biffing,” Wragge said. “So you don’t count.”

  Lacey took Wragge’s cap and looked inside it. “Seven and one-eighth … I can replace it, if you don’t mind a hat last worn by a captain in the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. A trifle gaudy, but … You’ve no objection?”

  “Won’t he need it?” Wragge asked, and at once was sorry he’d spoken.

  “Typhoid fever, Novorossisk. We keep a stock of replacement items of uniform. Thoroughly disinfected, of course.”

  “I’ve always fancied myself in a kilt,” Jessop said. He poured coffee. “Bit draughty in the cockpit, maybe.”

  “Nobody else would fancy you,” Bellamy said. “I’ve seen your legs. Very shabby.”

  “What a bunch of queens,” Hackett said. He aimed his fork. “He wants to wear a skirt, and he goes around looking at fellows’ legs.” He spoke just as Griffin came in.

  “Not serious,” Wragge told him. “Just playing charades.”

  “Yes,” Griffin said. “That sums up the lot of you.”

  2

  Bellamy was sweating as he walked to his Camel for the second strafe of the day. His body felt cold but his face was hot. He mopped it with his handkerchief and told himself the air would be cool when he took off.

  “We found the leak, sir,” his fitter said. “Not in the fuel tank, strictly speaking. In a joint, where the pipe joins … Well, you don’t want to know all that, do you?” He thought Bellamy looked a bit under the weather. A bit tenpence in the shilling. “Anyway, it’s repaired. Had to drain the tank first. Can’t mess about with hot metalwork next to petrol. All it takes is a spark … Anyway, your tank’s full again and we swabbed out your cockpit, got rid of the stink.”

  Bellamy nodded. That milk hadn’t been a good idea.

  “We turned her over, sir, and she fired, first time of asking.” The fitter wiped a streak of oil from the fuselage, giving Bellamy time to say Well done or Thank you or any bloody thing. But the pilot just cleared his throat and spat, messily, and wiped his chin.

  “Strictly speaking,” the fitter said, “we should give her a test run, full revs, be sure that joint can take the strain, otherwise …” He screwed up his face. Didn’t exactly shake his head, but he almost shrugged his shoulders.

  Bellamy knew what was happening. They thought he didn’t want to fly. Giving him a chance to back out and blame the mechanics. He was furious, and the fury brought some colour to his cheeks. “Guns armed?” he snapped. “Bombs on board? Right. Start her up. Sod the joint.”

  But his guts rumbled. They sounded to him like someone moving heavy furniture. Felt like it, too. There was unfinished business down there and he wanted to lie down and let the two sides fight it out.

  He climbed into the cockpit and was glad of the support the seat gave him. If he went sick now … They’d never believe him. Wouldn’t say so. But he’d seen it happen, in France. Chap got a name for dodging the dangerous patrols and soon the whole squadron knew about it and nobody would drink with him, he was odd man out, you could tell from the way they gave him a sideways glance, nothing said. It was solitary confinement in the crowd. He wasn’t going to risk that. He’d sooner die.

  Ten minutes later, the Flight attacked Tsaritsyn from out of nowhere. “We go in low,” Griffin had said. “Low is ten feet. Line abreast, flat out, fire when I fire. Non-stop strafe.”

  Bright sunlight sent shadows of the Camels racing ahead of them. The Gnome rotary engines flung back ribbons of burnt oil. The engines were past their best and flat out meant little more than a hundred miles an hour, but at ten feet up it felt a lot faster. Maynard enjoyed it. Speed was like brandy to him. Suppose he sneezed now, jolted the joystick an inch, he’d hit Russia with a bang like a howitzer. That would mean goodbye, Michael. Instant cremation. Well, who wants to linger? Uncle Stanley lingered for years and years, poor devil … Tracer rounds were streaking from the next Camel. Maynard had missed Griffin’s signal. His thumbs squeezed the triggers and he felt the shudder of twin Vickers pumping bullets at the houses.

  Bellamy didn’t care whether or not his guns hit anything. His hands trembled and the houses were a wandering blur. The ground raced by, treacherously close. All he wanted was to finish. Get it over. Escape.

  Griffin found himself singing. A hymn, Guide me, Oh Thou Great Redeemer … The Red defence got over its surprise and rifle fire flashed from windows. He hunched behind the solid shield of his engine. A Camel made a very thin silhouette when seen head-on. Only a lucky bullet would find him. Then it was time to escape, and his Camel vaulted the houses as if on springs.

  Tsaritsyn was a seriously big city, and it was a mess.
Half of it lay in ruins and the other half had been knocked about. This was not the first time that Wrangel’s men had tried to capture it, and when Griffin took his Flight up to a safe height, they could see why he wanted it. Tsaritsyn sat beside the Volga and the river was a mile wide or more. There were ships on the river, with steam up. Whoever held Tsaritsyn blocked a supply line that reached deep into Russia, above and beyond Moscow. The Reds couldn’t move south without it, and Wrangel couldn’t move north. This would be a bloody battle.

  Heavy machine-gun fire failed to reach the Camels. The shooting was wild, and artillery fire was worse: the shell bursts were too high. Spent bullets and shrapnel fell back on battered Tsaritsyn.

  Griffin signalled his formation to spread out. It took both hands to unclip a 20-pound bomb and drop it over the side; and with the stick between the knees, the aircraft lurched about the sky. The pilots tried, and failed, to track the fall and see what they hit, but too many bangs were going flash down there. And a 20-pounder was only a firework.

  They came together again in a loose arrowhead and flew back to the southern defences. During the strafe, the ground had been empty. Now it was seething. Wrangel’s infantry, thousands of them, were running at strongpoints. Their banners made tiny splashes of red, green and white, and already their dead lay in hundreds. The Camels’ strafe had been a gesture, a threat. Maybe they had killed a few Reds, maybe not. What mattered now was the enemy’s machine guns and, further back, his artillery. As the pilots watched, Red shells were blowing holes in the White assault. But Wrangel had more infantry, more banners.

  The Camels cruised up and down. Nobody bothered them. Who cares about toys in the sky when the real fighting is on the ground? After twenty minutes, they saw a sudden change. A strongpoint, maybe two, had fallen. The infantry stormed through the gap. Cossack cavalry followed at the gallop, steel glinting in the sunlight. Griffin turned the Flight for home.

  3

  “We’re through the wall,” General Wrangel said. “Now the hard work begins.” He gave his binoculars to Count Borodin.