A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  4

  The mist dissolved and a soft sun gave the remains of the day an easy warmth. The steppe was changing colour: traces of red and yellow and blue could be seen in the distance. Wildflowers wasted no time here. Winter turned to summer with only a slight pause for spring.

  Alongside the trains, some of the airmen were playing a casual game of football – the moustaches versus the clean-shaven. When the game began, Dominic Dextry had been exercising one of the Cossack ponies, riding bareback, and the animal enjoyed chasing the ball, so he declared himself referee. He was Irish, from County Cork, and he applied Irish rules to the game. The moustaches scored a goal but he disallowed it and penalized them for foul play. “That’s ludicrous,” a moustache said. “Totally asinine.”

  “Well, the ball was in an offside position, so it was.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Dominic. The ball cannot be offside.”

  “It can in Ireland.”

  “That’s because there’s too much Guinness taken, faith and begorra.”

  “Nobody says begorra in Ireland, and I’ll fight any man who says otherwise, begorra so I will, I will.”

  “Your horse is eating our football, Dominic.”

  “And after three hundred years of potatoes and English tyranny, can you blame the poor creature?” But the ball was too big for the pony’s mouth and it lost interest. There was grass to be eaten. Football was amusing but grass was better.

  Dextry slid off and lay on his back, looking at the sky. It was entirely a faded cornflower blue that wouldn’t be allowed in Ireland, where there were always bully-boy clouds bustling in from the Atlantic. He snapped a stem of grass and chewed it. The pony moved its head and licked Dextry’s ear, found it curious but tasteless, went back to real food.

  Dextry missed Ireland, or some of it. He missed the talk in the Cork bars, always fast and funny and never two people agreeing on anything, so that an evening was better than a Dublin play. He missed the games, the Gaelic football that was something between havoc and homicide. And the sweet smack of a shinty stick. Shinty made English hockey look like badminton on the vicarage lawn. But his family had money and they had sent him to school in England, to Rugby school, where he was taught a more gentlemanly kind of football, even if his legs still had the scars to prove it. Every year he went home on holiday, and then one year he arrived to find the big old house in County Cork was a smoking ruin.

  The English said the Irish liked a fight, and there were sixty thousand Irishmen in uniform in France, every one a volunteer, but Dominic discovered there was also a corrosive and undeclared war in Ireland which he had never suspected, and much of it was between Irishmen. He was sixteen. His family moved to Dublin and stayed with relatives. Dublin was a bleak and brooding place, not knowing whether to back the sixty thousand or to give the English a good kicking. Dominic left. He went to Wales and stayed with a friend from school, and tried to empty his mind of Irish bloody politics until the fight had burned itself out.

  Another year at Rugby and soon he was eighteen, just. The Royal Flying Corps was glad to have him and he was glad to be in France. Should have been killed but beginner’s luck, or the luck of the Irish, or some damn thing, saved him; and when all that careering a mile or two above the Trenches was over, he was glad to volunteer for Russia because it was a long way from the bad blood still being splashed about the Emerald Isle. Russia promised good fun, good pay, good grub.

  He let his eyelids close and he watched tiny gold specks wander about a primrose sea.

  Griffin sat beside him. “Don’t get up,” he said. “I’m ready for a gallop, but I’ve never been one for bareback. That’s for the Red Indians.”

  “Awfully slippery. I fell off, going nowhere.”

  “Saddles. Cossacks have saddles.”

  “We could ask. Tell you what. My plenny, Gladys, speaks a little English. We could tell him what we want and send him over to their camp.”

  Griffin scratched his jaw. “Give him six tins of bully beef. Should buy six saddles.” He stood up. “Gladys? You did say Gladys?”

  “Oh … I called him Jeremy at first, but it upset him. Very rude word where he comes from. He likes Gladys better.”

  Griffin walked away and then came back. “Don’t get too friendly with your plenny, Dextry. They’re all ex-Bolos. Not safe. They jumped once. Might jump again.”

  Half an hour later, Gladys came back with a Cossack who was driving a farm cart loaded with six saddles and bridles. Griffin looked them over. “Been in the wars,” he said. “Only to be expected. Saddle up three ponies. You, me and Gladys.”

  They rode north, into the steppe. The saddles were small but so were the ponies, and the riders soon taught their legs and backsides to adjust. New and very green shoots of grass were already showing through the silvery-grey dead growth left by winter, and small flowers made spatters of brightness. It was easy riding: the land was never entirely flat, but its gradients were gentle. “Good tank country,” Griffin said. Dextry agreed. After that there was nothing remarkable to comment on.

  Once, they came upon a hare and sent it bounding off. Dextry gave chase; the hare ran in wide circles and made fools of them. Once, they scared some partridge, which took off so fast that they were a camouflaged blur against the grassland. Then there was quiet again. The steppe was peaceful. Nothing broke its solitude: not a hillock, not a river, not a tree. Just grassland to the horizon. Dextry wished he could see a tree. A dead tree would do. Just a stump. Then they saw smoke.

  It was a cavalry camp. Small, only about a dozen men. “Must be on our side,” Griffin said. “The Reds wouldn’t dare show their faces so far south.” He was right. The plenny went ahead and talked to their leader, and he came back and gave Dextry a smile. “Yes, good,” he said brightly.

  They were offered vodka, and took it. The plenny whispered to Dextry, who said: “Really? Oh, jolly good.” He proposed a toast. “Na Moskvu!” Griffin said the same. Roars of applause. Big smiles. Much hand-shaking. All friends.

  After that, things fell a bit flat. No more vodka, and not a lot happening. Gladys the plenny seemed quite keen on leaving. He brought the officers’ ponies to them, which was a pretty broad hint. “Slow down, Gladys,” Dextry said. “No need to rush.”

  “They had casualties,” Griffin said. “Over by the fire.”

  They moved closer. The man on the ground was alive, but he was in a very bloody condition. Most of his face was damaged. Parts of his body were hurt; blood had soaked through his clothing and spread into the grass. His eyes were the only parts of him that were obviously alive. He watched the officers approach.

  “Fresh wounds,” Griffin said. “We didn’t hear any fighting. My opinion, he’s been knocked about.”

  The plenny took Dextry’s sleeve and whispered again.

  “Commissar,” Dextry told the C.O. “Apparently he’s a commissar. Bolshevik politico attached to Red troops. I suppose these chaps captured him.”

  “Is not your business.” A young cavalryman had come over and now he stood between them and the victim. “Please go.”

  “Good English,” Griffin said. “That’s a lucky break.”

  “I was at school in Petersburg. We all learnt English. Listen when I say, this man is our business which you cannot understand.”

  “Can’t we?” Dextry said. “He’s a prisoner of war and you’re beating him to death.”

  “For intelligence. To make him tell us secret intelligence. To help us defeat the Reds.”

  “That’s not war, that’s savagery,” Griffin said. “You’re supposed to be fighting for decency and you’re acting like animals.”

  “If the Red Army captures you,” the young cavalryman said, “they will do things to you far worse than we do to him.” He spoke so calmly that they had no answer. “All my family are dead. Father, mother, sisters, brothers, murdered when the Bolsheviks took power. Butchered. Thank you for your help, your guns, your money, but do not insult us by telling us how to fight our en
emies. Russia is not a tennis court.”

  Gladys the plenny was alongside with the ponies. They mounted and turned to go. “At least, shoot the poor bastard dead and finish him,” Griffin said, and dug in his heels. They cantered away. They heard no shots.

  After ten minutes, Griffin said: “I don’t believe what that man said. He was lying. All that stuff about school in Petersburg. Too smooth by half.”

  “It did rather run off the tongue.”

  “There’s a lot of desperadoes about. Deserters, bandits, that sort. The fellow they caught was probably a horse thief.”

  “Law of the jungle.”

  “Not our funeral. Nothing happened back there.”

  “Nothing at all,” Dextry said. “Less than nothing. And that’s an exaggeration.”

  5

  Count Borodin arrived alongside the Pullman trains in a Chevrolet ambulance hauled by two stolid oxen. His motorcycle was in the back. He honked the car horn and Lacey came out.

  “We found this in Tsaritsyn,” Borodin said. “The Reds must have captured it in another battle. Slightly soiled.”

  “It’s been full of blood,” Lacey said.

  “Half-full. It had a lot of worse things in it yesterday, but we left it overnight and the dogs cleaned it out. Many wild dogs in the city. It’s a gift from General Wrangel. If your mechanics can make it go, it might be useful for your business trips.”

  “Very thoughtful.” Lacey kicked a tyre. “Solid rubber.”

  “Yes. No more annoying punctures. Go anywhere. Scoff at broken bottles, sharp nails, enemy bullets.”

  “Scoff?” Lacey tugged an ear. “Scoff … Sometimes you sound far more English than the English. How is that?”

  “Well, I had a triple-hyphen tutor. Mr Rosedale-Frost-Forrest-Hungerford. Not many Englishmen can claim that. He used to cry if I split an infinitive. Happy days, schooldays.”

  “I was sent down a mine as soon as I could walk. I toiled at the coalface from the age of three. What fun! How we laughed!”

  “Goodness,” Borodin said. “Was that a jibe? Do you envy me? Would you really rather be a bastard footnote to an imperial comic opera? Because that’s all I am.” He was amused.

  “Envy. We English aren’t much good at envy.” That sounded feeble. The truth was that a small part of Lacey would very much like a share of Borodin’s gloss. He tried self-mockery. “We’re good at hypocrisy. I could give you lessons.”

  “No true Englishman would ever say that.” By now Borodin was almost laughing. “But you’re not typically English, are you? You’re the joker in the pack.”

  “What pack?” Lacey spread his arms. “Look around you. It’s just a war. Nothing but noise and confusion and …” He pointed to the Chevrolet. “… and a lot of blood. I take it that General Wrangel is pleased with us.”

  “Yes, yes, he’s very happy. Total triumph. One small anxiety. Your friends in the next field, the Cossacks. They sold you some ponies, I believe.”

  “And saddles. Griffin wanted saddles.”

  “Of course. Unhappily the saddles became available because of the small anxiety. Yesterday the Cossacks sent some of their cavalry, not many, to take care of the Red retreat.”

  “Take care of? Food, blankets? Medical aid?”

  “Medical aid would have been useful. The cavalry got strafed. Several aeroplanes found them in a little gorge. Escape was difficult. Half the men and the horses were killed. You couldn’t call it a battle. More … what’s the word … mechanical than a battle.”

  “Noise, confusion and a lot of blood.” Lacey walked around the Chevrolet and kicked the tyres he hadn’t already kicked, until he ended up where he began. “Well, the Reds have an air force. So it’s no great surprise, is it?”

  “I spoke to the survivors. Some had never seen a train or a car until they came here, so aeroplanes are a mystery. Magic in the sky.”

  Small pause.

  “Look,” Lacey said. “Stuffed mushrooms and beef stroganoff tonight, with a decent claret. Can you stay for supper?”

  “Afraid not.” Borodin heaved his motorcycle from the back of the car. He tried to kick-start it and failed. Tried again, failed again. “There’s something else, but keep it under your hat. Cossacks have a habit of packing up and going home after a battle. Perhaps that party in the gorge were deserters. It’s a possibility.”

  “Only a small anxiety, then,” Lacey said. “What you chaps might call nichevo.”

  “Yes, nichevo.” This time the motorcycle fired, and the count went bumping and bouncing across the grass.

  The owner of the oxen uncoupled them and led them away, well satisfied to be paid with two tins of corned beef. By then, several off-duty ground crew had found the Chevrolet and were tinkering with it. That was when Griffin and Dextry rode in. Jack, the C.O.’s plenny, came running and took his pony. Griffin walked, slightly bowlegged, to his Pullman and looked at the name painted on it. “Is this a joke?” he asked in a voice that cut humour off at the knees.

  “Sweet blind O’Reilly,” Dextry murmured.

  “I wrote it down for him,” Lacey said, “but artistic licence seems to have won the day.” The R and the N had been Russified so that the name read ME

  Brazier arrived. “What’s the problem? Ah, I see. Jolly japes. Well, that won’t do. Typical Bolo trick. Bad for morale. Which one is he?”

  “The poor chap’s illiterate,” Lacey said. “He paints shapes, not words.”

  “Oh, leave the damn thing as it is,” Griffin said. “It’s special. And so are we.” He climbed into the Pullman.

  The others looked at each other. “What prompted that?” Brazier asked.

  “We had rather an odd ride,” Dextry said. “I think I need a drink.” He headed for the bar car.

  6

  Lacey went to his radio room and called up his contacts at Wrangel’s H.Q. and the British Military Mission H.Q. and elsewhere. He was scribbling on a message pad when the adjutant opened the door and three plennys carried in pony saddles. He pointed to a corner. They put the saddles on the floor and went out.

  “Left lying around,” he said. “I don’t like an untidy camp.”

  Lacey nodded, and kept writing.

  Brazier sat behind his desk. “We’re not damned cavalry,” he said. “If people want to ride horses, they should have grooms to clear up behind them.”

  Lacey’s nod was very small.

  Brazier stretched his legs and looked at the dust-motes wandering in the rays of the afternoon sun. He shared his office with the radio room, and it was a comfortable arrangement. He had worked in worse spots; much worse. He focused on the dust-motes. There were thousands of them and they never collided. How was that? He had no patience with questions to which there was no answer, and so he looked instead at the velvet curtains and the pictures on the wall, sketches of naked women done in charcoal. Where did Lacey get them? Same place as the carpet. Thick. Soft. Unsoldierly. Brazier breathed deeply and flared his nostrils. He had all he needed: a desk and a chair, a copy of King’s Regulations, a bottle of whisky. He reached for the book and opened it at his favourite chapter: “Discipline – Arrest and Custody”. He began reading. After a while he murmured, “Conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline.” Useful catch-all offence, that one. He looked at the column headed “Maximum Punishment (On Active Service)”. “Two years’ imprisonment,” he said. Not much. Insubordinate Language got Penal Servitude. Mutiny got Death.

  Lacey closed his message pad and took off his earphones. He leaned back and linked his hands behind his head. “Very satisfying,” he said. “A dozen British Army motorcycles were lying on the docks at Novorossisk, quietly rusting away because the Russians couldn’t make them go. Faulty sparking plugs. But the army dump at Salonika has plugs galore. A word in Salonika’s ear, now the motorcycles roar with life, and every general in Denikin’s armies wants one as a toy.”

  “Idiots.”

  “Happy idiots. Also, a lot of the war supplies sent by Londo
n had the wrong labels. Nurses’ underwear, for example, was labelled football boots.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Russians don’t play footer. So the crates were left to rot on the dockside. Luckily, our man in Novo spotted the mistake. Same thing happened with army band instruments, labelled disinfectant, while a crate of disinfectant was labelled swimming costumes, which the Russians didn’t want because they always swim naked.”

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope that London sent a crate of nurses’ knickers that was full of disinfected trombones,” Brazier said. “No, I thought not. There’s nothing new in your laundry list, Lacey. When I was in Palestine I took delivery of a railway truck full of left-hand boots. Never got the right-hand boots. The truck’s probably still there. War is waste.”

  “Not in this case. The motorcycles fetched a good price, and the nurses’ lingerie was in hot demand. The Ekat opera company snapped up the band instruments – Bolos had destroyed their originals – and we made such a profit that we donated the disinfectant to the hospitals.”

  “I don’t care,” Brazier said. “Sell your damned knick-knacks wherever. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Well, it should.” Lacey got up and straightened one of the charcoal nudes. “Delightful creature … There was enough profit to buy a huge amount of Russian champagne. We traded half of it with the captain of an American cruiser in Novo harbour. He gave us a large box of gramophone records – the latest Broadway hits – and half a dozen enormous smoked hams, plus a barrel of salted herring and a case of rum. With the rest of the money I bought caviare, castor oil and soft toilet paper for the squadron.”

  “The last two items,” Brazier said. “Cause and effect, I suppose.”

  “Heavens, no. The oil is for the aeroplane engines.”

  Brazier put his head back and let his eyelids fall until he seemed to be looking at Lacey from a great distance. “How sad,” he said, “that the war has to intrude in your grocery affairs.”