A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  Then the hood got pushed back. Long hair, black and tangled, reached to the shoulders. That proved nothing. Plenty of small boys had long hair. Hackett saw more, and whether it belonged to a boy or a girl didn’t matter. The face was severely disfigured. It was as if a child’s face had been caught in a trap so that all the features were squashed. One eye was half-shut. The nose was shortened. The mouth was not where it should be, dragged sideways by a twisted chin. Hackett forced a smile. “These must be your goats,” he said. Gibberish. But he had to say something.

  He dropped the smile. The kid’s expression hadn’t changed. Maybe it couldn’t change. “O.K. if I sit down?” No answer. He sat down. It meant getting his ass wet but a wet ass was nothing when he looked at the wreckage the kid had for a face. “This is your job, then,” he said. “I bet you’re good at it. I bet you’re the best damn goatherd for miles. I wish I’d brought you some food. Bread, cheese, fruit, cold chicken. You look as if a good meal would help.” Help? Nothing could help save this kid. He was born to be pitied. “What can I do to brighten up your day? There must be something.” Slowly, cautiously, the kid sat down. “Hey! I can whistle. Used to be good, when I was your age.” You were never his age, you dummy. He whistled. “What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?” because it was the only tune he could think of. He threw in a lot of trills and swoops, and finished breathless.

  “Well, the goats liked it,” he said. And the kid seemed to have relaxed a bit. “Look, I can’t stay. I have all this funny money, roubles, no use to me, I want you to have it.” He reached forward and dropped a handful of notes in the kid’s lap.

  That hurt. The kid jumped as if stung and the notes went flying. Some fell near a couple of goats, who nosed them and might have started chewing if Hackett hadn’t rescued them. “What’s wrong?” he said. “Take it, kid. You need it more than I do.” He collected the notes and offered them. “Buy yourself a treat.”

  They stood and stared. Then the kid made a decision. He plucked the biggest rouble note from the bunch, went to the goats, found one and dragged it to Hackett. The message was obvious. Hackett had bought a goat.

  He laughed and shook his head. The robe had a pocket, so he tucked the rest of the money in there. The kid released the goat. Then something unexpected happened, something that made Hackett’s heart give a little kick of delight. The kid took Hackett’s hand.

  Now Hackett was led through the herd. The kid named each goat and glanced up to see if this was the one he wanted to buy; until Hackett realized that this was the only way the kid would take the money, so he chose the smallest, probably the youngest goat. The kid picked it up and gave it to him. Honour was satisfied. They shook hands and Hackett was pleased at the firm grip. “Good luck, chum,” he said, and bent and did something he had never in his life done before to anybody. He kissed the top of the boy’s head.

  The little goat seemed content to be carried. Hackett, striding away, blinking hard, knew that he had been close to tears. Why? Because a small Russian child had a broken face? What a strange encounter.

  When he reached the train he went to Susan Perry’s compartment. She was dressed, and brushing her hair.

  “I went for a walk and a kid in charge of some goats sold me this one,” he said. “The kid – he, she, I couldn’t tell which, let’s say he – he didn’t sell it, I picked it out. The boy was … he looked as if a horse had stepped on his face. Two horses.”

  She let the goat suck her fingers. “A mascot. All the best squadrons have a mascot.”

  “I had a good idea while I was out. Squadron party tonight. To celebrate our engagement.”

  “Yes, certainly.” The goat brayed as if it agreed too, and they laughed. “Don’t make a speech, James. Just bask in their envy.”

  “If you say so.” He scratched the goat behind the ears. “I’d better give this animal to someone.” He didn’t want to leave.

  “Try the adjutant, he’ll know what to do. It’s probably somewhere in King’s Regs.”

  He moved to the door and then turned back. “I can say anything to you, can’t I? Anything at all.”

  She looked mildly surprised. “Yes, you can.”

  “I’ll get used to it. Never had much practice. But then … I never knew anyone like you. Pure luck. Luck is everything, isn’t it?”

  “It helps. I’m glad a horse didn’t tread on your face when you were young.”

  “An encouraging thought to start the day.”

  “I suppose I’m out of practice too. But then, I never had anyone like you to practise on.”

  He went to The Dregs, which was busy with breakfast. “Squadron mascot,” he said. “And I have an announcement.” He stroked the goat’s ears and it brayed happily. “I’m engaged to be married.” He handed the goat to the adjutant.

  “Marriage isn’t allowed on active service,” Wragge said. “Anyway, the goat is far too young.”

  “I knew a Canadian in France called Orson,” Dextry said. “And believe it or not, his surname was Cart.”

  “That’s nothing,” Jessop said. “We had an adjutant called Mudd.”

  Hackett poured himself some coffee and waited.

  “Why shouldn’t a Canadian be called Orson?” Maynard said. “It’s not an unusual name over there.”

  “He was married,” Dextry said. “So she’d married an Orson Cart.”

  “That alters everything,” Wragge said. “I withdraw my objection. Goats are in.”

  “I know I’m going to regret this,” Brazier said to Jessop, “but what’s the connection with an adjutant called Mudd?”

  “Oh … chaps used to phone him up and say, ‘Is your name Mudd?’ It’s a play on words, you see. A sort of pun. They thought it was frightfully clever. They were usually sozzled, of course.”

  “Nothing to do with the commanding officer’s engagement, then.”

  “Um … on the whole, no.”

  “Totally irrelevant, in fact.”

  “Don’t rub it in, Uncle. I wish I’d never mentioned it.”

  Lacey came in. “Mentioned what?”

  Jessop took a large bite of toast. “Crunch crunch crunch,” he said. “And don’t try to deny it.”

  Brazier turned to the C.O. “The floor is yours, sir.”

  “I’m engaged to Flight Lieutenant Perry,” Hackett said. “We intend to marry as soon as possible. We’ll give a celebration party for the squadron tonight.”

  Brazier led the applause. “By a happy coincidence,” Lacey said, “I found several cases of Russian champagne in the stores.” Much louder applause. “Ideal for what Count Borodin calls a prazdik, which is a Russian beano with all the stops pulled out. Should I invite the whole squadron to the prazdik, sir?”

  “Of course. We’ll have a bloody great prazdik.” He relaxed. He was a squadron leader, he was engaged, he was popular. “Breakfast!” he said.

  Lacey waited until the C.O. had finished eating, and then murmured: “Fresh signals from the Military Mission. Marked confidential.”

  Hackett wiped his mouth and gave the napkin to Chef. “Damn good scoff,” he said. “More strength to your elbow.” To Lacey: “Lead on.”

  Wragge watched them go. “Getting engaged has done that man a power of good,” he said. “He should do it more often. Well, another day of toil awaits us, so we might as well start. Who has the cards?”

  Fifteen minutes later he was holding a handsome full house, aces on jacks, when Lacey interrupted the game. Meeting in the C.O.’s compartment, now. Flight leaders, adjutant and Count Borodin.

  “You have just robbed me of enough roubles to stuff an ox,” Wragge said. “And with what’s left over you could have stuffed Daddy Maynard too.”

  “I’m unstuffable,” Maynard said. “I’m a Man of Steel.” But by then, Wragge had left. Still, Maynard was pleased. He wouldn’t have said that a month ago.

  The C.O. was full of fizz. “All here?” he said. “I’ve spoken to Borodin, he’ll be back in a minute. Don’t sit down,
this won’t last that long. The war’s on the move at last. Denikin has attacked and his armies have broken the Reds on all fronts. He’s advancing like a tidal wave. The British Military Mission has moved out of Ekat. It’s now at Taganrog, so that’s where we’re heading, lickety-split. Our orders are to join Denikin’s spearhead and knock hell out of the Bolos. It’s our chance to …” He stopped when Borodin came in. “I asked the count to galvanize the locomotive crews. I want to see us barrelling down the track to Taganrog, not limping along at twenty miles an hour. Did they agree?”

  “Not as such,” Borodin said. “No.”

  “Double pay? You told them?”

  “Yes. Their answer was that twenty-five is the absolute safe maximum. They said the locomotives are overdue for servicing. They wouldn’t budge.”

  “I’ll budge them. They’re lazy buggers and they want an easy life. Adjutant, put a man with a revolver on the footplate of each locomotive. I’ll take charge of the Marines’ train. We’ll go first. We set the pace. The rest of you – keep up. We’re going to catch this war while it’s still hot. All clear? Good. Carry on.”

  They left, except for Wragge.

  “I’m glad to see you firing on all cylinders,” Wragge said. “You were beginning to look like Griffin Mark Two, eating broken glass for breakfast.”

  “Oh …” The idea made Hackett chuckle. “I wasn’t as bad as that, was I? Anyway, I’ve got a grip on this job now. I’m going to be busy, so … can you organize this prazdik for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Make it memorable. Hackett’s prazdik. Give the whole damn squadron something to cheer its socks off about. Can you see my revolver? It’s lying around here somewhere … Ah. Thanks.”

  2

  Getting three trains on the move, none crowding the one in front, none falling far behind, was a process that could not be rushed. Hackett stood behind the driver and the stoker on the Marines’ train and urged them to work harder. He found the cord for the whistle and gave a few blasts. It didn’t improve the speed but it made him feel better. He was in the lead, where the C.O. should be.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the squadron had little to do.

  Lacey was in his radio room with Sergeant Stevens, the medic. “It’s none of my business,” Stevens said, “but that verse which you read so movingly at the funerals of the C.O. and Air Mechanic Henderson. Did you write it for the occasion?”

  “A sombre ceremony. I thought something to boost the spirits … Yes, I was responsible. Shall I make some tea?”

  “How did it begin? Now God be thanked …”

  “From this day to the ending of the world.” Lacey busied himself with the Primus stove. “Is Fortnum’s Black Blend alright?”

  “Yes. You pinched it, didn’t you? From Rupert Brooke.” Stevens waited, but Lacey was concentrating hard on getting the stove going. “And later you had a line, Was there a man dismayed? That’s definitely Tennyson. ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’.” Still Lacey fussed with the Primus. “And your splendid ending, Land of our birth, we pledge to thee,” Stevens said. “A masterstroke. Rudyard Kipling must be proud of it.”

  At last Lacey turned to him. “I’m out of milk I’m afraid. War is hell, isn’t it?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first. Every writer steals. You just did it more thoroughly than most. You pinched bits from all over and tacked them together.”

  Lacey screwed up his face and stared at the empty steppe drifting by. “Not stealing. I adapted. Some of those poets are fairly second-grade, you know. I like to think I enhanced their work.”

  Stevens found that funny. “You certainly enhanced that funeral. Compared with you, the Bible came in a poor second.”

  Lacey returned to his Primus. “Brooke, Tennyson, Kipling,” he said. “Not the reading of the average sergeant in the Medical Corps. Where did you go to school?

  “Winchester. Disgusting food, medieval plumbing, excellent library. And before you ask, I never wanted a commission. For reasons too tedious to explain.”

  The kettle began to boil. “I have a lemon,” Lacey said. “Lemon is actually better than milk.”

  “I may die,” Stevens said. “The Medical Corps is permanently exposed to disease. If I do, will you enhance my funeral?”

  “Child’s play.” Lacey sliced the lemon. “All it takes is a raging talent.”

  After about five miles, the locomotive crew had nudged the speed up to twenty-three miles an hour. The gauge was calibrated in kilometres, which meant Hackett had to do some mental arithmetic. Divide by three and multiply by two. The reckoning was a bit rough-and-ready, but it told Hackett they weren’t beating twenty-five. Probably not even touching it. This train wasn’t running, it was sleepwalking. Its crew needed to be roused. Hackett knew he could do it. He had enough enthusiasm for all of them.

  He smiled. He grinned, until it hurt. He rapped the speed gauge and made up! up! up! gestures. He slapped the driver on the back, sang “Waltzing Matilda”, not that they understood, they could scarcely hear him above the din of the engine. He stood beside the stoker and applauded every shovelful of coal the man threw into the fire. He pointed urgently forward, he grinned and he nodded. They watched him warily. All foreigners were mad. This one acted crazy.

  Hackett hid his irritation. He knew they had problems. The driver moved slowly: his right leg was lame. He was old and thin and his hands trembled on the controls. The stoker coughed every few minutes and sometimes brought up blood. An accident had taken two fingers from his left hand. What was left made a hook instead of a grip on the shovel. So – not the best crew in the world. But that was no reason to sleepwalk to Taganrog. “Faster! Faster!” Hackett roared, with a comradely grin, and rapped the gauge. “Up, up, up!”

  3

  Some of the bomber crews had joined the poker school in The Dregs. The game somehow failed to excite anyone. The cards had been given to Tommy Hopton to deal when Chef brought in a fresh pot of coffee. Hopton used the pause to say, “I’ll show you chaps a brilliant trick. This will make your eyes pop out.” He made a fan of the cards, held it face down, and said to Jessop, “Take a card. Any card at all.” Jessop made a small performance of almost choosing, rejecting, frowning hard, finally picking a card. “Don’t let me see it,” Hopton said. “It’s the eight of spades,” Jessop said. Hopton hurled the pack at his head, missed, and hit Maynard’s face just as he picked up the pot, which was very hot, and he sprayed coffee over the table, and especially over the cards. That ended the poker. Jessop got the blame. “I didn’t have the eight of spades at all,” he protested. Hopton scoffed: “Of course you didn’t. I knew that. You had the queen of clubs.” Jessop shrugged. “Did I? I can’t remember.” Dextry stopped picking up sodden cards and said to Hopton, “If you knew Jessop was lying, why did you chuck the pack at him?” Hopton was defiant. “It’s a matter of the ethos of léger de main. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Now there was nothing to do. Nothing to read. Borodin had the only newspaper, and it was in Russian.

  Wragge sprawled in a chair and watched him, and wondered what was so interesting in the dense columns of type. Yards of tripe, probably. Did the Russians eat tripe? Chef would know. Not that it mattered. “Count,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about what you told us. The peasants and taxes and so on. What a rotten life they have.”

  “They got shat upon,” Jessop said bitterly. “From a great height.” He felt badly about being blamed for the hot coffee.

  “My point is, it wouldn’t happen in England,” Wragge said. “They’d kick up a fuss, and Parliament would pass a law, or something. So why do your chaps put up with it?”

  “Their toil is appalling, I agree,” Borodin said. “But look at the holidays. Very generous. Nobody works on the holy days of the church, and they amount to nearly one-third of the year.”

  That provoked laughter. “So they don’t mind working like dogs for precious little,” Dextry said, “because tomorrow’s always a day off.”

&nb
sp; “It’s not as simple as that. You can’t understand the peasantry unless you realize how devoted they are to the Church. Russia is not like the West. Our Orthodox Church is the same as the State. The Church is Russia and Russia is the Church.”

  “Well, we have the Church of England,” Maynard said. “It’s as English as can be. God Save the King, and all that.”

  “Yes. But an Englishman can take it or leave it. A Russian believes that Christ made the Orthodox Church and that’s why it’s unalterable. And so is Russia, and so is the peasantry, unless the Tsar says otherwise, because the Tsar is God’s spokesman. In a sense, he is God.”

  “Was,” Jessop said.

  “And then there’s Rasputin,” Wragge said.

  “Was,” Jessop said happily. He was doing well. Everyone brightened. They’d heard enough of the Orthodox Church.

  “Ah, what a magnificent fraud!” Borodin said. “I knew him, slightly. The smell was memorable. He never washed and his stench was as foul as his language, but he ravished half the noblewomen in Petersburg. Including the Empress Alexandra.”

  “I met a chap in France,” Hopton said. “He was on the same squadron as a Russian duke who said Rasputin had three balls. Is that right?”

  “I never inspected him. It’s possible. His stamina was prodigious.”

  “A fraud, you said.” Wragge wanted more. They all wanted more. “A terrific fraud. How so?”

  “Oh … it goes back to the Church, I’m afraid. You see, Rasputin was what we call a starets, a holy man sent by God for the salvation of our souls. Surrender your soul to the starets, and he will save you. Rasputin preached salvation through sin. How can we repent if we have not first sinned? That’s where he started.”

  “Not so fast,” Maynard said. He was making notes.

  “Rasputin recommended sins of the flesh,” Borodin said. “Top of the list for winning God’s forgiveness.”