A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  “That’s jolly clever,” Dextry said.

  “And if God sends a temptation, yield at once, so you can be forgiven. That was Rasputin’s trump card. The ladies lined up for a chance to sin and repent in his bed.”

  “Heavenly humping,” Wragge said. “Unbeatable.”

  “No wonder he was tritesticular,” Hopton said. Maynard looked up from his notes. “Disease of sheep,” Hopton told him.

  There was a silence while they contemplated a stampede of naked noblewomen into a hairy, smelly Russian’s bed.

  “It’s a beautiful swindle,” Wragge said, “but I can’t see it working in the Church of England. Not unless you shave first.”

  “I’ll shave,” Maynard said.

  4

  Hackett ran out of enthusiasm. Ran out of encouragement, of urgency, of attack. He gave up. They won. It was their locomotive and they drove it at their speed. Twenty-three miles an hour meant reaching Taganrog the day after tomorrow, maybe even later. Well, this was Russia. They would be shot if they went any faster.

  He sat on the coal in the tender and fingered his revolver.

  Suppose he fired a couple of shots over their heads. That would make them jump. Would it do any good? The driver looked shaky, gunfire might be more than he could stand. If he collapsed it would make matters worse. The stoker couldn’t shovel coal and drive. Forget guns.

  In fact Hackett began to feel sorry for them. The driver wasn’t strong enough to be on his feet all day behind a roaring, rocking engine. The stoker was younger but gusts of smoke got him coughing painfully and the damage to his left hand meant he could never hold a full shovel.

  Hackett couldn’t sit and watch him struggle any longer. He got up and took the shovel from his hands.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he bawled into the man’s ear. “I did this job in the Australian Navy.” Useless, meaningless; but he felt he had to say something. He set to work, flinging coal into the fire, remembering the easy rhythm, enjoying the exercise. The stoker sat and watched.

  Soon, the train picked up speed. Hackett could tell by the change in the engine note, by a difference in the vibration beneath his feet. He took a break and went to look at the gauge. Divide by three, multiply by two. Thirty miles an hour. And climbing. He grinned at the driver and slapped him on the back. The man looked sick. “Sorry,” he shouted. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.” When he turned around the stoker had gone. Hackett searched and saw the man disappearing over the stack of coal, heading God knew where. “We don’t need him!” Hackett said, and got back to work. The coal burned easily. The fire turned from red-hot to white-hot. Hackett took off his tunic, and then his shirt. The engine had a thundering rumble that was different. He turned to look at the gauge and now the driver had gone too. Over the coal. Who would have thought the old fellow had the agility? He looked at the gauge. Nudging forty. It was vibrating so much that he leaned forward and looked closer. It struck him full in the face as if it had been fired from a gun, which in a sense it had. When the boiler blew, the locomotive shattered and bits rained on the steppe. Only the wheels and the chassis survived. It was almost a mile before the train stopped. Even without an engine, forty miles an hour creates a lot of momentum.

  5

  At 11.00 a.m., Jonathan Fitzroy met his Working Party as they arrived at the Royal College of Embroidery. Everyone got into an official car and drove to a side entrance of the Admiralty Building in Whitehall. “Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger,” he said. “All will be explained.”

  A captain of Marines checked their identities and issued temporary passes. A Marine led them along corridors painted battleship grey, busy with men, some in naval uniform, some not, each carrying a file of documents. “Navy floats on paper,” General Stattaford said. “Abolish paper and the Navy would sink like a stone.”

  They went down a flight of stairs, along another corridor, down more stairs. “Must be the crypt,” Stattaford said. “Where admirals go to die.”

  The Marine took them into an outer office, where their passes were examined. They were shown into a large room, with a map table that was brightly lit by hanging lamps. Only one man was present: a naval commander, much decorated, stocky, grey hair cropped short, grey eyes that rarely blinked. Fitzroy took care of the introductions. He was Commander Judd. He shook hands. He had a grip like a blacksmith.

  They sat at the table. Fitzroy said, “Commander Judd has information that the P.M. feels we should know. Something has happened.”

  “This is a map of Kronstadt,” Judd said. “The home of the Russian fleet.” They leaned forward. There was much to see. The map was large, and so was the scale. “Kronstadt is at the head of the Baltic Sea, where the Gulf of Finland separates Finland from Russia. At its eastern end, the gulf narrows to become the Gulf of Petrograd, and this narrow gulf includes Kotlin Island.” Judd’s pointer circled the island. “Kotlin protects the naval base. Beyond the base, an estuary leads to Petrograd, but what matters to us is Kronstadt.”

  “And the damned island,” Stattaford said.

  “Yes. Kotlin forms an immense natural defence for the naval base. Ever since Peter the Great, Russia has been enlarging those defences, on land and at sea. Kronstadt has been called the safest, the most protected fleet base in the world.”

  “Well, that’s act one,” Charles Delahaye said. “I hope there’s act two.” He had left urgent business at the Treasury to be here.

  “Patience,” Fitzroy murmured.

  “The defences are worth examining,” Judd said. “Kotlin, of course, is studded with forts covering the approach. On the north side a chain of forts in the sea reaches from Kotlin to the mainland, and each fort is linked to the next by a submerged breakwater, making that channel impassable to a warship of any size. On the south side of Kotlin, several fortresses have been built in the sea. Only one channel exists for vessels leaving or entering the base, and it is here.”

  “Not totally safe, then,” Stattaford said. “I smell a loophole.”

  “The channel is narrow,” Judd said. “It has minefields on either side. Furthermore, here, to the west, outside Kotlin Island, a thick and extensive minefield guards against intruders. And finally, on the mainland, and especially where high land gives advantage, are fortresses carrying very heavy artillery, in some cases 12-inch guns.” He laid down his pointer.

  “What you’re saying,” James Weatherby said, “is, take away Kotlin Island, and the northern sea forts and their breakwaters, and the southern sea forts and their minefields, and the huge minefield out to the west, and the land forts with their 12-inch guns, take away all that, and the Russian fleet at Kronstadt is wide open to attack by the Royal Navy.”

  “You’ve forgotten something,” Sir Franklyn Fletcher said. “Their fleet can see the enemy coming while he’s miles away and blow him out of the water.”

  “Damn,” Weatherby said. “And I thought I had the problem solved.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Fitzroy said. “The commander is making a very serious point.”

  Judd looked at Delahaye. “Here is act two. The Red Fleet in Kronstadt could indeed blow anything out of the water, considering it has two battleships, both with 12-inch guns, a cruiser with 6-inch guns, a submarine depot ship, seven submarines and a squadron of destroyers, plus several auxiliaries. The Royal Navy’s fleet in the Baltic cannot penetrate the Kronstadt defences. At the same time, we cannot stop the Red Fleet coming out and causing havoc.”

  “This is a very sad story,” Delahaye said.

  “Hang on to your hats, as the Americans say,” Fitzroy told him.

  “The Royal Navy sank the Red Fleet,” Judd said. “The bulk of it. In Kronstadt.”

  That had the effect it deserved. Everyone straightened and stared. Most smiled, some applauded. All Judd’s careful preparation had paid off: his audience was amazed. Nothing changed in his face or his manner.

  “Well done,” Weatherby said. “You’ve sawn the woman in half. Now put her together again.”
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  “The Navy has developed a new type of vessel, called the Coastal Motor Boat, or C.M.B.,” Judd said. “Forty-footers, hydroplane hulls, engines up to 500 h.p., speed over 40 knots. Intended for hit-and-run raids on the German and Belgian coasts, had some success but the war ended too soon. Then two C.M.B.s under Lieutenant Agar R.N. did some Secret Service work, operating out of the coast of Finland, running agents to and from Petrograd.”

  “We can’t mention that, of course,” Fitzroy said. “Never happened.”

  “What Agar proved was that the C.M.B.’s shallow draught – less than three feet – lets it skim over breakwaters and minefields.”

  “Ahah!” Sir Franklyn said. This was rattling good stuff.

  “On his own initiative, Agar took a C.M.B. out one night and sank, with a single torpedo, the Red Navy cruiser Oleg. His act was contrary to our Rules of Engagement at the time.”

  “Can’t mention that, either.”

  “Do shut up, Fitzroy,” Sir Franklyn said.

  “However, it prompted the First Sea Lord to persuade the War Cabinet to give the Navy more freedom of action,” Judd said. “Agar was sent seven larger C.M.B.s and an R.A.F. squadron, all based on the Finnish coast. The boats penetrated Kronstadt harbour at night while the R.A.F. flew low overhead to drown the noise of the engines. They torpedoed and sank the battleships Andrei Pervozvanny and Petropavlovsk and the submarine depot ship Pamiat Ozova. Other damage was done. This action effectively removed the Red Navy’s threat to our Baltic fleet.”

  They pounded the table with their fists. “Best news since the Armistice,” Stattaford said.

  “Inevitably, the defences were aroused,” Judd said. “We suffered losses. Three C.M.B.s failed to return. Agar won the Victoria Cross.”

  “Three C.M.B.s for two battleships and a cruiser,” Weatherby said. “Not a bad rate of exchange.”

  Jonathan Fitzroy proposed a vote of thanks to the Royal Navy in general and to Commander Judd in particular. Oh, and to Lieutenant Agar.

  They left. Sir Franklyn said his club was nearby and invited them to join him for lunch.

  His club was the Sheldrake, and as chairman of the wine committee he had no difficulty in getting a private dining room. “No menu,” he said. “They know what to bring us. I think champagne while we’re waiting, don’t you?”

  They drank to pluck and courage, dash and daring, and a brace of dreadnoughts at the bottom of the sea. Champagne cleansed the palate wonderfully. “This opens the way to Petersburg, doesn’t it?” Stattaford said. “Or Petrograd, or whatever it is.”

  “Um … not necessarily,” Fitzroy said.

  “What’s your problem? The Navy’s put the kibosh on Kronstadt. The capital’s wide open. Consolidate success. Rule one.”

  Fitzroy swirled the remains of his champagne. “Well … it’s not as simple as that.”

  “Judd made it sound simple,” Weatherby said. “No more Rules of Engagement. We can do what we like. Can’t we?”

  Fitzroy made sure the door was firmly shut. “This is a very delicate matter,” he said. “You must understand that what I’m going to tell you is absolutely secret.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sir Franklyn said. “Do get on.”

  “It’s true that the Rules of Engagement, for the Navy in the Baltic, are highly flexible. There were losses on both sides at Kronstadt. Weapons were fired in hot blood. It would be hard to deny that a warlike state existed.”

  “Not hard. Impossible,” Stattaford said.

  “In fact, before our assault was launched, the War Cabinet discussed the matter,” Fitzroy said, “and the Prime Minister said that we were at war with the Bolsheviks.”

  “Hurrah,” Sir Franklyn said. “Hurrah for honesty.”

  “Who’s going to pay for it?” Charles Delahaye asked. He was talking to the air.

  “But,” Fitzroy said, “and here I must remind you of your pledge of secrecy, the P.M. added that we had decided not to make war in Russia.”

  “Now what in God’s name does that mean?” Weatherby demanded.

  “No armies,” Sir Franklyn said. “That’s right, isn’t it? A spot of skirmishing at sea is acceptable, but we shan’t put an army ashore.” Fitzroy nodded. “Just words, then,” Sir Franklyn said.

  “Good,” Delahaye said. “Words are cheap.”

  “One other thing,” Fitzroy said. “Well, two things. First, we keep very quiet about Kronstadt. It’s not Trafalgar. Nobody gets excited. And second, we say nothing, nothing at all, about the P.M.’s words on war.”

  “That’s absurd,” Stattaford said. “What the devil is Lloyd George playing at?”

  “You should regard this as background briefing,” Fitzroy said. “Keeping you au fait with the mise en scène, so to speak.”

  “Prime Ministers love secrecy,” Delahaye said. “It makes them feel in control.”

  Weatherby finished his champagne. It was flat, like the general atmosphere. “Britain’s at war, but we can’t talk about it,” he said. “What can we talk about?”

  A servant tapped on the door and wheeled in the soup.

  “Denikin’s broken out of South Russia,” General Stattaford said. “That should be fairly safe. It was in The Times this morning.”

  6

  They buried Hackett on the steppe.

  Sergeant Stevens had been the first to find the body, and after one glance he had covered it and told the adjutant that nobody should come near it. The ground crew made a coffin. Stevens and a mechanic lifted the body and placed it inside and he watched as the lid was nailed down. Then he went in search of Susan Perry.

  She was treating Marines for cuts and bruises and a possible dislocated shoulder. “Instantaneous,” he told her. That was all. He could think of nothing to add; nothing that would help, anyway. She nodded and got on with her job. Her face was as blank as a sheet of paper, and as white.

  Brazier was waiting for him. “Ideally, he should be buried in Taganrog,” he said. “H.Q. will have a padre. He’ll organize the cemetery.”

  “Not unless you’re ready to ask the doctor to do another embalming.” Brazier rolled his eyes. “Thought not,” Stevens said. “Taganrog’s two days away, maybe more. The guts are …” He decided not to discuss the guts. “This heat’s getting worse. Inside a boxcar it will be twice as hot.”

  “So we do it now.”

  The squadron knew the routine. They formed a hollow square around a grave dug by the plennys. Susan Perry and Count Borodin stood together. Four officers carried the coffin. Lacey followed. He spoke the familiar words, paused, and uttered his eulogy:

  Calm is the morn after direst duress,

  For the sword outwears its clasp.

  One shade the more, one ray the less,

  For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast.

  But trailing clouds of glory do we come.

  O fear not the bugle though loudly it blows,

  It calls but the warders that guard thy repose.

  The meteor flag of England has gloriously flown.

  We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

  But we left him alone with his glory.

  The pallbearers did their bit, while Lacey said his final piece. The firing party blazed away. Susan Perry and Borodin walked to the grave and looked down at the box made of packing-case planks. She dropped a handful of earth onto it; so did he. They walked away. “He was so happy to be engaged,” she said. “He was like a boy on his first bicycle.”

  Colonel’s Kenny’s coffin was intact; it was taken to “B” Flight’s train. But the Marines’ train was ruined. Its windows were shattered, its roofs were split, a fire had burnt out the kitchen. Brazier ordered the carriages to be uncoupled and, one by one, they were capsized. So were the remains of the engine. It took every available man, hauling on ropes, but it cleared the line. The Marines found new quarters amongst the ground crews. Merlin Squadron got on the move again. Cautiously.

  Borodin took a bottle of brandy and two glasse
s to Susan Perry’s Pullman car.

  “I’m told this is traditional after the … um … ceremony,” he said.

  “Funeral,” she said. “Burial. We buried him, because he was dead. No euphemisms, please. Nobody passed away. He didn’t go to his rest. He died. But the bottle is a kind thought and yes, I’d like a glass of brandy.”

  “Good. So would I.” He opened the bottle and poured. “Sometimes the English are too much for me. Russians let their emotions show at funerals. Men cry when they lose a friend. This English restraint, this silence, is hard to take. I found it … heartbreaking.”

  “You were not alone.” She took a healthy sip of brandy. “Daddy Maynard’s stiff upper lip began to wobble when Lacey played his ace.” Borodin cocked his head. “Right at the end,” she said. “‘We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone’. English understatement. There’s no defence against it.”

  “Yes.” This was not what Borodin had expected. He had been ready to comfort a grieving fiancée but he wasn’t prepared for a candid review of the funeral service. “What will you do when we get to Taganrog?” he asked. “Stay in Russia? Go home?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think. I can’t just forget James, can I? But what’s the point of remembering him? He’s the second man I lost almost as soon as I found him. I don’t think I was meant to be happy. Being happy is the kiss of death.”

  Borodin studied her. If a highly attractive, intelligent woman like this despaired of happiness, something was wrong with the world. Without thinking, he said: “Marry me. I promise you a long life of gloom and misery.”

  She laughed, briefly. Well, that was better. “You wouldn’t survive the honeymoon,” she said. “You’d be doomed.”

  He’d taken one chance. He took another. “If it happened at the end of the honeymoon, I wouldn’t mind. There are worse ways to go.”

  She finished her brandy and looked at him, a long look that could have meant anything. “What became of the gloom and misery you promised?”