Dextry’s girl held him tight and they jigged and jogged. He called her Cynthia and told her she was stunning, it meant nothing to her, she had no English, but it made him happy, until an angry Russian got in the way and laid a hand on her. “Go away,” Dextry told him. “Private property. Find your own girl.”
That produced a stream of furious Russian. “You’re spitting on her,” Dextry said. “Have you no manners?” He danced Cynthia away but the man followed. Now he was shouting. His face was twisted and he grabbed the girl’s shoulder. Dextry knocked his hand away and the man aimed a fist at his face, missed, and clipped his ear. That stung. Dextry punched him, hard, in the ribs. The Russian kicked him on the shins and was swamped by four fighter pilots. He went down fighting but they dragged him to the door and threw him out.
“What was all that about?” Jessop asked.
“I haven’t the faintest,” Dextry said. “He smelt very strongly of fish. Most unpleasant.”
Twenty minutes later, when a fresh attempt was being made to get footprints on the ceiling, a dozen Russians burst in and the whole squadron was in a brawl. The trio standing on the tables soon crashed, and by luck they knocked down two Russians. The others were young and strong and angry and might have won if the owner and the waiters had not waded in with clubs. Then the police came, with more clubs, and arrested everyone.
They talked to the owner. He estimated the damage and wrote the figure in chalk on the bar.
“We could have bought the whole damn place for that,” Wragge said. The squadron began searching its pockets and filling a bucket. The violin played a wistful Russian tune. Oliphant gave the band twenty roubles. By the time the owner was satisfied, the Russians had gone. They took the girls with them.
The members of the squadron were escorted to police headquarters. Count Borodin was waiting there. “I was playing billiards at the Literary Club,” he said, “and doing rather well, until now. You look an unholy shambles.”
“We didn’t start it,” Wragge said. “A gang of local thugs went mad for no reason.”
“Fishermen. You stole their girls. That puts you in the wrong. You’re charged with robbery, bodily harm and insulting Russian manhood.”
“I suppose they want money.”
“All you have. Otherwise – jail.”
Lacey and Brazier were outside the train when the squadron straggled back, bloodied, torn, untidy and in many cases still half-drunk. The airmen looked glum. “I’ve seen this before,” Brazier said. “In France. Men came out of the Trenches, got deloused, got paid, got into a big fight with anyone they met, for no reason.”
“We promised them a war,” Lacey said. “That’s a reason.”
“I suppose so. Hullo, Mr Wragge,” Brazier said. “The chaps are looking very impeccable. Or do I mean exemplary?”
“Bloody town’s full of Bolsheviks,” Wragge said.
“I have orders from Mission H.Q. You are promoted to acting squadron leader and commanded to be C.O. of the squadron. The general sends his compliments and wishes you not to die in the near future.”
“It’s all a stinking swindle.” Wragge tramped off.
“I think you made his day,” Lacey said.
Lacey’s day had not finished. Before he took down the radio aerials, he made a final check in case any incoming messages had arrived. There was one, a signal from Military Mission H.Q.:
Correction stop Your records re boxed item stencilled lightning conductors stop Contents are quantity three trench mortars infantry for the use of stop Delete all reference to elephant guns stop Return mortars to armament stores Taganrog urgently stop Captain Butcher Royal Artillery stop.
Brazier came in and read the signal over Lacey’s shoulder.
“Now you’re in the soup,” he said.
“I think not.”
Lacey consulted his options, and then sent his reply:
Elephant guns donated to Cossack warlord Reizarb as mark of gratitude stop Reizarb’s Cossacks helped repel raid on squadron by Anarchist guerrillas stop Trench mortars invaluable in same action but urgently need barrel locking nuts quantity three stop Commend gallantry Flying Officer Jossip stop J. Hackett Sqdn Ldr OC Merlin Squadron RAF stop
Brazier read the file copy. “Hackett’s gone,” he said. “And we have nobody called Jossip.”
“We have a Jessop, which is close enough to give Butcher something to ponder.”
“He won’t ponder over barrel locking nuts. They’re for rifles. Butcher’s a gunner, he’ll know that.”
“Our mortars are special. They need special barrel locking nuts.”
“And no Cossack ever helped us fight off the bandits. Who is this Reizarb? I’ve never heard of him.”
“It’s a small tribute to yourself,” Lacey said. The adjutant stared down at him. “I hoped you would decode it,” Lacey said. “It’s Brazier spelt backwards.”
The adjutant snorted. “You’re playing with fire, Lacey. H.Q. has no sense of humour.”
“Then they’ll never guess,” Lacey said. “It’ll be our little secret.”
SUICIDE. THAT’S A BIT STEEP
1
Wragge came out of a bad dream. He was being chased by a mob of Russian thugs and running for his life to catch a droshky that was driving away from him, mocking him with its clip-clop of hooves. They never grew fainter, never louder, always just beyond his reach. He awoke, wet with sweat and stiff with effort, and as he relaxed he knew the noise was the click of train wheels on track. The squadron was on the move. His squadron.
He got out of bed and towelled his head dry. His mouth was lined with old sandpaper. He opened a window and poked his head into the stream of cool air. It was dawn, and they were leaving Taganrog. He sucked deep lungfuls of health-giving air and felt his body slowly come alive. The window of the next Pullman car opened and Maynard looked out. “We’re off again,” he said.
“Well done, Daddy,” Wragge said. “You always were the bright one.” He heard movement behind him and went back inside. It was his plenny, Fred. “Black coffee, Fred. Beaucoup de sugar. And get me a new head while you’re at it.” His plenny blinked. “Forget the head. Get coffee. Black. Big.” Fred understood that.
Wragge was brushing his teeth when the adjutant arrived. “I didn’t think you’d want to see this last night,” he said. “It’s your orders from Mission H.Q.” The buff envelope was large and heavy.
“You read them, Uncle. I’ve been suddenly struck blind.”
“That’s not the form, Tiger. The C.O. reads the C.O.’s orders.”
Wragge rinsed his mouth, and spat. “This train makes a good speed, doesn’t it? Hackett would have approved.”
Brazier had nothing to say about that. It was not his job to make small talk with the C.O. in his pyjamas. “I’ve cleared all his effects from his Pullman,” he said.
“You must be getting good at that.” Wragge weighed the envelope in his hand. “I didn’t come to Russia to read tons of bumf, Uncle.”
“We must all make the best of a bad job.”
Wragge wondered. Did that mean he was a bad job? His plenny arrived with coffee. Brazier left. Wragge opened the envelope. He flicked through the contents fast and made them into three piles: squadron orders; strategic view of the war; and Russian politics. He sent for Count Borodin and Lacey.
“Squadron orders stay with me,” he said. “You take a look at the rest. Count, you get Russian politics. Lacey has the war strategy stuff. Just skim through it. No hurry. I’ll just shave and get dressed.”
After twenty minutes he fixed his collar stud and adjusted his tie. “Time’s up. What’s the score, Lacey?”
“Reports on all fronts of the war. About Admiral Kolchak’s campaigns in Siberia, it says results are difficult to estimate, which means …”
“Nobody knows,” Wragge said. “And nobody’s holding their breath.”
“About the North Army at Murmansk, it says morale is good, however the outcome has yet to be decided, meaning
…”
“Nobody knows,” Wragge said. “But we’re not winning.”
“In Estonia, next to Petrograd, an ugly piece of work called General Yudenitch aims to be a new Ivan the Terrible. The report describes him as staunch and unswerving, translated as brutal and ruthless. Will he win? H.Q. is observing the situation closely.”
“Because nobody knows. And Estonia can’t conquer Russia, so it’s Denikin or nothing, isn’t it?”
“They’re quite candid about Denikin. His goal of a One and Undivided Russia is a brave gamble, they say.”
“He’s a reactionary,” Borodin said. “A good soldier but a woeful politician. Can’t administer the territory he captures. Doesn’t even try.”
“H.Q. speaks highly of the generals on his flanks,” Lacey said. “Wrangel on the right and Mai-Mayevski on the left.”
“They hate each other,” Borodin said. “Mai-Mayevski is useless when drunk, which is often.”
“Nevertheless,” Wragge said, “Denikin’s armies have smashed the Reds and he’s off and running for Moscow. Where is his Front?”
“Situation fluid,” Lacey said. “Opinions vary.”
“What an odd war. Nobody knows anything. Oh, well. What has H.Q. to say about Russian politics, Count?”
“They copied it from the Encyclopaedia Britannica,” Borodin said, “which has long since been overtaken by events. For instance, the Britannica and H.Q. say the peasants are ignorant of Western civilization, hence the power of the nobility. But the peasants have taken their estates and the nobility have no power. Whoever wrote this doesn’t understand the Revolution.”
“Too deep for me, old boy,” Wragge said. “And I don’t really give a damn. We get paid to biff the Bolos and that’s all that matters. Incidentally, I’ve decided to make Dextry the new Camel Flight leader. Count, you’ll fly the replacement Camel, after you’ve had a little training.”
“Thanks awfully.”
“Why are we stopping?”
Lacey went to the window. “We’re in a siding. Why, I have no idea.”
The answer soon became obvious. Expresses thundered past, one after another. “This is absurd,” Wragge said. “We have priority status. My orders say everything makes way for us. But look!” More high-speed trains sped by.
“The railway authorities make these decisions,” Borodin said. “I rather think they told your Mission H.Q. what H.Q. wished to hear. It was an untruth, of course.”
Wragge stared. “That’s absolutely bloody ludicrous.”
Borodin nodded. “Puzzling for strangers, but not at all uncommon in Russia.”
“God speed the plough.” Wragge looked at Lacey, but Lacey had rolled the Strategic Overview into a tube and was softly blowing into it. “Thank you,” Wragge said. “That’s all.”
Borodin and Lacey left the train and stood in the sunshine. Half the squadron was out there, kicking a football about. Kid, the mascot, was eating young thistles.
“You hate the Reds,” Lacey said. “Ghastly lot of murderers.”
“You have no idea just how ghastly. Not yet.”
“Quite. But you despise the White leaders.”
“They want the old days back again. Greedy and stupid.”
“Well, that’s what puzzles me. You accept the Revolution, yet fight the Bolsheviks. Why is that?”
“Look at me, Lacey.” Borodin spread his arms. “The Imperial Empire made me. It was a scarecrow with a crown on its turnip head, but it made me, it raised me, it was all I knew. I am a member of that tribe, and sometimes a man has to fight for his tribe.”
“Even when he fears it won’t win?”
“Even when he knows it must lose.” Borodin smoothed his tunic. “And that is the last we shall ever speak of such things.”
The locomotive whistle gave a warning blast. Men began climbing aboard. “Off to the wars,” Lacey said. “Shall we have an aperitif before lunch?”
2
The squadron reached the town of Makeyevka late in the afternoon. They had covered ninety-four miles, much of it spent waiting in sidings. The drivers decided they had done enough.
Wragge asked the adjutant to assemble the whole squadron on the station platform – everyone, including ground crews and Marines. “We left the Marines at Tag,” Brazier said. “H.Q. said we shan’t need them. Denikin’s staff will send an armoured train to protect us. Apparently the main danger is from enemy armoured trains.”
“I see. How do we tell the difference between ours and theirs?”
Brazier looked at his watch. “Gracious. Is that the time? I’d better get the troops on parade.”
“Not a parade, Uncle. Just assemble them.”
He found a box to stand on. The size of the crowd sobered him. Until Russia, he had risen no higher than flight leader, responsible for half a dozen pilots. Now he was looking at well over a hundred men.
“I’ll make this short and sweet,” he said. “Well, I hope it’s sweet. Two things. First is why we’re here, and that is to fly aeroplanes. Your job, all of you, is to help us do that. If you’re not helping, you’re hindering. Do it your way, do it any damned way you like, but keep Merlin Squadron flying. Second: let’s enjoy it. Any fool can make war miserable. We’re a long way from home, but let’s get as much fun as we can out of being in this peculiar country. That’s all. Carry on, adjutant.”
Wragge beckoned to the count.
“There’s a Russian official watching us,” Wragge said. “See him? Too fat for his fancy uniform. Could he be the stationmaster?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Ask him what happened to our express-train status.”
The stationmaster saw them coming and his fingers thought about buttoning his coat, fumbled, and gave up. Borodin asked him a question and got a short and surly answer. “Wrong identification letters on the front of our locomotives,” Borodin reported. “Nothing he can do.”
“I see. How would General Denikin handle this situation?”
Borodin laughed. “Hang him.”
“And the Red Army?”
“Torture, and then hang him.”
“Interesting. Would it make the trains run faster? Don’t answer that, it was a thingummy question.”
“Rhetorical.”
“If you say so. We’ll compromise. We’ll tie the bugger to the front of the locomotive and leave him there. He’ll make a very good identification. He’ll clear the line like a dose of salts. We’ll go like a rocket.”
“Yes.” Borodin thought about that. “And if it fails? We might hit a train in front of us.”
“Then the stationmaster will be the first to know. Tell him.”
Borodin translated. The man seemed baffled by the news. He protested loudly and a gang of plennys led him to the locomotive of “A” Flight’s train and roped him to the front. “He says this is outrageous,” Borodin told Wragge.
“So is hanging about in sidings. We’ll leave him there for the night. Give him time to brood. Russians are good at brooding, aren’t they?”
3
Wragge gave all ranks one hour to stretch their legs and see something of Makeyevka. Count Borodin asked the squadron doctor if she would like to go, and if he might escort her. “I won’t suggest that we take the air,” he said. “In these parts, breathing is something to be avoided.”
They took a droshky. Slag heaps and factory chimneys dominated the landscape. Rusting railway tracks wandered off and got lost. The air smelt of burnt carbon and tasted of sulphur. “If you lived here for fifty years you’d never grow to love it,” she said, “because you’d be dead by forty.”
“It’s horrible. But this is the Donbas, the richest part of all Russia. Almost all our coal comes from here. Masses of steel. If it weren’t for the Donbas, there would be no railway lines.”
“Admirable. I hope their chronic lung disease allows them to raise a feeble cheer. Can we go home now?”
“I just want to show you the town. It’s not far.”
&
nbsp; Makeyevka turned out to be modern and sensibly planned, with wide avenues. There were the usual onion domes, blackened by years of pollution. Everything was smoke-stained: the houses, the trees, the river, the clothes, the people. Borodin pointed to the balcony of a hotel. “Last year Nestor Makhno made a tremendous speech from there, all about anarchy and what a fine thing it is, and to prove it his army would fight everyone in the name of a free and independent Ukraine. He was very popular. Still is.”
“Are we in the Ukraine?”
“Yes.”
“And do they support General Denikin?”
“Probably not. I expect he’ll capture some of it. Everyone does. Then they lose it. Fighting in the Ukraine is like filling a wheelbarrow with frogs. Anyone can do it but nobody can keep the frogs in the wheelbarrow.”
“I need a drink. Let’s go home. Top speed.”
They drove back to the squadron trains. He paid off the droshky and they walked to The Dregs. “I’m glad you stayed with us,” he said. “I feared you might want to escape the sad memories.”
“I reported to Mission H.Q.,” she said, “and ten minutes of whisky breath and pipe smoke was more than enough, so I scuttled back here, where there’s a job for me.”
A flight-sergeant was waiting, and he saluted. “Beg pardon, ma’m. Aircraftman Simms reported sick. Unfit for duty. Boil on his backside, ma’m.”
She looked at Borodin. “When all else fails, there are always boils on backsides. Lead on, flight sergeant, before it explodes and kills the onlookers.”
4
At first light next morning, the C.O. met the adjutant and the count on the platform. “What news?” he asked.
“I set an armed guard, in case his friends came to save him,” the adjutant said. “If he has friends. A poor specimen. Whimpers a lot. It got very cold.”
“He’ll survive. He’s fat,” Borodin said. “Most stationmasters are. Bribes, bribes. I saw him after supper and he told me we could have the correct identification plates for a hundred roubles.”
A Splendid Little War Page 25
