He grabbed the Very pistol and fired a red flare: the signal for the Nines to operate independently. The Camels broke to the right and the Nines banked sharp left, out of the spotlight. The C.O. hid his Flight above a cloud until he was sure the formation was intact. Then he side-slipped and they fell through the cloud and emerged, fast and getting faster. The gunners on the ground were slow to find them and their fire was wild, not helped by the fact that they were shooting from an armoured train moving at speed.
It was a power dive, a new experience in a Camel for Borodin, and he was conscious of the frantic flapping of a piece of loose fabric in the wing near his head. If the whole wing got stripped, half the controls would be lost and he would have about ten seconds to live. Maybe fifteen. Then Wragge pulled out of the dive and chased the train, and Borodin followed. Not dead yet, Wragge thought. Thank you, God.
He was below treetop level, where the big guns couldn’t reach him, but the train had machine guns. Borodin could see the muzzle-flash and the streaks of tracer. If there is a God, Wragge thought. And then the Camels were strafing the train from left and right. He saw it shake in his sights as the twin Vickers pounded away but he knew the tremors came from his Camel. His bullets wouldn’t dent armour plating. Only a very lucky shot would find a machine-gunner. The Camels climbed and banked and fled to safety. Let the bombers do their worst.
The strafe gave Tusker Oliphant time to get his Flight lined up behind him. He aimed to fly down the length of the train, where the bombs stood a better chance of hitting something. They went in at three hundred feet, high enough to escape their own bomb-blasts. The machine-gunners on the train had not been killed. Their tracers swam up, searching.
Oliphant’s approach seemed horribly slow to him, but that was because the train kept speeding away. And the Nine felt horribly vulnerable. That wide wingspan was easy to hit. So was he. Tracer flicked by and he remembered butterfly collections pinned through the body and the thought made his testicles try to crawl inside themselves. Then he reached the train, stuck his head into the thundering gale and tried to line up the target. It looked very narrow. He pulled the bomb toggles and hoped, gave the engine full throttle and banked so as to let his gunner vent his spleen on the Bolos. He’d survived. Full marks. Vent his spleen, he thought. Odd expression. How do you vent a spleen?
The others followed. Some Nines missed and the bombs threw up fountains of dirt. Some hit, but their bombs bounced off the armour. Some bombs found chinks in the armour and the explosions shook the train. But it charged on.
The last Nine was flown by Douglas Gunning and Michael Lowe. This was the most thrilling test they had faced since they came to Russia, a high-speed duel against a deadly enemy.
Gunning made his approach from wide of the right of the track to give Lowe freedom to rake the machine-gunners, who seemed to have multiplied. He saw the bombs that missed. Sometimes their blast rocked the train. “Blast!” he shouted. An extreme swear word in his home, rarely used. “Blast blast!” This wasn’t good enough. “Can do better. Must try harder.” He lost a hundred feet as he banked towards the train. Now the target was bigger, and right under him. Tough luck on poor old Lowe, unable to fire straight down.
Gunning had a brilliant idea. Bomb the engine. Lay his eggs in the firebox and blow the vitals to kingdom come! He went down another fifty feet and crept forward. More tracer zipped by. “Can’t catch me!” he shouted. Lowe got shot twice in the right thigh and felt as if he’d fallen into a fire and couldn’t get out. Gunning guessed his Nine was perfectly placed. Now or never. He dropped his bombs and they overshot his target by forty yards. Most of them killed a lot of wildflowers but one jammed itself under the steel track and blew it apart. The wheels of the engine charged into the gap and the rest of the armoured train followed it, capsizing as it charged into a ditch and disaster.
Gunning soared and swung into a wide half-circle to enjoy the spectacle of the wreck. “Did you see that, Michael?” he shouted, and looked back to exchange grins and saw instead a face full of pain. The most that Lowe could do was raise a gloved hand and the tearing wind blew streaks of blood from it. Gunning gave the engine full throttle and flew home. But Michael Lowe was dead when the ground crew lifted him from his cockpit.
The adjutant met the C.O. when he landed and told him the news. “And Lacey received this signal,” he said. It was from their new English-speaking liaison on Denikin’s staff. Red strongpoint resisting White advance. Please assist. The C.O. looked around, saw Dextry, and waved the signal. “We’re off again, Rex,” he shouted. “Refuel, rearm and bomb up. Just time for a wash and a bowl of soup.” To Dextry he said: “Where is he now?”
“The doctor’s got him. Cleaning him up. He bled to death. Bit of a mess.”
“Alright. Look, keep it under your hat. The boys will find out soon enough. Kursk isn’t far, there’s bound to be a church with a graveyard. Scout about. Lowe, did you say? Which one was he?”
“Shortish, curly hair, smiled a lot. Looked like his pilot, Gunning. Could have been twins.”
Wragge worried about it, couldn’t remember the face, gave up. A late Nine sailed in, its engine sounding like a bag of rusty nails and the exhausts burping smoke. More bad news. Lowe could wait.
They took off, one bomber short, flew over the wrecked train and, twenty miles north, saw the Red strongpoint long before they reached it: a brisk exchange of artillery fire flashed and flickered. Tusker Oliphant’s Flight climbed hard to four thousand feet, where broken cloud would trouble the anti-aircraft guns. The Camels climbed higher, to give the Nines cover, and patrolled the twisting avenues of sky. As they cruised into a suddenly enormous space, a Red flight arrived by a side entrance. Three Sopwith Pups, each glowing with dazzle camouflage, and three brown Spads. For a moment both formations kept their shape and looked at each other across an empty quarter of a mile.
Pups, Wragge thought. Good in their day. Camels eat them for breakfast. And Spads are cads. Usually.
He had a couple of hundred feet advantage of height. The enemy cruised on. Maybe it was a trap. Or maybe they suspected the same. He led the Flight in a climbing turn, away from the Reds, and went circling up until he was six hundred feet higher and the enemy were further away than ever. But at least the Camels were above them.
It took five minutes of full-throttle flying to catch up. If there was a trap it was lost in the clouds. Wragge made a last scan above and behind, and pushed the stick forward. The whistle of wind in the wires built to its usual scream. Still the enemy flew straight and level in two arrowheads, Pups leading Spads. Wragge found a Spad growing big in his telescopic sight and his fingers were tightening on the trigger when the Spad vanished.
Borodin, arriving last, saw it all. The Pups banked hard left, the Spads went hard right, and the Camels plunged through the hole. Someone had watched, had known just when to scatter. Now the Reds had height advantage. The machines might be old but the pilots could fly. They could fight.
Wragge pulled out as hard as he dared and used the power of the dive to climb, which brought the familiar grey mist to his eyeballs and a deadening to his fingers on the stick. His heart pumped more blood, the mist faded and he saw two Pups drifting towards him in perfect formation, wingtips almost touching, even the jazzy camouflage was identical, look, they fired at exactly the same instant. Something kicked his Camel so violently that the stick jumped in his hands. He lost control and the sky turned sideways. His brain got to work. Double vision. Thanks very much, brain. One single Pup flashed overhead, so close that he could see its ailerons working. But by then the Camel was in a sideslip that became a spin and Wragge had his hands full.
The others saw none of this. Dextry was in a tail-chasing duel with a Spad whose turning circle was inferior to a Camel’s but the pilot didn’t know this and Dextry was trapped in the chase. If he straightened up and banked hard the Red pilot would get a chance of a clear shot. Maynard was chased by two Spads. He worked the rudder pedals and stick and sw
ore without stopping until he found a cloud to hide in. The Spads prowled and searched but he escaped from cloud to cloud until they got bored. Borodin and Jessop scrapped with two Pups until one of the enemy had serious engine failure and glided out of the action, leaving a black scarf of smoke across the sky to mark its going. They shot it down. The other Pup vanished.
That was pretty much the end of the fight. Dextry’s tail-chasing Spad tried to frighten him with bursts of bullets behind his tail, ran out of ammunition and abruptly dived away. The others followed: he was evidently their leader. The C.O. toiled up from his spin and assembled the Flight. They flew home, all except Maynard. He was totally lost.
All that dodging and swerving had bewildered his compass. He had no idea where the railway was. The sun was no help: it was overhead and half the time it was behind cloud. He found a little river and followed it, for no good reason but he couldn’t think of anything better. It was a placid river and its meanderings told him nothing at all. Not very clever. He abandoned the river and decided to go to the other extreme. Climb high. Better view. He began spiralling up and got a view so frightening that he clenched his toes and his stomach muscles. His fuel gauge was a shocking sight. The needle was bouncing on empty.
That simplified the problem.
Maynard stopped climbing and throttled back and began a long glide that must end somewhere down there, preferably not a bog or a forest or a rocky hillside. Or, God help us, a Red Army camp. His phial of morphine was on the train. Unthinkable that he’d ever need it. Forget it. Look harder.
In the end the Camel decided. It skimmed a few birch trees, coughing its final warning, died and settled on whatever came next, which turned out to be a hayfield. The wheels found hard land deep in the grass and ran. The stems brushed the wings, but grass was no match for a Camel, and it mowed down the hay and came to a halt.
He closed his eyes. The sun was warm and the cockpit was wonderfully comfortable, so he rested his tired body and enjoyed being alive. When he opened his eyes, a man on a horse was looking at him. “I don’t suppose, by any amazingly good luck, that you speak English?” Maynard said.
“Not a bloody word. I’m from Wales. I don’t suppose you speak Russian. Is this your Camel? I don’t suppose it speaks Arabic.”
The more he thought about that, the funnier it got. Maynard laughed, and knew that what he was really laughing at was his amazingly good luck in not killing himself. Rocky ground would have thrown the Camel ass over tit and broken his neck.
He unclipped the pocket watch from the dashboard, undid his seat belt and climbed down. “Flying Officer Maynard,” he said.
“Major Edwardes, Royal Artillery. I’m an adviser to Denikin’s guns. I saw you looking lost, so I breezed over to pick up the pieces. You could probably do with a cup of tea. It’s a long walk. Jump up.”
He kicked one foot out of a stirrup. Maynard poked his boot into it and swung up, behind Edwardes. They trotted away. “Pleasant countryside,” the major said. “Reminds me of Suffolk. Where are you from?”
“Wiltshire. Went to school in Dorset. Sherborne.”
“I was at Gresham’s. Norfolk. Never learned a damn thing except sums. Won prizes for sums. So the army put me in guns.”
“Very far-sighted.”
“Perhaps. Also short-sighted. This was ’16; lots of gunners had kicked the bucket. Clobbered by Boche counter-battery fire. War Office was desperate. I was perfect. Clever enough to calculate range, stupid enough not to work out the chances of survival.”
Maynard realized that Edwardes was only a year or two older than himself. Maybe twenty-three or twenty-four. Probably only a captain raised to major for service in Russia. So he’d been rescued by a man more or less his equal. “Can you get a message to my squadron?” he said.
“We’ll try. Things are a bit fluid around here.”
Maynard’s legs were feeling the strain of being stretched across the broad hindquarters when they reached Edwardes’ unit. It was six field guns, horse-drawn, and four tents. Meals were being cooked on an open fire. Maynard slid off the rump and massaged his thighs. “I don’t suppose you brought your toothbrush,” Edwardes said. “Never mind. You can use mine.”
4
The C.O. called a meeting with the flight leaders and Borodin. “That was a rough scrap,” he said. “Where’s Daddy Maynard?”
“Nobody knows,” Dextry said. “Last seen chased by the Spads into cloud. We tumbled one Red bus. Most of the Camels took some punishment. I got peppered. They knew their stuff, didn’t they? Pretty hot.”
“How did you get on?” Wragge asked Oliphant.
“Well, we lost Lowe this morning. You know all about that. Otherwise … we bombed the target. Might have hit some artillery pieces, might not. Gave them something to think about, anyway. Last time I looked, the Bolos seemed to be retreating.”
“Good.”
“It was a bit messy. Bombs got sprayed all over the scenery. I hope we didn’t hit anybody on our side.”
“Fortunes of war, Tusker. Nichevo.” Wragge looked at Borodin. “Your man on Denikin’s staff said the Red air force n’existe pas.”
“Vranyo. Like the armoured train.”
The C.O. briefly explained vranyo to his flight leaders. “Two can play at that game,” he said. “I’m going to signal Mission H.Q. that we shot down half the Bolos and silenced their artillery. And I’d be obliged, Count, if you would tell Denikin the same.”
“Nothing simpler.”
“That might win a few medals,” Dextry said, “but it won’t win the war.”
“Nichevo,” the C.O. said. “Nichevo in spades. Any problems?” They had no problems. “Uncle has found a church within walking distance. Lowe’s funeral will be at six p.m. Spread the word.”
The squadron filled the church. It was a small building, dedicated to St Erasmus. “A very minor saint,” Borodin murmured to the C.O. “Supposedly the protector of sailors. How he washed up in Kursk is anybody’s guess.”
“They don’t believe in pews.”
“Congregations stand in Russia. Sitting in church is bad form. Decadent.”
The priest arrived. He was old, and so bent that his beard seemed to weigh him down; but he was well organized. The packing-case planks of the coffin were covered with a large Russian flag. Lowe’s cap was on top, and there were flowers. The priest had assistants to ring bells and hand him incense and holy water for sprinkling. Altar boys held weighty prayer books for him, and turned the pages. All told, it was an impressive performance. The squadron didn’t understand the words, but they had the good manners to shut up and listen, and bow their heads when the altar boys and the acolytes did. The general meaning was obvious. Farewell to Michael Lowe.
The priest said something to Borodin. Four strong airmen lifted the coffin to their shoulders and carried it out, blessed on its way by the priest. He was mercifully brief at the graveside: he had already said what mattered most. He looked at Borodin. Borodin looked at Lacey. Lacey cleared his throat, and let everyone hear his words.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less,
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
The cap was removed, and the flowers. The flag was folded. The burial was signalled by the rifle volleys, echoing off the church and scattering a flock of birds. Everyone knew the shots were coming but even so, many heads flinched, and the event was too much for Douglas Gunning. Grief overwhelmed him. His throat choked on suppressed sobs. The squadron parted to let him stumble away.
Lacey sent the C.O.’s report to Mission H.Q. and turned to the really rewarding work.
A signal had arrived from Captain Butcher at H.Q., and Lacey showed it to the adjutant. “You said I was in the soup over the elephant guns in the cro
quet box. Alas, it is poor Butcher who is bamboozled.”
Brazier read:
Re your request barrel locking nuts stop local translator suggests mistranslation from Russian of barrel elevation locknut stop no replacements available stop weapon is highly dangerous without this item stop am sending urgently quantity three Maxim machine guns and ammunition stop officer commanding Mission requests congratulate Cossack leader Reizarb stop provide further details gallantry flying officer Jossip for information War Office London stop Captain Butcher Royal Artillery stop.
“This is an elephant trap, Lacey, and you are digging it deeper and deeper.”
“You really think so? You know the Cossack Reizarb better than anyone. Could you send him H.Q.’s warmest thanks?”
“Twaddle.”
“Reizarb could become a footnote in history. He’s worth watching.”
“I know nothing of this humbuggery. Thank God.”
Lacey sharpened a pencil and got to work. Brazier sat at his desk and browsed his British Army Pocket Book, 1917. “Characteristics of an Arab Raiding Party” caught his eye. May consist of anything from two thousand to five thousand men. If Bedouin, on camels. If semi-nomads, on horses. If many sheep are present, signifies loot. Before action, banners will be unfurled.
Interesting. Worth remembering.
“This should occupy his mind for a while,” Lacey said.
The adjutant read his draft:
Regret report mortars on loan to Cossack Reizarb for training purposes exploded stop result death of Reizarb and ten Cossacks stop new leader is Georgi Godunov stop claims is rightful heir to Boris Godunov Tsar 1598–1605 stop Georgi Godunov unreliable stop has deserted White cause and now campaigns as warlord stop squadron highly successful Bolsheviks in full retreat Russian civilians applaud ground crew jazz band stop request urgently quantity one each trombone trumpet clarinet E flat banjo stop Squadron Leader T. Wragge Officer Commanding.
A Splendid Little War Page 29
