A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  Wragge changed course. Five minutes. Changed course. Five minutes. He began to worry about fuel. Also about winds. Impossible to know whether there was a wind at this height and if so, where was it blowing them? Over Bolshevik territory? They might face a long slog home. Run out of fuel, forced landing, captured by Reds, no morphine phial, no goolie chit, prospects grim. He checked his fuel gauge again and when he looked up Jessop had closed in and was pointing down.

  Wragge searched and found nothing and searched again and saw a tiny pencilled mark on the cloud. It moved. It wasn’t one mark, it was three. He used his binoculars. Three hulking great machines, twin-engined, must be bombers, could it be true? Why not, Britain had them, Germany bombed London with them, why shouldn’t the Reds have a few? What a gift. What a bonanza. What a jamboree.

  The Camels lost height, spiralling down, checking their speed, keeping themselves between the sun and the target. It was still a fast descent: five thousand feet in as many minutes. The air was thicker, breathing was easier, the rotaries had more oxygen and made more power. And now Wragge saw four bombers, not three, each looking twice as big as a Nine. They flew in pairs, one behind the other. Monsters. Juggernauts. Twin streams of exhaust smoke were pumped out by their twin engines. How big a crew could a beast like this carry? How many guns? Wragge had a sudden fear that his clever plan might not work. Too late now. Should have thought of that earlier.

  The bombers had ploughed on. He led the Camels in a dive, full power, if the wings fell off that was tough luck, and they burst through the broken air left behind by all those twin engines. Wragge held the dive and the shapes of the bombers were shrinking. The moment Wragge pulled out, Jessop and Borodin pulled out too, climbed as he climbed. They were clamped in their seats by centrifugal force, vision slightly grey but that passed as the climb became vertical and Holy Moses, the trick worked. The Camel pilots were looking at the shapes, black against the sun, of four Bolo bombers marching to their doom.

  Or perhaps not.

  Three Camels at the point of stall could hit only what they aimed at. Changing direction to find a new target was not possible. And the bombers were widespread.

  Jessop saw an engine and he fired his twin Vickers into it until flame and smoke blotted everything. Borodin saw a tail unit, wide, with double rudders, and he pounded it until it fell to pieces. Wragge was the lucky one. A nose slid into his view and he fired and kept firing as the rest of the fuselage followed and he stopped only when his Camel fell off its stall. By then enemy gunners in the fourth bomber had found the Camels, highly vulnerable as they hung in the sky. Wragge felt the jolt of bullets ripping into his machine. That had not been part of his plan.

  In seconds the firing ended, the bombers moved on, the Camels fell towards cloud and safety. They came out of the cloud base and saw three bombers crash and burn and make spectacular explosions. All had fallen on the White side of the river. Wragge wondered whether that was good or not. To be a soldier in the winning army and have an enemy bomber drop on you would be a rotten way to die.

  Oh, well. Nichevo. The Camels flew home.

  3

  All the aircraft needed to be worked on. Holes patched, spars replaced. A Nine needed a new oil pump, a Camel had a wonky wheel. Wragge gave his crews the rest of the day off. It was still only mid-morning.

  The rain had passed and the countryside looked fresh. “I’m going fishing,” Borodin said to Susan Perry. “It’s rather a long way. We could take a couple of ponies.” She was helping Sergeant Stevens clean up after the morning sick parade.

  “When he talks of pony rides, that means he wants to propose to me,” she told Stevens.

  “I’d marry him, like a flash,” Stevens said. “I’ve always fancied being a countess.”

  “Last time I was cruelly rebuffed,” Borodin told him. “She doesn’t deserve me. But it’s too good a day to be stuck in a train. Nature calls.”

  “Bugger nature,” she said. “I’ve just treated a case of piles, a bloodshot eye and a dislocated finger, so nature doesn’t impress me.”

  “In case you were wondering,” Stevens said to him, “those three medical conditions were in no way related.”

  “If it’s rather a long way,” she said, “what exactly are your plans for lunch?”

  “Chef’s picnic basket. Caesar salad. Ripe melon. Cold beer.”

  “You’re in charge here,” she said to Stevens. “Feel free to amputate anything below the rank of flight sergeant.”

  “The iron grip of privilege. Bloody officers.”

  Borodin was right: it was a perfect summer’s morning. The cloud had gone, and the air had the extra clarity that comes with sunshine after rain has washed the colours brighter. At first the ponies galloped just for the fun of it. When they slowed to a walk, she said, “It’s quiet. All the guns have stopped.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean we won the battle?”

  “No. The Red Army didn’t win, either.”

  “So it’s a draw.”

  “Probably both sides simply ran out of shells. It often happens. There will now be an interval for refreshments.”

  “Oh.” She thought about that. “Suddenly Moscow seems rather a long way away.”

  “Look,” he said. “A green woodpecker.” It flew, and made a good show of green plumage and red head. “Not to be confused with the black, grey-headed or great spotted woodpecker. Russia has them all.”

  “I don’t care. I cruelly rebuff them all.” She clapped her heels and the pony galloped through the long grass.

  They rode through woods and meadows and parkland and reached the river. The ponies splashed into the water and drank. “I have a sense of déjà vu,” she said. “So let me make it clear that I wouldn’t marry you if you were Adam and apples were sixpence a pound. That’s a split-cane fly rod by Hardy’s of Alnwick, isn’t it? Where did you get it?”

  “Uncle let me borrow it. Belonged to Gerard Pedlow.” He sat on the bank and assembled it. “Do you fish?”

  “Never. But Father had fly rods all over the house. Very boring man. Look: you fish away. I’m going for a walk.”

  Half an hour later he walked upstream and found her sitting next to a waterfall. “Lunch,” he said. He put down the picnic basket.

  “I’ve been studying this waterfall. It seems to me that it was made for sitting under.”

  “Don’t think so much. Go and do it.”

  “I will if you will.”

  She took off her uniform until she was wearing only her shift. He stripped until he wore only his shirt. He followed her. The river fell onto a shelf that made a conveniently smooth seat. The first impact of the water was a shock; then it became silkily smooth.

  “I don’t know why we’re being so coy,” she said. “Coy people make me want to hit them.”

  “Leave it on, it’s far more revealing. I think you wear it as an armour against my tremendous appeal. You don’t like to admit that we are destined for each other.”

  “There you go again. Romantic novelettes. All jam and no bread.”

  After a while they climbed out and sat in the sun. He opened the basket. They ate the melon and the Caesar salad and drank the beer. She said, “The truth of the matter is you’re not in love with me, Peter Borodin. A man like you, good looks, charm, nobility, you’re always in love with someone. Here, with me, you’re just marking time because there’s nobody else within reach.”

  “Oh dear.” He was startled. “Am I such a bounder? I had no idea …”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s how you are. You can’t help bounding.” She began sorting out her clothes.

  They rode home, and as the trains came in sight she said, “I’m glad I met you, and I wish I knew why. No, I don’t. I don’t give a damn why. But we don’t have to marry everybody we’re glad to meet, do we?”

  “That depends on the degree of gladness.”

  “No, it doesn’t. And for God’s sake stop bounding.”

  Next day th
e aircraft were repaired and ready for operations again. Wragge had them test-flown and waited for orders. In mid-afternoon a solitary locomotive brought Denikin’s liaison officer. He strolled with the C.O. on the landing ground and explained that his orders were that there were no orders at present. Denikin wished the squadron to remain at full strength and to conserve ammunition and bomb stocks until they were needed for another assault.

  And when would that be?

  As soon as the losses in the first assault could be made good.

  A week?

  Almost certainly in a week. Perhaps ten days. Supply trains were on their way. Every urgency was being applied. The Red Army had withdrawn with heavy losses. Definitely in ten days the attack would begin. Success was inevitable.

  Wragge took him to The Dregs for tea. He asked him if Denikin had been impressed by the destruction of three large enemy bomber aircraft, and the officer smiled and said it reflected much credit on the White artillery units which had shot them down. He ate two toasted muffins with Gentleman’s Relish, and shook hands, and the locomotive carried him away. Wragge watched it get smaller. “Stinking fish,” he said. “What a swindle.” The words did not express his feelings. “Great masses of truly stinking fish,” he said. Still not enough.

  A BIG, BUCCANEERING ACTION

  1

  Usually the ground crews complained because they were overworked, although secretly they enjoyed the pressure, the sense of achievement. Now they had nothing to do and that was not what they wanted either. The squadron quickly became slack and sluggish. Ball games were tedious. Everyone had his pay and there was nothing to spend it on except poker, and even poker became dull. Wragge worried, but he could think of no solution.

  He discussed the problem with Oliphant and Borodin.

  “We can’t just sit here for ten days,” he said. “I mean, look around. There’s nothing. We’re fifty miles from Orel, and God knows that was a dump.”

  “This ceasefire, or stalemate, or whatever it is,” Oliphant said. “Not good for morale. We came hotfoot from Taganrog, jumping from one landing field to another, the chaps quite liked that, it appealed to their sense of adventure. Now this. And The Dregs has run out of cheese and bacon.”

  “Russians don’t eat bacon,” Borodin said. “Ham, sometimes.”

  “Can’t have eggs and bacon without bacon.”

  “Lacey can get us bacon, I expect,” Wragge said. “Anyway, bacon’s not crucial. But Uncle tells me he’s had some applications for leave from amongst the ground crews. Leave, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, they’re bored,” Oliphant said. “We’ve lost half the squadron. They’re kicking their heels. Cheesed off.”

  “Sometimes I wish those idiot bandits would attack us again,” Wragge said. “Give the troops something to do.”

  “Beware of wishes for they may be granted,” Borodin said.

  “I’ll tell you what part of the trouble is,” Oliphant said. “This country’s too damn big for us. The chaps have begun to feel lost. Maybe it suits the Russians, that’s fine, good luck to them. Not us. People can cope as long as they’re on the move. Once they stop, have time to think, look around, see thousands of miles of bugger-all in all directions – no offence, Count – they ask themselves, what in God’s name am I doing here?”

  “We’re making a difference,” Wragge said automatically.

  “With three clapped-out Camels and three patched-up Nines?”

  Wragge felt his temper rising. “We do our best with what we’ve got. If you can come up with an alternative, tell me. That’s all.”

  Nobody could. Time dragged.

  Wragge was sitting in The Dregs on a hot and sultry afternoon, alone, with all the windows open, thinking it was a lot more fun to command a squadron in action than one that was killing time, when he heard a conversation outside. Two men, perhaps three, were sitting in the shadow of the train, a favourite spot. He thought he recognized the voices: bomber boys. They were talking about war. It was lazy, jokey talk, just chewing the fat. Wragge moved closer to the window. The topic was mutiny.

  – That was after Verdun, a voice said. Remember Verdun? Grim business. French Army ran out of coffins, I was told. Anyway, Verdun was what caused the mutiny. Frog troops had had enough.

  – Didn’t last long, did it? a different voice said. They shot a few and the rest went back to the Trenches.

  – Yes, bleating. Baa-baa, like sheep. Just to let everyone know. Laughter.

  – Say what you like, the Frogs weren’t as bad as these Russkies. Didn’t shoot their officers.

  – Be fair. Russians only do that when they’re losing.

  – Somebody has to lose.

  – I wish they’d all lose, and be damn quick about it. I’d like to bomb H.Q. at Taganrog and get the next boat home.

  – Moscow’s nearer.

  – Alright, bomb Moscow. What’s the difference?

  – You get the V.C.

  – Posthumously.

  Laughter.

  Wragge stood up, stretched, walked to his Pullman, lay on his bed for five minutes, got up, went in search of Tusker Oliphant. He found him talking to Patterson. “A word in your ear, Tusk,” he said, and Patterson saluted and went away. “What’s the endurance of a Nine? How long can you stay in the air?”

  “Depends. The book says four and a half hours, but De Havillands wrote the book for new Nines, straight from the factory. Would one of our Nines stay up that long? Very doubtful.”

  “And speed? How fast?”

  “Well, again you can forget the book. Level flight, carrying a pair of big bombs, our absolute maximum, say a hundred, maybe hundred and a bit. But our Nines won’t keep that up. Cruising, let’s say ninety.”

  Wragge did the sum in his head. “Four and a half by ninety is just over four hundred miles.”

  “Assuming nothing breaks.”

  “Four hundred is roughly the distance from here to Moscow and back.”

  “Seems right.” Oliphant caught up with Wragge’s meaning. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Excuse me while I fall down and faint.”

  “It’s just an idea. Thinking aloud, so to speak. Testing the technicalities. Can it be done? Don’t answer that, give it some thought, work out the practical side.”

  “You are talking about Moscow? Russian capital?”

  “Forget that. Treat this as a tactical exercise. And don’t tell anyone. Total secrecy. That’s an order.”

  “Tactical exercise,” Oliphant said. “Moscow. I don’t think that’s quite how the rest of the world would see it. Don’t worry, I shan’t breathe a word. Of course I may babble in my sleep.”

  “Stuff a sock in your mouth,” the C.O. said.

  The idea was fixed in his mind. For the next twenty-four hours, when he wasn’t asleep he studied it from every angle, and the more he looked at it, the better it seemed.

  There was the excitement of attacking the enemy deep behind his lines, something only an R.A.F. squadron could attempt. There was the satisfaction of surprising the Bolsheviks, hitting them where they least expected it. And the raid would add a new battle honour to the squadron’s flag, if it ever got a flag. They came to Russia to make a difference, and by Harry, what a shining difference this would be! The squadron had fought hard and achieved depressingly little so far; even the glory of tumbling three twin-engined bombers had been stolen by Denikin’s guns. Now was the time to make a big score. It was the sort of big, buccaneering action that other squadrons would talk about for years to come.

  He sent for Oliphant and they walked around the airfield.

  “Is it on?” Wragge asked.

  “It’s just on. What I mean is it’s right on the extreme edge of these Nines’ performance. And that’s assuming a lot of things. It assumes that the weather doesn’t turn lousy, on the way there or back. If we hit a northerly wind and we have to slog through it, then all bets are off. We’d burn up so much fuel we’d never get back here.”

  “A northerly wind might
blow you home.”

  “Might. Or it might drop, and drop us in the manure. And what if the wind comes out of the west? We’d have to crab to Moscow. That’s like putting an extra fifty, sixty, seventy miles on the trip, depending on the strength of the blow.”

  “Here’s a thought,” the C.O. said. “Do without an observer-gunner in your back seat. Carry his weight in cans of petrol. For any emergency. You run low, you find a field, land, top up, Bob’s your uncle.”

  They stopped, and Oliphant screwed up his face while he pictured the situation.

  “This field,” he said. “It’s going to be in Red territory, isn’t it?”

  “The Bolos can’t be everywhere, Tusker. And it wouldn’t take long, would it?”

  “I’m thinking of this bloody awful engine in the Nine. You do know that it takes two men to start a Puma? One to turn the prop, one to sit in the office and play with the knobs and switches. Unless you were thinking of leaving the engine running while the driver gets out and opens the cans and pours the precious fluid into the tanks, taking care not to spill any on the red-hot exhausts?”

  “To be honest, Tusk, I hadn’t worked out the details.”

  “Another detail might be the bullets from the nasty Red infantry buzzing about his ears.”

  “I suppose I thought that both Nines would land and sort of help each other.” They began walking.

  “Ah. That alters everything,” Oliphant said. “The other pilot would hold off the Red Army with his trusty Service revolver while I poured. Then vice versa. That should be worth a double D.F.C.”

  “Look: don’t tell me about the problems. Any fool can find a hundred ways of not doing something different. Find some solutions.”