“Well, it would help if your Camels gave us cover on the way out and back.”
“We can do that,” the C.O. said. “Halfway to Moscow is about as far as we can cruise. Yes, we can cover you.”
“Navigation’s no problem. Just follow the railway line.”
They strolled on, Wragge kicking the heads off dandelions, Oliphant’s heels scuffing the turf.
“I don’t suppose you’d rather bomb Kaganovich?” Oliphant said. “Vital rail junction. Very Bolshy. Only fifty miles away.”
“And nobody’s ever heard of it. Moscow’s worth a hundred Kaganoviches. I take it you’ll be leading? With who else?”
“Douglas Gunning. He feels very badly about losing Michael Lowe. Give him the chance to biff the Bolos and he’ll fly to the pit of hell.”
At sunset, before supper, the C.O. called a meeting of all aircrews and ground crews of the surviving machines. They gathered in the open and formed a half-circle. The air was still, and the last rays of the sun caught heads and shoulders and cast long shadows.
“Your squadron has not had a long existence,” Wragge said, “but we have accomplished much. I have no hesitation in saying that we now have an opportunity to crown these achievements with a bold stroke that will secure the reputation of this squadron wherever men fly. Gentlemen, I plan to bomb Moscow.”
It had the impact he expected. When they were quiet again he told them the details of the raid. Wragge was not a sentimental man, but he thought that the gilded faces, alive with excitement, were appropriate to the occasion.
2
After breakfast, the adjutant came into his Orderly Room, and found Lacey with his headphones slung around his neck. He was sorting out several pieces of paper. Brazier sat down with a thud that made his inkwell jump. “I expect you heard the rumour,” Brazier said.
“I’m impervious to gossip.” Lacey didn’t look up. “Gossip butters no parsnips, as we grocers like to say.”
“This does. I asked Oliphant and he confirmed it.”
“Stout fellow.” Lacey turned over a page. “Listen: this will interest you. Our man in Taganrog, the inimitable Henry, has found a fellow in Orel with a supply of genuine English mustard. In Orel, of all places.”
“The C.O. plans to send aircraft to bomb Moscow.”
Lacey looked up. “Moscow. Well, they can’t miss, can they? Very big town. What’s interesting is this man in Orel has a brother in Taganrog. Henry does business with one brother, and he tells the other to supply us. Clever, eh?”
Brazier stared at Lacey as if he had appeared on parade with his buttons undone. “Do you know what orders this squadron was given when it came to Russia?”
“Show the flag.” Lacey went back to his notes. “That’s what Griffin kept bellowing, anyway … If he can get mustard I bet he can get marmalade too. And sugar. We’re low on sugar.”
“I’ll tell you the orders,” Brazier said. “We are part of the British Military Mission and its role is purely and simply advisory. Our orders were that we instruct and advise Denikin’s Russians. Instruct and advise. Nothing more.”
“Well, that’s a fairy tale, isn’t it? You don’t believe it, Uncle. Nobody does. But I’ll tell you what’s very real: toilet paper. People on this train are self-indulgent. We’ll have to ration it.”
“Bombing Moscow is different, Lacey. A blind man can see that. It’s an act of war.”
“You may be right.” Lacey picked out a piece of paper and held it up. He was smiling. “You won’t believe what that fool Stokes has done. He’s referred our request for jazz band kit to the Director of Military Music in London. The man’s a poltroon. I’ve trumped his ace. Listen to this—”
“No.” Brazier stood up, suddenly, knocked his desk, sent pens and pencils flying. “I’ve worn the King’s uniform since before you could walk, and one thing I know. When the limits of command are in doubt, always Refer to a Higher Authority. Always.”
“Oh dear,” Lacey said. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll just have to see what the Director of Military Music says. But this man in Orel—”
“No.” Brazier took two strides and swept all the papers from Lacey’s desk with one angry hand. “No. You will send an urgent signal to Mission H.Q. now. To the General Commanding.”
Lacey stared. He was a small boy below a large and domineering schoolmaster. “You just had to ask,” he said. “After all, you were the one who wanted mustard.”
“To the General Commanding, British Military Mission H.Q. Urgent. Merlin Squadron R.A.F. requests permission to bomb Moscow. Signed, Brazier, captain, adjutant.”
“Simple.” Lacey put on his headphones. “Neat but not gaudy. I think I can manage that.
3
The C.O. and Tusker Oliphant reached a compromise. Each bomber would carry an observer-gunner, but they would be the smallest, lightest men in the Flight. Cans of petrol, equivalent to the savings in weight, would be packed into their cockpits. There would be a trial flight and landing to see how the refuelling worked.
“Just to make it more realistic,” the C.O. said, “and seeing that we have so many ground crews doing nothing, they can be the Red Army.”
“Firing realistic rifles?” Oliphant said. “I hope not.”
“Blank rounds. And your gunners can have blanks in their Lewis guns. Don’t worry. I’ll stage-manage it.”
The Nines, loaded to the maximum with fuel and bombs, laboured into the air and made two careful circuits. They landed into the wind, turned, taxied to the other end, turned again and killed their engines. Oliphant and Gunning scrambled out and stood on the lower wings. Their observers heaved up cans.
“Heavy weather,” Jessop said. He was watching from a distance. “No handles on those cans. Petrol’s heavy. And you need a big funnel to get it into the tank.”
“They forgot the funnels,” Wragge said. “Lesson one.”
“Where’s the Red Army? Honestly, the Bolos are a disgrace.”
“Hiding in the woods.”
When the first can was empty and flung aside, and the pilots and observers were struggling with the second, the C.O. fired a red signal flare. The attack began. The ground crews came from many different points. Their rifles made noise and smoke. They shouted profane abuse. They enjoyed themselves enormously. The observers’ Lewis guns doubled the uproar. The pilots emptied the second can and shouted for a third, but the observers could not fire the Lewis and hoist another can.
There was no option but to escape. The pilots got into their cockpits and the observers got out to swing the propellers. All this took time. The Lewis guns were silent. The ground crews raced across the field and captured the Nines. They took pleasure in marching the crews to the C.O.
“Lessons to be learned,” Wragge said.
“Yes,” Oliphant said. His trousers were soaked. “Forget refuelling.”
“Well, there was only one way to find out. Frankly, I never had much faith in it. And it doesn’t affect the basis of the operation, does it?” He saw the adjutant watching him. “Hullo, Uncle. The Army trounced us today, didn’t it? Only a little experiment. Nothing serious.”
Brazier held up a piece of paper. “This calls for your attention, sir.” The sir surprised Wragge. Only the Other Ranks called him sir. He and Brazier walked away from the crowd. Brazier gave him the paper. It was a signal from the General Commanding at Mission H.Q. Permission denied, it said. No aircraft is permitted to bomb Moscow under any circumstances whatever.
“This can’t be right,” Wragge said. “Only a fool would throw away an opportunity like this. A fool and a coward.” He thrust the signal at Brazier. “Reply immediately. Request clarification. Now.” His brain caught up with events. “Who did this? Somebody told him. Who told him?”
“I did.” Brazier folded the signal and tucked it into a tunic pocket. “You could put me under close arrest for exceeding my authority, sir. Or you could bomb Moscow without permission and face court martial yourself. I chose the lesser offence. For the good of t
he squadron.” Wragge was silent.
Brazier walked back to his Orderly Room. Within the hour, the C.O. got his reply. The General Commanding in H.Q. also believed in Referring to a Higher Authority. Air Ministry in London categorically refused permission for any R.A.F. unit to bomb Moscow. In the interests of clarity, this meant Merlin Squadron R.A.F. must not repeat not bomb Moscow.
Wragge turned the signal into a paper glider and made it fly. “Sometimes it’s a privilege to be court-martialled, Uncle. Did you ever think of that?” Brazier said nothing, and Wragge walked away. He went to his Camel. “Full tanks?” he asked his fitter.
“Half-full, sir.”
“Good enough. I’ll take her up.” He got in.
He climbed until the airfield was out of sight. All he had for company were some fluffy clouds. He tested the Camel with every aerobatic trick he knew. If his ground crew had done their job, nothing would break. On the other hand, they couldn’t see inside every spar and wire and yard of fabric. Nothing broke. Some parts creaked and the wings flexed more than usual, but nothing actually snapped. He ended the flight at slightly above ground level, vaulting over trees, sometimes squeezing between trees, and landed as delicately as a dancer.
Oliphant met him. “Alright?” he said.
“Perfectly.”
“We thought you might have gone off and done a Griffin.”
“Not me. Anyway, I couldn’t find anyone to fight.”
“Bloody Bolos. Let you down every time. I heard the news.”
“It’s a stupid war, Tusker. H.Q. doesn’t know whether it’s fighting or farting. Well, to hell with Taganrog. To hell with London. And to hell with Moscow. Tonight we’ll throw the biggest party this unlucky squadron has ever had.”
“First sensible order you’ve given,” Oliphant said.
NICHEVO
1
Three days later, the Red Army launched a surprise assault, with fresh troops, and crossed the river at a rush.
By midday the squadron’s trains were rolling south while the aircraft flew on ahead of them. The pilots were waiting, on the beautiful green field as big as Lord’s cricket ground, when the trains pulled into the rusty spur line. It was dusk. Travel had been painfully slow. The tracks were crowded with trains – troop trains, hospital trains, refugee trains – all going south. That was to be the story of Merlin Squadron for the next month.
Lacey strung his aerials and failed to make contact with Denikin’s staff but a signal from Mission H.Q. referred to “a temporary reverse”. He tried again next day and told the C.O. that reportedly the White armies were making a strategic withdrawal to strong defensive positions. “The Red Army claims to have captured Orel,” he said.
Borodin walked to the main line and talked to some staff officers whose train was waiting for signals to change. He came back to The Dregs. “They say that the Reds are fighting like dervishes, not that they know what a dervish fights like. What really depressed them was the new Red uniform. All their troops have it. Even boots. And good food too. Some of Denikin’s units mutinied so they could join the Reds and eat.”
“But we had them beaten,” Jessop said. “What happened?”
“Russia is a big country. And now their supply lines are very short while ours are very long.”
“Uncle,” Wragge said. “Kindly ask the plennys to dig up that memorial to Hopton and Blythe. We’re not leaving it here.”
He waited. On the third day the traffic on the main line thinned to a trickle, which was a bad sign. The squadron trains moved south again, sluggishly, passing the capsized ruin of the Bolo armoured train. Smoke was still drifting over Kursk, but there was little left to burn. The machines had already landed at the field where the dead horses had been piled into the shell crater.
The squadron ran out of tinned fruit, oatmeal, butter and dried peas.
During the night, all the plennys except Chef deserted.
Sounds of battle could be heard, probably in Kursk. No orders from Denikin’s staff reached the squadron. Wragge decided to get out before he was overrun. The aircraft flew south, to the racetrack. General Gregorioff and his gout had left. The squadron trains did not arrive for three days. The pilots and observers lived on roast rabbit (shot with Service revolvers), mushrooms, wild strawberries, and a fat pheasant which had been too slow to avoid Jessop’s Camel as he landed. They slept badly: the nights were cold.
The squadron ran out of eggs, onions, marmalade, Gentleman’s Relish, tinned green beans, and pepper.
Lacey led a group into Belgorod and managed to buy twelve cabbages and two dead sheep. It was not easy: inflation was raging, the value of the rouble had slumped. There was no enthusiasm for Denikin’s currency. “He prints it like a newspaper,” Borodin explained. “Fresh every day.”
The C.O. decided to dismantle the aircraft and stow them on the flatbed trucks. While this was being done, the adjutant discovered that the driver and stoker of Oliphant’s train had gone. Decamped. Left for good. Worse still, there was little coal in their tender. “We don’t need two trains,” Wragge said. “Shift everything onto ours. Including the coal.” News arrived: Denikin had lost Kursk.
It took a slow, depressing week to get near Kharkov. Refugee trains often broke down. It was dangerous to stop because refugees mobbed the squadron train, forcing it to travel with locked doors and drawn blinds. There were fewer troop trains, perhaps because the countryside was thick with deserters. Often at night they tried to break in. The adjutant posted riflemen on the roof.
The sheep Lacey bought made mutton stew. Kid, the squadron mascot, disappeared at the same time. Nobody commented.
Kharkov was full of tired soldiers and rumours. The Red Army was carving up Denikin’s flanks, it was said. Tsaritsyn might fall, or had fallen, anyway it was finished. So was Voronezh. And the Ukraine, well, if the Reds don’t get there first the Poles will have it. Heard about Admiral Kolchak? As good as dead. He’s made Denikin the Supreme Ruler. What a joke.
The C.O. stocked the locomotive with coal and water, taken at the point of a gun, and moved south.
Kharkov fell.
A hundred men take a lot of feeding. The Cossack ponies were slaughtered. The squadron ate the last of the black bread.
Summer ends quickly in Russia, and autumn is brief. Greatcoats were being worn when the squadron train rolled into Taganrog. Lacey went to see Henry at the Hotel Olymp and found he had checked out a week ago. The C.O. and the adjutant went to Mission H.Q. A sergeant was in the garden, burning files. He was in his shirt sleeves: there were many files and they generated great heat. “Everybody’s gone to Rostov,” he said. “Me too, as soon as I get through this heap of shit.”
H.Q. had left two sacks of potatoes in its kitchens. Wragge and Brazier carried them back to the train. All Ranks were on a diet of bully beef and biscuit. The stationmaster at Rostov told Borodin that the Red Army would soon take the city and that British Mission H.Q. had gone to Ekaterinodar, where Denikin was rumoured to be making a last stand. The stationmaster’s advice was to make for Novorossisk.
2
Lloyd George was sitting in an armchair next to a window when Jonathan Fitzroy tapped on the door and came in. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said.
“Take a seat, Jonathan. I don’t want you to collapse with shock.”
I’m not going to get the sack, Fitzroy thought. He’d keep me standing for that.
The P.M. was polishing his spectacles with the end of his silk tie. “I wonder if too much reading weakens the eyes,” he said. “Perhaps it actually strengthens them. That would be good. But it hasn’t worked for me … The Services send me monthly bulletins about how things are going in Russia. Their last reports coincided happily with the leaps and bounds made by Denikin’s advance. The soldiers, of course, put that down to their training of his armies. No doubt the War Office is now thinking up excuses for his headlong retreat. The weather is probably to blame. In France the generals always blamed the weather when the war didn’t go
quite right. The Navy reported that it was still master of the Baltic, where the hulks of Soviet warships continue to rust. And the Royal Air Force … Well, I have their bulletin here. Read it for yourself.”
Fitzroy undid the ribbon on the folder and flicked through the pages. “Blessedly brief,” he said.
“Well, they haven’t many aeroplanes.”
Fitzroy began reading. Lloyd George turned and looked at the typically grey London weather. Wintry, very wintry. He got up and went to his desk and checked his diary. No surprises there. Fitzroy turned a page. Lloyd George read three letters and signed them. Fitzroy turned another page. Lloyd George picked up the telephone and asked for some tea, if you please, thank you. Fitzroy said, “Oh, damn.”
“Ah, you’ve found it,” the P.M. said.
“Damn and double-damn.” Fitzroy looked up. “The man must have been a maniac. The commander of this squadron, that is. He’s a lunatic. How could he even contemplate … Good God, the consequences would have been immense. And unforgivable. Bombing Moscow would have been like … like the Zeppelins bombing London. Worse!” He stood up and slapped the report against his thigh. “An act of madness.”
“I thought it might excite you.” The P.M. examined his fingernails and found them all present and correct. “I didn’t expect you to be quite so hysterically indignant.”
Fitzroy had held his job long enough to know when to say nothing.
“Your problem, Jonathan, is that you read too many newspapers and not enough history. History teaches us that war does not travel in a straight line. Obstacles spring up that never before existed, and so armies ricochet, and leaders must duck and dodge or they suffer. Last year we nearly joined forces with the Bolsheviks. Even Winston was for it. He wanted to offer them a formula that would protect their revolution and consolidate their power, if only they would re-start their war against Germany. We desperately needed someone to fight for the Allies in the east, and the Bolsheviks seemed the most warlike. But, alas, not for long. Then the Huns collapsed, a very large surprise indeed, since most of us expected the war to go on for another five or ten years. Now we no longer needed an eastern front. But – a little ricochet – Bolshevik revolutions began breaking out in Europe like chicken pox, so we put our money on the anti-Red forces in Russia. Worth a gamble. Nearly paid off. How far from Moscow was this R.A.F. bombing squadron?”
A Splendid Little War Page 35
