A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  Fitzroy looked in the report. “Two hundred miles.”

  “Only two hundred.” The P.M. stretched his arms out sideways. “More or less from here to Manchester. If only Denikin could have kept going, he might have taken Moscow.”

  “That was what we had all hoped, sir.”

  “And a few bombs on the capital might have been just what was needed to panic the enemy.”

  Fitzroy sat down and fanned himself with the report. “Now I’m thoroughly confused. Do you approve of the bombing plan?”

  “No, of course not. Lenin would never have forgiven us. He’s prepared to overlook the Intervention. He won’t forget it, but he’ll overlook it if we sign a few lucrative trade agreements with his government. They’re stony-broke, and he has quantities of timber and furs and caviare to sell. The Soviet government is the de facto state, Jonathan. Pity about Denikin. When he was two hundred miles from Moscow he was, alas, at the end of his tether. He tried awfully hard, but second-best in that strange country is … well, they don’t have a second-best. Either you win or you go to the knacker’s yard. Ah, tea. Just what you need to restore your shattered nerves.”

  Fitzroy sipped his tea and put the mystery of the non-bombing of Moscow aside. “That would seem to be the end of the matter,” he said. “Air Ministry shows no sign of wishing to court-martial …” He checked the report. “… Acting Squadron Leader Wragge.”

  “Very wise. He obeyed orders, he did no wrong. On the contrary, he would claim that bombing Moscow was just what he had been sent to do. His squadron was Denikin’s spearhead. Perhaps if he had bombed Moscow a little sooner, when the Navy was sinking Soviet battleships in the Baltic, we might have given Mr Wragge a V.C., like Lieutenant Agar. Wragge got everything right except his timing. Timing is everything in war. Should we suggest to Air Ministry that Wragge be retired and given a gold watch?” The P.M. smiled. “Joke,” he said.

  Fitzroy nibbled a digestive biscuit. “All the same, it would be disastrous if the newspapers were to get hold of the story. Imagine what the Daily Express would do with it. ‘R.A.F. Bombers had Moscow in Their Sights.’ That’s what they’d say.”

  Lloyd George slammed his fist on the desk. “Official Secrets Act. Send a large Air Vice-Marshal to lecture the entire squadron. Not a word to anyone about anything. Or they’ll be prosecuted, convicted, jailed. Not a syllable.”

  “It shall be done,” Fitzroy said. “Intervention? What Intervention?”

  “Have some more tea, Jonathan. And another biscuit. You worry too much.”

  3

  For the last few miles into Novorossisk the train moved at walking pace. Even this was faster than the stumbling mass of humanity spread widely on either side of the tracks. Some were peasants in the usual shapeless sheepskin clothing. Some were soldiers, often bandaged, wearing tattered uniforms, many of them barefoot. A few might have been from the moneyed class: sometimes fur coats could be seen. There were even men in business suits. Nobody looked up at the train. They plodded on in their thousands, hugging whatever mattered most to them: a sack, a suitcase, a child.

  “Not a happy sight,” Lacey said to Borodin.

  “No. War is not all bright uniforms and dashing cavalry. The newspapers never show the misery, do they?”

  “That chap …” Lacey pointed. “He looks rich enough to take the train. Rich enough to buy the train, in fact.”

  “Money is meaningless now. You’ve seen the trains that we passed, broken down, abandoned. A lot of these people were on those trains. Look at the corpses. Almost certainly typhus. It’s a plague here. Everyone’s desperate to escape.”

  “Escape where?”

  “Anywhere. All they know is that if they stay, the Red cavalry will kill them.”

  “But if they crowd together, the typhus will get them.”

  Borodin turned away from the window. “Not all problems have solutions,” he said.

  The train crawled into town. It was a grey, cold day with spatters of rain being flung by a bitter wind. “Same as ever,” Jessop said. “Nothing changes in gay Novo.” The tracks terminated at the docks, and the train had to nudge its way through the mob of people. Most looked as if they were hungry or sick or both. The dead lay where they had fallen and were trampled upon. When the train stopped, the people nearest tried to rush it and break in. Brazier was on a flatcar with a Lewis gun and he fired a burst in the air. The crowd fell back. “Not so gay after all,” Jessop said.

  Wragge and Borodin got off the train. “God help us,” the C.O. said. “There must be five thousand civilians here.”

  “More,” Borodin said. “And more arriving every minute. All desperate for one thing.” He pointed to ships anchored in the bay. “Escape.”

  “It’s a madhouse.”

  “It’s worse than that. It’s a nightmare.”

  A warship produced flame and smoke, followed by the deep boom of a salvo. “Hell’s teeth,” Wragge said. “Don’t tell me we’re being shelled.” They waited, and counted the seconds, and heard the crash of explosions far inland.

  “They’re shelling the approaches to the town,” Borodin said. “Discouraging the Bolshevik advance. So it must be a British ship.”

  “Bully for them.” Wragge relaxed. “Hullo, I think I see a small sign of discipline and order.”

  Six Royal Marines with fixed bayonets jabbed and kicked their way through the mob, escorting a cavalry colonel who looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. “You can’t stay here,” he said. “We’ll get you onto a ship. For Christ’s sake don’t touch anyone, there’s typhus and worse everywhere. First, you must empty your train of everything of military value. I’m leaving nothing for the Bolsheviks.”

  The Marines helped the squadron to unload the bombs and the bullets, the grenades and the Lewis guns. All got dumped in the Black Sea. They scoured the rest of the train and threw out Lacey’s radio equipment and his files, Brazier’s King’s Regulations, tins of oil and drums of petrol, ground crews’ toolkits and spares, Susan Perry’s medical supplies, the Cossack saddles, even the croquet set and Pedlow’s fly rod. They all went into the sea.

  The colonel’s orders were that each man could take one kitbag or suitcase. The ground crews were also allowed to carry their rifles. “If you have bayonets, fix them,” he said. “You’ll need them to keep these animals at bay.” He took Wragge aside. “I’ll get your men ferried out to one of our big ships as soon as I can. Might take time. You’re not the only British personnel in this chaos.”

  “We have a squadron doctor, sir. Female but very experienced. If she can help you in any way …”

  The colonel shuddered. “Look around you. A battalion of doctors wouldn’t make a dent in this catastrophe. For Christ’s sake don’t let her out of your sight. You must hold your ground here.” He left with his escort.

  The C.O. told the adjutant to carry out a roll-call, just to make sure everyone was present. The check was made, was repeated, and Brazier reported one man missing.

  “Aircraftman Simm,” he said. “Not on the train, not off it. One man says he saw Simm go behind those trucks.” A row of empty cattle-trucks stood nearby. “Thought he’d gone to relieve himself.”

  “What a damn nuisance. Well, we can’t leave him here. Take six men with rifles, Uncle, and find the silly bastard.”

  Brazier’s men rapidly searched the area and found Simm with a tubby middle-aged man in an astrakhan overcoat. The man held an expensive leather suitcase and his other hand kept a firm grip of Simm’s arm. A young woman, clearly frightened, clung to his shoulder. Brazier seized all three and marched them back to the C.O.

  “He’s Russian, and so is she, and they’re up to no good,” he said. “Exactly what, I don’t know.”

  “Explain yourself,” Wragge told Simm.

  “Well, sir, this Russki feller comes up to me, wants me to take all his money. In that suitcase, sir. Got a fortune in there, sir.”

  Brazier prised the man’s fingers from the handle and opene
d the suitcase. It was packed with bundles of hundred-rouble notes, all new.

  “Wouldn’t let me go, sir.” Simm said. “Kept gabbling at me. I tried to get away, sir, but he wouldn’t let me.”

  “And it’s a lot of money,” Wragge said.

  “I think he wanted me to sign a receipt or something, sir. Kept pushing a pen into my hand, sir. Fountain pen, sir. I didn’t want to break it, sir.”

  “And it’s still a lot of money,” Wragge said. “Search the Russian.”

  The search produced a printed document, stamped and sealed and signed. “Could be a diploma for tap-dancing.” Wragge beckoned to Borodin. “Translate, please.”

  A quick glance was enough. “It’s a marriage certificate,” Borodin said. “That’s the mayor’s signature. He performed the marriage. This is the lady’s name. The bridegroom’s name is left blank. My guess is the girl is his daughter.”

  “He was selling you his daughter,” Wragge told Simm. “If you signed this paper, you got the girl and the money.”

  “Crikey,” Simm said. His eyes flickered from the open suitcase to the daughter and back. It was a colossal amount of money, and she was young and not unpretty, if tear-stained and dishevelled. “I mean to say, sir. Bloody hell.”

  “He was selling his daughter in order to get her out of the country. To escape.”

  Aircraftman Simm was still looking at the money. “Never saw that much before, sir.” He took a packet of notes from the top. “Is it real, sir?”

  Borodin turned to Wragge. “With your permission.”

  “Do, do,” Wragge said. “Whatever it is.”

  “Please bring everyone with me,” Borodin said to the adjutant. “The father, the daughter, the money, Aircraftman Simm.” He led them to the dockside. Wragge followed. “Throw that money in the sea,” Borodin told Simm.

  Simm had a tight hold of the packet, and he hesitated.

  “Do as you’re bloody well ordered,” Brazier said in his ear, “or I’ll throw you in with it, you tiny streak of shit.” The notes vanished over the edge.

  “Now throw the rest in.” Borodin gave Simm the suitcase. “Just the money. Not the case.”

  Simm got to work. Packets of hundred-rouble notes went flying into the Black Sea. Everyone watched. It was rare that Simm was the focus of anyone’s attention. He worked hard, and he was gasping for breath when he straightened up.

  Borodin closed the suitcase and gave it to the father. “They were worthless,” he told Simm. “Denikin roubles. He’s been printing money at top speed but his roubles collapsed even faster. Now they’re worth nothing. Waste paper.” He looked at Wragge. “You can let the Russians go.”

  “Go,” Wragge said. They left. The girl was in tears, and so was the father.

  “Let me speak to the squadron,” the adjutant said. Wragge nodded. They walked back. Brazier assembled everyone in a half-circle.

  “This man …” Brazier held Simm by the ear. “He disobeyed an order while on Active Service. Told to remain here, he absented himself without permission. That is conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline. The maximum punishment is two years’ imprisonment.”

  Simm wriggled. His ear hurt. Brazier tightened his grip. Now the ear hurt even more. Simm stopped wriggling and shut his eyes to the pain, but his ear was still on fire.

  “Furthermore,” the adjutant said, “this man was apprehended in the act of taking a large bribe in exchange for going through a form of marriage to a young Russian woman with the purpose of getting her out of the country.”

  That information impressed the squadron, but not by its criminal nature. Fancy old Simmy, trying to pull off a trick like that. Old Simmy, ugly as sin, thick as two short planks, gets a headache just tying his shoelaces. Old Simmy wanders off to have a slash and someone tries to give him a place to dip his wick twice nightly plus a load of loot! God looks after fools and idiots, that’s all you can say.

  “The marriage would not have been legal,” Brazier said. “An act of fraud. The maximum punishment for fraud is penal servitude. The money was in worthless roubles. They have now been dumped in the sea. The girl was almost certainly riddled with disease. If he married her, this man would have been infected with incurable types of pox that would rapidly deprive him of what little manhood he has.”

  He let that sink in. Old Simmy didn’t look so clever now.

  “Think of this. Our sole task is to get this squadron off these docks and onto a British warship. Ignore the civilians. They are not your concern. Irrelevant. Only the squadron matters. Nothing else. Dismissed.”

  “Well said, Uncle,” Wragge murmured. He took Oliphant’s arm and said, “Come with me, Tusker. I have a great wish to rise to great heights and get above this squalor.”

  They climbed the ladder on a boxcar and sat on the roof.

  “Did you ever see such a miserable crew?” Wragge said. “Dregs of a nation. Not their fault, I suppose. No food, no shelter, winter coming on, and they’re trapped in this godawful dead-end.” From time to time the warships boomed out another heavy echoing salvo but nobody paid them any attention. “Is it my imagination,” Wragge said, “or is there a strange smell in the air?”

  Oliphant sniffed. “Five thousand armpits.”

  “More like ten thousand. Could be twenty.”

  “You can’t count the blighters. They keep moving.”

  “Going everywhere and nowhere. I’m as humane as the next man, Tusker, but I can’t feel sorry for them. I can feel a sort of pity for one man, or his family, maybe his village. But this lot are just an enormous nuisance.”

  “It’s not why we came to Russia, is it?” Oliphant asked.

  “They cheered us when we arrived. Seems a long time ago.”

  “They liked to cheer. Cheer and say Na Moskvu. Usually when they were sozzled.”

  “I say. Look over there.” They stood up. “Isn’t that the Russian father and his daughter? The one he tried to sell? See? On the dockside. Right on the edge.”

  Oliphant saw them. “He’s holding her hand. That’s a damn dangerous place to stand. Oh, my Christ.” The father and daughter had jumped. Vanished from sight.

  Wragge turned away. “Sweet sodding buggeration in spades,” he said.

  “The water must be freezing cold. I don’t suppose they can swim. Most Russians can’t, according to Borodin.”

  Wragge walked to the end of the boxcar, stared at the sky, and walked back. “Well, she wanted to escape,” he said. “That was some kind of escape.”

  After that there was nothing to say. Time passed. They grew bored, and stiff and cold; then a Royal Marine arrived and they climbed down from the roof. “Colonel’s compliments, sir,” the Marine said. “Please unload all aircraft without delay.” He saluted and left. Oliphant went to tell the ground crews.

  “They jumped,” Wragge said to Borodin. “The father and his daughter jumped in the sea.”

  “Yes. A lot of people are doing that.”

  Amazingly, a small British tank appeared, and it rumbled up and down, emptying a space alongside the train.

  “If he could give us a good fifty yards of clearance,” Wragge said, “I bet we could take off. Maximum revs. No problem.”

  “What then?” Borodin asked.

  “Dunno. The Navy has aircraft carriers. There might be one out there. Or we could fly to Turkey.”

  The ground crews set about offloading the Nines and the Camels. They were quick; it was an old routine for them. They had assembled the final aircraft when the colonel and his escort arrived. “Fine machines. You must be proud,” he said to Wragge. “You do realize that we have no choice. Nothing must be left for the enemy. Not a thing.”

  The tank’s engine roared and pumped smoke from its exhausts. Its tracks climbed over the tail unit of a Camel and crunched along the fuselage until the undercarriage collapsed and the tank crushed the cockpit, the twin Vickers guns, the radial engine, the propeller.

  The C.O. watched his ground crews and saw th
em standing quite still, all the fitters and the riggers and the armourers. Some had looked away. One or two seemed to be in tears. As the tank moved forward, a young mechanic made a move towards it as if he could save the next Camel. The adjutant and a flight sergeant grabbed him. “Discipline, lad, discipline,” Brazier said, and the airman went back to his place. The tank climbed on top of the aeroplane and collapsed it. Tank-tracks made sparks on paving stones as the Camel got chewed up and shattered. Then the next Camel, and finally the Nines.

  The C.O. sought out Patterson, the chief mechanic. “I’m terribly sorry about this,” he said. “Your chaps must feel very let-down.”

  “They put heart and soul into their work, sir. Toiled night and day. Owned those aeroplanes. You borrowed them, sir, but they belonged to us. Mind your back, sir.”

  They moved away from the tank. It swung around until it was facing the Black Sea. It roared and rolled forward. The driver came out of the turret hatch in a hurry and jumped clear. The tank picked up speed and went over the edge and made a splash that reached up and soaked the dockside. The ground crews gave an ironic cheer.

  “Get your men lined up,” the colonel told Wragge. “They must follow me to the embarkation point. Only your squadron. No refugees. Use your bayonets, if you have to. No civilians! The women are the worst. They’ll bribe you with the family jewels, if you let them.”

  As they formed up, the train reversed and slowly vanished into the crowd. Wragge realized that he had completely forgotten about Chef and the engine crew. Well, they had whatever food was left in The Dregs, which was something. Where would they go? Nowhere good.

  The squadron marched through the wretched crowd. It watched them go, silently and sullenly. They went down some harbour steps and into a boat. Nobody in the boat looked back as it bucketed across the bay. Everyone looked at the British cruiser waiting for them. It was big and clean-cut and reassuringly safe.