‘But one problem’s those headlights, isn’t it. We could shoot ’em out, of course, but then you’d be giving them notice—’
‘Sir?’ Beasley was in the doorway. Narrow, boyish face, enormous moustache. Kinkead threw him a glance: ‘Tom, tell ’em to raise steam on the engine, would you?’
His eyes sparked: ‘Raise steam?’
‘Yes. Full blast. Now.’ Turning back to Bob. ‘We could do it if we sacrificed the two Camels on the flat-car at the end. Break that coupling and set the mine there under it. Be working under cover, then, they wouldn’t know it was happening.’
‘Damn good, Marcus!’ Scott added, ‘You’d sabotage the Camels first, wouldn’t you…? Did we take the guns off those two crates?’
‘Probably. Why don’t you check, Sam. But – yes, Cowan, we can mine this track. What about the armoured train – any ideas?’
He nodded. ‘Depending on what your engine-driver may have to tell us. Does he talk English?’
‘Oddly enough, yes. Even the firemen do, a little.’
‘Right.’ He woke up to the fact that the Webley, which he’d been toying with in his lap, still had a round in its breech. He took the magazine out, ejected that round and fed it back into the magazine, put the empty gun down beside him. All these pilots were wearing revolvers on their belts, he’d noticed. Concentrating again now: or trying to… He asked Kinkead, ‘Do we know how far south the Reds are in control now?’
‘Well, we don’t. We’ve been isolated here for – what, five days now. And at Kupyansk a bloody age before that – before we got an engine!’
‘Those two girls all right, Scott?’
The Canadian nodded. ‘They’re great kids. We all love ’em. Gone bye-byes now, of course.’
Kinkead said, ‘They’re one reason there’s been no question of doing any kind of deal with these bloody people.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
Scott asked him, ‘Did you find that other letuckha, Cowan?’
‘Sam – time’s short, on this—’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’
‘The point is—’ Bob got back to it – ‘how far south from Debaltsevo we’ll have to steam before we’re in friendly territory. I do know they haven’t taken Korsun yet, for instance. That’s – from Debaltsevo, say sixty miles?’
Kinkead’s eyebrows rose. ‘Not so damn far!’
‘Mind you, they’ll have cavalry operating much further south – moving in on Taganrog even, by now. But as far as this line’s concerned, or the towns along it – couple of hours’ steaming, say?’
‘Are you sure they aren’t in Korsun yet?’
‘Well – yesterday, we were told they weren’t. By a lieutenant in a Red cavalry depot. He’d been down this way quite recently – told us about this train, in fact.’
‘Red cavalry…’ Scott whistled. ‘You really have been in it.’
‘Yes.’ He met the Canadian’s widened eyes. ‘Have, rather.’
‘Major.’ A tall, brown-faced man in railway uniform – Navy-like blue serge shiny with age and service. Exposing a dome of bald head as he removed a battered cap. ‘You wished to speak with me, Major. And you have ordered the raising of steam.’
‘Have indeed, Baibakov. Come in, sit down.’ Kinkead nodded towards Bob. ‘This is Commander Cowan. He reckons he can get us out of here. Raising steam so as not to waste time if it still looks like a sound proposition after he’s picked your brains.’
‘My brains – such as they are – are at your service, Commander.’
‘Thank you… But I didn’t say I can get us out.’ He shook hands with the railwayman. ‘Only have some ideas how you might get yourselves out.’ Glancing at Schelokov’s inert, deep-breathing form: ‘He and I – and that Tartar out there – well, we just had a battle, of sorts, and before that we were in the saddle for eighteen hours. Several days of much the same kind before that too. Fact is we’re played out. It’s up to you, Major. I’m giving you the idea, that’s all. Dare say you’ll improve on it. Hope you will…’ The mind drifted, had to be hauled back, held on a shorter tether. Glancing at Scott: ‘Did you say there’s tea coming?’
‘Damn, I’m sorry!’ He shouted, ‘Pickerell – where’s that tea?’ To Bob: ‘Very sorry, Cowan—’
‘Help keep one compos mentis, that’s all.’ In fact, the thought of a mug of strong, sweet tea was like something out of a dream of paradise. He turned to the railwayman: ‘Questions, now?’
‘Please.’
‘First – when you have steam up on this train, could you move up to that one that’s blocking the line, have someone board it and take its brakes off, then push it ahead of this one?’
‘As long as the person who alights can do so without being shot.’
‘There’s no one alive in that train now.’
‘No one – alive?’
‘Seven in the box-car, all dead. Look, whoever fixes the brakes could also disconnect the batteries from that spotlight. But – there’s more to this… D’you know the rail system in Debaltsevo – where the points are, for shifting from one line to the other?’
Baibakov touched his left palm with a finger of the other hand. ‘As well as I know these lines.’
‘There’s an armoured train there now, on the up-line. They’re holding it there in readiness for an attack on this one.’
‘Ah.’ Looking at Kinkead. ‘Well, Major…’
‘Question is, is there a set of points on the far side of the station, connecting the two lines?’
‘Yes. This side also.’
‘So you could stop, have some of your people jump down and switch the points, then give that blocking train a good shove to send it over?’
‘That could be done. But—’
‘Then your team would switch the points back, get back on board and you steam on.’
Kinkead objected, ‘They’ll have troops on the ground, surely? Won’t just stand and watch all this.’
‘Where your riflemen and machine-gunners come into it, Major.’
Ah. Well – I suppose… But what’s to stop the armoured train pushing the damn thing along with it, same as we’d have been doing?’
Baibakov nodded. ‘My own thought, also.’
‘So think about this. You’ve a big load of cans of petrol on this train, haven’t you. Didn’t you bring up a whole wagon-load to Kupyansk, Scott?’
‘Sure we did. Didn’t leave it there, either.’
‘So while we’re raising steam, amongst other jobs – like issuing rifles and ammunition – what about shifting some of it up to the front end here. Then when you move up to fix the other train’s brakes and so forth, pile it into that box-car. Better warn whoever you detail for it they won’t find it very congenial in there. Bodies and so forth. In fact a good blaze wouldn’t come amiss.’ Looking at Kinkead. ‘Easy enough. You’d have some Bickford’s cord, I imagine? Make a damn great fire-bomb out of it. Over those points, light the fuse, leave it to explode behind you. Then they won’t clear that line in a hurry – and all you need’s a good head start – eh?’
‘But—’ Scott pointed downwards – ‘We’d need a second mine on this line. Otherwise they’d merely switch—’
‘Yes. Struck me just this minute. And – why not? Have it ready – have the armourers make two mines instead of one. Second one just beyond the points?’
Kinkead began, ‘Mightn’t need the first one, in fact. Unless there’s a train we don’t know about behind us here. But perhaps we should play safe on that… What is it, Sam?’
‘The wagon with the gas in it is only about one car from the end – right? So why shouldn’t we move as much as we need up front here, and use the rest of it to fix that wagon as a fire-bomb too. Then all we’d need do is uncouple it – wherever we want, uh?’
‘Capital.’ Kinkead nodded. ‘Even if it’s, say, three or four from the end – who cares, we can lose some… Sam, your idea, your task. You look after everything at that end, will you?’
&
nbsp; ‘Sure.’
Kinkead asked Baibakov, ‘Would you sketch the layout of lines and points for us?’
‘Certainly, Major. If you have a pencil, piece of paper—’
‘Tea, sir? Sorry for the ’old-up, thought you’d be wanting it with the meal, like, and that’s not—’ Pickerell checked, grinned at Bob. ‘Welcome back, sir!’
‘Thanks.’ He moved his head, indicating Ibraim. ‘Have you got a mug for him?’ Pickerell had to dodge out of the way then as Kinkead went to the doorway and bellowed, ‘Beasley! In here!’ Schelokov groaned and shifted slightly, but didn’t wake. Kinkead said, glancing at him as he came back inside. ‘See what you mean about being played out. Going to wake him for his tea, are you?’ Turning to Scott: ‘Sam, might be an idea to mount a Vickers each side of the engine. On the cab, d’you think? Or on the tender, if that’s easier… Well, I’ll have Halliday see to it.’ Beasley arrived, then: ‘Ah, Tom. All hands on deck, as the Commander here might say. Rouse ’em out – everyone, no exceptions… Baibakov, how long before we have steam?’
* * *
In his dream he heard a machine-gun firing. He was in the Kist Hotel, that was Kotter’s gang up to their tricks again, and he remembered with a pang of fright that Nadia should have been arriving at just about this time. He had to get down there – should have been down there, for God’s sake – but as he struggled to get out of bed it lurched – the entire Kist Hotel had lurched. He thought, Earthquake. Get her out, quick…
‘I don’t believe this!’
Her voice?
Half awake by then: the thought in his mind that it couldn’t be, that she was dead… His eyes were open, and focusing. Brain clearing too: registering, confirming it as fact, Nadia dead… The train had jerked convulsively – again – but seemed now to be moving, and there was a young woman in the doorway of the compartment, staring at him. It was one of the two young nurses. Tousled light-brown hair, turned-up nose, big teeth rather prominent at the moment, as her mouth was open. Mary Pilkington. One arm clutching an RAF greatcoat around her, the other holding on to the door-jamb. He was reclining with one leg up and one down and a rifle across his lap: he remembered that he’d decided not to rig the plank-bunk and turn in properly, only to snatch an hour or two’s sleep while Kinkead and company were making their preparations, and be available – as a sharpshooter, was the obvious thing – when he was needed, when they began the actual move. This was one of the two sniper’s rifles – they were Mausers, with German-made telescopic sights. Schelokov had the other beside him on his bench.
Dead to the world still. So much for being available…
They’d had supper, he remembered. Farsh with rice and beans. Delicious, absolutely. He’d woken Schelokov, who incredibly hadn’t finished his, had fallen asleep again with the spoon still clutched in his hand. Bob remembered it all, now. He’d taken the spoon from him, and the plate, finished that up as well as his own, then lifted Schelokov’s legs up on to that bench, spread the rug over him and put the rifle between him and the partition where it wouldn’t fall off and damage the telescopic sight.
He swung his own other leg down, now, and sat up, moving the rifle to one side and massaging the knee, which had gone stiff. The train felt as if it was rattling along quite well – after that collision or whatever it had been. There must have been a fight, of sorts – the machine-gun, in his dream…
He looked for the girl in the doorway, saw she was still there, gazing down at the blanket-covered, sleeping Tartar. He cleared his throat… ‘Hello, there. Miss – Pilkington, isn’t it… How are you – you and Miss – er – Reid?’
She swung round, stared at him.
‘I don’t believe it. I mean – we’re very well, thank you, but – I honestly do not… You, and – this – and—’ she nodded towards Schelokov, the jutting grey beard – ‘Boris Vasil’ich… How can you be here?’
‘Mary, what’s going on? Who are you talking to – and what’s—’
‘Come here. Get out of bed and come here. And when you get here, don’t you dare faint.’ Her laugh was high and wild, slightly hysterical. ‘If anyone’s going to faint, I am, I was here first. Kate, hurry!’
‘We’re – moving, d’you realize?’
‘Of course. And that, my dear, is only half of it. Are you coming, Kate?’
‘Yes, yes… Oh, my God, who’s this?’
‘How should I know? Ask him!’
Pointing at Bob, as the other joined her. The small, dark, pretty one. Katya, they’d called her. In the doorway beside the slightly larger, fairer one, her dark hair hanging loose in the soft light. She’d peered at Schelokov, started in surprise, was now gazing at Bob as if he was a burglar they’d caught prowling.
‘Commander – Cowan?’
‘Yes. And you’re Katya. Look – both of you – I’m sorry you’re seeing me – us – like this. We’re badly in need of a good wash, change of clothes, shave and so forth. You see—’
Somewhere astern, one of the armourer’s devices – a wagon-load of petrol, he guessed – exploded. It came from a long way back in a rolling, thunderous blast that lit the night outside the drawn blind on the window and sent coaches, box-cars and flat-cars ramming against each other in a ripple-effect that travelled up the length of the train and then back again.
Still on the rails, though. Picking up speed, in fact, by the sound and feel of it, getting into a rhythm not unlike that of a fast canter. Schelokov still snoring, and the two girls just inside the doorway with their arms round each other, Katya’s pale-blue eyes fixed on Bob with that astonished and slightly accusing look, while her lips seemed to be trying to frame some question. He smiled at her, and told her – told them – ‘I think we’re going to be all right, now.’
21
Only minutes later he’d asked himself Don’t you ever learn? Because they were not home and dry yet, not by a long chalk, and just a few hours before he’d been reminding himself that there was always the next hurdle – and the chance it would be the one where you came a cropper.
Even though things did seem to be on the up-and-up, at this time. The only losses to the train in the action on and around Debaltsevo station had been that two young soldier-railwaymen had deserted, vanished into the night. Probably seeing that the longer-term future was written on the wall in big red letters. And they were Ukrainian boys, Baibakov said, hadn’t wanted to leave their home ground anyway. Good riddance to bad rubbish, had been his response: and three hours out of Debaltsevo the train steamed grandly into Korsun, displaying the Russian and Union flags side by side on the engine, and was greeted by cheers from soldiers on the crowded platforms. Most of them came from an armoured train in which, according to its Russian commander, they’d been about to launch a raid on Debaltsevo to rescue the gallant British aviators. In fact all the signs were that the train’s purpose had been – still was – to evacuate the last of the Korsun garrison. So that if the RAF train had arrived a couple of hours later, they might well have found Korsun under Red occupation. It was in everyone’s best interests to accept the story at its face value, however, and there was a great deal of mutual congratulation. More importantly, the RAF train now had a fully-manned armoured train as its escort to Taganrog and thence Rostov-on-Don.
Bob and Schelokov had spruced themselves up by this time. A bucket of hot water on the moving platform between two coaches served as a bath. You stood over it to wash yourself down, then sluiced off with a second bucketful. Bob had also shaved, while Schelokov had only trimmed his beard with a pair of scissors, and Mary Pilkington later cut Bob’s hair for him, as a preliminary to cleaning and dressing the partly-healed lacerations on the back of his skull. Bob had had some clean shirts, underwear and socks in his holdall – which Leading Airman Pickerell had recovered from storage – and he gave Schelokov a shirt and other items. New outer clothing – breeches, sweaters and greatcoats – were provided from RAF stores, and everything the three of them had been wearing – except boots –
went into the furnace.
Bob was still stiff and sore from those long days in the saddle, but apart from that felt almost like new, for being clean and shaved. Hot food and sound sleep helped too. Another factor was having the armoured train as escort, which provided a welcome and unusual sense of security.
There was also the pleasure of good company, including that of the two girls.
He asked them – while Mary was gently swabbing the back of his head – how they’d come to vanish from their nurses’ training at the hospital at Simferopol, in the Crimea. He put the question in the first place because he’d genuinely wanted to know – after all, it was what had started this whole business – but also as a diversion from Mary’s and Katya’s questions about Nadia and Irina.
It was all right: he and Schelokov had agreed on what could and could not be told. But it was still preferable to say as little as possible. Ibraim would say nothing at all, would profess to speak no word of Russian and in particular not to react in any way to questions about Mamasha Solovyeva. He’d nodded: wooden-faced, impenetrable: he’d certainly be impenetrable to these girls, who in fact were the only ones likely to ask questions. While Bob and Schelokov’s story was that Nadia had been killed by a shell at Bogodukhov – that story in as much detail as
Irina had provided – and that a former patient of the letuchka, a man named Maltsev, had told them that Irina had died of typhus. They’d found Maltsev in hiding at the farmstead, and he’d had Ibraim with him but hadn’t known what had happened to the others, only that the letuchka had to all intents and purposes disintegrated. Ibraim had been left on his own, living like a wild beast, starving, until Maltsev had taken him under his wing.
Bob had given them the gist of this, commiserations and tears had followed, and then before the questions could become more detailed he’d changed the subject… ‘Tell me something now. When you were – or rather were not – at Simferopol, and we were all trying to find you – you’d skipped the training course, had you?’
Look to the Wolves Page 38
