Davies said, ‘Local custom’s to put stuff on the line. Rocks, carts… That’s what they did to us, on our way south to Tikhoretsk.’
‘Bolsheviks did?’
‘Hard to say who, for sure. Another time we had horsemen riding along beside the train taking pot shots at us. Like bloody Redskins.’ He pointed with his head. ‘Made my Canuck friend here feel quite homesick. But Bolshies or plain brigands – countryside’s crawling with both, up that way.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Oh, we drove ’em off, cleared the line, got on with it. And the horsemen got more than they’d bargained for, sheered off pretty damn quick, I can tell you. We had a crowd of troops on board, mind you, as well as a box-car with loopholes and a sheet-iron lining.’
‘Sheet steel.’ Scott corrected him. ‘Sheet iron’s useless.’
‘I didn’t see loopholes in any box-car on this train.’
‘Because there aren’t any.’ The major added, ‘Our boys have rifles, though, and we have our side-arms.’ He patted the revolver on his belt. ‘Soldiers in the other carriage, too. Recruits, by the look of ’em, but they might be some use, if it came to the push.’
‘Wouldn’t you think they’d put one of those box-cars on every train, though?’
‘Wouldn’t come amiss. The real kosher armoured trains, though, they’re by far the best deterrent. Troops, machine guns, light artillery even. But they can’t be everywhere and some of ’em are on the fronts. The Reds have ’em too, of course. But the big factor – apart from morale being lousy and desertions commonplace, even right in the middle of a battle – the underlying problem is that Denikin’s great masterstroke – flat-out for Moscow, hell for leather and paying no heed to any damn thing except miles of advance per diem – well, you leave every kind of riff-raff loose in your rear. Where we were, coming down through that Don Cossack territory – like Jim said, woods are stiff with ’em.’
‘And here?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘Will soon, perhaps.’
‘Can’t see any reason it should be different. But a point worth bearing in mind, Cowan, is whether they’re just marauders or they’re Reds – or both – they’re likely to be hungry, even starving, short of ammo, and as often as not very badly led, so they don’t have much idea what they’re at. So, as long as a few of us keep our heads and shoot straight… You armed, by the way?’
He brought out the Webley automatic, took the clip out and ejected the single round from the breech. Davies then examined it and passed it on to the major, who did the same. ‘Long as it doesn’t jam. With these things jamming can be a problem, you know.’
‘So I’m told.’
‘Favour a plain, ordinary revolver myself. Much less likely to lock solid just when you’re up against it.’
‘What a happy thought.’ He took the pistol back and reloaded it. Scott asked, ‘Weren’t still awake when we passed through Pokrovsk, were you?’
‘No. Would we have stopped there?’
‘Don’t know, that’s what I wondered. We’ll need to get fuel and water before Debaltsevo, I’d imagine. Hang on – I’ve a map here, someplace…’
*
Bob sat with his eyes on the passing landscape. The train was on an upgrade at this point, and there was a scattering of silver birch that grew denser into the distance. The other two – the major first – were in the shaving queue, each in turn spending ten minutes or so at the basin at the end of the carriage, stopping first at the stove to dip out a jugful of hot water. He’d been offered the guest’s privilege of going first, but he’d declined, having decided to let his beard grow. Looking ahead a day or two, you could anticipate circumstances in which shaving would not be possible. No hot breakfasts either… Might hope to enjoy such luxuries for two or three days more – if the squadron let him stay with them while they located the letuchki for him – but after that – well, there it was, outside the window: thousands of square miles of snow. And a beard did tend to keep the face warmer than bare skin did.
All right, so there’d still be trains running. Touch wood… But the letuchka wouldn’t necessarily be anywhere near any railway line, you’d have to get the girls to a train.
If they’d agree to leave. That was yet another bridge that couldn’t be crossed until you got to it.
Scott was back, having scraped his whiskers off.
‘I left you a little water, Jim.’
Davies had seemed to be dozing, in recent minutes. He looked up now, and smiled. ‘I’ve got lines three and four. Want to hear ’em?’
Scott groaned, as he stowed his gear away. ‘You been treated to a recitation, Cowan?’
‘No. He’s been waiting for his full audience, I imagine.’
Davies stood up, bowed, cleared his throat politely.
‘Lines one and two, you will recall, run as follows: Mary Pilkington and Katherine Reid Decided it was time to breed… Uh? Now we continue: So with a bit of help from Jim— Not Sam, these girls would want no truck with him—’
‘Go and shave, you bloody Welshman.’
‘Commander – while I’m gone, think up a last line for me?’
‘I think I’d sooner leave it to your own rare talent.’
‘You’re right there, anyhow. It is a rare talent.’
Scott muttered, ‘Rarer the better.’ He added, when Davies had gone off for his shave. ‘Finest Camel pilot in the squadron, is Jim Davies.’
‘Really?’
Gazing out at the passing scenery. At least there was something to look at now. The birches had been closing in, thickening into what might loosely be called a forest – although at this moment the silver-patched trunks seemed to be levitating upwards out of the picture as the train thundered into a cutting. Nothing to see, then, except the close white blankness of the snowbank with a rock or tree root protruding here and there. He looked back at Scott, who was telling him, ‘Except we’re no longer a squadron. We were, we were 47 Squadron, but now with one flight being sent home – and only volunteers staying on – incidentally, every man-jack of us is here by his own choice – they’re calling us “A” Detachment RAF.’ He shrugged. ‘What’s in a name…’
‘Quite a lot, I’d have thought – when you’ve made yourselves famous as 47 Squadron. Even I’d heard of you… I wanted to ask you, by the way – personal question, if you don’t mind – when you said you so much enjoyed what you’re doing – did you mean it? You and Davies were talking a lot of tommy-rot at the time, so—’
‘Relieves the strain a little, talking tommy-rot.’
‘Of course.’
‘Right. Well, sure I meant it.’ Glancing at him. ‘Don’t you enjoy what you do?’
‘Not to that extent. Certainly wouldn’t if I thought I had to go on doing it for ever. But you dread the thought of having to pack it in one day. What’s the attraction – the flying or the fighting?’
‘Both. Flying’s enjoyable enough, but just for its own sake I guess I’d find it a little tame, now. Been a long war, you know. Like a lot of us I was on the Western Front before this. Take Ray Collishaw, for instance – his score of downed Germans was sixty-eight.’ He shook his head. ‘A lot of dead ones, eh? And that’s about the crux of it, I guess – being better at it than the other guy.’
‘And if you come up against one who’s better than you?’
‘Then I’m either very lucky or I’m dead.’ He nodded. ‘I’ve been very lucky, a few times.’ The brown eyes held his. ‘It can be damned exciting – you know?’
‘I can imagine.’
‘You ever kill a man? I mean – personal, close up?’
Bob hesitated before admitting it. Recognizing that in just about any other situation or conversation he’d have given an evasive answer. He nodded. ‘Matter of fact, yes, I have.’
‘That surprises me. I’d thought of naval action as being – you know, impersonal. Ships miles apart, and so forth. Never experiencing – as we do, often enough – that f
ace-to-face mutual understanding that one of you’s going to kill the other.’
‘Well, you’re right, that’s mostly how it is at sea. My experience of the other kind – not quite as you describe it, not as – well, open and above-board – took place on dry land. At a place called Enotayevsk, on the Volga.’
‘Enotayevsk. I don’t believe I—’
‘Hundred miles north of Astrakhan. Hey – we’re slowing…’
‘Damn right!’
More than just slowing. A roar of steam being released, then the steam itself, like cloud flying – and the same juddering he’d felt in the small hours of the morning, the driver braking and the engine fighting the momentum of all the cars’ weight jarring up behind it and the ripple-effect to and fro, jarring impacts right back down the line. Then – like an explosion from up front… If they’d been standing, they’d have been knocked down. Davies was, on his way back from shaving, and there were crashes all through the carriage’s six compartments as the train smashed into – through – whatever, that tremendous impact, the sensation of being flung back and the one-word thought – sickening, doom-laden – Derailed…
Rocking… Echoes of that recent conversation, Davies telling him Local custom’s to put stuff on the line…
Still on the rails, though. Apparently… Still rolling. Illusion? Out here, a snowstorm – blizzard, snow flying horizontally and thick, totally obscuring as the train – unbelievably, in these first moments of recovery – began to pick up speed. And after a few seconds you’d got used to the idea, accepting the evidence that whatever had just happened you’d come through it. In as much bewilderment as relief: plus a touch of embarrassment at having wondered, ten seconds earlier, how many of them even badly led could be held off for how long by four rifles and three pistols in the hands of men who were already half-stunned. Hearing Scott’s voice ask quietly, ‘What in hell did we hit then?’ – and the answer in a shout from somewhere farther down the carriage – where they couldn’t by even the remotest possibility have heard him –‘Snowdrift! Bloody snowdrift!’
Bob’s own voice, then: ‘Of course. That’s what…’
The storm outside was clearing. The train still in the cutting, with banks of snow near-vertical on each side, but you could see those banks again now whereas just seconds ago you couldn’t. Scott shaking his head, muttering, ‘Sure, that’s what it must’ve been.’ Pointing at the window: ‘All that stuff flying. What d’you know. Must’ve smacked right in…’
‘Stone the bald-arsed crows.’ Davies – leaning in the doorway with one hand to his head, blood seeping between its fingers, the other clutching his razor, shaving brush, soap, and towel. ‘Can’t turn my back for a minute, can I? What were you doing, Sam?’
‘Damn fool.’ Scott frowned at him. ‘Cut your head? Hell, I’d better see if any of the boys got hurt…’ On his feet, peering briefly at the Welshman’s head. ‘I’ll look to that in a minute.’
‘Look to it myself. Cracked it on some damn inanimate object along there.’ Davies sidled in and sat down. ‘Mind you – half a minute sooner, might’ve cut my bloody throat… Commander – I was doing some composing, along there. What rhymes with Canuck?’
The major turned quickly, in the doorway. ‘Cowan – don’t you tell him…’
*
At about noon the train stopped at a place called Korsun to fill up with logs and water. It was only a small village, a single street of timber shacks, with the station and a branch line presumably serving some other agricultural centre. There was a crowd of country people on the platform, mostly women and children and grandparents; they weren’t interested in this train, could only have been waiting for one that would take them south. Not the most propitious of omens: nor was the presence of soldiers on duty on the platform. Bob and the RAF men had gone up to the front of the engine to see if there’d been any damage done – there had not – and by the time they were back at their carriage a lot of the young recruits from the train had disembarked to cluster round the older men – firing questions at them, like school kids round their seniors in some playground – and an officer, an elderly lieutenant wearing a Provost Marshal’s brassard, was calling to an NCO to break it up.
Then the poruchik turned back to the station master, with whom he’d been chatting, and they heard him say ‘Seems Budyonny’s in charge up there now. Of course it’s just another rumour, but—’
Pausing, glancing at the foreigners as they passed: stiffening slightly as his eyes fell on the major’s crowns. Scott had passed him by that time, so the Russian had saved himself the trouble of saluting. Bob murmured ‘Dobrii dyen’, but if there was any reply he didn’t hear it. There was a lot of noise around them by then, and Scott had yelled at Davies, glancing round to see where he was, ‘Hear that famous name?’
‘Did he say the beggar’s on this front now?’
‘Isn’t that what he said, Cowan?’
‘He said the rumour is Budyonny’s taken over.’
‘Know who Budyonny is, do you?’
‘Of course. Bolshevik general.’
‘Cavalryman. And he’s good. Although some of our guys did some of his a lot of no good, up north of
Tsarytsin a couple of months back. He had his main force in a gorge, smaller group out in the open as bait, and Shkuro’s Wolves – Cossacks from the Kuban, you’ll have heard of them? Well, they were about to fall for this dodge, reckoning the bait was all they had to contend with. Lucky for them our guys spotted the Reds in the gorge and went down and hit ’em. Goddamn slaughter. Eight hundred horsemen didn’t come out of it. Five Camels did that, just five…’
Davies said, ‘Come to think of it, Comrade Budyonny’d likely have it in for us, wouldn’t he…? What’s this, then?’
A peasant woman was offering him a skinned rabbit. Davies frowned, looking down at the proffered carcass. Then he’d bent down, put his nose closer to it, and winced. Straightening: ‘You’re surely not serious, Babushka…’
Scott was getting back into the carriage. Bob strolled on alone, down the length of the narrow, crowded platform, passing between groups of young soldiers and observing that they looked very much like the ones he and Tinsdale had seen at Taganrog. Same thin white faces, shaven or near-shaven heads, poor physique and shabby equipment. Some of it might have been dead men’s gear, he guessed. Poor devils… He was face to face with one of them suddenly: a tall boy, broomstick-thin, nervous but intelligent eyes scanning the gold-lace stripes on the naval greatcoat’s shoulders. Mouth half open – as if about to put some question, and Bob half inclined to stop and explain himself without being asked… He didn’t – or he’d hesitated for too long – and the boy had shied away by that time. What he realized then he should have done would have been to clap him on the shoulder and tell him something like Cheer up, lad – the RAF’s in it now, they’ll stop the bastards…
*
The scared white faces were still in his mind’s eye as the train pulled out of Korsun. He wished he hadn’t held back from offering that kid some slight encouragement – when he and his friends obviously weren’t getting any from any other source. Even if it was only whistling in the dark, it couldn’t have done any harm to give them something to hope for – to smile about in their sleep tonight, instead of crying for their mothers.
If they’d been his own people, he would have. They weren’t, so he’d minded his own business. That was what it came down to. Even though the truth was they were half his people, anyway.
He thought, The hell with it… Gazing out at the passing bleakness, a distant edge of forest like a heavy black line scored between white and grey. More snow, probably, in that dark-grey sky. He thought – about the boy-soldiers – Getting paternal, in my old age… Turning his head, focusing on the major, who was also studying the landscape. Brown eyes hooded, and an unlit pipe between his teeth. Bob’s mind went back to the conversation they’d been engaged in shortly before they’d run into that snowdrift, and hadn’t finished – whic
h seemed to apply to most of the conversations they’d had so far on this train… He said quietly – not wanting to wake Davies, who’d had his head back and his eyes shut since they’d started – ‘Scott – there is strain, eh?’
Scott looked at him. The Welshman’s eyes opened too.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When we were on the subject of tomfoolery – you said it relieved the strain.’
‘So?’
Bob waited, and after a moment’s thought the major nodded. ‘Well – of course there is. Would you expect there wouldn’t be?’
‘But you also claim to enjoy every minute of it.’
‘Claim, hell – I do! Look – if there’s no strain, where’s the excitement? Or the satisfaction in winning out, for God’s sake?’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘Now see here. As a change from going on about what I do –’ he paused, pushed back his sleeve to check the time, murmured, ‘Lunch, soon. Goat cheese, Pickerell tells me… By the way, did Jim tell you some woman tried to sell him a rabbit that died a year ago?’
‘I saw it. Slight exaggeration.’
‘I don’t know. For him to’ve noticed… But – what I was saying – you have a story to regale us with now, don’t you?’
‘Story?’
‘What’s the place you mentioned – on the Volga?’
‘Oh. Enotayevsk.’
‘That’s the one. Tell us all about it. Come on. It’s called singing for your supper.’
*
He’d told them the story, before and during the meal. Now he was semi-dozing and the other two were flat out, up on their shelves. Full of black bread and goat cheese, washed down with strong, sweet tea.
Scott had commented, when Bob had finished his yarn – describing his last sight of Nadia and the Solovyevs being transferred by boat from one ship to another in mid-Caspian – ‘And you got back on your own to – what’s the place called – Krasnovodsk?’
‘Right.’
‘Pretty damn good going, I’d say.’
Look to the Wolves Page 10
