Light Cavalry Action

by Max Hennessy

  ‘What about the Bolshies?’ he asked.

  ‘Moved over to the east. They didn’t like the cars. Hardacre questioned one of their wounded. You’d better take him back with you. He’ll be able to organise transport out of Nikolovssk for us. We’re going to need it.’

  Potter gestured with an arm that seemed heavy. ‘The bastards had already visited the barracks,’ he said. ‘MacAdoo’s set up the Lewis just in case they come back. The Vronskins are with him.’

  Higgins smiled. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Take care of Katerina, Willie.’

  Potter nodded, not surprised at the request. He had long since noticed a growing tenderness between her and Higgins, a sort of trust from the girl, and from Higgins an odd deep affection of which his strange characterless personality didn’t seem capable.

  ‘We’ll transfer our wounded to you and follow later,’ Higgins went on. ‘I’ll try to find out where Budenny’s people went and we’ll be in first thing tomorrow.’

  They paused for a moment before they separated.

  ‘Prideaux’ll be in trouble for this,’ Potter said.

  Higgins stared at him, his face expressionless, then he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘He’ll be in trouble.’

  * * *

  A large car plastered with white and containing two or three Russian officers was just leaving the Slavska Barracks as Potter returned at first light the next morning. As the Hispano stopped, he heard the jingle of a Russian spur – one of those great spurs that sounded like a pebble in an empty tin – and saw a gold-tipped black cigarette in a bone holder, then a door slammed and the Russians’ car roared out on to the road, lost almost at once in the snow storm.

  The horses were stabled but only MacAdoo and the Vronskins had done anything about finding food, and there was no sign of Finch and Prideaux. There were rifles ready at hand on the guardroom table, however, with a litter of cartridges.

  ‘Who were that lot?’ Potter demanded, jerking a thumb after the Russians as he climbed from the Hispano.

  ‘From the north,’ MacAdoo said. ‘Looking for Prideaux.’

  ‘Has he organised anything for us?’

  ‘I’ve not seen the bastard – nor Finch! They’re up at the Vronskins’ somewhere, keeping their bloody heads down.’

  MacAdoo’s tones were bitter and Potter stared after the disappearing car, puzzled; then, collecting Hardacre who’d been helping to carry the wounded inside, he climbed back into the Hispano.

  ‘I’ll go and see what I can find out at the station,’ he said. ‘Khaskov must have sent instructions by this time.’

  * * *

  The situation in Nikolovssk was rapidly deteriorating. It was bitterly cold now and the streets were covered with thick black ice. It hurt merely to breathe and the fur hats they wore were thick with grey rime. The stiffened bristles tickled their faces, and horses and dogs all had icicles round their nostrils, while every window was screened with a crust of frozen snow.

  A never-ending procession was already winding into the town from the north. The station was jammed with panic-stricken people, and wildly-driven military cars kept tearing past. Potter’s heart went out to the bent figures of civilians huddling out of the wind. In the time he’d been in Russia, he’d learned to understand their spirit, their patience and their simplicity.

  Disordered troops with British guns that were neglected and rusting were pouring down the Alexandropol road, followed by terror-stricken traders and peasants, driving lean cattle and riding shaggy ponies; carrying their feather beds, furniture, pots and pans; old men and women and tiny children all heading south with nowhere to go.

  They seemed to know the time had come for the British to leave and they didn’t hesitate to show their disgust as the car went by. The black banner with the words ‘Long Live Free Ukraine’ that had always hung across the entrance to military headquarters had been torn down and lay in a soggy ball in the gutter and the notice ‘Staff of the Second Force’ lay smashed and splintered alongside.

  ‘Time we left,’ Potter commented.

  ‘We should never have come,’ Hardacre muttered unhappily.

  It didn’t take them long to realise that there was nothing for them at the station. The place was an inferno of noise and they kept seeing outbreaks of violence in the distance and running men and flames, and an odd corpse lying in a shop doorway.

  Trains were moving south slowly through the yards, and Potter noticed they contained more uniformed men now than refugees, packed solidly inside and out, clinging to the roofs and buffers and hanging out of the windows in spite of the cold. A lot of them were drunk but it was the drunkenness of despair, and they seemed indifferent to the hospital train with its comatose passengers that was waiting its turn to move on, the doctors unloading the stiff bodies of the dead and arguing with civilian officials over the delivery of supplies.

  There was no sign of friendliness as they entered the station hall, pushing through the railwaymen huddled inside the entrance in clouds of steam. The ikon that hung in the corner had a picture of Lenin opposite now, Potter noticed, a symbol of hostility.

  Barry was somewhere in the station yard, arguing desperately with officials, and Potter pulled an icicle from his eyebrow and waited as Hardacre spoke quickly with the scared telegraphist, asking for news. As he returned, Potter noticed one of the railwaymen huddled round the tiled stove cross himself with a grin, turning not to the ikon but to the picture of Lenin.

  Hardacre’s face was strained. ‘Nothing, sir,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t think anything’s coming through from Khaskov. Someone’s put the kybosh on us.’

  ‘Seems to me,’ Potter said mildly as they turned away, ‘that the old curtain’s come down on British Intervention.’

  They climbed back into the Hispano and headed back towards the Vronskins’. As they approached, the car full of Russian officers that they’d seen earlier re-passed them heading towards Nikolovssk, and Potter stared back at it, frowning.

  ‘Looks ominous, Hardacre, old boy,’ he commented. ‘Bloody ominous.’

  There was a heavy fug in Finch’s office when Potter burst in, and the window was streaming with moisture. Finch was moving round his desk, pocketing pens and cigarettes, and there was a whisky bottle on the blotter and a half-full glass. As he saw Potter, Finch lifted the glass and swallowed the contents. He looked strained and exhausted.

  Potter didn’t apologise for the intrusion. ‘Who were the musical comedy generals I saw leaving?’ he asked from the door.

  ‘From Denikin,’ Finch said shortly. ‘They want us to hold the place for them. They said if Nikolovssk fell they’d be cut off.’

  Potter snorted. ‘Sounds more like some windy colonel talking,’ he said. ‘What did Prideaux do? Send ’em away with a flea in their ear?’

  ‘No.’ Finch began to empty a drawer and Potter crossed the room and stood in front of him.

  ‘Where’s the Colonel now?’ he demanded.

  Finch gestured, trying to push past him to the desk again.

  ‘He’s in his room,’ he said. ‘It’s knocked the stuffing out of him.’

  ‘Serve the bastard right,’ Potter said, grim and unmoved. ‘Bloody fool ought to have known. Not 1914 any more. Don’t charge machine guns on horses nowadays.’

  Finch went pale. ‘All that killing,’ he said thickly.

  After four years of slaughter in France, Potter was less disturbed by the disaster. ‘Nothing but a skirmish,’ he said bitterly. ‘Bloody pointless one, too, so for God’s sake don’t let’s make it into a battle. Murray-Hughes’ll do that for us. He’s already turning it over in his head.’

  ‘There were seventy per cent casualties,’ Finch said.

  ‘More like fifty in the end, I reckon,’ Potter pointed out. ‘Thanks to the cars.’

  Finch reached for the whisky bottle but Potter knocked the glass from his hand, suddenly irritated with him. ‘For God’s sake,’ he snapped. ‘Pull yourself together, man! Nobody’s warned Kha
skov what happened! I know that because I’ve been to the station! What’s being done about getting us away? Has anyone done anything?’

  Finch stared at him, ignoring the question. ‘What’ll happen to Prideaux?’ he asked.

  ‘Ought to be shot. Probably will be when they find out in Khaskov.’

  Finch nodded. ‘There’ll be damned few medals given for Dankoi,’ he agreed. He seemed to pull himself together and, reaching abruptly across the desk, skated a message form to Potter.

  ‘This came just before we left,’ he said. ‘Barry sent it up. General Inde’s got typhus. He might die. No wonder we could get no instructions.’

  Potter glanced at the sheet of paper and then at Finch. ‘Be a rare stroke of luck for Prideaux if he did die,’ he commented bitterly. ‘He’d dodge what’s coming to him then.’

  Finch reached for the desk again and Potter was caught by a sudden suspicion. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded.

  Finch paused for a second, then looked up. ‘If Inde dies,’ he said slowly, ‘it makes Prideaux senior colonel. Inde’s chief-of-staff’s in hospital, too, if you look at the message, and the Brigadier’s already gone home. We’re going down to Khaskov.’

  He bent and started stuffing things into his pockets again, and Potter pushed him away from the desk once more. Finch said nothing, but stood dully, watching him.

  ‘Higgins isn’t back yet,’ Potter pointed out. ‘We can’t go without him.’

  Finch looked uneasy. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘The regiment’s to stay here, to stop Budenny.’

  Potter stared. ‘Stop Budenny!’ he said. ‘There are less than a hundred of us – thanks to Prideaux. We couldn’t stop a troop of Bolshie boy scouts!’

  ‘Those are Prideaux’s orders.’

  ‘Then why’re you packin’? You’ll be in command here.’

  ‘I’m going with him. He thinks I should.’

  While they were arguing, the door opened and Prideaux entered. His head was still swathed in bandages and he seemed dazed.

  ‘There’ll be damned few medals given for Dankoi,’ he said slowly, repeating Finch’s words as he came into the room. ‘Damned few.’ He saw Potter in the shadows beyond the lamp and his eyes screwed up as though the light hurt them. ‘Potter. You’re all right? I thought I saw…’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Potter said shortly. ‘The Hispano picked me up.’

  Prideaux stared at him. ‘Yes,’ he said vaguely. ‘Of course. The motor cars. Good job they were there. Saw them knock out that damned machine gun.’

  ‘Sir—’ Potter interrupted him, ‘oughtn’t we to be doing something about getting out of here?’

  ‘The regiment has a job to do,’ Prideaux said, stiff and military at once.

  ‘Sir, there aren’t enough of us to do anything effectively.’

  Prideaux drew himself up. ‘This is one of the things I shall attend to in Khaskov. I’ll see that you’re not left unsupported.’

  ‘Sir.’ Potter was growing desperate. Prideaux’s view of the situation seemed entirely unreal and he suspected he was too stupefied to know what was going on and was leaning heavily on the doubtful advice of Finch. ‘Khaskov’s a hundred miles or more away. You couldn’t get anything up to help…’

  Prideaux’s brows came down. ‘I suggest you leave it to me, Potter,’ he advised sharply. ‘I shan’t forget you, have no fear.’

  Potter didn’t know what to say. ‘Sir, I can guarantee that Hardacre could arrange transport for us all, even if Barry can’t.’

  ‘Hardacre’s in the cells!’

  As Prideaux moved away, Potter glanced at Finch, but Finch was busy over the desk again, his head conveniently down, and after a pause during which he stared at them both with a helpless feeling of utter uselessness, Potter went outside again, slamming the door after himself in a fury.

  * * *

  Within an hour, Freeman, the Colonel’s batman, appeared at the barracks to tell Potter he was wanted again.

  Prideaux was moving about his office as he appeared, stamping the snow off his boots. He was dressed for travelling, in the greatcoat with the fur collar, his head still bandaged.

  ‘I’ll thank you, Captain Potter,’ he said immediately, his manner brisk and distant, ‘to arrange for the Stutz to take me down to the station as soon as possible. Major Finch will accompany me.’

  Potter stared at him. ‘Colonel, the Stutz’s gone,’ he said.

  ‘Gone?’ Prideaux stared back at him, the briskness replaced at once by a faint querulous fretfulness. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘We lost it, sir. Don’t you remember? Gave up the ghost. Out at Dankoi.’

  ‘Always did say those damned motor cars were useless!’

  Potter couldn’t believe his ears. Prideaux’s mind didn’t seem to be working rationally and he appeared to be disintegrating before his eyes.

  His words seemed to stumble again. ‘There’ll be no medals here in Nikolovssk,’ he said again, as though the thought were one that was constantly in his mind. ‘There’ll be no promotion for this day’s work.’

  ‘Sir,’ caught by a wave of pity and sympathy, Potter tried to interrupt. In spite of his own weariness, his mind was clear and he knew what they should do.

  But Prideaux held up his hand. ‘That’ll be all, Potter,’ he said sharply. ‘I’ll need transport to the station. I must do my duty.’

  * * *

  Back at the barracks, MacAdoo was waiting for him.

  ‘How’s the Old Man?’ he asked.

  ‘Off his chump, I think,’ Potter said. ‘And Cheltenham Charlie’s gone for the bottle.’

  MacAdoo looked alarmed. ‘Say, isn’t anybody doing anything about getting us out of here?’

  ‘Don’t think so. In fact, our orders are to stay. Old Man’s going down to Khaskov to see about it,’

  ‘Khaskov, for God’s sake!’

  ‘In a daze, I think,’ Potter said. ‘Got it so firmly in his mind he was going to get his putty medal at last, he just can’t believe he’s pulled the plug on himself instead. God,’ in his compassion, sympathy took hold of Potter again, ‘he’s not had all the luck, has he?’

  MacAdoo was unsympathetic. ‘Luck!’ he said. ‘Jesus! If you ask me, the best thing we can do is to let the sonofabitch go, together with Cheltenham Charlie and Murray-Hughes and the worst of the wounded, and leave it to Higgins.’

  Potter pulled himself together. ‘Suppose you’re right, old boy,’ he agreed. ‘Better get the Hispano to dump ’em at the station and see what Barry can do for ’em.’

  MacAdoo half-turned, then he stopped. ‘Willie,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell Katerina we’re going.’

  Potter nodded. ‘I’ll let her know.’

  MacAdoo looked unhappy. ‘It’ll go hard with her when we’re gone.’

  Potter said nothing and MacAdoo went on.

  ‘Willie, I’ve heard of Russian girls marrying British officers. It gives ’em British nationality. The Navy’ll take ’em out of the country then.’ MacAdoo swallowed. ‘I’d marry her to help her get to safety.’

  Potter’s solemn face broke into a grin. ‘Didn’t know you cared, old boy.’

  MacAdoo looked embarrassed. ‘Aw, Christ, Willie, you know what I mean! I’m not in love with her. She could forget me as soon as we left the church. But they’ve been good to us and it’d be just to make sure they got safely out of a goddam awful mess. That’s all.’

  Potter smiled. ‘Should wait and see, old boy,’ he said. ‘Higgins’ll be back in the morning. Your sacrifice might not be necessary.’

  Katerina Vronskina

  As Potter left for the adjournment that followed his evidence, Danny appeared in the corridor outside, with papers from the office that needed his signature.

  ‘Mr. Potter,’ she said. ‘You were marvellous.’

  ‘Still got Kirkham,’ he warned her.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll soon dispose of him. I never knew the half of this. Did he marry the g
irl?’

  He glanced at her as they descended the steps towards the Strand. ‘Should never turn to the end of a book to see how it finishes,’ he said shortly.

  She was about to protest when he took her arm. ‘Had your lunch?’ he asked. ‘No? Come on then. Let’s get a quick bite. All we’ve time for. I’ll sign that lot as we eat.’

  They entered a small snack bar and sat at the counter. As she chattered and passed him papers, Potter ordered, then his eyes fell on the paper of the man next to him. The headlines were there again, ominous and dark, alongside the inevitable picture of Hitler which seemed to be gracing every morning and evening paper in the world just then.

  ‘europe echoes to the thunder of marching feet,’ they said. ‘fuehrer’s army ready, imminent peril of war.’

  His expression became strangely pensive. Somehow all the pictures his evidence had conjured up, flooded back – troublesome and frightening as they were brought abruptly into focus. He stared at the paper for a moment longer, then he busied himself with knives and forks and paper napkins; and Danny, aware suddenly of his silence, looked round, her hands full of legal documents.

  ‘I thought you’d gone,’ she said.

  Potter shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not gone. Just far away.’

  She seemed rebuffed and he tried hard to be cheerful. ‘Let’s get on,’ he said gently. ‘Kirkham’s waiting – and we haven’t much time left.’

  * * *

  Every time Kirkham rose to his feet to cross-examine he seemed to do it more slowly and reluctantly. Now, as he faced Potter, he seemed to heave his bulk up with an effort.

  His questions were somehow defensive, and he avoided Potter’s military rank deliberately as he went back over the evidence, merely nibbling at it, it seemed, in a vain attempt to destroy it.

  Potter remained bland and unperturbed, and Kirkham gained very little advantage, and was obliged to pick on the trivia in an attempt to discredit him.

  ‘You have claimed, Mr. Potter,’ he said, ‘that Mr. Murray-Hughes was frightened when you found him after the charge. Are you aware that Mr. Murray-Hughes holds a decoration for bravery, in spite of being a civilian? He was given it during the war in China.’