Griffin looked around. All he could see was a wall with signs and posters in a garbled and incoherent alphabet, and a drifting crowd of civilians, rich and poor, carrying what mattered most to them, whether it was a live chicken or a sable overcoat; and bunches of soldiers with faces from a dozen races, all wearing a mix of tired uniforms and all bearing the shut-in defensive look of an army that has been given too many stupid orders and is wary of hearing more.
“No point in standing here looking stupid,” Griffin said. “I’m going to find the H.Q.” He pointed at Hackett. “You’re in command.” They watched him disappear into the crowd. A minute passed.
“We could eat Maynard,” Dextry said. “He’s fresh.”
They looked at Maynard, who frowned hard.
“Not without roast potatoes,” Jessop said. “I couldn’t stomach Maynard without roast spuds.”
“Here’s a funny joke,” Dextry said. “What is a roast potato and six bottles of Guinness?” Nobody cared. “A seven-course meal in Ireland,” he said. Nobody laughed. “I can change the potato to boiled cabbage, if you like.” Nobody spoke. “In that case, you can all go and piss in your hats,” he said.
“Salvation!” Hackett announced. He waved his cap. “Here comes God Almighty.”
A captain wearing a brassard with the letters R.T.O. cut through the mob. He was the Railway Transport Officer. He knew all, commanded all, permitted this, denied that. “Burridge,” he said. “Are you Major Burridge?” He squinted at the unfamiliar badges of rank. “You’re not Burridge.” He made it sound like an accusation.
“Hackett, flight lieutenant. This is Merlin Squadron, R.A.F.”
“No.” He rapped his gloved knuckles on his clipboard. “Got no authority for you. Don’t exist here. What’s your transit priority number?” Fifty yards away, another train was arriving with a screech of brakes and a gush of steam. People rushed towards it; hundreds of people.
Hackett heard the hoarseness in the captain’s throat and saw the weariness in his eyes. This man had been on duty all night and few things had gone right for him. “God knows our number,” Hackett said. “But we’re here, and we need your help.”
“So you say. Without authority …” The clipboard got another rap. “Not my problem.” As he turned to leave, Hackett grabbed him above the elbow. Hackett’s fingers could unscrew a rusty nut from a corroded bolt as if they were opening a jar of jam, and they found a nerve in the captain’s arm. “We’ll go for a walk,” he said gently. “You and me and Wragge.”
The R.T.O. could stand on his dignity as pain flowered down his arm, or he could walk. The pain reached his fingers and he dropped his clipboard. He walked.
The others watched them go. “Fat chance,” Jessop said. “We don’t exist. Starve to death for all he cares.” All around, men were sitting down.
Hackett stopped when the squadron was out of sight. With his free hand he had unbuttoned his greatcoat and opened the flap of his holster and now he took out the revolver. As he released his grip on the R.T.O.’s arm, he raised the gun and tickled him under the chin with it, until the man looked him in the eyes. “Mr Wragge will explain,” he said.
“These men are not soldiers,” Wragge said. “They are intrepid aviators, cavalry of the clouds, knights of the sky. They don’t understand the regulations that are meat and drink to you. They have spent all night in a freezing, stinking, crawling Russian train and now they want breakfast. If I tell them otherwise they will kill you, and then me. Is that reasonable?”
“You’re mad. You’re raving.”
“So we have three options. First, Hackett here could shoot himself. He’s desperate enough. Wouldn’t let you off the hook, though. Second, he could shoot you. The boys would like that.” Now the muzzle was tickling the R.T.O.’s ear. “Please them enormously, that would. Or third, we could shoot that squalid peasant.” He pointed. Hackett used the revolver to turn the R.T.O.’s head.
A family of four squatted on the stone floor. They were like a thousand others: scrawny legs, hopeless faces, barefoot, dressed in tattered sheepskins, everything permanently dirty.
“Go ahead.” The R.T.O.’s voice began to crack under the strain. “Shoot his wife too. And the children, bloody orphans, get rid of them, won’t you?”
“Ah! Talking sense at last!” Hackett said. “Now do we get breakfast?” The R.T.O. nodded. “And transport to the aerodrome?” Another nod. “You tell the boys,” Hackett said. “They’ll love you for it.” He bent down and fired and shot the spur off the R.T.O.’s right boot. The bullet ricocheted off the station floor and sang its way to nowhere special. The R.T.O. stumbled, almost fell, recovered. “That’s bloody idiotic,” he said. Now his voice was stumbling too.
“Of course it is. In France an SE5 squadron near us had a C.O. who did the same thing to some fart just like you. Now you can ride on half a horse, and I can die happy. Lead on.”
Griffin was waiting for them. “Found the H.Q. Locked. Empty.”
“The captain will oblige us,” Hackett said. “Only too willing.”
The R.T.O. took the pilots to a military canteen and stood watching as they drank hot coffee and ate fried-egg sandwiches.
“He changed his tune very smartly,” Oliphant said.
“We found that we went to the same school,” Wragge said. “After that, he couldn’t do enough.”
“We heard a shot. Thought maybe you decided to have him put down.”
“What? Shoot the best slow left-arm spin bowler that St Jennifer’s ever produced? Not cricket, old chap.”
“St Jennifer’s. I didn’t know there was a Saint Jennifer.”
“Not many do. A small school, but with very high standards. You’d never have got in, Olly. Not a hope.”
The R.T.O. came over. “Two lorries,” he said. “Waiting outside. You haven’t heard the last of this.”
“Well, you know where to find us,” Hackett said. “Up in the clouds, duelling with death.” He took the last sandwich and bit into it.
“Have a word with the management,” Wragge told the R.T.O. “Worcester Sauce is what this place needs. Otherwise … well done. Bully for you.”
“My report will go directly to the general.”
“Of course it will. Worcester Sauce. Make a note of it.”
4
The Royal College of Embroidery had occupied a building in the centre of Grosvenor Crescent, Belgravia, since 1783. Few Londoners knew it existed; nobody polished the small, discreet nameplate. But the house was only a short cab-ride from all the major offices of state, and on a bright but chilly afternoon in March 1919, men from most of those offices were standing in its Reading Room. They were watching the Prime Minister, the Right Honourable David Lloyd George, who was talking quietly to his chief adviser. As they watched, they were thinking their various thoughts.
Charles Delahaye from the Treasury was thinking about tax. Paying for the war had been relatively easy, you just borrowed from the Americans, who, God knows, were happy to lend. But how was the P.M. going to sell this painfully expensive peace to the people?
General Stattaford from the War Office, six feet two in his socks, was thinking how short the P.M. was. Midgets were taking over the world. Even the Grenadier Guards had lowered their height requirement. Tragic, really. How can you have a short Grenadier?
Sir Franklyn Fletcher, Permanent Private Secretary at the Foreign Office, was thinking the P.M. looked awfully tired. All this rushing back and forth to France for the Peace Conference. Suppose President Wilson had to go back to America, suppose the P.M. went down with this terrible flu which was spreading everywhere – that would leave Clemenceau running the show and then we’re really dans le potage …
James Weatherby, from the Home Office, was thinking Lloyd George looked like a small greengrocer. What did women see in him? The man had all the charm of a walrus and more sex than a goat. The British newspapers were squared, nothing to worry about there, but what if the truth appeared in the foreign Press? T
he old goat might sue for libel. Weatherby shuddered.
Lloyd George nodded goodbye to them all, and left.
His chief adviser, Jonathan Fitzroy, sixty, was built like a blacksmith, face like a turnip, mind like a razor, and morals of a stoat. Or so people said. He gestured at the armchairs, arranged in a wide circle. For himself he chose a large cane chair. It gave him a height advantage.
“Gentlemen: you probably know each other. However …” He quickly introduced everyone, ending with General Stattaford. “I shouldn’t be here,” the general said. “Forgot my petit-point.” He smiled when they chuckled. One up to the Army.
“An unusual rendezvous, I agree,” Fitzroy said. “We’re here because, first, my sister runs the College, and secondly, it’s completely private. Free from gossip. And that matters because our agenda has only one, very delicate, item: Russia. The Prime Minister feels the public needs to be reassured. Some aspects of our Russian involvement may be causing confusion. It’s a matter of communications. Why are we in Russia? A simple and easily understood message is what the P.M. seeks. He looks to you for help.”
“Two words. Strategic necessity,” General Stattaford said. “Bolsheviks pulled Russia out of the war in the east. Common knowledge. Obviously we had to go in and start it again, otherwise the Boche would hammer us twice as hard in the west. Damn near did, too. Strategic necessity, gentlemen. Any fool can see that.”
“The Foreign Office looks uneasy,” Jonathan Fitzroy said.
“I can see what the general means, but …” Sir Franklyn frowned. “We never actually got the war going again in the east, did we? And anyway, the Armistice changed all that.”
“I don’t know anybody who believes we’re still in Russia because of the German war,” James Weatherby said. “That’s ancient history. Frankly, the Home Office doesn’t give a toss what their Bolsheviks did last year.”
“Doesn’t it? I do,” the general said. “Betrayed the Allies! Made peace with the Hun! Opened their doors, told him to help himself! I call that treachery. Despicable vermin. A lot of good men died on the Western Front, gentlemen, friends of mine, just because the Bolsheviks threw in the towel. If I’d been given my way, the minute the Boche surrendered I’d have ordered them to about-turn and march east and not come back until every Bolshevik was cold meat. You may smile, gentlemen, but if my strategy had been applied, Russia wouldn’t be a problem for us today, would it?”
“I’m not saying the Bolsheviks don’t matter,” Weatherby said patiently. “Far from it. The Home Office is very concerned about Bolshevik interference here. Rioting in Glasgow and Belfast was definitely provoked by Communists. Blood was shed, a few men died. Typical Bolshevik tactics. Destroy from within.”
Silence. Then Jonathan Fitzroy said: “So … is that our advice to the P.M.? We’re in Russia because that’s where the threat comes from?”
“No other country wants to get really involved,” Sir Franklyn said. “Not on Britain’s scale, anyway. Not Italy. France went in and pulled out. America thinks it’s done enough. We’re on our own. It’s rather a lonely crusade, isn’t it?”
“A crusade against an international conspiracy,” James Weatherby said. “Lenin’s own words. Communist world domination.”
“Red tentacles,” the general said helpfully.
“The man in the street wouldn’t know a red tentacle from a black pudding,” Sir Franklyn said. “Britain has fought a lot of foreign wars, some popular, some not, and I can tell you what the man in the street recognizes. It’s victories. Success proves we must be doing right. The best message the P.M. could give the nation is a thumping victory in Russia. Unfortunately …” He raised an eyebrow at Fitzroy.
“A military victory would certainly help,” Fitzroy said. “The pity is, the Bolsheviks seem to be doing rather well. People want to know why. And we don’t need awkward questions asked in the House.”
“Easy,” Stattaford said. “Tell the blighters it’s not in our national interest to give such information.”
“We tried that. The House didn’t like it.”
“Don’t know why. Censorship worked jolly well in wartime.”
“War’s over. In peacetime they want straight answers.”
“So says the Manchester Guardian,” Weatherby said. “Not to mention the Daily Express.”
“Radical rags,” the general muttered.
“You’ve been very silent, Charles,” Fitzroy said. “Does the Treasury have an opinion?”
“The Treasury has seven hundred and fifty-seven million opinions,” Delahaye said. “The Tsar’s government borrowed seven hundred and fifty-seven million pounds from Britain to fight their side of the war. If our troops in Russia can persuade them to pay it back, I’m sure the British taxpayer will express a very heartfelt thank-you.”
“Prospects are poor, I’m afraid. Lenin and Trotsky say they won’t cough up a kopek.”
“Then why are we in Russia?”
Another pause for thought.
“I remember reading a letter to The Times,” Sir Franklyn said. “Something along these lines: If we withdraw our forces now, we should be letting down our loyal Russian friends. We came to their aid once. They need us more than ever now.” He looked around. “Maybe it’s the decent thing to do.”
“Honest broker,” Weatherby said. “That’s us. Hold the ring. Give the real Russians a fair chance. How does that sound?”
“Simple comradeship,” Stattaford said. “Shoulder to shoulder. Guarantee a fair fight.”
Nobody could improve on that. “So we’re doing the decent thing,” Fitzroy said. “I think the P.M. might like that. Thank you, gentlemen. Shall I ring for tea?”
FRIGHTFUL BRIGANDS
1
Seven Sopwith Camels hung in the sky. Suppose a peasant, half a mile below, straightened his back and saw the ragged arrowhead and heard their faraway drone, it would be as meaningless as luck, as irrelevant as flies on a wall. Long before they faded to a tiny blur, he would have gone back to his toil.
Griffin was at the point of the arrowhead. He had almost lost the sense of going somewhere. Nothing changed, nothing moved, except the Russian landscape which drifted backwards like a vast drab carpet being very slowly unrolled, and even that never really changed. Griffin was not a deep thinker. War had discouraged deep thought: waste of time and effort, why strain your brain when it might be dead tomorrow? But now he glanced down at the unrolling carpet, always the same old pattern, grey and brown, the bloody endless Russian steppe, as bleak as the sky, and he couldn’t shake off the foolish thought that this journey could last forever.
It was their fifth hour in the air, and he knew he was dangerously cold. When the R.T.O.’s lorries had taken his squadron to the airfield at Ekaterinodar, he had found seven Camels and a brigadier with fresh orders for him. “Fly your Camels to Beketofka, which is the aerodrome for Tsaritsyn. You can’t miss it. Go east and follow the railway line for six hundred kilometres. There’s a splendid little war going on at Tsaritsyn, you’ll like it.”
“And the rest of my squadron, sir?” Griffin asked.
“Seven Camels is all we have. Your other chaps remain here until we can arrange something. Don’t worry, you’ll get them all.”
Griffin chose six pilots and told them the plan. “Get a good night’s sleep. We’re off tomorrow, after breakfast. Take a toothbrush, that’s all. The lighter your load, the further she’ll fly. So move your bowels too.”
“Six hundred kilometres, sir,” Hackett said. “Camel’s range is two hundred, two-fifty with a big tail wind. Have we got a big tail wind?”
“Full tanks, cruising speed, watch your throttle settings,” Griffin said. “We’ll refuel twice. There are petrol dumps beside the railway.”
“Does each dump have an airfield, sir?” Jessop asked.
“No need. The entire Russian steppe is one long landing ground. That’s what I’m told.”
Nobody crashed, but the steppe was no bowling green, and the Cam
els bounced hard on landing and rocked like tightrope walkers. The pilots refilled their tanks, emptied their bladders, ate some chocolate, took off and did it all again two hours later.
Griffin checked his watch. Open cockpits were essential, they gave you a good all-round view, but by God you paid for it. Today’s wintry blasts were no worse than usual but five hours of them sucked all the warmth from a man’s body and the cold numbed his mind. Cold could be a killer. After a while it made a pilot shrink inside himself and forget his surroundings, which might be a stalking enemy or a sudden snow-covered hill.
Griffin waggled his wings and they all climbed three hundred feet. Now he had their full attention. Stick forward, into a shallow dive. Nothing as exciting as this had happened since the second refuelling when Jessop took off and nearly hit a passing swan.
Griffin nudged the dive more steeply, and the wind in the wires stopped singing and started howling. A small Russian town drifted into his line of sight. Spectators! Good. The altimeter needle fell through a thousand feet and he let it sink to six hundred before he led the flight back up, stick held firmly against his stomach and his backside pressed into the seat as they soared into a loop. Briefly, he put his head back and looked down at little white faces clustered in the town centre. The Camel escaped from the loop and dived. The white faces scattered. “Don’t panic,” he said aloud. Probably never seen a loop, he thought. Or a Camel. The flight levelled out at three hundred feet and got back on course. Nobody was warm, but nobody was sleepy, either.
Half an hour later, Tsaritsyn came in sight. A spur line took the railway to Beketofka aerodrome. A long train stood in the sidings, with steam up. There were canvas hangars, a windsock, several huts and sheds, a tented encampment, three lines of aircraft. A field next to the aerodrome was full of a cavalry camp. The Camels re-formed in line astern and prepared to land, and some people down there fired rifles at them and missed. Griffin cheered. After endless miles of empty steppe they had found the war again.
A Splendid Little War Page 3