A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  “Beats me.” They looked around: steppe everywhere: a flat nothing-much stretching to the horizon beneath an overcast sky, totally empty. “Fancy coming all this way, just to cop it,” Wragge said. “Not even a Bolo bullet. Just some filthy plague.”

  “Here is as good as anywhere.” Hackett pointed, and spat. “There. Put him there.”

  They screwed the sharp stick into the ground, and turned back. “I bet Griffin makes us take the burial service,” Wragge said.

  “I can do it. I’ve seen plenty. A bit of God-stuff, plant the body, more God-stuff, throw in some earth, fire the rifles, God-stuff, march off, sherry in the Mess, hello replacement, what’s for dinner?”

  “I knew a boy at Harrow got killed by a cricket ball,” Wragge said. “Fast delivery smacked him on the heart, stone dead. Big funeral … Hullo, they’re back.” A pair of Camels was descending. Before they landed, a mechanic had reached Hackett and Wragge with a message. The squadron was bombing up for another raid.

  “Bellamy will have to wait,” Hackett said. “He’ll get used to it. He’s got all eternity.”

  Jessop and Maynard reported still no sign of Pedlow and Duncan or their presumably crashed Nine, but they had found a large black scorch-mark on the steppe, and it wasn’t made by the missing White Russian bombers, because their wrecks were miles away.

  “Scorch-mark,” Griffin said. “No bits lying around? No engine? Should be a damn great Puma lying somewhere. You can’t burn an engine.”

  “We flew very low,” Maynard said. “If there was an engine, we’d have seen it. We’d have seen a cylinder. Nothing.”

  “Well, we haven’t got time for that. Get fuelled up. The squadron’s been given a nice juicy target.”

  They walked away. “My bottom feels as if it’s been beaten with a hockey stick,” Maynard said.

  Jessop was too hungry to sympathize. “What school did you go to?”

  “Sherborne.”

  “Lucky you. If you’d gone to Tonbridge, your delicate bottom would be used to that sort of treatment.”

  The target was a group of Red gunboats, said to be coming down the Volga towards Tsaritsyn. Nobody was sure how many or how big or how well armed, but Griffin had promised Wrangel to send them packing. The squadron – five Camels, five Nines – got airborne about 4.00 p.m. Just before take-off, Jessop’s ground crew gave him a bar of chocolate; Maynard got half. They ate chunks as they flew. Their taste buds salivated with gratitude. Colours brightened, sounds sharpened, suddenly the afternoon improved enormously.

  The squadron cruised up the Volga at a thousand feet for ten, twenty miles, until Oliphant started wondering if the gunboats existed. Maybe this was a trap. The river was vast, magnificent, it made the Thames look like a stream, but the banks were broken and scarred, you wouldn’t want to make a forced landing down there. Then he saw smoke ahead, and soon the funnels of four, no, five gunboats, pumping it out. They looked to be too small to be dangerous, but that was because the river was so wide.

  The Camels curled away to the left. Oliphant led the Nines away to the right. The gunboats began firing.

  Griffin’s tactics were simple. The Camels came in, weaving and jinking, twenty or thirty feet above the Volga, and threatened the largest gunboat, firing a short burst and then sheering off and threatening it from another angle, anything to distract its gunners while the Nines made their bombing run from the other flank. He didn’t expect it to work. This was war; nothing works quite as planned. But the bombers found gaps in the shell bursts and by determination and a fat slice of luck somebody’s bomb went down the gunboat’s funnel. Or so the pilot claimed. The truth didn’t matter, because the bomb exploded somewhere crucial, maybe in the magazine, and the gunboat got blown up by its own shells.

  The detonation was spectacular. The boat erupted, flung apart by the intensity of flame and fury. Volcanic was the word that Maynard thought of. Wragge said later that a white-hot lump of metal flew past him, as big as a barn door, he heard it go whizz. When the Flights got over their surprise and found some sort of formation, the gunboat had gone. And the other gunboats had turned and were making all speed upstream. The squadron harassed them and a few near-misses blew spray over them, but none was sunk. Still, the squadron had sent them packing, just as Griffin promised. Typical Bolo behaviour. Wave your arms and they all run away.

  13

  It was late afternoon when a man ducked his head and came into the brick hut. He was head and shoulders taller than the rest of the village, red-bearded and better dressed. He gave a passing nod to the icons and began to speak. His voice was rich and deep and his gestures were confident. He had quite a lot to say.

  “He’s the headman,” Pedlow said. “They always pick the tallest chap.”

  “Ask him if he can do something about the bedbugs,” Duncan said.

  “I only know one Russian word, and that’s the one Lacey taught us.” Pedlow clicked his fingers. “Damn. I’ve forgotten it.”

  “It’s nichevo,” Duncan said. “Try nichevo bedbugs.”

  The word abruptly silenced the headman. He stood with his mouth half-open and his arms frozen in mid-gesture. “Nichevo,” he whispered.

  “That’s it. Nichevo,” Pedlow said firmly. The headman dropped his arms, bowed, turned and left. They followed him. “I’ve forgotten what it means,” Pedlow said.

  “According to Lacey it means don’t worry, san fairy ann as the French say. Sort of vaguely encouraging.”

  “Didn’t work, did it? We seem to have scared him off.” The headman was half-running away. Soon he vanished between huts. They stood, blinking in the mild sunlight. “I suppose we could walk to Beketofka.”

  “In the dark? It’s forty miles at least. Meanwhile … my bladder’s about to burst. Can you see anything that looks like a lavatory?”

  “This whole village smells like a lavatory, old chap,” Pedlow said.

  “Perhaps there’s a bog at the back. Traditional place.”

  They went and looked. No bog.

  “Since the locals seem to believe I’ve descended from heaven, and as this is Tuesday,” Pedlow said, “I shall make water, and I command you to do likewise.” They unbuttoned and were making water, lots of water, when they saw two small boys watching. “Hullo!” Pedlow called. “This will be the Garden of Eden one day. You’ll thank me for it then.” They bolted.

  Nothing much happened for the next hour; the villagers seemed to be avoiding them. They went indoors. It was dusk when the headman returned, escorted by the villagers. He wore a white stovepipe hat with no brim, a dark red robe that reached his ankles, and rope sandals. His escort wore long green robes. He said a few words and his gestures clearly invited them to go with him. “Might as well,” Duncan said. “Could be supper.”

  They heard singing, and it was impressive, as skilled as any cathedral choir, but much larger, hundreds of men and women passing the melody back and forth like questions and answers. Then they saw the assembly. The whole village had gathered in a wide circle. The strength of the voices was not just their power but also their conviction. Joe Duncan had read ghost stories that told of men whose hair stood on end and he hadn’t believed them. Now he felt a bristling at the back of his neck.

  The headman led them through a gap in the circle and instantly the singing ceased. That was the first surprise. The second was the remains of their Nine. They were carefully stacked in the middle of the circle.

  They walked over to it. Most of the machine had gone up in flames, but somebody had searched hard. Around the engine were bits of wing and tail unit, a wheel, the Lewis gun, an empty ammunition drum, chunks of broken propeller. “Don’t touch anything,” Pedlow muttered.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Just don’t.”

  There were two chairs, so they sat in them, and the evening began.

  The headman was clearly a priest or prophet. He held what looked like a Bible and he read from it. His followers liked that: every reading brought
a thunderous response. Then they sang. By now it was night; a fire was lit. The priest walked around the broken bomber, delivered what sounded like a sermon, made much of the airmen’s presence. They sat and watched and didn’t understand a damn word. “I could do with a beer,” Duncan said. The villagers sang again, but now it had a faster tempo, a thumping melody, and some of them were dancing. Furiously.

  They formed two rings, one inside the other: women on the inside danced one way, men on the outside danced the other. Pedlow and Duncan found it hypnotic but exhausting. This was only the beginning, the warm-up. The dancers started spinning, competing in a tireless contest to dance harder, spin faster. “They’re crazy,” Pedlow said. A few dancers collapsed. Their mouths were foaming and their shouts blew foam. Clothing was thrown off. Many of the remaining dancers, men and women, were naked. “What now?” Duncan asked.

  “I hate to think,” Pedlow said.

  But within minutes the dance was over, the singing had stopped, the dancers were sprawling. That was when the priest approached the airmen with a young man on one side and a young woman on the other. Both were naked. He held a knife in each hand.

  “Ritual sacrifice,” Duncan said.

  “I think it’s worse than that,” Pedlow said.

  The young man took a knife and began slicing off his left testicle. The young woman took a knife and began carving away her right breast. Duncan groaned and fainted. Pedlow grabbed him and carried him away. When he looked back the amputations were done and blood painted the figures red.

  JOLLY BOATING WEATHER

  1

  Wrangel sent two open carriages, horse-drawn, each with room for four guests. Griffin took with him the adjutant, Count Borodin and Hackett. In the other carriage went Oliphant, Wragge and a couple of bomber pilots, Tommy Hopton and Douglas Gunning. Their plennys had worked hard. Buttons were bright, creases were sharp.

  The carriages crossed the aerodrome and turned south. The weather had cleared and the evening skies were an immense eggshell blue fading to yellow. Squadrons of little birds took off and circled and settled. Griffin stretched his legs. “This is the way to travel, adjutant. We never had this in France.”

  Brazier nodded. He was looking to the left. “What’s going on over there, count?”

  Two hundred yards away, a crowd of men were digging a hole. It was long and deep; already they had created a heap of earth along one side. The setting sun caught the steady action of shovels being swung. Nobody paused, nobody looked at the carriages. At least two hundred men were at work. Probably more.

  “A place to bury the typhus victims,” Borodin said. “The disease is raging in Tsaritsyn, I’m afraid.” End of conversation.

  Two miles on, the carriages reached the drive of a handsome country house, busy with arrivals. It was not yet dark but the windows were blazing with lights. At the portico, the airmen were greeted by someone who was so magnificently dressed that he could have been the butler or the Brazilian ambassador. Borodin made the introductions. The man turned out to be Denikin’s brother-in-law. “The owner is in Switzerland. It’s a long story,” Borodin said. “Please follow me.”

  The house throbbed with male talk. This was not an evening for the ladies, although the fragrance of eau-de-cologne was everywhere. The uniforms of the Russian guests were never less than brilliant, the tunics rich with decorations, the epaulettes heavy with gold braid, the calf-length boots as glossy as glass. Every man wore a sword and every sword hilt glittered with jewels. “How many generals are here?” Hackett asked.

  “About seventy or eighty,” Borodin said. “And a few colonels and one or two admirals. The Bishop of Tsaritsyn is somewhere.”

  “They stare at me as if I’m in my underwear.”

  “Pay no attention. This is just the throng. We shall join the favoured few.”

  He led them to an anteroom. The chandeliers were dazzling and the uniforms were even more heavily hung with awards, gold-tasselled lanyards, silk sashes. General Wrangel left a group of a dozen and shook hands with Griffin. “Dobry vecher,” he said.

  “We are honoured by your invitation to such a distinguished gathering, sir,” Griffin said.

  Wrangel looked at the count, who translated: “Congratulations on your brilliant victory over the fiendish enemy.”

  “They don’t speak our language, do they?” Wrangel said to him. “Well, tell them that half the guns they’ve sent are useless and their boots are too big for my soldiers, but we are glad to get their money and please send more.”

  “The general admires your famous British courage,” Borodin told the airmen, “and he applauds the way your skilful flying terrifies the enemy.”

  Wrangel gave them a friendly nod and went away.

  They turned to the delights on display. A cut-glass bowl as big as a baby’s bath was full of vodka. A swan carved from ice appeared to float in the middle. Lying on the bottom were what seemed to be gemstones, and probably were. The goblets were of crystal and the ladle was solid silver. They helped themselves.

  Pancakes were being served, in abundance. “These are blinochki,” Borodin said. “Famous in Russia as an appetizer. The stuffings are too many to mention. Next will be blinochki’s syrom, a Ukrainian speciality, filled with numerous cheeses. Then there are bliny, served with melted butter and caviare.” For the airmen, lunch was a distant memory. They sampled everything, washed down with vodka. “I should warn you,” Borodin said, “these are merely hors d’oeuvres. The true banquet is yet to come.”

  “The Russian Army does things in style, doesn’t it?” Wragge said. “What a pity Bellamy isn’t here to enjoy it.”

  “Here’s to Bellamy!” Hackett said. They all drank to that. The vodka was beginning to work. “He owed me a quid, so I’ve bagged his flying boots.”

  “That’s in very poor taste,” Wragge said.

  “I agree,” Oliphant said. “Show some respect for the dead.”

  “Why?” Hackett said. “He didn’t die for me, or for you. He ran out of luck, that’s all. He’s gone and I’m still alive. What else matters?”

  “There’s no point in arguing with him,” Wragge told Oliphant. “He went to the wrong school. Not his fault.”

  “Boolabong Academy,” Hackett said. “Very exclusive. Highest standards. If you couldn’t spell ‘illicit intercourse’ properly, they beat the living shit out of you.” But Wragge and Oliphant had moved on.

  James Hackett’s former C.O. was right: he was a tenacious bugger. At the age of twelve he knew what he wanted: to be the best swimmer in Sydney, in New South Wales, in all of Australia. He swam every day until he could easily swim twenty-five yards underwater. When he was fourteen his chest was two sizes larger than normal and his shirts wouldn’t fasten at the collar. Then his father, who was a printer, got a savage pain in his side and a burst appendix killed him. Peritonitis, the doctors said. Dead, whatever you called it.

  The unfairness of his loss left James stunned, and then angry. He abandoned swimming and decided to become a surgeon.

  After that, in every spare minute, he read second-hand medical books. His friends said he was off his trolley, his mother said it was unhealthy, all this reading, it wouldn’t bring his dad back, why didn’t he get a job at the printer’s, bring in some money, God knows they needed it. Within a year she had remarried. Soon there was an infant brother and she had no time left for James. He decided to go to Victoria College. “Not on my money, you’re not,” his stepfather said. “You’ll work in my butcher’s shop. Get some real blood on your hands.” By then James was out the door, out the house. Soon, out of Sydney, out of Australia. He lied about his age and joined the Royal Australian Navy.

  He shovelled coal in a cruiser for a year. Off-duty he learned semaphore and got promoted to Signals, had a spell in Guns, finally won a place on the bridge as captain’s messenger. It was from the bridge that he saw his first aeroplane, a seaplane, and knew at once that he had to learn to fly. They were at war; the cruiser was in England,
in Portsmouth harbour; he couldn’t escape a grinding tour of Atlantic patrols. This almost certainly saved his life. Only in 1917 did the Australian Navy grudgingly agree to his transfer to the Australian Army. The army was happy to give him a commission and send him to the Royal Flying Corps, which was eager for any volunteer to replace the wastage in France.

  He handled engine controls as clumsily as most trainee pilots, but once in the air he managed the lurching, wandering, underpowered craft with the skills he had learned from keeping his balance in a cruiser that was battling the Atlantic gales. For Second Lieutenant Hackett, aeroplanes were an extension of boats: you sailed on the air and you paid close attention to the wind and the weather. Forward momentum made it possible to steer. Watch the birds and learn.

  And get your hands dirty. At the end of a day’s training, most pupils headed for the Mess and aimed to get blotto. Hackett went to the hangars and talked to the mechanics. When he got posted to France, he knew almost as much as the ground crew about the Sopwith Camel and its Rhône rotary engine.

  2

  The mechanics knocked some planks from a packing case and they made a coffin. The plennys dug a grave in the steppe, two feet wide, six and a half feet long, six feet deep. They struck clay, and it was dusk by the time they finished.

  Lacey was acting C.O. during the period of the banquet. The sergeant medic told him that Mr Bellamy had to be taken care of now, they couldn’t wait until morning. The smell was bad and getting worse. Lacey told Maynard to select five other officers who would form a firing party. A sergeant gave them rifles and showed them how to load and fire. Some wanted to practise. Lacey foresaw trouble and said there was no time for that. A fresh squad of plennys – the first lot were wet with sweat and stained with clay – lifted the coffin from the train. Lacey and the sergeant carried hurricane lamps and the whole party set off.

  The moon had not yet risen and the night was black. After two minutes, Lacey said: “Stop. This is too far. You’ve missed it, sergeant.”