A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  “I thought you were leading, sir.”

  “Don’t you know where it is?”

  “Never seen it. I wasn’t here when the plennys dug it.”

  Lacey sent Maynard back to fetch one of the diggers.

  The plennys put down the coffin, and moved well away from it.

  One of the hurricane lamps began to flicker. “I hope someone remembered to fill these things,” Lacey said sharply. The sergeant took a firm grip of the lamp and shook it. Liquid sloshed. “Well, it’s not empty, anyway,” he said. Lacey took a deep breath. “If it were empty, sergeant, I think we should have known by now.”

  The flickering flame cast an erratic, dancing light on the scene. The plennys huddled together and whispered. An officer sat down and immediately got up. “Grass is soaking wet,” he complained.

  “That’ll be the dew, sir,” the sergeant said.

  “Christ … My rear end is drenched. Totally drenched.”

  He got no sympathy from the rest of the firing party. “Oh dear,” one said. “Mickey’s gone and wet himself again.”

  “Oh, I say, Mickey. Play the game. You’re letting the side down.”

  “Poor old Mickey. He could never hold his drink.”

  “Look at who’s talking,” Mickey said. “A glass of port and you’re legless.”

  “That’s enough!” Lacey said.

  “More than enough,” Mickey muttered. “Half a glass.”

  “You’re on parade,” Lacey said. “Kindly remember that.”

  “The fact is, we’re bloody lost,” someone said.

  “I don’t see why this couldn’t wait until morning,” another said. “Leave the box here. Perfectly safe.”

  “Unthinkable,” Lacey said. But the idea provoked discussion.

  “Nothing’s safe out here,” Mickey said. “Some thieving Russki might steal him in the night, open the box, heart attack.”

  “Now there’s two bodies. Doesn’t look good.”

  “Got the makings of an international incident.”

  “Diplomatic uproar. High-level complaints. All because of you, Lacey.”

  “Only one complaint matters,” Lacey said, “and that’s Jeremy Bellamy’s. We are here to send it to the lowest level. If you want a second opinion, smell the coffin.” Nobody moved. “Very wise.”

  A plenny came out of the night. Maynard was behind him, waving his rifle. “About time,” Lacey said.

  “I had the devil of a job persuading him to leave the train,” Maynard said. “He thought I was going to shoot him. I couldn’t explain because … I couldn’t.”

  The plenny hurried to his comrades. There was much gesturing and excited talk and finally suppressed laughter. The plenny went back to Maynard and saluted, and pointed into the night. The funeral party set off. “We nearly didn’t find you,” Maynard said. “One of your lamps is on its last legs.”

  “I know,” Lacey said. “It’s one of the few things I do know.”

  “Perhaps it’s low on fuel.”

  “Perhaps. We’re all rather low on fuel, Maynard. All except for poor Bellamy, who’s empty, so let’s put him to rest, shall we?”

  Maynard knew that tone of voice. He had often heard it from parents and schoolmasters and, more recently, adjutants. It meant: If that’s the best you can say, then shut up.

  Ten minutes of wandering finally paid off, and they found the place.

  The plennys laid Bellamy on the grass at one end of the grave and the sergeant gave them two long straps of khaki webbing. They slid the straps under the coffin. Two plennys stood on each side and wrapped the webbing around their fists.

  Lacey opened Brazier’s copy of the British Army Pocket Book, 1917, and knew at once that the Burial Service was too long. He cut to the middle and read: “Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live,

  and is full of misery.” (Total tosh, he thought. No R.A.F. squadron is full of misery. Not even half-full.) “He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.” (Some truth in that.) He looked up and made a vaguely priestly gesture towards the grave.

  The plennys tightened their grip, lifted the coffin, and began to shuffle sideways. All the earth had been thrown out on one side, and the pile left little space to walk. The light was poor; the unhappy lamp was flickering more violently and making smoke. But the plennys got there in the end. The coffin was poised over the hole. They looked at Lacey. He pointed downwards and they began to pay out the webbing. “For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy …” (He didn’t show Bellamy much mercy, did He?) “ … to take unto himself the soul of our brother here departed …”

  A plenny cried out. Lacey looked up. The coffin was out of sight. The plenny was standing on the narrow edge and the earth was crumbling under his feet. As he struggled, his hands lost their grip. The strap raced away in a flourish of release. One end of the coffin hit the bottom of the grave with a sombre thud, and he tumbled after it. The other plennys let go, and the coffin made a much louder thud. The fallen plenny scrambled out. “Earth to earth,” Lacey said, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Sergeant! Carry on.”

  “Firing party!” the sergeant roared. “Prepare to fire! Charge your rifles! Aim your rifles! Fire!”

  It would have been too much to expect a concerted, impressive volley. Merlin Squadron was not the Grenadier Guards. The night was cold, trigger-fingers were chilled, the weapons were unfamiliar. The volley went off like a firecracker, a shapeless ragbag of shots. Given the rest of the accidents, it was a suitable farewell to Bellamy.

  3

  Each of the British guests was seated next to a Russian officer. The first course might have been stuffed trout. Hard to tell, when it was covered in white sauce and stuffed with caviare. Whatever it was, they all enjoyed it, with plenty of vodka, essential because toasts kept being proposed and then everyone stood and drank. Warm patriotic greetings came from all parts of the table and they too had to be acknowledged. In vodka.

  “It’s an acquired taste,” Wragge told Brazier. “I think I’m acquiring it, Uncle.”

  “Don’t spill it on your skin, lad. You’ll carry the scar to the grave.”

  Hare stuffed with chestnuts came next. Roast parsnips and hot buttered mushrooms accompanied it. There was a very dry white wine, which was not a substitute for vodka. The toasts continued.

  “Are there a lot of hares in Russia?” Oliphant asked Count Borodin.

  “Not as many as there were last week.”

  Baked mutton was sliced by the chefs alongside the table. It was as tender as butter, and went well with sweet cabbage. The wine was red and peppery.

  “Not to your taste?” Hackett said to Griffin. “Off your feed?”

  “Reached my limit. Got to watch my weight.”

  Next was roast duck with a different kind of caviare and small new potatoes. Followed by quail stuffed with apricots. Followed by fluffy pancakes enriched with flaked ham. Followed by … Griffin didn’t care. He waved it away and sipped his vodka while he smiled at everyone. His face ached from smiling. Russia was nothing to smile at.

  4

  Pedlow found a tobacco pouch in an inside pocket, together with a pipe, and he thought he might as well smoke it. “My good luck token,” he said.

  “Not much help so far, is it?”

  They were standing in the doorway of their brick hut. After Duncan recovered from his faint, a villager had given him half a bottle of vodka. He sipped it and was sick, but not so sick as to let go of the bottle. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise grisly evening.

  “I bought this pipe when I was sixteen,” Pedlow said. “A girl called Monica said it would go well with my curly black hair, so I got one, and next time I kissed her she seemed to enjoy it, so I put my hand on her breast and she hit my face so hard I saw stars. I didn’t know girls could punch like that.”

  “Bloody women.”

  “I let fly. Hit her. Instinctive r
eaction. Made her nose bleed. Never saw Monica again. Always kept the pipe, though.”

  “What are you smoking? Apart from kippers.”

  “Rough shag. It cuts down the local stench.”

  Duncan sniffed. “Not noticeably.” No sound came from the village except for the howling of a distant dog. It howled sadly, as if it had forgotten why it began. “We can’t stay here, Gerard.”

  The sky was loaded with stars. Pedlow looked at them too long and too hard, until he could feel the heavens wheeling. He said, “Some people navigate by the stars.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Nor me. Anyway, the trip would take forever and hurt abominably. I don’t fancy hiking in these flying boots. Not made for hiking.”

  “Well, we can’t stay here. You saw those knives. Like razors. These brutes are cannibals. Worse than cannibals.”

  “Trouble is,” Pedlow said, “they’ve got it into their tiny minds that I’m an angel, and they’re very pleased they’ve got their hands on me.”

  “And your bollocks,” Duncan said. “They’ll have those too.”

  5

  After the ninth or tenth course, Griffin told Count Borodin that it was getting stuffy and he needed fresh air. “Explain to General Wrangel, would you? I’ll be back before the goings-on end.”

  “No explanation needed. Chaps are free to answer when nature calls. I’ll come with you.”

  The adjutant saw them go, and followed. Oliphant and Hackett made their excuses and went too, weaving slightly. They gathered on a balcony. “Thank God for some cool night air,” the C.O. said. “I need oxygen. This bun fight isn’t what I expected, Count.”

  “Such banquets are traditional in Russia. Especially after a victory.”

  “Let’s hope the Bolos don’t attack tomorrow,” Oliphant said. “Half your top generals are pretty squiffy.”

  Borodin laughed. “Squiffy. Yes, that’s the word. They were mostly in the Tsarist Imperial Army. Not what you’d call fighting generals.”

  “This is a war zone,” Brazier said. “What are they doing here, if not fighting?”

  “Denikin’s orders. He sent an express train full of food and chefs and superfluous generals. They decorate the banquet.”

  “Look here, Count,” Griffin said. “When can we decently say our thank-yous and leave?”

  “First there will be speeches and toasts. You, as commanding officer, must make a speech. Later there will be patriotic songs. Including British songs, of course.”

  “Oh … sweet Christ on crutches. We’ll be here till dawn.”

  “Yes, that is normal. Russian hospitality is considered to have failed if the guests can walk, unaided, to their carriages.” He stopped: a faint spattering of rifle fire rattled, far away. Quite a lot of rifles. They all looked at him. “The mass grave is complete,” he told them. “The shots are a tribute to the dead.”

  “I’ve got to make a speech,” Griffin said to Brazier. “Bloody hell.”

  “No politics. Nothing about the Tsar or Lloyd George. No jokes. No promises. Flattery, flattery, flattery.”

  As they drifted back inside, more rifle fire could be heard. “Another tribute?” Brazier said. The count nodded sombrely.

  Once the immensely long mahogany table had been cleared, speeches were made from all parts. They were passionate, they were dramatic, they were loud, they were totally meaningless to the R.A.F. guests except for the final toasts, which usually ended with “Na Moskvu! Na Moskvu!” and always the empty glasses were hurled at the walls. Servants hurried forward, their boots crunching the shards, bringing fresh glasses and more vodka. Then it was Griffin’s turn.

  Amongst all these peacocks he was a sparrow. Many couldn’t see him, and everywhere arms gestured up! up! He climbed onto the table. Somebody handed him a glass of vodka, and in taking it he dropped his notes, ideas scribbled on scraps of paper, and everyone roared with laughter. Well, that was a good start.

  He announced how proud and privileged he felt to be serving alongside such staunch and … and doughty (What did that mean? Oh well. Press on) yes, doughty warriors, men whose valour, and gallantry, and …um … (Think of a third!) … um … dash, yes, sheer dash, quite rightly ring around the world.

  He took a swig, while Borodin translated. They liked it, and thumped the table. He took a deep breath and everything went wrong. He tried to say Cossacks and it came out cassocks. He tried to explain what cassocks were and, too late, knew he was talking about hassocks, so he abandoned that explanation and finally mastered Cossacks. “Jolly fine bunch of men!” he shouted. Borodin translated. Prolonged applause. Another swig.

  “I want to thank you,” he said, “for your hostile artillery. No, I don’t mean … Well, yes I do, you have lovely guns, biff the Bolos, hit ’em for six … But what I wanted to say was … this amazing feast …” He was lost for words. Took another swig. Tried again. “Your hospitallyho,” he said, and hiccuped. “Damn. I’ve got the Cossacks!”

  Borodin translated, and at last Griffin dimly understood that it didn’t matter what he said, because the count always made it wonderful. So he blundered on, and had the wit to end by shouting “Na Moskvu!” They all stood up and cheered. They drank to the R.A.F. More glasses smashed.

  Songs were sung, melancholy ballads of Russian tragedy that had the listeners in tears. Count Borodin got the pilots together and told them that they must sing a song. It was essential. National honour depended on it.

  “I can do ‘The Ball of Kirriemuir’,” Hackett said. “Four-and-twenty virgins went out from Inverness, and when the ball was over there were four-and-twenty less. All join in the chorus. Twenty-six verses. Some are a bit saucy.”

  Oliphant shuddered. “Look here, Tommy. You were at Eton. Isn’t there a nice tune you can sing?”

  “I know the Eton Boating Song, if you like. In fact there’s a stunt we used to do at Old Etonian dinners. We need a couch on wheels. Big wheels. A long, flat couch, with no back. Long enough for four chaps to sit astride.”

  Borodin sent servants to fetch a couch on wheels. Tommy Hopton explained the stunt.

  “Sorry if I’m a bit dense,” Oliphant said. “Must be all this cigar smoke. You say we pretend to row, and the couch … that is, the boat … it really goes?”

  “Kick the floor with your heels. All kick together. Kick hard and she’ll skim along.”

  Servants placed the couch lengthwise on the table. It was upholstered and its wheels were as big as saucers. The pilots climbed up and sat astride it. The count made a short announcement and the room fell silent. “This had better bloody work,” Wragge whispered.

  “Too late now,” Hopton said.

  He stood at one end, with the four pilots facing him. “Come forward!” he ordered, and four pairs of arms stretched out, holding imaginary oars. “Follow my stroke, chaps. In when I’m in, out when I’m out. And remember to kick.” He took a lungful of smoky air, and began to sing.

  Jolly boating weather,

  And a hay harvest breeze.

  Blade on the feather,

  Shade off the trees …

  They got the idea. Lean forward at the start of each line, lean back at the end. Four pairs of heels kicked hard and the couch raced away. Hopton followed. His voice had the clarity and purity of youth.

  Swing, swing together,

  With your bodies between your knees.

  Swing, swing, together,

  With your bodies between your knees.

  They squeaked to a halt ten feet from General Wrangel. Tommy Hopton led them in three huzzahs for Wrangel’s army. The performance was a huge success. One word was roared, again and again.

  “Encore,” Borodin said. “They want more.”

  The crew reversed their positions while Hopton rehearsed the Russians. “Swing, swing together,” he sang to them, and they shouted it back to him. He took his place, and the crew, expert now, made the couch whizz to the rhythms of the next verse:

  Rugby may be more clever,

>   Harrow may make more row,

  But we’ll row for ever …

  “I’m not a sentimental man,” the C.O. said to the adjutant, “but you must admit, Uncle, this warms the heart.”

  “Those wheels are playing merry hell with that table.”

  “Oh, bugger the table. These boys fought for England. Now for Russia. True patriotism.” He had a little trouble with the word, so he took another stab at it. “Patriotism.” Better.

  Hopton finished the verse and the Russians took their cue. “Sving, sving togezzer,” they sang, a hundred and fifty of them, all swaying from side to side. Hopton responded: “With your bodies between your knees …”

  “King and country,” Brazier said. “They swallow that claptrap when they enlist. It gets blown away in battle. Battle’s the only test.”

  “Nonsense. Loyalty’s what matters.”

  “Loyalty to your pals. Nobody else.”

  The couch rolled to a halt. The crew had done two lengths; panting and sweating, they thought they had finished. Relentless, thunderous slow handclapping told them otherwise. Again, they reversed their positions. Hopton began verse three, and they sprinted away.

  Others will fill our places,

  Dressed in the old light blue,

  We’ll recollect our races,

  We’ll to the flag be true …

  Griffin pointed. “Hear that? We’ll to the flag be true! We’re here to save this world from bloody Bolsheviks.”

  “Bully for you. I’ve fought all sorts of ruffians. Boers. Fuzzy-wuzzies. Huns. Not to save the world. Save the regiment. Sometimes the platoon.”

  “Airmen are different, Uncle.”

  Brazier grunted. “You live and die for your friends.”

  Sving, sving, togezzer, the Russians chanted, and then the stunt began to go wrong. Tired legs gave an unequal shove and the couch veered to the left. Hopton shouted a warning. They thought he was urging them on and their feet kicked harder until the whole gesticulating contraption shot over the edge and fell into the laps of half a dozen generals too fat and old and squiffy to avoid it. Everyone else cheered. The Royal Air Force could do no wrong.