Dawn was nudging the eastern horizon when the carriages left for Beketofka, moving at a gentle trot to avoid awakening the pilots. The drivers knew how best to earn a fat tip.
Only Brazier and Count Borodin were awake, and after the din of the banquet they enjoyed the silence of the countryside. Mist as soft as smoke filled the hollows. Sometimes a pair of ducks emerged, flying fast and noiseless, and vanished. A rim of sun showed itself. It picked out the mist tops and soon it was making long, elastic shadows of the carriages. It washed the sky clean of stars. Another fine day on the way.
As it rose, Brazier turned his face towards it and welcomed the warmth. The dazzle made his eyelids almost close. Almost. He made out a shape, a low silhouette. He shielded his eyes.
“Borodin,” he said quietly. “Isn’t that your mass grave?”
“Yes, I expect so.”
“I’d like to see it.”
The count looked at him. If he said, No, that’s not possible, or Why? It’s just plague victims, if he said anything at all, the adjutant would not argue, he would simply get out and go. “If you must,” he said. He told the driver to stop and wait.
They walked across boggy heathland and stood on the edge of the hole. It was at least thirty yards long. It was half-full.
“All male, I see,” Brazier said. “A very selective plague.” He walked along the side. “But no boots. Perhaps they caught the disease through their feet.” He walked on. “And some without breeches. They don’t look very sick, do they? Dead, yes. Sick, no.”
“Bolshevik commissars, officers and N.C.O.s,” Borodin said. “When we take prisoners, we recruit the ordinary soldiers into our army. We shoot the rest. Boots and breeches are scarce in our army.”
“How many?”
“About three hundred. And you have my word that when the enemy take prisoners, they do not kill them as humanely as we do.”
They walked back to the carriage.
“You take it all very calmly,” Brazier said.
“How would it help if I were otherwise?”
“Ah. A good point.”
6
Jonathan Fitzroy’s ad hoc committee met in a filthy temper.
It was Monday, it was bucketing down with rain, it had been raining everywhere all weekend, the entire county cricket programme had been washed out. The prospects for Wimbledon were grim. All the best salmon and trout rivers were in flood, the water looked like cocoa, two Welshmen had been drowned while trying to fish the Usk, probably poachers using worm as bait, so nobody grieved too much. Today’s papers didn’t help. They gave the government a good kicking for the unemployment figures (up again). They gloomed about farmers’ warnings that the harvest would be ruined. And the Metropolitan Police had found a member of the House of Lords behind a bush in Hyde Park with a trooper from the Coldstream Guards, both stark naked, at three in the morning.
James Weatherby was reading the report in the Mail when General Stattaford sat beside him. “Look on the bright side,” the general said. “His Lordship is sixty-eight. The night was black as sin, the rain fell in torrents, and he was stripped to the skin. Makes you proud to be British, doesn’t it?”
Weatherby grunted. “You can replace a trooper,” he said, “but we’ve lost a vote in the Lords. And that’s serious.”
“Gentlemen,” Jonathan Fitzroy said. “May we start? Our last recommendation was, I’m afraid, rather kicked into touch by the P.M. ‘A decent life for all Russians’ is good as far as it goes, but it doesn’t go anywhere. His words. Rather like being kind to one another. Even the Cabinet agrees it’s desirable, but how?”
“Do they want us to make policy?” Sir Franklyn Fletcher said.
“Because that wasn’t in the original prospectus.”
Fitzroy was built like a bruiser but his footwork was nimble. “I think it revolves around what we feel the British people believe to be right and apt,” he said, “which in itself is a product of what they feel can be done. Thus what should happen and what can happen are so closely linked as to be virtually identical.” He beamed at each man in turn.
“Smooth,” Sir Franklyn murmured. “And slippery.”
“The people have had a bellyful of war,” Weatherby said. “I keep saying it because it keeps being true. No more war. I can think of only one thing that might conceivably change that. If the Bolsheviks start exploding bombs in Whitehall and St Paul’s and Arsenal football ground, people might get angry enough to want to drop a few shells on Lenin and his friends.”
Sir Franklyn stretched his long legs and slid deeper into his armchair. His hands steepled until they touched his chin. “You make it sound like stamping out piracy in international waters, James,” he said.
“So it is. They’re brigands, savages. What they’ve done in Russia …” Weatherby shook his head. “We don’t want that here.”
“Foul baboonery,” Fitzroy added helpfully. “That’s what Churchill called them in the Commons.”
“They boast about world domination,” Stattaford said. “Did their worst in Austria and Germany. Why wait? Retaliate first. Avoids a lot of bloodshed.”
“Alone?” Charles Delahaye said. It was the first word he had spoken since he arrived and it hung in the air. Nobody wanted to be the first to answer.
“Oh, bother,” Fitzroy said. “And we were going along so well. I suppose the question must be faced. Foreigners, I believe, are the province of the Foreign Office.”
Sir Franklyn sat up straight. “If you are hoping for allies to assist in a punitive expedition, then the list is short. Not Italy. Italy’s manpower died on the battlefield. Not Japan. It has two divisions in Vladivostock, which is about as far from Moscow as we are from Canada, the journey takes a month, and Japan doesn’t give a toss what Moscow does anyway. Not America. They’ve picked our chestnuts out of the fire once already, and they’ve got elections coming up. Not the Empire. We played the Mother Country card in the war, and we can’t play it twice. That leaves France. After the Armistice they sent two divisions into the Ukraine and kicked out the German occupying army, the only real force for law and order, treated the place like a French colony and made themselves despicable. French troops never wanted to be there, they mutinied, they departed faster than they arrived. Forget France. Yes, it’s a very short list.”
Nobody spoke. Stattaford got up and walked to a window, exercising his left leg as he went. Rain turned the glass to a wandering blur. “Bit of Hun ironmongery,” he said, still flexing. “Doesn’t like this weather.”
A tap on the door, and a maid came in, wheeling a trolley. The ceremony of tea helped dispel the feebleness of Allies. Well, former Allies. Platitudes about the weather were exchanged. They all agreed it was beyond a joke. “I’ve got a beat on the Test,” Sir Franklyn said sadly. “Can’t cast a fly in this deluge. Hampshire’s just a lake.” He bit into a custard cream.
“If it keeps up, the whole country will be washed away,” Jonathan Fitzroy said. “End up floating into the Atlantic, I expect.”
“The Navy will save us,” Weatherby said. “Always does.”
“The Navy’s in the Baltic,” Charles Delahaye said. “How do I know? Because the Treasury pays its bills. Hefty bills, too.”
“Not the whole Navy, surely?” Fitzroy said.
“A significant fleet. Not cheap.”
That took their minds off the rain.
“Doing what?” Weatherby said. He looked at General Stattaford.
“I’m a soldier, old chap. Ask an admiral.”
“Doing its duty,” Sir Franklyn said. “We are mounting a vigorous diplomatic campaign to protect the Baltic States against Bolshevik attempts to seize them. The Navy provides a presence.”
“A presence,” Weatherby said. “Does it go bang-bang, by any chance?”
“When requested, the Navy assists by discouraging enemy troop movements. We also discourage interference by the Soviet Navy. It has a large base at Kronstadt, at the head of the Baltic. Guarding Petrograd.”
“Discourage. Is that a diplomatic word for ‘sink on sight’?”
Sir Franklyn had said enough. He found a handkerchief and blew his nose and re-folded the handkerchief and took his time over it.
“In brief,” Fitzroy said, “we keep this fleet in the Baltic to bombard Bolsheviks ashore and afloat. Since this is not common knowledge, nor likely to be, I don’t quite see how it helps us to reassure the British people about why we are in Russia.”
“I do,” Stattaford said. “The railway runs from Petrograd straight to Moscow. Five hundred miles. Give the Navy a free hand. Sink the Russian fleet. Land two brigades of Guards, and I guarantee we’ll be in Moscow in a week. The Reds will be dead. Problem solved.”
“Splendid,” Delahaye said. “Just as long as we don’t interfere in Russia’s internal affairs.”
Weatherby chuckled. Fitzroy sighed. Sir Franklyn stared at the ceiling and stroked his jaw. Stattaford glared. “Is that a joke?” he demanded.
“Only if the Prime Minister was joking,” Delahaye said. “It’s what he told the House of Commons. I was there, I heard. He said you should never interfere in the internal affairs of another country, however badly governed.”
“The Daily Express agrees,” Weatherby said. “They say – and I quote – the frozen plains of Eastern Europe are not worth the bones of a single British grenadier. Big circulation, the Express.”
“Beaverbrook’s grubby rag. The man’s a damned Canadian. Got no loyalty to this country.”
Fitzroy clapped his hands. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Aren’t we barking up the wrong tree? Surely it’s not intervention when we are simply assisting the Russians to cleanse their own house? Help them achieve what all honest, decent, patriotic Russians are fighting for?”
“The damn plains aren’t frozen,” Stattaford growled at Weatherby. “It’s summer, for God’s sake. Have some common sense.” He sat in silence for the rest of the discussion. Eventually Sir Franklyn suggested something along the lines of Answering the call of freedom and justice. Nobody cheered, but nobody could improve on it.
7
There was nothing seriously wrong with the Chevrolet ambulance. Russian drivers, both Red and White, had failed to service it and after much bullying its engine had quit. A couple of springs were broken. The steering had hit so many potholes that it was cross-eyed. But all this was nothing that an R.A.F. squadron of fitters and metal-bashers couldn’t repair overnight. They gave it back to Lacey after breakfast. “Thanks awfully,” he said. “I shall have you all Mentioned in Despatches.” He gave them a case of Guinness.
Count Borodin turned up at ten, freshly shaven and alert.
“All our party-goers are sleeping like the dead,” Lacey said. “How do you do it?”
“I’m accustomed. Banquets like that are routine in Russia. One learns to pace oneself … Is the ambulance tickety-boo? We should drive somewhere.”
Lacey looked around. “Is there somewhere? It’s all anywhere. Steppe is steppe.”
“I’ve been thinking about your missing Nine. If Pedlow and Duncan are dead, they deserve a decent burial. And if they’re not …”
“Two British airmen can’t just vanish. Even in Russia.”
“Well, you’re still the C.O. Take command of the situation.”
Lacey saw Maynard admiring the Chevrolet, and went to him. “Good news, Maynard. I’m delegating my authority,” Lacey said. “You’re temporary acting C.O. in my absence.”
“I say, Lacey. That’s a bit thick. Where are you going?” Lacey told him. “I shan’t know what to do,” Maynard said.
“You were captain of cricket at school, weren’t you? Well, play a straight bat,” Lacey said. “That always worked for me.”
Hard-boiled eggs and black bread for breakfast.
Joe Duncan had been working on plans of escape. Set fire to the village and do a bunk in all the smoke and the panic. Or get some paint and write BEKETOFKA on a wall … No. They’ve probably never heard of it, and most of them can’t read. Or, tell the tall chump, the priest or whatever he was, that they were leading a crusade. “You’re a bloody angel, Gerry,” Duncan said. “Get on a donkey and lead the buggers out of here.”
“There’s some precedent for that,” Pedlow said. “Tell you what. You explain it to them and I’ll do the rest.” He scratched his ribs and his crotch. Something was biting. Suppose they became lousy; what could they do about it? A wash and a shave would be wonderful. Nobody in the village seemed to have time for either. He was thirsty. He remembered stories of how a chap got dysentery. Better to be thirsty.
Later a choir in green robes turned up and sang. Then the red-bearded headman led a small delegation into the hut. Pedlow stood on his stool and announced: “I’m a sodding angel. Don’t you bastards forget it. I’ll bring down the wrath of God on you, so I will.” He gave them a casual papal blessing.
“The redhead has a knife in his belt,” Duncan whispered.
The visitors performed a chant, with the redhead booming out the declarations and the others giving the response, ending with a climactic shout. They all stared at Pedlow. They’d done their bit. A reply would be nice.
He held his arms as wide as possible and spread his fingers. “The train now standing at platform three,” he cried exultantly, “is the nonstop express to Glasgow! The dining car is open, and I recommend the pork chops!”
The crowd looked at each other and muttered. They shuffled out, leaving their leader. He folded his arms and cocked his head and stared, frowning. Pedlow folded his arms and frowned back. “Play suspended,” he said. “No refunds.” The man didn’t like that. He walked to the door, stopped and stared again, and left.
“He’s gone broody,” Duncan said. “You’ve let him down.”
“Too bad. I can’t help them when I don’t know what they want.”
“I know what they want. They want mine too. On a plate. With lots of Worcester sauce.”
Cabbage soup for lunch. No bread.
The midday heat baked the village until even the flies gave up. The airmen sat inside the hut with their backs to the wall and dozed. Faraway gunshots made them blink but it was too hot to move any larger muscle. Then a car engine rapidly expanded its roar and charged past the open door, and by the time they got outside it was a cloud of dust, disappearing around a bend.
“Could be Bolsheviks,” Duncan said. “Come to grab us.”
“Could be a London bus,” Pedlow said. “Number eleven goes past here.”
“Number eleven goes down Piccadilly, old chap.”
“Does it? No damn good, then. Miles out of our way. Might as well walk.”
They joined the stream of people, all hurrying to find the cause of yet another visitation, the second in two days. They found the answer on the village green, a Chevrolet, as miraculous as a meteorite. Lacey and Borodin were examining the scorched wreckage of the bomber. Lacey had a shooting stick, and he was prodding the engine.
“If you break it, you pay for it,” Pedlow said.
They straightened up. “Did you crash in the middle of this built-up area?” Lacey asked. “Or have they built the slums since you crashed?”
“It’s a sacred spot,” Duncan said. “They’re all a bit dotty about Gerard. Think he’s an angel.”
“Awfully glad you’re not dead,” Borodin said. “Two bodies in the car. This heat. Wasn’t looking forward to it.”
“Not dead,” Pedlow said. “Slightly immortal, however.”
“And very soiled,” Lacey said. “Squalid, even. What happened to you? Have you gone native?”
“I don’t think we should stand around and chat,” Duncan said. “You see the heavyweight with the red beard? We’re his property.”
“Leave him to me,” Borodin said. As he walked towards the headman, the crowd of villagers parted like a bow wave.
“How did you find us?” Pedlow asked. “I came down miles away.”
“The count asked a passing shepherd,” Lacey said. “Y
ou’re big news in these parts. Everyone knows.”
“We heard shooting. Did you have to fight your way into town?”
“Backfires. If you jiggle the controls you can make the car backfire. Borodin showed me. He says he learnt the trick at Cambridge.” There was a pause. The silence of the crowd, and its permanent stare, was disturbing. “Have they been feeding you well?” he asked.
“Boiled eggs,” Duncan said. “Radishes.”
“As many as you like. Awfully healthy,” Pedlow said. “I think I’ll stay for supper.”
“Beef Wellington for dinner in the Mess tonight,” Lacey said. “Roast potatoes. Brandied peaches. A sharp Cheddar.”
“Yes? I quite fancy a sliver of Cheddar. Maybe I’ll give the radishes a miss.”
Borodin came back. “I thanked him for his efforts and said his reward would be in the Hereafter, where God would keep a warm seat for him in the ranks of angels, not too near the harp section, and he seemed satisfied. So now we can go.”
As Pedlow and Duncan got into the car there were signs of distress on the faces of the villagers. “You’re abandoning them, Gerry,” Duncan said. “You’re a rotten angel.”
“Am I? Well, tell them I’m going to ascend to heaven, and thank you and goodbye.”
Borodin let in the gear and sounded the horn and drove off, backfiring hard. “Not a fanfare,” Pedlow said. “But better than nothing. Jolly comfy car.” He felt weary and drowsy. Soon he was asleep.
He spent what seemed a lifetime not crashing the DH9. He sat in the cockpit, stick pulled back into his stomach, watching the ground magnify until its size stretched his eyeballs. It rushed at him with a speed that was uncontrollably fast and at the same time cruelly slow. The horror never lessened and it never ended until he shouted at it, and it vanished. Good. Now he was dead. All over. You couldn’t die twice. Then it began again. And again. What was worse, that bloody fool Duncan was shaking his arm, trying to make him let go of the stick. He shouted, “Sod off, you maniac!”
A Splendid Little War Page 14