A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  “That’s unacceptable.”

  “If you ask me, he was doolally,” Hackett said. “I’ve seen it coming. Several screws loose.”

  “Not Griffin, you fools. Nobody in London will lose any sleep over Griffin. Casualty of war. Might have been knocked down by a tramcar. But Colonel Kenny V.C., killed here, on the premises, that’s what we have to sort out.” He rapped the table. “Think, for God’s sake. He’ll probably have a memorial service in Westminster Abbey. You must get it right.”

  “I never saw it. I was miles away,” Hackett said.

  “Beside the point. You still have to sign the report. You command the squadron now.”

  Oliphant groaned, and put his head in his hands. “This is all a bad dream,” he muttered. “Too much vodka.”

  “Why me?” Hackett said. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You’re senior officer,” Brazier said. “Acting squadron leader, with effect from now. It’s all in King’s Regulations.” He waved the book. “Write a draft report. Lacey will polish it.”

  “Hackett can’t write,” Oliphant said. “He can barely speak. He counts on his fingers. He’s a Colonial, for God’s sake.”

  “Squadron leader, you say,” Hackett said to the adjutant.

  “Paid.” Brazier finished his coffee, and stood. “Must go. Bodies to organize.”

  They watched him leave. “I wouldn’t have come to Russia if I’d known you were going to be in charge,” Oliphant said. “All of a sudden the squadron’s gone to pot.”

  “Look on the bright side, Olly. When I get killed, you get command. Now shut up or I’ll clap you in irons. We Australians are good at doing that. The bloody English showed us how.” Hackett sat back, feeling oddly satisfied. He looked out, at the endless, changeless steppe. He was master of all he surveyed. It wasn’t worth a damn, but it was all his. “Olly,” he said. “Get hold of Lacey.”

  “Can’t,” Oliphant said. “He’s not here. And you’re corrupted by power already. I suppose you learnt that from the English too.”

  There was little the adjutant could do about the bodies.

  Colonel Davenport’s men had reached Griffin’s wreck first and thrown buckets of water at it, but they were far too late: nothing could reverse the impact of the crash and the fierceness of the fire. They shovelled up what looked as if it had been human, piled it on a stretcher, covered it with an old gas cape and carried it to a hangar. Davenport sent a Union Jack to go over the cape. Dammit, the C.O. deserved some recognition.

  The bigger problem was Colonel Kenny. He too lay on a stretcher in the same hangar. Twin machine guns of several Red fighters had raked the body and killed it ten times over. Brazier was not affected by the sight of multiple wounds; he had seen a lot worse; but these legs were knock-kneed and the feet were pigeon-toed, and that looked silly on such a big man. He tried to straighten them but they flopped back to their unsoldierly position. Someone had thoughtfully covered the face with Kenny’s Glengarry, and Brazier did not move it.

  The dead mechanic was in a similar state, but he was no problem: he would soon go underground. Kenny was different. Brazier sent for the medical sergeant and waited in the fresh air.

  “Here’s the thing,” he told the medic. “The big lad in the kilt had a V.C., and he’s got to go to London. In a coffin. Smelling of roses.”

  “Contrary to nature, sir.”

  “Suppose we got him to Salonika. Fast express to Calais, ferry to Dover …”

  The medic was shaking his head. “That’s a week at least. He’d stink bad enough to stun an elephant. This heat, two elephants.” He saw what the adjutant was thinking. “Embalming, sir. I don’t do it. Wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “No more would I, sergeant. When Nelson died at Trafalgar, they pickled him in salt and brought him home in a barrel.”

  The medic took another look at Kenny. “Bloody big barrel, sir.”

  The adjutant nodded sadly, and walked away. Bloody V.C.s, he thought. Raving lunatics when they’re alive and a thundering nuisance when they’re dead.

  3

  Most of the squadron was sitting in the shade of the train when the Chevrolet came in sight. Borodin made the car backfire twice, just to let everyone know, and he stopped where everyone could see it. The dust made by the wheels drifted away. Nobody got up.

  “Less than delirious,” Lacey said.

  “I must say I expected mild applause,” Borodin said. “Perhaps even a glad huzzah or two.”

  “Maybe they’ve been worried sick about us,” Duncan said. “Too full to speak.”

  They all got out of the car. Oliphant stood up and walked towards them. “I’d written you off,” he said. “We couldn’t find any wreckage.”

  “It’s a long story,” Pedlow said.

  “I started doing the paperwork. Next-of-kin, and so on.”

  “Tell you what,” Duncan said. “We’ll go back and die, and then you can get on with your paperwork.”

  “Don’t joke about it. We’ve got enough funerals without yours too.”

  “Who’s dead?” Lacey asked. “Besides Bellamy.”

  “Bellamy’s gone?” Pedlow said. “You might have told us.”

  “You had rather a lot on your mind,” Lacey said. “And you fell asleep. Then we had tea, and that didn’t seem the right moment.”

  A few other pilots had joined them. “You had tea?” Tommy Hopton said. “Is that where you’ve been all this time? Drinking tea?”

  “Stroke of luck,” Pedlow said. “Found this Russian tea shop. Damn good cream buns. Recommended.”

  “I could do with a drink,” Duncan said.

  “Well, you can’t go into the bar looking like that,” Oliphant said. “How did you get so filthy? Where did you spend the night? And what’s that curious smell?”

  “Another long story,” Pedlow said. “Russian village. Simple folk. Bit short on plumbing.”

  “They wanted to chop his bollocks off,” Duncan said.

  That caused some laughter. “Was this in the tea shop?” Hopton asked. “I hope they let you finish your cream bun.”

  “On a point of fact,” Borodin said. “Gerard himself was meant to perform the act, not the villagers. They would provide the knife.”

  “So what’s all the fuss about?” Jessop said. “Worse things happened to me at Tonbridge.”

  Hackett had arrived. “Tonbridge what?”

  “Tonbridge School. Believe me, after Tonbridge, the war was a blessed relief.”

  “Sorry about the smell,” Pedlow said to Hackett. “And I’m afraid we rather broke the aeroplane. Good God.” He noticed the extra stripe on Hackett’s sleeve. “You’re a squadron leader.”

  “Griffin went west. I’m the C.O. Are you fit to fly?”

  “Now I really need a drink,” Duncan said. “A big drink.”

  “You’ve turned into a raving dipsomaniac,” Hopton said.

  “It’s the tea in the tea shop,” Pedlow said. “Twelve per cent proof. They make it in a bathtub while you wait.”

  4

  Hackett inherited the C.O.’s Pullman compartment. He gave Lacey the chair, sat on the bed and explained what had happened in his absence. Ten Bolo fighters and three bombers blew the White squadron to buggery on the ground and the C.O. went off his head, attacked the Reds on his own, ten seconds later he was a flamer. At the other end of the field a visiting colonel with a V.C. did exactly the same bloody stupid thing except that he stood and fired a Lewis gun but he got the same treatment. Without the flames. Maybe he wanted to win another V.C. Christ knows. Anyway, Mission H.Q. in Ekat would have to be told. Hackett gave Lacey the adjutant’s notes. “Draft a signal,” he said. “You’ve got half an hour. There’s two g’s in buggery.”

  “I’ll do it now,” Lacey said.

  Ten minutes later he finished the draft. Hackett read:

  In single-handed combat against overwhelming odds, Wing Commander Griffin lived and died in the finest traditions of the Royal Air Force
. His skill, audacity and resolution were more than a match for the Bolshevik pilots, who got the better of him only when his ammunition was exhausted. His spirit and his gallantry remained unquenchable.

  “Um,” Hackett said. “Dunno. Bit brief, isn’t it?”

  “The more we say, the more there is for H.Q. to pick holes in.”

  Hackett read it again. The paper crinkled between his restless fingers. “We don’t know his ammunition was exhausted.”

  “We don’t know it wasn’t.”

  Hackett thought about that, and soon gave up. “This last bit … ‘His spirit and his gallantry remained unquenchable.’ What’s that supposed to mean? The stupid bastard picked a fight with ten Red machines and got himself killed. That must have quenched his spirit.”

  “It means …” Lacey made his eyes big, and searched the room. “Whatever you want it to mean.”

  Hackett massaged his face while he reviewed that, and got nowhere. “Where’s the other fellow?”

  “Turn over.”

  Hackett looked at the other side.

  The unflinching courage that earned Colonel Guy Kenny his Victoria Cross in France came to the fore when he unexpectedly found himself alone in the face of low-flying Bolshevik aircraft. With no thought of personal safety, he displayed gallantry above and beyond the call of duty, exposing himself to danger time and again in order to protect others. He made the supreme sacrifice for the country he loved and the cause he held dear.

  “What cause is that?” Hackett asked. “Don’t tell me. It’s any cause I want it to be.”

  “The trick of writing these things is telling people what they want to hear,” Lacey said. “Without actually lying.” He watched Hackett sign the paper. “We should go and search the colonel’s train,” he said.

  Hackett added Squadron Leader, Officer Commanding, Merlin Squadron, before he asked: “Why?”

  “It’s your train now. And our man in Ekat has sent me a hundred thousand roubles to pay the squadron. I bet it’s under the colonel’s bed.”

  “We’d better take the adjutant.”

  “Good idea. He’s bored. He hasn’t shot a British soldier since last year.”

  The colonel’s train was compact: just a couple of Pullman cars and a goods truck, hauled by a locomotive. A Vickers machine gun was bolted to the roof of a Pullman. A Royal Marine sentry guarded the doorway of the main coach and refused to admit anyone without Colonel Kenny’s permission.

  “The colonel’s dead,” Hackett said. The sentry blinked, and did not move.

  “Death revokes all contracts,” Lacey suggested. The Marine pursed his lips. If he thought about it, he didn’t think much.

  Hackett turned and looked at the setting sun. It had been a bad day. He was fairly sure he could rush this man and knock him down, but what if there were more Royal Marines waiting inside? A bad day would get worse. Then the adjutant cleared his throat.

  “I congratulate you,” he said. “You have done your duty as a Royal Marine should. You are clearly a loyal and intelligent man. You can see that we all face a problem. This officer is Group Captain Hackett. He commands all British forces in this battle zone. As such, he outranked Colonel Kenny. Before he was killed, Colonel Kenny handed control of this train to Group Captain Hackett, to operate as part of his strategic war plan. If you continue to rely on orders that have in fact expired, you tamper with Group Captain Hackett’s strategic war plan. However …”

  Brazier paused to let all that sink in.

  “However, a lucky solution is at hand, a solution to your problem and ours. This is Lieutenant Lacey. The Honourable Lieutenant Lacey. He is a cousin of the Prince of Wales, who is the son and heir of George V, our monarch – yours and mine – who commissioned both the colonel and the group captain in his service. The Honourable Lieutenant Lacey is twenty-sixth in line to the throne. He will remain here with you as a guarantor of correct behaviour. His presence allows you to give access to this train to Group Captain Hackett, as Colonel Kenny ordered.”

  The marine had stopped looking at Brazier. His eyes had swivelled to Lacey, and they were large with awe. Lacey stood like a full-page portrait from Tatler, right leg slightly flexed with the foot pointing at two o’clock, chin up and the peak of his cap shielding eyes that gazed at nothing except perhaps the responsibility or being twenty-sixth in line to rule the greatest empire in the world.

  The sentry stepped aside. Hackett and Brazier climbed onto the train. “Look here,” Lacey said, and found a drawl he did not know he owned. “Stand easy, if you like. Unless you’d rather not.” The Marine stood easy.

  Colonel Kenny’s quarters were spacious. Hackett and Brazier went through a kitchen and a bathroom and into a sitting room that was the full width of the train and twenty feet long. A corporal of Marines was playing cribbage with a young woman in nurse’s uniform. “That will be all, corporal,” Brazier said, and the man left at speed.

  The woman did not move. “If you two are officers, you should take your hats off,” she said; and they did. She had a measured, casual, confident voice. Once, in London, Hackett had gatecrashed a ball and asked a debutante for a dance. She had told him his fly was unbuttoned, and she had used the same cool tone of voice.

  Brazier introduced them. “May I ask …” He wasn’t sure what to ask. “Are you a friend of Colonel Kenny?”

  “You mean, am I his mistress? No. I am his nurse. Susan Perry. He is asthmatic.”

  “Was, I’m afraid,” Hackett said. “Killed in action a few hours ago. That’s why we’re here.”

  He expected the news to jolt her, but all she did was frown a little, and that only briefly. She stood up, and Hackett was surprised to see how small she was, petite as the French would say, yet strong in the face and wonderfully well shaped. It was many weeks since he had met anyone like this. He knew his fly was completely buttoned, yet he felt a stupid need to check it. He locked his hands behind his back.

  “You trained as a nurse in … um … England?” Brazier said. “I only ask because there are many so-called nurses in Ekaterinoslav. Every other woman wears a British nursing uniform.”

  “Yes. Stolen. Denikin’s officers give them to their wives, mistresses, daughters. Not because they want to be nurses. They would run a mile rather than touch a wounded soldier.” There was no scorn in her voice; it was a matter of fact.

  “With your permission,” Hackett said, with a delicacy that surprised him, “we’d like to sort of, you know, look around?”

  “I expect you want the money,” she said. “It’s under the bed.”

  She led them into the bedroom, and there it was: two big leather suitcases. Brazier dragged them out, undid the straps, clicked open the locks. Bundles of fresh roubles lay like bricks. “Pay for the troops,” Hackett told her.

  “And you might as well have this.” She pointed to a despatch case. “It’s no use to me.”

  Brazier carried the suitcases into the other room. Hackett picked up the despatch case and gestured that she should go next. He followed her. She had black hair that curled around her ears and left her neck bare. He felt a great wish to touch the neck, to stroke it with his knuckles. He fished out a handkerchief, wiped his lips, took his time putting it away. Anything to busy his hands.

  “Thank you for your help,” he said. “Is there something … anything … we can do for you?”

  “Perhaps.” For the first time, she had the makings of a smile. “I’m now an unemployed nurse. Do you have a medical emergency in your unit? Sprained ankle? Black eye? Broken leg?”

  “Can you embalm a corpse?” Brazier asked. “I’ve got to get Colonel Kenny back to London in A1 condition. That is to say … not exactly A1 but—”

  “Before decay sets in. I know the principles, I’ve seen embalming done in France. Usually some young officer who had to be shipped home to the family burial plot. I’ll need embalming fluid. Three gallons.”

  “Good grief. I thought a couple of pints …”

  “Three
gallons, minimum.”

  “Count Borodin,” Hackett said fast. “If anyone can get you three gallons of the stuff, it’s Borodin. Leave it to us.”

  5

  Borodin took the car and tracked down the Bishop of Tsaritsyn, who was living in the cellars of his ruined palace, and gave him a bottle of whisky as a gesture of appreciation from R.A.F. Merlin Squadron. The bishop, black-bearded to the waist, raised a jewelled hand and blessed the bottle, blessed the squadron, and blessed the embalming of the martyred colonel. He sent for a priest who knew a man who knew another man who took Borodin to, allegedly, the best undertaker in Tsaritsyn. Business, the undertaker said, was like his premises: in ruins. Look around: nobody has any respect for the dead, who lie everywhere, broken and useless, not worth spending a kopek on, not that anyone has a kopek. He gave Borodin three gallons of embalming fluid in exchange for a bottle of rum and seemed pleased with the deal.

  The adjutant heard the car return. He thanked him for the embalming fluid and sent for the medical sergeant. They took nurse Perry and two boxes of her equipment and drove to the hangar. It was sunset. A dozen hurricane lamps gave the place a warm glow. Colonel Kenny lay on his back. His uniform was soaked with blood that had dried brown-black.

  “He wasn’t shot,” she said. “He was destroyed. This is going to take a few hours.”

  “I’ve arranged for coffee and sandwiches to be sent over,” Brazier said. “I’ll stay and watch, if that’s alright.”

  “As you wish. I may need your muscle-power later.”

  The first task was to get the uniform off. The body was stiff and awkward, and the sergeant had to scissor much of the clothing into strips. The Glengarry came away to reveal a face that was unrecognisable under a mask of blood. “Hell’s bells,” Brazier said softly. “The family aren’t going to like that.”

  “Could be worse.” She splashed some water on the face and touched it with her fingertips. “The features seem intact. All this gore came from a head wound. Maybe two. It will wash off.”