A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  “Lieutenant-colonel, actually.” He was grey-haired and his face was as windbeaten as a ploughman’s but a lot thinner.

  “My apologies. I’m afraid I’m not very clever with ranks.”

  “Neither am I. Admiral Kolchak offered to make me a general in one of his armies, but I had to decline.”

  “Yes.” They went inside. “How long have you been back?”

  “Landed two days ago. Barely had time to get my uniform cleaned.”

  Fitzroy glanced at the faded khaki. “It’s been in the wars, hasn’t it?”

  “The wars? That’s about the only thing it hasn’t been in.”

  “Well, you must tell us all about it. We’re a small committee on Russian affairs, to advise the P.M.’s office. First-hand news is exactly what we need.”

  They went into a conference room and Fitzroy introduced him to the team. “Lieutenant-colonel Johnson commanded a battalion of the Hampshire Regiment in Siberia,” he said. “As soon as I knew he was in London I got in touch. We’re very fortunate to meet a man who knew Admiral Kolchak personally.”

  They took their seats.

  “Hampshires,” General Stattaford said. “Regular or Territorials?”

  “Territorials,” Johnson said. “First-class men. It was an honour to lead them. We were all set to fight in France but we got sent to India instead.”

  “See any fighting there?”

  “A little. Some police action.”

  “Oh. No real campaigns, then.”

  Johnson sat very still, with his arms resting on the arms of the chair. He kept his head slightly tilted, as if his neck muscles were tired. His eyes had the weary look of someone who has gazed too long at distances too great. “We served where our country sent us,” he said.

  “India to Siberia,” Stattaford said. “Somewhat different climates.”

  Johnson had nothing to add to that.

  “What were your orders?” James Weatherby asked. “When you left India, that is.”

  “To take my battalion to Omsk and to assist the White Russian Army to establish a new eastern front against the Germans. Omsk is about a thousand miles east of Moscow, and so not in any danger from the Germans. But that didn’t matter because it took us two months to get to Omsk, and by then Germany had surrendered.”

  “Two months,” Stattaford said. “Less than speedy.”

  “Shipping was scarce. We sailed to Ceylon, then to Hong Kong, and to Singapore, and finally to Vladivostok, on the Russian Pacific coast. From there we took the Trans-Siberian Railway. It’s a long way to Omsk, at least two thousand miles, and the train goes slowly. Sometimes not at all.”

  “And when you arrived?” Weatherby said. “How did that go?”

  “I believe we did our duty,” Johnson said slowly. “I believe we performed as well as any men could.”

  “Splendid, splendid,” Fitzroy said. It wasn’t splendid at all; it was rather dull. “How did you get along with Admiral Kolchak? What were your impressions of him?”

  “Kolchak.” Johnson gave that question some thought. “A brave man. Energetic. Knew what he wanted. He was the only totally honest man I met in Russia.”

  That amused Charles Delahaye, from the Treasury. “Honesty is a rare commodity, is it?”

  Johnson took a deep breath, held it for a second, and released it. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am very proud of my Hampshires. But if anything I say here were to appear in the Press, the name and reputation of the regiment might suffer in the eyes of some people. That would be grossly unfair.”

  “Nothing said here leaves this room,” Fitzroy told him. Everyone nodded agreement.

  “Well then. You ask about honesty. All of the White Russian generals whom I met, and my officers met, were corrupt or incompetent, and most were both. The same went for the regimental officers. They treated their rank as an opportunity to make money at the expense of the ordinary Russian soldier, who is half-starved, abominably clothed, badly armed, and ill-led. Officers regard their men with contempt and steal the money which is meant to feed and clothe them. There is no common purpose, no esprit de corps. The generals conspire against each other. All of them drink too much and some are permanently drunk.”

  “Goodness,” Fitzroy said. “Rather a bombshell.”

  “But surely,” Stattaford said, “you could train the soldiers. You could take a rabble and turn it into something like the British Army. We did, in the war. Made good troops out of useless civilians.”

  “Mmm. A nice idea. But the comparison is not apt, general. We moved the whole battalion five hundred miles from Omsk, by rail, to Ekaterinburg. Not to be confused with Ekaterinodar or Ekaterinoslav, near the Black Sea. Ekaterinburg is in Siberia. We took charge of eight thousand Russian recruits. They were – it gives me no pleasure to tell you this – all filthy, all lousy, thoroughly infested with vermin. Our first task was to strip them and wash them, they could not be relied on to wash themselves. Their rags of clothing were burned and the recruits were disinfected, head to foot. Only then could we equip them with British Army uniform.”

  Sir Franklyn Fletcher stirred himself. “How many of your officers spoke Russian?”

  “A few had a smattering. Not a problem, because many recruits spoke no Russian either. They came from Mongolia. Moslems, most of them.”

  “Ah,” Stattaford said. “French Army had a spot of bother like that. Colonial troops, Moroccans, very keen on prayer.”

  “One learned to adjust,” Johnson said. “If half the squad disappears during bayonet practice, so be it.”

  “The key question is,” Delahaye said, “did your training pay off? I mean, did you end up with an élite group, keen as mustard to fight the Bolsheviks?”

  “It wasn’t as simple as that.” Johnson stood up. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He limped to and fro. “My legs have taken a bit of a hammering lately. Knees get stiff.” He returned, and stood behind his chair, gripping the top. “What I should explain is that Siberia is a shambles, a state of anarchy. Admiral Kolchak’s men control the railway – well, some of it, some of the time – but there are tens of thousands of square miles on either side that are full of warlords, guerrilla groups, private armies, bandits, leftover German and Austrian prisoners of war, all sorts of odds and sods. They don’t support Kolchak, and they certainly won’t fight for him, because they believe he wants to be the next Tsar of all the Russias.”

  Sir Franklyn asked: “And does he?”

  “He claims to be the Supreme Power.”

  “And you think that is a fiction.”

  “His grip is tenuous. Conspiracies against him abound. A plot by his generals to overthrow him would have succeeded if the Hampshires hadn’t been there to quash it.”

  “Yet he’s running the show in Siberia,” Weatherby said. “How did that happen?”

  “Oh … I can think of three reasons. Firstly, he has more money than anyone else. He has the Imperial Gold Reserve, acquired I don’t know how, and worth a hundred million pounds. Secondly, he has the Czech Brigade. Sixty thousand men, very disciplined, very tough. Thirdly, all the other White Russian leaders are quite hopeless.”

  It made them laugh. Johnson shrugged, and did not laugh.

  “Well, that certainly clears the air,” Fitzroy said.

  “It’s not as simple as it sounds,” Johnson said. “The gold is an enormous hazard. Everyone wants to steal it. The Czechs are tired of fighting. They want to go home, now. And the other White leaders are too stupid to realize how stupid they are. They will overthrow Kolchak even if it kills them. Which the Bolsheviks will gladly do.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Coffee,” Weatherby said. “Praise be. We need some stimulus.”

  The coffee circulated. Everyone left their seats and enjoyed a little exercise. James Weatherby and Sir Francis strolled around the room, looking at portraits of long-dead statesmen.

  “Delicious coffee,” Sir Francis said. “What’s wrong with the Royal College of Embroidery?”
<
br />   “Out of bounds. Influenza struck down the staff. You probably recognie this chap. Lord Palmerston. Diplomacy was a lot easier in his day. Any problem, send a gunboat.”

  “Not a formula that would apply to Siberia. It’s rather a long way up the Volga.”

  They moved on. “What do you make of our guest?” Weatherby asked quietly.

  “Well, I happen to know he was President of the Union when he was at Oxford. He’s nobody’s fool.”

  “Too clever for the Army?”

  “Perhaps. I say: who was this handsome fellow?”

  “Um … Spencer Perceval. The only Prime Minister to be assassinated. His murderer ran up a lot of debts in Russia, blamed them on the government, and when it refused to pay, he shot poor Perceval.”

  “Dear me.”

  “Gunned down in the lobby of the House of Commons. 1812.”

  “A very Russian solution. We have elections, they have assassinations.”

  “Doesn’t make them any happier, does it?”

  Sir Francis shrugged. “I don’t think Russians expect to be happy. But they do like to register their disapproval.”

  General Stattaford was talking to Delahaye. “Did I see a little glint in your eye at the mention of a hundred million in gold, Charles?”

  “It would make a dent in their debt, certainly.”

  “Russia’s flat broke. They’ll never pay.”

  “No, probably not. Our friend makes Kolchak’s crowd sound like a grisly lot. And why must they keep slaughtering the Jews?”

  “Force of habit, old chap.”

  “It doesn’t help either side win the war, that’s what puzzles me. Jews are the only Russians with brains, and everyone kills them. Makes life difficult for Lloyd George, I can tell you. Whatever he does, he ends up backing a mob of butchers.”

  “War is war, Charles. Omelettes and eggs, you know.”

  “Try telling that to the Jews.”

  Fitzroy was chatting to Johnson about cricket. “Stroke of luck,” Johnson said. “Hampshire are playing Middlesex at Lord’s today. Sort of thing I dreamt about in Siberia. Sunny day, Hampshire in fine form, that’s my idea of heaven.”

  “Then we’d better finish up here and let you go on your way.” Fitzroy tapped a teaspoon against a coffee cup. “Gentlemen … Lieutenantcolonel Johnson has kindly agreed to answer your questions.”

  They settled into their chairs.

  “Haven’t you been a little unfair on Admiral Kolchak?” Sir Franklyn said. “He has had some success, hasn’t he?”

  “Indeed. His armies advanced hundreds of miles early this year. Bolshevik opposition was weak. His staff even spoke of taking Moscow. Then some strong Red armies appeared and Kolchak’s men have been retreating ever since. His advance looked good on the map, but he didn’t administer his gains, he didn’t win over the population, because …”

  “Because he’s a sailor,” Stattaford said cheerfully.

  “It’s not like the Western Front. Battles may be hundreds of miles apart. Capturing a great slice of Siberia is meaningless unless the people support you. And—”

  “They don’t like Kolchak,” Stattaford said.

  “Will the Siberian people prefer the Bolsheviks?” Weatherby asked.

  “The peasants prefer the Revolution to the Romanovs,” Johnson said. “Nine out of ten Russians are peasants.”

  “You make it sound as if we’ve backed the wrong horse.”

  “It’s their country. They must decide.”

  “Meanwhile, your Hampshires are still there,” Stattaford said. “Why did you leave them?”

  “Orders. I was recalled. I’m doing my utmost to get them out of there.”

  “I hear you had an exciting trip,” Fitzroy said hopefully.

  Johnson thought about that. “Challenging,” he said.

  “The Trans-Siberian again?” James Weatherby asked.

  “If I’d gone to Vladivostok I’d still be on the train now. I took the short route. Overland to Archangel, and then by ship.”

  “How far was this short route?”

  “From Ekaterinburg to Archangel? About a thousand miles.” Johnson unfolded a foolscap sheet of paper and spread it on the table. “Local maps aren’t very reliable, so I’ve drawn my own. The battalion had a dozen married men, all released on compassionate grounds, and they came with me. Archangel’s north-west of Ekaterinburg. Went by train from Ekaterinburg to Perm, two hundred miles. Steamboat up the River Kama, then we took this tributary of the Kama.” His fingers traced the route. “Too shallow for the steamboat. We transferred to rowboats.”

  “Upstream?” Fitzroy said. “Against the current?”

  Johnson nodded. “Rowed as far as we could. Then we walked to another river, the Pechora. Only eighty miles, but it meant hiking through forest, thick forest, and that presents its own problems. Reached the Pechora, very shallow, more rowboats. Eventually we found another river steamer. It took us four hundred miles, almost to the Barents Sea. Unfortunately ice blocked the river mouth. We had to tramp two hundred miles through yet more thick forest.” He glanced up. “There is no such thing as thin forest in Russia.” They smiled. The old stick had a sense of humour after all. “Another river. Rowboats again. Rowed to the sea, and a Royal Navy destroyer found us.”

  “Well done!” Fitzroy said. He pounded the table with his fist, and the rest joined in, except General Stattaford.

  “Strenuous,” he said. “But I wonder if there wasn’t a better way. More direct, less exhausting. You left the train at Perm. Perm is not the end of the line.” He took a pencil and traced a more westerly route. “The railway continues for six or seven hundred miles to this town, called Kotlas.” He drew a circle around it. “From Kotlas it’s riverboat all the way down the River Dvina to Archangel.” His pencil raced down the river and underscored Archangel. “Hop on a boat. That’s the sensible way to travel.”

  Johnson was starting to feel weary. “The Bolsheviks hold Kotlas, general. Admiral Kolchak sent an army to capture it and link up with Archangel but the Red Army destroyed it. Beyond Perm, the Red Army owns everything. That’s why I took a different route.”

  Stattaford was blithely untroubled. “Just testing your strategy,” he said. “Seems sound.”

  Everyone shook Johnson’s hand, and Jonathan Fitzroy escorted him out of the building. “Quite fascinating,” he said. “We’re enormously grateful to you.”

  “If you have the P.M.’s ear,” Johnson said, “please get my Hampshires out of that dreadful country.”

  Fitzroy went back and met the rest of the party coming downstairs. “Tell Lloyd George to wash his hands of the whole scurvy crew,” Charles Delahaye said, without stopping.

  “The odd thing is,” Sir Franklyn said, “they write such damned fine symphonies.” Then he too was gone.

  2

  The Camels and the Nines had been dismantled and loaded on to flat cars. The ponies and the Chevrolet went into boxcars; so did all the ground crews’ stores and toolkits, the fuel, bombs and ammunition, and the canvas hangars. Wrangel had released Count Borodin from his army duties; he joined the squadron and took Colonel Kenny’s coach. The colonel’s coffin travelled in the Marines’ quarters. Flight Lieutenant Susan Perry moved into Hackett’s old Pullman compartment. Hackett, of course, had the C.O.’s place.

  After many warning blasts on all three locomotive whistles to get everybody aboard, Merlin Squadron trundled out of Beketofka. For the first mile it moved at a slow walking pace, while the ground crews made sure that none of the loads fell off. Then, with final blasts, the trains gradually worked up to fifteen miles an hour and stuck to it.

  The C.O. called a meeting with his senior officers.

  “I can run backwards faster than this,” Hackett said. “Can’t we speed it up?”

  “The drivers say this is the most economical speed,” Borodin said. “The locomotives are low on fuel.”

  “What’s wrong with the railways? Haven’t they got fuel dumps?” Tus
ker Oliphant asked.

  “Not for a hundred miles.”

  “If we went faster, we’d reach the dumps sooner,” Hackett said.

  “I don’t think it works like that,” Tiger Wragge said. “The faster, the slower. In the long run.”

  Hackett gave him a hard stare. “Bollocks,” he said.

  “Well, I can’t compete with your intellectual firepower,” Wragge said. “And I hope you’re not turning into another galloping warhorse like our late lamented wing commander.”

  “Oh, I say … that’s a bit below the belt,” Oliphant said. “Sniping at a chap who’s not here to defend himself.”

  “Why isn’t he? Because he couldn’t wait. Dashed off on his own. Outnumbered. Dead. Good way to lead the squadron? Or have I overlooked something?” Wragge stared at Hackett, but Hackett just stared back.

  The adjutant cleared his throat, with a sound like gravel being shovelled. “I’m not an airman,” he said. “I’m just a simple soldier, me. But could Griffin have been trying to divert the enemy? All our machines were not yet in the air. Might he have attacked to distract the Bolsheviks?” He raised his eyebrows, and then his hands. “Just a suggestion. A possibility.”

  Hackett said: “If he’d waited two minutes, we could all have distracted them.”

  “Two minutes can be a long time in a battle,” Brazier murmured.

  “Not in that battle.”

  “Captain Ball,” Oliphant said. “56 Squadron. I met a chap from 56 who told me Ball liked to dive into the middle of a Hun circus because they didn’t dare fire at him for fear of hitting one of their own. He got three D.S.O.s, a V.C., God knows what else. So it worked for Ball.”

  “Until one day it didn’t,” Wragge said. “Ball played his joker too often. Griffin played it once, and that was once too many.”