A Splendid Little War

by Derek Robinson

  “Understatement,” he said. “I’ve caught the disease.” She held out her glass and he poured more brandy.

  In The Dregs, the adjutant had taken Tusker Oliphant into a quiet corner and was trying, and failing, to persuade him to be the new C.O. Tusker was the most senior officer. He had an unblemished record. King’s Regulations were very clear.

  “It won’t work, Uncle.”

  “It must work, Tusker. You’ll have my full backing.”

  “That won’t change the chaps. I’m a bomber boy. Fighter boys won’t accept me. D’you know what my chaps call them? Camel-drivers. Often worse. And they call us Number Nines. You know what they are.”

  “Sick-parade pills. Cure for constipation.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Schoolboy behaviour. They’ll do as they’re bloody well told.”

  Oliphant rubbed his eyes, and sat with his head in his hands. “Remember McCudden? James McCudden?”

  “Never met him. Different squadron.”

  “He shot down fifty-something Huns. Got the V.C., D.S.O. and Bar, etcetera. But first he won an M.M.” Oliphant looked up. “Not an M.C., Uncle. An M.M.”

  “So McCudden rose through the ranks.”

  “Started as an air mechanic. Ended as a major. When he got his V.C., the generals offered him command of 85 Squadron. One of the best. They didn’t want him. Turned him down.”

  “The pilots decided?”

  “He hadn’t been to the right school, Uncle. His father was a sergeant-major. And 85 was stuffed with public-school types.”

  Brazier rubbed his chin. He shaved twice a day and it would soon be time. “You know this for a fact?”

  “I know McCudden went to 60 Squadron instead. Everyone believed 85 wouldn’t have him because he wasn’t one of them. Well, neither am I. But the Camel-drivers are. Eton, Harrow, Rugby, Sherborne, Tonbridge.”

  “They accepted Hackett.”

  “He frightened them. And he wasn’t a Number Nine.”

  “You’d get a squadron-leader’s pay,” the adjutant said, but he knew from Oliphant’s sad smile that money couldn’t change anything.

  Sergeant Stevens had rescued a percolator from Colonel Kenny’s Pullman. Lacey watched him brew coffee. “I’ve decided to make you my fag,” he said. “I take it you served your time as a fag at Winchester.”

  “It happened. There was an American boy in my year. He found fagging very amusing. It means something very different in his country.”

  “Yes. Did you suffer from homosexuality at Winchester?”

  The percolator started to go bloop-bloop. “I don’t think anyone actually suffered,” Stevens said. Bloop-bloop went the coffee. Lacey sprawled, and enjoyed the sound. It domesticated the radio room. “It hurts me to say so,” Stevens said, “but I should congratulate you on your poetic tribute to our late leader.”

  “Written in haste, I’m afraid.”

  “It was a touch too long.”

  “Perhaps. I didn’t have time to write a shorter piece.”

  Stevens looked at him sideways. “Pascal said that first, didn’t he?”

  “Did he? Quite possibly.”

  Bloop-bloop.

  “Your first line: ‘Calm is the morn …’ Tennyson, isn’t it? His In Memoriam. But …” Stevens hunched his shoulders. “Not entirely Tennyson.”

  “I changed the ending. ‘Without a sound’ is what Tennyson wrote but it sounded flat, so I made it ‘after direst duress’, which also rhymes with line three, ‘one ray the less’. The chaps like poetry that rhymes.”

  “So, not content with pinching bits of Tennyson, you mess them about too.”

  “Enhance, Stevens. I enhance them.”

  “Who else did you rape?”

  “Oh … Shelley. Line two: ‘For the sword outwears its sheath’. I wasn’t convinced by ‘sheath’. Not a very manly word. I changed it to ‘clasp’, which rhymes with ‘blast’ in line four.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Near enough. And towards the end, I needed a rhyme with ‘stone’. Campbell wrote: ‘The meteor flag of England shall yet terrific burn’, which is a big disappointment. What he should have said is ‘has gloriously flown’. And now he has.”

  “Shameless,” Stevens said. “At least you didn’t fool around with your last lines. The Burial of Sir John Moore, wasn’t it? Every schoolboy’s read it.”

  “It was irresistible. ‘We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, so we left him alone with his glory’. Perfect bull’s-eye. I know two handkerchiefs came out. At least two.”

  Stevens lifted the percolator from the Primus and let it rest. “So what didn’t I spot?”

  “Bit of Wordsworth, bit of Byron, rather too much Walter Scott.” Lacey, deep in his armchair, fingertips making an arch, looked professorial. “But you know how Scott burbles on. Hard to stop him.”

  They were drinking their coffee when the adjutant came in. “Oliphant’s funked being acting C.O.,” he said. “So I’m in charge until Taganrog. They’ll want a report on what happened to Hackett. Give me a copy of your flowery verse. Something to bulk out the sad facts.”

  “Oh,” Lacey said. “Is that absolutely necessary?”

  “The curse of genius,” Stevens said. “The price of a raging talent.”

  7

  The same amiable, plump captain who, long ago, had been chatting to Maynard at lunch in Novorossisk, was waiting on the platform when the trains pulled into Taganrog and everyone piled out. After five days of trundling across the empty, unchanging steppe, the squadron hoped Taganrog was Paris on the Black Sea. With a slice of Sodom and Gomorrah thrown in.

  The captain quickly picked out Brazier as the most responsible man. “Welcome to Tag,” he said. “Good journey?”

  “Tedious. Got shot at by bandits. One engine exploded.”

  “Yes. That’s how it is in Russia.”

  “The C.O. got killed.”

  “My dear chap, what rotten luck. Do you need a C.O.? Yes, of course you do. We can fix you up, I’m sure of it. We’ve got everything here. Our H.Q. is huge. As soon as Denikin began his Big Push, all the chaps from Novo and Ekat came up here, to be nearer the Front.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Oh, hundreds of miles away by now. They say Denikin’s taken Kharkov. And he may have got Kiev. Come to lunch, somebody will tell you.”

  “First things first. You want Colonel Kenny V.C. He’s boxed up, ready to go.”

  “Of course, of course. Slipped my mind. These chaps will take care of him.” The captain waved to a waiting army lorry. “Tragic event, truly tragic … About lunch. I’ve got a car. You’ll enjoy Tag; it’s like Brighton, bright and breezy. Awfully friendly.”

  Brazier pointed at the Camels and Nines lashed to the flatbed trucks. “We’re here to fight.”

  “Yes, exactly. No time to waste. Did I say that you leave here tomorrow? Slipped my mind. Who else would you like to bring to lunch? I can get five in the car. Six, at a pinch.”

  When the squadron heard that it had only twenty-four hours in Taganrog, nobody wanted to waste any of it on lunch at Mission H.Q.

  “Don’t worry about us, Uncle,” Junk Jessop said. “Our behaviour will be in the finest tradition of the Service.”

  “That means you’ll get blotto and act batty,” Brazier said. He found Wragge. “For God’s sake, Tiger, keep them out of the red light district. Tell them pox is a court-martial offence. Any man gets thrown in jail will stay there and rot. We’ll leave without him.”

  “Uncle, their conduct will be exemplary. Impeccable.”

  “And take Borodin with you. I don’t want any stupid misunderstandings.”

  “What could possibly go wrong?”

  Brazier widened his eyes and stared. “More things than you could imagine,” he said, “and worse.”

  Wragge got the crews together, and Borodin led them to a line of four-wheeled carriages. “These are droshkys,” he said. “Russian cabs. I’ll tell th
e drivers to show you the sights. Be kind to them and they will be good to you.”

  The droshkys set off, four men in each cab. Wragge was in the lead with Borodin and a couple of bomber boys. “Damn,” he said. “Forgot to give them Uncle’s advice.” Borodin told the driver to slow down until the next droshky was almost alongside. Wragge stood up. “I say, you chaps,” he called. “Uncle says beware the floozies. And give the jug a miss. Pass it on.” He sat down. His driver shook the reins and they moved ahead again.

  “What did he say?” Daddy Maynard asked.

  “Sounded like, ‘See what the floozies are wearing’, I think,” Junk Jessop said. “I wasn’t really listening. And don’t miss the jug. Funny thing to say.”

  “Maybe they serve their tipple by the jug,” Rex Dextry said. “Saves time.”

  “Look,” Tommy Hopton said. “Floozies! And jolly friendly!” He waved back. “Tally-ho. This is going to be fun.”

  They had entered a wide circus, with heroic statuary in the middle. “If this was ancient Rome,” Maynard said, “they’d have chariot races around here.”

  “Bloody good idea,” Jessop said. “A brace of floozies, a jug of wine, and lickety-split around the circus! By golly, that would give the town something to remember us by.”

  Lacey had no time for fun. His business partner, Henry, had followed the British Military Mission from Ekat and now he had a penthouse suite at the best place in town, the Hotel Olymp. They met there.

  “You’ll be gone a long time,” Henry said.

  Lacey knew that he was from a New York family of stockbrokers, had been to Yale, served with the American Expeditionary Force in France and left the Force, and France, in something of a hurry. He never explained why and Lacey never asked. They had met in Ekat. Henry’s American accent was under control. He spoke quietly, in complete sentences, with no ums or ahs. He knew everyone worth knowing, down to the last rouble in their pockets. He was an instinctive businessman. He did business the way normal men breathed in and out.

  “A long time doesn’t mean a couple of weeks,” he said. “It means a month or more. You’ll get new high-speed locomotives and you’ll have express-train status. Denikin sees your squadron as the spearhead of his advance.”

  “How do you know all this? We haven’t had our orders from H.Q.”

  “Lacey, old pal. You have been away too long from the corridors of power. Staff officers at the British Mission H.Q. are desperate for the essentials of war. I speak of Cooper’s Oxford marmalade, hot English mustard, Gentleman’s Relish, blades for the Gillette safety razor, the latest novel by Edgar Wallace, Bristol Cream sherry, ten-year-old malt whisky, Edinburgh shortcake, green ink, and many more.”

  “Green ink is a red herring, surely.”

  “Not a bit. A brigadier at H.Q. was distraught when a servant spilled his only bottle. He always signed orders in green ink. He was famous for it. When I rode to his rescue, we became firm friends. Denikin’s advance has given him something to brag about, and he enjoys bragging to me.”

  “Express trains,” Lacey said. “Golly.”

  “I took the liberty of doubling the size of your orders,” Henry said. “It’s all in a boxcar that is being hooked right now to the end of your train. H.Q. found replacements for your Camel and DH9. They’re on a flatbed car. Fuel and ammo are separate.”

  “The green ink still intrigues me. Doesn’t Russia make it?”

  “No. I got on the radio to our man in Constantinople. He put a bottle on the next British destroyer for Novorossisk, along with other essentials.”

  “Cooper’s Oxford marmalade,” Lacey said. “Hot English mustard.”

  “Have you got an hour to spare?” Henry said. “You might be interested in seeing how Denikin finances his war.”

  “Gold from London?”

  “This is far better. It amazed me.”

  Daddy Maynard had never known a girl whom he could honestly call a close friend. His family lived in a former rectory in a remote corner of Wiltshire, chosen because it was handy for Salisbury Plain where his father, a major, spent much of his time on cavalry manoeuvres. There was an older sister, completely indifferent to her brother. Local girls were farming stock, buxom and ruddy: totally unsuitable. In any case, from the age of six, most of his years were spent at boarding schools where girls were as foreign as unicorns.

  He went, almost without pause, from school to the Royal Flying Corps, which was just as masculine as school. On leave, as he passed through London, he was aware that the wings on his tunic excited young women, some of them quite attractive. What to do about it? He had no idea. When he went to Russia, he had never held a girl, let alone kissed one. Now he had two girls, one on each side and they were kissing him. Not continuously, but often enough to make him feel he was a hell of a chap.

  They were in a droshky, driving along the promenade. “I say, Rex,” Maynard said. “I need some advice.”

  Dextry detached himself from his girl. “They’re awfully keen, aren’t they?” he said. “Full of beans.”

  “Here’s a technical question. The one on my right keeps kissing me on the lips.”

  “Good for her. And for you, I hope.”

  “No complaints. But then she puts her tongue in my mouth. I mean, right in.”

  “Does she? Does she, by Jove. Well I never. I must try that.” Dextry turned away.

  “I can’t talk to her,” Maynard said. “She talks to me, but I don’t understand a word of it.” Dextry wasn’t listening. Maynard returned to the kissing business and wondered if he was brave enough to do the mouth–tongue thing. He decided to leave it for a while.

  Similar encounters were happening in droshkys scattered about Taganrog. Only one thought was cooling the ardour of the air crews. They were hungry. They wanted lunch. Girls were alright, but food and girls would be better. Plus a jug of vodka.

  8

  Henry had a car. Of course he had a car, a Hispano-Suiza limousine, looted by the Austrian Army in Italy, sold to the German Army, abandoned in the Ukraine, somehow ended up in Taganrog. He drove. They picked up an elderly Russian general who spoke little English and they made their way inland for about five miles. This countryside was not steppe; far from it. There were farms and fields, woods, hills, even a river. The road was cobbled, but at least it was a road. And then, surprisingly, a railway line appeared and ran alongside the road. Both ended when a steep hillside blocked their way.

  A guardhouse had been built into the hillside. Armed soldiers stared at the car. The general got out and they saluted him.

  “This is the most secret place in Russia,” Henry said. “The old gentleman will vouch for us.” The general raised a hand. “We’re in,” Henry said. “Don’t smile, and don’t touch anything. Fort Knox is Coney Island compared to what’s inside.”

  They went through the guardhouse. A junior officer opened a pair of gates that belonged to a small castle and they walked into a cavern that was big enough to take the Imperial Coach with outriders. It was a wine cellar, lined on both sides with racks of bottles. It went into the hillside as far as Lacey could see.

  The officer had a lantern. They followed him. “This is all French,” Henry said. “Burgundies, Beaujolais, Château Lafite, various other Rothschilds. All the great reds.” After a couple of hundred yards they reached a crossroads. “The French whites are down there,” he said. They walked on. “I think this is Chianti,” he said. “I’m not very strong on the Italians.” His voice made a slight echo; the walls of wine bottles absorbed sound. After a while he said, “This is what I wanted you to see. The great cave.” The tunnel had been made higher and wider. “Here they keep the champagne. Well, part of the champagne. The good stuff. There’s more elsewhere. In the beginning, the cavern was made for the champagne, but it kept growing and growing.” He pointed to the roof. “Chalk. Temperature and humidity never vary, year round. Have you seen enough?”

  “How much more is there?”

  “About fifteen miles.”


  They walked back to the guardroom, thanked the officer, collected the general, and went and sat in the car.

  “Staggering, isn’t it?” Henry said.

  “Stupefying. And it all belongs to Denikin?”

  “It does now. It was the Tsar’s private wine cellar for generations. I’m told there are a million bottles of champagne in there.”

  “So, when Denikin needs some money …”

  “He sells off a few thousand bottles and makes a million roubles, maybe two million. And the war goes on.”

  9

  The accordion-player had his own sense of time. Usually he played three beats to the bar, sometimes four, occasionally five. He was playing a waltz, and his changes of tempo annoyed the violin and the piano. Often they stopped playing and swore at him until he rediscovered three-quarter time.

  Dextry was dancing with his girl and he didn’t complain. “The accordion has some Irish blood in him,” he told her. She smiled and hugged him and the accordion went doolally again.

  They were in a big, noisy restaurant-bar dance hall. All the squadron were there, because all the droshky drivers had recommended it. “It’s a racket,” Oliphant said. Wragge agreed. “Still, they seem to want us,” he said. “The grub’s hot, the drinks are big, the waiters are friendly, and my girl likes it. Your Number Nines are enjoying themselves.”

  “They’re bloody idiots,” Oliphant said.

  The bomber crews were competing to see who could get a visible set of footprints on the ceiling. They dragged tables together to make a base for two men to stand on and support a third, whose boot-soles had been blackened with soot. The trick was to turn him upside-down and hoist him. The problem was that they were all drunk, and others were fighting to rock the tables. Those too tired to fight threw things. Fruit, bread rolls, bottles. Two attempts to reach the ceiling failed. The owner looked on as men fell and tables splintered, and he doubled the price of the drinks. The sport lost its novelty. Waiters swept the dance floor clear of debris. The accordion began an eccentric version of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band”. Dancing began again.