‘Because their line of march coincides with the railway tracks here. And didn’t before.’ He thought it was fairly obvious. ‘We were slanting in from the south-east before, weren’t we?’
Scott was looking slightly dazed. He’d turned back to the window now: shaking his head, as if he was trying to convince himself No, I’m not seeing this…
‘This’ being the reality of defeat. When you actually saw it was the moment in which it became real. Out there – now – men, and women, obviously – struggling to get away, save their lives. There – within shouting distance, if it hadn’t been for steamed-up glass and the train’s racket… But nothing less than that: if anything, a little more, because torture and rape would come into it too, invariably did – as every one of those struggling creatures – there, in your sight this minute – knew for sure.
This next crowd of them was bigger, and nearly all on foot. If there’d been five hundred in the first column, there were probably a thousand or more in this one. Each succeeding group of course would profit to some extent from those who’d gone before them, flattening and compressing the snow and leaving drifts and depressions clear to see and avoid. Until fresh falls came: which would happen before long. But there was also a lot to be said for frozen ground that was too iron-hard to be churned into mud.
He thought, One small mercy…
But – on one’s own, for God’s sake: with say a hundred and fifty miles of this kind of thing between here and Ekaterinoslav – even without the Red cavalry who were said to be on their way… What could one man alone hope to achieve?
Davies gestured: ‘This other side too, now.’
‘Christ…’
‘Bear up, Cowan. Your girls could have been on one of those trains, you know.’
Scott, having so to speak recovered his own mental breath, seemed to have become a mind-reader. Either that, Bob thought, or he showed his emotions in his face much more than he’d ever realized.
He agreed: ‘They could have been. Could indeed.’
‘In which case –’ Scott nodded at the scene outside – ‘putting yourself into that predicament wouldn’t be doing them or anyone else a mite of good, would it?’
‘No, but…’
Tongue-tied, for the moment. Staring out at it – at them… He’d been about to answer that he wasn’t planning on becoming one more in any horde of refugees, had stopped short because the statement wouldn’t have made sense. It was what one would be doing. The mere fact of being Robert Cowan and dressed in naval uniform, instead of Ivan Ivanovich in the Russian brownish khaki, would make no odds whatever. You would be one of them – one of thousands, but entirely on your own, and only there in the crazy hope of finding two girls who might already have got away in any case.
‘You see –’ Davies was addressing Bob but looking to Scott for agreement too – ‘if the dear General is ordering us out of here, there’s no reason at all we shouldn’t retain the pleasure of your company. I mean –’ he waved one hand at distant, ant-like figures spread across the snowscape – ‘doesn’t look like we’ll be staying, does it? And since your young ladies may be revelling in the pleasures of Taganrog by now – heaven’s sake, man—’
‘He’s talking sense – for once. You’d be an ass not to stay with us, Cowan.’ Scott assured him, ‘And you’d be entirely welcome.’
* * *
‘Getting close, perhaps.’
Davies, pointing at where a branch line joined this track from the west. Then a signal-box; and other lines curved away beyond it. Scott agreed: ‘Can’t be much longer now, I’d guess.’ He glanced at Bob. ‘You’ll stay with us, will you?’
He still hadn’t decided. For half an hour he’d been switching from one point of view to the other. Knowing that what the flyers were suggesting made good sense, and tempted to accept both the reasoning and the invitation: even with the feeling he’d be a damn fool if he didn’t. But then, having come all this way – and having diverted one of His Majesty’s ships in the process – the idea of giving up now, admitting that the whole exercise had been futile – and just at the moment of arrival…
Arrival where, for God’s sake? Except at the back end of nowhere… And not necessarily within a hundred miles of those girls. And when the whole idea – his own, as discussed with Captain Fellows and submitted to Colonel Temple by signal, had been to get in and out, bringing the girls out with him, before the front gave way. It had been Temple’s assumption, too, as expressed in his first signal – that if it wasn’t a viable proposition to get them out before the Bolsheviks broke through, there’d be no question even of starting. Hence what might be termed the Taganrog-Everard solution.
So – on that basis…
Frowning, gazing out at the whitish blur of snowbound steppe… There were no refugee columns in sight now. So they probably hadn’t been coming from or through Kupyansk. Otherwise they’d have been thicker on the ground than before, surely, as one came closer to the place. Davies had suggested that they’d know as well or better than anyone about the encircling cavalry movement that was said to be in progress: they’d have started from the Kharkov region – seventy-five, eighty miles north of here – and they’d simply be swarming south, desperate to be out of the trap before it closed on them.
‘And if I’m right, how clever does that make us?’
Scott had looked at him, shaken his head, and gone back to talking about B Flight; he was still doing so, sporadically, having started in response to questions which Bob had put to him and then found himself barely listening to the answers, his thoughts being directed elsewhere at least half the time. Asking himself, for instance, if the Misses Pilkington and Reid had needed rescuing before the front collapsed, how you could justify turning your back on them now?
How would you explain it to their parents?
Scott’s voice broke in again: ‘Kinkead’s the guy who shot up Budyonny’s cavalry near Tsarytsin. He was leading the team that did that, I mean. Marcus Kinkead: B Flight commander.’
‘But surely Collishaw—’
‘Guy’s not bloody listening.’ Scott sighed. ‘Cowan – old man—’
‘Sorry. You said—’
‘Ray Collishaw commands the whole Detachment. Squadron, as it was. Three Flights, now down to two. The one we expect to find here at Kupyansk is B Flight, Kinkead’s. A Flight – to follow, if it does, seems unlikely now – is mine. And our boss is Ray Collishaw. Kinkead and I are both majors, Ray’s a lieutenant-colonel. Is that clearer, now?’
‘Of course. Sorry…’
He’d asked, to start with, about other personalities whom he might be meeting, and Scott had named and described a few. Several were Canadians. A number of the younger men had the new RAF ranks – Flying Officers, Observer Officers, and so forth – and the more senior ones’ present military ranks were going to be changed before long, Scott had said. Neither he nor Davies were very happy about this, but appreciated that a new Service – the RAF had come into existence last year, absorbing both the RFC and RNAS – needed such outward and visible signs of its own separate identity.
Scott had also told of some flying incidents – none featuring himself, all of them about his brother-officers’ exploits, and invariably to their credit. Bob asked him now, ‘How many Germans did you say Collishaw shot down?’
‘Sixty-eight. Not bad, eh?’
‘How about you?’
‘Me?’
‘What was your Western Front score?’
‘Oh – God knows. I’ve no memory for that sort of thing.’ He raised his voice to drown Davies’ attempt to interrupt. ‘But you see, when Ray was first in France—’
‘Fifty-seven, Sam.’ Davies had had to shout. He nodded to Bob. ‘As he knows damn well. Fifty-seven.’
‘Anything you want to know, Cowan, ask this fellow here.’ Scott stared coldly at his friend. ‘He’s the source of all knowledge. Least, he thinks he is.’
‘Hah!’ Davies pushed himself up. At bloody last…�
� The outskirts of Kupyansk were in sight ahead and on that side. And on this side, simultaneously, more railway tracks and then a broad expanse of rails, engine-sheds or workshops, warehouses or whatever, stacks of coal and timber, all snow-coated. The train’s whistle shrieked; the pounding rhythm of the wheels was already slowing.
‘Scott, listen.’ Bob knocked his pipe out against his heel. ‘Before I decide on anything I need to find the local military hospital, to ask about that lektuchka. And you’ll have your hands full anyway. So I’ll see you later. On the other train – if it’s still here?’
‘If – sure…’
‘I’m saying it is. Who’ll give me five to one?’
Davies had the window down, icy blast pouring in and his head and shoulders out: Scott muttering ‘Don’t touch it – bloody Welshman only bets on certainties’… Davies pulled his head back in: eyes streaming, mopping them: ‘Here to meet us – see?’ Pointing: ‘See old Monkey there?’ He was laughing and yelling at them as the train crawled in, hissing to a halt. Bob saw several RAF uniforms and men waving, shouting back at Davies; Scott bawled, ‘Pickerell! All out here! D’you hear me? All out!’ He turned, as the train jolted to a stop: ‘Fine – what you just said. But stick around a minute, so you’ll know what’s cooking?’
He had a fair idea already. One bright spot from his own point of view was that on the platform across the rails on this other side two stretcher-bearers were pushing into a doorway which as it swung shut showed a large red cross painted on it. But the other thing was the reason the reception party had been so easy to spot – simply that they had the platform to themselves. Clustering at the carriage steps now, Davies with them, all yelling at once, exchanging news – while Pickerell and the other airmen, unable to use the door, could only pile gear in the corridor. But apart from this small group of RAF the only people on the platform were some C3-type-looking soldiers who were being mustered up front beside the engine and its tender. Conscripts – like those now disembarking from the other carriage – taking over from railwaymen who’d presumably joined the migration southward.
8
The doctor was short, thickset; like Bob, he hadn’t shaved for a day or two and by the look of the bloodstained once-white coat didn’t have anyone to do his laundry. He’d glanced at Bob’s identification; scowled as he pushed it back across the table: ‘So what d’you want?’ This had been the ticket-seller’s office, was now the doctor’s and also by the look of it his operating theatre. Through the ticket window you could see patients lying wrapped in their greatcoats in the stone-floored hall. There was a brazier in there, and it was warm enough except when the swing doors were opened.
Bob told him, ‘I need to find Letuchka syem. It has two English nurses in it. I’ve been sent to get them.’
‘You have, have you… What for?’
‘Orders. And their parents—’
‘Does it occur to you we need all the nurses we can get?’
‘I’m sure you do. However—’
‘Are they juveniles?’
‘Doctor – their ages are not important. Parents can still worry. Anyway, they’re British citizens and—’
‘I have two orderlies out there. No nurses at all.’ He belched. ‘And you come here telling me—’
‘Not telling. Asking. I need to find them, that’s all. It’ll be up to them whether they leave or stay. But in any case, isn’t it about finished, on this front?’
‘Here, it’s finished. Elsewhere – well, God knows. Or cares, probably… Anyway, what’s the odds, what am I here for, Christ’s sake?’ He glanced at the ticket window.
‘For them, you’ll say. And you’ll be right – to the extent that thanks to my superhuman efforts about one in three of ’em may live. Don’t ask me what they’ll live for…’
He’d checked himself. It was obvious that he was slightly drunk. That frown, for instance, might accompany some difficulty in focusing. Now he’d nodded. ‘All right. Got a map with you?’
‘Afraid not.’
Stupid. Should have borrowed Scott’s…
‘Wouldn’t help much if you had. Letuchka syem wasn’t one of ours. They’d’ve come under Otriad eleven – feeding back to the base hospital at Ekaterinoslav, that means. I was in Letuchka seventeen myself, as it happens. Disbanded, I’m sole survivor, but this is where we sent our wounded, see. Not this place – in the town, just back of here, it’s empty now. Good thing too, bloody sewer… There’s typhus around, did you know? Well, there is… Anyway – what I was saying, or about to say – my Letuchka syemnadtsat was up in the Volchansk-Shebekino section. You couldn’t get much closer to the front than that. Not without getting your head blown off – which some did… But I’d guess – guess, mark you – number seven might now be in the region of – oh, let’s say Karlovka, Petrovka, Konstantinograd. South-west of Kharkov, see. It’s a good bet, can’t be far out, because I happen to know they were up at Bogodukhov. That I do know. Letuchka number four replaced them there. The doctor in number four was a mate of mine, I met him in Kharkov on his way through. For what that information’s worth – bugger-all, I dare say… Listen – that triangle – Karlovka, Petrovka, Konstantinograd – on the railway from Poltava south-eastward – right? Obvious way to go. Even though the line’s probably been blown up by now – and when it’s repaired it’ll be the Reds using it, you can bet on that… They blow up the lines, otherwise the swine’ll come steaming through in their armoured trains. Which means, of course, there are damn few trains – if any – still to the north of us now. They’ve been packing ’em full and sending ’em south in bloody droves, so there can’t be much rolling-stock left for however many more there may be. Flat feet, or carts if they’re lucky. You’re right, my job’s about done, here.’
He’d certainly had a few drinks, Bob thought. Although the belligerence seemed to have faded. And he’d got what he came for – a lot more than he’d thought he would, a minute or two ago.
‘I’m grateful for this help, doctor. Very kind of you. Those place-names again, where you think—’
‘Not think. Guessing… Because they’d have been near Valki when the order went out to start withdrawing – from Army Command, incidentally, that would have been, not from Ekaterinoslav – and they’d have shifted down that way because it’s – well, it’s the obvious bloody way to go, that’s all. And for the railway from Poltava – which as I say is likely to have been cut by now, but they wouldn’t know it… Another thing is – see, it’s all very well saying pack up, sod off out of it – but when you’re in this line of work and you’re inundated with these poor bloody animals with their intestines hanging out, limbs half-severed and/or festering—’
He’d checked. ‘D’you understand me?’
‘Yes. And as I said, I’m most grateful for your – advice… Another possibility, though – when you send off a hospital train, would you have a nurse or two on board?’
‘Should. Should have a doctor. Or two. But – well, God’s sake, exactly what I told you—’
‘I was only wondering – if all the letuchki had had orders to pull back – or pull out—’
‘Back. When a retreat’s in progress – obviously—’
‘What I’m getting at is if Letuchka syem is where you think and trains are still moving on that line—’
‘Your nurses might’ve been sent out with them.’
‘Exactly.’
‘They might too. If the doctor in charge decided he could spare ’em. Meaning as likely as not he’d happily be rid of ’em. But – as I was trying to convey to you – when you have a real fuckup like this is – like it was, right here – streams of ’em, place like a bloody slaughterhouse – well, you wouldn’t just hop on a damn train, for God’s sake!’
‘But if the letuchka had been ordered out—’
‘Back. I just told you this – didn’t I? Anyway – out of immediate danger – being blown up, taken prisoner, caught in artillery barrages… To be any use, hospitals have to
be where they can work – close enough to the action for men to get there or be brought there, but—’
‘Yes. I see…’
‘Yes, I see…’ Less imitative of Bob’s tone than parodying it. Belligerency – contempt, it sounded like – returning. He shook his head: maybe aware of it coming on… Small hands – none too clean – flat on the table to push himself up. ‘Work to do. Go find your damn English nurses…’
* * *
Until he could check the drunken doctor’s information on a map, there was no certainty it was going to help much. It was information – better than the vacuum he’d been working in up to now – but whether or not he could use it – well, distances were the main thing, and where the railways ran. He had a presentiment that the map wasn’t going to make anything look easy.
On the other platform they were preparing to take the four RAF freight cars off this train in order to transfer them to B Flight’s, which was on the far side of the marshalling yard. An RAF sergeant with a handlebar moustache and a squint told him this; the sergeant was there to make sure they detached the right wagons – three box-cars of stores and one flat-car with the two Sopwith Camels on it – and Scott had instructed him also to look out for Commander Cowan and direct him to the other train.
‘Ramp at the end of the platform, sir. Cross the line there, and you’ll see a gate in the fence. Our train’s on the west side where the big shed is. Using that as a hangar, see. Then there’s waste ground the other side, nice an’ level for takeoffs and landing. Very ’andy, you might say.’
‘Right. Thank you, sergeant.’
‘We’ll be all right now, then, sir.’
One eye met Bob’s. Lips twitching slightly under cover of his moustache.
‘Now we got the navy ’ere, I mean.’
‘Ah. Well, we heard you were in a bit of a spot…’
A complication which he hadn’t heard of until this moment was that the RAF train had no engine. On the night of their arrival, apparently, it had been stolen. Collishaw, the Detachment’s CO, had got on another train that had passed through next morning en route to Kharkov – or possibly only as far as Chuguyev, about half the distance – either to find the engine and have it returned or to reach General Holman, who’d come up here a day ahead of the Detachment on his way to confer with General Mai-Maievsky. Subject of the conference, of course, being whether or not to commit the RAF to action.
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