The Russian Resistance

by Simon Brading

  She gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror and smiled in satisfaction; the golden medallion on the brown ribbon really did look rather distinguished, although Scarlet had been right the night at the party when she had been awarded it; a red sash would look so much better against RAC blue.

  Feeling far more self-conscious in her uniform than she ever had been before, far more than should be warranted for the addition of a simple strip of brown silk, she left the safety of the changing room. The guards led her to the security gate nearest the Palace, opposite Wellington Arch where she found an enormous autocar, flying Royal colours on either side of its wide bonnet, waiting for her. The Royal Guard driver opened her door for her with a salute and saw her settled comfortably before climbing in and pulling out onto the almost deserted street for the short drive to Buckingham Palace.

  The sustained bombing of London had finally brought home to its denizens that they were in fact at war. Despite the defeat of the army in France, they had been pretty much ignoring the conflict, going about their lives as if people weren’t actually dying to keep them safe, but the carnage in the skies above them and the indiscriminate destruction wrought by the Prussian bombs had opened their eyes to the hard reality of their situation. In some ways it was a good thing; now that the populace knew exactly what they were up against, the government were free to act without fear of undue criticism. Rationing had been imposed on many basic items as shortages were foreseen and strict, almost draconian, blackout rules had been imposed.

  The people of Britain had reacted as they always had, though, with stoicism and a firmly stiffened upper lip, banding together as they had whenever their way of life had been threatened by a tyrant - they had laughed in the face of the Little Corporal Napoleon, scorned Kaiser Bill the second and would equally defy his son, Kaiser Bill the third. However, not since King Philip I of Spain’s armada had been bearded, had there been such a direct threat to the British Isles. Not even Boney himself had ever quite posed the threat that the Prussians did now and for the first time the British people found themselves in real danger.

  Nobody knew whether the British spirit would hold up under such circumstances and with privations and things would only get worse as the war progressed.

  Only time would tell, but Abby suspected that they would.

  The autocar turned through the Palace gates, receiving the salute of the guards there, quadrupled since the last time she had visited, and pulled up into the interior courtyard.

  She was shown to a seat outside the same conference room where the Misfits had been debriefed and asked to wait. She didn’t sit down, though, but instead took advantage of being left alone in the Palace for the first time, apart from the ever-present, ever-watchful guards and servants, to wander around the room looking at the artworks on display.

  She had long enough to appreciate only a single painting, though - a fairly recent piece by the Spanish artist Salvador Dali, depicting the birth of a drooping aircraft from an egg, as if it were a bird, which was somehow completely captivating despite the utter unairworthiness of the machine - because the door to the conference room swung open only minutes after she’d arrived to divulge Sir Douglas Pewtall.

  ‘Dame Lennox.’

  She gave him a warm smile as she marched over and took his offered hand, nodding in greeting. ‘Sir Douglas.’

  He returned her smile. ‘How are your new accommodations working out?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, sir. Are they close enough to London to suit you and Aviator Lieutenant Wright?’

  She fought to keep her expression neutral as the man’s cheeks turned a comically dark red. Pewtall was an excellent administrator and had been an equally good pilot in the first Great War, but, like many British men, and men in general, he was absolutely dreadful at dealing with his feelings. He was obviously extremely embarrassed to find out that it wasn’t as big a secret as he thought it was that Scarlet had been sneaking out each night to meet him at an inn half-way between London and Windsor.

  ‘Yes... well... anyway... Come on, we don’t want to keep His Majesty waiting.’

  He turned away, trying to hide his face from her and she took a second to compose herself and make sure that her uniform was still perfectly in place before following him.

  There were only five people in the room, far fewer than there had been for the debriefing. She had been expecting to see four of them: King George VI, the newly elected Minister for War, the Marshal of the Court and Sir Douglas, but the fifth and last was a pleasant surprise - Dorothy Campbell, recently promoted to Sky Commodore and a long-time friend. She wasn’t ranked high enough to be a regular attendee at meetings like this and her presence indicated that there was indeed something in the offing. Abby couldn’t make enquiries of her or even greet her yet, though, because there was a protocol to be followed and she stood to attention just inside the door, facing the King, who was sitting in his customary place at the head of the table deep in conversation with the War Minister, waiting for him to notice her.

  After only about ten seconds the King finished what he was doing and looked up at her with a smile. He immediately stood and walked around the table, seeming genuinely pleased to see her and she wondered briefly if he actually was or whether he was merely wearing his politician’s face.

  Her doubts were firmly banished when he grabbed her hand and shook it with quite some enthusiasm.

  ‘Good job on getting our Misfits back in the air, Dame Lennox, good job!’

  Abby fought hard not to frown at his words, but couldn’t stop her smile from slipping slightly. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty, but we’re still a good three or four weeks away from being back to full strength.’

  The King waved away her protests. ‘I’ve read the reports and I’m aware that you’re still short a few aircraft and a pilot, but that is of no consequence; even a single Misfit section in the air is better than none.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And while we’re on the subject - how are you doing in your search for a new pilot? I know that not everybody can be a Gwenevere Hawking, but there must be at least a couple of likely candidates among our intrepid airmen and women.’

  ‘I’m doing my best, sir, but as you say, it is hard to find someone who measures up to Aerial Officer Stone. I’m narrowing the search down as much as I can, though, and hope to find someone in the next few days.’

  ‘Good, good.’ The King nodded, then waved her to a chair before going back to his own.

  She sat down, trying not to crease her uniform any more than she had to and glanced around the table, smiling at Dot before nodding respectfully at the two other men.

  The Marshal of the Court, who was hovering by the wall unobtrusively, on hand if the King should need him, returned her greeting with a solemn nod, but the Minister for War, Regis Cummerbund, an ageing man in his late sixties in a coal-black suit, with a thin face, severely parted white hair and a permanently disapproving look frowned across the table at her. ‘Really, Wing Commander, you’ve had more than long enough to choose a new pilot. Please do so by tomorrow morning at the very latest; we need you back to full strength for this mission and from what I’ve heard of you Misfits your new pilot is going to be required to make some, let us say, adjustments before you are happy with them.’

  Abby was unsure of the intention behind the man’s words, whether they were a criticism or merely an observation of how different the Misfits were, but the barely perceptible sneer when he said the name of the squadron made her suspect the former. She decided to ignore his apparent disrespect, though, and concentrated instead on the information he had let slip. ‘What mission, sir?’

  The King gave Cummerbund a scathing look. ‘Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, so I suppose we should just get straight down to business. We’re sending you to Russia...’ He grimaced, interrupting himself. ‘Sorry, the Tsardom of Muscovy.’ He glanced over at the Marshal. ‘Damn, I keep doing that. It would be quite bad if I said that to t
he Russian ambassador, dammit, the Muscovite ambassador tomorrow, wouldn’t it?’

  The Marshal nodded. ‘It would be something of a faux pas, Your Majesty, yes. Please try not to.’

  The Tsar of Russia, Nicholas II, had only the week before followed Britain’s lead in shrugging off any notions of Empire after the very concept had been tainted by the Prussians. The Tsar had also decided that the name “Russia” itself was a little too close to “Prussia” for comfort, even though when pronounced in their native tongues they sounded nothing alike, and the Russian Empire had reverted to its old name of the “Tsardom of Muscovy” to further distance themselves from the tyrannical aggressors.

  ‘You know me - I can’t promise anything.’ The King chuckled, shaking his head, then frowned, obviously trying to recover the train of thought that he himself had derailed. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Russia, sir.’ Pewtall said.

  The King grinned at him. ‘Very droll, Sir Douglas... Remind me to have you demoted.’

  ‘You can’t, sir; that’s my job.’

  ‘No, but I can order you to demote yourself.’

  Pewtall chuckled. ‘Yes, sir. That you can.’

  ‘Ha!’ The King grinned in triumph before turning back to Abby. ‘Right then, Dame Lennox. I’m sending you to the Tsardom of Muscovy.’ The King put emphasis on the words while staring pointedly at the Marshal, who nodded seriously, either not knowing that he was having fun poked at him, or so used to it that it was just water off a ridiculously dressed duck’s back. ‘We have intelligence that Bill the younger is a bit miffed with us and is looking for an easy target elsewhere and since America is well and truly off the table for now there’s only one way to go. He is pulling back many of his forces from here in the west and sending them east towards the Muscovite border.’

  ‘I thought they had a non-aggression pact?’

  ‘They did, but apparently it no longer suits Bill and he’s tossed it out the window.’

  Abby shrugged. ‘Maybe he needs something to distract his armies with after we gave them the shock of their lives.’

  ‘Quite.’ The King nodded his agreement. ‘However, because of that pact, Muscovy is not ready for war - Nicholas has just been sitting back, twiddling his thumbs and sipping vodka while he watches us do all the fighting. Now that the Prussians have turned on him, he realises that he has no army, no modern weapons and barely any air force to speak of and is scrambling to catch up.’

  ‘Damn fool.’

  Cummerbund muttered the comment under his breath and the King frowned at him, disapprovingly. ‘Please refrain from expressing your personal opinions in my council chambers, Mr Cummerbund. Save them for your drawing room where they will undoubtedly be better received by your cronies.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’ The Minister nodded, accepting the reprimand, but didn’t seem at all repentant.

  The King scowled at him for a few seconds, before turning back to Abby with a far milder expression on his face. ‘Anyway, despite his error in judgement in not helping us against the Prussians from the start, Nicolas has always been a good friend to us. So, while he gets his defences in shape, I’ve promised him a bit of help in the form of some tanks and guns, mostly American stuff that we’ve bought recently. I’m also sending fifty or so Harridans with a few instructors to train up their fellows on them. Oh, and I’m loaning him the Misfits, of course.’

  ‘But we’re not at full strength, sir. Why not just send a Spitsteam squadron, or more Harridans?’

  The King sighed. ‘Because Nicholas told me in no uncertain terms that he either gets you for a while or he signs on with the Prussians.’

  The King spoke softly, trying to soften the blow, but the Minister for War was blunt and to the point.

  ‘You have your orders, Wing Commander, and you will obey them. You are to go to Russia and hold their northern border at all cost.’

  He glared at Abby and she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. She wasn’t happy with the order, but it there didn’t seem to be any other choice. She opened her mouth to convey her acceptance of the task, but was interrupted by a soft voice.

  ‘Muscovy.’

  All eyes shot to the King, who just smiled back at them amiably.

  There was silence for a few seconds, but then first Sir Douglas then Dorothy Campbell broke out into fits of laughter, accompanied by Abby. After a few seconds the King joined them and Abby swore that even the Marshal almost smiled.

  Cummerbund didn’t.

  When things had calmed down again the King continued. ‘You worked well with Sky Commodore Campbell before and she seems to have a good understanding of how Misfit Squadron can be best employed so we decided to give her overall command of this mission. You’ll form the nucleus of her task force and you’ll aid the Muscovites in defending the area around Murmansk against the Prussian assault until winter sets in. At which time you will be free to come home.’

  ‘And if the Prussians overwhelm the Muscovites, like they have everybody else so far?’

  ‘Then feel free to run for your lives and get back here whatever way you can.’

  Abby chuckled. ‘Thank you, sir. Most kind.’

  There was a disgusted grunt from Cummerbund, but he stayed silent, apparently not wanting to be the butt of any more jokes.

  King George was no longer in a mood to joke, though. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to stress how important this mission actually is, do I, Abby? If we can hold back the Prussians in the east, then they will be stretched thin trying to fight on two fronts, which might just give us the chance to push them back. However, if they defeat the Muscovites and absorb their resources, then that will undoubtedly be the beginning of the end for us and perhaps the whole world. I know you don’t like it and frankly neither do I, but at least a part of me is glad it’s you and your people who are going; you’re our best hope for a good result. Nobody is expecting you to defeat the Prussians single-handed, but delaying them until winter will be invaluable in allowing the Muscovites to mobilise.’

  ‘We’ll do our best, sir.’

  ‘I can ask for nothing more.’

  There was another grunt from the Minister, but again he was ignored.

  ‘You leave in two weeks.’ The King held up his hand to forestall her when Abby automatically began to protest. ‘Yes, yes, I know that’s not nearly enough time for you to rebuild, but that has been taken into consideration. You will be going on the carrier Arturo. It’s a bit of a relic, left over from the Great War, but it’s big enough and has full facilities. You’ll be able to use them during the voyage to complete all necessary repairs and construction and it will be staying in Archangel until you leave Muscovy, so if you really need them, they’ll be available after you arrive as well.’ The King gave her a stern look. ‘Please note that I said “necessary repairs”, Wing Commander, and I do mean only those that are absolutely necessary. You should leave any of the tinkering that I’m sure you and Gwen have in mind for after your return. For now, just concentrate on getting your full squadron in the air.’

  Abby nodded acknowledgement; there was nothing else she could do. ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘One last thing...’

  Abby looked at the King in dismay; in her experience, when a superior, either in the military or a company, said those three words, it usually meant that they had saved the worst news until last and she was dreading to think what would possibly be worse than being sent into the Arctic Circle with insufficient time to prepare.

  The King saw her expression and chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to spoil your fun any more than I already have.’

  Abby smiled wryly. ‘Thank you, sir. That’s most appreciated.’

  He laughed. ‘I thought it might be! But you should reserve your judgement until you know what it is. I assume you’ve seen the latest articles about the Misfits in the press?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Abby grimaced; the articles had only gotten more personal since the publication of the photograph, printing p
ersonal details of each of the pilots, like where they had come from and what their backgrounds were. While for most of the pilots that just meant their home towns becoming a little bit more well-known, for Gwen and Kitty it had meant a lot more - a big thing had been made of Gwen being the daughter of the Hawkings, something she’d tried to keep secret even from her fellow Misfits, and Kitty had been turned into some kind of unofficial figurehead for the drive to get America to enter the war. Surprisingly, though, the usually snobbish British broadsheets hadn’t expressed much of an opinion on Scarlet’s poor Irish origins.

  It was all unwanted attention, but it hadn’t been particularly intrusive into their private lives; none of the information was secret or especially personal and it was all readily available from anyone who knew the pilots. Abby got the feeling that was about to change, though.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. We kept them off your back as long as we could, handing them official reports and such for them to write their stories from, but I’m afraid they are no longer satisfied with just that. They rightly say that the people deserve to know more about the pilots behind the aircraft which were so instrumental in... what was that bloody phrase that I couldn’t for the life of me say, Sir Douglas? The one in that awful tabloid. Bashing Bill’s something or other?’

  ‘“Beating back Billy’s bullying bombers”, sir.’

  The King mouthed the words, rehearsing them under his breath, but the man who had struggled with, and overcome, a speech impediment years before couldn’t quite manage them and instead he just waved his hand in Pewtall’s direction. ‘Yes. That,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘The people were clamouring to know who you were, not just the names of your aircraft. We thought that if we gave the papers your service records it would keep them happy for a while, but all it’s done is whet their appetite and they’re demanding more. Fortunately, though, they are not unreasonable and realise that they cannot do anything to hinder your work, so they have reluctantly accepted our stipulation that only a single one of their members, accompanied by a photographer, be allowed to pester your squadron. To that end, a Mr Featherstonehaugh from The Times will be joining you at Bagshot Hall as you prepare. He will be looking to put a personality to the names that have appeared in the press, so many of his questions may be of a private nature and I would ask your pilots to answer them as best they can, even if they are not entirely comfortable with them. He has been told to stay within certain limits in his questioning, though, and, as he is one of the more honest examples of his profession, we trust him to do so, but his work will also be scrutinised before we allow it to be published, so you needn’t worry about him writing anything that none of us want the public to read. When you leave, he will accompany you to Muscovy to continue his work, but he won’t be with you the whole time because, in addition to your activities, he will also report on those of the Muscovite Air Service’s new Harridan squadron and the situation in general.’