The Russian Resistance

by Simon Brading

  ‘Ready, Badger Two?’

  ‘Rodger, Leader.’

  ‘How about you, Wolfpack Leader?’

  Gwen glanced across Abby’s Harridan at the two Muscovite aircraft lined up next to them. The Muscovites, or Russians as they still insisted on being called, were part of a squadron that were called the “Wolfpack”. They had performed very well in the Great War and were considered to be the best squadron in Muscovy, which was probably why the Tsar had chosen them to convert to the Harridans.

  ‘We Russians were born ready, Badger Leader.’

  Gwen could almost hear Abby’s eyes rolling and fought hard to keep a straight face as Abby replied. ‘Roger. Take the lead, then, Wolfpack.’

  The two Muscovites, Russians, exchanged a few words in their own language, before Baryshnikov shouted ‘let’s go!’ immediately following it with a wolf howl, breaking almost all the rules of radio discipline in a single exchange, and the two aircraft surged forwards.

  Gwen exchanged a look with Abby, who grinned. ‘You heard the man, Badger Two. “Let’s go.”’

  ‘Roger, Leader.’

  Gwen opened up the throttle at the same time as Abby and the Harridans accelerated. The difference between the performance of Wasp and the Harridan was immediately noticeable, but not nearly as exaggerated as she had feared - her parents had done a good job in converting the potency of the new spring to thrust and she resolved to take a good look at the airscrews after the flight to see what they had done.

  She waved to the rest of Misfits, who had all found places to sit on the cement path in front of the hangars and were lifting their feet off the ground to the bemusement of the Russians, then turned back to the job at hand.

  Even though the Russian aircraft had a good few seconds head start, the Misfits caught up with them easily and were off the ground first. They had arranged to meet at six thousand feet and they were there well before them, circling the airfield and using the time to get used to their aircraft and take a better look at the surrounding countryside.

  Gwen spotted dozens of encampments in small clearings in the forest surrounding the airfield, all with what looked like artillery or anti-aircraft guns. It seemed that they were going to be well defended, which was a relief seeing as the front lines were only ninety or so miles away and there were only two thin rivers in the way and not the twenty-mile English Channel. She just hoped that the gunners had been informed of their arrival and wouldn’t be taking potshots at the two strange aircraft in the sky.

  It took almost a minute for the Russian aircraft to reach them, but the commander didn’t seem at all phased by this demonstration of the Harridan’s superiority and continued to be cheerful over the radio. ‘Why are you in so much of a hurry to be beaten by us? You should slow down and enjoy the day! Perhaps we should call this off; it’s not too late to concede defeat and admit that our machines are better and prettier than yours. We could go back down and have some vodka while we talk about how we can improve your aircraft for you.’

  Gwen saw Abby shake her head in exasperation before answering. ‘That is a very generous offer, but no, thank you, Wolfpack Leader; we have found out that there is as much, if not more, to learn in a loss as there is in a victory.’

  Gwen grinned grimly as Abby echoed Captain Hewer’s words after the whist game, but wondered if the Russian would be capable of learning anything from his coming experience.

  ‘An admirable sentiment, but we Russians never lose!’

  Baryshnikov laughed, but neither Abby nor Gwen did, instead they shared another look, this time the dismay evident on both their faces; the man’s conceit would get him and his friends killed very quickly when the Prussians arrived - it was the kind of attitude that was left over from the times before the Great War when conflict was seen almost as fun and not many people died. Until then, Gwen had almost been thinking of suggesting to Abby that they go easy on the Russians, so as not to hurt their feelings, but she completely dismissed the idea; it was time to wake them up to the harsh reality of the war they were going to be fighting, before their commander’s foolishness got the Misfits killed.

  ‘We break on three and may the best man win!’ The Russian laughed once more, then began to count. ‘One. Two. Three.’

  Despite the fact that the Russians broke off just after Baryshnikov counted two, the Misfits were ready for them and Gwen followed Abby into a steep turn that took them away from their opponents, before gathering speed in a shallow dive.

  Gwen watched the fighters in her rear-view mirror and grinned in satisfaction; she’d been right about their performance - they’d managed to get the manoeuvrability of a biplane into a single winged fighter, but the cost had been speed.

  Unsurprisingly, the Russians had taken the direct approach and swung immediately to follow the Misfits, using their tighter turning circles to try to get on their tails. However, the difference in speed between the machines had allowed the British to open up a good lead and, even when they sacrificed some of that for height, turning back towards their opponents, their higher rate of climb took them up above the Russians, well out of reach of their guns.

  The Russians were essentially forced to circle below the British and wait for them to come back down and Baryshnikov’s laugh was rather more forced than before. ‘Those machines certainly run away very well! Is this the fighting style that you British want to teach us? It is as dull as your Hurried Ants look.’

  Gwen glanced across at Abby, taking note of her clenched jaw, which had nothing to do with the G forces they were pulling and knew that she was thinking the same as she, that this was no way to teach the Russians a lesson. They were going to have to throw their newly developed tactics out of the window and get their hands dirty like they used to.

  She was ready, then, when Abby threw her Harridan on its back and dove directly at the two colourful machines.

  They closed the gap with the pair in less than a couple of seconds, taking them completely by surprise with the suddenness of their manoeuvre, and Gwen was amused to hear Abby muttering “rat a tat a tat” under her breath as they screamed between them, scattering them in panic.

  There wasn’t a single protest from the sturdy Harridan as Gwen pulled the stick into her lap, staying with Abby as she pulled out of the dive and following her into a quick Immelmman which put them behind the lead Russian’s aircraft.

  ‘I’ve got this one, Badger Two, you take the other.’

  ‘Roger, Leader.’

  A quick glance in the direction she’d seen the other Russian break showed him slightly below them half a mile away and she turned sharply, leaving Abby to stay with Baryshnikov, who had begun to throw his machine into a creditable series of aerobatic manoeuvres.

  The second Russian was not nearly as good as his leader and it only took a few turns for Gwen to get behind him and she was able to stay there during his clumsy attempts to shake her off. He wasn’t a bad pilot by any means, but he needed practice and lacked the experience she’d had over a summer of hard fighting against the best the Prussians had to offer.

  ‘Enough!’ Baryshnikov called out, stopping the duels. ‘You took us by surprise there, it wasn’t fair. We will fight one more and this time we will be ready for your tricks.’

  They met up again at six thousand feet, this time starting the dogfight by going head to head, but, to the Russian commander’s dismay, the result was exactly the same. This time he didn’t call it off or acknowledge defeat, he just dived below the two thousand feet hard limit they had agreed upon for safety and landed back at Vaenga, leaving his wingman to escort the British home.

  There was no sign of Baryshnikov when the three aircraft landed and it was the pilot of the second Russian aircraft, Staff-Captain Nikolai Polikasparov, who parked his aircraft next to theirs, then marched over to meet them. He turned out to be a young man with piercing blue eyes, fair skin and hair that was so blonde it was almost white, in stark contrast to the rest of the squadron, who were on the main part darker
skinned and dark-haired, the men invariably with moustaches like Baryshnikov’s and in some cases beards. He was wearing a very expensive-looking leather flight suit, with liquid pockets around legs and abdomen, which fit him like a glove, accentuating his slender, but well-proportioned form. He snapped a smart bow before flashing brilliant white teeth at them. ‘I apologise for the commander - he is not a good loser.’ His accent was much thicker than Baryshnikov’s was and his English not as precise, but he was still perfectly understandable. ‘To tell the truth, none of us are; we have been taught of the glory of the Empire and the impossibility of its defeat for so long that it is hard to us to even contemplate the possibility that we may lose a single fight, let alone a war.’

  Abby shook her head. ‘There’s no need to apologise; there were harder heads than his in the British Government at the start of the war. Let us just hope it doesn’t take as many lives being lost to open his eyes, and those of others like him.’

  ‘I don’t think it will; he is an intelligent man and he will see this for what it is. After he has blown off some steam, he will be back, and you won’t be able to stop him from demanding to be taught everything you know.’

  Abby smiled. ‘We brought instructors with us who will be doing that, but it would be our pleasure to show you a few tricks to kill the Prussians with.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Polikasparov gave another of his sharply formal nods, then gestured for the Misfits to go with him. ‘You must be hungry, please, allow us to show you to our officer’s mess where we have refreshments prepared for you.’ He gestured to where the rest of the pilots, Russian and British alike - who had been watching the combats together with vastly different feelings - were waiting for them in front of the hangar containing the newly arrived aircraft of A and B flights.

  The men and women of the Wolfpack had changed out of their dress uniforms and were now wearing their day uniforms, which were cut very much like the British ones, but in a quite fetching dark grey, the colour of storm clouds. They escorted the Misfits and the instructors to the mess, where their youngest female member was waiting for them on the steps of the hall with a loaf of bread and a pot of salt on a white cloth. She bowed and offered it to them with a smile.

  Polikasparov gestured to the bread. ‘This is the traditional Russian welcome. You take some bread, dip it in the salt and eat.’

  After Abby had eaten some of the bread, he escorted her inside the mess hall, closely followed by the rest of the Misfits, who were each escorted into the hut by one of the Russians after sampling the bread.

  While the outside of the mess hall had been plain, just exposed brick and tile, the inside was anything but. There was not a single patch of wall that was not covered with a shawl, a tapestry or a trophy. There were even numerous banners hanging from the low ceiling, just above head height. The overall effect was of a kind of Aladdin’s cave, with treasures in every corner.

  The space in the middle of the room was filled with long wooden tables, piled with food and lined by benches, and it was to these that the Misfits were being led, but Gwen held back. She paused just inside the door, taking in the riot of colours that rivalled the machines that the Russians flew, and her eyes naturally went first to the trophies on the wall nearest to her. The most recent of the ones in the room, they were from Great War aircraft - a long two-bladed wooden airscrew competed for space with a couple of Prussian tailplanes and numerous small bits and bobs that included things like instruments and gunsights. However, these aviation trophies were almost lost among the chaos of the dozens upon dozens of trophies which came from when the squadron had been a cavalry unit, some of which looked truly ancient, with markings on them that dated from hundreds of years ago. One in particular of the banners hanging from the rafters caught Gwen’s eye, though; it was recognisably British and by its tattered state it had been taken in the heat of battle.

  ‘My family’s shame.’

  Gwen looked to the side and found Rudy Drake gazing up at the banner while he munched on a slice of bread. ‘Sorry?’

  He gestured at the banner with the bread while he chewed and swallowed his mouthful. ‘That thing was lost by one of my great great something or others in the Crimean conflict. It’s the only stain on my family’s reputation in an otherwise glorious contribution to building and keeping the Empire the King has suddenly decided isn’t an Empire anymore.’ He laughed bitterly and shook his head, real resentment in his eyes. ‘It’s funny how, whenever my family is being talked about at court, the loss of those colours is what unfailingly comes up, not any of our numerous victories, which, as you know, date back to Good Queen Bess.’

  ‘I think you may have mentioned that, oh... once or twice when we were growing up.’

  Drake saw her mocking expression and laughed, his mood lightening in the face of her gentle teasing. He gestured with the bread. ‘You should have some of this, it’s delicious.’

  The bread was covered with some black substance that looked thoroughly unappetising and she wrinkled her nose at it. ‘Is that caviar? Does it taste as bad as it smells?’

  ‘My word, Goosy, have you never had caviar before? I thought you said your parents brought you to Russia?’

  ‘They did, when I was fourteen. We were at a symposium in St. Petersburg and I made friends with this Italian boy my age. His family lived on their airship, travelling the world...’

  ‘And you bewitched him, he took you home to his mama and you ate home-cooked Italian food every day you were here and didn’t get to sample the local cuisine. Oh, Goosy, you always were a bit of a man-eater, weren’t you?’

  Drake grinned and sauntered away before Gwen could do more than scowl.

  She watched him go, shaking her head and smiling wryly.

  ‘Captain.’

  With a start, Gwen realised that the Russian man who had escorted her inside was still with her, standing unobtrusively just behind her shoulder, and she turned at his greeting and found that Baryshnikov had returned.

  The Russian Captain was smiling, all sign of his earlier annoyance completely gone, as his young wingman had predicted and he stepped forward to offer Gwen his hand. ‘Well flown, Officer Stone, I can see why Wing Commander Lennox wants you on her wing to protect her.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Abby had seen the Captain come in and she came over to them. ‘Captain Baryshnikov! Have you changed your opinion of the Harridans?’

  The Russian nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes. They are very good machines, but you were lucky to win because you made some very basic mistakes. We will fly them much better.’

  Chapter 14

  Baryshnikov hadn’t just come to tell them that he’d changed his mind about the Harridans, he also brought with him a message from the Tsar, requesting the presence of Misfit Squadron at the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg as soon as was convenient - a command dressed up as an invitation.

  The captain further informed them that, in order to keep their presence secret for longer, they weren’t permitted to fly, but a special train with sleeper, lounge and restaurant cars had been provided for them and had been waiting for them to arrive in a siding not far away for several days.

  The Misfits as a whole were loath to leave behind their aircraft, but they couldn’t refuse, especially seeing as a second message had come from Dorothy Campbell saying that they had to go whether they liked it or not. So, just a couple of hours after they’d arrived and before they could make themselves at home, the Misfits found themselves on a train, speeding through the Muscovite countryside, heading south towards the capital city, St. Petersburg, at just over fifty miles an hour. They had left the instructors behind, not only because the invitation was just for them, but because they had to start training the Russians immediately, whereas the Misfits didn’t have much to do until the Prussians started to make their move.

  St. Petersburg was only about six hundred miles from Murmansk as the raven flew and the Misfits were expecting the journey to take a little over twelve hou
rs, but they were told by one of the stewards on board that it was going to take more than twenty-four because the train would be taking a very roundabout route to get there, winding its way around the multitude of lakes that were in the way and also avoiding some of the more direct tracks that ran too close to the border for comfort.

  The Misfits were very glad, therefore, that the Tsar had seen fit to send what, judging from the Imperial crests on the decorations, plates and cutlery, must have been his own personal train, or one of them at least.

  It was extremely comfortable, in an old style much like the Orient Express, with velvet curtains and wood panelling. There was even proper furniture in place of the thinly padded benches that were becoming more and more usual in Britain, with the drive for efficiency packing as many passengers into each car as possible like so much cattle. There was a full staff on board, including stewards, cooks and soldiers to guard them, and they saw to the pilots’ every need, supplying snacks and champagne as soon as they were on board, before serving lunch, the menu of which had obviously been prepared carefully and especially for them, consisting as it did of typically British food. However, the cooks obviously weren’t used to the menu and had gotten things a bit mixed up - the Yorkshire Pudding was served as a dessert instead of with the roast beef and the jam roly-poly was cold and brought along with the main course, as if it were an accompaniment. The Misfits didn’t mind one bit, though, and still gorged themselves, laughing when Bruce unrolled the roly-poly, then wrapped it around a piece of beef as an “experiment”, declaring it a resounding success and trying to convince the stewards that that was how it should have been served.

  It had been a long day and most of the pilots decided to take a nap after lunch, curling up on sofas in the lounge or retiring to a bunk in the sleeping car, but Gwen wasn’t very tired, so she went to the observation deck, a metal and glass covered sitting room on the roof of the lounge car, to watch the countryside going by.