The Russian Resistance

by Simon Brading

  She was immediately taken by surprise by the sheer amount of machinery she could see in the fields - it seemed that every village they passed by was surrounded by fields, but instead of men and women working them there were large iron and brass contraptions with multiple arms and legs, all unceasingly digging or harvesting.

  She wasn’t an expert on Russian history, but she remembered reading somewhere that automated farming machinery had been invented by a group of scientists in Moscow, then introduced throughout the country in the late nineteenth century. It had been paid for in large part by the Tsar himself, in return for a meagre ten percent of the produce, which was then sold to neighbouring countries. Not only had the Tsar become one of the richest monarchs in the world, but production had increased, hunger had decreased, and the people were left with more time to actually enjoy their lives. As a consequence, Russia had become incredibly stable, with one of the highest standards of living of any country and a level of art and culture, even among the common people, that was unparalleled. Many scholars expounded that that was why the Tsar could get away with being a one man show and not have the Parliament that the King had been forced to accept.

  The countryside itself was beautiful, with endless forests and pristine lakes that were invariably surrounded by beautiful wooden buildings and had colourful fishing boats bobbing up and down on them - the automation of work apparently only extended to agriculture and not fishing.

  The gentle swaying of the train and the way the scenery moved sedately past the windows had a very soporific effect, much like counting sheep and, before she knew it, Gwen found her eyelids drooping and she curled up in the armchair and stopped fighting the exhaustion that had been building for so long.

  Just before noon the next day, the train pulled into a station secreted underneath the Winter Palace, which, like the train itself, was for the Tsar’s personal use.

  The Misfits, dressed in their best uniforms, with the matching floor-length ceremonial dress coats they had been issued for colder weather and their top hats tucked firmly under their arms, were met by Dorothy Campbell. She was accompanied by Freddy Featherstonehaugh, Mr Jones and a delegation of Palace Guards, wearing white uniforms with breeches under knee-length coats that flared out from the waist and which were covered with even more gold braid than Baryshnikov had sported on his jacket. They were led by a handsome young Captain, blonde and barely more than twenty-five years of age, who introduced himself as Pyotr Mussorgsky, a surname which drew more than a few raised eyebrows, although nobody commented.

  Campbell and her staff had been flown to the capital from Archangel in a Muscovite transport aircraft the day before. They had spent all afternoon and late into the night, organising the distribution of the weapons they had brought with them with the army commanders and the Sky Commodore was looking very tired, but she nonetheless had a wide grin for them.

  The guard captain, Mussorgsky, took them to a large lift which had room for all of them and while they were clanking their way up to the palace, Campbell took the opportunity to speak to Abby and the rest of the Misfits in turn took the opportunity provided by the confined space to listen in on their conversation.

  Campbell got straight down to business, knowing that they didn’t have much time before the lift doors opened again. ‘Muscovite reconnaissance aircraft report that Prussians aren’t making their move yet, they still seem to be consolidating their forces, bringing up artillery and mechanised battalions. They look like they’re going to open up at least three fronts, one in the south, one in the Baltic and the last up north where we are. At the moment, the forces deployed in the north are relatively small compared to the other fronts, but we expect that to change when you show your faces.’ She grinned. ‘Actually, we’re hoping that they commit a lot more forces to the north, because it’ll take the pressure off the other fronts and then when winter comes, they’ll be effectively rendered useless until spring.’

  Abby didn’t have time to tell her friend exactly what she thought of that because the doors slid open and they were hustled out by the Royal Guards.

  A short corridor led to another door which opened into a long thin rectangular gallery, which Mussorgsky called the “Military Gallery,” the walls of which were covered with hundreds of portraits, row after regimented row of them, each the exact same size, of what looked like military commanders. Like the Wolfpack aircraft and the Tsar’s train, they were so covered in gold and jewels that barely an inch of bare wood was left exposed on the frames. The cogwheel symbol, that Muscovites seemed to like so much, was prevalent on all of them, but they were joined by other items, like horseshoes, compasses and sextants, that probably related to the branch of the military the men and women belonged to. It should have looked tacky in the extreme, but it was so expertly done that the portraits seemed to glow from within as they caught the illumination coming from the skylights.

  The Misfits had no time to appreciate the magnificent sight, though, as they were all but chivvied along to stand in front of a pair of double doors situated half-way down the gallery. White and heavily decorated by what looked like solid gold, the doors were almost fifteen feet tall and flanked by two guards in ceremonial uniforms, complete with burnished bronze breastplates and, of all things, pikestaffs. With them was a master of ceremonies, dressed in a deep red calf-length coat, also heavily embroidered with gold thread, with boots to match and carrying a long silver staff.

  Captain Mussorgsky and his fellow guards arranged the Misfits in pairs in order of rank, with Abby and Owen in the front and Chastity next to Gwen at the back, showing a knowledge of the visitors that was surprising to say the least.

  Since it was only the Misfits that were going to be presented, Featherstonehaugh, Mr Jones and Dorothy Campbell weren’t included in the group and were told to enter the room afterwards, following them, but not with them.

  When everything was in order, the master of ceremonies banged on the floor with his staff, three heavy blows that resounded through the chamber. The doors swung open and a fanfare filled the air before the echoes of the staff had even died away.

  Flanked by the Royal Guards, who marched in lockstep, the Misfits entered the room. The pilots didn’t try to emulate the guards; they would have just looked and felt silly, but Gwen noted with a smile from her vantage point at the back of the group that every single one of them stood up just a little bit straighter, even Bruce, who had barely straightened from his habitual slouch for the King.

  Gwen's first impression of Buckingham Palace had been of opulence, but the Winter Palace made it seem almost a hovel in comparison. However, while the seat of Britain's power had been rich but elegant, the Tsars of Russia seemed to have been wanting to make a statement with their home, and as far as Gwen was concerned, that statement was overt wealth.

  The room that they entered was huge, much bigger than the throne room in Buckingham Palace, but while that had been warm, welcoming and very grounded, this was airy and light and somehow called to the aviator in Gwen. It was predominantly white, but there was gold everywhere - on the columns, the massive chandeliers, inlaid into the floor and even around the frames of the large windows on either side.

  The room was also filled to capacity with people, all of whom were turned their way, and not just on the floor, but looking down at them from the balconies that ringed the room and Gwen had to stifle a laugh when she heard Mac’s muttered comment of ‘I thought our being here was supposed to be a bloody secret?’

  The crowd parted to make way for them, and the Royal Guards marched them smartly down the centre of the room towards the dais at the far end, where a huge red canopy with the Imperial Russian crest hung over a golden throne.

  Tsar Nicholas II was waiting for them there, standing at the top of the steps in front of his throne and he watched impassively as the pilots arranged themselves in front of him, each pair smartly breaking off in turn, as if they were performing a manoeuvre in the air, and joining the end of a line as it formed in fr
ont of the dais, with Abby and Owen in the centre and Gwen and Chastity on opposite sides.

  Suspecting that they were going to be made a spectacle of, Abby had insisted they spend a few minutes on the train rehearsing and thankfully it went much better than it had, mostly because none of the participants were drunk.

  Once the Misfits were all in place, Abby gave a sharp order and they gave a small bow, creditably together, the only sound the clicking of Mr Jones’ camera as he immortalised the moment.

  Finally, the Tsar smiled. He brought his hands together delicately and suddenly the whole room was filled by thunderous applause. The clapping went on and on while the Tsar descended the steps and greeted each and every one of the pilots with a firm handshake and only ceased when he had returned to his place in front of his throne.

  ‘So, Commander Campbell, these are your famous Misfit Squadron.’

  The Tsar looked at them one by one, meeting each pilot’s gaze in turn and Gwen took the opportunity afforded by the short pause to inspect him in return. He was old, over seventy, his hair and short beard long ago turned white, but his resemblance to the old Emperor George I, the current King’s father, was uncanny, which wasn’t surprising seeing as they had been cousins. He was also cousin to Kaiser Bill, but then again, all of the Royal Families of Europe were related in some way or other.

  He nodded to them, almost imperceptibly. ‘Thank you for volunteering to aid us in our fight against the Prussian Invaders.’

  ‘It is a pleasure and our duty, Your Majesty,’ Campbell hurriedly replied before any of the more impulsive Misfits could comment on the way in which they had “volunteered” for the mission.

  Another thing the Tsar had in common with both King George VI and his father was the mischievous glint in his eye and that brightened as he acknowledged the Sky Commodore’s tact with a smile. ‘I have a gift for you.’

  At the Master of Ceremonies’ clap, servants stepped forwards and helped the Misfits out of their woollen overcoats. Others then came forward and helped them on with new ones - long, black fur coats with silver-grey fur trim and gold-plated buttons with badgers on them, identical to the one on the squadron’s crest.

  ‘They are sable fur, made by our finest craftsmen, lined with wolf fur to keep you warm while you are here, although perhaps my cousin will grant you special dispensation to make them a permanent part of your uniform, like the bearskin hats of your Grenadier Guards? If so, it will be my pleasure to supply you with them whenever you need them.’

  There was applause from the audience at the Tsar’s gesture and he let it go on for quite a while, smiling in appreciation of his courtiers’ approval, before holding up his hand for silence.

  ‘I wish you every success in the coming weeks. As you Misfits say - “happy hunting” - and welcome to the Kingdom of Muscovy!’

  As more applause rang out around the room, the Royal Guards ushered the pilots across the hall and marched them right out of the room and back into the Military Gallery.

  The big double doors banged closed behind them, shutting them off from view of the throne room and the Misfits, almost as one, sighed in relief and relaxed tensed muscles and stretched backs that weren’t used to being held so straight.

  Owen shook his head. ‘Well that was short and sweet.’

  Mac barked a laugh. ‘We’ve come all this way for that? What was the point?’

  Campbell came through the doors just in time to hear him. ‘The Tsar is treading a very fine line where you are concerned. He has to play down your importance in public because if the Prussians got wind of how vulnerable Muscovy really is, they wouldn’t bother spending time to consolidate their forces and would invade straight away. On the other hand, though, he has to show his people that he is doing all he can to protect them.’

  Abby frowned. ‘Is the situation that bad?’

  The Sky Commodore grimaced. ‘Let’s just say that the weapons we brought with us are going to greatly increase the effectiveness of the Muscovite army and, by the way Mac, it’s not a secret that you’re here, just where you’re based. We want the Prussians to know you’re here as a deterrent - we’re here to show our faces and make the Prussians just that little bit more nervous about invading. So, with that in mind, Abby, darling, I’m sorry, but you and Owen are staying here with me; we’re going to press the flesh for a few hours and then there’s a lovely twenty-course state dinner that’s been set up in our honour.’

  ‘Oh great.’ Owen groaned.

  Wendy grinned at him. ‘Enjoy yourself darling.’

  Owen looked daggers at her, then turned to Campbell. ‘I really think my wife should be with me for the dinner. For propriety’s sake.’

  The big woman growled at him. ‘Don’t you dare...’

  Campbell sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Where is my head at? Sorry, Owen, I had of course meant to say that you had a plus one on your invitation - they know you’re married, so of course they took that into account.’

  Wendy glared at her. ‘What? Dammit, I’m a pilot not a diplomat! When are we going to fly?’

  ‘Soon enough, don’t worry.’

  Knowing that there was nothing she could do or say to avoid her fate, the big woman turned her ire on her husband. ‘Wait until I get you alone.’

  Owen smiled at her innocently. ‘Now now, darling, don’t blame me. You heard the lovely Sky Commodore. You were already invited. If you’re going to blame anyone it should be the Tsar.’

  Wendy growled, letting her husband know in no uncertain terms that he hadn’t gotten off the hook.

  Campbell chuckled as Owen blanched, then looked at the other Misfits. ‘As for the rest of you, Captain Mussorgsky is going to take you around the city so that the civilians can see the famous British pilots. I understand he’s taking you to a special matinée in your honour at the ballet.’

  Mac groaned. ‘Ballet? Ach, if I put on a dress, can I swap places with Wendy as Owen’s plus one? Please?’

  Campbell smiled sweetly at him. ‘You will go to the ballet and look like you are a cultured person who is enjoying himself, Mac. That’s an order. Otherwise I will put you in that dress, but it won’t be as Owen’s plus one, it will be to go on stage as a member of the chorus.’

  Mac grumbled but took the Sky Commodore’s order in the humorous way that it had been intended and nodded with a laugh. ‘Yes’m!’

  ‘Good.’ Campbell took a deep breath and glanced at the door, where the Master of Ceremonies was waiting to take the four RAC officers back in. ‘Right then, play nice all of you and remember that we’re here to “help”, not to save the Muscovite’s arses, and it’s only us and our machines - there are no Harridans and no armaments. Got that?’

  She glanced around the group, making sure everybody understood then nodded. ‘Good. Quarters have been arranged for tonight in a town house nearby used for distinguished guests. Enjoy your evening and make sure you’re all on the train tomorrow morning - it leaves at eight sharp.’ She lifted her head to look at Captain Mussorgsky, who had been hovering at a discrete distance. ‘They’re all yours, Captain.’

  She nodded at the Master of Ceremonies and, as he opened the doors again, she plastered a smile on her face and winked at Abby. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends...’

  Chapter 15

  As soon as the senior officers had disappeared back into the throne room, Captain Mussorgsky led the rest of the Misfits through the palace towards the main entrance.

  They went fairly slowly, taking what seemed to be quite a roundabout route, through rooms where there were visitors and courtiers, and Gwen couldn’t help but feel that they were being put on display, like the trophies on a mess wall. That impression only intensified when they got out into the streets and found that the large, black spring-powered autocars waiting to take them to the theatre had been parked in plain sight in the square outside the palace and had naturally drawn a lot of attention. Policemen in green uniforms and peaked caps were struggling to hold back more than a hundred
cheering people, all straining to get a glimpse of them as they came down the steps and any debate as to whether they had gathered just out of curiosity as to who would get into the vehicles was dispelled instantly when many of them started waving very homemade-looking British flags.

  Those crowds were replicated outside the Imperial Mariinsky theatre and it didn’t stop there, because inside they were welcomed by the directors of the ballet company themselves and fed caviar and champagne, before being taken to the Imperial Box, where they were announced as if they were royalty and given a standing ovation by not only the entire audience, but the orchestra as well.

  Just as they had felt awkward being lauded as heroes by the people in the hospital where Lady Penelope had been treated, most of the Misfits were very uncomfortable with all the attention they were getting. They didn’t enjoy receiving such praise and recognition for doing what they thought of as their duty and they took their seats quickly after politely acknowledging the applause. All except for Scarlet, who shamelessly stood at the front of the box to wave and blow kisses and had to be tugged backwards into her seat by Kitty.

  After the audience had finally retaken their seats, an usher handed out souvenir programmes and Gwen smiled as she read the name of the ballet that was going to be performed - Coppélia, one of her favourites. It wasn’t one of the big and ever-popular Tchaikovsky ballets that seemed to be all that many companies ever did, instead it was a fairly short comic ballet, which, she reflected, would please Mac, as he wouldn’t have to sit through almost three hours of romance. She had seen Coppélia a few times with her parents - they were patrons of the Royal Opera House and had taken her there every time they were in London after they had collected her from Hamleys - but that evening’s performance was special, combining as it did the splendour and classical repertoire of ballet with the most modern of technology.

  The ballet told the story of an inventor who makes very lifelike doll, capable of dancing, which a young man somehow falls in love with. The young man’s girlfriend sees this and dresses up as the doll to mock him, pretending to make it come to life. Usually the parts of the dancing doll and several others that the inventor has made were played by dancers, who then have to dance as if they were mechanical beings, but in the production that night, those dolls were played by actual clockwork automatons, created especially for the ballet company.