The Russian Resistance

by Simon Brading

  ‘Group Captain Lennox?’ Abby looked up to find one of the generals hobbling towards her, leaning heavily on a stick with his right hand. He was an older gentleman, in his seventies or perhaps eighties, thin, but sprightly, with a short white beard and sparse white hair. He came to a halt in front of her and changed his stick to his left side so that he could offer her his hand. ‘Welcome to Northern Command. My name is Markian Mikhaylovich Popov and I have the dubious pleasure of being in charge of this fiasco.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ Abby nodded to him, then gestured at the table. ‘When do you expect reinforcements to arrive?’

  The general laughed. ‘I don’t! There aren’t any coming.’

  Abby blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The Tsar has made it very clear that he expects us to hold the line in the north with what we have.’ The old man smiled widely. ‘He has great confidence in you and after hearing what you did over the summer, I don’t think it should be too much trouble for you!’

  A knot started to twist itself in Abby’s stomach as she glanced at the map, staring in dismay at the advancing red pieces and the all too few yellow ones facing them. If it had been a game of chess, she would have been contemplating tipping her king over, but it wasn’t, it was all too real. However, if they made a mistake, they could be just as easily swept off the board as if they were just wooden pieces.

  ‘In Britain we had the channel, a twenty-mile moat to defend. Here...’ She gestured at the open country all around with only the thin line of the river at Murmansk and the even thinner one at the border providing any natural defensive line.

  The general nodded his understanding. ‘Yes, we are exposed, but we need only hold out until the ground freezes.’

  ‘And how long will that be, exactly?’

  ‘Ah, well, the old men who know about these things say the ice will come late this year.’

  ‘Late? How late?’

  ‘Mid-November at the latest. Perhaps sooner.’

  ‘That leaves almost a month!’

  The general smiled. ‘Yes, it does!’

  ‘But...’ Abby gestured wordlessly at horde of red markers that would swamp them when they arrived.

  ‘Oh, they will be at the border long before winter fully sets in.’

  Abby stared at him. He seemed cheerful, almost delighted at the prospect of facing such overwhelming odds.

  He saw her expression and chuckled. ‘Oh, do not think me bloodthirsty or foolish, madam. I know exactly how difficult the task ahead of us is going to be. However, the Prussians have no idea what they are getting into. This is not France or Belgium or even Norway, this is Russia and the people of Russia are not as soft and easily cowed.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, we’re Muscovites right now, I suppose, but that will only last until the war is won.’

  ‘Is that why the civilians haven’t been evacuated?’

  He nodded. ‘They would not go.’

  ‘But they’ll be slaughtered!’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. But it is their choice to make and would you deny them the chance to defend their homes?’

  Abby wanted to say yes and tell him that they should be moving the civilians as far east as they could go, tell him that if they stayed, the red wave approaching wouldn’t differentiate between civilian and soldier and would wash them all away, leaving nothing behind. She held her tongue, though; this was after all akin to the spirit that the British people had shown over the summer, just taken to the extreme.

  She shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ She gestured at the table. ‘So, what can we do to make sure that grandmothers do not die trying to kill Prussians with mothballs and handbags?’

  The general laughed then turned to the table. ‘If we are going to stop the Prussians before they get to us, then obviously we must find a way to strike at them.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Thanks to you, or rather thanks to your pilot, Charles Isaacs, we have been able to accurately pinpoint not only the enemy advance, but their aerodromes.’ He pointed at the four red artillery markers that were a few dozen miles over the border into Finland. ‘At the moment they have only four airfields. One is occupied by two fighter squadrons with perhaps sixteen small fighters and a similar number of twin-spring fighters, the other three hold their bombers, maybe one hundred in total.’

  He turned to Abby. ‘While you have had undoubted success these last few days, we will not win the war in the air by shooting down half a dozen aircraft at a time. That does not stop their advance and they will only send replacements. We need to strike their airfields and destroy all of their machines on the ground.’

  He pointed at the map. There was a yellow Muscovite artillery piece about fifty miles to the south-east of the one that sat at Vaenga. ‘We have two bomber groups there. They are old biplanes, barely able to carry a usable payload, but they are all we have. They would never make it on their own, but with the Misfits and the Wolfpack working together to escort them they have a chance.’

  There was a bloodthirsty glint in the old man’s eyes as he began to lay out his plan and Abby felt a shiver run through her body. She had met too many command-level officers in France who had that look - they were the ones who were far too eager to send their men to die and didn’t care how many of them died.

  ‘Tomorrow you will do as you usually do and fly to intercept the bombers. If they come to attack Murmansk then you will engage them, but if they attack the troops on the border, as they have done this morning, you will break off when they turn for home. When you land you are to rewind with all haste, then be back in the air in time to rendezvous with our own bombers.’

  He grinned and again there was that flash in his eyes which transformed his face into something much more predatory. ‘We have taught them that they need a fighter escort and now we will take it away from them by attacking their fighter base. Not only is it the closest, only thirty miles the other side of the border, but if we can destroy them, then their bombers will be sitting ducks during subsequent raids. And, once we have air superiority, we can attack their columns at will and delay their advance until winter.’

  Abby looked down at the board while she sorted her thoughts and feelings. The general’s plan, if you could call it that, was simple and direct and sounded very easy. However, she couldn’t help but think that it wouldn’t work; the British had been in a very similar situation in France and had tried similar things but hadn’t been able to stop the Prussians. She saw no reason why the outcome would be any different this time.

  ‘I see your doubts, Group Captain Lennox and I recognise their validity.’ The old man spoke quietly, seriously. ‘If we fail, we will lose, but if we wait for them to come, we lose as well. So, unless you have a better plan, I see no other choice. Better to do our best and lose, than cower here and wait for the sky to fall. That is the Russian way.’

  Abby nodded and gave him a wry smile. ‘It’s the Misfit way as well.’

  Wendy, of course, was over the moon about the plan and clapped her hands in delight. ‘That sounds like just the kind of mission to see what my babies can really do!’

  Abby frowned at her. ‘What makes you think you’re taking part in the mission?’

  Wendy blinked at her in surprise, but then her expression darkened with anger.

  Before she could say anything, though, Abby laughed. ‘Only joking! Of course you are!’

  Wendy growled and smacked her big right fist into her left palm. ‘If you weren’t my senior officer...’

  ‘Or your friend?’

  Wendy stared at her coldly. ‘Would a friend have teased me like that?’

  ‘No... I suppose they wouldn’t...’ Abby’s face fell as she looked into the big woman’s eyes and saw the hurt behind the anger. ‘I’m sorry, Wendy.’

  Wendy held the glare for a second more, then laughed and pulled Abby into a bone-crushing hug. She growled as she jerked Abby into the air, drawing a squawk of protest, then threw her words back at her. ‘Only joking
! Of course you’re my friend!’

  The Misfits laughed, more in relief that there wasn’t going to be a rift in the squadron, than at the joke, but the tension that had been building during the briefing was dissipated somewhat. None of them liked the plan, not because it was dangerous, but because it smelled of desperation and that usually got people killed. They had taken part in one such attack only too recently and it had cost a lot of British bomber crews their lives, not to mention that Dreadnought had barely gotten home.

  ‘Right,’ Abby said once the big woman had put her down. ‘Let’s go over the plan one more time, then try to get some sleep.’

  Chapter 18

  At first light the next day, the Misfits were milling around outside the mess hall in the cold morning air, drinking tea and munching on thick bread while they waited for the call that the Prussians had been spotted.

  The Russians had finally finished painting the rest of their machines, and the two squadrons made an extremely colourful display, lined up on the airfield, ready for the go. Unlike the Misfits, not one of the Russians had opted for a practical or sober colour. Instead each seemed to be trying to outdo the next for garishness with all the colours of the rainbow represented, sometimes all at once. The only Harridans that were still in the factory camouflage were the spares still in their crates and the three being used by the instructors, who weren’t accompanying them on the mission. The Misfits quietly and privately agreed that Dreadnought was still the most eye-aching of the lot, though, not only due to its dazzle camouflage, but also because of the sheer amount of paint it was able to display - some of the Russians had indeed tried to emulate its patterning, but because of the smaller size of the Harridans the effect was not nearly as nauseating. Vulture and Bloodhound were already up in the air, but Dreadnought and Hummingbird were on the flight line. Dreadnought had of course been fully loaded with ordnance and would be joining the Russian bombers in the attack, but even Scarlet had a job to do. She would land a few miles behind the border, ready to race in and rescue anyone who had to bail out.

  Gwen sat hunched over on the mess hall steps, half-asleep still, sipping at her tea and watching the Wolfpack. The Misfits never took things very seriously, not even missions, and made jokes of just about anything, but they seemed almost dour when compared to the Wolfpack, who were laughing and joking loudly, even wrestling and dancing in some cases. Gwen had no idea where they got the energy and enthusiasm from so early in the morning, especially seeing as most of them were falling down drunk every night, and she wished she could absorb some of it.

  Something caught her eye along the row of barracks buildings, and she groaned as Rudy Drake came out of the small hut the instructors were using as a barracks and sauntered jauntily towards the mess hall. His lop-sided grin was firmly in place, his eyes were bright, and his uniform and hair were absolutely perfect - he was just as annoying a morning person as Kitty.

  ‘Looks like a bloody Labrador,’ she muttered to herself. ‘All he needs it to stick his tongue out and wag his tail...’

  He spotted her and she felt her cheeks warm ever so slightly as his already wide smile widened further and, despite her tiredness and general state of grumpiness, she found herself returning his smile, albeit a lot weaker.

  ‘Morning, Goosy!’

  He came to a halt right in front of her forcing her to squint up at him.

  ‘Mornin’,’ she grunted at him. ‘What the hell are you doing up so early? You’re not flying today.’

  ‘I know, but I wanted to see you lot off.’ He took a few seconds to glance around the group of Misfits, giving those of them who met his gaze a brief nod or wave, before turning back to Gwen. ‘I wish I was going with you, but it seems that the generals and illustrious leader have the misguided opinion that the three of us are worth more as live instructors than dead heroes.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, they just don’t want you spoiling the parade with your boring machines.’

  Drake turned to look at the Russian aircraft and winced. ‘The last thing you could accuse those poor Harridans of being is boring. I much prefer mine as it is.’

  ‘Really? You’re not jealous?’ Gwen smirked at him. ‘You’re telling me that you wouldn’t paint it if they let you? I can have a word with Abby; there’s no reason why the three of you can’t paint your aircraft as well and I know the Russians have got plenty of pink paint you could use.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s a tempting offer, but no thank you; it’s dangerous enough up there as it is, and I prefer not to call too much attention to myself.’

  Gwen nodded, feigning understanding. ‘Because you’re not a very good pilot.’

  Drake didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he turned deadly serious. ‘No. Because I don’t want to make myself a bigger target than I already am.’

  She frowned at him. ‘I can handle myself, Rudy.’

  ‘I know you can and I’m not implying that! It’s just...’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Look, all I’m trying to say is take care up there, Gwen, and make sure you come back. I couldn’t stand it if...’

  He broke off and looked up over Gwen’s shoulder as Kitty emerged from the shadows of the mess hall.

  She sat down next to Gwen and smiled up at Drake, a cup of the strong coffee imported from the Ottoman Empire in her hand. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll take care of her up there. The Misfits watch out for each other.’ The American put her arm around Gwen and squeezed her shoulder as she sipped her drink.

  Drake took in how close they were sitting, then smiled and nodded. ‘That’s good to know.’ He bounced up the stairs past them and went into the mess hall.

  Gwen turned to frown at Kitty, but before she could say a word a Muscovite soldier poked his head out of the communications shed. He shouted something in Russian which the Misfits had come to recognise as the Muscovite equivalent to “scramble” just as the klaxon started to sound.

  ‘About bloody time!’ Mac growled as he tossed his tea to the ground and broke into a run towards Jaguar, followed closely by the rest of the Misfits.

  Gwen placed her empty mug rather more carefully to one side before standing up and sprinting after them.

  Kitty fell in next to her, her long legs allowing her to keep up effortlessly. ‘I have a really bad feeling about this mission.’

  Gwen looked up at her. The American’s brow was heavily creased and there was a look in her eyes that she had never seen before.

  ‘We’ve faced far worse odds than this before.’

  ‘I know! It’s just...’ Kitty growled, annoyed with herself, sounding much like Mac had just moments before. ‘I don’t know, maybe I’m just being paranoid, but like Drake said, watch out for yourself, OK?’

  ‘I will, I promise.’ Gwen reached out to give Kitty’s arm a squeeze, then veered off, heading for Wasp, while her friend continued down the line of aircraft towards where Hawk was parked.

  ‘Is Kitty alright?’ called Abby from Dragonfly’s wing.

  Gwen nodded and raised her voice to reply. ‘She’s just nervous.’

  ‘Ha!’ Abby barked, tossing her head. ‘So am I! But we have to play the cards we’re dealt with.’ She gave Gwen a grin, then stepped into her cockpit and slid down into her seat.

  Gwen turned away and gave Wasp a quick glance. They had all done their pre-flight checks immediately after breakfast so as to be ready, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Once she was done, she nodded at Sergeant Jenkins. ‘All set, sergeant?’

  ‘All set, ma’am.’

  ‘Good, thank you. Let’s get this show on the road, then, shall we?’

  The twenty fighters, eight Misfits and twelve Wolfpack Harridans rendezvoused west of Murmansk and vectored towards the incoming raid.

  The night before, Chastity had asked why they didn’t just lurk around near the border so that they were in place when the Prussians came for their raid, regular as clockwork and the answer was simple - if the Prussians saw them waiting, either they wouldn’t show at all or
they would just turn back. So, just like the day before, the combined fighter forces were still more than fifty miles away when the Prussians dropped their bombs on the border, making a long run from north to south along the river before turning back towards home.

  The General had assured Abby that the forces along the border were well dug in and were taking very little in the way of casualties, so it didn’t really matter that they were allowing the Prussians to bomb unmolested, but it was still quite frustrating for the Misfits.

  As soon as it was clear what the Prussians were doing, the allies broke off and raced back towards Vaenga. Because rewinding facilities were somewhat limited, they split up into groups, with the faster fighters of B flight racing ahead, closely followed by Sable and Raptor with Dragonfly and Wasp lagging only slightly behind. The Harridans were not much slower, but even so the Misfits were almost rewound by the time they taxied into place.

  The fitters were only topping off what little tension the fighters had used so it didn’t take long, and less than an hour after they had turned back from the interception, the allied squadrons were back in the air and climbing hard. Dreadnought and Hummingbird were already in the air, having taken off while the two fighter squadrons were on their way home and they formed on them as they sped for the coordinates they had been given south-west of Murmansk, looking to make their rendezvous with the rest of their forces.

  ‘Wolverine Leader, this is Beetroot. Come in please.’

  Gwen couldn’t help but smile when the call from the air traffic controllers at Murmansk came in, not just because “Beetroot” was such an appropriate name for them, considering the Muscovites’ obsession with putting the vegetable in just about everything, but also because area command had chosen a name for the combined squadrons that was as close to “Wolfpack” as they could get without actually using it.