A Splendid Little War (2 page)

That was in France. Now they were sitting in the back of the adjutant's car, watching the Essex hedgerows go by while the afternoon slipped away; looking for a lost Camel that might be hiding behind that haystack for all they knew. “This is bloody silly,” Hackett said. Just an idle remark. Not serious.

“What was he doing out here?” Wragge asked. It wasn't really a question. “If it was him.”

“I told him to learn the landmarks. Stay in sight of the aerodrome. Bloody idiot.”

Rain speckled the windscreen. “You get these nasty mists in Essex, sir,” the sergeant said. “Bad for navigation. Fogs, too. Spring up out of nowhere. Mists and fog.” He sucked his teeth.

“I hope you know where you're going,” Wragge said. “I'm completely lost.”

“Remember that ginger-haired Irishman when we were on the Somme?” Hackett said. “Kelly. Got lost in a fog, flew into a hill, lickety-split. Always in a tearing hurry, Kelly.”

“Not easy to find a hill in France.”

“Well, he was very lost. Why have you stopped, sergeant?”

“Epping Forest, sir. D'you want to go in? It's big.”

They got out and looked at the forest. Rain flickered through the headlights. Nothing was in leaf; the trees were black and gloomy. “It would take a regiment a week to search that lot,” Wragge said.

Hackett put his chin up and sniffed. “Funny smell.”

“Charcoal,” Wragge said. “It's a wood. Charcoal burners.”

Hackett kept sniffing. “Smells funny. We've come this far. Let's go and ask the natives. Maybe they saw something.”

The sergeant had an electric lantern. They followed Hackett's sense
of smell, and after a hundred yards they found the oak tree with the Camel wrapped around a fistful of branches. A petrol tank was still dripping. Chunks of hot metal had dropped and started a small fire at the base of the tree and it still glowed, but amazingly the flames had not reached the Camel. It was shattered, but the bits were intact. The cockpit was empty.

They walked in increasing circles and soon found Bennett. He lay with every limb twisted so that they pointed the wrong way. They carried him back to the car. It had a rumble seat, and that seemed the obvious place to put him. It was open to the weather and the rain was hammering down but Bennett didn't care.

The car jolted up the lane and sent brown bow-waves flying into the dark. “Take it steady,” Wragge told the sergeant. “We don't want another accident.”

“Bloody awful climate,” Hackett muttered.

“Well, it's England,” Wragge said. “It's what we English call a baking hot day in Essex.”

“It's rained like a bitch every day for a week. Where the hell does it come from?”

“We import it from the Atlantic, old boy. Been doing it for centuries. Steady, reliable, phlegmatic stuff. Very traditional. You Colonials wouldn't understand.”

The sergeant said, “It's not like Australia, Mr Hackett. You planning on going back?”

“Back to what? Sheep and cricket? No thanks.”

“Get used to the rain, then,” Wragge said. “Settle down here and breed goldfish. The fun's over.”

“It was the war to end all wars,” the sergeant said. “Everyone says so.”

“By Christ, I hope not,” Hackett said. He sounded annoyed.

They delivered the body to the Medical Officer and gave the news to the adjutant, who thanked them. “Don't thank us, Uncle,” Wragge said. “He killed himself, poor bastard. We just got wet feet.” The adjutant knew better than to argue. He was an ex-cavalry major, aged forty-five, felt like sixty-five in the company of these casual assassins. He reminded them that tonight was Dining-In Night in the Mess, distinguished guest present, look smart, be sharp; and he watched them go.
Younger than my sons
, he thought,
older than Methuselah
.

He phoned the Medical Officer and confirmed that Jeremy Meredith Tobias Bennett, aged eighteen, really was dead and not the makings of a practical joke. The Royal Flying Corps had become the Royal Air Force, but it retained its undergraduate humour. Only a week ago, the Egyptian ambassador in London had telephoned him to discuss the proposal by His Majesty King Mahomet to make the squadron honorary members of the Royal Camel Corps, in recognition of its pluck and courage. He was pretty sure that the voice belonged to Flying Officer Dextry. Bloody idiots. Problem was, they hadn't enough to do. Peace was boring.

The adjutant fished out some papers from his in-tray. Restaurant in Chelsea demanded payment for damages caused by horseplay leading to food-fight. That was “B” Flight. They'd blamed it all on a crowd of American aviators. Self-defence, “B” Flight said … Metropolitan Police were looking for the officers who hired some horses and raced them down Park Lane and up Piccadilly. Probably Hackett's doing. And somebody's Camel went and flour-bombed the Brighton Express as it left Waterloo, so now Air Ministry was furious. One flour-bomb actually hit the dining car. Few pilots had that kind of skill. In the margin, the adjutant wrote:
Jessop?

The last paper was the worst of all. The accounts for the Officers' Mess showed a loss of £483, a horribly huge amount. Flying Officer Bellamy was President of the Mess Committee, but he claimed that his predecessor, chap called Champion, must have pocketed the money, lost it at the races, spent it on floozies, who knew what? The trouble was, Champion was dead, got into a spin, made a hole in the heart of Essex. Left a hole in the Mess funds.

The adjutant tossed the papers back in his in-tray. Tomorrow was soon enough. Nothing would change, of course. He'd still be surrounded by bloody idiots.

The camp at Butler's Farm was built fast, mainly from Nissen huts. Luckily, part of the airfield had been a cricket field, and the pavilion became the Officers' Mess. Long yards of creamy linen covered trestle tables. There was much silverware, looted in the final advance when the squadron had occupied an aerodrome suddenly abandoned by the German air force.

Flying Officer Bellamy's disasters had not yet been made public and he had decided to go out with a bang, if not a cheer. There was a lot of
wine. Bellamy knew what the chaps liked: game soup, baked stuffed haddock, roast rib of beef, jam roly-poly with custard, welsh rarebit. No fancy frog names, no mucky sauces. Plenty of mashed potato with the beef. He told the waiters to be ready with second helpings. Bellamy was no good at sums, but he knew the chaps.

Dinner went well.

The C.O. got them to their feet for the loyal toast, and then introduced their distinguished guest.

“A man,” he said, “whose achievements in our recent difference of opinion with the Boche have become a thing of legend, both as a pilot and as a leader. He took air fighting to a new level, as the enemy soon discovered, because invariably he was above them, and shortly afterwards they were descending at a great rate of knots, usually without a tail or a wing.” (Laughter.) “I'm sure everyone here knows his astonishing record. Gentlemen: our guest … Wing Commander J.E.B. Griffin.”

Few fighter pilots were tall. If your head stuck outside the cockpit, it was the equivalent of facing a gale on top of the Alps, which didn't help eyesight or breathing and exposed you to the enemy's guns. So nobody was surprised to see that Griffin was short, with broad shoulders. He didn't look like a hero; but then most heroes look like ploughboys or bricklayers: compact, strong, quiet. The squadron got ready for a few words about how we won and what an honour it had been to serve, and Griffin surprised them all.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “We thought it was all over. But there is still a certain amount of what the infantry calls mopping-up to be done, and I have been asked to lead a new squadron. It seems that our Russian friends need a hand to help put their house in order.”

He took a sip of water and let the rumble of comments subside. Russia? Wore fur hats and had snow on their boots, didn't they? Russia. Crikey.

“For those of you who are looking for a complete change of scenery, I recommend northern Russia. We have bases at Murmansk and Archangel. They are on or about the Arctic Circle and both need pilots. If you relish a challenge, this is the place for you. The natives are treacherous, and the enemy – the Bolsheviks – are savages. The cold is brutal. Last month a general took his gloves off to pin a medal on a chap, got instant frostbite, and pinned his own fingers instead. Fact.”

They enjoyed that. Griffin allowed himself a small smile.

“You will live in hovels and share them with lice and fleas. No beer, and the vodka is foul. Nothing can stop your engine oil from freezing. Your pay is good but there is absolutely nothing to spend it on except funerals. Yes, north Russia is a challenge.”

They laughed, and applauded. “What's he playing at?” Wragge asked Hackett, and got a shrug in reply.

“So, if that's your meat, I can arrange it,” Griffin said. “Meanwhile I shall be leading my squadron to south Russia, down on the shores of the Black Sea. Climate like the French Riviera. Rich farming country – melons as sweet as honey, cherries as big as plums, beefsteaks as thick as thieves. I don't care for caviare but maybe you do. You'll have to sing for your supper, of course. The White Army holds the south. The Red Army wants it. General Denikin leads the Whites. Brilliant commander, splendid patriot, and if Russia has any future, the saviour of his nation. Britain has sent him supplies worth millions of pounds. Our task is simple: we help him duff up the enemy, who are a complete rabble, and we escort his march on Moscow. Oh, and by the way: you'll get paid one grade higher than your rank for doing it.”

A storm of applause. The adjutant looked around and counted Dextry, Jessop, Bellamy, Wragge and Hackett on their feet, cheering. Good. That should thin out the bloody idiots and make his in-tray lighter.

Two-thirds of the squadron volunteered for south Russia. “I'll take half,” Griffin told the C.O. “You can keep the drunks and the sex maniacs and the ones who like pulling wings off butterflies.”

“Oh, thanks enormously,” the C.O. said. He began going through the list with a red pencil.

“Is it really true that everyone will get paid above his rank?” the adjutant asked. Griffin nodded. “The only reason I ask,” the adjutant said, “is the squadron hasn't converted from R.F.C. to R.A.F. ranks. Not totally, that is. Some chaps are captains, some flight lieutenants. What's the R.A.F. equivalent of a colonel?”

“Don't know. What matters is each chap gets a bucket of roubles every week.”

“Simpson,” the C.O. said. “Isn't Simpson the one who wears a corset?” He didn't wait for an answer. The red pencil thudded through Simpson.

“Roubles, you say,” the adjutant said. “I don't think we can wait for
roubles. Not if you want these officers
immediately
.” He frowned hard at a mental picture of complex problems. “It's their Mess bills, you see. I fear they can't pay them now. In fact I know they can't.”

Griffin looked him in the eye. Neither man blinked. Each knew that R.A.F. Butler's Farm wouldn't have a hope in hell of getting money out of a pilot once he was on his way to south Russia. Each also knew that the red pencil had not yet finished its work. The C.O. became aware of their silence, and he looked up.