A Splendid Little War (27 page)

The Marine who was manning the Lewis gun on the roof swung it in a steady, scything action, changed the drum, did it again. Marines at the windows picked off the ghostly shapes that got past the Lewis gun. Brazier, watching from the roof of “B” Flight's train, said: “They'll come at us from both sides. Spray the ground on the left. Four-second bursts. Don't stint the bullets. Where are the grenades?”

He took four grenades, climbed down and walked to the front of the locomotive. There was much shouting and blowing of whistles, and he threw two grenades to left and to right, aiming for the centres of the noise. Brazier had a strong arm. The grenades flew like clay pigeons and exploded like the crack of doom.

When the smoke cleared, the pre-dawn twilight showed attackers running away on both sides of Kenny's train. The Lewis guns chased them. Some fell.

Brazier walked back to The Dregs. “I think you can safely tell Chef to prepare breakfast,” he told Hackett.

“They weren't Bolos, were they? Too far south. What did they want?”

“They were rabble,” Brazier said comfortably. “And they wanted what every Russian wants, anything that isn't nailed down. Given enough time, they'll steal the nails too.” He patted Hackett's arm. “This isn't the Varsity rugger match, squadron leader.” They went into the bar car.
Brazier hadn't felt so satisfied since he watched the lid of Kenny's coffin being screwed down.

“The bandits have been sent packing,” Hackett told the pilots. “Back to normal again.”

“Congratulations to the adjutant and his men,” Count Borodin said. “As to normal … I wonder if that might be premature.”

“What's the problem?” Hackett asked. “Fuel dump's not far. We steam on, grab some coal. Easy.”

Borodin went to a window and tapped his knuckles on the glass. “Double tracks out there. But no train has passed us, going either way, since we left Beketofka. Isn't that unusual?”

“I smell coffee,” the adjutant said. “Let us examine the situation over the black stimulant. And perhaps also an egg.”

Over coffee, they listened to Borodin. The train drivers, he said, told him that the fuel dump and water tower were in a small town about twenty miles away. He told them its name, and wrote it on a piece of paper.

“You've left out the vowels,” Brazier said. He clutched the paper and took a stab at the name, and failed. “Let's call it Walsall. Near Birmingham. Sounds a bit like Warsaw.”

“That's in Poland,” Hackett objected.

“Warsaw will do nicely,” Borodin said. “I rather think this Warsaw may be in unfriendly hands.” That might explain the absence of trains. Could the Reds have captured Warsaw? Unlikely. But there were other rogue forces roaming the land. Bands of guerrillas. Hordes of deserters. Warlords' armies. Why Warsaw? Because trains worth looting would stop there. And maybe a handful of bandits had chanced on Merlin Squadron in the dark, and didn't know the trains were full of fighting men.

Well, it was possible. Anyway, what next?

No point in steaming into Warsaw if it was stuffed with bad hats. No point in sitting here if it wasn't.

Borodin offered to go on ahead, by pony, and find out more. Talk to a few peasants. “They'll tell me,” he said. “They won't tell you.”

Nobody could think of a better idea. “We'll look at the battlefield first,” Brazier said. “Might find some clues.”

The Marines were counting the bodies and dragging them into lines. A few of the dead wore odd bits of uniform; most did not; many were
barefoot. “Funny thing, sir,” a Marine corporal said. “No wounded. Not many rifles, either.”

“The survivors took all the rifles,” Borodin said. “And the boots. Both are scarce. And the wounded expected to be shot. Or worse. The lucky ones would have been carried away by their friends. The rest …” He waved a hand at the sweep of the steppe. “Crawled off to die in the grass.”

“Bloody hell,” the corporal said. “Sir.”

“Don't go looking for them, corporal,” Brazier said. “They won't thank you for it.”

Borodin walked along the line of bodies. He stooped and picked up a black flag. “Nestor Makhno's badge,” he said. “He leads an Anarchist guerrilla force. They fight anyone and everyone. Makhno calls them his Green Guards.”

“Green Guards,” Hackett said. “With a black flag.”

Borodin shrugged. “They're Anarchists. They do what they like. They like attacking trains.”

“They didn't like our Lewis guns, sir,” the corporal said. “Made a big mistake there, they did.”

Count Borodin took some old and soiled pieces of clothing from the bodies: a sheepskin coat, canvas trousers, a felt cap. “Camouflage,” he said.

The squadron caught up on its sleep. The adjutant kept a few guards on top of the boxcars. Fifty yards from Kenny's train,
plennys
dug a mass grave. They worked steadily, but they were silent and sombre. They were Russians burying fellow-Russians killed by foreigners. The bloodshed had been unavoidable. If the attackers had got into the trains, they might have slaughtered everyone. All the same, the
plennys
didn't like it. Some of the drops that fell in the grave were sweat. A few were tears.

Hackett woke at midday, dressed and walked alongside the trains, looking for damage. He found some bullet holes and Flight Lieutenant Susan Perry. She was changing the dressings on a couple of ground crew, cut by fragments of glass from broken windows. She tied the knot on the final bandage. “Does that hurt?” she asked.

“Agony, ma'am.”

“That's odd, I didn't feel a thing.” He laughed, and she dismissed him with a nod and a smile. “I need some exercise,” she told Hackett.
“Will you come with me? I don't want to get massacred by some smelly bandit.”

“Of course. I'll get my gun.”

“No need. I have the colonel's revolver in my bag. You hold the rotter and I'll shoot him in the head.”

They strolled towards the steppe. “You seem very … um … refreshed,” he said. What he meant was
delightful
, but he was the C.O. and duty came first.

“It goes with the job. A nurse can be dead on her feet, but if she yawns, matron will kill her. Lesson one.”

“I see, I see.” Hearing her voice – after weeks of male gruffness – gave him amazing pleasure. It had a light and easy lilt that was a reward in itself. Never mind the words. Just enjoy the voice. “Yes, I do see.”

“We're walking in step,” she said. “D'you mind awfully if we don't? Your legs are longer than mine.”

“Yes, of course, of course.” Why must he say everything twice? It made him sound stupid. He broke step, and to make sure that they stayed out of step he watched her feet. She had legs like a dancer's. What he could see of them. But she was so slim that he could easily imagine … He sniffed hard and filled his lungs. A rabbit hole gave him an excuse to sidestep away from her. They walked at a safe distance. “Uncle tells me you embalmed Colonel Kenny superbly well,” he said.

“Does he? I'm pleased he's pleased.”

A touch of tartness in the words surprised him. “Well, it got us out of a serious hole.”

She stopped and picked a small yellow flower and tucked it into a buttonhole in his tunic. “Kenny looked quite satisfied with the results.”

“Thank you,” he said, for the flower; and then: “I don't know what you mean.”

“There's nothing noble about a dead man's face. Quite the reverse. I gave his features a human look. Not a smile. Just the kind of expression that a colonel with a V.C. should have. Oh dear. Now I've shocked you.”

“Not a bit.” They walked on. Not entirely true: what had shocked him was the sight of the wedding ring on her finger as she fixed the flower. Why hadn't he noticed it before? He felt cheated, and hated the feeling, it was a sign of weakness, unworthy of a C.O. “After France, nothing shocks me,” he said. “All that blood and guts.”

“It may be blood and guts to you, but it's bread and butter to me,” she said. “Old medical joke. Very old.”

He laughed, and enjoyed a great relief of tension, so he took another risk and said: “How does your husband feel about all this?” He waved at the steppe. “An Englishwoman in the wilds of Russia.”

“Nothing. He …” She stopped, and faced him. “Look: if you must walk such a long way away, we shall have to communicate by postcard.” He took a cautious pace towards her. She shook her head. “Dear Sir,” she said. “Ref yours of the tenth inst …” He took a larger step. “Better,” she said. “Short story. We met at Cambridge. His name was Tristram. Not his fault, blame his dotty parents. Fell in love. Not our fault, blame the biology. Tristram was very dashing. As soon as he could, he dashed off fast to join the war before it stopped. Queen Victoria's Rifles, second lieutenant. Dashed over to France, dashed over the top at Festubert in 1915. Pointless battle that nobody remembers. End of story. Not his fault, blame … I don't know who. But I hope you're not all dash.”

“I ran away from home when I was fifteen,” he said. “Does that count?”

They turned to walk back to the trains, and she took his arm. “Hullo!” he said. He glanced ahead and saw distant figures watching them. “What will the neighbours think?”

“They'll think what we both thought as soon as we saw each other on Kenny's train,” she said. “Yum-yum, we thought. That's for me.”

“Oh,” Hackett said. “Yes. I suppose that's true.”

She squeezed his arm. “Men can be so slow,” she said. “It's a wonder the race has survived.”

Prod Pedlow had borrowed a Bible. He sat in the shade of the train with Drunken Duncan, and tried to look up the part that Borodin had mentioned during tea on the way back from the village of the Skoptsi. “Whose gospel was it?” he asked. “I've forgotten.”

“Matthew. I remember because I've got a cousin called Matthew. Brilliant opening bat. He hit the ball so hard it made holes in the boundary fence. Bound to play for England one day, everyone said so. But …” Duncan shrugged.

“But what?”

“Fell in love. French ambassador found him in bed with his wife,
said the embassy was French territory and under French law he could kill him, it was justifiable homicide. Very nasty. Last I heard, Matthew was an assistant bank manager in Cape Town. Tragic.”

“Serve him right.” Pedlow was searching the pages for St Matthew. “Anyway, it's only cricket.”

“You're an Ulster Prod,” Duncan said. “You wouldn't know a cover drive from a dustbin lid.”

“Ah, here he is. Matthew.”

“You need chapter and verse. I can't remember what Borodin said.”

“I can. He said 1912 – chapter 19, verse 12. Big year, 1912. I was a chorister, the choir was processing around the church, and I was singing like a bird when my voice broke. Cracked. It fell two octaves in one breath. 1912. Turning-point for the nation. Here we are …” He read the verse. “Bloody hell,” he said bleakly, and handed the Bible to Duncan. “Verse 12.”

Duncan read it in silence.
For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother's womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it
.

“That's only someone's opinion,” Duncan said. “Who was it, anyway?”

“Jesus Christ,” Pedlow said. “Preaching to the disciples. I suppose those chaps in the village thought that, if it got them into the kingdom of heaven, it was worth a swift chop.”

“We could show this to the squadron,” Duncan said. “No. They still wouldn't believe us.”

“I wonder what a swift chop does to a chap's vocal cords? It might boost him up a couple of octaves.” Pedlow sprawled in the grass, propping himself on his elbows, and looked at the vastness of the sky and the spotless purity of its blue. “Enough to get you into the heavenly choir. Not that it exists. That kind of mumbo-jumbo is all codswallop. But if you were an ignorant villager standing stark naked with a sharp knife in your hand, it might be enough to get you to de-bollock yourself. If you'd started having second thoughts, I mean.”

“Oh … Christ on crutches.” Duncan had not been listening; he had been scanning the page opposite Matthew 19, 12. “It gets worse,” he said. “Listen.
And if thy hand or foot offend thee, cut them off, and cast them from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than
having two hands or two feet to be cast into everlasting fire
.” He looked up. “More friendly advice from the Son of God.”

“They wouldn't dare cut off my feet,” Pedlow said. “I wouldn't stand for it.” Duncan yawned. “Anyway, I outranked them,” Pedlow said. “I was a Top Angel. Air Commodore, at least. Maybe Air Vice-Marshal.”