A Splendid Little War (3 page)

“The pity is,” the adjutant said, “sometimes the best pilots owe the most money.”

“How much? To wipe the slate clean?”

The adjutant thought fast. “Five hundred pounds.”

While Griffin wrote a cheque, the C.O. finished his list. “Hackett,” he said. “Australian. Tenacious bugger.” He twirled the red pencil.

“Oh, you'll like him,” the adjutant said quickly.

“Chuck him in,” Griffin said. “I'll take him instead of a receipt.” He waved the cheque to dry the ink. “This is War Office money. Cash it fast, before they change their minds about saving the Russian Empire from the Reds. By all reports, the Reds are winning hands down.” He saw the look on the C.O.'s face. “Joke,” he said. “I haven't the faintest idea who's winning. A pal of mine at the Foreign Office reckons the Reds are surrounded on all sides by White armies. He's guessing. Hoping, too, probably. All I know is this bloke Denikin's running the show in the south and he's been asking for British squadrons for months.”

“I hope you hammer the Bolsheviks good and hard,” the C.O. said, “After what they did to the Tsar.”

“Dirty work. Mind you, we can't talk,” Griffin said. “We chopped off the king's head once. Be sure your chaps are at Air Ministry tomorrow, ten a.m. prompt, drunk or sober. Long journey ahead.”

Long, slow journey.

Griffin had collected about twenty pilots from the best squadrons. The first plan was to send them by train to somewhere in Greece, probably Salonika, and ship them the rest of the way. They got as far as Calais and were recalled. Nobody knew why. Next plan was to put them on a ship in London docks, a Swedish freighter unloading timber. It had no
passenger accommodation. Griffin got on the phone to Air Ministry, who called the Ministry of Shipping, who called the War Office, by which time it was raining so hard the spray was knee-high, and everybody went back to their hotels and unpacked. The train plan was revived and this time they got as far as Paris. But several big avalanches in Austria had closed the line to Salonika and they went to Marseilles instead.

The city was pleasantly sunny in the early spring. Lots of bars, open all day and half the night, unlike the tight-laced pub hours in England. Wine was cheap. On the pilots' improved pay scales, very cheap. The Marine Landing Officer had his hands full with ships taking troops home to be demobilized, but he managed to find berths for Griffin's party on a small French liner, got them cheap at short notice. Griffin couldn't round up his pilots fast enough and the ship sailed. It took the M.L.O. a week to get them on board another vessel, an old Mediterranean ferry that called at Nice, Genoa, Naples and Palermo before it limped into Malta with engine trouble. The captain didn't trust the Maltese repairs. The ship crawled along the North African coast and finally quit at Alexandria. The captain was Egyptian. He felt at home here.

Griffin was due some luck. A Royal Navy cruiser was about to leave for – thankfully – the Black Sea. The pilots slept four to a cabin. The weather was fine; they lived on deck, playing poker, watching the Aegean Islands drift by, guessing their names, getting them wrong. Past Gallipoli (bloody steep, bloody rocky, you wouldn't want to attack up there, not with the Turks firing down, what a shambles) and the cruiser didn't stop at Constantinople, which was on the left while most of Turkey was on the right, very confusing.

After that, the Black Sea turned out to be not at all black. “Red Sea isn't red, either,” Hackett said. “And the Indian Ocean's green. I've seen it.” That started an argument. It was easy to argue with Hackett and difficult to stop. Prove him wrong, and he said: “Yes, that's what most people think, but most people have brains fifteen per cent smaller than mine.” He went on, dodging and ducking, slipping and swerving. Angering some, amusing others. It passed the time. There was nothing to look at except the Black Sea. Very boring, the sea. All water. Nobody could understand why the Navy got so excited about it.

Nobody had much to say about Russia because nobody knew much about the Russians. Griffin said the Bolshies needed to be taught a lesson,
and that was good enough. There were chaps from all over the British Empire in his squadron, and the Empire was good at keeping the natives in line. None better.

A major from the British Military Mission to Denikin (D.E.N.M.I.S.) climbed onto a broken packing case that was leaking puttees, khaki, infantry, for the use of, and raised his megaphone. The dockside at Novorossisk was loud with the bangs and whistles of unloading freighters.

“Keep together!” he shouted. “Put your luggage on that wagon. It will be safe. It has an armed guard. Keep together and follow me! Do not speak to any civilians. Beware pickpockets. Do not buy, sell or exchange anything. Ignore all corpses, beggars, prostitutes, Frenchmen and mad dogs. Keep together! Follow me!” He climbed down.

The sky was gloomy grey to the horizon and it leaked bits of rain that stung like hail. The wind was from the north, fierce and cold as charity.

The pilots climbed onto two lorries. Bellamy found himself sitting next to the major. “Somewhat chilly for the time of year, sir,” he said.

“About normal. Gets a damn sight colder. Sea of Azov is still frozen.”

“My goodness.”

“You don't know where that is, do you?”

“Um … to be brutally honest, no sir.”

“Offshoot of the Black Sea. Between us and the Crimea. Hundred and fifty miles across. Solid ice.”

“Heavens. We were led to expect something more like the French Riviera, sir.”

The major hadn't smiled since he came to Russia and he saw no reason to start now; but he looked at Bellamy and allowed his eyelids to sink a little. “Russia has two seasons. Too bloody cold and too bloody hot. Who told you that French Riviera twaddle?”

“The C.O., sir. But I'm sure he was misinformed.”

“You're sure, are you? Congratulations. You're the only person in this bloody country who's sure of anything.” Already the major was tired of Bellamy. He looked away.

In the other lorry, Jessop and Wragge were trying to decide whether Novorossisk was a dump or a dead loss. “Look at the
mud
,” Jessop said.
“The place is all mud. The streets are deep in mud. It's supposed to be the biggest port in these parts and everywhere you look it's mud.”

“But it's busy. Crowds of people.”

“All mud-coloured. Maybe that's what they export: mud.”

“Some of them are waving at us. And cheering. Holding flags. So it's not a dead loss, is it?”

They waved back. Nothing extravagant. A nod and a smile to the grateful natives.

“I've just seen a man eating a slice of mud,” Jessop said. “If it wasn't that, it was a portion of rhubarb crumble, which seems unlikely, don't you think?”

The lorries splashed through potholes and delivered them to the Novorossisk headquarters of the British Military Mission, in a requisitioned girls' school. Servants took their caps and greatcoats, brushed them down as if they were prize stallions, and showed them to the cloakrooms. The washbasins were small and low, but the water was hot and more servants stood by with towels, and bottles of hair lotion from Trumper of Bond Street, and boot-polishing requisites to offer a quick brush-up to such footwear as was less than officer-like. Then to lunch.

The dining-room walls were hung with group photographs of unsmiling girls, immaculately dressed in school uniform. So there had been a time when Novorossisk was not entirely made of mud. A portrait picture of the headmistress, with eyes that could penetrate sheet steel at fifty yards, looked down on the crowd of young men drinking sherry. They were many, and a lot of sherry was going down. Lunch at the Mission was clearly an important occasion.

The airmen joined in. A tall, hawk-nosed flight lieutenant called Oliphant, balding and therefore looking older than his twenty-three years, was sinking his second sherry and looking for a servant with more, when Griffin prodded his ribs. “Spread the word, Olly. I've just got orders. We entrain to somewhere called Ekaterinodar this afternoon. Off to the wars! Bloody good, eh?”

Lunch was a leisurely affair and excellent. Nobody seemed in a hurry to get back to work. Each pilot had been seated among the hosts. “We don't get many visitors,” a chubby captain said. His hair was dark blond, as sleek as beaten gold. He stopped a passing waiter. “Rudyard, my dear fellow … Bring butter.
Quantities
of butter. And fresh mustard. This mustard is medieval. Now be off with you!” He clapped his hands.

Pilot Officer Maynard watched this. He was nineteen, looked seventeen, shaved twice a week whether he needed it or not. “Is his name really Rudyard?” he asked. It was a safe question.

“It is now. He's what we call a
plenny
. We have lots of them.
Plennys
are Russian prisoners-of-war, deserters mainly, quite safe, they make jolly good servants. This one's Russian name sounds like someone knitting with barbed wire, so we call him Rudyard. He likes it, he's a happy man, didn't like fighting for the Bolos. Bolsheviks,” he said before Maynard could ask. “We call them Bolos. What they call us I don't know. Never met one. Poisonous lot, by all reports. Eat with their mouths open, I expect. You know the sort.”

“You don't see much of the Front, I take it,” Hackett said.

The captain looked startled. “Good grief, no. We're the Supplies Mission. The warriors are all up-country. We make sure the ship unloads its cargo. Once the goods are on the quay they belong to Denikin's lot. Russian responsibility, not ours. What brings you to Novo, may I ask?”

“We're Royal Air Force,” Maynard said.

“Pilots.” Hackett pointed to his wings. “We fly.”

“Ah, yes. Balloons. Spotting for the guns.”

“Aeroplanes. Scouts, I hope.”

“Flying machines. How amusing. My advice is, do lots of stunts. The Russians will be tremendously impressed. They admire anything modern enormously. Looping the loop, and so on.”

Hackett breathed deeply and ripped a piece of bread in half. Maynard said: “The docks were awfully busy. Is all that stuff for the Russian troops?”

“So my sergeant tells me. I stay away from there. Can't speak the language, for a start. I write reports.”

“How amusing,” Hackett said through a mouthful of bread.

“Keeps the general happy,” the captain said. “Thing I learned in France, you can't have too many good reports. And if I say it myself, I'm jolly good at it. Ah … butter. And mustard. Bully for you, Rudyard. Now be about your business, my boy.”

Griffin had been given a seat at the top table, next to the Mission Commandant, an amiable brigadier who told him he wouldn't have any trouble with the Russians provided he remembered his status. “Training and maintenance, old chap, that's what we're here for. Help the White
Russians fight, but stay out of the scrap. Advise but don't intervene. What's the name of your outfit?”

“Hasn't got a name, sir. Just an R.A.F. squadron. Should have a number, but …”

“Better off without one, in my opinion. Put a foot wrong, and some base-wallah in London knows who to blame. Ah, soup.”

Griffin supped his soup. “A squadron's like a club, sir. Pilots like to belong to something. I know numbers are out, but still … In France, there was an outfit called Hornet Squadron. Stung a lot of Huns.”

“A nickname,” the brigadier said. “Let's see: bees, wasps, termites. No. You want something Russian. A bird? Charles is our resident birdwatcher. Charles! We need a good Russian bird. Something exciting. No sparrows, no pheasant.”

Charles, a tall, tanned lieutenant, didn't hesitate. “Goshawks, sir. Goshawks are everywhere.”

“Goshawk has been taken already,” Griffin said.

“Oh. Well, I've seen larks, some tawny owls, magpie, and of course great tits in abundance. Very handsome.”

“Great Tit Squadron,” Griffin said. “That's asking for trouble.”

“Bigger and tougher,” the brigadier told Charles.

“Um … let's see … golden eagles? They're all over Russia. No? What about the great bustard? Lots of them on the steppes, although I suppose the name is unfortunate. Might lead to jokes in bad taste.” Charles thought hard. “Doesn't leave much, I'm afraid.” Then he brightened. “Merlin. I've seen merlin. Bird of prey, small but dashing, chases and kills other birds.”

“Merlin Squadron,” Griffin said. “Yes. Merlin Squadron.”

“Thank you, Charles,” the brigadier said. “I'll put you in for a D.S.O.”

Griffin turned to Oliphant. “The squadron's got a name. Merlin Squadron. Bird of prey. Like a hawk. Merlin Squadron. Pass it on.”

“Certainly, sir. Good choice.” Oliphant was sitting next to an elderly lieutenant with a faded M.C. ribbon. “We've got a name. Merlin Squadron,” he told him. “We're going to somewhere called Ekaterinodar. Not far, I believe.”

“It's seventy miles, and it's over the mountains. Last time I went there the trip took fourteen hours. My advice is: eat hearty.” He signalled a waiter. “More soup for this officer … No dining cars on your train. No heat, no lavatories, broken windows, first class means you might get a
seat with springs to poke you in the rump. Plenty of bugs. And plenty of life in the bugs.”

“Seventy miles,” Oliphant said. “Fourteen hours.”

“The mountains are steep, old boy. The locomotive has to take a little rest now and then. If you feel like a walk, get out, stretch your legs, have a pee, pick some flowers. Not yet, of course, too bloody cold for flowers. Travel in this frightful country is a far cry from taking tea on the
Brighton Belle
.” A waiter poured red wine. “Everything's a far cry. Cheers.”

Oliphant drank, and finished his soup and got to work on the second bowl. “Ekaterinodar,” he said. “Near the fighting?”