A Splendid Little War (30 page)

Lacey and Borodin sheltered in the kitchen while the passion for indoor croquet burned itself out.

“It will be over in fifteen minutes,” Lacey said. “Fighter pilots have a low threshold of boredom. Have you seen what they read? Cowboy stories. Penny dreadfuls. Ripping yarns. I speak of those who can read.”

“I was a fighter pilot,” Borodin said. “I read all of Tolstoy.
War and Peace
twice.”

“Heavens above. Don't tell these hooligans. Your reputation will be in tatters.” Lacey found an apple and began peeling it. “How can we pass the time?”

“I could teach you more Russian phrases.
Von!
is useful. It means ‘Get away!'
Poyedz
is train.
Nye refuganski poyedz
might help one day. It means ‘Not a refugee train'. What else? You might hear
Bozhe Tsarya Khrani
at parties. That's ‘God save the Tsar'.”

“He's dead.”

“I know. Everyone knows. But some people choose not to believe it.
Prazdik
is a good word. It's a celebration. This C.O. should throw a
prazdik
. He's become remote. He makes the squadron nervous.”

“It's the curse of promotion.”

“Time for a
prazdik
, then. It cures all ills.”

They ate the apple. The noise in The Dregs subsided and they went back. The pilots were searching for lost playing cards. “We've got fifty-two but five are jokers,” Jessop said. “Can you play poker with five jokers?”

Wragge found the last croquet ball and gave it to Lacey. “We've formed a team to play the rest,” he said. “We are the Public School Wanderers and the rest are Serfs.”

“Abolished in 1861,” Lacey said. “No serfs in Russia.”

“Not that it did them any good,” Borodin said. He was talking to himself as much as to Lacey, but his words were out of character. There was a sudden silence.

“Don't stop there, old chap,” Dextry said.

“It all depends how you define freedom,” Borodin said. “Yes, the serfs were emancipated, nobody owned them. Good. Now they were peasants, free to survive if they could. Not so good.”

“I bet they got shat upon,” Jessop said.

“They were given land. The Crown had bought it. The peasants, in turn, had to pay back the Crown. Six per cent a year, every year for forty-nine years. Six per cent is a very heavy rate. And the land's value was always calculated above its market value, often twice as much, so the peasants could never earn enough to make their payments, and they fell deeper into debt.”

“I told you they got shat upon,” Jessop said, pleased at his own cleverness.

“Forty-nine years,” Dextry said. “How many peasants live to be forty-nine?”

“Got it!” Maynard said. He held up the ace of spades. “Now we can play.”

“Let's leave them to it,” Lacey said. He and Borodin went out. “You surprise me,” Lacey said. “I didn't realize the Russian nobility took such an interest in the soil.”

“We don't. I read about it at Cambridge. People kept asking me what Russia was like, so I looked it up in the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
. The 1911 edition.”

“Ah yes,” Lacey said. “By far the best. It's very sound on the Tudor Protestant sects. Especially in the north of England.”

Hackett awoke suddenly. It was too early, not much more than dawn. He felt tired, and angry because he was tired: what was wrong with his body? Couldn't it give him a decent night's sleep? He had a flickering memory of a dream and then it was lost. It left a taste of a struggle with a great problem. What problem? It had gone. But it had been urgent. How could it vanish so fast when it had mattered so much?

He got out of bed, massaged his eyes and squinted at the steppe. It reminded him of his days in the Navy, being on watch when the dawn came up and painted the ocean. Now it was working the same trick on this prairie and turning it … not gold. Not yellow either. And blonde was all wrong too. “Who cares?” he said. He got dressed quickly and pulled on his flying boots and went for a walk in this indescribable landscape while the colours lasted.

The air tasted splendidly fresh. He breathed deeply, felt stronger and stepped out, heading away from the train. The grass was wet and his boots were soon drenched. Songbirds were busy all around him. Well, they would have been busy anyway, but he felt better to know that he had company. When he paused to look back, the trains were just a thin brown strip on the skyline. It was good to be free from all those duties. He turned and walked on, and nearly walked into a goat.

It saw him first and bolted, braying a warning. Other goats answered. He headed for them, out of curiosity, and came across the herd. They crowded together and stared. “Morning, chaps,” he said. That was when the boy stood up.

Or perhaps he was a girl. He or she was wearing a long robe with a hood that hid the face. A small child, ten or eleven perhaps. The robe had been made for someone much bigger. It brushed the ground and the sleeves were doubled back. Good for sleeping in, probably. “Hullo,” he said. “I'm James.” Damnfool thing to say to a Russian kid.

Then the hood got pushed back. Long hair, black and tangled, reached to the shoulders. That proved nothing. Plenty of small boys had
long hair. Hackett saw more, and whether it belonged to a boy or a girl didn't matter. The face was severely disfigured. It was as if a child's face had been caught in a trap so that all the features were squashed. One eye was half-shut. The nose was shortened. The mouth was not where it should be, dragged sideways by a twisted chin. Hackett forced a smile. “These must be your goats,” he said. Gibberish. But he had to say something.

He dropped the smile. The kid's expression hadn't changed. Maybe it couldn't change. “O.K. if I sit down?” No answer. He sat down. It meant getting his ass wet but a wet ass was nothing when he looked at the wreckage the kid had for a face. “This is your job, then,” he said. “I bet you're good at it. I bet you're the best damn goatherd for miles. I wish I'd brought you some food. Bread, cheese, fruit, cold chicken. You look as if a good meal would help.” Help? Nothing could help save this kid. He was born to be pitied. “What can I do to brighten up your day? There must be something.” Slowly, cautiously, the kid sat down. “Hey! I can whistle. Used to be good, when I was your age.” You were never his age, you dummy. He whistled. “What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?” because it was the only tune he could think of. He threw in a lot of trills and swoops, and finished breathless.

“Well, the goats liked it,” he said. And the kid seemed to have relaxed a bit. “Look, I can't stay. I have all this funny money, roubles, no use to me, I want you to have it.” He reached forward and dropped a handful of notes in the kid's lap.

That hurt. The kid jumped as if stung and the notes went flying. Some fell near a couple of goats, who nosed them and might have started chewing if Hackett hadn't rescued them. “What's wrong?” he said. “Take it, kid. You need it more than I do.” He collected the notes and offered them. “Buy yourself a treat.”

They stood and stared. Then the kid made a decision. He plucked the biggest rouble note from the bunch, went to the goats, found one and dragged it to Hackett. The message was obvious. Hackett had bought a goat.

He laughed and shook his head. The robe had a pocket, so he tucked the rest of the money in there. The kid released the goat. Then something unexpected happened, something that made Hackett's heart give a little kick of delight. The kid took Hackett's hand.

Now Hackett was led through the herd. The kid named each goat
and glanced up to see if this was the one he wanted to buy; until Hackett realized that this was the only way the kid would take the money, so he chose the smallest, probably the youngest goat. The kid picked it up and gave it to him. Honour was satisfied. They shook hands and Hackett was pleased at the firm grip. “Good luck, chum,” he said, and bent and did something he had never in his life done before to anybody. He kissed the top of the boy's head.

The little goat seemed content to be carried. Hackett, striding away, blinking hard, knew that he had been close to tears. Why? Because a small Russian child had a broken face? What a strange encounter.

When he reached the train he went to Susan Perry's compartment. She was dressed, and brushing her hair.

“I went for a walk and a kid in charge of some goats sold me this one,” he said. “The kid – he, she, I couldn't tell which, let's say he – he didn't
sell
it, I picked it out. The boy was … he looked as if a horse had stepped on his face. Two horses.”

She let the goat suck her fingers. “A mascot. All the best squadrons have a mascot.”

“I had a good idea while I was out. Squadron party tonight. To celebrate our engagement.”

“Yes, certainly.” The goat brayed as if it agreed too, and they laughed. “Don't make a speech, James. Just bask in their envy.”

“If you say so.” He scratched the goat behind the ears. “I'd better give this animal to someone.” He didn't want to leave.

“Try the adjutant, he'll know what to do. It's probably somewhere in King's Regs.”

He moved to the door and then turned back. “I can say anything to you, can't I? Anything at all.”

She looked mildly surprised. “Yes, you can.”

“I'll get used to it. Never had much practice. But then … I never knew anyone like you. Pure luck. Luck is everything, isn't it?”

“It helps. I'm glad a horse didn't tread on your face when you were young.”

“An encouraging thought to start the day.”

“I suppose I'm out of practice too. But then, I never had anyone like you to practise on.”

He went to The Dregs, which was busy with breakfast. “Squadron mascot,” he said. “And I have an announcement.” He stroked the goat's
ears and it brayed happily. “I'm engaged to be married.” He handed the goat to the adjutant.

“Marriage isn't allowed on active service,” Wragge said. “Anyway, the goat is far too young.”

“I knew a Canadian in France called Orson,” Dextry said. “And believe it or not, his surname was Cart.”

“That's nothing,” Jessop said. “We had an adjutant called Mudd.”

Hackett poured himself some coffee and waited.

“Why shouldn't a Canadian be called Orson?” Maynard said. “It's not an unusual name over there.”

“He was married,” Dextry said. “So she'd married an Orson Cart.”

“That alters everything,” Wragge said. “I withdraw my objection. Goats are in.”

“I know I'm going to regret this,” Brazier said to Jessop, “but what's the connection with an adjutant called Mudd?”

“Oh … chaps used to phone him up and say, ‘Is your name Mudd?' It's a play on words, you see. A sort of pun. They thought it was frightfully clever. They were usually sozzled, of course.”

“Nothing to do with the commanding officer's engagement, then.”

“Um … on the whole, no.”

“Totally irrelevant, in fact.”

“Don't rub it in, Uncle. I wish I'd never mentioned it.”

Lacey came in. “Mentioned what?”

Jessop took a large bite of toast. “Crunch crunch crunch,” he said. “And don't try to deny it.”

Brazier turned to the C.O. “The floor is yours, sir.”

“I'm engaged to Flight Lieutenant Perry,” Hackett said. “We intend to marry as soon as possible. We'll give a celebration party for the squadron tonight.”

Brazier led the applause. “By a happy coincidence,” Lacey said, “I found several cases of Russian champagne in the stores.” Much louder applause. “Ideal for what Count Borodin calls a
prazdik
, which is a Russian beano with all the stops pulled out. Should I invite the whole squadron to the
prazdik
, sir?”

“Of course. We'll have a bloody great
prazdik
.” He relaxed. He was a squadron leader, he was engaged, he was popular. “Breakfast!” he said.

Lacey waited until the C.O. had finished eating, and then murmured: “Fresh signals from the Military Mission. Marked confidential.”

Hackett wiped his mouth and gave the napkin to Chef. “Damn good scoff,” he said. “More strength to your elbow.” To Lacey: “Lead on.”

Wragge watched them go. “Getting engaged has done that man a power of good,” he said. “He should do it more often. Well, another day of toil awaits us, so we might as well start. Who has the cards?”

Fifteen minutes later he was holding a handsome full house, aces on jacks, when Lacey interrupted the game. Meeting in the C.O.'s compartment, now. Flight leaders, adjutant and Count Borodin.

“You have just robbed me of enough roubles to stuff an ox,” Wragge said. “And with what's left over you could have stuffed Daddy Maynard too.”

“I'm unstuffable,” Maynard said. “I'm a Man of Steel.” But by then, Wragge had left. Still, Maynard was pleased. He wouldn't have said that a month ago.

The C.O. was full of fizz. “All here?” he said. “I've spoken to Borodin, he'll be back in a minute. Don't sit down, this won't last that long. The war's on the move at last. Denikin has attacked and his armies have broken the Reds on all fronts. He's advancing like a tidal wave. The British Military Mission has moved out of Ekat. It's now at Taganrog, so that's where we're heading, lickety-split. Our orders are to join Denikin's spearhead and knock hell out of the Bolos. It's our chance to …” He stopped when Borodin came in. “I asked the count to galvanize the locomotive crews. I want to see us barrelling down the track to Taganrog, not limping along at twenty miles an hour. Did they agree?”

“Not as such,” Borodin said. “No.”