A Splendid Little War (34 page)

Daddy Maynard had never known a girl whom he could honestly call a close friend. His family lived in a former rectory in a remote corner of Wiltshire, chosen because it was handy for Salisbury Plain where his father, a major, spent much of his time on cavalry manoeuvres. There was an older sister, completely indifferent to her brother. Local girls were farming stock, buxom and ruddy: totally unsuitable. In any case, from the age of six, most of his years were spent at boarding schools where girls were as foreign as unicorns.

He went, almost without pause, from school to the Royal Flying Corps, which was just as masculine as school. On leave, as he passed through London, he was aware that the wings on his tunic excited young women, some of them quite attractive. What to do about it? He had no idea. When he went to Russia, he had never held a girl, let alone kissed one. Now he had two girls, one on each side and they were kissing him. Not continuously, but often enough to make him feel he was a hell of a chap.

They were in a
droshky
, driving along the promenade. “I say, Rex,” Maynard said. “I need some advice.”

Dextry detached himself from his girl. “They're awfully keen, aren't they?” he said. “Full of beans.”

“Here's a technical question. The one on my right keeps kissing me on the lips.”

“Good for her. And for you, I hope.”

“No complaints. But then she puts her tongue in my mouth. I mean, right in.”

“Does she? Does she, by Jove. Well I never. I must try that.” Dextry turned away.

“I can't talk to her,” Maynard said. “She talks to me, but I don't understand a word of it.” Dextry wasn't listening. Maynard returned to the kissing business and wondered if he was brave enough to do the
mouth–tongue thing. He decided to leave it for a while.

Similar encounters were happening in
droshkys
scattered about Taganrog. Only one thought was cooling the ardour of the air crews. They were hungry. They wanted lunch. Girls were alright, but food and girls would be better. Plus a jug of vodka.

Henry had a car. Of course he had a car, a Hispano-Suiza limousine, looted by the Austrian Army in Italy, sold to the German Army, abandoned in the Ukraine, somehow ended up in Taganrog. He drove. They picked up an elderly Russian general who spoke little English and they made their way inland for about five miles. This countryside was not steppe; far from it. There were farms and fields, woods, hills, even a river. The road was cobbled, but at least it was a road. And then, surprisingly, a railway line appeared and ran alongside the road. Both ended when a steep hillside blocked their way.

A guardhouse had been built into the hillside. Armed soldiers stared at the car. The general got out and they saluted him.

“This is the most secret place in Russia,” Henry said. “The old gentleman will vouch for us.” The general raised a hand. “We're in,” Henry said. “Don't smile, and don't touch anything. Fort Knox is Coney Island compared to what's inside.”

They went through the guardhouse. A junior officer opened a pair of gates that belonged to a small castle and they walked into a cavern that was big enough to take the Imperial Coach with outriders. It was a wine cellar, lined on both sides with racks of bottles. It went into the hillside as far as Lacey could see.

The officer had a lantern. They followed him. “This is all French,” Henry said. “Burgundies, Beaujolais, Château Lafite, various other Rothschilds. All the great reds.” After a couple of hundred yards they reached a crossroads. “The French whites are down there,” he said. They walked on. “I think this is Chianti,” he said. “I'm not very strong on the Italians.” His voice made a slight echo; the walls of wine bottles absorbed sound. After a while he said, “This is what I wanted you to see. The great cave.” The tunnel had been made higher and wider. “Here they keep the champagne. Well, part of the champagne. The good stuff. There's more elsewhere. In the beginning, the cavern was made for the champagne, but it kept growing
and growing.” He pointed to the roof. “Chalk. Temperature and humidity never vary, year round. Have you seen enough?”

“How much more is there?”

“About fifteen miles.”

They walked back to the guardroom, thanked the officer, collected the general, and went and sat in the car.

“Staggering, isn't it?” Henry said.

“Stupefying. And it all belongs to Denikin?”

“It does now. It was the Tsar's private wine cellar for generations. I'm told there are a million bottles of champagne in there.”

“So, when Denikin needs some money …”

“He sells off a few thousand bottles and makes a million roubles, maybe two million. And the war goes on.”

The accordion-player had his own sense of time. Usually he played three beats to the bar, sometimes four, occasionally five. He was playing a waltz, and his changes of tempo annoyed the violin and the piano. Often they stopped playing and swore at him until he rediscovered three-quarter time.

Dextry was dancing with his girl and he didn't complain. “The accordion has some Irish blood in him,” he told her. She smiled and hugged him and the accordion went doolally again.

They were in a big, noisy restaurant-bar dance hall. All the squadron were there, because all the
droshky
drivers had recommended it. “It's a racket,” Oliphant said. Wragge agreed. “Still, they seem to want us,” he said. “The grub's hot, the drinks are big, the waiters are friendly, and my girl likes it. Your Number Nines are enjoying themselves.”

“They're bloody idiots,” Oliphant said.

The bomber crews were competing to see who could get a visible set of footprints on the ceiling. They dragged tables together to make a base for two men to stand on and support a third, whose boot-soles had been blackened with soot. The trick was to turn him upside-down and hoist him. The problem was that they were all drunk, and others were fighting to rock the tables. Those too tired to fight threw things. Fruit, bread rolls, bottles. Two attempts to reach the ceiling failed. The owner looked on as men fell and tables splintered, and he doubled the price of the
drinks. The sport lost its novelty. Waiters swept the dance floor clear of debris. The accordion began an eccentric version of “Alexander's Ragtime Band”. Dancing began again.

Dextry's girl held him tight and they jigged and jogged. He called her Cynthia and told her she was stunning, it meant nothing to her, she had no English, but it made him happy, until an angry Russian got in the way and laid a hand on her. “Go away,” Dextry told him. “Private property. Find your own girl.”

That produced a stream of furious Russian. “You're spitting on her,” Dextry said. “Have you no manners?” He danced Cynthia away but the man followed. Now he was shouting. His face was twisted and he grabbed the girl's shoulder. Dextry knocked his hand away and the man aimed a fist at his face, missed, and clipped his ear. That stung. Dextry punched him, hard, in the ribs. The Russian kicked him on the shins and was swamped by four fighter pilots. He went down fighting but they dragged him to the door and threw him out.

“What was all that about?” Jessop asked.

“I haven't the faintest,” Dextry said. “He smelt very strongly of fish. Most unpleasant.”

Twenty minutes later, when a fresh attempt was being made to get footprints on the ceiling, a dozen Russians burst in and the whole squadron was in a brawl. The trio standing on the tables soon crashed, and by luck they knocked down two Russians. The others were young and strong and angry and might have won if the owner and the waiters had not waded in with clubs. Then the police came, with more clubs, and arrested everyone.

They talked to the owner. He estimated the damage and wrote the figure in chalk on the bar.

“We could have bought the whole damn place for that,” Wragge said. The squadron began searching its pockets and filling a bucket. The violin played a wistful Russian tune. Oliphant gave the band twenty roubles. By the time the owner was satisfied, the Russians had gone. They took the girls with them.

The members of the squadron were escorted to police headquarters. Count Borodin was waiting there. “I was playing billiards at the Literary Club,” he said, “and doing rather well, until now. You look an unholy shambles.”

“We didn't start it,” Wragge said. “A gang of local thugs went mad for
no reason.”

“Fishermen. You stole their girls. That puts you in the wrong. You're charged with robbery, bodily harm and insulting Russian manhood.”

“I suppose they want money.”

“All you have. Otherwise – jail.”

Lacey and Brazier were outside the train when the squadron straggled back, bloodied, torn, untidy and in many cases still half-drunk. The airmen looked glum. “I've seen this before,” Brazier said. “In France. Men came out of the Trenches, got deloused, got paid, got into a big fight with anyone they met, for no reason.”

“We promised them a war,” Lacey said. “That's a reason.”

“I suppose so. Hullo, Mr Wragge,” Brazier said. “The chaps are looking very impeccable. Or do I mean exemplary?”

“Bloody town's full of Bolsheviks,” Wragge said.

“I have orders from Mission H.Q. You are promoted to acting squadron leader and commanded to be C.O. of the squadron. The general sends his compliments and wishes you not to die in the near future.”

“It's all a stinking swindle.” Wragge tramped off.

“I think you made his day,” Lacey said.

Lacey's day had not finished. Before he took down the radio aerials, he made a final check in case any incoming messages had arrived. There was one, a signal from Military Mission H.Q.:

Brazier came in and read the signal over Lacey's shoulder.

“Now you're in the soup,” he said.

“I think not.”

Lacey consulted his options, and then sent his reply:

Brazier read the file copy. “Hackett's gone,” he said. “And we have nobody called Jossip.”

“We have a Jessop, which is close enough to give Butcher something to ponder.”

“He won't ponder over barrel locking nuts. They're for rifles. Butcher's a gunner, he'll know that.”

“Our mortars are special. They need special barrel locking nuts.”

“And no Cossack ever helped us fight off the bandits. Who is this Reizarb? I've never heard of him.”

“It's a small tribute to yourself,” Lacey said. The adjutant stared down at him. “I hoped you would decode it,” Lacey said. “It's Brazier spelt backwards.”

The adjutant snorted. “You're playing with fire, Lacey. H.Q. has no sense of humour.”

“Then they'll never guess,” Lacey said. “It'll be our little secret.”

Wragge came out of a bad dream. He was being chased by a mob of Russian thugs and running for his life to catch a
droshky
that was driving away from him, mocking him with its clip-clop of hooves. They never grew fainter, never louder, always just beyond his reach. He awoke, wet with sweat and stiff with effort, and as he relaxed he knew the noise was the click of train wheels on track. The squadron was on the move. His squadron.

He got out of bed and towelled his head dry. His mouth was lined with old sandpaper. He opened a window and poked his head into the stream of cool air. It was dawn, and they were leaving Taganrog. He sucked deep lungfuls of health-giving air and felt his body slowly come alive. The window of the next Pullman car opened and Maynard looked out. “We're off again,” he said.

“Well done, Daddy,” Wragge said. “You always were the bright one.” He heard movement behind him and went back inside. It was his
plenny
, Fred. “Black coffee, Fred.
Beaucoup de
sugar. And get me a new head while you're at it.” His
plenny
blinked. “Forget the head. Get coffee. Black. Big.” Fred understood that.

Wragge was brushing his teeth when the adjutant arrived. “I didn't think you'd want to see this last night,” he said. “It's your orders from Mission H.Q.” The buff envelope was large and heavy.

“You read them, Uncle. I've been suddenly struck blind.”

“That's not the form, Tiger. The C.O. reads the C.O.'s orders.”

Wragge rinsed his mouth, and spat. “This train makes a good speed, doesn't it? Hackett would have approved.”

Brazier had nothing to say about that. It was not his job to make small talk with the C.O. in his pyjamas. “I've cleared all his effects from his Pullman,” he said.

“You must be getting good at that.” Wragge weighed the envelope in his hand. “I didn't come to Russia to read tons of bumf, Uncle.”

“We must all make the best of a bad job.”

Wragge wondered. Did that mean he was a bad job? His
plenny
arrived with coffee. Brazier left. Wragge opened the envelope. He flicked through the contents fast and made them into three piles: squadron orders; strategic view of the war; and Russian politics. He sent for Count Borodin and Lacey.

“Squadron orders stay with me,” he said. “You take a look at the rest. Count, you get Russian politics. Lacey has the war strategy stuff. Just skim through it. No hurry. I'll just shave and get dressed.”