A Splendid Little War (36 page)

The locomotive spun its wheels, shot out sparks, made a scream of steel on steel, and pulled away, clanging non-stop. The stationmaster shouted but his voice was lost. Some of the pilots looked out from The Dregs and waved goodbye to the C.O. A minute later the train reversed and they waved hello.

Borodin asked the stationmaster a question and got a stammering answer.

“The correct identification plates are in his office,” Borodin said.

“Can you be sure?” Brazier asked.

“He has fouled his breeches,” Borodin said. “An infallible declaration of honesty.”

A couple of
plennys
cut the man free. He fell on the tracks. They picked him up and carried him, the officers following. He found the identification plates. He had recovered some strength, and he took the plates to the trains and attached them to the locomotives. The
plennys
marched him outside the station and dumped him in a horse trough. “It's the least we can do for him,” Brazier said. “Some would say, the least is too much.”

They went backs to the trains. The squadron doctor was waiting. “Your chaps spent all their pay in Taganrog,” she said. “Now they're playing poker, and they're using the morphine phials as betting chips.”

They laughed. After the saga of the stinking stationmaster, almost anything was funny. Brazier's chuckle was brief. Gambling with property belonging to Mission H.Q. was certainly an offence. But, as Maynard had said, suicide was a crime too. Did two wrongs make a right? He gave up.

They boarded the train, Wragge gallantly allowing Susan Perry to go first. “I don't think I told you,” he said. “We're all pleased that you decided to continue as squadron doctor.”

“I had to leave Taganrog,” she said. “A brigadier was besotted with me.”

“So is half the squadron.”

“It's worse than influenza,” she said. “And no cure in sight.”

The new identification plates got two cheers. The trains still had to wait in sidings, but less frequently. There were detours around track repairs. Still, their average speed was much better. By nightfall they were in Kupyansk; by noon next day they entered Kharkov. Four hundred kilometres from Taganrog, the drivers said. Very good indeed.

Parts of the city were still burning, but Denikin's armies had already gone ahead, advancing fast, aiming for Kursk, only 240 kilometres to the north. Once they took Kursk they would be halfway to Moscow.

Tsaritsyn had been a sideshow; this was the real war. The squadron had been trundling along on these trains for over a week, while the Bolos were going backwards at a rate of knots. Everyone wanted to clobber them while the clobbering was good. Wragge pressed on.

An hour out of Kharkov progress fell to a walking pace. The track had been damaged; repair gangs were at work; all traffic was switched to one line. Even at walking pace the trains swayed and jolted. Soon they had a good view of an armoured train lying drunkenly half off the tracks. The locomotive had one giant rosette of a shell-hole in its boiler and much of the train was burnt-out. No fire could destroy the gun barrels and they made a show of pointing everywhere. “Ours or theirs?” Brazier asked.

“Probably theirs,” Borodin said. “I think I see the remains of half a red star.”

“The whole thing took a pounding.”

“My guess is a lucky shot wrecked the engine. They didn't want us to capture the train, so they blew it up. Then they destroyed a length of track to slow down our pursuit. Standard tactics.”

They limped past the end of the wreck. The footnotes of battle lay all around: broken artillery pieces; the mounds of fresh graves, some with makeshift wooden crosses, most without; wagons that had shed their wheels but kept their dead horses between the shafts. There were plenty of dead horses, very visible with their black and bloated bodies. A haze of flies hovered around each horse.

“It's always the same,” Borodin said. “You can smell a battlefield from miles away by the rotting horseflesh.”

Brazier didn't care. It would take a regiment a month to dig enough holes to bury these horses. What interested him was the why and the how of war. “This was a minor rearguard action,” he said. “The Reds tried to make a stand and failed. Not strong enough.”

“That's the curse of being on the retreat. Never enough of anything. Soldiers on the run throw their rifles away. I've seen it happen.”

“Men will stand and fight if you shoot a few. I saw that happen, too.”

Wragge joined them. “We're being watched,” he said. He handed Brazier a pair of binoculars and pointed overhead. The adjutant opened a window and searched. He grunted and gave them to Borodin. “Too much dazzle for my old eyes,” he said.

“He's been wandering around up there for fifteen minutes,” Wragge said. “If he's one of ours, what's his game? And if he's not, it's bad news.”

“Too high to identify,” Borodin said. “But he's obviously snooping.”

“If we get strafed we could be wiped out. Can you pass word to the driver? First good siding he sees, pull in. Let's get the machines off the trains. It's time you learned how to fly a Camel. There's a spare you can have. Practise first. It's a tricky little beast.”

“Thanks awfully,” Borodin said.

The battlefield had been left far behind by the time they rolled into a siding. The grassland alongside it was level enough to make an airfield, once a few anthills had been flattened. The ground crews began unloading the aeroplanes. Lacey rigged his aerials. “Find where Denikin's mob is,” Wragge said. “Tell them we're here. Where's the war? Find
anything
.”

The watchful high-flying aeroplane had gone. Chef was serving tea. Kid, the mascot, found a patch of giant buttercups and enjoyed some real food at last. The trains would not be moving again today. The afternoon was perfect for a walk, sun sinking, not too hot, and the countryside was inviting. There were gentle hills, patches of woodland, probably a river. The train had passed a meandering stream, just the sort of thing, Dextry said, he had swum in as a boy in County Cork. Maynard said the countryside reminded him of Dorset. Jessop said it resembled parts of Buckinghamshire. Borodin said it looked a lot like Russia. They set off.

“I can see smoke,” Jessop said. “Smoke means a farm. For a cake of soap they'll give us a pound of butter.”

“Unusual,” Borodin said. “A farmhouse doesn't need a big fire in this weather.”

“Maybe they're smoking a ham. Butter
and
ham. Yummy,”

Maynard broke into a trot and bowled an imaginary ball, a good length, just clipping the off stump. “Run the mower over this lot,” he said. “Get the heavy roller on the batting strip. You've got a decent cricket pitch.”

“Too decent for Russians, I'm afraid,” Borodin said. “We like a sport where you can cheat.”

“Decent cricket's had its day,” Jessop said. “
Indecent
cricket, that's the answer. Men and women, stark naked. Mixed teams. Yum-yum.”

“Better yet, forget the cricket altogether,” Dextry said. “Naked leapfrog.”

Maynard changed the subject. “I hear you're our new flight leader.”

“Am I?” Dextry said. “Excellent choice. I'm the best-looking.”

“If you're leading, we're totally lost,” Jessop said.

“Never mind, Junk. It's like Pass The Parcel in this squadron. You're next.”

It was a pleasant stroll. The meadows were lush and sprinkled with wildflowers. They found the river, startled a heron, and watched its heavy wings beat slowly until it curved out of sight behind a tree.

“Reminds me of an FE2b,” Jessop said. “Pusher propeller, slow as treacle, lovely view of Huns licking their lips.”

“I crashed mine,” Dextry said. “Best thing I ever did for the Corps.” The conversation developed into a search for the worst aeroplane of the war, on either side. The river turned away and they walked on, aiming for the smoke, and angered a dozen crows, which rose in a black rage.
They had been feeding on the carcase of a cow. The horns said it had to be a cow. There was little else left.

“Sloppy farming,” Maynard said. “Dead stock shouldn't be left lying.”

They moved on, and maddened four more gangs of crows working over four more carcases.

“This is worse than sloppy,” Dextry said. “It's bizarre.”

By now they were in sight of the smoke, and it wasn't a farm: it was a village. “I don't recommend going in,” Borodin said. “There's nothing for us here.”

“We've come this far,” Dextry said. They went on.

It had been a typical Russian village, squat and unexciting, and now most of it was in ruins, destroyed by the fire that was still smoking. The airmen soon stopped looking: one body was much like another, slashed or battered or burnt.

“They're all dead,” Maynard said.

“Not all,” Borodin said. “Stay here.”

A man was watching them. His skin and clothes were so dirty that he almost blended in with the blackened ruins. He was thin and frightened, ready to run. Borodin stopped when he was twenty feet away; they had a conversation. Borodin came back.

“He was at the river, fishing, when Nestor Makhno's men came and took all the food. That was a week ago, maybe two. He can't be sure. They killed a few old people for no reason. Just practising their anarchy. Later the Red Army came, hungry and angry of course. No food. Killed half the village. Then Denikin's Whites came, like the Reds, looking for food. This chap hid in the woods. They killed the other half and burned the village. Who exactly slaughtered the cattle, nobody knows and it doesn't matter now.”

“Appalling,” Dextry said.

“Multiply by a thousand. Armies live off the land.”

“We should give him some food,” Jessop said. “All I've got is the soap. Shall I give him that?” But the man had gone.

Nobody had much to say on the way back to the trains.

“How long has this been going on?” Maynard asked Borodin.

“Always. Armies must eat and generals cannot feed them.”

They went into The Dregs. “Get any butter?” Wragge asked.

“No luck,” Jessop said. “Early closing on Wednesdays.”

“It's Friday today.”

“It's Wednesday where they are. Also Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.” The anger in his voice made Wragge raise an eyebrow. “Go and see for yourself,” Jessop said. He turned and left.

At breakfast next day, the solitary aeroplane was back, and this time much lower. Wragge watched it through binoculars. “Looks like a Halberstadt. Two-seater, anyway.”

“Probably taking photographs,” Borodin said. “Red generals like to know if Denikin's being reinforced.”

“If he's snapped them, he's snapped us too. Lacey! Any luck with your radio?”

“I raised Mission H.Q. Latest information is the Whites reached Belgorod, twenty or thirty kilometres from here, and might have captured it. Opinions vary.”

Wragge had planned an hour or two of test flights, to make sure the Camels were fit for combat. He scrapped that, he cut breakfast short, he got four Camels in the air, climbing hard. They left Borodin behind to learn how to start the engine, the first thing that Camel beginners cocked up.

It took them seven minutes to climb to five thousand feet. The factory said four minutes, but these were not factory-fresh Camels and Jessop's engine was labouring. They climbed at the speed of the slowest machine and when they got there the Halberstadt had gone. Of course he had gone. Why hang around to let yourself be shot down?

“We put salt on his tail, anyway,” Wragge said aloud. Silly bloody expression. Made no sense. He marshalled his Flight into an echelon to starboard, Dextry, Maynard and Jessop, all widely spaced, with Jessop out where he would hit nobody if his engine suddenly failed, and they cruised north, following the railway.

The Camels rose and fell as gently as boats at sea in a slight swell. A friendly swell, Dextry thought, you can feel it but you can't see it. Sometimes the magic of flying amazed him: the whole business seemed so improbable. Maynard was thinking this was just like one of those rare sunny, cloudless days in England. He looked down and Russia could be a map of Wiltshire: woods, rivers, lots of green, the occasional village. Full of murdered peasants, perhaps. Not so like England after all. He
abandoned the map. Jessop was listening to his engine-roar and waiting for the cough. Also, he was hungry. He'd been about to enjoy an omelette when Wragge dragged them out of The Dregs. Chef made a damn good omelette and Jessop salivated at the memory. Wragge was half-thinking of his squadron-leader's pay and half-remembering dancing with Cynthia in Taganrog before that thug had hit him. Nobody was searching the sky above for three chocolate-brown Spads that fell out of the blue. Wragge heard a faint pattering or rattling and saw bullet-strikes chasing across his lower port wing. “Hell's teeth!” he shouted. Three brown shapes flashed past. By then his Camel was in a vertical bank to the right. Wragge kept turning and searched for fresh attacks. None. Clear blue sky. Empty. Thank you, God. He levelled out, looked down, saw three brown dots getting rapidly smaller. Double thank-you, God.