A Splendid Little War (37 page)

Dextry and Maynard found him. They had been hit: he saw strips of torn fabric flailing in the wind. No sign of Jessop. They flew home and caught up with him, much lower and slower. He made a forced landing alongside the tracks a mile from the trains, got out and waved.

Wragge let the others land first. Maynard bounced four times and the watching bomber crews all applauded. Dextry didn't like his first approach and went around again. Wragge made a semi-decent job of landing although his rudder pedals felt heavy. He sat in the cockpit and wondered why any of them deserved to be alive.

His fitter arrived and undid his seat belt. “You've made holes in my nice aeroplane, sir,” the man said.

“Careless,” Wragge said. “Unforgivably careless.”

Nobody was hurt. Jessop's machine was recoverable. They were all shaken, and disgusted at their folly. The post-mortem was brief. They'd been jumped by three single-seaters, looked like chunky Camels so they were probably Spads. Came and went like the hounds of hell. Didn't want a scrap. Quick blast and gone.

Markings? Roundels? Colours?

Nobody saw. Just a flash of brown. After that … too busy dodging and weaving.

“They might have been learners,” Jessop said. “That's why they did a bunk.”

“Might not have been Reds,” Maynard said. “Made a mistake and scooted.”

“
We
made the mistake,” Dextry said. “Four pairs of eyes and nobody saw.”

“Enough. Let's learn,” Wragge said. “Learn what we've forgotten. The sky is one big man-trap. Red, White, striped, makes no difference. Every minute we're flying we search for the bastard who's up there waiting to make us flamers. We find him first, we kill him first. Just because the Bolos are going backwards doesn't make them rabbits.”

“Even rabbits can bite,” Jessop said. “They've got those big rabbity teeth.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Dextry said wearily. “Don't you ever engage your brain before you open your mouth?”

“We still have one good Camel,” Maynard said. “Borodin's. Suppose one of us goes up and bags a Bolo? I mean, now. That would show them who's boss, wouldn't it? I volunteer.”

“Not today, Daddy,” Wragge said. “Today we lick our wounds. Tomorrow we're out for blood.”

There was little for them to do. The Nines had all been test-flown. The Camels were being checked and patched and double-checked by ground crews in case a stray bullet had nicked a control wire. Wragge made his rounds (doctor, Lacey, adjutant, flight sergeants) and all was in order.

Borodin, coached by a fitter, had mastered starting the Le Rhône rotary. It was midday, and hot. The air would be bumpy. Wragge had served, briefly, as an instructor at training fields in England that were rich in graves of Camel pupils who had taken off and failed to react quickly when the engine faltered and the fine-adjustment lever on the throttle demanded instant attention. No dual-control Camels: the pupil went up with only his wits to help him. Stall, spin, crash: a three-step dance of death. Wragge had seen it too often, had paid his half-crowns for too many wreaths and written the same letter to too many parents. Rarely to wives who were widows. Few pupils married at eighteen. So Borodin's first flight could wait.

The Number Nines had found the croquet set. Wragge took leave from the burden of command and challenged Tusker Oliphant to a match, the Toffs, or Camel pilots, versus the Peasants, or bomber louts. “No offence meant,” he said. Oliphant accepted. “We'll win,” he said. “Losers to the guillotine.”

The turf was lumpy and the ground sloped in several directions. The
smack of mallet on wooden ball was usually followed by a cry of, “Bad luck, old man.” Sometimes, “Jolly hard cheese.”

Lacey, Borodin and the squadron doctor came to watch. They sat in the back of the Chevrolet and drank white wine.

“This is a very old Russian sport,” Borodin said. “Genghis Khan played it on horseback. Lacking croquet balls, he used the severed heads of captured princes.”

“Not a gentleman,” Lacey said firmly.

“Explain.”

“No restraint. Greedy. Like a child in a sweetshop, wanting everything. Alexander the Great was another. Also our late C.O., Griffin.”

“Before my time,” Susan Perry said. “I caught the funeral.”

“He never really approved of me,” Borodin said. “I was a bloody foreigner.”

“We shouldn't blame him,” Lacey said. “It's all a matter of breeding. In his case, somewhat lacking.”

“Ah-ah,” she said. “The precious bloodline. How do you fit in, Lacey?”

“Comfortably. The Laceys go back many centuries.”

“So do I. So do we all.”

Borodin said. “Last time I looked, my lot went back fifty thousand years.”

“That's not breeding,” Lacey said. “That's reproduction.”

“Lacey's a snob,” she said.

He gave her a crooked smile. “If I made the effort, I could be a clod, like most people,” he said. “But then, you wouldn't get soft toilet paper, would you? Speaking of which, I had another signal from Mission H.Q. Their information is that Denikin has three squadrons of crack fliers helping his advance. All based on the aerodrome at Belgorod. Just a few miles from here.”

“What does Denikin say?”

“I can't raise his H.Q. Perhaps they're on the move. Perhaps they're too busy fighting.”

“I tried tapping the telegraph line but it's dead,” Borodin said. “Which makes me wonder: if we can't talk to Denikin's staff, where did the British Mission H.Q. get its information about three squadrons of crack fliers?”

“From Denikin's Chief of Aviation. Colonel Subasnov was on a visit to Taganrog. Mission H.Q. said he was very helpful.”

A croquet ball bounced off a wheel of the car. Wragge strolled over, swinging his mallet at the larger wildflowers. “Who's winning?” the doctor asked. He kicked his ball into a better position. “Not us. I think Tusker's team are cheating.” He took a mighty whack and the ball hit one of the Cossack ponies, which had been let out to feed. It shied, and then tried to eat the ball. “I think I scored a double bogey,” Wragge said. “Maybe a triple. This pitch is a disgrace.” He walked away. “Somebody shoot that animal before it ruins the game,” he shouted.

In the cool of the morning, Dextry coached Borodin on the many ways his Camel could kill him.

They stood beside the fighter. A mechanic waited, his hands on the prop.

“Examine the beast,” Dextry said. “All the heavy stuff, the engine, the guns, the fuel, the pilot, are grouped close together at the front. That's why it's called a Camel – the business end has a hump. Sopwiths can do this because the Le Rhône is a rotary engine, very compact. In a rotary the cylinders whizz round and round and take the prop with them.”

“Air-cooled,” Borodin said. “Nice idea.”

“Yes. But it has to spin at a hell of a lick in order to fly. If Charlie there were strong enough to hold the prop still so it can't move, then your rotary would try to spin the whole aeroplane.”

“Torque.”

“And torque will try to kill you as soon as you take off. The starboard wing will drop and so will the nose. Correct
immediately
, give a hint more stick, maybe some throttle. If that wingtip touches you'll cartwheel and Charlie will sweep up the bits and put them in a sack.”

Borodin glanced at Charlie. “That's correct, sir,” Charlie said. “Every little scrap.”

“Now you're up and you've mastered the torque, the engine has another attempt at murder,” Dextry said. “Sudden loss of power.”

“I practised that yesterday. On the ground, of course. It's the fine-adjustment, isn't it? Nursing the needle.”

“Be ready.
Expect
to lose power. Just tickle it. A rotary is a woman, it responds to a caress. Grab it and you'll choke it and it'll die and so will you. Which would be a waste, because in combat the Camel is the best
there is. A wonderful killer of others. Alright, get in.”

Borodin made himself comfortable, feet on the rudder pedals, stick between legs, and fastened the belt.

“Here's the final way she'll kill you,” Dextry said. “She can manoeuvre like magic. When in doubt, chuck everything into a right-hand bank and nobody can follow you. You'll turn so tightly it looks like you've gone through a revolving door.
But
…” He prodded Borodin's shoulder. “It's that bloody torque again. It drags the nose down and before you know it …” He clicked his fingers. “… your Camel's in a power dive. Under a thousand feet, you'll probably make a hole in the ground. The answer is—”

“Opposing rudder,” Borodin said.

“Lots of it, and quick. Don't wait for trouble. Anticipate. Did they tell you about the button on the joystick?”

“Yes. For blipping the engine. Switching it on and off to get the speed right on landing.”

“Learn the art. You have a fine aristocratic nose. Make a crash landing and you'll bash your nose against those gun-butts and spend the rest of your life, if you live, with what we call ‘Camel Face'. Not pretty. Are you ready to taxi? That's what you're going to do now. Simply taxi up and down the field a dozen times. Learn the basics.”

Dextry walked away. He sat on the grass and watched Borodin go through the starting routine with Charlie. The engine roared, belched a smell of castor oil, idled, roared again, settled down to a steady note. The chocks were removed. Borodin taxied away. Within fifty yards his tail was up. Within a hundred, he was flying.

Fifteen minutes later, the C.O. came out and joined the flight leader. They watched the Camel make its approach, shedding height as it blipped its engine, until it seemed to flare its wings, nose up, while the wheels felt for the ground, made the smallest bump, and ran.

“I told the idiot to taxi,” Dextry said. “Learn how to walk before he runs.”

“Chew him out, if you like,” Wragge said. “He's a natural. He joins the Flight.”

Dextry walked to the Camel as Borodin was climbing down. “Nice machine,” Borodin said. “She wished to fly, so I went along for the ride.”

“Understand this,” Dextry said. “That's the last order you disobey. Briefing in half an hour.” He walked away. Charlie was waiting. “Arm and
refuel, Charlie,” he told him.

“He seems a nice gentleman, sir.”

“Lovely manners,” Dextry said. “But can he kill?”

Briefing took less than a minute. The Camels would climb to ten thousand. Form a very loose arrowhead. Count Borodin is in the Flight. We take a look at Belgorod, see what's happening. H.Q. says the Whites have three squadrons based there. Do they know we've arrived? Maybe not. Stay awake. Questions? No? Good.

The Camels were labouring at eight thousand feet, and toiling after another five hundred, so Wragge cut his losses and levelled out. He was gasping for breath, he had sparks before his eyes. Maybe the air was unusually thin today. Anyway, even a new Camel couldn't fight worth a damn much above ten thousand. Huns just ran away from it. And these were not new Camels.

Belgorod was in sight – little more than a small market town, not big enough to be fortified; probably owed its existence to the railway – when Wragge noticed a glitter down there. To get a better view he eased the Flight into a glide, but the glitter vanished. Then it returned. Sunlight off water. He tried to trace the river, but it wandered and he lost it. Then his eye caught another flicker of light, nowhere near the river, and he squinted hard and saw yesterday's Halberstadt two-seater. Sun on its windscreen, probably. The machine was as tiny as a moth, almost camouflaged against the soft green countryside.

Wragge waggled his wings and made sure everyone saw the Halberstadt. He thought about the situation. Assume it was a Red machine, up to no good, maybe reconnaissance, counting the troop trains. Maybe bombing. It must have seen Merlin Squadron being unloaded yesterday, so bombs were likely. But no escort? Already, Wragge was searching the blue immensity above him. Suppose the Halberstadt was bait. Those Spads – if they were Spads – had 200-horsepower Hispano-Suizas, big enough to outclimb any Camel. He had specks of oil on his goggles. What was that up there? A Spad or a speck? A short rattle of gunfire made his pulse jump. Dextry was waving, pointing. Far on the left-hand quarter was a smudge of aircraft, only slightly higher than the Camels.