A Splendid Little War (41 page)

The squadron filled the church. It was a small building, dedicated to St Erasmus. “A very minor saint,” Borodin murmured to the C.O. “Supposedly the protector of sailors. How he washed up in Kursk is anybody's guess.”

“They don't believe in pews.”

“Congregations stand in Russia. Sitting in church is bad form. Decadent.”

The priest arrived. He was old, and so bent that his beard seemed to weigh him down; but he was well organized. The packing-case planks of the coffin were covered with a large Russian flag. Lowe's cap was on top, and there were flowers. The priest had assistants to ring bells and hand him incense and holy water for sprinkling. Altar boys held weighty prayer books for him, and turned the pages. All told, it was an impressive performance. The squadron didn't understand the words, but they had the good manners to shut up and listen, and bow their heads when the altar boys and the acolytes did. The general meaning was obvious. Farewell to Michael Lowe.

The priest said something to Borodin. Four strong airmen lifted the coffin to their shoulders and carried it out, blessed on its way by the priest. He was mercifully brief at the graveside: he had already said what mattered most. He looked at Borodin. Borodin looked at Lacey. Lacey cleared his throat, and let everyone hear his words.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less,
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

The cap was removed, and the flowers. The flag was folded. The burial was signalled by the rifle volleys, echoing off the church and scattering a flock of birds. Everyone knew the shots were coming but
even so, many heads flinched, and the event was too much for Douglas Gunning. Grief overwhelmed him. His throat choked on suppressed sobs. The squadron parted to let him stumble away.

Lacey sent the C.O.'s report to Mission H.Q. and turned to the really rewarding work.

A signal had arrived from Captain Butcher at H.Q., and Lacey showed it to the adjutant. “You said I was in the soup over the elephant guns in the croquet box. Alas, it is poor Butcher who is bamboozled.”

Brazier read:

“This is an elephant trap, Lacey, and you are digging it deeper and deeper.”

“You really think so? You know the Cossack Reizarb better than anyone. Could you send him H.Q.'s warmest thanks?”

“Twaddle.”

“Reizarb could become a footnote in history. He's worth watching.”

“I know nothing of this humbuggery. Thank God.”

Lacey sharpened a pencil and got to work. Brazier sat at his desk and browsed his
British Army Pocket Book, 1917
. “Characteristics of an Arab Raiding Party” caught his eye. May consist of anything from two thousand to five thousand men. If Bedouin, on camels. If semi-nomads, on horses. If many sheep are present, signifies loot. Before action, banners will be unfurled.

Interesting. Worth remembering.

“This should occupy his mind for a while,” Lacey said.

The adjutant read his draft:

“We haven't got a jazz band,” Brazier said.

“We shall if he helps. I am no slouch on the banjo, of which, as you know, an E flat version doesn't exist, but we'll let Butcher worry about that.”

“Not we, Lacey. I never saw this. Incidentally, your contribution at the funeral was feeble. You cobbled it together in a very slapdash way. Rubbish.”

“That's rich.” Lacey clapped his hands. “I didn't have time to cobble anything. That wasn't me, it was pure Rupert Brooke.”

“It was gibberish,” Brazier said. “If anyone wants me, I shall be in The Dregs.”

There was still an hour before sunset. The C.O. sent Dextry to look at the land beyond Kursk and find new landing fields, preferably this side of the Red lines. If they had any lines.

The squadron doctor watched him take off and climb away. She turned and saw Borodin looking at her. “My apologies,” he said. “Dreadful manners.”

“Doesn't worry me. I'll worry when men don't look at me.” She gave a last glance at the disappearing Camel. “It must be wonderful to fly. That speed, that height. Just you and the birds.”

“The birds fly better. But one can't help feeling a little godlike sometimes. Up there with the gods. And the view is spectacular.”

“I can climb a mountain for that, but mountains don't fly.”

“It's not all fun. It gets very cold, and very noisy, and on a long flight the aeroplane seems to hang in the air and go nowhere. Manoeuvres are fun. Bank and dive and roll and so on. Look: I'm going riding for half an hour. Do you ride?”

“Yes. Not sidesaddle. Will that scandalize the squadron?”

They rode across the airfield, followed a wandering track in a birch spinney, galloped across a meadow and walked into a stream. The ponies enjoyed that, so their riders let them splash up and down, making a great froth and soaking the riders' legs until the water deepened and the ponies stood belly-deep and drank.

“This is yummy,” she said. “Good idea.”

“You looked a bit forlorn, so I took a risk.”

“Risk.” She stroked her pony's ears. “Some of the pilots shy away. Don't want to be alone with a widow. Get too close, I might infect them. Look what I did to poor James.”

“They think they're giving you time to grieve.”

“No, they want me to look heartbroken. Losing a man is a cardinal sin in their club.”

The ponies drank their fill and turned and waded back to the shallows.

“What is man's cardinal sin?” he said. “According to the women's club.”

“Expecting praise. Men want sex, meals and praise, endless praise for being so wonderful.”

They looked at each other. “What if I were to say that I'll forfeit the praise and do the cooking if you will marry me?”

“I'd say you don't know me, and I don't know you, and I need a long holiday from matrimony. But I'll bear it in mind.”

They walked the ponies home.

“When I said flying makes us feel godlike, I wasn't being completely truthful,” Borodin said. “It makes us feel remote and privileged. Earth is far below, sometimes a mile or even two miles, and therefore nothing to do with us. We can bomb it and strafe it and never feel the pain. We might kill the enemy, we might kill our own troops, it's all the same to us. We live in a different world.”

“And nothing really matters because
nichevo.”

“Ah. You know about that.”

“I hear it from the pilots.
Nichevo
suits their style. Another thing: they walk differently.”

“Really? How?”

“Never in step. Put two soldiers together, they always march in step. Pilots never do. Hands in pockets. Bit of slouch, bit of swagger.”

“Not me. I don't walk like that.”

“Then you're a freak.”

“And you're a cruel and heartless woman. And I don't want to marry you.”

“Yes, you do. Tell me one thing. What are the chances you'll get shot down and killed?” He was silent. “Fifty-fifty?” she said. “Or worse? Quick death for you. Long gloomy life for me. Is that fair?” No answer.

Dextry returned, having seen no Bolos and found a suitable landing field, thirty miles to the north. The C.O. decided that was good enough. Tomorrow, the squadron would fly and the trains would move.

Maynard politely declined the offer of Edwardes' toothbrush. The man had been with his field-gun unit for a long time, and Maynard suspected he had gone native. He hadn't shaved today, and perhaps not yesterday, and to judge by his hands and arms, washing wasn't a priority either. What Maynard, when he had ridden behind him, assumed was the smell of the horse, turned out to be the smell of Edwardes too. At Sherborne, Maynard had been taught to take a cold bath every morning; it kept a boy pure in body and in thought. Edwardes could do with a bath.

But he had undoubtedly saved Maynard from a spot of bother, and it would be fun to tell The Dregs about being rescued by a sort of robber baron and his gang. Maynard knew that rubbing his teeth with a finger dipped in salt was as good as a toothbrush. And the Camel wasn't broken, so he wouldn't be here for long.

He knew what was for supper. The cook made no secret of slaughtering a sheep, skinning it, and hacking it into chunks with a bayonet. They sizzled as they went onto an iron grid over the fire.

“Nice to know that the meat is fresh,” Maynard said.

“It always is, old boy. Russians don't have the luxury of quartermasters. They live off the land.”

“I see.” Maynard had an image of the little village with its sole survivor in the ruins and dead cattle in the fields, and knew at once that Edwardes would not be interested. “There are advantages in travelling light,” he said. “My squadron can pack up and be off in half an hour.”

“These lads do it in five minutes.”

“I say! Good egg.” That had been the highest praise at Sherborne, but Edwardes merely raised an eyebrow. “Which reminds me,” Maynard said. “The question of moving. Really, all I need is a few gallons of petrol and
I can be on my way.”

“Petrol, petrol. God knows where you'll find that. It's not a thing that Russian gunners have much use for. Horsepower gets us from A to B.”

“The squadron has plenty.”

“Then that's your best bet. It's too late today. Tomorrow I'll send a man to the nearest railway station. Maybe they can send a wire. You're not in a hurry, are you? Good. Relax. See how the poor live.”

The roast mutton turned out to be excellent. It would have been even better with a little redcurrant jelly, but to say so would be bad form. For the first time since he joined the R.F.C., he was not eating in an Officers' Mess. They sat, men and officers alike, around the fire. There were no plates; either you ate with your fingers or you went hungry. There was black bread, and a bottle of vodka circulated. After his adventure in the Cossack camp long ago vodka did not frighten Maynard, and he was pleased to see that the men approved when he took a swig. He passed the bottle to Edwardes and said, “Not a drop is sold till it's seven days old.” Edwardes grinned. “Seven-day vodka is vintage stuff. A bit like crusted port.”

There was only one course but there was plenty of it. Maynard ate his fill and was gazing into the glow of the fire when he felt the habits of a lifetime assert themselves. “Awfully sorry to be a damn nuisance,” he said, “but I'm afraid I need the latrines.”

Edwardes said something in Russian and a man got up and fetched a spade.

“Normally we don't aspire to such luxury,” Edwardes said. “But as you're a guest …”

Maynard took the spade. “Where?” he said.

Edwardes made a generous, sweeping gesture. “You have all of Russia,” he said.

Maynard walked deep into the dusk, and dug and squatted. “This isn't why I came to Russia,” he whispered, “but no doubt about it, the roast mutton was utterly delicious.”