A Splendid Little War (7 page)

Griffin glanced at the count, who gave one small, sad nod. “But if they're not huffy today … This is none of my business, I know, but … What's the problem? With the attack, that is.”

“I'll show you. Bring your coffee.”

They walked to the tanks. “This is a British Army Whippet,” he said. “I've got four of them, and two Mark Fives. The Whippet's not much more than an armoured car on tank-tracks. Very simple. Almost foolproof.”

“Almost,” Griffin said.

Riley kicked the Whippet. “A simple fault in the engine. Timing needed adjusting. Ten-minute job. Took my Russian an hour, made a hash of it, buggered up several other parts in the process, crippled the Whippet. Same sort of thing's happened to the others.”

Griffin took a sip of coffee. Smells like a bonfire, he thought. Tastes like one, too. “Surely your N.C.O.s could …”

“They could, but their job is to supervise. And you have to make allowance for the Russian character, very proud, very arrogant, very
brave, very stupid.” Riley remembered the count's presence. “Not the nobility, of course.”

“Who are flawless,” Borodin murmured.

“Where's their loyalty?” Griffin asked. “Don't they
want
their tanks to go into action?”

“Yes, of course, but … Look, it's not like France. Many of these chaps never saw a car or a lorry before Wrangel put them in uniform. A tank to them is a piece of magic. They're like schoolboys, you tell them to do something and if it's difficult then it's impossible. But put them in a tank that's in working order and they are fearless, brave as lions, fight anyone. Like a boy on his first bicycle, couldn't be happier. When it breaks down it's
our
fault, it's British junk so scrap it, get a new tank, like
that
.” He clicked his fingers. “I say no, mend it, they resent that. Damn Britisher, thinks he knows better than a Russian. If you're not very careful …” He shrugged.

“They go all huffy.”

The count cleared his throat. “Suppose your N.C.O.s got the tanks running,” he suggested, “and you sent the Russian crews off to fight in them?”

“Not what we're here for. Our job is to teach them how to repair and service, so they can fight, and fight again. But you may be right.”

Riley walked with them to the motorcycle. The faint sound of an accordion reached them. On a sunny day, under a clear blue sky, Riley's Russians chose to stay in a tent and make sad music. British troops would be out, kicking a football about. “Well, thank you,” Griffin said, “It's been very …” What? Strange? Depressing?

“Illuminating,” Borodin suggested.

“No,” Griffin said sharply. “Well, yes, but also valuable. Learned a lot.” Damned if he was going to be tutored by a bloody foreigner. Whose language was it, anyway?

“You're a wing commander,” Riley said. “Never met one of those before. If I let you drive a Whippet, will you give me a ride in the sky?”

“Gladly. Duties permitting.”

Riley turned to go, and then turned back. “Borodin,” he said. “Borodin. Any relation?”

“I'm the illegitimate son. Father was also an illegitimate son, so you might say I carried on the family tradition.”

“And now you're Count Borodin.

“Yes. My mother was a princess, a distant cousin of the Tsar, and
said to be the most beautiful woman in Russia but not, alas, the cleverest. She was besotted by my father's genius. Their ambition was to create a child with her looks and his mind. It never occurred to them that the reverse might happen. But the Tsar took a fancy to me. When I was ten, he made me a count, a sentimental gesture, easy for an emperor, although he forgot to add an estate.”

“Ah. Pity. Just the title. And the name.”

“What I also didn't get was any genius. But that was a sort of blessing. It helped me blend in with the nobility. They dislike anyone with talent, it reflects badly on them.”

“You're young,” Riley said. “Maybe there's a spark waiting to be fanned to a flame.”

“That's a kind thought, but … No. I've tried to compose. Quite hopeless. One day I shall decompose.” Joke.

Riley glanced at the exquisitely tailored uniform, the tasselled lanyards. “Still … It hasn't held you back.”

“I'm on General Denikin's staff. He likes having tall officers around him, it improves the tone. He sent me to Tsaritsyn to stimulate the war.”

Riley nodded. “Tell Wrangel the tanks will be ready for action tomorrow.”

The motorcycle bumped and bounced back to the train, with Griffin hanging on to the handlebars. He got off and massaged his bruised buttocks. The ride had given him time to think.

“Look here,” he said. “I don't like the way you treat this war. That remark about Denikin. Very flippant. I didn't bring my squadron thousands of miles to mock the leadership. We're here to help Denikin's Volunteer Army defeat the Bolsheviks and give your country the benefits of democracy. Understood?”

“Democracy,” Count Borodin said. “Not a word the average Russian peasant would recognize. Or even admire. Still … If ordered to do so, let's say, by a modern Ivan the Terrible, I suppose he might—”

“Enough,” Griffin said. “Tell Wrangel we're ready when he is.”

The pilots gave the C.O.'s orders to the ground crews, and the ground crews grumbled and got on with it. Ground crews always grumbled. It was part of the job. Tell them not to grumble and they turned sullen.

Nothing much else was happening on the aerodrome. On the far side a flight of biplane bombers stood silent. They wore the red, white and black roundels of the White air force.

“Should we stroll over and say hello?” Maynard suggested.

They shaded their eyes and looked.

“DH9s” Wragge said. “Worse than the DH6.”

“Bloody awful bus,” Bellamy said. “War Office was glad to get rid of them, I expect.”

“Tell you what,” Hackett said to Maynard, “you go and talk to them. Tell them it's a bloody awful bus.”

“I don't speak Russian.” Maynard felt that somehow he was being made answerable for the DH9s.

“Wave your arms. Shout. That always works.”

“Worked in France,” Jessop said. “Made the frogs jump.”

“If you really want to make a frog jump, poke him in the ass with a sharp stick,” Hackett said. “We had frog-jumping contests back home, I won a lot of money.” They had turned away from the DH9s and were walking back to the train.

The
plennys
were lined up outside the Pullman coaches, standing stiffly, as Sergeant Major Lacey inspected them. They had shaven heads and wore clean black coveralls, and each man held a pair of British Army boots in his left hand. Lacey was meticulous: he looked at teeth, fingernails and feet. The pilots watched. When Lacey reached the last
plenny
, Hackett strolled forward. Lacey saw him coming and squared his shoulders slightly. This was as close as he came to standing to attention, a posture he regarded as unnatural and absurd. He saluted – it was more of a gesture – and Hackett returned the salute. Immediately all the
plennys
saluted too, Russian-style, palm down, and they held the salute.

“Hullo!” Hackett said. “Do they want me to inspect them?”

“Certainly not. It's the way Russian troops do things. If I salute a senior officer, they must follow suit. They'll stay like that until you go away.”

“Good God.” The
plennys
were rigid. Some salutes quivered with tension. “Tell them to stand easy.”

“I don't know the words. They're perfectly happy. If you want to make them happier, you could present this award to the best-turned-out man.” He gave Hackett a tin of corned beef. “Third from the right.”

Hackett looked in Lacey's eyes. “Where's the joke?”

“No joke. He'll be delighted. Russians will do anything for a tin of bully beef.”

Hackett made the award. The
plenny
dropped his boots, took the tin in his left hand and intensified his salute until his hand bounced off his forehead. A smile lit up his whole face.

“Crikey,” Hackett said. “What will they do for two tins? Still … Smart-looking bunch.”

“Smart enough to escape from the Red Army, or they'd be dead by now. The squadron couldn't manage without them. We'd be peeling our own potatoes and washing our own socks.”

Hackett left. The
plenny
salutes ended. Lacey had forgotten the Russian for “dismissed” and so he said “
Do svidanya
!” and fluttered his fingers. They understood.

He joined the pilots. “Coffee in fifteen minutes, gentlemen. Lunch at one, dinner at eight. Tomorrow, breakfast will be at seven, because the assault starts at eight.”

“How d'you know that?” Jessop demanded. “We haven't been told.”

“It was in the air,” Lacey said. “I plucked it from the ether.” He reached up and made gentle plucking motions.

“Ah, yes. The radio.”

Hackett said: “Don't tell me you talk to Wrangel's staff.”

“We are kindred spirits.” Lacey spread his arms until they aimed at the horizons and he slowly revolved. “I talk to the world. I'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes.”

They were puzzled. Sergeant majors didn't speak like that. What language was it, anyway?

“I go, I go,” Maynard said. “Look how I go – swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow.”

“You go bats, my lad,” Wragge said. “That makes two of you.”

“Shakespeare. It's Puck in
Midsummer Night's Dream
,” Maynard explained. “We did it at school. Put on the play. I was Puck.” He could tell they didn't think much of Shakespeare or Puck, or of Maynard as Puck. “I was much smaller then. Years ago.” It was two years ago, when he was seventeen. “I flew about the stage. Not a patch on the Camel.” He chuckled. Nobody else did.

“Bugger Puck,” Hackett said. “We need some exercise. A gallop would be good. Where can we get some horses?”

“No stables around here, I'm afraid,” Lacey said. “You might try those Cossacks over there.”

“Right. Maynard! Go and borrow a few rides. Bribe them with bully beef.”

“But I don't know Russian.
Any
Russian.”

Hackett pointed in the direction of the Cossack camp and scowled. Maynard knew he couldn't do it, but he couldn't stay there and stare back at Hackett either. He went.

For the first few steps, Lacey walked with him. “Just keep saying
Nichevo
,” he said.

“Meaning what?”

“Who cares? Never mind, it doesn't matter.”

Maynard felt a surge of anger. “Oh … go to hell.”

“No, no. Really, it means all those, and more.
Nichevo
is the Russian answer to anything. It means all is well. Use it lavishly.” Lacey turned back.

The Cossack camp was huge and the air was rich with horse dung. The men all had ragged beards and moustaches and their uniforms – green blouse-type tunic, dark breeches, knee-length riding boots – were stained and patched and, frankly, dirty. Some wore fur hats; all carried a weapon on their belts.

Maynard marched between their tents as if he knew where he was going. Some Cossacks shouted. Many of them laughed at him. He felt like a cowboy who had lost his horse and strayed into an Apache camp. He kept a slight smile and reminded himself that he was a commissioned officer of his Britannic Majesty and he must show it. Nevertheless he was deep inside their camp, he had no idea where he was heading and these frightful brigands could knife him in a second. Then one of the biggest brigands, with a chestful of cartridge belts and a scar that made one eyebrow hang low, stepped in his path and asked a long question in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder.

Maynard heard him out and said: “
Nichevo
.” He tried to make it sound friendly. It certainly impressed the man. He walked around Maynard, looking closely at his uniform. The pilot's wings got a long stare.

“English,” Maynard said. No effect. He experimented. “Englishski.”
Nothing. French might work. “Angleterre?” No good. “Angliski.” Bulls-eye! He said it again, this time with a big smile. The man embraced him and Maynard got Cossack beard up his nose and in his mouth.

The man took him into one of the bigger tents and shouted, “Angliski!” at two other hairy brigands. They all talked, often simultaneously. Maynard smiled and nodded. He found himself holding a glass. A lengthy toast was proposed and they looked at him. Desperation made him try anything. “Wrangel?” he suggested. Not what they had hoped for, but good enough. Glasses raised, down in one. Maynard got half down in one and felt as if he'd swallowed hot volcanic lava. They pounded him on the back and laughed and found a chair for him. The lava dribbled into his gut. His eyes wept but tears couldn't put out the fire. At last he could speak. “Vodka?” he whispered, and that was his funniest line yet. How they laughed!

He remembered his mission. He took out his pocket book and a pencil and drew a picture of a horse, an ugly horse whose legs were too long, tore off the page and gave it to them. He held up five fingers.

They talked among themselves, talked for so long that he finished his vodka in small, cautious sips. It seemed churlish not to. Then they took him to a bigger tent where a man in a noticeably cleaner uniform, so he must surely be an officer, was shown the picture. Maynard had a horrible thought: maybe they believed he wanted to
sell
them five horses. How to explain? But another toast was being made and this time he knew better than to swallow it whole.

This vodka was pepper-flavoured. Maynard got the strange impression that his head might fall off unless it was very carefully balanced. They took him out and showed him a horse with legs much shorter than on his picture. More of a pony, really. He didn't care. “
Nichevo
,” he said. They all drank to that and took him to a yet bigger tent, full of generals, they must be generals, their chests all clanked with medals. Quite soon there was another toast. Maynard drank it all, he was getting the hang of it, felt rather pleased with himself. It was the last thing he felt before the ground came rushing up at enormous speed. He didn't feel them pick him up, or lay him on a bed, or say “
Nichevo
.” Pity. He would have agreed with them wholeheartedly.