A Splendid Little War (8 page)

“I think we can expect spring lamb quite soon,” Lacey said. “It's Chef's masterpiece. An occasion when strong men weep with joy.”

“Joy,” Griffin said. “I knew a girl named Joy.”

“And he does the most memorable things with cucumber.” Lacey was sitting in the chair in the C.O.'s Pullman compartment. Griffin lay on the bed. “In season, of course. Like mushrooms. Once you have seen him stuff a mushroom, fungi will never look the same to you.”

“So you say. You can't stuff Yorkshire pudding. Can he handle Yorkshire pud?”

“With ease. I've told him what the chaps like – the same as they liked in France, which was what they'd grown up on. Apple Crumble, Treacle Tart, Sherry Trifle, Spotted Dick. I've explained them all. Chef wasn't keen on Spotted Dick at first. He thought it must be a medical treatment, like mustard plasters. But he came round to it. The king of Bulgaria once asked him—”

“Crumpets. I'm partial to a crumpet for tea.”

“Ah. Well now. Crumpets. Crumpets are different. But …”

A distant clamour got Griffin off the bed and over to the window. He saw his pilots watching a bunch of mounted Cossacks approach. With them they brought half a dozen unmounted ponies. Sunlight flashed on the flourish of steel. “Trouble,” he said. “Know them?” He didn't wait, grabbed his cap and pistol and buttoned his tunic as he left.

The Cossacks galloped around the pilots and came to a halt in a flurry of dust and small stones and snorting horses. Their leader shouted: “
Zdravstvuite! Dobroye Utro!
” After that he made a statement full of fire and saliva.

“He's got Maynard,” Wragge said. “I bet they want money.”

Maynard was propped in front of the leader. His chin was on his chest and he slumped so much that his hands were lost in the horse's mane. The leader gripped him by the collar.

“He looks dead,” Jessop said. “Blood on his face. So it can't be ransom.”

The leader got to the point. “
Na Moskvu!
” he shouted. The rest shouted: “
Na Moskvu!
” He waved both arms and Maynard fell sideways. The leader grabbed him by the ankle before he could hit the ground, and said something very amusing; they all laughed and clapped their hands. Maynard's hair rested lightly in the dirt. He was suddenly and violently sick.

“D'you think he might choke?” Jessop asked.

“Hard to say. His colour's improving,” Hackett said.

“So would yours, if you were upside-down.”

“True.”

Griffin arrived. “Bellamy, Jessop, go and get that officer. Wragge: find some
plennys
and a stretcher … Hackett, what's the story here?”

“Well, Maynard offered to …” That was when Count Borodin's motorcycle came clattering and backfiring. It spooked the ponies into a stampede, and the Cossacks went after them, shouting and steering them into a tight bend that became a slow and dusty circle. Their leader watched, smiling proudly. He made a short speech. Griffin looked at Borodin.

“He says we shall ride into Moscow, side by side, before Christmas.”

“What about Maynard?”

“Drunk as a lord.”

“Give him my compliments, and ask him to join me on the train for a drink. That seems to be the universal language in Russia, but you'd better come along too.” Maynard was being stretchered past. His eyes were half-open but unable to focus. “Bloody fine effort, laddie,” Griffin told him. “Damned good show. Best traditions of the squadron.”

Sergeant Major Lacey mixed up a hangover cure that tasted of mustard and toothpaste and caused Maynard to throw up twice more that afternoon. But by the evening he was in the bar, sipping soda water and discovering that he had become an accepted member of Merlin Squadron. They praised him for his Cossack adventure, and for the five ponies he had brought. It made the whole frightful episode seem almost worthwhile.

Griffin had the Flight in the air at fifteen minutes to eight. The servicing had been rushed, and the ground crews weren't happy, but Griffin believed that God didn't create war to make ground crews happy. The Camels formed up in the usual arrowhead. Within ten minutes Bellamy turned back with a leaky fuel tank. Petrol was sloshing around his boots. He landed very gently. Maybe his ground crew had been right to be unhappy. He left the cockpit in a hurry and ran. Nothing caught fire.

The rest of the Flight passed over the six tanks as they crawled towards Tsaritsyn. Not much punch there, Griffin thought. Wouldn't have dented the Hun front in France. He climbed to a thousand feet and circled, letting everyone take a good look at the Red trenches outside the town. Neat and straight with regular kinks: just like France. Little fountains of mud appeared, some next to the trenches, most not. Wrangel's artillery barrage had begun. Griffin gave it ten minutes to soften up the defence. Then the Flight fell in line behind him and he steered to attack the length of the trenches.

The long descent, even at a shallow angle, built up a healthy speed. Griffin was easing back the stick as he fired a short burst into the trenches less than a hundred feet below. His bullets went chasing among the soldiers until he climbed, and levelled, and dived again and fired again. Nobody fired back. It was easy.

The five Camels followed his example. Maynard, at the tail, was surprised to find what fun it was. Swoop, fire, climb: it had a feeling of fairground gaiety. A few troops got over their surprise and offered some ragged rifle fire, but nobody could catch him. It was simple. Just fire, and men fell down. What sport.

The Flight climbed away and Maynard climbed after it. Now the tanks had arrived. They began prowling alongside the trenches and shooting down into them. That was more than enough for the defenders. They scrambled out and fled. Griffin saw them running. The Camels
went down and chased them until all the ammunition was spent. They turned for home.

Bellamy watched the Flight land. The pilots strolled over to him, their faces smudged with oil spatter, jubilant at a job well done, and told him what a hoot it had been.

Bellamy didn't care. He had breathed too many petrol fumes and his stomach hurt. He felt rotten. “I blame the eggs at breakfast,” he said. Nobody listened. “Huge hoot,” Wragge said. “Not like France. More like skittles. Every bullet found its billet. That's Kipling.”

“No, it's not. It's bollocks,” Bellamy said. He felt cheated. Bloody eggs. Bloody leaky fuel tank. He'd missed the party.

“I personally wiped out a whole regiment of Bolos,” Hackett said. “That's worth a medal, isn't it?”

“It was a routine strafe,” Griffin said. “We're off again in an hour.”

“I'll be ready,” Bellamy said.

“It really was a cakewalk,” Maynard told him. “An absolute cakewalk. You should have seen it.”

“So everyone says,” Bellamy muttered. “Everyone shot a regiment. Must be easy.”

“It's as easy as falling off a bicycle,” Jessop said. “Do it once and you never forget how.”

“You haven't got that right,” Wragge said.

“No? Fetch me a bicycle and I'll prove it. Look – here comes a motorbike. I get double points for falling off one of those.”

Griffin said: “You get double points for idiocy, Jessop. Now shut up while we find out what's next.”

Borodin gave his machine to an airman to hold, and said, “General Wrangel compliments you on your performance at the enemy trenches, and says he now intends to capture Tsaritsyn on the way to Moscow.” He offered a large envelope. While Griffin was opening it, the count told the others, “Actually, I made up that bit about Moscow. It's a thousand miles up the Volga to Moscow, and the river is full of Red gunboats.”

“So what's the best way to Moscow?” Dextry said.

“A good question. Perhaps Denikin has a Grand Plan to win the war.”

“We had all sorts of Grand Plans in France,” Hackett said. “Neuve Chapelle, Loos, the Somme, Ypres, Passchendaele, and lots more. Ask the War Office, Count. They've probably got some spare copies going cheap.”

“We Russians have a surplus of our own, thank you. Remember
that there were more German divisions fighting us in the east than you in the west.”

“Must have been bloody noisy.”

“Yes, at times. And afterwards bloody quiet, for some.”

“Alright, shut up, gather round,” Griffin said. “Here's the plan. Wrangel's men have the trenches. Stage two is the outer defences, south side. Houses are fortified strongpoints. Wrangel's guns will put up a short barrage to keep the Bolos' heads down. Then we go in and do a low-level strafe, all guns blazing, then the tanks go in, then the infantry make a hole for the cavalry. We'll take along some small bombs, twenty-pounders. Carry them in the cockpit. Toss them out if you see anything juicy.”

“Try and hit a chap called Trotsky,” Borodin said. “The
Daily Telegraph
has been very hard on Trotsky lately.”

“How on earth do you get the
Telegraph
?” Wragge asked.

“Oh … Lacey gets it for me. The rugby reporting is excellent.”

“Take off in an hour,” Griffin said. “Get something to eat. You two.” He pointed to Wragge and Hackett. “Stay.”

“Bow-wow,” Wragge said. “And I know I speak for Hackett too.”

The others left.

Griffin was frowning hard, and his left eye was twitching. He took a deep breath and seemed about to speak, then turned away, stared hard at nothing worth looking at, turned back again. They watched with interest. He was in the grip of strong emotions. They had never seen him like this before.

“Look here …” Even his voice was different: tight, a bit hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I don't like your attitude. Any of you. Too jokey. Too casual. We're here to do a job, not a music-hall act. It's not good enough.”

“Oh well,” Wragge said. “You know what the boys are like.”

“Yes, I do. They treat war like a game.” Griffin's temper was rising. “Like Eton against Harrow at cricket. And you're no better.”

“Not me. I hate the bloody game,” Hackett said.

“Cricket's more than a game,” Wragge insisted. “I opened the bowling for Harrow and we were definitely … Here, I say …” He was looking into Griffin's revolver. It trembled with rage, only six inches away.

“The bullet in here cost a shilling,” Griffin whispered. “You're not worth a shilling. You're not worth a slice of cold toast. I could shoot you now. No loss to anyone. You're an ex flight commander who's forgotten what war is about.” He used the gun's muzzle to raise Wragge's cap from
his head and he fired a shot through it. Wragge staggered back. Ground crew stopped working and stared. The cap spun through the air and dropped and rolled in a small circle and flopped. “What is war about?” Griffin demanded.

“Killing the other bastard,” Hackett said fast.

Griffin turned to him. “And why are we fighting?”

Hackett thought, Buggered if I know and buggered if I care. But the smell of the revolver was sharp in his nostrils and Griffin's finger still curled around the trigger. “Why do lions roar?” he asked. “What makes eagles soar?” He frowned a little to look like he was making an effort.

Griffin sniffed. He resented the questions because he didn't see their point, and if he said so, he might look weak. “End of message,” he said, and strode off, heading for the Camels.

Wragge found his cap. “Half a guinea, that cost.” He poked his finger through the hole. “Just because I opened the bowling for Harrow. I took three for twenty-seven. It wasn't a very good Eton side, but still … What sort of an idiot shoots a chap's cap?” They were walking to the train.

“I shot that R.T.O. in the spurs,” Hackett said.

“That was different. The man was a buffoon.”

“Well, the C.O.'s bonkers. And I'm hungry.”

Chef was serving a second breakfast in the dining-room car. Like most chefs, he had been well built – spend your working life sampling your own cooking and you put on a few pounds – but the Red Army diet had soon changed that. All the
plennys
were thin. Now Chef was starting to add a few ounces. His shaven head made his inky black moustache, thick and curling at the tips, dominate his face. He never smiled and he never spoke. He put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Jessop, who said, “Oh, thanks awfully, you are a prince among men, Chef, and a scholar with the skillet.” Chef stood erect, thumbs and forefingers gripping the seams of his trousers, until he was sure that Jessop had finished burbling. He collected a couple of dirty plates and went back to his kitchen.

“Can't we teach him to say something?” Bellamy said. “
Bon appetit
, or
Rule, Britannia
. Anything.”

“Not possible,” Lacey said. He was sitting in a corner, writing up the day's menu. “Ever since he saw his entire family slaughtered. Wife, children, parents, grandmother. The Moscow Bolsheviks waded in blood to seize power. Chef was struck dumb, never spoke a word again.
Devilled kidneys for lunch, by the way, with fluffy pancakes.”