Hornet’s Sting (15 page)

“Don't get huffy, old boy. And for God's sake don't get snotty with those two. Strange sounds are coming out of St Petersburg, so I'm told. It's crucial that you don't rock the boat.”

“Suppose my Russians want to play with their toys.” Cleve-Cutler suddenly felt reckless. “If I say no, that'll rock the boat and it might bring down the whole house of cards. Then the cat will be out of the bag and the fat will be in the fire.”

Bliss was not amused. “Do nothing,” he said. “Wait for my call.” He hung up. A minute later he called again. “It really is no joke,” he said. “The fate of nations may be in your hands.” The phone went dead.

Cleve-Cutler stared at the ink-stains on his desk. There was one that
looked like a squashed rat with a stupid grin. “Idiot,” he said, and banged it with his fist. The real rats under the floorboards started squeaking. “Nobody asked your opinion,” he said. He sent for Captain Ogilvy. “Keep your Russians on the ground, Spud. Invent a reason. What are they doing?”

“Still trying to read the pilot's manual. And there's a nice yellow fog coming down.”

“Good.”

The fog did not keep Colonel Bliss away from Pepriac. “Couldn't call you,” he told Cleve-Cutler. “This business has become too hot for the telephone.” He made sure that the C.O.'s office door was shut. “It seems that a potential heir to the Russian throne may be on your squadron.”

“Good Lord ... And you're taking him away? I'll tell his servant to pack.”

“The devil you will. He's staying here.”

“But the risk —”

“The risk is just as great in Russia. Maybe greater. A month ago your Duke Nikolai was twenty-seventh in line for the throne. Since then, princes and grand dukes have been dropping like flies. Two had heart attacks and one drowned when he fell off his horse. Diphtheria has killed a couple more and influenza took five. The rest got eaten by wolves or mammoths or Cossacks or something, I don't know and it doesn't matter. The point is, Duke Nikolai is now only thirteenth in line.”

Cleve-Cutler made a couple of whisky-sodas and thought about this astonishing development.

“Only twelve to go,” he said. “Still, the Tsar has a big family, hasn't he?”

“Four daughters, unfortunately. One son, with haemophilia. If he takes a toss from his rocking-horse he'll bleed to death.”

“Crikey. What a gloomy crew.” When Colonel Bliss gave him a sharp, sideways look, Cleve-Cutler added: “Or, to put it another way, sir, our staunch and gallant allies in the east.”

“Who need a hero. Now, more than ever, they need a thumping great hero.”

“He's a lousy pilot, sir. Just because he's got a Nieuport he believes he's Albert Ball. He thinks Hun pilots are going to drop dead out of sheer humiliation.”

Bliss wasn't listening. “Look what Ball's done for morale in England. Bucked it up wonderfully. Russians are a melancholy lot. Bad losers. They need a Ball of their own to buck them up.”

“He can't shoot, sir.”

“Thirteenth in line for the throne! An ace, and close to the Tsar! They'll cheer their gloomy heads off!”

“Sir, he couldn't hit a Zeppelin if you tied it to a tree.”

“Oh yes he could. And will.” Bliss slowly waved his hat. “Huzzah,” he said softly. “Huzzah.”

“I see.” Cleve-Cutler dipped his little finger in the ink bottle and made the blot of the squashed rat even uglier. “You want me to send the Russians on D.O.P.s.”

“Far more important, I want you to bring 'em back.”

“Which means ... large escorts.”

“Use the whole damn squadron, if you have to. Just give me a Russian hero. Preferably two.”

That was that. The decision was made. “You'll stay to dinner, colonel?”

“Another time. We've got lamb cutlets tonight, at Wing. Also a Stilton which is at its peak.”

They walked to his car. “I might as well say what I think, sir,” Cleve-Cutler said. “This is a bloody silly way to fight a war. I mean, why don't you simply lie? Give Duke Nikolai an M.C. and a D.F.C with bar, and say in the citation that he shot down six Albatroses and four Halberstadts and a Hun carrier pigeon, and ship him home to Russia?”

“He wouldn't wear it, old chap. Nikolai is an honourable duke. He won't lie, and he won't let us lie about him. I don't pretend to understand it, but I believe it's called breeding.”

“It works for pigs and horses,” Cleve-Cutler said, “but it'll be the death of us out here.”

* * *

Nikolai and Andrei celebrated the arrival of the Nieuports by taking a couple of bottles of pepper vodka – a gift from their Paris embassy – down to Rosie's Bar. The place was busy. Cavalry officers were celebrating somebody's birthday. A bunch of gunners were celebrating
an M.C. Two lots of sappers were trying to out-sing each other. When a crowd of Hornet Squadron pilots arrived, the atmosphere became highly charged.

McWatters was in the party; so were Crabtree, Simms, Dash and an Australian called Maddegan, just arrived in France, almost nineteen years old, straight from flying training in Kent, and so pleased to be on a fighting squadron that he couldn't keep still. He wasn't especially tall, but he was broad and heavy: the floorboards groaned as he shifted from foot to foot, anxious not to miss any casual remark. Crabtree watched him. “You're jolly hefty, aren't you?” he said.

“Comes from heaving barrels around, sir. My father owns the biggest brewery in New South Wales, sir.”

Despite his menacing bulk, Maddegan had an innocent face and an eager smile. Only his crooked nose spoiled his looks. “You box?” Crabtree said. Maddegan nodded. “Dad taught me not to hurt the other fellow unnecessarily. I smack him hard in round one, sir.”

Crabtree was impressed. “Goodness,” he said. “A philanthropic bruiser.”

Count Andrei was glad to see the pilots arrive. Success and vodka had made Duke Nikolai very Russian. He had harangued Andrei about the divinely-appointed genius of the tsars, of Ivan the Terrible, of Boris Godounov, of Peter the Great, of the magnificent Catherine, of the bravest of the brave, Tsar Alexander, who had flung Napoleon out of Russia ... Andrei occasionally put in one or two words of support. But not three words, or four. Nikolai was not a good listener. On the other hand, he was not a great speaker, either, especially when the vodka led him to try to quote heroic Russian poetry and he mangled the words and crippled the lines and choked a little at the tragic beauty of it all. Andrei sat quietly and knocked his fists together under the table. He was relieved when Crabtree came over.

“You fly tomorrow,” Crabtree told them. “Orders from Wing. In fact we all fly tomorrow.” The duke stood and embraced him. “I say, old chap,” Crabtree said. “Not in front of the children.”

“Big killings tomorrow,” Nikolai said happily. “Big Hun massacre.”

“Well . . . That's as maybe.” Crabtree was uncomfortable: boasting and bragging wasn't done in the R.F.C. “We've got a new boy. He's from Australia. Maddegan, meet our Russian bigwigs.”

They shook hands. Crabtree drifted away.

“Magellan,” Duke Nikolai said. He turned to Count Andrei. “Discovered Pacific Ocean. Here is relative! We drink toast.”

“It's Maddegan,” the Australian said. “But most people call me Dingbat, because that's the way I box.”

“Dingbat.” Nikolai liked the sound. He turned it into a toast. “Dingbat!”

“Sorry, but I never drink ...” Maddegan began. Count Andrei pressed a tiny glass into his hand. Its contents were clear as water. “Well, I reckon one little sip won't harm,” he said.

Nearby, Charles Dash and Harry Simms found a table and ordered a bottle of wine. “Pepriac's a rotten dump, isn't it?” Simms said. “I haven't seen a girl in weeks. And just look at this mob.”

Dash poured the wine. “On the subject of girls, I need some advice,” he said, “but only if you promise to keep it secret.”

“You're speaking to the tomb, old man.”

“Thing is ... I seem to have struck it rich with a rather ... um ... generous girl.” Simms' eyes opened wide. “Or girls,” Dash said.

“You mean you can't remember how many? You must have been well ginned that night.”

“No gin. And it was more than one night. The circumstances were somewhat ... strange.”

McWatters arrived with a glass and helped himself to wine.

“Go away,” Dash said. “This is a personal matter.”

“Women keep raping him,” Simms explained.

“Shocking business,” McWatters said. “Eat lots of anchovies, that's what I do. Anchovies put starch in your dicky.”

“Anyway, where's the problem?” Simms said. “Popsies falling over themselves to oblige, doesn't sound like a problem. More like a solution.”

“I'm not going to discuss it,” Dash muttered.

“You've got the pox, is that it?” McWatters asked.

“Don't be disgusting.”

“Doc Dando is your man. Sorted out my athlete's foot in no time.” He signalled for more wine.

“It's not the pox. I just wonder if I've overdone it, that's all.”

“Ah ha!” Simms said. “Now I understand. It's a question of quantity, not quality.”

“At the time, it was a question of sheer bloody survival,” Dash said. “I mean to say, is there a limit?”

“A chap can pump himself dry, I suppose,” McWatters said. “It's just spinal fluid, after all. You can't have much of a reserve tank in your spine, can you?”

“I don't want to rupture myself.”

“My father has a stallion on stud,” Simms said. “Won the Cesarewitch. Earns his corn twice a day, seven days a week. Fifty guineas a poke.”

Dash said curtly: “I wasn't in a position to ask for payment.”

“Maybe all you're suffering from is cramp,” McWatters said. “Try anchovies. Very good for cramp.” He saw the Russians and their bottles and moved to their table.

“It's supposed to be perfectly natural,” Dash said, “so why did it give me such a headache?”

Maddegan, sitting between the Russians, was explaining that his family was teetotal. “After working all day in a brewery the last thing you want is beer. I never touched the hard stuff because I was always in training.” He took another sip. “Hot, isn't it?” This was his third glass. The first two had gone down easily.

McWatters slid into a chair. “You're a lucky chap, Dingbat. This stuff is like Holy Water in Russia. Turns your blood to fire. You'll soar like an eagle tomorrow.”

Nikolai gave everyone half an inch of vodka.

“I suppose the pepper makes it so hot,” Maddegan said.

“Dingbat is the heavyweight boxing champion of all Australia,” McWatters told them.

“Hey, steady on. I won a few fights, but —”

“A toast,” Nikolai announced. “Victory to Tsar and champion Dingbat!” Maddegan saw the others knock their vodka back, and he did the same. He sat quietly until his eyes stopped watering. The amazing thing was McWatters was right: the stuff did turn his blood to fire. With enough of it inside him, he could easily be heavyweight champion of anywhere.

“Confusion to the Tsar's enemies!” McWatters declared. “Let battle commence! The Hun is doomed.”

“And we're here to doom him,” Maddegan said.

It seemed like an obvious toast, but Nikolai failed to pick up his glass.

“Hun is not real enemy,” he said. Hunched shoulders made him look even smaller. He was staring into the smoky, noisy room as if it were a battlefield. “Real enemy is Socialists.”

“Absolutely correct,” McWatters said. “D'you know, I can see one of the bastards from here. That ginger-haired chap over there. Notorious Socialist. See him, Dingbat?” Maddegan stood and stared. “Hates Australians too,” McWatters said. “Dingbat, why don't you go and knock him into the middle of next week?” He gave Maddegan a shove, just enough to get him going.

Maddegan vanished into the crowd. Quite soon, there was uproar at the other end of the room as a table crashed and glasses shattered. “Damned Etonians,” Simms said. “You can't take them anywhere.”

“I'm still not sure what to do next,” Dash said.

“Reinforce success,” Simms said. “That's the army's motto, isn't it?”

Maddegan found people side-stepping out of his way. Or maybe he was side-stepping out of their way, it was hard to tell, because sometimes he saw two of everybody. But a path always opened up and he found the Russians' table and dropped into his chair far more heavily than he intended. “Blocked his knock off,” he said. They drank to that.

“I doomed the bastard,” Maddegan said. “Doomed him.”

“Medal for Dingbat,” Nikolai told Andrei.

“I say,” McWatters said. “I'll be damned if there isn't another bloody great Socialist!” He pointed at a sapper captain. “That bald fellow.”

“Watch me doom the bastard,” Maddegan said.

“Please,” Andrei said to McWatters. “Is this wise?” But he was too late. Maddegan was already up and weaving his way towards the sapper. “The duke should leave now,” Andrei said. “We must not risk a diplomatic incident.”

“Sacré bleu,”
McWatters said. “Your English got better very fast, didn't it?” Shouts of rage, and the sound of breaking furniture, reached them.

Simms and Dash went over to the Russians' table. “What's all the racket about?” Simms asked.

“Diplomatic incident,” McWatters said.

Maddegan came back, jumping from table to table, leaving a trail of curses and spilled drinks. He was dirty and his face was bleeding and he was gasping for breath. “Doomed the bastard,” he said.
“Doomed him!”

“I had nothing to do with this,” McWatters said. He was speaking to several officers who had come barging through the crowd. They had been in a fight and were very ready for another. “Just arrived,” McWatters told them. “Just leaving.”