Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

“Come on, let’s spread the news.” They walked towards the waiting pilots.

The tanks were in a field where sunflowers had been grown. The blackened stalks stood thickly, two feet high, except where tank-tracks had made narrow paths. Borodin followed one of these, turning left or right as the tanks had turned, until it delivered them to a small tented encampment. The tanks were huddled there, grey and muddy and motionless. Borodin killed his engine.

“Elephants’ graveyard,” Griffin said.

A British Army major came out of the largest tent. No hat, no tie, and his tunic was undone. “Major Riley,” he said. He had a fading black eye and one front tooth was missing. “Welcome to the Armoured Division, or as I call it, the Tank Trap.” A faint whiff of cordite came with him. Griffin knew at once to tread carefully. He introduced himself and the count. “I’m Royal Air Force. Merlin Squadron. I was supposed to support the attack,” he said.

“You’re new here? And you want to know the score. Come inside. There’s coffee. Tastes like creosote, so I cut it with vodka, then it tastes like hot creosote.” They went into the tent and he waved them to a sofa that everywhere leaked stuffing. “Cavalry of the clouds, isn’t that what they call you? Well, I’m cavalry of the mud. Today the mud won.” He sounded cheerful.

“I see you’ve been in the wars.” Griffin touched his own eye.

“The shiner? Yes, I was instructing a Russian driver and he got carried away by the excitement. Lost control, hit a tree, my head smacked against his head.” He gave them tin mugs of steaming coffee.

“It’s very quiet here. Where is everyone?”

“The Russian crews are in their tents, cooking lunch. My N.C.O.s are in their tents, probably playing pontoon.”

“Lunch.” Griffin looked at his watch. “So early?”

“Well, they’ve been up since dawn.” Riley sat on an ammunition box. “Time is different here. Breakfast doesn’t count for much. Lunch at eleven, dinner at four. Otherwise they go all huffy.” He was cleaning his nails with a broken matchstick. “You can’t do anything with a huffy Russian. And he’ll do bugger-all for you.”

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.