Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

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.