Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

“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.”

Hackett and Wragge came in. “Order up some grub, Lacey,” Hackett said. Chef appeared with two plates of bacon and eggs. “Don’t bother, you’re too slow,” Hackett said. He took his place.

“What was all that, with the C.O.?” Jessop asked.

“He shot my hat,” Wragge said. “Shot it dead.” He poked a finger through the hole and waggled it. “See?”

“You must have done something.”

“We biffed the Bolos,” Hackett said. “Sent ’em packing. But that’s not good enough for him.” He was stirring an egg yolk with a piece of toast. “We looked happy. We smiled.” He gave a twisted parody of a smile. “And that spoiled everything.” He ate the toast.

Bellamy stopped sipping milk. “I didn’t smile at anyone,” he said.

“You didn’t do any Bolo-biffing,” Wragge said. “So you don’t count.”

Lacey took Wragge’s cap and looked inside it. “Seven and one-eighth… I can replace it, if you don’t mind a hat last worn by a captain in the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. A trifle gaudy, but… You’ve no objection?”