Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

Griffin’s tactics were simple. The Camels came in, weaving and jinking, twenty or thirty feet above the Volga, and threatened the largest gunboat, firing a short burst and then sheering off and threatening it from another angle, anything to distract its gunners while the Nines made their bombing run from the other flank. He didn’t expect it to work. This was war; nothing works quite as planned. But the bombers found gaps in the shell bursts and by determination and a fat slice of luck somebody’s bomb went down the gunboat’s funnel. Or so the pilot claimed. The truth didn’t matter, because the bomb exploded somewhere crucial, maybe in the magazine, and the gunboat got blown up by its own shells.

The detonation was spectacular. The boat erupted, flung apart by the intensity of flame and fury. Volcanic was the word that Maynard thought of. Wragge said later that a white-hot lump of metal flew past him, as big as a barn door, he heard it go whizz . When the Flights got over their surprise and found some sort of formation, the gunboat had gone. And the other gunboats had turned and were making all speed upstream. The squadron harassed them and a few near-misses blew spray over them, but none was sunk. Still, the squadron had sent them packing, just as Griffin promised. Typical Bolo behaviour. Wave your arms and they all run away.

It was late afternoon when a man ducked his head and came into the brick hut. He was head and shoulders taller than the rest of the village, red-bearded and better dressed. He gave a passing nod to the icons and began to speak. His voice was rich and deep and his gestures were confident. He had quite a lot to say.

“He’s the headman,” Pedlow said. “They always pick the tallest chap.”

“Ask him if he can do something about the bedbugs,” Duncan said.

“I only know one Russian word, and that’s the one Lacey taught us.” Pedlow clicked his fingers. “Damn. I’ve forgotten it.”

“It’s nichevo ,” Duncan said. “Try nichevo bedbugs.”

The word abruptly silenced the headman. He stood with his mouth half-open and his arms frozen in mid-gesture. “ Nichevo ,” he whispered.

“That’s it. Nichevo ,” Pedlow said firmly. The headman dropped his arms, bowed, turned and left. They followed him. “I’ve forgotten what it means,” Pedlow said.

“According to Lacey it means don’t worry, san fairy ann as the French say. Sort of vaguely encouraging.”

“Didn’t work, did it? We seem to have scared him off.” The headman was half-running away. Soon he vanished between huts. They stood, blinking in the mild sunlight. “I suppose we could walk to Beketofka.”

“In the dark? It’s forty miles at least. Meanwhile… my bladder’s about to burst. Can you see anything that looks like a lavatory?”

“This whole village smells like a lavatory, old chap,” Pedlow said.

“Perhaps there’s a bog at the back. Traditional place.”

They went and looked. No bog.

“Since the locals seem to believe I’ve descended from heaven, and as this is Tuesday,” Pedlow said, “I shall make water, and I command you to do likewise.” They unbuttoned and were making water, lots of water, when they saw two small boys watching. “Hullo!” Pedlow called. “This will be the Garden of Eden one day. You’ll thank me for it then.” They bolted.

Nothing much happened for the next hour; the villagers seemed to be avoiding them. They went indoors. It was dusk when the headman returned, escorted by the villagers. He wore a white stovepipe hat with no brim, a dark red robe that reached his ankles, and rope sandals. His escort wore long green robes. He said a few words and his gestures clearly invited them to go with him. “Might as well,” Duncan said. “Could be supper.”

They heard singing, and it was impressive, as skilled as any cathedral choir, but much larger, hundreds of men and women passing the melody back and forth like questions and answers. Then they saw the assembly. The whole village had gathered in a wide circle. The strength of the voices was not just their power but also their conviction. Joe Duncan had read ghost stories that told of men whose hair stood on end and he hadn’t believed them. Now he felt a bristling at the back of his neck.

The headman led them through a gap in the circle and instantly the singing ceased. That was the first surprise. The second was the remains of their Nine. They were carefully stacked in the middle of the circle.

They walked over to it. Most of the machine had gone up in flames, but somebody had searched hard. Around the engine were bits of wing and tail unit, a wheel, the Lewis gun, an empty ammunition drum, chunks of broken propeller. “Don’t touch anything,” Pedlow muttered.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Just don’t.”

There were two chairs, so they sat in them, and the evening began.

The headman was clearly a priest or prophet. He held what looked like a Bible and he read from it. His followers liked that: every reading brought a thunderous response. Then they sang. By now it was night; a fire was lit. The priest walked around the broken bomber, delivered what sounded like a sermon, made much of the airmen’s presence. They sat and watched and didn’t understand a damn word. “I could do with a beer,” Duncan said. The villagers sang again, but now it had a faster tempo, a thumping melody, and some of them were dancing. Furiously.

They formed two rings, one inside the other: women on the inside danced one way, men on the outside danced the other. Pedlow and Duncan found it hypnotic but exhausting. This was only the beginning, the warm-up. The dancers started spinning, competing in a tireless contest to dance harder, spin faster. “They’re crazy,” Pedlow said. A few dancers collapsed. Their mouths were foaming and their shouts blew foam. Clothing was thrown off. Many of the remaining dancers, men and women, were naked. “What now?” Duncan asked.

“I hate to think,” Pedlow said.

But within minutes the dance was over, the singing had stopped, the dancers were sprawling. That was when the priest approached the airmen with a young man on one side and a young woman on the other. Both were naked. He held a knife in each hand.

“Ritual sacrifice,” Duncan said.

“I think it’s worse than that,” Pedlow said.

The young man took a knife and began slicing off his left testicle. The young woman took a knife and began carving away her right breast. Duncan groaned and fainted. Pedlow grabbed him and carried him away. When he looked back the amputations were done and blood painted the figures red.

Wrangel sent two open carriages, horse-drawn, each with room for four guests. Griffin took with him the adjutant, Count Borodin and Hackett. In the other carriage went Oliphant, Wragge and a couple of bomber pilots, Tommy Hopton and Douglas Gunning. Their plennys had worked hard. Buttons were bright, creases were sharp.

The carriages crossed the aerodrome and turned south. The weather had cleared and the evening skies were an immense eggshell blue fading to yellow. Squadrons of little birds took off and circled and settled. Griffin stretched his legs. “This is the way to travel, adjutant. We never had this in France.”

Brazier nodded. He was looking to the left. “What’s going on over there, count?”

Two hundred yards away, a crowd of men were digging a hole. It was long and deep; already they had created a heap of earth along one side. The setting sun caught the steady action of shovels being swung. Nobody paused, nobody looked at the carriages. At least two hundred men were at work. Probably more.