Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

“I bought this pipe when I was sixteen,” Pedlow said. “A girl called Monica said it would go well with my curly black hair, so I got one, and next time I kissed her she seemed to enjoy it, so I put my hand on her breast and she hit my face so hard I saw stars. I didn’t know girls could punch like that.”

“Bloody women.”

“I let fly. Hit her. Instinctive reaction. Made her nose bleed. Never saw Monica again. Always kept the pipe, though.”

“What are you smoking? Apart from kippers.”

“Rough shag. It cuts down the local stench.”

Duncan sniffed. “Not noticeably.” No sound came from the village except for the howling of a distant dog. It howled sadly, as if it had forgotten why it began. “We can’t stay here, Gerard.”

The sky was loaded with stars. Pedlow looked at them too long and too hard, until he could feel the heavens wheeling. He said, “Some people navigate by the stars.”

“I can’t.”

“Nor me. Anyway, the trip would take forever and hurt abominably. I don’t fancy hiking in these flying boots. Not made for hiking.”

“Well, we can’t stay here. You saw those knives. Like razors. These brutes are cannibals. Worse than cannibals.”

“Trouble is,” Pedlow said, “they’ve got it into their tiny minds that I’m an angel, and they’re very pleased they’ve got their hands on me.”

“And your bollocks,” Duncan said. “They’ll have those too.”

After the ninth or tenth course, Griffin told Count Borodin that it was getting stuffy and he needed fresh air. “Explain to General Wrangel, would you? I’ll be back before the goings-on end.”

“No explanation needed. Chaps are free to answer when nature calls. I’ll come with you.”

The adjutant saw them go, and followed. Oliphant and Hackett made their excuses and went too, weaving slightly. They gathered on a balcony. “Thank God for some cool night air,” the C.O. said. “I need oxygen. This bun fight isn’t what I expected, Count.”

“Such banquets are traditional in Russia. Especially after a victory.”

“Let’s hope the Bolos don’t attack tomorrow,” Oliphant said. “Half your top generals are pretty squiffy.”

Borodin laughed. “Squiffy. Yes, that’s the word. They were mostly in the Tsarist Imperial Army. Not what you’d call fighting generals.”

“This is a war zone,” Brazier said. “What are they doing here, if not fighting?”

“Denikin’s orders. He sent an express train full of food and chefs and superfluous generals. They decorate the banquet.”

“Look here, Count,” Griffin said. “When can we decently say our thank-yous and leave?”

“First there will be speeches and toasts. You, as commanding officer, must make a speech. Later there will be patriotic songs. Including British songs, of course.”

“Oh… sweet Christ on crutches. We’ll be here till dawn.”

“Yes, that is normal. Russian hospitality is considered to have failed if the guests can walk, unaided, to their carriages.” He stopped: a faint spattering of rifle fire rattled, far away. Quite a lot of rifles. They all looked at him. “The mass grave is complete,” he told them. “The shots are a tribute to the dead.”

“I’ve got to make a speech,” Griffin said to Brazier. “Bloody hell.”

“No politics. Nothing about the Tsar or Lloyd George. No jokes. No promises. Flattery, flattery, flattery.”

As they drifted back inside, more rifle fire could be heard. “Another tribute?” Brazier said. The count nodded sombrely.

Once the immensely long mahogany table had been cleared, speeches were made from all parts. They were passionate, they were dramatic, they were loud, they were totally meaningless to the R.A.F. guests except for the final toasts, which usually ended with “ Na Moskvu! Na Moskvu! ” and always the empty glasses were hurled at the walls. Servants hurried forward, their boots crunching the shards, bringing fresh glasses and more vodka. Then it was Griffin’s turn.

Amongst all these peacocks he was a sparrow. Many couldn’t see him, and everywhere arms gestured up! up! He climbed onto the table. Somebody handed him a glass of vodka, and in taking it he dropped his notes, ideas scribbled on scraps of paper, and everyone roared with laughter. Well, that was a good start.

He announced how proud and privileged he felt to be serving alongside such staunch and… and doughty (What did that mean? Oh well. Press on) yes, doughty warriors, men whose valour, and gallantry, and…um… (Think of a third!)… um… dash, yes, sheer dash, quite rightly ring around the world.

He took a swig, while Borodin translated. They liked it, and thumped the table. He took a deep breath and everything went wrong. He tried to say Cossacks and it came out cassocks . He tried to explain what cassocks were and, too late, knew he was talking about hassocks , so he abandoned that explanation and finally mastered Cossacks . “Jolly fine bunch of men!” he shouted. Borodin translated. Prolonged applause. Another swig.

“I want to thank you,” he said, “for your hostile artillery. No, I don’t mean… Well, yes I do, you have lovely guns, biff the Bolos, hit ’em for six… But what I wanted to say was… this amazing feast…” He was lost for words. Took another swig. Tried again. “Your hospitallyho,” he said, and hiccuped. “Damn. I’ve got the Cossacks!”

Borodin translated, and at last Griffin dimly understood that it didn’t matter what he said, because the count always made it wonderful. So he blundered on, and had the wit to end by shouting “ Na Moskvu! ” They all stood up and cheered. They drank to the R.A.F. More glasses smashed.

Songs were sung, melancholy ballads of Russian tragedy that had the listeners in tears. Count Borodin got the pilots together and told them that they must sing a song. It was essential. National honour depended on it.

“I can do ‘The Ball of Kirriemuir’,” Hackett said. “Four-and-twenty virgins went out from Inverness, and when the ball was over there were four-and-twenty less. All join in the chorus. Twenty-six verses. Some are a bit saucy.”

Oliphant shuddered. “Look here, Tommy. You were at Eton. Isn’t there a nice tune you can sing?”

“I know the Eton Boating Song, if you like. In fact there’s a stunt we used to do at Old Etonian dinners. We need a couch on wheels. Big wheels. A long, flat couch, with no back. Long enough for four chaps to sit astride.”

Borodin sent servants to fetch a couch on wheels. Tommy Hopton explained the stunt.

“Sorry if I’m a bit dense,” Oliphant said. “Must be all this cigar smoke. You say we pretend to row, and the couch… that is, the boat… it really goes?”

“Kick the floor with your heels. All kick together. Kick hard and she’ll skim along.”

Servants placed the couch lengthwise on the table. It was upholstered and its wheels were as big as saucers. The pilots climbed up and sat astride it. The count made a short announcement and the room fell silent. “This had better bloody work,” Wragge whispered.

“Too late now,” Hopton said.

He stood at one end, with the four pilots facing him. “Come forward!” he ordered, and four pairs of arms stretched out, holding imaginary oars. “Follow my stroke, chaps. In when I’m in, out when I’m out. And remember to kick.” He took a lungful of smoky air, and began to sing.

They got the idea. Lean forward at the start of each line, lean back at the end. Four pairs of heels kicked hard and the couch raced away. Hopton followed. His voice had the clarity and purity of youth.