Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

“That’s only someone’s opinion,” Duncan said. “Who was it, anyway?”

“Jesus Christ,” Pedlow said. “Preaching to the disciples. I suppose those chaps in the village thought that, if it got them into the kingdom of heaven, it was worth a swift chop.”

“We could show this to the squadron,” Duncan said. “No. They still wouldn’t believe us.”

“I wonder what a swift chop does to a chap’s vocal cords? It might boost him up a couple of octaves.” Pedlow sprawled in the grass, propping himself on his elbows, and looked at the vastness of the sky and the spotless purity of its blue. “Enough to get you into the heavenly choir. Not that it exists. That kind of mumbo-jumbo is all codswallop. But if you were an ignorant villager standing stark naked with a sharp knife in your hand, it might be enough to get you to de-bollock yourself. If you’d started having second thoughts, I mean.”

“Oh… Christ on crutches.” Duncan had not been listening; he had been scanning the page opposite Matthew 19, 12. “It gets worse,” he said. “Listen. And if thy hand or foot offend thee, cut them off, and cast them from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than having two hands or two feet to be cast into everlasting fire .” He looked up. “More friendly advice from the Son of God.”

“They wouldn’t dare cut off my feet,” Pedlow said. “I wouldn’t stand for it.” Duncan yawned. “Anyway, I outranked them,” Pedlow said. “I was a Top Angel. Air Commodore, at least. Maybe Air Vice-Marshal.”

“Didn’t stop your feet stinking. Another night in that lousy hut and I’d have cut them off.”

“You can be very selfish sometimes, Dudders.”

“It’s for your own good, Gerry. To keep you out of the everlasting fire. And I haven’t finished.” Duncan’s forefinger pressed the page. “ And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee… You can guess the rest. Keep a duff eye and you go straight to hell.”

Pedlow stood up and brushed bits of grass from his sleeves. “They really believed it. I mean, we saw the knives and the blood and…” He squeezed his eyes shut as the memories returned. “And the mutilations. Thank God Borodin and Lacey turned up. Those fanatics were capable of anything.” Duncan grunted. For a moment they were both silent, trying to forget the unforgettable. “Bloody Russians,” Pedlow said. “D’you fancy a beer?”

“Nothing against it in St Matthew,” Duncan said. They headed for The Dregs.

Hackett was restless. He wanted to send a signal to Mission H.Q. in Ekat, reporting his situation. Lacey’s radio batteries were flat. Being recharged. Ready tomorrow. Well, send a cable. Telegraph lines ran alongside the track, so tap into them. No good, they’d been cut. Maybe by Nestor Makhno’s men, in Warsaw.

There was nothing to be done. No train passed, in either direction. Hackett sat on the bottom step of his Pullman car and began to dislike this corner of Russia. Didn’t hate it, there was nothing to hate, how could you hate grass? But he resented being dumped in the middle of this emptiness. From time to time a fly came wandering by, curious to taste his unusual sweat, and he let it take a look before he made a grab. It always got away. It was just a stupid fly, all buzz and no brains, and it won every time. He looked around and saw his squadron lying in the sun, shirts off, waiting for him to tell them what to do. He sent for the flight leaders, the adjutant and Lacey.

They met in his Pullman.

“It’s forty miles round trip to Warsaw,” he said. “Borodin won’t be back tonight. I’m not waiting here to be shot at from dusk to dawn. We’re leaving. We’ll head back east, find somewhere to lie up, return here tomorrow.”

The adjutant didn’t like the risk. Borodin might return earlier than expected, might have urgent intelligence, might need protection. He volunteered to remain. Not alone, obviously. Wragge suggested leaving Uncle and ten picked men. Oliphant said twenty would be better, with four Lewis guns. Then there was food. A squad that size had to eat. Alright, add a cook. And the medical sergeant, just in case. Perhaps a couple of plennys . Hackett cut short the discussion. “You can keep the Marines and Kenny’s train, Uncle,” he said. “I’ll take everybody else.”

“Excellent decision,” Brazier said.

“You’re in your element, aren’t you?” Wragge said. “You’ll command a little local war. Enormous fun.”

“Look at it this way. We’ll be shooting them before they can start shooting you.”

“Russians can’t shoot straight,” Lacey said.

They looked at him with surprise. “I thought you were here to take the minutes,” Oliphant said.

“Count Borodin told me. He said that Russians have never had much faith in rifles. They believe in fighting with the sword, the lance and the dagger.”

“How quaint,” Wragge said. “But it won’t win this war.”

“Somebody must win,” Oliphant said.

“Not necessarily. Maybe they’ll both lose. All die from exhaustion.”

“That’s all.” Hackett stood up. “We’ll move in an hour.”

As they left the Pullman, they heard the plennys singing. They were standing around the mound of the mass grave, and their hymn had a depth and strength not found in Western choirs. The boom and rumble of the singing contained a sadness that went far beyond these victims of war. Here was the voice of Russians who grieved for their whole country. While they sang, nobody in the squadron moved. Then the hymn ended.

“That’s one thing these jokers are good at,” Oliphant said. “They can sing in tune. After that, they couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the sole.”

The trains moved out, and Brazier spent the night with the Marines, waiting for trouble that never came. He was not unhappy. He had been soldiering long enough to know that there was always more trouble on the way. The supply was inexhaustible. In times of uncertainty, while other men worried about the future, Brazier was certain that it would always bring problems that could be tackled only by high explosive and cold steel. Someone, somewhere, would always need his skills. That was a comforting thought.

Count Borodin took a pony without a saddle. He told himself that no peasant could afford a saddle, and he was a peasant. Big mistake.

After five miles, the base of his spine ached from bouncing on the pony’s backbone. He tried sitting on his hat, but it was no better. He pressed his thighs against the pony and raised himself and took the pressure off his spine. The relief was good, but the constant effort soon made his thighs ache. He tried sitting sidesaddle, and liked it, but the pony didn’t. It swung its head and tried to nip his legs. He cursed it, not as a peasant would but in the elegant language of the Imperial Court, which meant nothing to the animal, so it stopped and listened. “You’re useless,” Borodin said in English. “You’re cutting me in half and you’re as slow as cold treacle.” He got off and massaged his thighs, and began walking. The pony munched grass and watched him go.

Soon it would be dusk. He had no need to think about his route; he followed the railway track. He thought about what he was doing. What he was trying to do.

Seeking out intelligence was new to him. He had served with his regiment until it was virtually destroyed by death or desertion. He had a spell in the Imperial Air Service until it ran out of aeroplanes, and then he got a position on the staff at supreme army headquarters. He witnessed a different scale of carnage there.

The death-blow was struck when Tsar Nicholas II, appointed by God to be Supreme Ruler of the Holy Russian Empire and therefore Head of the Armed Forces, sacked the C-in-C of the Army and took over operational command. The saying goes: A fish rots from its head . Borodin saw the Russian Army rot from the Tsar down, until the soldiers gave up and walked home and abandoned their war.