Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

Dextry’s girl held him tight and they jigged and jogged. He called her Cynthia and told her she was stunning, it meant nothing to her, she had no English, but it made him happy, until an angry Russian got in the way and laid a hand on her. “Go away,” Dextry told him. “Private property. Find your own girl.”

That produced a stream of furious Russian. “You’re spitting on her,” Dextry said. “Have you no manners?” He danced Cynthia away but the man followed. Now he was shouting. His face was twisted and he grabbed the girl’s shoulder. Dextry knocked his hand away and the man aimed a fist at his face, missed, and clipped his ear. That stung. Dextry punched him, hard, in the ribs. The Russian kicked him on the shins and was swamped by four fighter pilots. He went down fighting but they dragged him to the door and threw him out.

“What was all that about?” Jessop asked.

“I haven’t the faintest,” Dextry said. “He smelt very strongly of fish. Most unpleasant.”

Twenty minutes later, when a fresh attempt was being made to get footprints on the ceiling, a dozen Russians burst in and the whole squadron was in a brawl. The trio standing on the tables soon crashed, and by luck they knocked down two Russians. The others were young and strong and angry and might have won if the owner and the waiters had not waded in with clubs. Then the police came, with more clubs, and arrested everyone.

They talked to the owner. He estimated the damage and wrote the figure in chalk on the bar.

“We could have bought the whole damn place for that,” Wragge said. The squadron began searching its pockets and filling a bucket. The violin played a wistful Russian tune. Oliphant gave the band twenty roubles. By the time the owner was satisfied, the Russians had gone. They took the girls with them.

The members of the squadron were escorted to police headquarters. Count Borodin was waiting there. “I was playing billiards at the Literary Club,” he said, “and doing rather well, until now. You look an unholy shambles.”

“We didn’t start it,” Wragge said. “A gang of local thugs went mad for no reason.”

“Fishermen. You stole their girls. That puts you in the wrong. You’re charged with robbery, bodily harm and insulting Russian manhood.”

“I suppose they want money.”

“All you have. Otherwise — jail.”

Lacey and Brazier were outside the train when the squadron straggled back, bloodied, torn, untidy and in many cases still half-drunk. The airmen looked glum. “I’ve seen this before,” Brazier said. “In France. Men came out of the Trenches, got deloused, got paid, got into a big fight with anyone they met, for no reason.”

“We promised them a war,” Lacey said. “That’s a reason.”

“I suppose so. Hullo, Mr Wragge,” Brazier said. “The chaps are looking very impeccable. Or do I mean exemplary?”

“Bloody town’s full of Bolsheviks,” Wragge said.

“I have orders from Mission H.Q. You are promoted to acting squadron leader and commanded to be C.O. of the squadron. The general sends his compliments and wishes you not to die in the near future.”

“It’s all a stinking swindle.” Wragge tramped off.

“I think you made his day,” Lacey said.

Lacey’s day had not finished. Before he took down the radio aerials, he made a final check in case any incoming messages had arrived. There was one, a signal from Military Mission H.Q.:

Correction stop Your records re boxed item stencilled lightning conductors stop Contents are quantity three trench mortars infantry for the use of stop Delete all reference to elephant guns stop Return mortars to armament stores Taganrog urgently stop Captain Butcher Royal Artillery stop.

Brazier came in and read the signal over Lacey’s shoulder.

“Now you’re in the soup,” he said.

“I think not.”

Lacey consulted his options, and then sent his reply:

Elephant guns donated to Cossack warlord Reizarb as mark of gratitude stop Reizarb’s Cossacks helped repel raid on squadron by Anarchist guerrillas stop Trench mortars invaluable in same action but urgently need barrel locking nuts quantity three stop Commend gallantry Flying Officer Jossip stop J. Hackett Sqdn Ldr OC Merlin Squadron RAF stop

Brazier read the file copy. “Hackett’s gone,” he said. “And we have nobody called Jossip.”

“We have a Jessop, which is close enough to give Butcher something to ponder.”

“He won’t ponder over barrel locking nuts. They’re for rifles. Butcher’s a gunner, he’ll know that.”

“Our mortars are special. They need special barrel locking nuts.”

“And no Cossack ever helped us fight off the bandits. Who is this Reizarb? I’ve never heard of him.”

“It’s a small tribute to yourself,” Lacey said. The adjutant stared down at him. “I hoped you would decode it,” Lacey said. “It’s Brazier spelt backwards.”

The adjutant snorted. “You’re playing with fire, Lacey. H.Q. has no sense of humour.”

“Then they’ll never guess,” Lacey said. “It’ll be our little secret.”

Wragge came out of a bad dream. He was being chased by a mob of Russian thugs and running for his life to catch a droshky that was driving away from him, mocking him with its clip-clop of hooves. They never grew fainter, never louder, always just beyond his reach. He awoke, wet with sweat and stiff with effort, and as he relaxed he knew the noise was the click of train wheels on track. The squadron was on the move. His squadron.

He got out of bed and towelled his head dry. His mouth was lined with old sandpaper. He opened a window and poked his head into the stream of cool air. It was dawn, and they were leaving Taganrog. He sucked deep lungfuls of health-giving air and felt his body slowly come alive. The window of the next Pullman car opened and Maynard looked out. “We’re off again,” he said.

“Well done, Daddy,” Wragge said. “You always were the bright one.” He heard movement behind him and went back inside. It was his plenny , Fred. “Black coffee, Fred. Beaucoup de sugar. And get me a new head while you’re at it.” His plenny blinked. “Forget the head. Get coffee. Black. Big.” Fred understood that.

Wragge was brushing his teeth when the adjutant arrived. “I didn’t think you’d want to see this last night,” he said. “It’s your orders from Mission H.Q.” The buff envelope was large and heavy.

“You read them, Uncle. I’ve been suddenly struck blind.”

“That’s not the form, Tiger. The C.O. reads the C.O.’s orders.”

Wragge rinsed his mouth, and spat. “This train makes a good speed, doesn’t it? Hackett would have approved.”

Brazier had nothing to say about that. It was not his job to make small talk with the C.O. in his pyjamas. “I’ve cleared all his effects from his Pullman,” he said.

“You must be getting good at that.” Wragge weighed the envelope in his hand. “I didn’t come to Russia to read tons of bumf, Uncle.”

“We must all make the best of a bad job.”

Wragge wondered. Did that mean he was a bad job? His plenny arrived with coffee. Brazier left. Wragge opened the envelope. He flicked through the contents fast and made them into three piles: squadron orders; strategic view of the war; and Russian politics. He sent for Count Borodin and Lacey.

“Squadron orders stay with me,” he said. “You take a look at the rest. Count, you get Russian politics. Lacey has the war strategy stuff. Just skim through it. No hurry. I’ll just shave and get dressed.”

After twenty minutes he fixed his collar stud and adjusted his tie. “Time’s up. What’s the score, Lacey?”