Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

“Appalling,” Dextry said.

“Multiply by a thousand. Armies live off the land.”

“We should give him some food,” Jessop said. “All I’ve got is the soap. Shall I give him that?” But the man had gone.

Nobody had much to say on the way back to the trains.

“How long has this been going on?” Maynard asked Borodin.

“Always. Armies must eat and generals cannot feed them.”

They went into The Dregs. “Get any butter?” Wragge asked.

“No luck,” Jessop said. “Early closing on Wednesdays.”

“It’s Friday today.”

“It’s Wednesday where they are. Also Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.” The anger in his voice made Wragge raise an eyebrow. “Go and see for yourself,” Jessop said. He turned and left.

At breakfast next day, the solitary aeroplane was back, and this time much lower. Wragge watched it through binoculars. “Looks like a Halberstadt. Two-seater, anyway.”

“Probably taking photographs,” Borodin said. “Red generals like to know if Denikin’s being reinforced.”

“If he’s snapped them, he’s snapped us too. Lacey! Any luck with your radio?”

“I raised Mission H.Q. Latest information is the Whites reached Belgorod, twenty or thirty kilometres from here, and might have captured it. Opinions vary.”

Wragge had planned an hour or two of test flights, to make sure the Camels were fit for combat. He scrapped that, he cut breakfast short, he got four Camels in the air, climbing hard. They left Borodin behind to learn how to start the engine, the first thing that Camel beginners cocked up.

It took them seven minutes to climb to five thousand feet. The factory said four minutes, but these were not factory-fresh Camels and Jessop’s engine was labouring. They climbed at the speed of the slowest machine and when they got there the Halberstadt had gone. Of course he had gone. Why hang around to let yourself be shot down?

“We put salt on his tail, anyway,” Wragge said aloud. Silly bloody expression. Made no sense. He marshalled his Flight into an echelon to starboard, Dextry, Maynard and Jessop, all widely spaced, with Jessop out where he would hit nobody if his engine suddenly failed, and they cruised north, following the railway.

The Camels rose and fell as gently as boats at sea in a slight swell. A friendly swell, Dextry thought, you can feel it but you can’t see it. Sometimes the magic of flying amazed him: the whole business seemed so improbable. Maynard was thinking this was just like one of those rare sunny, cloudless days in England. He looked down and Russia could be a map of Wiltshire: woods, rivers, lots of green, the occasional village. Full of murdered peasants, perhaps. Not so like England after all. He abandoned the map. Jessop was listening to his engine-roar and waiting for the cough. Also, he was hungry. He’d been about to enjoy an omelette when Wragge dragged them out of The Dregs. Chef made a damn good omelette and Jessop salivated at the memory. Wragge was half-thinking of his squadron-leader’s pay and half-remembering dancing with Cynthia in Taganrog before that thug had hit him. Nobody was searching the sky above for three chocolate-brown Spads that fell out of the blue. Wragge heard a faint pattering or rattling and saw bullet-strikes chasing across his lower port wing. “Hell’s teeth!” he shouted. Three brown shapes flashed past. By then his Camel was in a vertical bank to the right. Wragge kept turning and searched for fresh attacks. None. Clear blue sky. Empty. Thank you, God. He levelled out, looked down, saw three brown dots getting rapidly smaller. Double thank-you, God.

Dextry and Maynard found him. They had been hit: he saw strips of torn fabric flailing in the wind. No sign of Jessop. They flew home and caught up with him, much lower and slower. He made a forced landing alongside the tracks a mile from the trains, got out and waved.

Wragge let the others land first. Maynard bounced four times and the watching bomber crews all applauded. Dextry didn’t like his first approach and went around again. Wragge made a semi-decent job of landing although his rudder pedals felt heavy. He sat in the cockpit and wondered why any of them deserved to be alive.

His fitter arrived and undid his seat belt. “You’ve made holes in my nice aeroplane, sir,” the man said.

“Careless,” Wragge said. “Unforgivably careless.”

Nobody was hurt. Jessop’s machine was recoverable. They were all shaken, and disgusted at their folly. The post-mortem was brief. They’d been jumped by three single-seaters, looked like chunky Camels so they were probably Spads. Came and went like the hounds of hell. Didn’t want a scrap. Quick blast and gone.

Markings? Roundels? Colours?

Nobody saw. Just a flash of brown. After that… too busy dodging and weaving.

“They might have been learners,” Jessop said. “That’s why they did a bunk.”

“Might not have been Reds,” Maynard said. “Made a mistake and scooted.”

“ We made the mistake,” Dextry said. “Four pairs of eyes and nobody saw.”

“Enough. Let’s learn,” Wragge said. “Learn what we’ve forgotten. The sky is one big man-trap. Red, White, striped, makes no difference. Every minute we’re flying we search for the bastard who’s up there waiting to make us flamers. We find him first, we kill him first. Just because the Bolos are going backwards doesn’t make them rabbits.”

“Even rabbits can bite,” Jessop said. “They’ve got those big rabbity teeth.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Dextry said wearily. “Don’t you ever engage your brain before you open your mouth?”

“We still have one good Camel,” Maynard said. “Borodin’s. Suppose one of us goes up and bags a Bolo? I mean, now. That would show them who’s boss, wouldn’t it? I volunteer.”

“Not today, Daddy,” Wragge said. “Today we lick our wounds. Tomorrow we’re out for blood.”

There was little for them to do. The Nines had all been test-flown. The Camels were being checked and patched and double-checked by ground crews in case a stray bullet had nicked a control wire. Wragge made his rounds (doctor, Lacey, adjutant, flight sergeants) and all was in order.

Borodin, coached by a fitter, had mastered starting the Le Rhône rotary. It was midday, and hot. The air would be bumpy. Wragge had served, briefly, as an instructor at training fields in England that were rich in graves of Camel pupils who had taken off and failed to react quickly when the engine faltered and the fine-adjustment lever on the throttle demanded instant attention. No dual-control Camels: the pupil went up with only his wits to help him. Stall, spin, crash: a three-step dance of death. Wragge had seen it too often, had paid his half-crowns for too many wreaths and written the same letter to too many parents. Rarely to wives who were widows. Few pupils married at eighteen. So Borodin’s first flight could wait.

The Number Nines had found the croquet set. Wragge took leave from the burden of command and challenged Tusker Oliphant to a match, the Toffs, or Camel pilots, versus the Peasants, or bomber louts. “No offence meant,” he said. Oliphant accepted. “We’ll win,” he said. “Losers to the guillotine.”

The turf was lumpy and the ground sloped in several directions. The smack of mallet on wooden ball was usually followed by a cry of, “Bad luck, old man.” Sometimes, “Jolly hard cheese.”

Lacey, Borodin and the squadron doctor came to watch. They sat in the back of the Chevrolet and drank white wine.

“This is a very old Russian sport,” Borodin said. “Genghis Khan played it on horseback. Lacking croquet balls, he used the severed heads of captured princes.”