Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

The C.O. called a meeting with the flight leaders and Borodin. “That was a rough scrap,” he said. “Where’s Daddy Maynard?”

“Nobody knows,” Dextry said. “Last seen chased by the Spads into cloud. We tumbled one Red bus. Most of the Camels took some punishment. I got peppered. They knew their stuff, didn’t they? Pretty hot.”

“How did you get on?” Wragge asked Oliphant.

“Well, we lost Lowe this morning. You know all about that. Otherwise… we bombed the target. Might have hit some artillery pieces, might not. Gave them something to think about, anyway. Last time I looked, the Bolos seemed to be retreating.”

“Good.”

“It was a bit messy. Bombs got sprayed all over the scenery. I hope we didn’t hit anybody on our side.”

“Fortunes of war, Tusker. Nichevo .” Wragge looked at Borodin. “Your man on Denikin’s staff said the Red air force n’existe pas.”

“Vranyo . Like the armoured train.”

The C.O. briefly explained vranyo to his flight leaders. “Two can play at that game,” he said. “I’m going to signal Mission H.Q. that we shot down half the Bolos and silenced their artillery. And I’d be obliged, Count, if you would tell Denikin the same.”

“Nothing simpler.”

“That might win a few medals,” Dextry said, “but it won’t win the war.”

“Nichevo ,” the C.O. said. “Nichevo in spades. Any problems?” They had no problems. “Uncle has found a church within walking distance. Lowe’s funeral will be at six p.m. Spread the word.”

The squadron filled the church. It was a small building, dedicated to St Erasmus. “A very minor saint,” Borodin murmured to the C.O. “Supposedly the protector of sailors. How he washed up in Kursk is anybody’s guess.”

“They don’t believe in pews.”

“Congregations stand in Russia. Sitting in church is bad form. Decadent.”

The priest arrived. He was old, and so bent that his beard seemed to weigh him down; but he was well organized. The packing-case planks of the coffin were covered with a large Russian flag. Lowe’s cap was on top, and there were flowers. The priest had assistants to ring bells and hand him incense and holy water for sprinkling. Altar boys held weighty prayer books for him, and turned the pages. All told, it was an impressive performance. The squadron didn’t understand the words, but they had the good manners to shut up and listen, and bow their heads when the altar boys and the acolytes did. The general meaning was obvious. Farewell to Michael Lowe.

The priest said something to Borodin. Four strong airmen lifted the coffin to their shoulders and carried it out, blessed on its way by the priest. He was mercifully brief at the graveside: he had already said what mattered most. He looked at Borodin. Borodin looked at Lacey. Lacey cleared his throat, and let everyone hear his words.

The cap was removed, and the flowers. The flag was folded. The burial was signalled by the rifle volleys, echoing off the church and scattering a flock of birds. Everyone knew the shots were coming but even so, many heads flinched, and the event was too much for Douglas Gunning. Grief overwhelmed him. His throat choked on suppressed sobs. The squadron parted to let him stumble away.

Lacey sent the C.O.’s report to Mission H.Q. and turned to the really rewarding work.

A signal had arrived from Captain Butcher at H.Q., and Lacey showed it to the adjutant. “You said I was in the soup over the elephant guns in the croquet box. Alas, it is poor Butcher who is bamboozled.”

Brazier read:

Re your request barrel locking nuts stop local translator suggests mistranslation from Russian of barrel elevation locknut stop no replacements available stop weapon is highly dangerous without this item stop am sending urgently quantity three Maxim machine guns and ammunition stop officer commanding Mission requests congratulate Cossack leader Reizarb stop provide further details gallantry flying officer Jossip for information War Office London stop Captain Butcher Royal Artillery stop.

“This is an elephant trap, Lacey, and you are digging it deeper and deeper.”

“You really think so? You know the Cossack Reizarb better than anyone. Could you send him H.Q.’s warmest thanks?”

“Twaddle.”

“Reizarb could become a footnote in history. He’s worth watching.”

“I know nothing of this humbuggery. Thank God.”

Lacey sharpened a pencil and got to work. Brazier sat at his desk and browsed his British Army Pocket Book, 1917 . “Characteristics of an Arab Raiding Party” caught his eye. May consist of anything from two thousand to five thousand men. If Bedouin, on camels. If semi-nomads, on horses. If many sheep are present, signifies loot. Before action, banners will be unfurled.

Interesting. Worth remembering.

“This should occupy his mind for a while,” Lacey said.

The adjutant read his draft:

Regret report mortars on loan to Cossack Reizarb for training purposes exploded stop result death of Reizarb and ten Cossacks stop new leader is Georgi Godunov stop claims is rightful heir to Boris Godunov Tsar 1598–1605 stop Georgi Godunov unreliable stop has deserted White cause and now campaigns as warlord stop squadron highly successful Bolsheviks in full retreat Russian civilians applaud ground crew jazz band stop request urgently quantity one each trombone trumpet clarinet E flat banjo stop Squadron Leader T. Wragge Officer Commanding.

“We haven’t got a jazz band,” Brazier said.

“We shall if he helps. I am no slouch on the banjo, of which, as you know, an E flat version doesn’t exist, but we’ll let Butcher worry about that.”

“Not we, Lacey. I never saw this. Incidentally, your contribution at the funeral was feeble. You cobbled it together in a very slapdash way. Rubbish.”

“That’s rich.” Lacey clapped his hands. “I didn’t have time to cobble anything. That wasn’t me, it was pure Rupert Brooke.”

“It was gibberish,” Brazier said. “If anyone wants me, I shall be in The Dregs.”

There was still an hour before sunset. The C.O. sent Dextry to look at the land beyond Kursk and find new landing fields, preferably this side of the Red lines. If they had any lines.

The squadron doctor watched him take off and climb away. She turned and saw Borodin looking at her. “My apologies,” he said. “Dreadful manners.”

“Doesn’t worry me. I’ll worry when men don’t look at me.” She gave a last glance at the disappearing Camel. “It must be wonderful to fly. That speed, that height. Just you and the birds.”

“The birds fly better. But one can’t help feeling a little godlike sometimes. Up there with the gods. And the view is spectacular.”

“I can climb a mountain for that, but mountains don’t fly.”

“It’s not all fun. It gets very cold, and very noisy, and on a long flight the aeroplane seems to hang in the air and go nowhere. Manoeuvres are fun. Bank and dive and roll and so on. Look: I’m going riding for half an hour. Do you ride?”

“Yes. Not sidesaddle. Will that scandalize the squadron?”

They rode across the airfield, followed a wandering track in a birch spinney, galloped across a meadow and walked into a stream. The ponies enjoyed that, so their riders let them splash up and down, making a great froth and soaking the riders’ legs until the water deepened and the ponies stood belly-deep and drank.