Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

“I don’t know why we’re being so coy,” she said. “Coy people make me want to hit them.”

“Leave it on, it’s far more revealing. I think you wear it as an armour against my tremendous appeal. You don’t like to admit that we are destined for each other.”

“There you go again. Romantic novelettes. All jam and no bread.”

After a while they climbed out and sat in the sun. He opened the basket. They ate the melon and the Caesar salad and drank the beer. She said, “The truth of the matter is you’re not in love with me, Peter Borodin. A man like you, good looks, charm, nobility, you’re always in love with someone. Here, with me, you’re just marking time because there’s nobody else within reach.”

“Oh dear.” He was startled. “Am I such a bounder? I had no idea…”

“I don’t blame you. It’s how you are. You can’t help bounding.” She began sorting out her clothes.

They rode home, and as the trains came in sight she said, “I’m glad I met you, and I wish I knew why. No, I don’t. I don’t give a damn why. But we don’t have to marry everybody we’re glad to meet, do we?”

“That depends on the degree of gladness.”

“No, it doesn’t. And for God’s sake stop bounding.”

Next day the aircraft were repaired and ready for operations again. Wragge had them test-flown and waited for orders. In mid-afternoon a solitary locomotive brought Denikin’s liaison officer. He strolled with the C.O. on the landing ground and explained that his orders were that there were no orders at present. Denikin wished the squadron to remain at full strength and to conserve ammunition and bomb stocks until they were needed for another assault.

And when would that be?

As soon as the losses in the first assault could be made good.

A week?

Almost certainly in a week. Perhaps ten days. Supply trains were on their way. Every urgency was being applied. The Red Army had withdrawn with heavy losses. Definitely in ten days the attack would begin. Success was inevitable.

Wragge took him to The Dregs for tea. He asked him if Denikin had been impressed by the destruction of three large enemy bomber aircraft, and the officer smiled and said it reflected much credit on the White artillery units which had shot them down. He ate two toasted muffins with Gentleman’s Relish, and shook hands, and the locomotive carried him away. Wragge watched it get smaller. “Stinking fish,” he said. “What a swindle.” The words did not express his feelings. “Great masses of truly stinking fish,” he said. Still not enough.

Usually the ground crews complained because they were overworked, although secretly they enjoyed the pressure, the sense of achievement. Now they had nothing to do and that was not what they wanted either. The squadron quickly became slack and sluggish. Ball games were tedious. Everyone had his pay and there was nothing to spend it on except poker, and even poker became dull. Wragge worried, but he could think of no solution.

He discussed the problem with Oliphant and Borodin.

“We can’t just sit here for ten days,” he said. “I mean, look around. There’s nothing. We’re fifty miles from Orel, and God knows that was a dump.”

“This ceasefire, or stalemate, or whatever it is,” Oliphant said. “Not good for morale. We came hotfoot from Taganrog, jumping from one landing field to another, the chaps quite liked that, it appealed to their sense of adventure. Now this. And The Dregs has run out of cheese and bacon.”

“Russians don’t eat bacon,” Borodin said. “Ham, sometimes.”

“Can’t have eggs and bacon without bacon.”

“Lacey can get us bacon, I expect,” Wragge said. “Anyway, bacon’s not crucial. But Uncle tells me he’s had some applications for leave from amongst the ground crews. Leave , for God’s sake.”

“Well, they’re bored,” Oliphant said. “We’ve lost half the squadron. They’re kicking their heels. Cheesed off.”

“Sometimes I wish those idiot bandits would attack us again,” Wragge said. “Give the troops something to do.”

“Beware of wishes for they may be granted,” Borodin said.

“I’ll tell you what part of the trouble is,” Oliphant said. “This country’s too damn big for us. The chaps have begun to feel lost. Maybe it suits the Russians, that’s fine, good luck to them. Not us. People can cope as long as they’re on the move. Once they stop, have time to think, look around, see thousands of miles of bugger-all in all directions — no offence, Count — they ask themselves, what in God’s name am I doing here?”

“We’re making a difference,” Wragge said automatically.

“With three clapped-out Camels and three patched-up Nines?”

Wragge felt his temper rising. “We do our best with what we’ve got. If you can come up with an alternative, tell me. That’s all.”

Nobody could. Time dragged.

Wragge was sitting in The Dregs on a hot and sultry afternoon, alone, with all the windows open, thinking it was a lot more fun to command a squadron in action than one that was killing time, when he heard a conversation outside. Two men, perhaps three, were sitting in the shadow of the train, a favourite spot. He thought he recognized the voices: bomber boys. They were talking about war. It was lazy, jokey talk, just chewing the fat. Wragge moved closer to the window. The topic was mutiny.

– That was after Verdun, a voice said. Remember Verdun? Grim business. French Army ran out of coffins, I was told. Anyway, Verdun was what caused the mutiny. Frog troops had had enough.

– Didn’t last long, did it? a different voice said. They shot a few and the rest went back to the Trenches.

– Yes, bleating. Baa-baa, like sheep. Just to let everyone know. Laughter.

– Say what you like, the Frogs weren’t as bad as these Russkies. Didn’t shoot their officers.

– Be fair. Russians only do that when they’re losing.

– Somebody has to lose.

– I wish they’d all lose, and be damn quick about it. I’d like to bomb H.Q. at Taganrog and get the next boat home.

– Moscow’s nearer.

– Alright, bomb Moscow. What’s the difference?

– You get the V.C.

– Posthumously.

Laughter.

Wragge stood up, stretched, walked to his Pullman, lay on his bed for five minutes, got up, went in search of Tusker Oliphant. He found him talking to Patterson. “A word in your ear, Tusk,” he said, and Patterson saluted and went away. “What’s the endurance of a Nine? How long can you stay in the air?”

“Depends. The book says four and a half hours, but De Havillands wrote the book for new Nines, straight from the factory. Would one of our Nines stay up that long? Very doubtful.”

“And speed? How fast?”

“Well, again you can forget the book. Level flight, carrying a pair of big bombs, our absolute maximum, say a hundred, maybe hundred and a bit. But our Nines won’t keep that up. Cruising, let’s say ninety.”

Wragge did the sum in his head. “Four and a half by ninety is just over four hundred miles.”

“Assuming nothing breaks.”

“Four hundred is roughly the distance from here to Moscow and back.”

“Seems right.” Oliphant caught up with Wragge’s meaning. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Excuse me while I fall down and faint.”

“It’s just an idea. Thinking aloud, so to speak. Testing the technicalities. Can it be done? Don’t answer that, give it some thought, work out the practical side.”

“You are talking about Moscow? Russian capital?”

“Forget that. Treat this as a tactical exercise. And don’t tell anyone. Total secrecy. That’s an order.”