Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

“Tactical exercise,” Oliphant said. “Moscow. I don’t think that’s quite how the rest of the world would see it. Don’t worry, I shan’t breathe a word. Of course I may babble in my sleep.”

“Stuff a sock in your mouth,” the C.O. said.

The idea was fixed in his mind. For the next twenty-four hours, when he wasn’t asleep he studied it from every angle, and the more he looked at it, the better it seemed.

There was the excitement of attacking the enemy deep behind his lines, something only an R.A.F. squadron could attempt. There was the satisfaction of surprising the Bolsheviks, hitting them where they least expected it. And the raid would add a new battle honour to the squadron’s flag, if it ever got a flag. They came to Russia to make a difference, and by Harry, what a shining difference this would be! The squadron had fought hard and achieved depressingly little so far; even the glory of tumbling three twin-engined bombers had been stolen by Denikin’s guns. Now was the time to make a big score. It was the sort of big, buccaneering action that other squadrons would talk about for years to come.

He sent for Oliphant and they walked around the airfield.

“Is it on?” Wragge asked.

“It’s just on. What I mean is it’s right on the extreme edge of these Nines’ performance. And that’s assuming a lot of things. It assumes that the weather doesn’t turn lousy, on the way there or back. If we hit a northerly wind and we have to slog through it, then all bets are off. We’d burn up so much fuel we’d never get back here.”

“A northerly wind might blow you home.”

“Might. Or it might drop, and drop us in the manure. And what if the wind comes out of the west? We’d have to crab to Moscow. That’s like putting an extra fifty, sixty, seventy miles on the trip, depending on the strength of the blow.”

“Here’s a thought,” the C.O. said. “Do without an observer-gunner in your back seat. Carry his weight in cans of petrol. For any emergency. You run low, you find a field, land, top up, Bob’s your uncle.”

They stopped, and Oliphant screwed up his face while he pictured the situation.

“This field,” he said. “It’s going to be in Red territory, isn’t it?”

“The Bolos can’t be everywhere, Tusker. And it wouldn’t take long, would it?”

“I’m thinking of this bloody awful engine in the Nine. You do know that it takes two men to start a Puma? One to turn the prop, one to sit in the office and play with the knobs and switches. Unless you were thinking of leaving the engine running while the driver gets out and opens the cans and pours the precious fluid into the tanks, taking care not to spill any on the red-hot exhausts?”

“To be honest, Tusk, I hadn’t worked out the details.”

“Another detail might be the bullets from the nasty Red infantry buzzing about his ears.”

“I suppose I thought that both Nines would land and sort of help each other.” They began walking.

“Ah. That alters everything,” Oliphant said. “The other pilot would hold off the Red Army with his trusty Service revolver while I poured. Then vice versa. That should be worth a double D.F.C.”

“Look: don’t tell me about the problems. Any fool can find a hundred ways of not doing something different. Find some solutions.”

“Well, it would help if your Camels gave us cover on the way out and back.”

“We can do that,” the C.O. said. “Halfway to Moscow is about as far as we can cruise. Yes, we can cover you.”

“Navigation’s no problem. Just follow the railway line.”

They strolled on, Wragge kicking the heads off dandelions, Oliphant’s heels scuffing the turf.

“I don’t suppose you’d rather bomb Kaganovich?” Oliphant said. “Vital rail junction. Very Bolshy. Only fifty miles away.”

“And nobody’s ever heard of it. Moscow’s worth a hundred Kaganoviches. I take it you’ll be leading? With who else?”

“Douglas Gunning. He feels very badly about losing Michael Lowe. Give him the chance to biff the Bolos and he’ll fly to the pit of hell.”

At sunset, before supper, the C.O. called a meeting of all aircrews and ground crews of the surviving machines. They gathered in the open and formed a half-circle. The air was still, and the last rays of the sun caught heads and shoulders and cast long shadows.

“Your squadron has not had a long existence,” Wragge said, “but we have accomplished much. I have no hesitation in saying that we now have an opportunity to crown these achievements with a bold stroke that will secure the reputation of this squadron wherever men fly. Gentlemen, I plan to bomb Moscow.”

It had the impact he expected. When they were quiet again he told them the details of the raid. Wragge was not a sentimental man, but he thought that the gilded faces, alive with excitement, were appropriate to the occasion.

After breakfast, the adjutant came into his Orderly Room, and found Lacey with his headphones slung around his neck. He was sorting out several pieces of paper. Brazier sat down with a thud that made his inkwell jump. “I expect you heard the rumour,” Brazier said.

“I’m impervious to gossip.” Lacey didn’t look up. “Gossip butters no parsnips, as we grocers like to say.”

“This does. I asked Oliphant and he confirmed it.”

“Stout fellow.” Lacey turned over a page. “Listen: this will interest you. Our man in Taganrog, the inimitable Henry, has found a fellow in Orel with a supply of genuine English mustard. In Orel, of all places.”

“The C.O. plans to send aircraft to bomb Moscow.”

Lacey looked up. “Moscow. Well, they can’t miss, can they? Very big town. What’s interesting is this man in Orel has a brother in Taganrog. Henry does business with one brother, and he tells the other to supply us. Clever, eh?”

Brazier stared at Lacey as if he had appeared on parade with his buttons undone. “Do you know what orders this squadron was given when it came to Russia?”

“Show the flag.” Lacey went back to his notes. “That’s what Griffin kept bellowing, anyway… If he can get mustard I bet he can get marmalade too. And sugar. We’re low on sugar.”

“I’ll tell you the orders,” Brazier said. “We are part of the British Military Mission and its role is purely and simply advisory. Our orders were that we instruct and advise Denikin’s Russians. Instruct and advise. Nothing more.”

“Well, that’s a fairy tale, isn’t it? You don’t believe it, Uncle. Nobody does. But I’ll tell you what’s very real: toilet paper. People on this train are self-indulgent. We’ll have to ration it.”

“Bombing Moscow is different, Lacey. A blind man can see that. It’s an act of war.”

“You may be right.” Lacey picked out a piece of paper and held it up. He was smiling. “You won’t believe what that fool Stokes has done. He’s referred our request for jazz band kit to the Director of Military Music in London. The man’s a poltroon. I’ve trumped his ace. Listen to this—”

“No.” Brazier stood up, suddenly, knocked his desk, sent pens and pencils flying. “I’ve worn the King’s uniform since before you could walk, and one thing I know. When the limits of command are in doubt, always Refer to a Higher Authority. Always.”

“Oh dear,” Lacey said. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll just have to see what the Director of Military Music says. But this man in Orel—”

“No.” Brazier took two strides and swept all the papers from Lacey’s desk with one angry hand. “No. You will send an urgent signal to Mission H.Q. now. To the General Commanding.”

Lacey stared. He was a small boy below a large and domineering schoolmaster. “You just had to ask,” he said. “After all, you were the one who wanted mustard.”