Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

Fitzroy nibbled a digestive biscuit. “All the same, it would be disastrous if the newspapers were to get hold of the story. Imagine what the Daily Express would do with it. ‘R.A.F. Bombers had Moscow in Their Sights.’ That’s what they’d say.”

Lloyd George slammed his fist on the desk. “Official Secrets Act. Send a large Air Vice-Marshal to lecture the entire squadron. Not a word to anyone about anything. Or they’ll be prosecuted, convicted, jailed. Not a syllable.”

“It shall be done,” Fitzroy said. “Intervention? What Intervention?”

“Have some more tea, Jonathan. And another biscuit. You worry too much.”

For the last few miles into Novorossisk the train moved at walking pace. Even this was faster than the stumbling mass of humanity spread widely on either side of the tracks. Some were peasants in the usual shapeless sheepskin clothing. Some were soldiers, often bandaged, wearing tattered uniforms, many of them barefoot. A few might have been from the moneyed class: sometimes fur coats could be seen. There were even men in business suits. Nobody looked up at the train. They plodded on in their thousands, hugging whatever mattered most to them: a sack, a suitcase, a child.

“Not a happy sight,” Lacey said to Borodin.

“No. War is not all bright uniforms and dashing cavalry. The newspapers never show the misery, do they?”

“That chap…” Lacey pointed. “He looks rich enough to take the train. Rich enough to buy the train, in fact.”

“Money is meaningless now. You’ve seen the trains that we passed, broken down, abandoned. A lot of these people were on those trains. Look at the corpses. Almost certainly typhus. It’s a plague here. Everyone’s desperate to escape.”

“Escape where?”

“Anywhere. All they know is that if they stay, the Red cavalry will kill them.”

“But if they crowd together, the typhus will get them.”

Borodin turned away from the window. “Not all problems have solutions,” he said.

The train crawled into town. It was a grey, cold day with spatters of rain being flung by a bitter wind. “Same as ever,” Jessop said. “Nothing changes in gay Novo.” The tracks terminated at the docks, and the train had to nudge its way through the mob of people. Most looked as if they were hungry or sick or both. The dead lay where they had fallen and were trampled upon. When the train stopped, the people nearest tried to rush it and break in. Brazier was on a flatcar with a Lewis gun and he fired a burst in the air. The crowd fell back. “Not so gay after all,” Jessop said.

Wragge and Borodin got off the train. “God help us,” the C.O. said. “There must be five thousand civilians here.”

“More,” Borodin said. “And more arriving every minute. All desperate for one thing.” He pointed to ships anchored in the bay. “Escape.”

“It’s a madhouse.”

“It’s worse than that. It’s a nightmare.”

A warship produced flame and smoke, followed by the deep boom of a salvo. “Hell’s teeth,” Wragge said. “Don’t tell me we’re being shelled.” They waited, and counted the seconds, and heard the crash of explosions far inland.

“They’re shelling the approaches to the town,” Borodin said. “Discouraging the Bolshevik advance. So it must be a British ship.”

“Bully for them.” Wragge relaxed. “Hullo, I think I see a small sign of discipline and order.”

Six Royal Marines with fixed bayonets jabbed and kicked their way through the mob, escorting a cavalry colonel who looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. “You can’t stay here,” he said. “We’ll get you onto a ship. For Christ’s sake don’t touch anyone, there’s typhus and worse everywhere. First, you must empty your train of everything of military value. I’m leaving nothing for the Bolsheviks.”

The Marines helped the squadron to unload the bombs and the bullets, the grenades and the Lewis guns. All got dumped in the Black Sea. They scoured the rest of the train and threw out Lacey’s radio equipment and his files, Brazier’s King’s Regulations , tins of oil and drums of petrol, ground crews’ toolkits and spares, Susan Perry’s medical supplies, the Cossack saddles, even the croquet set and Pedlow’s fly rod. They all went into the sea.

The colonel’s orders were that each man could take one kitbag or suitcase. The ground crews were also allowed to carry their rifles. “If you have bayonets, fix them,” he said. “You’ll need them to keep these animals at bay.” He took Wragge aside. “I’ll get your men ferried out to one of our big ships as soon as I can. Might take time. You’re not the only British personnel in this chaos.”

“We have a squadron doctor, sir. Female but very experienced. If she can help you in any way…”

The colonel shuddered. “Look around you. A battalion of doctors wouldn’t make a dent in this catastrophe. For Christ’s sake don’t let her out of your sight. You must hold your ground here.” He left with his escort.

The C.O. told the adjutant to carry out a roll-call, just to make sure everyone was present. The check was made, was repeated, and Brazier reported one man missing.

“Aircraftman Simm,” he said. “Not on the train, not off it. One man says he saw Simm go behind those trucks.” A row of empty cattle-trucks stood nearby. “Thought he’d gone to relieve himself.”

“What a damn nuisance. Well, we can’t leave him here. Take six men with rifles, Uncle, and find the silly bastard.”

Brazier’s men rapidly searched the area and found Simm with a tubby middle-aged man in an astrakhan overcoat. The man held an expensive leather suitcase and his other hand kept a firm grip of Simm’s arm. A young woman, clearly frightened, clung to his shoulder. Brazier seized all three and marched them back to the C.O.

“He’s Russian, and so is she, and they’re up to no good,” he said. “Exactly what, I don’t know.”

“Explain yourself,” Wragge told Simm.

“Well, sir, this Russki feller comes up to me, wants me to take all his money. In that suitcase, sir. Got a fortune in there, sir.”

Brazier prised the man’s fingers from the handle and opened the suitcase. It was packed with bundles of hundred-rouble notes, all new.

“Wouldn’t let me go, sir.” Simm said. “Kept gabbling at me. I tried to get away, sir, but he wouldn’t let me.”

“And it’s a lot of money,” Wragge said.

“I think he wanted me to sign a receipt or something, sir. Kept pushing a pen into my hand, sir. Fountain pen, sir. I didn’t want to break it, sir.”

“And it’s still a lot of money,” Wragge said. “Search the Russian.”

The search produced a printed document, stamped and sealed and signed. “Could be a diploma for tap-dancing.” Wragge beckoned to Borodin. “Translate, please.”

A quick glance was enough. “It’s a marriage certificate,” Borodin said. “That’s the mayor’s signature. He performed the marriage. This is the lady’s name. The bridegroom’s name is left blank. My guess is the girl is his daughter.”

“He was selling you his daughter,” Wragge told Simm. “If you signed this paper, you got the girl and the money.”

“Crikey,” Simm said. His eyes flickered from the open suitcase to the daughter and back. It was a colossal amount of money, and she was young and not unpretty, if tear-stained and dishevelled. “I mean to say, sir. Bloody hell.”

“He was selling his daughter in order to get her out of the country. To escape.”

Aircraftman Simm was still looking at the money. “Never saw that much before, sir.” He took a packet of notes from the top. “Is it real, sir?”

Borodin turned to Wragge. “With your permission.”