A Splendid Little War (23 page)

The woman did not move. “If you two are officers, you should take your hats off,” she said; and they did. She had a measured, casual, confident voice. Once, in London, Hackett had gatecrashed a ball and asked a debutante for a dance. She had told him his fly was unbuttoned, and she had used the same cool tone of voice.

Brazier introduced them. “May I ask …” He wasn't sure what to ask. “Are you a friend of Colonel Kenny?”

“You mean, am I his mistress? No. I am his nurse. Susan Perry. He is asthmatic.”

“Was, I'm afraid,” Hackett said. “Killed in action a few hours ago. That's why we're here.”

He expected the news to jolt her, but all she did was frown a little, and that only briefly. She stood up, and Hackett was surprised to see how small she was,
petite
as the French would say, yet strong in the face and wonderfully well shaped. It was many weeks since he had met anyone like this. He knew his fly was completely buttoned, yet he felt a stupid need to check it. He locked his hands behind his back.

“You trained as a nurse in … um … England?” Brazier said. “I only ask because there are many so-called nurses in Ekaterinoslav. Every other woman wears a British nursing uniform.”

“Yes. Stolen. Denikin's officers give them to their wives, mistresses, daughters. Not because they want to be nurses. They would run a mile rather than touch a wounded soldier.” There was no scorn in her voice; it was a matter of fact.

“With your permission,” Hackett said, with a delicacy that surprised him, “we'd like to sort of, you know, look around?”

“I expect you want the money,” she said. “It's under the bed.”

She led them into the bedroom, and there it was: two big leather suitcases. Brazier dragged them out, undid the straps, clicked open the locks. Bundles of fresh roubles lay like bricks. “Pay for the troops,” Hackett told her.

“And you might as well have this.” She pointed to a despatch case. “It's no use to me.”

Brazier carried the suitcases into the other room. Hackett picked up the despatch case and gestured that she should go next. He followed her. She had black hair that curled around her ears and left her neck bare. He felt a great wish to touch the neck, to stroke it with his knuckles. He fished out a handkerchief, wiped his lips, took his time putting it away. Anything to busy his hands.

“Thank you for your help,” he said. “Is there something … anything … we can do for you?”

“Perhaps.” For the first time, she had the makings of a smile. “I'm now an unemployed nurse. Do you have a medical emergency in your unit? Sprained ankle? Black eye? Broken leg?”

“Can you embalm a corpse?” Brazier asked. “I've got to get Colonel Kenny back to London in A1 condition. That is to say … not exactly A1 but—”

“Before decay sets in. I know the principles, I've seen embalming done in France. Usually some young officer who had to be shipped home
to the family burial plot. I'll need embalming fluid. Three gallons.”

“Good grief. I thought a couple of pints …”

“Three gallons, minimum.”

“Count Borodin,” Hackett said fast. “If anyone can get you three gallons of the stuff, it's Borodin. Leave it to us.”

Borodin took the car and tracked down the Bishop of Tsaritsyn, who was living in the cellars of his ruined palace, and gave him a bottle of whisky as a gesture of appreciation from R.A.F. Merlin Squadron. The bishop, black-bearded to the waist, raised a jewelled hand and blessed the bottle, blessed the squadron, and blessed the embalming of the martyred colonel. He sent for a priest who knew a man who knew another man who took Borodin to, allegedly, the best undertaker in Tsaritsyn. Business, the undertaker said, was like his premises: in ruins. Look around: nobody has any respect for the dead, who lie everywhere, broken and useless, not worth spending a kopek on, not that anyone has a kopek. He gave Borodin three gallons of embalming fluid in exchange for a bottle of rum and seemed pleased with the deal.

The adjutant heard the car return. He thanked him for the embalming fluid and sent for the medical sergeant. They took nurse Perry and two boxes of her equipment and drove to the hangar. It was sunset. A dozen hurricane lamps gave the place a warm glow. Colonel Kenny lay on his back. His uniform was soaked with blood that had dried brown-black.

“He wasn't shot,” she said. “He was destroyed. This is going to take a few hours.”

“I've arranged for coffee and sandwiches to be sent over,” Brazier said. “I'll stay and watch, if that's alright.”

“As you wish. I may need your muscle-power later.”

The first task was to get the uniform off. The body was stiff and awkward, and the sergeant had to scissor much of the clothing into strips. The Glengarry came away to reveal a face that was unrecognisable under a mask of blood. “Hell's bells,” Brazier said softly. “The family aren't going to like that.”

“Could be worse.” She splashed some water on the face and touched it with her fingertips. “The features seem intact. All this gore came from
a head wound. Maybe two. It will wash off.”

She poured a quart of disinfectant into a bucket of soapy water and cleaned the body. When she finished the right arm and leg, she told Brazier: “Rigor has set in. I need you to flex those joints. Keep bending. Give the muscles some massage. Make him supple.” She washed the other limbs, and they turned the body over and she washed the back. Brazier had his tunic and tie off and his sleeves rolled up. There was a lot of Kenny to work on.

They put him face-up again. Without the blood, the wounds made by the bullet-strikes were very obvious. Brazier began silently counting the sites of torn flesh, and gave up. What would it prove, anyway?

“Glue,” she said. “We need glue. Or some sort of adhesive.”

Brazier went away and talked to ground crew and came back with a small tin of aircraft dope. “For aeroplanes,” he said. “They use it to stick patches onto the fabric.”

She sniffed it. “Exciting smell. We'll try it.” She threaded a needle and made a single stitch that closed Kenny's right eyelid, and brushed dope along the lids where they met. “Rather glossy,” she said. “But it seems to work.” She closed the left eye, and then did the same operation with his mouth. “Nobody likes to see a corpse with his mouth open,” she said. She stroked Kenny's chin. “He needs to be shaved. Is your hand steady enough?” The sergeant said he thought so. “You shave. And wash his hair. I'll start on the serious business. Emptying the arteries and so on,” she explained to Brazier.

“I'm surprised he has any blood left in him.”

“Be ready to be surprised.”

The sergeant had brought a large syringe that he thought belonged to the Veterinary Corps. She filled it with embalming fluid, opened the right carotid artery in Kenny's neck and the right femoral vein behind his knee, inserted the syringe in the carotid and began pumping. Old blood and other fluids spurted from the femoral, and from a few other gashes in the torso. She refilled many times and pumped many times, before she was satisfied that only embalming fluid was emerging. She stitched him up, and washed her hands in the bucket. “I'm starving,” she said. “I hope they remembered the mustard.”

They sat on ammunition boxes and ate roast beef sandwiches.

“If I may say so,” the adjutant said, “for a nurse you make a very competent surgeon.”

She chewed, and looked out at the night, and drank some coffee. Brazier was beginning to regret his remark when she said: “Great-aunt Phoebe died and left me enough money to go to Cambridge. They allowed me to attend medical lectures but they wouldn't let a woman take a degree. So, no Doctor Perry. Went to London, to Guy's Hospital. Surgical nurse. Got my hands wet, learned a lot. I became the third hand when the surgeon got sweat in his eyes. Sometimes I was the fourth hand. After that, France. Plenty of work there, too much sometimes. Nobody cared about gender when his leg had been blown off. Isn't that right, sergeant?”

“Ah, the war. Those were the good old days,” the sergeant said.

“Then they asked for volunteers for Russia. I told the Military Mission in Ekat I had as much experience as any doctor but they laughed. Actually laughed, ha-ha. So I joined the colonel's train. And here we are.”

“Interesting,” Brazier said. “The squadron needs a doctor. And if anyone laughs ha-ha, I'll knock his block off.”

“And he'll come running to me.” Which made them chuckle. Nobody was laughing, not with the smell of formaldehyde heavy in the air.

She finished her sandwich, washed her hands, and got down to the heavy work. “This is what's known as the body cavities,” she said as she punctured the abdomen just north of the navel. “Here's where we find out what he had for breakfast. Also supper and maybe lunch. I shall need more buckets.”

The rush of escaping gases made the adjutant retreat a few paces. “You'll need another uniform, won't you?” he said. “I'll fetch it.'

“Don't hurry,” she said. “The stench tends to linger.”

Both flights assembled for dinner in the dining car. Conversation was sparse. Wragge and Oliphant, the flight leaders, discussed shows on the London stage. Oliphant spoke admiringly of “Chu Chin Chow”. Wragge recommended a revue at the Trocadero. They talked just loudly enough to avoid the discomfort of a total silence.

Then the new C.O. came in and they stopped. Everyone stood. Hackett reached his place at the top table but he did not sit. He said: “Pilot Officer Lacey will read a message I have sent to the Military Mission H.Q.”

“In single-handed combat against overwhelming odds,” Lacey began. His voice had the clarity of an actor with the gravity of an air marshal.
Finest traditions … skill, audacity and resolution … ammunition was exhausted … gallantry remained unquenchable: phrases that made the younger pilots breathe deeply and stand tall.

“Wing Commander Griffin's funeral will be at ten tomorrow,” Hackett said. “Together with that of Air Mechanic Henderson.” He waited five seconds: a decent interval. “Now let dinner be served.”

Chef had added a dash of sherry to the mushroom soup. Pedlow and Duncan each finished two bowls. Their concentration was impressive, and nobody interrupted them with conversation. Talk elsewhere was tentative and brief. “Merlin Squadron,” Maynard said. “Wasn't there a wizard called Merlin?” Nobody cared to comment. Maynard gave up.

The Beef Wellington was a big success, and there was a local red wine which wasn't claret but by God it punched above its weight. Everyone relaxed. Maynard forgot his Merlin failure and said: “Good Lord. Just realized. Today's my birthday. I'm twenty.”

“Damn bad luck,” Wragge said. “The best is behind you, Maynard. Nothing left to look forward to but impending doom.”

“Marriage,” Jessop said bleakly. “Fatherhood. Children.”

“Deepest sympathy,” Dextry said. “Here's to Daddy Maynard.” Everyone drank to that. Maynard squirmed, and felt his cheeks turn pink. “Daddy Maynard,” he muttered, trying to sound dismissive. Secretly he was pleased. He had a nickname. He was accepted.

Dominic Dextry saw Pedlow align his cutlery and lean back. His plate was empty. He looked content.

“I pinched your fly-rod, Pedders,” Dextry said. “And the reel.”

“You're a beast.”

“I put them back.”

“A cowardly beast.”

“Well, the general opinion was that you were dead. Tommy Hopton had his greedy eye on the rod but I got in first.”

“I took your fountain pen instead,” Hopton said. “I suppose you want it back now. Doesn't work, anyway. No ink. Where d'you hide your ink?”

Pedlow gave him a twisted smile. “Nowhere. It's invisible ink. You'll never find it. I hope that makes you feel really stupid.”

“Oh … shattered. Quite flattened.” Hopton closed one eye and squinted at him through the other. “Why would you wish to use invisible ink?”

“Damn the ink,” Dextry said. “Tell us about the crash.”

“Didn't crash,” Pedlow said. “Not as such. What happened was, Russia was five feet higher than indicated on my altimeter. If Russia had been in the right place, fine, no problem, three-point landing. As it was, I wiped out the undercarriage.”

“Blame the instruments,” Duncan said.

“After that we lost the prop, most of the wings, the fuselage and the tail. But not the engine. We could have rebuilt the aeroplane. Joe had a hammer and a ball of string.”

“Then it caught fire,” Duncan said. “Not our fault. We were nowhere near. Hairy villager jumped on it and it burst into flames.”

“Hairy villager,” Hopton said. “Was he the one who wanted your private parts on a plate?”

“Oh, you know about that?” Pedlow said.

“The whole squadron knows.”

“They weren't very private,” Duncan said. “Not in that village. They were on display at the drop of a hat.”