A Splendid Little War (6 page)

Major-General Trenchard headed the R.F.C. and he believed in aggressive patrolling far behind the enemy's lines. So did John Griffin. “They started it,” he told his squadron, “so let's get over there and finish it.” If that was costly, well, they were all volunteers, nobody said war was cheap. And the dead made no complaints. Decorations and further promotions proved that Griffin must be right.

Now he was a wing commander, with a whisky-soda, in a hot bath, and he had a bunch of young brigands to lead in a bright and breezy new war. What could be better?

He reached for the signals and read General Holman's orders. “Get Borodin,” he told the Russian boy-servant.

As he soaked in the tub the count gave him an outline of Wrangel's plan to capture the south side of Tsaritsyn: bombard the trenches, infiltrate the outer defences, assault the city. “We have tanks which—”

Griffin raised a hand. “Enough. Something I learned in France was, get it on half a sheet of paper. More than that I'll forget anyway.” He looked at his fingers. The tops were wrinkled. He stood up and let the water drain from him. They made an interesting contrast: the polish of Imperial Russia, or what was left of it, and the intrepid aviator, naked and dripping, here to show them how the Allies duffed up the Hun. “Who was that strange child I found in here?” Griffin asked.

“Your servant. A
plenny
. Each of your officers has a
plenny
, we find them loyal and eager to please. Yours is called Jack.”

“An ex-Bolo? You captured him?”

“The
plennys
were happy to change sides. The Red Army forced them to fight. Your chef, for example, was formerly with the Hotel St George in Moscow but the Bolsheviks put him in their infantry, a foolish move.”

“Our train has a chef?”

“You can have two, if you wish. They cost nothing.”

“We shall need another. Ekat is sending me six bombers and their crews right now. A dozen men.”

“Twelve more
plennys
, then. Of course. We have what you might call a plenitude.” He handed Griffin a towel.

“Thanks.” What exactly did ‘plenitude' mean? He let it pass. Borodin's English was too damn good to be true.

The
plennys
woke the pilots at seven, with glasses of Russian tea. It wasn't Earl Grey, but as they sipped it and enjoyed the comfort of clean sheets and sunshine, they began to think that the long, sometimes hard and dirty and often bitterly cold journey had been worthwhile if it helped to restore the good old days. You wouldn't get tea in bed under the Reds.

The
plennys
had brushed the uniforms, cleaned and polished the
boots, made the buttons shine. The pilots met for breakfast in the bar, which doubled as a dining room. Griffin liked their smartness. “This isn't France,” he said. “People wandered into the Mess wearing rugger shirts and jodhpurs. Not our style. We're here to show the flag.”

“Which flag is that, sir?” Wragge asked. “Hackett's an Aussie, Bellamy's Canadian and Dextry claims to be Irish.”

“Give the butter a shove,” Griffin grunted.

“Ireland's British,” Maynard said.

“Don't tell them that in Dublin,” Dextry warned. “They'll blow your patriotic head off.”

“That's just the Fenians. Not like the royal Irish regiments in France. They were jolly decent chaps.”

Griffin pointed his fork at Dextry. “Tell your Dublin friends to keep their little war going. When we've mended Russia we'll go back and sort out Ireland.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And let's drop the sir in the Mess. Makes me feel like my grandfather, and he's dead.”

At 9.30 they all walked to the aerodrome. The sky was bigger than they had ever seen in France or England and it was drenched in the kind of blue that gives atheists second thoughts. Maybe Russia had more sky because it had more distant horizons. Already the sun was pleasantly warm and the breeze made only an occasional ripple in the grass. Perhaps spring had arrived overnight.

Maynard looked at the vast expanse of grass and wondered if cricket was out of the question. He played an imaginary straight drive, knees bent, plenty of follow-through. Bellamy was looking at him. “Bit stiff,” Maynard said. “Loosening up.”

“Save the next dance for me.”

They stopped near the C.O.'s Camel. The other machines were dotted about, just as their pilots had left them.

“Get lined up on me,” Griffin said. “We'll make a mass take-off. I bet the natives have never seen one of those. Ten o'clock kick-off. That's when the White artillery will start raising holy hell. Make sure your tanks are full, your guns are loaded, your bladders are empty. Off you toddle.”

His mechanic was waiting for him.

“Didn't expect to see these Camels again, Mr Griffin. Not outside the knacker's yard.”

“Explain.”

“47 Squadron flew them at Salonika. That's where most of us mechanics were before this, and we watched them Camels sitting in the rain at Salonika, not getting any younger. Then they got flown to Ekat, those that still flew, that is, and it rains at Ekat too, rains like buggery, and here they are, sir, bloody soggy if you'll pardon my Bulgarian. The Bulgarians, that was the enemy at Salonika, nobody knew why, ancient history now, a bit like your Camel, especially the wings, because it was the wings that copped all the rain, sir.”

Griffin walked around the Camel, prodding the wings, twanging the wires. “No holes,” he said. “Ailerons work. See?” He made one move up and down.

“Fabric should be tight as a drum, sir.” The fitter rapped the skin with his knuckles. It didn't sound like a drum. “Soft as shammy leather.”

“It flew me from Ekat.”

“Level flight, sir. Cruising speed. Not combat. Not chucking her about.”

Griffin said nothing about performing the loop over the small town. The aeroplane had certainly felt slow and heavy. Still, they survived. “Will she fly?”

“You can take off, sir. After that …” He shrugged. “It'll be like flying a wet dishcloth.”

“Thank you, sergeant. Take-off is in fifteen minutes.”

Griffin walked away, and watched the other machines being pushed into position. He liked the Camel. It was a small fighter, less than nineteen feet long. Full of fuel and ammo, it weighed little more than half a ton. If it was empty, two men could pick up its tail unit and easily tow it. He liked its chunky, compact shape, liked the way he could throw it into a tight right turn so fast that it tugged the blood from his brain and left the enemy flying straight and looking silly.

It would be good to get back into a war. The sweet smell of spilled petrol drifted into his nostrils. That's the stuff! Keep your Paris perfumes.

Three of the Camels had been lined up with his own. The other two hadn't moved. Somebody's backside needed kicking.

Hackett and Bellamy walked over to him. “My fitter can't start the engine,” Bellamy said. “It nearly started and then something went bang and caught fire. He wants to look inside the engine.”

“How long will that take?”

“Hard to say. He's waiting for it to cool down. He says a lot of petrol was sloshing about, so maybe a fuel line broke. And the extinguisher made a bit of a mess.”

“Broken fuel line wouldn't go bang.”

Bellamy could think of other possibilities but he saw the C.O.'s expression and he shut up. Griffin turned to Hackett. “What's your excuse?”

“I've got woodworm. Also mildew. The cockpit has a nasty smell and my rigger's got piles. I don't feel very well today, sir, and I can't fly. But if you want one reason, here it is. The fitter reckons my Camel's dangerous. To me. Not to the enemy, because he says the aeroplane will collapse in the air as soon as I chuck it about. Or sooner, if the wind gets rough.” Hackett's tone was frank and conversational. He might have been discussing the selection for a football team.

Griffin's eyes were wide and unblinking. “You refuse to fly.”

“Half the wing struts are cracked or split. Somebody bound them up with wire and now it's rusted through. Painted, but rusted. The struts are there to keep the wings apart, but in fact the wings are holding the struts in place.”

“Not any longer,” Bellamy said. “Look. Your chaps have just taken off the top wing.”

“Sweet sodding suffering Christ on crutches!” Griffin shouted. “We came five thousand miles for
this
? I'm down to five machines!”

“I don't think a monoplane Camel would fly,” Hackett said. “Not fast, anyway. Might touch fifty going downhill.”

Griffin turned away and took a large step and kicked a small flower, light blue, a charming but fragile messenger of the coming spring, and sent its petals flying. “We'll do it without you two slackers. I'm not going to fail General Wrangel. We'll fly all day if we have to.” He stopped because a man on a motorcycle was chugging and bouncing towards them. “Wrangel's final orders,” Griffin decided. “Targets and so on.”

It was Count Borodin. “Good morning, wing commander,” he said. “The assault is off. Postponed. No fighting today.”

Hackett and Bellamy sat on the grass. Griffin pushed his cap forward so that the peak shadowed his eyes and he had to tip his head back to stare at the count. “Off,” he said. “What's wrong? Weather not good enough?”

“No, it's the tanks, you see. The infantry were promised British tanks to lead the attack, and they've all broken down, so now the infantry won't advance. Perhaps tomorrow.” He offered a blue porcelain jar with a sealed lid. “The general sends you this small gesture of welcome.”

Griffin accepted. It felt heavy. “What is it?”

“Caviare, the very best.”

“Caviare
from
the general,” Bellamy said. “Shakespeare never thought of that.”

“Shakespeare never thought of anything,” Hackett said. “Bacon wrote it for him. I read it in the
Daily Mail
.”

“Shut up.” Griffin pointed at Hackett. “You're in charge here. Get all these Camels repaired, serviced, made totally good,
today
. Come with me,” he told Borodin. “We'll visit these bloody useless tanks. Is that straw?” He pointed to tufts sticking out from the edges of the motorcycle's tyres.

“Reeds. We find reeds are stronger. There are no spare tyres in Russia, so we pack the old tyres with reeds.” He kick-started the machine. It had no pannier. Griffin sat sideways on the petrol tank. They chugged away.

“He's not a complete idiot,” Bellamy said. “He knows that if two Camels are duff, they all need looking at.”

“Caviare,” Hackett said. “Nobody ever gave us caviare in France. Omelettes, plenty of omelettes during the fighting. Here, they give us caviare for not fighting. Funny war.”

“Come on, let's spread the news.” They walked towards the waiting pilots.

The tanks were in a field where sunflowers had been grown. The blackened stalks stood thickly, two feet high, except where tank-tracks had made narrow paths. Borodin followed one of these, turning left or right as the tanks had turned, until it delivered them to a small tented encampment. The tanks were huddled there, grey and muddy and motionless. Borodin killed his engine.

“Elephants' graveyard,” Griffin said.

A British Army major came out of the largest tent. No hat, no tie, and his tunic was undone. “Major Riley,” he said. He had a fading black eye and one front tooth was missing. “Welcome to the Armoured Division, or as I call it, the Tank Trap.” A faint whiff of cordite came with him. Griffin knew at once to tread carefully. He introduced himself
and the count. “I'm Royal Air Force. Merlin Squadron. I was supposed to support the attack,” he said.

“You're new here? And you want to know the score. Come inside. There's coffee. Tastes like creosote, so I cut it with vodka, then it tastes like hot creosote.” They went into the tent and he waved them to a sofa that everywhere leaked stuffing. “Cavalry of the clouds, isn't that what they call you? Well, I'm cavalry of the mud. Today the mud won.” He sounded cheerful.

“I see you've been in the wars.” Griffin touched his own eye.

“The shiner? Yes, I was instructing a Russian driver and he got carried away by the excitement. Lost control, hit a tree, my head smacked against his head.” He gave them tin mugs of steaming coffee.

“It's very quiet here. Where is everyone?”

“The Russian crews are in their tents, cooking lunch. My N.C.O.s are in
their
tents, probably playing pontoon.”

“Lunch.” Griffin looked at his watch. “So early?”

“Well, they've been up since dawn.” Riley sat on an ammunition box. “Time is different here. Breakfast doesn't count for much. Lunch at eleven, dinner at four. Otherwise they go all huffy.” He was cleaning his nails with a broken matchstick. “You can't do anything with a huffy Russian. And he'll do bugger-all for you.”