He remembered his mission. He took out his pocket book and a pencil and drew a picture of a horse, an ugly horse whose legs were too long, tore off the page and gave it to them. He held up five fingers.
They talked among themselves, talked for so long that he finished his vodka in small, cautious sips. It seemed churlish not to. Then they took him to a bigger tent where a man in a noticeably cleaner uniform, so he must surely be an officer, was shown the picture. Maynard had a horrible thought: maybe they believed he wanted to sell them five horses. How to explain? But another toast was being made and this time he knew better than to swallow it whole.
This vodka was pepper-flavoured. Maynard got the strange impression that his head might fall off unless it was very carefully balanced. They took him out and showed him a horse with legs much shorter than on his picture. More of a pony, really. He didn’t care. “Nichevo,” he said. They all drank to that and took him to a yet bigger tent, full of generals, they must be generals, their chests all clanked with medals. Quite soon there was another toast. Maynard drank it all, he was getting the hang of it, felt rather pleased with himself. It was the last thing he felt before the ground came rushing up at enormous speed. He didn’t feel them pick him up, or lay him on a bed, or say “Nichevo.” Pity. He would have agreed with them wholeheartedly.
“I think we can expect spring lamb quite soon,” Lacey said. “It’s Chef’s masterpiece. An occasion when strong men weep with joy.”
“Joy,” Griffin said. “I knew a girl named Joy.”
“And he does the most memorable things with cucumber.” Lacey was sitting in the chair in the C.O.’s Pullman compartment. Griffin lay on the bed. “In season, of course. Like mushrooms. Once you have seen him stuff a mushroom, fungi will never look the same to you.”
“So you say. You can’t stuff Yorkshire pudding. Can he handle Yorkshire pud?”
“With ease. I’ve told him what the chaps like — the same as they liked in France, which was what they’d grown up on. Apple Crumble, Treacle Tart, Sherry Trifle, Spotted Dick. I’ve explained them all. Chef wasn’t keen on Spotted Dick at first. He thought it must be a medical treatment, like mustard plasters. But he came round to it. The king of Bulgaria once asked him—”
“Crumpets. I’m partial to a crumpet for tea.”
“Ah. Well now. Crumpets. Crumpets are different. But…”
A distant clamour got Griffin off the bed and over to the window. He saw his pilots watching a bunch of mounted Cossacks approach. With them they brought half a dozen unmounted ponies. Sunlight flashed on the flourish of steel. “Trouble,” he said. “Know them?” He didn’t wait, grabbed his cap and pistol and buttoned his tunic as he left.
The Cossacks galloped around the pilots and came to a halt in a flurry of dust and small stones and snorting horses. Their leader shouted: “Zdravstvuite! Dobroye Utro!” After that he made a statement full of fire and saliva.
“He’s got Maynard,” Wragge said. “I bet they want money.”
Maynard was propped in front of the leader. His chin was on his chest and he slumped so much that his hands were lost in the horse’s mane. The leader gripped him by the collar.
“He looks dead,” Jessop said. “Blood on his face. So it can’t be ransom.”
The leader got to the point. “Na Moskvu!” he shouted. The rest shouted: “Na Moskvu!” He waved both arms and Maynard fell sideways. The leader grabbed him by the ankle before he could hit the ground, and said something very amusing; they all laughed and clapped their hands. Maynard’s hair rested lightly in the dirt. He was suddenly and violently sick.
“D’you think he might choke?” Jessop asked.
“Hard to say. His colour’s improving,” Hackett said.
“So would yours, if you were upside-down.”
“True.”
Griffin arrived. “Bellamy, Jessop, go and get that officer. Wragge: find some plennys and a stretcher… Hackett, what’s the story here?”
“Well, Maynard offered to…” That was when Count Borodin’s motorcycle came clattering and backfiring. It spooked the ponies into a stampede, and the Cossacks went after them, shouting and steering them into a tight bend that became a slow and dusty circle. Their leader watched, smiling proudly. He made a short speech. Griffin looked at Borodin.
“He says we shall ride into Moscow, side by side, before Christmas.”
“What about Maynard?”
“Drunk as a lord.”
“Give him my compliments, and ask him to join me on the train for a drink. That seems to be the universal language in Russia, but you’d better come along too.” Maynard was being stretchered past. His eyes were half-open but unable to focus. “Bloody fine effort, laddie,” Griffin told him. “Damned good show. Best traditions of the squadron.”
Sergeant Major Lacey mixed up a hangover cure that tasted of mustard and toothpaste and caused Maynard to throw up twice more that afternoon. But by the evening he was in the bar, sipping soda water and discovering that he had become an accepted member of Merlin Squadron. They praised him for his Cossack adventure, and for the five ponies he had brought. It made the whole frightful episode seem almost worthwhile.
AN ABSOLUTE CAKEWALK
Griffin had the Flight in the air at fifteen minutes to eight. The servicing had been rushed, and the ground crews weren’t happy, but Griffin believed that God didn’t create war to make ground crews happy. The Camels formed up in the usual arrowhead. Within ten minutes Bellamy turned back with a leaky fuel tank. Petrol was sloshing around his boots. He landed very gently. Maybe his ground crew had been right to be unhappy. He left the cockpit in a hurry and ran. Nothing caught fire.
The rest of the Flight passed over the six tanks as they crawled towards Tsaritsyn. Not much punch there, Griffin thought. Wouldn’t have dented the Hun front in France. He climbed to a thousand feet and circled, letting everyone take a good look at the Red trenches outside the town. Neat and straight with regular kinks: just like France. Little fountains of mud appeared, some next to the trenches, most not. Wrangel’s artillery barrage had begun. Griffin gave it ten minutes to soften up the defence. Then the Flight fell in line behind him and he steered to attack the length of the trenches.
The long descent, even at a shallow angle, built up a healthy speed. Griffin was easing back the stick as he fired a short burst into the trenches less than a hundred feet below. His bullets went chasing among the soldiers until he climbed, and levelled, and dived again and fired again. Nobody fired back. It was easy.
The five Camels followed his example. Maynard, at the tail, was surprised to find what fun it was. Swoop, fire, climb: it had a feeling of fairground gaiety. A few troops got over their surprise and offered some ragged rifle fire, but nobody could catch him. It was simple. Just fire, and men fell down. What sport.
The Flight climbed away and Maynard climbed after it. Now the tanks had arrived. They began prowling alongside the trenches and shooting down into them. That was more than enough for the defenders. They scrambled out and fled. Griffin saw them running. The Camels went down and chased them until all the ammunition was spent. They turned for home.