Borodin pointed at the sky. “Late, as usual,” he said. The White Russian squadron of DH9s was arriving, very high, probably five thousand feet. Their formation was ragged. It changed direction and became more ragged. “Just dots,” Wrangel said. “They won’t frighten anybody.”
“They fly high to avoid the artillery, sir,” Borodin said. “It also permits them to see the Red aeroplanes a long way off and run away.”
“They suffer from delayed bravery,” Wrangel said. “I have many officers like that, all seeking a new Tsar to die for. But not yet. Look: that must be the Red arsenal.” A flash of yellow erupted inside Tsaritsyn, and a rolling thunder followed. Black smoke pulsed upwards. “Bang goes the Bolshevik ammunition. We can expect panic, retreat and large slaughter. Time for lunch.”
Wrangel was right about lunch but wrong about the arsenal. White cavalry had been massing, preparing to charge down a street. Red defenders dynamited houses on both sides: that was the explosion. As the dust settled, the defenders climbed onto the barricade of rubble and shot down the White cavalry, still panicking from the dynamite blast. So there was no retreat, and the slaughter was of cavalry.
Wrangel sent Borodin to invite the Camels to return to Tsaritsyn.
“Preferably with many incendiaries,” Borodin told Griffin. “Fire from the skies upsets the Bolsheviks.”
“Where exactly are the enemy positions? How shall we know where to make our attack?”
“If you bomb our troops, they will fire at you, whereas the enemy will fire at you whatever you do.”
Griffin called the Flight together. “It’s a bloody shambles,” he said. “We’re liable to get shot at by friend or foe.”
“Just like France,” Wragge said. “Frog artillery always potted us.”
“Is that relevant?” Griffin said in a voice like sandpaper. “Then shut up. Fuel tanks a quarter full. With the weight saved we’ll take extra incendiaries. Attack the north side of the city. That’s the Bolos’ way out. Height, a thousand feet. Let them see the bombs coming.” He looked sideways at Bellamy. “Are you fit?”
“I’ll manage.” His face was bleached.
The weight of incendiaries in the cockpits upset the balance of the aircraft, and they bounced and lurched into the air. They kept clear of the west of the city but a few machine guns saw them coming and as the Camels turned to cross the northern side, a bright flicker of ground-fire could be seen. Griffin dropped a bomb and that was a signal for the rest.
The pilots were very widely spaced and they needed to be: using both hands to heave a bomb sent the machine dipping and skidding. Hackett threw a bomb too hard and his knees lost the stick and his Camel flipped onto its back. At once another bomb fell without his help, so he stayed inverted and punched and kicked at the rest until they dropped. “Sheer bloody skill!” he shouted, and levelled out. Nobody had noticed. Too busy doing it the hard way. They flew home.
Lucky groundfire had made a mess of Bellamy’s port wheel, but he didn’t know this until he touched down and the Camel slewed so violently that his face whacked the gun butts and broke his nose. Wheel struts snapped; the fighter crabbed along on its belly, spraying chunks of propeller; the engine stalled; nothing caught fire. Bellamy, too weak to move, sat and swallowed the blood that ran into his mouth. Not a good day.
“Unforgivable,” Lacey said. He had prised the top off a tea chest and was sniffing the contents. “This is Assam, and what’s worse, it was picked from one of the inferior hills. Where is my Earl Grey?”
“Beats me, old chap,” Captain Brazier said. “I’m not a bloody quartermaster, I just signed for the rations. I hope you’ve got plenty of hot water. Our plumbing died the death when we left Ekaterinodar.”
“I’ve been shaving in cold water for two days,” Oliphant said. “My chops are chapped.”
The three men were in a railway wagon full of boxes of food and drink. They were on the train that had brought “B” Flight, the other half of Griffin’s squadron. Now it was in a siding next to Beketofka aerodrome. Six De Havilland DH9 bombers were strapped to flatbed trucks, with their wings lashed alongside. Oliphant was the flight leader.
“Assam,” Lacey said. “Undrinkable. I shall have a strong word with our man in Ekat about this. Well, I suppose it’s good enough for the troops.” He moved on. “Pears soap, Cooper’s Oxford marmalade, Gentleman’s Relish… Good, good.” He ticked his list.
Guns rumbled in the distance, and Brazier cocked his head. “Artillery. I’d like to see that. What I really want is a three-egg omelette.”
“And so you shall. What’s in that barrel you’re sitting on?” Brazier stood up, and Lacey levered off the lid. “It’s my Earl Grey!” he said. “Praise be. Civilisation is saved.”
“It’s only a cup of tea, for God’s sake,” Oliphant said.
“Wrong. Or perhaps right. It is tea and it is for God’s sake.” Lacey hammered down the lid. “Now we can go. You shall both have hot baths and fresh eggs in abundance.”
He padlocked the wagon and they strolled towards the Pullman cars. “You haven’t changed,” Brazier said. “You were a mouthy chump then and you’re a mouthy chump now.”
“Do you two know each other?” Oliphant asked.
“Like brothers,” Lacey said. Brazier gave a snort of derision. He was a large, square man with a hard, muscular face, and his snort was strong. “Please,” Lacey said. “You’ll frighten the horses in the next field.”
“A year ago, I was adjutant to a bunch of ruffians called Hornet Squadron,” Brazier said. “Lacey was my Orderly Room sergeant. He was spoiling the pilots with luxuries, it was all totally illegal, and his peculiar rackets got both of us sacked and sent to the Front Line.”
“Luxuries,” Oliphant said. “What sort of luxuries?”
“I can’t remember them all. English pork sausages were one. Also high-proof gin and rum. And coal, we were getting double our ration of coal. Honey. Cotton bedsheets. Lacey wanted silk, but I put my foot down. Canadian bacon. All wangled. Pinched. Fruits of fraud.”
“None of it was for profit,” Lacey said. “I did it for fun. War can be awfully boring. And those pilots weren’t with us very long, were they? While they survived, the least they deserved was soft toilet paper. The official issue was just like onionskin.”
“We ran out of coal on my squadron,” Oliphant said. “Last winter of the war. Bloody cold, we were. We froze on patrol and we froze when we landed. One chap got frostbite. Who was that? Parker? Barker? Doesn’t matter. He wasn’t around for long.”
Brazier grunted. He didn’t care about casualties. They were the small change of battle. “Anyway, here we are again, Lacey and me, back where we began,” he said. “And if you mention the fortunes of war, Lacey, I’ll box your ears.”
“We’re not exactly as we were, are we?” Lacey said. “Carpe diem. Opportunities came my way and I climbed the greasy pole of rank while you were hammering the Hun. I heard you got killed.”
“Lightly shot in several places.”
“Possibly by your own men.”
“Possibly. They wanted to retreat. I didn’t. I shot a couple, the rest saw reason and I got a Military Cross out of it. Medals are cheap. But peacetime soldiering isn’t for the likes of me. So I volunteered for this show instead.”