“Bloody Russians. They think Britain’s an open tap.”
“Wrangel says he needs them because his cavalry got strafed, badly, by the Red air force,” Lacey said. Brazier’s grunt expressed his feelings about cavalry. “Count Borodin told me what happened,” Lacey said. “Apparently the Cossacks got trapped in a ravine.” Another grunt from Brazier. “It happened very quickly,” Lacey said. “Cossacks don’t know much about aeroplanes.”
“And they didn’t stop to look when they got strafed. Machine guns have that effect. Everyone gets his head down.”
Lacey looked at the saddles. “Those came from the Cossacks.”
They went over and looked. Brazier squatted on his heels and fingered the holes in the leather. “Fresh damage,” he said. “You don’t take much interest in battlefields, do you? I do.” He picked up a saddle and turned it over. “See here. The round has emerged from the underside. Either the horse was standing on its head or the bullets were fired from above. High above.” He put down the saddle and opened a penknife and poked it in the most inviting hole and found nothing; tried another hole and found the remains of a bullet. He quickly found three more. “Rather battered,” he said. “Most are. I saw a lot of these in France. They’re calibre 0.303 inches, the standard British ammunition.” He gave them to Lacey, and stood up.
“We supplied ammunition to Russia during the war,” Lacey said. “The Reds might have captured it.”
“Our bullets wouldn’t fit Red machine guns. They fire the standard Russian bullet, which is 7.62 millimetres. Not the same thing at all.”
Lacey squeezed a bullet between his fingers until the pain made him stop. “Should I tell the C.O.?” he asked.
“He’ll hate you for it. They’ll all hate you. And it won’t change anything.” He took the bent bit of metal from Lacey’s hand and tucked it in a tunic pocket. “Furthermore, they won’t believe you. But go ahead, if you wish.” Brazier almost smiled. He was enjoying this.
“I don’t wish.”
Brazier went back to his desk. “Stick to groceries, Lacey. You won’t get blood on your fingers.”
The nearest Red air force base was at a place called Urbàkb, fifty miles to the north. Perhaps seventy or eighty. The maps didn’t always agree. Next morning, the White bomber squadron resident at Beketofka set off to raid it, and Griffin’s squadron followed.
It was like following children going on a picnic. The White bombers did not bother with formation-keeping: they flew at whatever height they pleased, in any pattern, or none. There was a lot of low cloud, which did not help. Oliphant identified the leader’s machine by the white streamer flying from its tail, and he kept his Nines far behind it. The Camels were high above, as usual, scouting for trouble.
There was none until they got in sight of Urbàkb. Then guns opened up and the White bombers flew into a sky that was blotted with black. It looked a lot worse than it was because the gunners miscalculated the height and so there was plenty of empty air. The cloud, too, provided patchy cover. Oliphant could see enemy machines parked down there. He wheeled his Nines away from the action and let the White bombers have first crack.
It was a full squadron, twelve aircraft, and their concerted attack should have made a mess of something, but already three White bombers had turned away from the target and were heading for home. They did not appear to be damaged. The remainder milled about. Soon, bomb bursts made small brown fountains, but Urbàkb was a big airfield and attacking the grass would do no lasting harm. And Red fighters were taking off.
Oliphant re-formed his Flight into line astern and flew towards the hangars. The flak gunners saw him coming and turned their fire on him, so he put his nose down and changed height before they could change the fuses in their shells. A heavy machine gun came looking for him and sent stitches of red tracer climbing and bending and whipping past. Then he was over the first hangar and he pulled the toggle that released the bombs. As he climbed away, the Lewis gun behind him was firing long bursts, probably at the man chucking up the red tracer. Oliphant hoped his observer had many more drums of ammunition. Fighters were still taking off, and it was a long haul back to Beketofka.
Griffin’s plan was to engage the Red fighters over their own aerodrome. He felt sure they would defend it, and if his Camels couldn’t knock them down they would enjoy a good, long scrap that would exhaust the enemy’s ammunition and give the Nines a healthy start. But to his surprise, the Red fighters fled. They kept low, and they kept going, grey specks between empty steppe and a ragbag of clouds, until he lost them. Extraordinary behaviour. Pathetic, really. He waited another minute. Nothing.
He signalled his Flight into line abreast and they went down where the guns could not depress their barrels. They flew low across Urbàkb airfield and shot up everything with wings that they saw. Some burned, one exploded, none was airworthy as the Camels cleared the base and climbed, still chased by the red tracer. Griffin thought: Pity about the fighters. We came all this way and they couldn’t even raise a team. He put his Flight into arrowhead, cruised around, looking for a juicy target, found none and headed for home.
It was fifteen minutes before the Camels caught up with the Nines, and when they did they flew straight into a messy battle with eight Red fighters. Hackett identified two Nieuports, an Albatros, a Fokker D9, a couple of Spads and maybe a Sopwith Pup before he was into the usual madhouse, dodging one bomber to try to get a burst at a Red fighter chasing another bomber. Two wrecks burned on the steppe below, and a Nine had fallen out of formation with a dead engine.
Its pilot was Gerard Pedlow, and he knew that his best hope was to dive hard and pray that the wings would not fold like wet paper under the strain. He heard the chatter of the Lewis behind him. That meant an enemy was chasing, looking for the kill. Not a happy situation. His wings were shuddering, the cockpit instruments were a blur, the wind in the wires and struts screamed. The Nine had a big, heavy engine, now totally dead and hellbent on burying itself and its crew. The joystick in his hands felt as rigid as an iron bar. At this rate they were bound to crash. He used every muscle and heaved on the stick. Something moved. He thought he’d bent it. Then the nose came up by inches and if it hadn’t been for the wheels he might have got away with it. But the wheels scraped against Russia and snapped off with a bang and the bomber bounced and fell on its belly and skidded through a mist of grass and dirt as if it had no wish to stop.
When it stopped, everything stopped.
No blind, suicidal skidding. No rackety shaking. No noise. Just a pain in the stomach. Pedlow undid his seat belt and the pain did not go away but his bruised stomach felt able to breathe more easily. He was dazed and his eyes kept going in and out of focus. He worried about his stomach. It shouldn’t be breathing, that was the job of the lungs. Now his ears were singing. What was there to sing about? And he could taste something that might be bile. Bloody bile. “Well, sod the lot of you,” he said aloud, and surprised himself. At least one bit of him worked properly. He tried to stand up but his legs were empty. Not a drop in them. Now that was strange. He fell asleep.
His observer, Joe Duncan, shook his shoulder. “Wake up, old chap,” he said.
Pedlow was enormously refreshed. He felt he must have slept for hours. “Did you get that Hun?” he asked.
“He wasn’t a Hun, he was a Bolshie. I scared him off. They’ve all gone. You can’t stay there.”
Pedlow got out. His empty legs were full again. That’s what a night’s rest did for a chap. Duncan held his elbow and made him walk until they were far from the wreck. There was nothing to rest against, so they sat back-to-back and leaned on one another.