“Jolly desolate,” Pedlow said. The steppe was empty apart from the remains of their Nine. Most of the wings had been torn off and the fuselage was ripped open.
“The chaps know where we are,” Duncan said. “Someone will turn up.”
Nobody appeared for an hour or so, and then it was a man driving a farm cart. He stopped and stared at them and said something that meant nothing. He was dressed entirely in fleece. His hair and beard were thick and long.
“We’ve been captured by a dead sheep,” Duncan said.
“Angliski,” Pedlow called out. “Angliski aeroplaneski.”
The man went over to the wreck and walked around it. He climbed onto what was left of the starboard wing and looked into the cockpit. The wing broke under his weight, and the whole wreck lurched. “That’s not a good idea,” Duncan said, and before he could act, the Nine caught fire and the man ran for his life.
“There was petrol in the tanks,” Duncan said. “I expect the sun turned it into vapour. All it took was a spark.” A small explosion blew the wreck apart and doubled the height of the flames. The man kept running until he was near the airmen.
He stopped and stared; came closer and studied their uniforms. He was especially interested in the pilot’s wings on Pedlow’s tunic, and he reached out a trembling hand and almost touched the badge. He fell to his knees and raised his hands in prayer, and made a long, husky statement that ended when tears washed away his voice.
“Hey, hey,” Pedlow said. “Don’t concern yourself. It’s only an old Nine. We smashed it, not you.”
The man edged forward and bent and touched his forehead against the toe of Pedlow’s flying boot.
“I may be wrong,” Duncan said, “but I rather think he’s praying to you.” The forehead moved to the other boot. “He seems to have mistaken you for somebody wonderful. Charlie Chaplin, perhaps.”
“Tell him to stop.”
“Can’t. He’s adoring you.”
“I’m not bloody adorable. Christ, he smells.”
“Don’t worry, Gerry. Nobody else adores you. To me you will always be a squalid bog-trotting Irishman with no scruples. Hullo, he’s on his feet again.”
The man stood and unfastened the many fleeces that made up his clothes until a final flourish exposed his crotch, and he made it clear to them that there was little to see: he had been castrated.
“Charming,” Duncan said. “You’ve got no scruples and he’s got no goolies. We’re being entertained by the village idiot.”
“He seems quite proud of himself,” Pedlow said. “I think we should show our appreciation.”
They clapped their hands. He bowed, cried a little, went away and fetched the farm cart.
“Off to the madhouse,” Duncan said. “Maybe they serve tea.” They climbed aboard.
The Rose Garden behind the Royal College of Embroidery was just coming into bloom. Jonathan Fitzroy and General Stattaford strolled the gravel paths between the flowerbeds. Sunshine had followed a shower, and raindrops glistened on the first brave blossoms.
“When I retire I shall be a gardener,” Fitzroy said. “A garden never argues, never complains, never raises objections. Unlike the Cabinet, or the House of Commons, or Fleet Street, which are all permanently dissatisfied. That’s why I thought it might help if you and I had a chat before the others arrive. I’ve always found that the best meetings are those where the decisions are agreed beforehand.”
“I take it the Prime Minister has turned down our suggestion,” Stattaford said.
“Not entirely. He rather likes the idea of Britain holding the ring to let the Russians have a fair fight. But his question is, does it square with the facts?”
“Wouldn’t work, anyway.” Stattaford paused to smell a rose the colour of buttermilk. “Russians can’t fight fair. Never could.”
“That’s why I felt it would be helpful to look at the facts. The military facts. The overall picture.”
“Think of an elephant.” The general had a blackthorn stick and he sketched the outline of an elephant in the gravel path. “Moscow’s about here. Where the eye is. Bolshevik H.Q. Up here, on top of the elephant’s head, is our North Russia Army, no great size. Murmansk and Archangel. Arctic Circle, dreadful place, ice or swamp, take your pick. Go further left, down among the tusks and the trunk, there you’ve got Finland, Poland, Baltic States, Ukraine. All anti-Bolshy. They got out of Russia when the Revolution blew up, now the Reds want them back. Very messy.” They walked on and reached a garden bench. Fitzroy spread a copy of The Times and they sat down. Stattaford tapped his left leg with the stick. “Bit of Hun shrapnel wanders about. More rain coming, I shouldn’t wonder. Not important.”
“Admiral Kolchak,” Jonathan said. “The newspapers seem quite keen on Kolchak. Where d’you place him?”
“Deep in the belly of the beast. Siberia. Imagine the elephant’s spine. That’s the Trans-Siberian Railway. Kolchak’s H.Q. is at Omsk. About as far from Moscow as we are, sitting here.”
“The Times says—”
“Kolchak wants Moscow. He probably does. He claims to be Supreme White Commander of all Russia.”
“You’re not impressed.”
Stattaford shrugged. “He’s an admiral. The admiral of Omsk.”
“That leaves… what? General Denikin?”
Stattaford chuckled. “Put him on the elephant’s left front foot, with his coat-tails in the Black Sea. Now Denikin is a soldier. Been fighting the Reds for the best part of two years, all the way from Petrograd. Won a few battles, lost a few. Good army, tough as old boots. We kit ’em out. New boots, khaki uniforms, field guns, everything. Money.”
“So… the elephant’s left foot has some kick in it?”
Stattaford examined his fingernails for signs of dereliction of duty. “There’s a song. ‘Ours is a nice house, ours is.’ Know it? Music-hall ditty. Has a line: ‘With a ladder and some glasses, you could see to Hackney Marshes, if it wasn’t for the houses in between.’ Clever, isn’t it? When I look at a map of Russia, it reminds me of the song.”
“Too deep for me, old chap.”
“Remember the elephant. Remember its tail. That’s where the American troops are, and the Japanese, at Vladivostock. Quite a lot of them. Doing very little. They’re six thousand miles from Moscow. Russia is an elephant so big, it can’t even see its own tail. And vice versa.”
Jonathan stood up. “I think the others are arriving. Well, thank you, general. Very helpful.”
“Missed out a few warlords,” Stattaford said. “Just fleas on the elephant.”
They reached the library to find that the meeting had begun without them. “Four million men,” James Weatherby was saying. “Nearly four. As near as dammit, four million. That’s what the Home Office worries about.”
“Well, it doesn’t worry the Treasury, I can assure you of that,” Charles Delahaye said. “Most of your four million men are demobilized. Paid off. Happy civilians. That’s a huge saving, and God knows we need it. The country should be grateful.”
“I don’t want to seem dense,” Jonathan Fitzroy said, “but is all this relevant to Russia?”
“Yes and no,” Weatherby said. “Yes, we think it is and no, we can’t be sure it isn’t. The Army’s demobilized. Happy civilians? Not necessarily. Home Office gets some worrying reports. Men who’ve been trained to kill by gun and bayonet for four years don’t become model citizens when you give them a trilby hat and a rail warrant home.”
“Poppycock,” Stattaford said. “Utter tosh. The British soldier is highly disciplined.”
“Then what were the mutinies about?”