“No mutinies. A few cases of insubordination. Regimental officers stepped in, the men saw sense.”
“Did they? They burnt down Luton Town Hall first. They seized Calais, and you had to send in two divisions of troops to get it back from them. There are Communists in the Army. They took control of that march from Victoria Station to Whitehall, three thousand soldiers, all armed, enough to fill Horse Guards’ Parade! Of course, that wasn’t a mutiny. It just took a battalion of Grenadiers with fixed bayonets and two troops of Household Cavalry to make them see sense.”
“All because some idiot at Victoria Station forgot to provide the men with tea.” Stattaford ground out the words like eating stale bread. “It wasn’t a mutiny. If you want to see mutinies, go to Russia. They shoot all their officers, rape their wives, and blow their noses on the tablecloth.”
“Moving on…” Jonathan said.
“We all know about the Bolsheviks,” Weatherby muttered.
“I wasn’t talking about the Bolsheviks,” Stattaford said.
“Let me perhaps remind everyone why we are here,” Jonathan Fitzroy said, fast, before anyone could ask what the general meant. “The P.M. seeks a formula to reassure public opinion. A satisfying reason why we’re at war in Russia.”
“We’re not at war in Russia,” Sir Franklyn said sharply.
“Exactly. Why we’re not at war in Russia. Oblige us, if you would, with the view from the Foreign Office.”
Sir Franklyn Fletcher was tall and wiry, with a face like an intelligent gamekeeper, which was not a bad description of his job. He had been in the Foreign Office all his working life, and his goal was to leave his country no worse off when he retired. He walked over to the marble fireplace and turned his back on it and rested his arms along the length of the mantelpiece.
“One side or another is going to win in Russia,” he said. “It might be Denikin’s White Army. He wants to restore what he calls One Russia, Great and Undivided. That means the Empire of the late Nicholas II — including all the bits and bobs around the edges that are now free and independent, from Finland and Poland in the north to the Caucasus in the south.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Fitzroy said cautiously, “but hasn’t Denikin said he does not wish to be a new Tsar? Isn’t his aim to give Russia back to the Russians?”
“So he says. But he doesn’t behave like a democrat. He’s hanged quite a few Russians who disagreed with him. However, that’s not our concern. Our concern is that if he gets his One Russia, Great and Undivided, he’ll want India too. Why? Because Russia has always wanted India. On the other hand, Lenin and Trotsky might win. If they do, there’s every sign that they, too, will want the whole of Russia with all the trimmings. Imagine a Bolshevik Poland, gentlemen. A Bolshevik Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia. How long before the Bolsheviks get Germany, Czechoslovakia, Austria? Was it for that sort of Europe we fought and won the Great War?”
There was a gloomy silence.
“Alright,” Charles Delahaye said, “That’s all conjecture. But even supposing it’s true, what can we do to stop it?”
“I know what you can do,” General Stattaford said confidently. “Denikin’s troops are tired. Trotsky’s rabble is a shambles. Give me two divisions — no, damn it, two brigades — of front-line British regiments, and I’ll guarantee to take Moscow before the first snow falls.”
That surprised everyone. “So… our recommendation to the P.M. is what?” Fitzroy asked. “Seize Moscow?”
“They won’t go,” James Weatherby muttered.
“We can’t invade Russia when we haven’t declared war,” Sir Franklyn said.
“They’ll mutiny,” Weatherby said.
“Shipping? Food? Equipment?” Charles Delahaye asked. “The cost is prohibitive.”
“The troops simply won’t go!” Weatherby said. “You can’t force them.”
“They’ll do as they’re bloody well ordered,” Stattaford declared. “This is the British Army and—”
“And they won’t kill Russians. The troops’ war is over. Look: British troops don’t want to go to Ireland and shoot Irishmen who were fighting alongside them last year, so they certainly won’t obey orders to go to Russia and kill Russians who were our allies against Germany.” Weatherby flourished a copy of the Daily Mail. “Just to put together a small Relief Force for Murmansk and Archangel you have to appeal for volunteers. Ex-soldiers.”
Stattaford took the paper from him.
“Money wouldn’t necessarily be a problem,” Fitzroy said.
“Yes it would,” Delahaye said. “Put up income tax again to pay for your Russian adventure and see what the public thinks.”
“Listen to this,” Stattaford said. “The fighting spirit of the old army is aflame… Recruits are still pouring in with medal ribbons on their waistcoats… The officers too are excellent…” He looked up. “How d’you explain that keenness? What?”
“Half of them can’t get a job in civvy street,” Weatherby said.
“The other half are on the run from Scotland Yard,” Delahaye said.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen… Please, please,” Fitzroy said. “We’re straying ever further from the point. How can we best help the Prime Minister retain the confidence of the nation?”
“The British people want two things,” Weatherby said. “First, no more war. Ever. Second, make the Germans pay. My department gets reports from throughout the kingdom, and especially from the four million who did the fighting, and they all say: ‘Make the Huns pay every penny for the damage they did, even if it takes a thousand years.’ That’s what matters.”
“Gratifying,” Charles Delahaye said. “But self-defeating. It’s the economics of the madhouse.”
“They don’t know economics. They do know atrocities. We’ve been feeding them Hun atrocities for four years. Now their answer is: Squeeze the swine till the pips squeak.”
“And Russia?” Fitzroy asked. He was beginning to sound defeated.
“Oh, let them stew in their own juice,” Weatherby said. “That’s not my opinion. It’s their opinion.”
A long, thoughtful pause.
“I’ve been scribbling down a few words,” Sir Franklyn said. “What d’you think of A decent life for all Russians?”
They thought of it, and nodded agreement. “And hang the Kaiser,” Weatherby said. “That would be the cherry on the bun.”
The Nines and the Camels landed at Beketofka. Immediately, Griffin ordered Jessop and Maynard to refuel and rearm and go and look for the missing bomber. “Take a bottle of whisky,” he said. “Pedlow and Duncan might be a bit shaken up. Look for them halfway between here and Urbàkb. Maybe a bit further. Scout around.”
Count Borodin had been on the aerodrome, counting the machines as they landed. “Three missing in all,” he said. “Two Russian and one English.”
“Your two crashed and burned,” Griffin said. He shouted at Hackett and Oliphant and beckoned to them. “Lucky it wasn’t more. Your White bomber boys were all over the sky. They never kept formation. I’ve seen more discipline in a herd of cows. Their defensive fire was worse than useless.” Oliphant and Hackett arrived. “Our Nines kept formation, they used crossfire, kept the Reds at a distance,” Griffin said. “Your lot…” He gave up.
“All chiefs and no Indians,” Hackett said.
Borodin gave a sad smile. “They fight when they want to and they fly as they like. Their commander is a good man but he cannot control them. They all flew for the Tsar, in the Imperial Air Service, and now they hate the Bolsheviks, but they don’t respect Wrangel. And some are lazy and drink too much.”