He unplugged the headphones and let them slip to his neck. Brazier aimed carefully and nearly hit a hat stand. “Back in the schoolroom, are we?” Lacey said.
“Very dull war. No enemy. Bloody boring.”
They made a curious contrast. Brazier wore a double row of medal ribbons, which looked like miniatures on his khaki tunic. Lacey’s sole decoration was his neatly groomed moustache, and in silk-lined RAF blue barathea he seemed almost dapper. Brazier sat hunched over his desk, his fingers still destroying the blotting paper, cheated of an enemy to duff up. Lacey stood and strolled to the window where he could enjoy the late afternoon sun. He spun the end of his headphone cord. He needed the exercise.
“I don’t find it boring,” he said. “I’ve just sold five thousand steel helmets, for cash. The thrill of the marketplace, the pulse of profit.”
“British Army issue? That’s government property. You can’t sell them.”
“Well, nobody wanted them. Russian troops won’t wear them, they prefer to get their heads blown off in fur hats. Perhaps astrakhan, for the more stylish.”
“Still not yours to sell.”
“My dear captain, they were going nowhere on the docks at Novorossisk, while Russian housewives everywhere are crying out for good, sturdy cooking pots. An unusually honest Russian dealer bought the lot from our man in Ekat.”
“Give me his name. I’ll have the blighter court-martialled.”
“Henry. You can’t touch him, he’s an American civilian. You should be grateful to him. He sold forty thousand British Army horseshoes last week. Best Sheffield steel. Or do I mean iron?”
“He stole them.”
“No. If anyone did it was our man in Novo. Lieutenant Waxman, delightful chap, you’d like him.”
“Waxman. Good. I’ll have him court-martialled.”
“That might be difficult. Once the cargo is unloaded, it’s no longer British, it’s Russian. Denikin’s property. He won’t court-martial a British officer. He needs our guns and things. But not our horseshoes. Guess why?”
Brazier tore the blotting paper into halves and then quarters. “Astonish me.” He threw the pieces over his shoulder.
“Russian horses are smaller than British Army horses. They have far smaller feet. Evidently London didn’t know that.”
“But.” Brazier raised a finger. “Russian women pull the plough. And they do have big feet.”
Lacey looked around in surprise. “A jest. How droll. I feared that life amongst the crude, licentious infantry might have coarsened you. No, our buyer is in armaments. He melts down the steel to make rifles.”
Brazier stood up and put on his cap. Lacey knew what that meant: now the adjutant was on parade, and King’s Regulations applied to everything. “Look here, Lacey. You’re not in France any more, swapping disinfectant for Canadian bacon. We’re guests of the Russian people. Stealing’s got to stop.”
“The Russians steal from each other all the time. And it wasn’t disinfectant in France, it was linoleum. I seem to remember you enjoyed the bacon.”
“There’s a difference. What you’re doing now is black-market trading. That’s fraud. Penal servitude.”
“And without it, the squadron would have no petrol. I buy our petrol with the profits of my trading.”
“Rubbish. Denikin’s people supply our petrol. Our military mission in Ekat said so.”
Somewhere, a gramophone began playing dance music. Lacey put his hands in his pockets and began a slow fox-trot across the compartment. “Denikin’s man cheats,” he said. “He sells half of our petrol to his friends. The railway people sell a lot of the rest en route. We’re lucky to get the dregs.” He reached the door and swivelled on his toes and started back.
Brazier snorted. “Everyone’s a crook, are they? I don’t believe it.”
“Henry isn’t a crook. He buys our petrol back from the men who stole it. Result — everyone’s happy. And Merlin Squadron flies again.”
Brazier went out and slammed the door.
“A poor critic,” Lacey said, “but a steady performer.”
Griffin told Wragge and Hackett to find a good spot to bury Bellamy. They asked the adjutant’s advice. In France or England there had always been a handy church with a graveyard, but here… Brazier told them to look for low ground, no rocks, easy digging, away from running water. “Typhus,” he said. “Nasty stuff. Go down six feet minimum.”
They found a sharp stick and set off.
“Tough luck on old Bellamy,” Wragge said.
Hackett grunted.
“Best Mess president we ever had,” Wragge said. “Those dinners at Butler’s Farm were stunning.”
“Too much fish. The British are in love with haddock. Ever seen a whole haddock? Very ugly. No haddock in Australia. We passed a law, it’s banned. And anchovies. Bellamy was always giving us anchovies, for God’s sake. Why?”
“I don’t think anchovies are actually fish.” Wragge tried to remember what an anchovy looked like. “Anyway, you never had any problems with the roast beef. You tucked in like billy-ho to the roast beef. Second helpings.”
“Because the first was feeble.” Hackett stopped. “Where are we going?”
“Beats me.” They looked around: steppe everywhere: a flat nothing-much stretching to the horizon beneath an overcast sky, totally empty. “Fancy coming all this way, just to cop it,” Wragge said. “Not even a Bolo bullet. Just some filthy plague.”
“Here is as good as anywhere.” Hackett pointed, and spat. “There. Put him there.”
They screwed the sharp stick into the ground, and turned back. “I bet Griffin makes us take the burial service,” Wragge said.
“I can do it. I’ve seen plenty. A bit of God-stuff, plant the body, more God-stuff, throw in some earth, fire the rifles, God-stuff, march off, sherry in the Mess, hello replacement, what’s for dinner?”
“I knew a boy at Harrow got killed by a cricket ball,” Wragge said. “Fast delivery smacked him on the heart, stone dead. Big funeral… Hullo, they’re back.” A pair of Camels was descending. Before they landed, a mechanic had reached Hackett and Wragge with a message. The squadron was bombing up for another raid.
“Bellamy will have to wait,” Hackett said. “He’ll get used to it. He’s got all eternity.”
Jessop and Maynard reported still no sign of Pedlow and Duncan or their presumably crashed Nine, but they had found a large black scorch-mark on the steppe, and it wasn’t made by the missing White Russian bombers, because their wrecks were miles away.
“Scorch-mark,” Griffin said. “No bits lying around? No engine? Should be a damn great Puma lying somewhere. You can’t burn an engine.”
“We flew very low,” Maynard said. “If there was an engine, we’d have seen it. We’d have seen a cylinder. Nothing.”
“Well, we haven’t got time for that. Get fuelled up. The squadron’s been given a nice juicy target.”
They walked away. “My bottom feels as if it’s been beaten with a hockey stick,” Maynard said.
Jessop was too hungry to sympathize. “What school did you go to?”
“Sherborne.”
“Lucky you. If you’d gone to Tonbridge, your delicate bottom would be used to that sort of treatment.”
The target was a group of Red gunboats, said to be coming down the Volga towards Tsaritsyn. Nobody was sure how many or how big or how well armed, but Griffin had promised Wrangel to send them packing. The squadron — five Camels, five Nines — got airborne about 4.00 p.m. Just before take-off, Jessop’s ground crew gave him a bar of chocolate; Maynard got half. They ate chunks as they flew. Their taste buds salivated with gratitude. Colours brightened, sounds sharpened, suddenly the afternoon improved enormously.