The moon had not yet risen and the night was black. After two minutes, Lacey said: “Stop. This is too far. You’ve missed it, sergeant.”
“I thought you were leading, sir.”
“Don’t you know where it is?”
“Never seen it. I wasn’t here when the plennys dug it.”
Lacey sent Maynard back to fetch one of the diggers.
The plennys put down the coffin, and moved well away from it.
One of the hurricane lamps began to flicker. “I hope someone remembered to fill these things,” Lacey said sharply. The sergeant took a firm grip of the lamp and shook it. Liquid sloshed. “Well, it’s not empty, anyway,” he said. Lacey took a deep breath. “If it were empty, sergeant, I think we should have known by now.”
The flickering flame cast an erratic, dancing light on the scene. The plennys huddled together and whispered. An officer sat down and immediately got up. “Grass is soaking wet,” he complained.
“That’ll be the dew, sir,” the sergeant said.
“Christ… My rear end is drenched. Totally drenched.”
He got no sympathy from the rest of the firing party. “Oh dear,” one said. “Mickey’s gone and wet himself again.”
“Oh, I say, Mickey. Play the game. You’re letting the side down.”
“Poor old Mickey. He could never hold his drink.”
“Look at who’s talking,” Mickey said. “A glass of port and you’re legless.”
“That’s enough!” Lacey said.
“More than enough,” Mickey muttered. “Half a glass.”
“You’re on parade,” Lacey said. “Kindly remember that.”
“The fact is, we’re bloody lost,” someone said.
“I don’t see why this couldn’t wait until morning,” another said. “Leave the box here. Perfectly safe.”
“Unthinkable,” Lacey said. But the idea provoked discussion.
“Nothing’s safe out here,” Mickey said. “Some thieving Russki might steal him in the night, open the box, heart attack.”
“Now there’s two bodies. Doesn’t look good.”
“Got the makings of an international incident.”
“Diplomatic uproar. High-level complaints. All because of you, Lacey.”
“Only one complaint matters,” Lacey said, “and that’s Jeremy Bellamy’s. We are here to send it to the lowest level. If you want a second opinion, smell the coffin.” Nobody moved. “Very wise.”
A plenny came out of the night. Maynard was behind him, waving his rifle. “About time,” Lacey said.
“I had the devil of a job persuading him to leave the train,” Maynard said. “He thought I was going to shoot him. I couldn’t explain because… I couldn’t.”
The plenny hurried to his comrades. There was much gesturing and excited talk and finally suppressed laughter. The plenny went back to Maynard and saluted, and pointed into the night. The funeral party set off. “We nearly didn’t find you,” Maynard said. “One of your lamps is on its last legs.”
“I know,” Lacey said. “It’s one of the few things I do know.”
“Perhaps it’s low on fuel.”
“Perhaps. We’re all rather low on fuel, Maynard. All except for poor Bellamy, who’s empty, so let’s put him to rest, shall we?”
Maynard knew that tone of voice. He had often heard it from parents and schoolmasters and, more recently, adjutants. It meant: If that’s the best you can say, then shut up.
Ten minutes of wandering finally paid off, and they found the place.
The plennys laid Bellamy on the grass at one end of the grave and the sergeant gave them two long straps of khaki webbing. They slid the straps under the coffin. Two plennys stood on each side and wrapped the webbing around their fists.
Lacey opened Brazier’s copy of the British Army Pocket Book, 1917, and knew at once that the Burial Service was too long. He cut to the middle and read: “Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live,
and is full of misery.” (Total tosh, he thought. No R.A.F. squadron is full of misery. Not even half-full.) “He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.” (Some truth in that.) He looked up and made a vaguely priestly gesture towards the grave.
The plennys tightened their grip, lifted the coffin, and began to shuffle sideways. All the earth had been thrown out on one side, and the pile left little space to walk. The light was poor; the unhappy lamp was flickering more violently and making smoke. But the plennys got there in the end. The coffin was poised over the hole. They looked at Lacey. He pointed downwards and they began to pay out the webbing. “For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy…” (He didn’t show Bellamy much mercy, did He?) “… to take unto himself the soul of our brother here departed…”
A plenny cried out. Lacey looked up. The coffin was out of sight. The plenny was standing on the narrow edge and the earth was crumbling under his feet. As he struggled, his hands lost their grip. The strap raced away in a flourish of release. One end of the coffin hit the bottom of the grave with a sombre thud, and he tumbled after it. The other plennys let go, and the coffin made a much louder thud. The fallen plenny scrambled out. “Earth to earth,” Lacey said, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Sergeant! Carry on.”
“Firing party!” the sergeant roared. “Prepare to fire! Charge your rifles! Aim your rifles! Fire!”
It would have been too much to expect a concerted, impressive volley. Merlin Squadron was not the Grenadier Guards. The night was cold, trigger-fingers were chilled, the weapons were unfamiliar. The volley went off like a firecracker, a shapeless ragbag of shots. Given the rest of the accidents, it was a suitable farewell to Bellamy.
Each of the British guests was seated next to a Russian officer. The first course might have been stuffed trout. Hard to tell, when it was covered in white sauce and stuffed with caviare. Whatever it was, they all enjoyed it, with plenty of vodka, essential because toasts kept being proposed and then everyone stood and drank. Warm patriotic greetings came from all parts of the table and they too had to be acknowledged. In vodka.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Wragge told Brazier. “I think I’m acquiring it, Uncle.”
“Don’t spill it on your skin, lad. You’ll carry the scar to the grave.”
Hare stuffed with chestnuts came next. Roast parsnips and hot buttered mushrooms accompanied it. There was a very dry white wine, which was not a substitute for vodka. The toasts continued.
“Are there a lot of hares in Russia?” Oliphant asked Count Borodin.
“Not as many as there were last week.”
Baked mutton was sliced by the chefs alongside the table. It was as tender as butter, and went well with sweet cabbage. The wine was red and peppery.
“Not to your taste?” Hackett said to Griffin. “Off your feed?”
“Reached my limit. Got to watch my weight.”
Next was roast duck with a different kind of caviare and small new potatoes. Followed by quail stuffed with apricots. Followed by fluffy pancakes enriched with flaked ham. Followed by… Griffin didn’t care. He waved it away and sipped his vodka while he smiled at everyone. His face ached from smiling. Russia was nothing to smile at.