Kenny frowned, and made a decision. “It is time to stand and fight,” he said. He walked to the Nine and heaved the Lewis gun from the observer’s cockpit. A mechanic was running past when he saw Kenny and paused in surprise. “You,” Kenny said. “Bring spare drums.” He moved away, into an open space where he had freedom of fire.
The fighters strafed the Nine. As they passed overhead, Kenny braced himself and fired brief bursts, swinging his body again and again, until the line had passed and the Lewis was empty.
“New drum, please,” Kenny said. “You have to lead the target,” he explained to the mechanic. “Like shooting grouse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man. Look and learn, look and learn. You’re doing a fine job, laddy.”
“They’re coming back, sir.”
Only a very strong man could handle a Lewis gun as if it were a rifle, and even Kenny’s arms were getting tired. The Red fighters circled, and attacked again, and this time they strafed Kenny and bowled him over while he still had a full drum. They strafed his mechanic, too.
“Courage above and beyond the call of duty,” the adjutant said. “Complete indifference to his personal safety. Resolution in the face of overwhelming odds. Look, I’ve written it down. Ah, thank you, Chef.” He took a black coffee and poured a slug of rum into it.
Hackett and Oliphant read the adjutant’s notes. The three men were alone in the dining car. “I suppose it’s one point of view,” Oliphant said. “The other is he was a bloody idiot.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“If you ask me, he was doolally,” Hackett said. “I’ve seen it coming. Several screws loose.”
“Not Griffin, you fools. Nobody in London will lose any sleep over Griffin. Casualty of war. Might have been knocked down by a tramcar. But Colonel Kenny V.C., killed here, on the premises, that’s what we have to sort out.” He rapped the table. “Think, for God’s sake. He’ll probably have a memorial service in Westminster Abbey. You must get it right.”
“I never saw it. I was miles away,” Hackett said.
“Beside the point. You still have to sign the report. You command the squadron now.”
Oliphant groaned, and put his head in his hands. “This is all a bad dream,” he muttered. “Too much vodka.”
“Why me?” Hackett said. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You’re senior officer,” Brazier said. “Acting squadron leader, with effect from now. It’s all in King’s Regulations.” He waved the book. “Write a draft report. Lacey will polish it.”
“Hackett can’t write,” Oliphant said. “He can barely speak. He counts on his fingers. He’s a Colonial, for God’s sake.”
“Squadron leader, you say,” Hackett said to the adjutant.
“Paid.” Brazier finished his coffee, and stood. “Must go. Bodies to organize.”
They watched him leave. “I wouldn’t have come to Russia if I’d known you were going to be in charge,” Oliphant said. “All of a sudden the squadron’s gone to pot.”
“Look on the bright side, Olly. When I get killed, you get command. Now shut up or I’ll clap you in irons. We Australians are good at doing that. The bloody English showed us how.” Hackett sat back, feeling oddly satisfied. He looked out, at the endless, changeless steppe. He was master of all he surveyed. It wasn’t worth a damn, but it was all his. “Olly,” he said. “Get hold of Lacey.”
“Can’t,” Oliphant said. “He’s not here. And you’re corrupted by power already. I suppose you learnt that from the English too.”
There was little the adjutant could do about the bodies.
Colonel Davenport’s men had reached Griffin’s wreck first and thrown buckets of water at it, but they were far too late: nothing could reverse the impact of the crash and the fierceness of the fire. They shovelled up what looked as if it had been human, piled it on a stretcher, covered it with an old gas cape and carried it to a hangar. Davenport sent a Union Jack to go over the cape. Dammit, the C.O. deserved some recognition.
The bigger problem was Colonel Kenny. He too lay on a stretcher in the same hangar. Twin machine guns of several Red fighters had raked the body and killed it ten times over. Brazier was not affected by the sight of multiple wounds; he had seen a lot worse; but these legs were knock-kneed and the feet were pigeon-toed, and that looked silly on such a big man. He tried to straighten them but they flopped back to their unsoldierly position. Someone had thoughtfully covered the face with Kenny’s Glengarry, and Brazier did not move it.
The dead mechanic was in a similar state, but he was no problem: he would soon go underground. Kenny was different. Brazier sent for the medical sergeant and waited in the fresh air.
“Here’s the thing,” he told the medic. “The big lad in the kilt had a V.C., and he’s got to go to London. In a coffin. Smelling of roses.”
“Contrary to nature, sir.”
“Suppose we got him to Salonika. Fast express to Calais, ferry to Dover…”
The medic was shaking his head. “That’s a week at least. He’d stink bad enough to stun an elephant. This heat, two elephants.” He saw what the adjutant was thinking. “Embalming, sir. I don’t do it. Wouldn’t know where to start.”
“No more would I, sergeant. When Nelson died at Trafalgar, they pickled him in salt and brought him home in a barrel.”
The medic took another look at Kenny. “Bloody big barrel, sir.”
The adjutant nodded sadly, and walked away. Bloody V.C.s, he thought. Raving lunatics when they’re alive and a thundering nuisance when they’re dead.
Most of the squadron was sitting in the shade of the train when the Chevrolet came in sight. Borodin made the car backfire twice, just to let everyone know, and he stopped where everyone could see it. The dust made by the wheels drifted away. Nobody got up.
“Less than delirious,” Lacey said.
“I must say I expected mild applause,” Borodin said. “Perhaps even a glad huzzah or two.”
“Maybe they’ve been worried sick about us,” Duncan said. “Too full to speak.”
They all got out of the car. Oliphant stood up and walked towards them. “I’d written you off,” he said. “We couldn’t find any wreckage.”
“It’s a long story,” Pedlow said.
“I started doing the paperwork. Next-of-kin, and so on.”
“Tell you what,” Duncan said. “We’ll go back and die, and then you can get on with your paperwork.”
“Don’t joke about it. We’ve got enough funerals without yours too.”
“Who’s dead?” Lacey asked. “Besides Bellamy.”
“Bellamy’s gone?” Pedlow said. “You might have told us.”
“You had rather a lot on your mind,” Lacey said. “And you fell asleep. Then we had tea, and that didn’t seem the right moment.”
A few other pilots had joined them. “You had tea?” Tommy Hopton said. “Is that where you’ve been all this time? Drinking tea?”
“Stroke of luck,” Pedlow said. “Found this Russian tea shop. Damn good cream buns. Recommended.”
“I could do with a drink,” Duncan said.
“Well, you can’t go into the bar looking like that,” Oliphant said. “How did you get so filthy? Where did you spend the night? And what’s that curious smell?”
“Another long story,” Pedlow said. “Russian village. Simple folk. Bit short on plumbing.”
“They wanted to chop his bollocks off,” Duncan said.
That caused some laughter. “Was this in the tea shop?” Hopton asked. “I hope they let you finish your cream bun.”
“On a point of fact,” Borodin said. “Gerard himself was meant to perform the act, not the villagers. They would provide the knife.”