The rush of escaping gases made the adjutant retreat a few paces. “You’ll need another uniform, won’t you?” he said. “I’ll fetch it.’
“Don’t hurry,” she said. “The stench tends to linger.”
Both flights assembled for dinner in the dining car. Conversation was sparse. Wragge and Oliphant, the flight leaders, discussed shows on the London stage. Oliphant spoke admiringly of “Chu Chin Chow”. Wragge recommended a revue at the Trocadero. They talked just loudly enough to avoid the discomfort of a total silence.
Then the new C.O. came in and they stopped. Everyone stood. Hackett reached his place at the top table but he did not sit. He said: “Pilot Officer Lacey will read a message I have sent to the Military Mission H.Q.”
“In single-handed combat against overwhelming odds,” Lacey began. His voice had the clarity of an actor with the gravity of an air marshal. Finest traditions… skill, audacity and resolution… ammunition was exhausted… gallantry remained unquenchable: phrases that made the younger pilots breathe deeply and stand tall.
“Wing Commander Griffin’s funeral will be at ten tomorrow,” Hackett said. “Together with that of Air Mechanic Henderson.” He waited five seconds: a decent interval. “Now let dinner be served.”
Chef had added a dash of sherry to the mushroom soup. Pedlow and Duncan each finished two bowls. Their concentration was impressive, and nobody interrupted them with conversation. Talk elsewhere was tentative and brief. “Merlin Squadron,” Maynard said. “Wasn’t there a wizard called Merlin?” Nobody cared to comment. Maynard gave up.
The Beef Wellington was a big success, and there was a local red wine which wasn’t claret but by God it punched above its weight. Everyone relaxed. Maynard forgot his Merlin failure and said: “Good Lord. Just realized. Today’s my birthday. I’m twenty.”
“Damn bad luck,” Wragge said. “The best is behind you, Maynard. Nothing left to look forward to but impending doom.”
“Marriage,” Jessop said bleakly. “Fatherhood. Children.”
“Deepest sympathy,” Dextry said. “Here’s to Daddy Maynard.” Everyone drank to that. Maynard squirmed, and felt his cheeks turn pink. “Daddy Maynard,” he muttered, trying to sound dismissive. Secretly he was pleased. He had a nickname. He was accepted.
Dominic Dextry saw Pedlow align his cutlery and lean back. His plate was empty. He looked content.
“I pinched your fly-rod, Pedders,” Dextry said. “And the reel.”
“You’re a beast.”
“I put them back.”
“A cowardly beast.”
“Well, the general opinion was that you were dead. Tommy Hopton had his greedy eye on the rod but I got in first.”
“I took your fountain pen instead,” Hopton said. “I suppose you want it back now. Doesn’t work, anyway. No ink. Where d’you hide your ink?”
Pedlow gave him a twisted smile. “Nowhere. It’s invisible ink. You’ll never find it. I hope that makes you feel really stupid.”
“Oh… shattered. Quite flattened.” Hopton closed one eye and squinted at him through the other. “Why would you wish to use invisible ink?”
“Damn the ink,” Dextry said. “Tell us about the crash.”
“Didn’t crash,” Pedlow said. “Not as such. What happened was, Russia was five feet higher than indicated on my altimeter. If Russia had been in the right place, fine, no problem, three-point landing. As it was, I wiped out the undercarriage.”
“Blame the instruments,” Duncan said.
“After that we lost the prop, most of the wings, the fuselage and the tail. But not the engine. We could have rebuilt the aeroplane. Joe had a hammer and a ball of string.”
“Then it caught fire,” Duncan said. “Not our fault. We were nowhere near. Hairy villager jumped on it and it burst into flames.”
“Hairy villager,” Hopton said. “Was he the one who wanted your private parts on a plate?”
“Oh, you know about that?” Pedlow said.
“The whole squadron knows.”
“They weren’t very private,” Duncan said. “Not in that village. They were on display at the drop of a hat.”
“They dropped their hats to expose themselves?” Dextry said. “What peculiar people. In Ireland they’d say you were away with the fairies.”
“Well, they were peculiar,” Duncan said doggedly. “They thought Gerry was an angel. Because of his wings.” That produced a roar of laughter. Duncan didn’t join in. He aimed a finger at Dextry. “It’s no dafter than half the stuff you Irish Catholics believe about seeing the Virgin Mary up a tree and so on.”
“Not guilty. Since Passchendaele, I’m an atheist.”
“That’s nothing. I’m a Protestant,” Pedlow said. “All my family are Ulster Protestants. The worst kind. Ulster Prods are never happy unless everyone’s miserable.”
Hackett murmured something to Oliphant. “No religion in the Mess,” Oliphant told them. “No religion, no politics, no women.”
“Not much left,” Dextry said. “Oh, well.” Brandied peaches had arrived. Then there was the unusually sharp Cheddar. They felt well fed and unworried now that Pedlow’s crash had become a big joke. They settled down to inventing nicknames. In the R.F.C., every good squadron had lots of nicknames. Drunken Duncan was a start. Jessop talked balls so he was Junk Jessop. Oliphant sounded like an elephant: Tusker Oliphant. Dextry had crashed so often he was called Wrecks. Or even Rex. Tiger Wragge was obvious. The adj was always Uncle.
Hackett wasn’t there to comment. He had left with Lacey. Nobody suggested giving Lacey a nickname. He was on the squadron but he wasn’t in the club.
“Uncle wants the colonel’s nurse to stay on as squadron doctor,” Hackett said. “You’ve got to be a captain to be an army doctor, haven’t you?”
“Commission her,” Lacey said. “Make her a flight lieutenant.”
“Can I do that? Yes, of course. Promoted in the field. Flight Lieutenant Perry. Good. I’ve done it.”
They were in Lacey’s radio room, drinking port while Lacey tried to open the despatch case, using a bunch of keys found in Kenny’s bedroom. “Nothing works,” he said.
“That bag’s damned heavy,” Hackett said. “He didn’t come here just to see we got paid.”
The adjutant came in, carrying his tunic, his sleeves rolled up. “Well, he’s cleaned and gutted and sewn up and preserved and dressed in his best and boxed up for London,” he said. “And I hope they say thank-you but I don’t suppose they will. Is that port?”
Lacey poured him a glass. “We’re stymied here. Maybe the colonel kept the key on his person.”
“We would have found it. She emptied him of everything that mattered. Also a lot that you don’t want to hear about. Nurse Perry is a godsend.”
“She’s Flight Lieutenant Perry,” Hackett said. “You’ve got your doctor. Now we need a locksmith. Is there a safe-cracker on the squadron?” Brazier shrugged.
“In the cinema,” Lacey said, “they just shoot the lock out.”
“It’s quarter-inch steel,” Brazier said. “A bullet would jam the mechanism.” His meaty fingers prodded the case. “Ox hide.” He opened a desk drawer and took out a trench knife. He hacked and slashed until the case fell open and despatches spilled onto the floor. “What you might call a short cut,” he said.
Much of the mail was routine, but Hackett picked out a heavy buff envelope, sealed with red wax, addressed to Griffin. Inside it was a smaller envelope marked SECRET. Inside that were orders for the squadron to proceed to Ekaterinoslav with all speed. “Good,” he said. “We’re leaving. Off to join Denikin’s mob. I’m getting tired of this place.”