Nobody had much to say about Russia because nobody knew much about the Russians. Griffin said the Bolshies needed to be taught a lesson, and that was good enough. There were chaps from all over the British Empire in his squadron, and the Empire was good at keeping the natives in line. None better.
A major from the British Military Mission to Denikin (D.E.N.M.I.S.) climbed onto a broken packing case that was leaking puttees, khaki, infantry, for the use of, and raised his megaphone. The dockside at Novorossisk was loud with the bangs and whistles of unloading freighters.
“Keep together!” he shouted. “Put your luggage on that wagon. It will be safe. It has an armed guard. Keep together and follow me! Do not speak to any civilians. Beware pickpockets. Do not buy, sell or exchange anything. Ignore all corpses, beggars, prostitutes, Frenchmen and mad dogs. Keep together! Follow me!” He climbed down.
The sky was gloomy grey to the horizon and it leaked bits of rain that stung like hail. The wind was from the north, fierce and cold as charity.
The pilots climbed onto two lorries. Bellamy found himself sitting next to the major. “Somewhat chilly for the time of year, sir,” he said.
“About normal. Gets a damn sight colder. Sea of Azov is still frozen.”
“My goodness.”
“You don’t know where that is, do you?”
“Um… to be brutally honest, no sir.”
“Offshoot of the Black Sea. Between us and the Crimea. Hundred and fifty miles across. Solid ice.”
“Heavens. We were led to expect something more like the French Riviera, sir.”
The major hadn’t smiled since he came to Russia and he saw no reason to start now; but he looked at Bellamy and allowed his eyelids to sink a little. “Russia has two seasons. Too bloody cold and too bloody hot. Who told you that French Riviera twaddle?”
“The C.O., sir. But I’m sure he was misinformed.”
“You’re sure, are you? Congratulations. You’re the only person in this bloody country who’s sure of anything.” Already the major was tired of Bellamy. He looked away.
In the other lorry, Jessop and Wragge were trying to decide whether Novorossisk was a dump or a dead loss. “Look at the mud,” Jessop said. “The place is all mud. The streets are deep in mud. It’s supposed to be the biggest port in these parts and everywhere you look it’s mud.”
“But it’s busy. Crowds of people.”
“All mud-coloured. Maybe that’s what they export: mud.”
“Some of them are waving at us. And cheering. Holding flags. So it’s not a dead loss, is it?”
They waved back. Nothing extravagant. A nod and a smile to the grateful natives.
“I’ve just seen a man eating a slice of mud,” Jessop said. “If it wasn’t that, it was a portion of rhubarb crumble, which seems unlikely, don’t you think?”
The lorries splashed through potholes and delivered them to the Novorossisk headquarters of the British Military Mission, in a requisitioned girls’ school. Servants took their caps and greatcoats, brushed them down as if they were prize stallions, and showed them to the cloakrooms. The washbasins were small and low, but the water was hot and more servants stood by with towels, and bottles of hair lotion from Trumper of Bond Street, and boot-polishing requisites to offer a quick brush-up to such footwear as was less than officer-like. Then to lunch.
The dining-room walls were hung with group photographs of unsmiling girls, immaculately dressed in school uniform. So there had been a time when Novorossisk was not entirely made of mud. A portrait picture of the headmistress, with eyes that could penetrate sheet steel at fifty yards, looked down on the crowd of young men drinking sherry. They were many, and a lot of sherry was going down. Lunch at the Mission was clearly an important occasion.
The airmen joined in. A tall, hawk-nosed flight lieutenant called Oliphant, balding and therefore looking older than his twenty-three years, was sinking his second sherry and looking for a servant with more, when Griffin prodded his ribs. “Spread the word, Olly. I’ve just got orders. We entrain to somewhere called Ekaterinodar this afternoon. Off to the wars! Bloody good, eh?”
Lunch was a leisurely affair and excellent. Nobody seemed in a hurry to get back to work. Each pilot had been seated among the hosts. “We don’t get many visitors,” a chubby captain said. His hair was dark blond, as sleek as beaten gold. He stopped a passing waiter. “Rudyard, my dear fellow… Bring butter. Quantities of butter. And fresh mustard. This mustard is medieval. Now be off with you!” He clapped his hands.
Pilot Officer Maynard watched this. He was nineteen, looked seventeen, shaved twice a week whether he needed it or not. “Is his name really Rudyard?” he asked. It was a safe question.
“It is now. He’s what we call a plenny. We have lots of them. Plennys are Russian prisoners-of-war, deserters mainly, quite safe, they make jolly good servants. This one’s Russian name sounds like someone knitting with barbed wire, so we call him Rudyard. He likes it, he’s a happy man, didn’t like fighting for the Bolos. Bolsheviks,” he said before Maynard could ask. “We call them Bolos. What they call us I don’t know. Never met one. Poisonous lot, by all reports. Eat with their mouths open, I expect. You know the sort.”
“You don’t see much of the Front, I take it,” Hackett said.
The captain looked startled. “Good grief, no. We’re the Supplies Mission. The warriors are all up-country. We make sure the ship unloads its cargo. Once the goods are on the quay they belong to Denikin’s lot. Russian responsibility, not ours. What brings you to Novo, may I ask?”
“We’re Royal Air Force,” Maynard said.
“Pilots.” Hackett pointed to his wings. “We fly.”
“Ah, yes. Balloons. Spotting for the guns.”
“Aeroplanes. Scouts, I hope.”
“Flying machines. How amusing. My advice is, do lots of stunts. The Russians will be tremendously impressed. They admire anything modern enormously. Looping the loop, and so on.”
Hackett breathed deeply and ripped a piece of bread in half. Maynard said: “The docks were awfully busy. Is all that stuff for the Russian troops?”
“So my sergeant tells me. I stay away from there. Can’t speak the language, for a start. I write reports.”
“How amusing,” Hackett said through a mouthful of bread.
“Keeps the general happy,” the captain said. “Thing I learned in France, you can’t have too many good reports. And if I say it myself, I’m jolly good at it. Ah… butter. And mustard. Bully for you, Rudyard. Now be about your business, my boy.”
Griffin had been given a seat at the top table, next to the Mission Commandant, an amiable brigadier who told him he wouldn’t have any trouble with the Russians provided he remembered his status. “Training and maintenance, old chap, that’s what we’re here for. Help the White Russians fight, but stay out of the scrap. Advise but don’t intervene. What’s the name of your outfit?”
“Hasn’t got a name, sir. Just an R.A.F. squadron. Should have a number, but…”
“Better off without one, in my opinion. Put a foot wrong, and some base-wallah in London knows who to blame. Ah, soup.”
Griffin supped his soup. “A squadron’s like a club, sir. Pilots like to belong to something. I know numbers are out, but still… In France, there was an outfit called Hornet Squadron. Stung a lot of Huns.”