“A nickname,” the brigadier said. “Let’s see: bees, wasps, termites. No. You want something Russian. A bird? Charles is our resident birdwatcher. Charles! We need a good Russian bird. Something exciting. No sparrows, no pheasant.”
Charles, a tall, tanned lieutenant, didn’t hesitate. “Goshawks, sir. Goshawks are everywhere.”
“Goshawk has been taken already,” Griffin said.
“Oh. Well, I’ve seen larks, some tawny owls, magpie, and of course great tits in abundance. Very handsome.”
“Great Tit Squadron,” Griffin said. “That’s asking for trouble.”
“Bigger and tougher,” the brigadier told Charles.
“Um… let’s see… golden eagles? They’re all over Russia. No? What about the great bustard? Lots of them on the steppes, although I suppose the name is unfortunate. Might lead to jokes in bad taste.” Charles thought hard. “Doesn’t leave much, I’m afraid.” Then he brightened. “Merlin. I’ve seen merlin. Bird of prey, small but dashing, chases and kills other birds.”
“Merlin Squadron,” Griffin said. “Yes. Merlin Squadron.”
“Thank you, Charles,” the brigadier said. “I’ll put you in for a D.S.O.”
Griffin turned to Oliphant. “The squadron’s got a name. Merlin Squadron. Bird of prey. Like a hawk. Merlin Squadron. Pass it on.”
“Certainly, sir. Good choice.” Oliphant was sitting next to an elderly lieutenant with a faded M.C. ribbon. “We’ve got a name. Merlin Squadron,” he told him. “We’re going to somewhere called Ekaterinodar. Not far, I believe.”
“It’s seventy miles, and it’s over the mountains. Last time I went there the trip took fourteen hours. My advice is: eat hearty.” He signalled a waiter. “More soup for this officer… No dining cars on your train. No heat, no lavatories, broken windows, first class means you might get a seat with springs to poke you in the rump. Plenty of bugs. And plenty of life in the bugs.”
“Seventy miles,” Oliphant said. “Fourteen hours.”
“The mountains are steep, old boy. The locomotive has to take a little rest now and then. If you feel like a walk, get out, stretch your legs, have a pee, pick some flowers. Not yet, of course, too bloody cold for flowers. Travel in this frightful country is a far cry from taking tea on the Brighton Belle.” A waiter poured red wine. “Everything’s a far cry. Cheers.”
Oliphant drank, and finished his soup and got to work on the second bowl. “Ekaterinodar,” he said. “Near the fighting?”
“Hard to say. The war tends to wander about. Tell you one thing: the place is stiff with typhus, smallpox, enteric fever, malaria, influenza, you name it. I wouldn’t linger there, if I were you.”
Oliphant thought the man might be slightly drunk, or perhaps he was inventing these horrors, feeding tall tales to the new boys. He ate a big lunch and he said nothing to Griffin. And then the squadron shook hands and thanked everyone and was trucked to the station, where their train was late and turned out to be even slower and dirtier and colder than the lieutenant had said. The mountains were magnificent but scenic splendour was no substitute for heat.
The pilots spent a bitterly cold and hungry night, and reached Ekaterinodar in time for breakfast. They assembled on the platform, yawning and stamping. Griffin sent Wragge to find the station canteen. He came back, shaking his head. “Bloody awful language,” he said. “Either the Russians don’t eat breakfast, or they do and they’ve eaten it all. Take your pick.”
“Jessop,” Griffin said sharply. “For Christ’s sake stop scratching.”
“I’m being eaten for breakfast, sir,” Jessop said. “The little Russian bastards think I’m bacon and eggs.”
Griffin looked around. All he could see was a wall with signs and posters in a garbled and incoherent alphabet, and a drifting crowd of civilians, rich and poor, carrying what mattered most to them, whether it was a live chicken or a sable overcoat; and bunches of soldiers with faces from a dozen races, all wearing a mix of tired uniforms and all bearing the shut-in defensive look of an army that has been given too many stupid orders and is wary of hearing more.
“No point in standing here looking stupid,” Griffin said. “I’m going to find the H.Q.” He pointed at Hackett. “You’re in command.” They watched him disappear into the crowd. A minute passed.
“We could eat Maynard,” Dextry said. “He’s fresh.”
They looked at Maynard, who frowned hard.
“Not without roast potatoes,” Jessop said. “I couldn’t stomach Maynard without roast spuds.”
“Here’s a funny joke,” Dextry said. “What is a roast potato and six bottles of Guinness?” Nobody cared. “A seven-course meal in Ireland,” he said. Nobody laughed. “I can change the potato to boiled cabbage, if you like.” Nobody spoke. “In that case, you can all go and piss in your hats,” he said.
“Salvation!” Hackett announced. He waved his cap. “Here comes God Almighty.”
A captain wearing a brassard with the letters R.T.O. cut through the mob. He was the Railway Transport Officer. He knew all, commanded all, permitted this, denied that. “Burridge,” he said. “Are you Major Burridge?” He squinted at the unfamiliar badges of rank. “You’re not Burridge.” He made it sound like an accusation.
“Hackett, flight lieutenant. This is Merlin Squadron, R.A.F.”
“No.” He rapped his gloved knuckles on his clipboard. “Got no authority for you. Don’t exist here. What’s your transit priority number?” Fifty yards away, another train was arriving with a screech of brakes and a gush of steam. People rushed towards it; hundreds of people.
Hackett heard the hoarseness in the captain’s throat and saw the weariness in his eyes. This man had been on duty all night and few things had gone right for him. “God knows our number,” Hackett said. “But we’re here, and we need your help.”
“So you say. Without authority…” The clipboard got another rap. “Not my problem.” As he turned to leave, Hackett grabbed him above the elbow. Hackett’s fingers could unscrew a rusty nut from a corroded bolt as if they were opening a jar of jam, and they found a nerve in the captain’s arm. “We’ll go for a walk,” he said gently. “You and me and Wragge.”
The R.T.O. could stand on his dignity as pain flowered down his arm, or he could walk. The pain reached his fingers and he dropped his clipboard. He walked.
The others watched them go. “Fat chance,” Jessop said. “We don’t exist. Starve to death for all he cares.” All around, men were sitting down.
Hackett stopped when the squadron was out of sight. With his free hand he had unbuttoned his greatcoat and opened the flap of his holster and now he took out the revolver. As he released his grip on the R.T.O.’s arm, he raised the gun and tickled him under the chin with it, until the man looked him in the eyes. “Mr Wragge will explain,” he said.
“These men are not soldiers,” Wragge said. “They are intrepid aviators, cavalry of the clouds, knights of the sky. They don’t understand the regulations that are meat and drink to you. They have spent all night in a freezing, stinking, crawling Russian train and now they want breakfast. If I tell them otherwise they will kill you, and then me. Is that reasonable?”
“You’re mad. You’re raving.”
“So we have three options. First, Hackett here could shoot himself. He’s desperate enough. Wouldn’t let you off the hook, though. Second, he could shoot you. The boys would like that.” Now the muzzle was tickling the R.T.O.’s ear. “Please them enormously, that would. Or third, we could shoot that squalid peasant.” He pointed. Hackett used the revolver to turn the R.T.O.’s head.
A family of four squatted on the stone floor. They were like a thousand others: scrawny legs, hopeless faces, barefoot, dressed in tattered sheepskins, everything permanently dirty.