“I know I’m going to regret this,” Brazier said to Jessop, “but what’s the connection with an adjutant called Mudd?”
“Oh… chaps used to phone him up and say, ‘Is your name Mudd?’ It’s a play on words, you see. A sort of pun. They thought it was frightfully clever. They were usually sozzled, of course.”
“Nothing to do with the commanding officer’s engagement, then.”
“Um… on the whole, no.”
“Totally irrelevant, in fact.”
“Don’t rub it in, Uncle. I wish I’d never mentioned it.”
Lacey came in. “Mentioned what?”
Jessop took a large bite of toast. “Crunch crunch crunch,” he said. “And don’t try to deny it.”
Brazier turned to the C.O. “The floor is yours, sir.”
“I’m engaged to Flight Lieutenant Perry,” Hackett said. “We intend to marry as soon as possible. We’ll give a celebration party for the squadron tonight.”
Brazier led the applause. “By a happy coincidence,” Lacey said, “I found several cases of Russian champagne in the stores.” Much louder applause. “Ideal for what Count Borodin calls a prazdik, which is a Russian beano with all the stops pulled out. Should I invite the whole squadron to the prazdik, sir?”
“Of course. We’ll have a bloody great prazdik.” He relaxed. He was a squadron leader, he was engaged, he was popular. “Breakfast!” he said.
Lacey waited until the C.O. had finished eating, and then murmured: “Fresh signals from the Military Mission. Marked confidential.”
Hackett wiped his mouth and gave the napkin to Chef. “Damn good scoff,” he said. “More strength to your elbow.” To Lacey: “Lead on.”
Wragge watched them go. “Getting engaged has done that man a power of good,” he said. “He should do it more often. Well, another day of toil awaits us, so we might as well start. Who has the cards?”
Fifteen minutes later he was holding a handsome full house, aces on jacks, when Lacey interrupted the game. Meeting in the C.O.’s compartment, now. Flight leaders, adjutant and Count Borodin.
“You have just robbed me of enough roubles to stuff an ox,” Wragge said. “And with what’s left over you could have stuffed Daddy Maynard too.”
“I’m unstuffable,” Maynard said. “I’m a Man of Steel.” But by then, Wragge had left. Still, Maynard was pleased. He wouldn’t have said that a month ago.
The C.O. was full of fizz. “All here?” he said. “I’ve spoken to Borodin, he’ll be back in a minute. Don’t sit down, this won’t last that long. The war’s on the move at last. Denikin has attacked and his armies have broken the Reds on all fronts. He’s advancing like a tidal wave. The British Military Mission has moved out of Ekat. It’s now at Taganrog, so that’s where we’re heading, lickety-split. Our orders are to join Denikin’s spearhead and knock hell out of the Bolos. It’s our chance to…” He stopped when Borodin came in. “I asked the count to galvanize the locomotive crews. I want to see us barrelling down the track to Taganrog, not limping along at twenty miles an hour. Did they agree?”
“Not as such,” Borodin said. “No.”
“Double pay? You told them?”
“Yes. Their answer was that twenty-five is the absolute safe maximum. They said the locomotives are overdue for servicing. They wouldn’t budge.”
“I’ll budge them. They’re lazy buggers and they want an easy life. Adjutant, put a man with a revolver on the footplate of each locomotive. I’ll take charge of the Marines’ train. We’ll go first. We set the pace. The rest of you — keep up. We’re going to catch this war while it’s still hot. All clear? Good. Carry on.”
They left, except for Wragge.
“I’m glad to see you firing on all cylinders,” Wragge said. “You were beginning to look like Griffin Mark Two, eating broken glass for breakfast.”
“Oh…” The idea made Hackett chuckle. “I wasn’t as bad as that, was I? Anyway, I’ve got a grip on this job now. I’m going to be busy, so… can you organize this prazdik for me?”
“Of course.”
“Make it memorable. Hackett’s prazdik. Give the whole damn squadron something to cheer its socks off about. Can you see my revolver? It’s lying around here somewhere… Ah. Thanks.”
Getting three trains on the move, none crowding the one in front, none falling far behind, was a process that could not be rushed. Hackett stood behind the driver and the stoker on the Marines’ train and urged them to work harder. He found the cord for the whistle and gave a few blasts. It didn’t improve the speed but it made him feel better. He was in the lead, where the C.O. should be.
Meanwhile, the rest of the squadron had little to do.
Lacey was in his radio room with Sergeant Stevens, the medic. “It’s none of my business,” Stevens said, “but that verse which you read so movingly at the funerals of the C.O. and Air Mechanic Henderson. Did you write it for the occasion?”
“A sombre ceremony. I thought something to boost the spirits… Yes, I was responsible. Shall I make some tea?”
“How did it begin? Now God be thanked…”
“From this day to the ending of the world.” Lacey busied himself with the Primus stove. “Is Fortnum’s Black Blend alright?”
“Yes. You pinched it, didn’t you? From Rupert Brooke.” Stevens waited, but Lacey was concentrating hard on getting the stove going. “And later you had a line, Was there a man dismayed? That’s definitely Tennyson. ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’.” Still Lacey fussed with the Primus. “And your splendid ending, Land of our birth, we pledge to thee,” Stevens said. “A masterstroke. Rudyard Kipling must be proud of it.”
At last Lacey turned to him. “I’m out of milk I’m afraid. War is hell, isn’t it?”
“You wouldn’t be the first. Every writer steals. You just did it more thoroughly than most. You pinched bits from all over and tacked them together.”
Lacey screwed up his face and stared at the empty steppe drifting by. “Not stealing. I adapted. Some of those poets are fairly second-grade, you know. I like to think I enhanced their work.”
Stevens found that funny. “You certainly enhanced that funeral. Compared with you, the Bible came in a poor second.”
Lacey returned to his Primus. “Brooke, Tennyson, Kipling,” he said. “Not the reading of the average sergeant in the Medical Corps. Where did you go to school?
“Winchester. Disgusting food, medieval plumbing, excellent library. And before you ask, I never wanted a commission. For reasons too tedious to explain.”
The kettle began to boil. “I have a lemon,” Lacey said. “Lemon is actually better than milk.”
“I may die,” Stevens said. “The Medical Corps is permanently exposed to disease. If I do, will you enhance my funeral?”
“Child’s play.” Lacey sliced the lemon. “All it takes is a raging talent.”
After about five miles, the locomotive crew had nudged the speed up to twenty-three miles an hour. The gauge was calibrated in kilometres, which meant Hackett had to do some mental arithmetic. Divide by three and multiply by two. The reckoning was a bit rough-and-ready, but it told Hackett they weren’t beating twenty-five. Probably not even touching it. This train wasn’t running, it was sleepwalking. Its crew needed to be roused. Hackett knew he could do it. He had enough enthusiasm for all of them.
He smiled. He grinned, until it hurt. He rapped the speed gauge and made up! up! up! gestures. He slapped the driver on the back, sang “Waltzing Matilda”, not that they understood, they could scarcely hear him above the din of the engine. He stood beside the stoker and applauded every shovelful of coal the man threw into the fire. He pointed urgently forward, he grinned and he nodded. They watched him warily. All foreigners were mad. This one acted crazy.