SUICIDE. THAT’S A BIT STEEP
Wragge came out of a bad dream. He was being chased by a mob of Russian thugs and running for his life to catch a droshky that was driving away from him, mocking him with its clip-clop of hooves. They never grew fainter, never louder, always just beyond his reach. He awoke, wet with sweat and stiff with effort, and as he relaxed he knew the noise was the click of train wheels on track. The squadron was on the move. His squadron.
He got out of bed and towelled his head dry. His mouth was lined with old sandpaper. He opened a window and poked his head into the stream of cool air. It was dawn, and they were leaving Taganrog. He sucked deep lungfuls of health-giving air and felt his body slowly come alive. The window of the next Pullman car opened and Maynard looked out. “We’re off again,” he said.
“Well done, Daddy,” Wragge said. “You always were the bright one.” He heard movement behind him and went back inside. It was his plenny, Fred. “Black coffee, Fred. Beaucoup de sugar. And get me a new head while you’re at it.” His plenny blinked. “Forget the head. Get coffee. Black. Big.” Fred understood that.
Wragge was brushing his teeth when the adjutant arrived. “I didn’t think you’d want to see this last night,” he said. “It’s your orders from Mission H.Q.” The buff envelope was large and heavy.
“You read them, Uncle. I’ve been suddenly struck blind.”
“That’s not the form, Tiger. The C.O. reads the C.O.’s orders.”
Wragge rinsed his mouth, and spat. “This train makes a good speed, doesn’t it? Hackett would have approved.”
Brazier had nothing to say about that. It was not his job to make small talk with the C.O. in his pyjamas. “I’ve cleared all his effects from his Pullman,” he said.
“You must be getting good at that.” Wragge weighed the envelope in his hand. “I didn’t come to Russia to read tons of bumf, Uncle.”
“We must all make the best of a bad job.”
Wragge wondered. Did that mean he was a bad job? His plenny arrived with coffee. Brazier left. Wragge opened the envelope. He flicked through the contents fast and made them into three piles: squadron orders; strategic view of the war; and Russian politics. He sent for Count Borodin and Lacey.
“Squadron orders stay with me,” he said. “You take a look at the rest. Count, you get Russian politics. Lacey has the war strategy stuff. Just skim through it. No hurry. I’ll just shave and get dressed.”
After twenty minutes he fixed his collar stud and adjusted his tie. “Time’s up. What’s the score, Lacey?”
“Reports on all fronts of the war. About Admiral Kolchak’s campaigns in Siberia, it says results are difficult to estimate, which means…”
“Nobody knows,” Wragge said. “And nobody’s holding their breath.”
“About the North Army at Murmansk, it says morale is good, however the outcome has yet to be decided, meaning…”
“Nobody knows,” Wragge said. “But we’re not winning.”
“In Estonia, next to Petrograd, an ugly piece of work called General Yudenitch aims to be a new Ivan the Terrible. The report describes him as staunch and unswerving, translated as brutal and ruthless. Will he win? H.Q. is observing the situation closely.”
“Because nobody knows. And Estonia can’t conquer Russia, so it’s Denikin or nothing, isn’t it?”
“They’re quite candid about Denikin. His goal of a One and Undivided Russia is a brave gamble, they say.”
“He’s a reactionary,” Borodin said. “A good soldier but a woeful politician. Can’t administer the territory he captures. Doesn’t even try.”
“H.Q. speaks highly of the generals on his flanks,” Lacey said. “Wrangel on the right and Mai-Mayevski on the left.”
“They hate each other,” Borodin said. “Mai-Mayevski is useless when drunk, which is often.”
“Nevertheless,” Wragge said, “Denikin’s armies have smashed the Reds and he’s off and running for Moscow. Where is his Front?”
“Situation fluid,” Lacey said. “Opinions vary.”
“What an odd war. Nobody knows anything. Oh, well. What has H.Q. to say about Russian politics, Count?”
“They copied it from the Encyclopaedia Britannica,” Borodin said, “which has long since been overtaken by events. For instance, the Britannica and H.Q. say the peasants are ignorant of Western civilization, hence the power of the nobility. But the peasants have taken their estates and the nobility have no power. Whoever wrote this doesn’t understand the Revolution.”
“Too deep for me, old boy,” Wragge said. “And I don’t really give a damn. We get paid to biff the Bolos and that’s all that matters. Incidentally, I’ve decided to make Dextry the new Camel Flight leader. Count, you’ll fly the replacement Camel, after you’ve had a little training.”
“Thanks awfully.”
“Why are we stopping?”
Lacey went to the window. “We’re in a siding. Why, I have no idea.”
The answer soon became obvious. Expresses thundered past, one after another. “This is absurd,” Wragge said. “We have priority status. My orders say everything makes way for us. But look!” More high-speed trains sped by.
“The railway authorities make these decisions,” Borodin said. “I rather think they told your Mission H.Q. what H.Q. wished to hear. It was an untruth, of course.”
Wragge stared. “That’s absolutely bloody ludicrous.”
Borodin nodded. “Puzzling for strangers, but not at all uncommon in Russia.”
“God speed the plough.” Wragge looked at Lacey, but Lacey had rolled the Strategic Overview into a tube and was softly blowing into it. “Thank you,” Wragge said. “That’s all.”
Borodin and Lacey left the train and stood in the sunshine. Half the squadron was out there, kicking a football about. Kid, the mascot, was eating young thistles.
“You hate the Reds,” Lacey said. “Ghastly lot of murderers.”
“You have no idea just how ghastly. Not yet.”
“Quite. But you despise the White leaders.”
“They want the old days back again. Greedy and stupid.”
“Well, that’s what puzzles me. You accept the Revolution, yet fight the Bolsheviks. Why is that?”
“Look at me, Lacey.” Borodin spread his arms. “The Imperial Empire made me. It was a scarecrow with a crown on its turnip head, but it made me, it raised me, it was all I knew. I am a member of that tribe, and sometimes a man has to fight for his tribe.”
“Even when he fears it won’t win?”
“Even when he knows it must lose.” Borodin smoothed his tunic. “And that is the last we shall ever speak of such things.”
The locomotive whistle gave a warning blast. Men began climbing aboard. “Off to the wars,” Lacey said. “Shall we have an aperitif before lunch?”
The squadron reached the town of Makeyevka late in the afternoon. They had covered ninety-four miles, much of it spent waiting in sidings. The drivers decided they had done enough.
Wragge asked the adjutant to assemble the whole squadron on the station platform — everyone, including ground crews and Marines. “We left the Marines at Tag,” Brazier said. “H.Q. said we shan’t need them. Denikin’s staff will send an armoured train to protect us. Apparently the main danger is from enemy armoured trains.”
“I see. How do we tell the difference between ours and theirs?”
Brazier looked at his watch. “Gracious. Is that the time? I’d better get the troops on parade.”