“Too decent for Russians, I’m afraid,” Borodin said. “We like a sport where you can cheat.”
“Decent cricket’s had its day,” Jessop said. “Indecent cricket, that’s the answer. Men and women, stark naked. Mixed teams. Yum-yum.”
“Better yet, forget the cricket altogether,” Dextry said. “Naked leapfrog.”
Maynard changed the subject. “I hear you’re our new flight leader.”
“Am I?” Dextry said. “Excellent choice. I’m the best-looking.”
“If you’re leading, we’re totally lost,” Jessop said.
“Never mind, Junk. It’s like Pass The Parcel in this squadron. You’re next.”
It was a pleasant stroll. The meadows were lush and sprinkled with wildflowers. They found the river, startled a heron, and watched its heavy wings beat slowly until it curved out of sight behind a tree.
“Reminds me of an FE2b,” Jessop said. “Pusher propeller, slow as treacle, lovely view of Huns licking their lips.”
“I crashed mine,” Dextry said. “Best thing I ever did for the Corps.” The conversation developed into a search for the worst aeroplane of the war, on either side. The river turned away and they walked on, aiming for the smoke, and angered a dozen crows, which rose in a black rage. They had been feeding on the carcase of a cow. The horns said it had to be a cow. There was little else left.
“Sloppy farming,” Maynard said. “Dead stock shouldn’t be left lying.”
They moved on, and maddened four more gangs of crows working over four more carcases.
“This is worse than sloppy,” Dextry said. “It’s bizarre.”
By now they were in sight of the smoke, and it wasn’t a farm: it was a village. “I don’t recommend going in,” Borodin said. “There’s nothing for us here.”
“We’ve come this far,” Dextry said. They went on.
It had been a typical Russian village, squat and unexciting, and now most of it was in ruins, destroyed by the fire that was still smoking. The airmen soon stopped looking: one body was much like another, slashed or battered or burnt.
“They’re all dead,” Maynard said.
“Not all,” Borodin said. “Stay here.”
A man was watching them. His skin and clothes were so dirty that he almost blended in with the blackened ruins. He was thin and frightened, ready to run. Borodin stopped when he was twenty feet away; they had a conversation. Borodin came back.
“He was at the river, fishing, when Nestor Makhno’s men came and took all the food. That was a week ago, maybe two. He can’t be sure. They killed a few old people for no reason. Just practising their anarchy. Later the Red Army came, hungry and angry of course. No food. Killed half the village. Then Denikin’s Whites came, like the Reds, looking for food. This chap hid in the woods. They killed the other half and burned the village. Who exactly slaughtered the cattle, nobody knows and it doesn’t matter now.”
“Appalling,” Dextry said.
“Multiply by a thousand. Armies live off the land.”
“We should give him some food,” Jessop said. “All I’ve got is the soap. Shall I give him that?” But the man had gone.
Nobody had much to say on the way back to the trains.
“How long has this been going on?” Maynard asked Borodin.
“Always. Armies must eat and generals cannot feed them.”
They went into The Dregs. “Get any butter?” Wragge asked.
“No luck,” Jessop said. “Early closing on Wednesdays.”
“It’s Friday today.”
“It’s Wednesday where they are. Also Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.” The anger in his voice made Wragge raise an eyebrow. “Go and see for yourself,” Jessop said. He turned and left.
At breakfast next day, the solitary aeroplane was back, and this time much lower. Wragge watched it through binoculars. “Looks like a Halberstadt. Two-seater, anyway.”
“Probably taking photographs,” Borodin said. “Red generals like to know if Denikin’s being reinforced.”
“If he’s snapped them, he’s snapped us too. Lacey! Any luck with your radio?”
“I raised Mission H.Q. Latest information is the Whites reached Belgorod, twenty or thirty kilometres from here, and might have captured it. Opinions vary.”
Wragge had planned an hour or two of test flights, to make sure the Camels were fit for combat. He scrapped that, he cut breakfast short, he got four Camels in the air, climbing hard. They left Borodin behind to learn how to start the engine, the first thing that Camel beginners cocked up.
It took them seven minutes to climb to five thousand feet. The factory said four minutes, but these were not factory-fresh Camels and Jessop’s engine was labouring. They climbed at the speed of the slowest machine and when they got there the Halberstadt had gone. Of course he had gone. Why hang around to let yourself be shot down?
“We put salt on his tail, anyway,” Wragge said aloud. Silly bloody expression. Made no sense. He marshalled his Flight into an echelon to starboard, Dextry, Maynard and Jessop, all widely spaced, with Jessop out where he would hit nobody if his engine suddenly failed, and they cruised north, following the railway.
The Camels rose and fell as gently as boats at sea in a slight swell. A friendly swell, Dextry thought, you can feel it but you can’t see it. Sometimes the magic of flying amazed him: the whole business seemed so improbable. Maynard was thinking this was just like one of those rare sunny, cloudless days in England. He looked down and Russia could be a map of Wiltshire: woods, rivers, lots of green, the occasional village. Full of murdered peasants, perhaps. Not so like England after all. He abandoned the map. Jessop was listening to his engine-roar and waiting for the cough. Also, he was hungry. He’d been about to enjoy an omelette when Wragge dragged them out of The Dregs. Chef made a damn good omelette and Jessop salivated at the memory. Wragge was half-thinking of his squadron-leader’s pay and half-remembering dancing with Cynthia in Taganrog before that thug had hit him. Nobody was searching the sky above for three chocolate-brown Spads that fell out of the blue. Wragge heard a faint pattering or rattling and saw bullet-strikes chasing across his lower port wing. “Hell’s teeth!” he shouted. Three brown shapes flashed past. By then his Camel was in a vertical bank to the right. Wragge kept turning and searched for fresh attacks. None. Clear blue sky. Empty. Thank you, God. He levelled out, looked down, saw three brown dots getting rapidly smaller. Double thank-you, God.
Dextry and Maynard found him. They had been hit: he saw strips of torn fabric flailing in the wind. No sign of Jessop. They flew home and caught up with him, much lower and slower. He made a forced landing alongside the tracks a mile from the trains, got out and waved.
Wragge let the others land first. Maynard bounced four times and the watching bomber crews all applauded. Dextry didn’t like his first approach and went around again. Wragge made a semi-decent job of landing although his rudder pedals felt heavy. He sat in the cockpit and wondered why any of them deserved to be alive.
His fitter arrived and undid his seat belt. “You’ve made holes in my nice aeroplane, sir,” the man said.
“Careless,” Wragge said. “Unforgivably careless.”
Nobody was hurt. Jessop’s machine was recoverable. They were all shaken, and disgusted at their folly. The post-mortem was brief. They’d been jumped by three single-seaters, looked like chunky Camels so they were probably Spads. Came and went like the hounds of hell. Didn’t want a scrap. Quick blast and gone.
Markings? Roundels? Colours?