Nobody saw. Just a flash of brown. After that… too busy dodging and weaving.
“They might have been learners,” Jessop said. “That’s why they did a bunk.”
“Might not have been Reds,” Maynard said. “Made a mistake and scooted.”
“We made the mistake,” Dextry said. “Four pairs of eyes and nobody saw.”
“Enough. Let’s learn,” Wragge said. “Learn what we’ve forgotten. The sky is one big man-trap. Red, White, striped, makes no difference. Every minute we’re flying we search for the bastard who’s up there waiting to make us flamers. We find him first, we kill him first. Just because the Bolos are going backwards doesn’t make them rabbits.”
“Even rabbits can bite,” Jessop said. “They’ve got those big rabbity teeth.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Dextry said wearily. “Don’t you ever engage your brain before you open your mouth?”
“We still have one good Camel,” Maynard said. “Borodin’s. Suppose one of us goes up and bags a Bolo? I mean, now. That would show them who’s boss, wouldn’t it? I volunteer.”
“Not today, Daddy,” Wragge said. “Today we lick our wounds. Tomorrow we’re out for blood.”
There was little for them to do. The Nines had all been test-flown. The Camels were being checked and patched and double-checked by ground crews in case a stray bullet had nicked a control wire. Wragge made his rounds (doctor, Lacey, adjutant, flight sergeants) and all was in order.
Borodin, coached by a fitter, had mastered starting the Le Rhône rotary. It was midday, and hot. The air would be bumpy. Wragge had served, briefly, as an instructor at training fields in England that were rich in graves of Camel pupils who had taken off and failed to react quickly when the engine faltered and the fine-adjustment lever on the throttle demanded instant attention. No dual-control Camels: the pupil went up with only his wits to help him. Stall, spin, crash: a three-step dance of death. Wragge had seen it too often, had paid his half-crowns for too many wreaths and written the same letter to too many parents. Rarely to wives who were widows. Few pupils married at eighteen. So Borodin’s first flight could wait.
The Number Nines had found the croquet set. Wragge took leave from the burden of command and challenged Tusker Oliphant to a match, the Toffs, or Camel pilots, versus the Peasants, or bomber louts. “No offence meant,” he said. Oliphant accepted. “We’ll win,” he said. “Losers to the guillotine.”
The turf was lumpy and the ground sloped in several directions. The smack of mallet on wooden ball was usually followed by a cry of, “Bad luck, old man.” Sometimes, “Jolly hard cheese.”
Lacey, Borodin and the squadron doctor came to watch. They sat in the back of the Chevrolet and drank white wine.
“This is a very old Russian sport,” Borodin said. “Genghis Khan played it on horseback. Lacking croquet balls, he used the severed heads of captured princes.”
“Not a gentleman,” Lacey said firmly.
“Explain.”
“No restraint. Greedy. Like a child in a sweetshop, wanting everything. Alexander the Great was another. Also our late C.O., Griffin.”
“Before my time,” Susan Perry said. “I caught the funeral.”
“He never really approved of me,” Borodin said. “I was a bloody foreigner.”
“We shouldn’t blame him,” Lacey said. “It’s all a matter of breeding. In his case, somewhat lacking.”
“Ah-ah,” she said. “The precious bloodline. How do you fit in, Lacey?”
“Comfortably. The Laceys go back many centuries.”
“So do I. So do we all.”
Borodin said. “Last time I looked, my lot went back fifty thousand years.”
“That’s not breeding,” Lacey said. “That’s reproduction.”
“Lacey’s a snob,” she said.
He gave her a crooked smile. “If I made the effort, I could be a clod, like most people,” he said. “But then, you wouldn’t get soft toilet paper, would you? Speaking of which, I had another signal from Mission H.Q. Their information is that Denikin has three squadrons of crack fliers helping his advance. All based on the aerodrome at Belgorod. Just a few miles from here.”
“What does Denikin say?”
“I can’t raise his H.Q. Perhaps they’re on the move. Perhaps they’re too busy fighting.”
“I tried tapping the telegraph line but it’s dead,” Borodin said. “Which makes me wonder: if we can’t talk to Denikin’s staff, where did the British Mission H.Q. get its information about three squadrons of crack fliers?”
“From Denikin’s Chief of Aviation. Colonel Subasnov was on a visit to Taganrog. Mission H.Q. said he was very helpful.”
A croquet ball bounced off a wheel of the car. Wragge strolled over, swinging his mallet at the larger wildflowers. “Who’s winning?” the doctor asked. He kicked his ball into a better position. “Not us. I think Tusker’s team are cheating.” He took a mighty whack and the ball hit one of the Cossack ponies, which had been let out to feed. It shied, and then tried to eat the ball. “I think I scored a double bogey,” Wragge said. “Maybe a triple. This pitch is a disgrace.” He walked away. “Somebody shoot that animal before it ruins the game,” he shouted.
In the cool of the morning, Dextry coached Borodin on the many ways his Camel could kill him.
They stood beside the fighter. A mechanic waited, his hands on the prop.
“Examine the beast,” Dextry said. “All the heavy stuff, the engine, the guns, the fuel, the pilot, are grouped close together at the front. That’s why it’s called a Camel — the business end has a hump. Sopwiths can do this because the Le Rhône is a rotary engine, very compact. In a rotary the cylinders whizz round and round and take the prop with them.”
“Air-cooled,” Borodin said. “Nice idea.”
“Yes. But it has to spin at a hell of a lick in order to fly. If Charlie there were strong enough to hold the prop still so it can’t move, then your rotary would try to spin the whole aeroplane.”
“Torque.”
“And torque will try to kill you as soon as you take off. The starboard wing will drop and so will the nose. Correct immediately, give a hint more stick, maybe some throttle. If that wingtip touches you’ll cartwheel and Charlie will sweep up the bits and put them in a sack.”
Borodin glanced at Charlie. “That’s correct, sir,” Charlie said. “Every little scrap.”
“Now you’re up and you’ve mastered the torque, the engine has another attempt at murder,” Dextry said. “Sudden loss of power.”
“I practised that yesterday. On the ground, of course. It’s the fine-adjustment, isn’t it? Nursing the needle.”
“Be ready. Expect to lose power. Just tickle it. A rotary is a woman, it responds to a caress. Grab it and you’ll choke it and it’ll die and so will you. Which would be a waste, because in combat the Camel is the best there is. A wonderful killer of others. Alright, get in.”
Borodin made himself comfortable, feet on the rudder pedals, stick between legs, and fastened the belt.
“Here’s the final way she’ll kill you,” Dextry said. “She can manoeuvre like magic. When in doubt, chuck everything into a right-hand bank and nobody can follow you. You’ll turn so tightly it looks like you’ve gone through a revolving door. But…” He prodded Borodin’s shoulder. “It’s that bloody torque again. It drags the nose down and before you know it…” He clicked his fingers. “… your Camel’s in a power dive. Under a thousand feet, you’ll probably make a hole in the ground. The answer is—”
“Opposing rudder,” Borodin said.
“Lots of it, and quick. Don’t wait for trouble. Anticipate. Did they tell you about the button on the joystick?”