“He didn’t put up much of a fight,” Dextry said. “In fact, he didn’t put up any fight at all.”
That was one of several things which the pilots did not talk about at lunch. Nobody claimed the Nieuport. Nobody mentioned the near-collisions.
When everyone had finished eating, Wragge said, “We’ll go again. This time I’ll take the Nines with us. If there’s an aerodrome at Belgorod and it’s ours, we’ll land there. If the Bolos are there, we’ll bomb the stupid place.”
Tusker Oliphant led the Nines at three thousand feet, high enough to escape machine-gun fire from the ground, low enough to make a bombing run. The C.O. was a thousand feet above with the Camels. They followed the railway to Belgorod and nothing happened. No troops, no guns, no burning ruins. Few people in the streets, and nobody ran for shelter. A train stood in the station, the engine making a stick of brown smoke. That was the sum of the action.
The squadron flew a wide circle around Belgorod and did not find an aerodrome. But two miles north of the town, Tiger Wragge saw a racecourse beside the railway line. At first he was surprised. Racing seemed an unlikely luxury, but then why not? All it needed was space and horses, and Russia had plenty of both. He took the Camel Flight right down to a hundred feet and cruised around the course, a simple oval of grass. A three-coach train stood in a siding. A flag as big as a bedsheet waved in the breeze. It had several colours, which was encouraging. A few soldiers came out to watch the aeroplanes.
Wragge signalled to Borodin that he should land, and left Dextry in command. Borodin and the C.O. touched down on a wonderfully wide, flat, smooth stretch of grass, switched off, and got out.
An officer on a horse cantered towards them.
“I’m second fiddle now,” Wragge said. “This is your show.”
The officer did not dismount. He was an expert horseman and he cut a good figure as he sat and looked down at them. Borodin introduced himself, and the officer dismounted very smartly, and saluted. Wragge strolled up and down while they talked, until Borodin said to him: “The train belongs to a supporter of Denikin, General Yevgeni Gregorioff. We are safe here. The nearest fighting is at Kursk, a hundred miles north. We are invited to meet General Gregorioff in his salon.”
“Tell this chap I’m going to fire a signal flare,” Wragge said. “I don’t want to frighten his lovely horse.”
He got the Very pistol from his Camel and sent the flare arcing into the sky. He dumped his flying coat and helmet in the cockpit. Now he was recognisably a squadron leader, with a slightly battered but rakish cap. “Lead on,” he said. Already the squadron was making its descent.
General Gregorioff was a tubby little man, almost bald, with a thick black moustache that reached his chin. He greeted his guests cheerfully, without moving from a cane chair overflowing with pillows. His right leg rested on a stack of blankets. He had no English. He and Borodin exchanged compliments, and the count explained to Wragge that the general had very bad gout and was on medical leave from the Front. That explained the young and attractive nurse.
“Ask him where the three White fighter squadrons are,” Wragge said. “And the aerodrome?”
Armchairs were brought, and they settled down to a friendly chat. Wragge examined the general’s quarters. Bookshelves, a baby grand piano, family photographs, thick carpet, velvet curtains. Not Spartan. Coffee was served. Good coffee, better than The Dregs. The general was an affable man, and whatever Borodin was saying to him, it made him laugh.
Then the audience was over. Everyone smiled happily. An aide opened doors and helped them descend from the train without breaking a leg.
“What did you get out of him?” Wragge asked. “Apart from merry laughter.”
“For a start, the three squadrons of White fighter aircraft don’t exist. Nor does the aerodrome. Denikin has no machines, except us.”
“I see,” Wragge said. “No, I don’t. What about that signal from Mission H.Q? Colonel Somebody. Boss of Aviation.”
“Subasnov. The general was very amused by that story. He knows Subasnov well. The colonel was on Denikin’s staff, the biggest chump in the army, couldn’t be sacked because of his political connections, so Denikin gave him Aviation and sent him as far away as possible to bother someone else. The general says Subasnov talks magnificently. If talk won wars, we would be in Moscow now.”
“So he lied.”
“Yes and no. To an Anglo-Saxon he lied unforgivably. To Russians he adjusted the facts to agree with the way the truth ought to be. A great army deserves to have an air force, and of course Mission H.Q. was impressed by what he said.”
“Absurd. He must have known he’d be found out.”
“True. But Russians can’t stop themselves. There’s a word for that kind of lying. We call it vranyo. It satisfies some inner need. Russians lie even when they know the listener knows they’re lying. So, vranyo does no harm, does it?”
“Nichevo,” Wragge said. “Is that right, nichevo?”
“Excellent. You are thinking like a Russian.”
“And the promise of an armoured train. Was that vranyo?”
“In its purest form. By the way: Denikin had one aeroplane. The Halberstadt two-seater. He sent it to count his troop trains because the telegraph line was broken.”
“We shot down a friendly machine.”
“General Gregorioff says the telegraph is working now.”
“So… nichevo again.”
“His very word.”
“Mine too. From now on we’ll fight like Russians. We’ll vranyo like fury and if anyone doesn’t like it, nichevo.” Wragge shouted for Maynard, ordered him to fly back to the trains and tell them to move up to the racetrack sidings. “Tomorrow we go to Kursk,” he said. “That’s where the fun and games are happening.” He said nothing about the Halberstadt. Fog of war. Forget it.
BIT OF SWAGGER
The gardens at 10 Downing Street were neither large nor glorious, but at least the roses were splendid at this time of year. The Prime Minister preferred to hold his garden parties there. It meant he didn’t have to trudge around somebody else’s pride and joy, shaking hands with strangers until his knuckles ached. It meant that as soon as the party was over, he could get back to his desk. And if it rained, there were always drawing rooms for the guests to shelter in.
He kept the guest list short. Senior Cabinet members, a few ambassadors, some admirals and generals, maybe an artist or a poet, if they were house-trained. No novelists, no playwrights. Drank too much, got into arguments with other guests. Not garden-party material.
The guest list was one of Jonathan Fitzroy’s duties, and he quietly added the names of his Ad Hoc Committee on Russia. It was a white-tie occasion, so the garden would look like a penguin colony, and that answered the need for secrecy: his committee would hide in plain sight.
When the P.M. had done enough partying and withdrawn, and the guests were leaving, the committee gathered in a little summerhouse. Fitzroy put a pack of cards on the table. “A harmless subterfuge,” he said. “In case anyone looks in.”
Weatherby dealt a few cards. “I can’t play anything except Snap,” he said. “My children are demons at Snap. I never stand a chance.”
“Mine were like that,” Delahaye said, “until I began to cheat. That fooled them.”
“You’ve got to be ruthless with children, in my experience,” General Stattaford said. “Or they lose all respect. My parents were quite foul to their children, I’m happy to say. It made a man out of me.”