In the end the Camel decided. It skimmed a few birch trees, coughing its final warning, died and settled on whatever came next, which turned out to be a hayfield. The wheels found hard land deep in the grass and ran. The stems brushed the wings, but grass was no match for a Camel, and it mowed down the hay and came to a halt.
He closed his eyes. The sun was warm and the cockpit was wonderfully comfortable, so he rested his tired body and enjoyed being alive. When he opened his eyes, a man on a horse was looking at him. “I don’t suppose, by any amazingly good luck, that you speak English?” Maynard said.
“Not a bloody word. I’m from Wales. I don’t suppose you speak Russian. Is this your Camel? I don’t suppose it speaks Arabic.”
The more he thought about that, the funnier it got. Maynard laughed, and knew that what he was really laughing at was his amazingly good luck in not killing himself. Rocky ground would have thrown the Camel ass over tit and broken his neck.
He unclipped the pocket watch from the dashboard, undid his seat belt and climbed down. “Flying Officer Maynard,” he said.
“Major Edwardes, Royal Artillery. I’m an adviser to Denikin’s guns. I saw you looking lost, so I breezed over to pick up the pieces. You could probably do with a cup of tea. It’s a long walk. Jump up.”
He kicked one foot out of a stirrup. Maynard poked his boot into it and swung up, behind Edwardes. They trotted away. “Pleasant countryside,” the major said. “Reminds me of Suffolk. Where are you from?”
“Wiltshire. Went to school in Dorset. Sherborne.”
“I was at Gresham’s. Norfolk. Never learned a damn thing except sums. Won prizes for sums. So the army put me in guns.”
“Very far-sighted.”
“Perhaps. Also short-sighted. This was ’16; lots of gunners had kicked the bucket. Clobbered by Boche counter-battery fire. War Office was desperate. I was perfect. Clever enough to calculate range, stupid enough not to work out the chances of survival.”
Maynard realized that Edwardes was only a year or two older than himself. Maybe twenty-three or twenty-four. Probably only a captain raised to major for service in Russia. So he’d been rescued by a man more or less his equal. “Can you get a message to my squadron?” he said.
“We’ll try. Things are a bit fluid around here.”
Maynard’s legs were feeling the strain of being stretched across the broad hindquarters when they reached Edwardes’ unit. It was six field guns, horse-drawn, and four tents. Meals were being cooked on an open fire. Maynard slid off the rump and massaged his thighs. “I don’t suppose you brought your toothbrush,” Edwardes said. “Never mind. You can use mine.”
The C.O. called a meeting with the flight leaders and Borodin. “That was a rough scrap,” he said. “Where’s Daddy Maynard?”
“Nobody knows,” Dextry said. “Last seen chased by the Spads into cloud. We tumbled one Red bus. Most of the Camels took some punishment. I got peppered. They knew their stuff, didn’t they? Pretty hot.”
“How did you get on?” Wragge asked Oliphant.
“Well, we lost Lowe this morning. You know all about that. Otherwise… we bombed the target. Might have hit some artillery pieces, might not. Gave them something to think about, anyway. Last time I looked, the Bolos seemed to be retreating.”
“Good.”
“It was a bit messy. Bombs got sprayed all over the scenery. I hope we didn’t hit anybody on our side.”
“Fortunes of war, Tusker. Nichevo.” Wragge looked at Borodin. “Your man on Denikin’s staff said the Red air force n’existe pas.”
“Vranyo. Like the armoured train.”
The C.O. briefly explained vranyo to his flight leaders. “Two can play at that game,” he said. “I’m going to signal Mission H.Q. that we shot down half the Bolos and silenced their artillery. And I’d be obliged, Count, if you would tell Denikin the same.”
“Nothing simpler.”
“That might win a few medals,” Dextry said, “but it won’t win the war.”
“Nichevo,” the C.O. said. “Nichevo in spades. Any problems?” They had no problems. “Uncle has found a church within walking distance. Lowe’s funeral will be at six p.m. Spread the word.”
The squadron filled the church. It was a small building, dedicated to St Erasmus. “A very minor saint,” Borodin murmured to the C.O. “Supposedly the protector of sailors. How he washed up in Kursk is anybody’s guess.”
“They don’t believe in pews.”
“Congregations stand in Russia. Sitting in church is bad form. Decadent.”
The priest arrived. He was old, and so bent that his beard seemed to weigh him down; but he was well organized. The packing-case planks of the coffin were covered with a large Russian flag. Lowe’s cap was on top, and there were flowers. The priest had assistants to ring bells and hand him incense and holy water for sprinkling. Altar boys held weighty prayer books for him, and turned the pages. All told, it was an impressive performance. The squadron didn’t understand the words, but they had the good manners to shut up and listen, and bow their heads when the altar boys and the acolytes did. The general meaning was obvious. Farewell to Michael Lowe.
The priest said something to Borodin. Four strong airmen lifted the coffin to their shoulders and carried it out, blessed on its way by the priest. He was mercifully brief at the graveside: he had already said what mattered most. He looked at Borodin. Borodin looked at Lacey. Lacey cleared his throat, and let everyone hear his words.
The cap was removed, and the flowers. The flag was folded. The burial was signalled by the rifle volleys, echoing off the church and scattering a flock of birds. Everyone knew the shots were coming but even so, many heads flinched, and the event was too much for Douglas Gunning. Grief overwhelmed him. His throat choked on suppressed sobs. The squadron parted to let him stumble away.
Lacey sent the C.O.’s report to Mission H.Q. and turned to the really rewarding work.
A signal had arrived from Captain Butcher at H.Q., and Lacey showed it to the adjutant. “You said I was in the soup over the elephant guns in the croquet box. Alas, it is poor Butcher who is bamboozled.”
Brazier read:
Re your request barrel locking nuts stop local translator suggests mistranslation from Russian of barrel elevation locknut stop no replacements available stop weapon is highly dangerous without this item stop am sending urgently quantity three Maxim machine guns and ammunition stop officer commanding Mission requests congratulate Cossack leader Reizarb stop provide further details gallantry flying officer Jossip for information War Office London stop Captain Butcher Royal Artillery stop.
“This is an elephant trap, Lacey, and you are digging it deeper and deeper.”
“You really think so? You know the Cossack Reizarb better than anyone. Could you send him H.Q.’s warmest thanks?”
“Twaddle.”
“Reizarb could become a footnote in history. He’s worth watching.”