“Why not?” Wragge said. “He’s already captured half of Russia. Not Siberia, but who cares about Siberia, they’ve all got icicles on their testicles, while we’ve got the best airfield since Tsaritsyn, so well done, Rex.”
“We strive to please,” Dextry said.
He had found a short spur of railway that forked away from the main line and gave up after a mile. An engineer’s mistake, evidently. The rails were rusted and grass grew high between them. Everything was blessedly quiet. The loudest sound was the bleating of lambs in a meadow as big and smooth as Lord’s cricket ground.
“Down to business,” the C.O. said. “First point is, are the machines all operational? Yes? Good. Right, the Nines can get on with their knitting while the Camels go and find the Bolos.” A tap on the door. Lacey came in, handed him a paper, said: “From Mission H.Q.,” and went out. As Wragge read it, his eyebrows rose. “Goolie Chit,” he said. “Anyone heard of it?”
“Yes,” Oliphant said. “My brother’s with a squadron in India, on the North-West Frontier. He mentioned it in a letter.”
“Did he, by Jove? Well, according to H.Q., it’s a linen envelope attached to the fuselage. On the outside, it says in the local lingo that this is a British officer, help him and you shall be rewarded. Inside are twenty gold sovereigns.”
“That’s right. If it works, you get to keep your goolies. My brother says the natives are a bit ferocious and the women are even worse. Afghans and so on.”
“Bless my soul.”
“Famous last words, if you get engine failure over the Khyber Pass.”
“Mmm. It’s marked ‘For Information Only’. H.Q. thinks only of our welfare.” Wragge stuffed it in a pocket. “I’ll ask Borodin what he thinks.”
They went out and enjoyed the sunshine. Wragge breathed the sweet smell of lush countryside at the height of summer. “Reminds me of the Scottish Borders,” he said. “I wonder if there’s any trout fishing near here?”
“About Daddy Maynard,” Dextry said. “When should we count him as lost? Uncle was asking.”
“Give him a day or two,” the C.O. said. “You never know. Daddy’s no fool. Not like that clown who got lost at Butler’s Farm. Silly ass was only three miles from the field. Barnett? Burnett? No.” He clicked his fingers. “Bennett. Got it.”
“Never knew him,” Dextry said.
The four Camels followed the railway north. It was stocked with troop trains. Few were moving and the rest had emptied their troops into the fields beside them. They sat or lay in the sun, doing what all soldiers do well, which is wait. Cook fires were everywhere. Soldiers learn to eat whenever possible, in the certain knowledge that they’ll go hungry soon. Some waved at the aircraft. Others saved their energy.
A few miles further on, Wragge found the reason for all this nothing-doing. Lengths of track had been torn up and squads of engineers were restoring them. Presumably the Bolos did it. Some holes were big enough for shell craters. Or perhaps dynamite.
The Camels climbed to three thousand feet and spread out, four hundred yards between each, the better to search the land. They saw nothing to defend, no towns, no rivers except the one the railroad followed. It looked half-dried-up and no obstacle to anyone.
They cruised on for ten, twenty miles, looking down at empty countryside and up at empty sky, down again, up again. “Christ!” Dextry said aloud. “This is boring bloody country. Where’s the damn war?” Borodin was not bored. This was his Russia and he was proud of its enormous spaces, there was room to breathe in Russia, more than anywhere in the world. Except perhaps China, but China was full of Chinese who, let’s face it, can’t write War and Peace or paint anything except urns and vases and couldn’t spell Tchaikovsky let alone play him. Jessop was getting a sore neck and wondering what it would be like to be stripped naked for an examination by Flight Lieutenant Perry. Would she have warm fingers? Strong warm fingers? His stomach muscles tightened. Wragge worried what he would do if someone’s engine went on the fritz now. He kept looking for landmarks, something a search party could find. That was when he saw the tents. Brown bell tents, sixty, seventy, maybe more.
He waggled his wings and waved, and as the Flight came together he searched below for a marker. He saw a wood shaped like a broken star: that would do.
He got the Flight between the sun and the camp, and dived. Nobody fired up at them. A handful of men ran. He got a clear view of rows of tents with well-trodden paths between them. The Camels buzzed the camp, low enough to wake the dead. Still no gunfire. As the C.O. pulled out and climbed away he glimpsed stampeding horses, scared by the racket. But no men.
The Camels flew a mile-wide circle around the tents and found nothing. Wragge’s fuel gauge read less than half-full, and it was unreliable. This was not the time or place to meet the Red air force. Combat drank petrol. Nobody wanted that. They headed south.
The landing ground was easy to find: just follow the rail line and find the rusty spur. The field looked wonderfully green, and the C.O. knew that something was badly wrong when he saw a Nine lying flat on its belly and another with its tail high and its nose buried in the grass. He landed, saw Oliphant waiting, taxied towards him, climbed out.
“We got strafed,” Oliphant said. “Ten minutes after you left. Three Spads, not the same bunch you saw, these were black. Caught us on the hop. My chaps did their best to get off the ground, but that one lost its wheels and looks like a pregnant duck, and that one overcooked his throttle so his tail came up too soon and he snapped his prop. Then the troops got the Lewis guns going and scared the Spads away, thank Christ.”
Wragge did some counting. “You’re one short, Tusker.”
“Ah… now for the bad news. Tommy Hopton did manage to get airborne. With Mickey Blythe. Naturally the Spads went for him and there was a hell of a scrap. We watched it all. They got him in the end. Three to one: pretty lousy odds. He was a flamer, Tiger. They both jumped.” He pointed to a distant wood. “Somewhere over there, probably. I’ve got search parties out.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty.”
“They did the right thing, Tiger. Taking off, I mean. Better to be up there than strafed down here. If you’d seen—”
“Yes, of course they did. No question about that. Absolutely the right thing. Tommy Hopton and Mickey Blythe… God help us. If only we’d been here.”
“Then maybe the Spads wouldn’t have come.”
“How did they know?”
Oliphant shrugged. “Spies? Or perhaps just chance.”
Wragge sat on the grass, and so did Oliphant. “I feel knackered, Tusker. And we didn’t find a damn thing except empty tents. We’re losing good men too fast. First Lowe, then Maynard, and now your two chaps do the right thing and…” He couldn’t find words, and gave up.
Already the ground crews were working on the Nines. It would be another long night for them. At dusk the search parties came back, empty-handed. There were tens of thousands of trees, they said, all in full leaf. Maybe they got caught in the branches, maybe not. Who could say?
It was a quiet evening in The Dregs, briefly enlivened when the C.O. came in with Borodin and a smart young Russian officer, heavy with gold braid.
“Gentlemen, this is General Polakov,” he said.
“Pokalov,” Borodin murmured.
“Well, I was close. He has ridden here post-haste with good news. He wishes to address you.”