It had the impact he expected. When they were quiet again he told them the details of the raid. Wragge was not a sentimental man, but he thought that the gilded faces, alive with excitement, were appropriate to the occasion.
After breakfast, the adjutant came into his Orderly Room, and found Lacey with his headphones slung around his neck. He was sorting out several pieces of paper. Brazier sat down with a thud that made his inkwell jump. “I expect you heard the rumour,” Brazier said.
“I’m impervious to gossip.” Lacey didn’t look up. “Gossip butters no parsnips, as we grocers like to say.”
“This does. I asked Oliphant and he confirmed it.”
“Stout fellow.” Lacey turned over a page. “Listen: this will interest you. Our man in Taganrog, the inimitable Henry, has found a fellow in Orel with a supply of genuine English mustard. In Orel, of all places.”
“The C.O. plans to send aircraft to bomb Moscow.”
Lacey looked up. “Moscow. Well, they can’t miss, can they? Very big town. What’s interesting is this man in Orel has a brother in Taganrog. Henry does business with one brother, and he tells the other to supply us. Clever, eh?”
Brazier stared at Lacey as if he had appeared on parade with his buttons undone. “Do you know what orders this squadron was given when it came to Russia?”
“Show the flag.” Lacey went back to his notes. “That’s what Griffin kept bellowing, anyway… If he can get mustard I bet he can get marmalade too. And sugar. We’re low on sugar.”
“I’ll tell you the orders,” Brazier said. “We are part of the British Military Mission and its role is purely and simply advisory. Our orders were that we instruct and advise Denikin’s Russians. Instruct and advise. Nothing more.”
“Well, that’s a fairy tale, isn’t it? You don’t believe it, Uncle. Nobody does. But I’ll tell you what’s very reaclass="underline" toilet paper. People on this train are self-indulgent. We’ll have to ration it.”
“Bombing Moscow is different, Lacey. A blind man can see that. It’s an act of war.”
“You may be right.” Lacey picked out a piece of paper and held it up. He was smiling. “You won’t believe what that fool Stokes has done. He’s referred our request for jazz band kit to the Director of Military Music in London. The man’s a poltroon. I’ve trumped his ace. Listen to this—”
“No.” Brazier stood up, suddenly, knocked his desk, sent pens and pencils flying. “I’ve worn the King’s uniform since before you could walk, and one thing I know. When the limits of command are in doubt, always Refer to a Higher Authority. Always.”
“Oh dear,” Lacey said. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll just have to see what the Director of Military Music says. But this man in Orel—”
“No.” Brazier took two strides and swept all the papers from Lacey’s desk with one angry hand. “No. You will send an urgent signal to Mission H.Q. now. To the General Commanding.”
Lacey stared. He was a small boy below a large and domineering schoolmaster. “You just had to ask,” he said. “After all, you were the one who wanted mustard.”
“To the General Commanding, British Military Mission H.Q. Urgent. Merlin Squadron R.A.F. requests permission to bomb Moscow. Signed, Brazier, captain, adjutant.”
“Simple.” Lacey put on his headphones. “Neat but not gaudy. I think I can manage that.
The C.O. and Tusker Oliphant reached a compromise. Each bomber would carry an observer-gunner, but they would be the smallest, lightest men in the Flight. Cans of petrol, equivalent to the savings in weight, would be packed into their cockpits. There would be a trial flight and landing to see how the refuelling worked.
“Just to make it more realistic,” the C.O. said, “and seeing that we have so many ground crews doing nothing, they can be the Red Army.”
“Firing realistic rifles?” Oliphant said. “I hope not.”
“Blank rounds. And your gunners can have blanks in their Lewis guns. Don’t worry. I’ll stage-manage it.”
The Nines, loaded to the maximum with fuel and bombs, laboured into the air and made two careful circuits. They landed into the wind, turned, taxied to the other end, turned again and killed their engines. Oliphant and Gunning scrambled out and stood on the lower wings. Their observers heaved up cans.
“Heavy weather,” Jessop said. He was watching from a distance. “No handles on those cans. Petrol’s heavy. And you need a big funnel to get it into the tank.”
“They forgot the funnels,” Wragge said. “Lesson one.”
“Where’s the Red Army? Honestly, the Bolos are a disgrace.”
“Hiding in the woods.”
When the first can was empty and flung aside, and the pilots and observers were struggling with the second, the C.O. fired a red signal flare. The attack began. The ground crews came from many different points. Their rifles made noise and smoke. They shouted profane abuse. They enjoyed themselves enormously. The observers’ Lewis guns doubled the uproar. The pilots emptied the second can and shouted for a third, but the observers could not fire the Lewis and hoist another can.
There was no option but to escape. The pilots got into their cockpits and the observers got out to swing the propellers. All this took time. The Lewis guns were silent. The ground crews raced across the field and captured the Nines. They took pleasure in marching the crews to the C.O.
“Lessons to be learned,” Wragge said.
“Yes,” Oliphant said. His trousers were soaked. “Forget refuelling.”
“Well, there was only one way to find out. Frankly, I never had much faith in it. And it doesn’t affect the basis of the operation, does it?” He saw the adjutant watching him. “Hullo, Uncle. The Army trounced us today, didn’t it? Only a little experiment. Nothing serious.”
Brazier held up a piece of paper. “This calls for your attention, sir.” The sir surprised Wragge. Only the Other Ranks called him sir. He and Brazier walked away from the crowd. Brazier gave him the paper. It was a signal from the General Commanding at Mission H.Q. Permission denied, it said. No aircraft is permitted to bomb Moscow under any circumstances whatever.
“This can’t be right,” Wragge said. “Only a fool would throw away an opportunity like this. A fool and a coward.” He thrust the signal at Brazier. “Reply immediately. Request clarification. Now.” His brain caught up with events. “Who did this? Somebody told him. Who told him?”
“I did.” Brazier folded the signal and tucked it into a tunic pocket. “You could put me under close arrest for exceeding my authority, sir. Or you could bomb Moscow without permission and face court martial yourself. I chose the lesser offence. For the good of the squadron.” Wragge was silent.
Brazier walked back to his Orderly Room. Within the hour, the C.O. got his reply. The General Commanding in H.Q. also believed in Referring to a Higher Authority. Air Ministry in London categorically refused permission for any R.A.F. unit to bomb Moscow. In the interests of clarity, this meant Merlin Squadron R.A.F. must not repeat not bomb Moscow.
Wragge turned the signal into a paper glider and made it fly. “Sometimes it’s a privilege to be court-martialled, Uncle. Did you ever think of that?” Brazier said nothing, and Wragge walked away. He went to his Camel. “Full tanks?” he asked his fitter.
“Half-full, sir.”
“Good enough. I’ll take her up.” He got in.
He climbed until the airfield was out of sight. All he had for company were some fluffy clouds. He tested the Camel with every aerobatic trick he knew. If his ground crew had done their job, nothing would break. On the other hand, they couldn’t see inside every spar and wire and yard of fabric. Nothing broke. Some parts creaked and the wings flexed more than usual, but nothing actually snapped. He ended the flight at slightly above ground level, vaulting over trees, sometimes squeezing between trees, and landed as delicately as a dancer.