“Ah, you’ve found it,” the P.M. said.
“Damn and double-damn.” Fitzroy looked up. “The man must have been a maniac. The commander of this squadron, that is. He’s a lunatic. How could he even contemplate… Good God, the consequences would have been immense. And unforgivable. Bombing Moscow would have been like… like the Zeppelins bombing London. Worse!” He stood up and slapped the report against his thigh. “An act of madness.”
“I thought it might excite you.” The P.M. examined his fingernails and found them all present and correct. “I didn’t expect you to be quite so hysterically indignant.”
Fitzroy had held his job long enough to know when to say nothing.
“Your problem, Jonathan, is that you read too many newspapers and not enough history. History teaches us that war does not travel in a straight line. Obstacles spring up that never before existed, and so armies ricochet, and leaders must duck and dodge or they suffer. Last year we nearly joined forces with the Bolsheviks. Even Winston was for it. He wanted to offer them a formula that would protect their revolution and consolidate their power, if only they would re-start their war against Germany. We desperately needed someone to fight for the Allies in the east, and the Bolsheviks seemed the most warlike. But, alas, not for long. Then the Huns collapsed, a very large surprise indeed, since most of us expected the war to go on for another five or ten years. Now we no longer needed an eastern front. But — a little ricochet — Bolshevik revolutions began breaking out in Europe like chicken pox, so we put our money on the anti-Red forces in Russia. Worth a gamble. Nearly paid off. How far from Moscow was this R.A.F. bombing squadron?”
Fitzroy looked in the report. “Two hundred miles.”
“Only two hundred.” The P.M. stretched his arms out sideways. “More or less from here to Manchester. If only Denikin could have kept going, he might have taken Moscow.”
“That was what we had all hoped, sir.”
“And a few bombs on the capital might have been just what was needed to panic the enemy.”
Fitzroy sat down and fanned himself with the report. “Now I’m thoroughly confused. Do you approve of the bombing plan?”
“No, of course not. Lenin would never have forgiven us. He’s prepared to overlook the Intervention. He won’t forget it, but he’ll overlook it if we sign a few lucrative trade agreements with his government. They’re stony-broke, and he has quantities of timber and furs and caviare to sell. The Soviet government is the de facto state, Jonathan. Pity about Denikin. When he was two hundred miles from Moscow he was, alas, at the end of his tether. He tried awfully hard, but second-best in that strange country is… well, they don’t have a second-best. Either you win or you go to the knacker’s yard. Ah, tea. Just what you need to restore your shattered nerves.”
Fitzroy sipped his tea and put the mystery of the non-bombing of Moscow aside. “That would seem to be the end of the matter,” he said. “Air Ministry shows no sign of wishing to court-martial…” He checked the report. “… Acting Squadron Leader Wragge.”
“Very wise. He obeyed orders, he did no wrong. On the contrary, he would claim that bombing Moscow was just what he had been sent to do. His squadron was Denikin’s spearhead. Perhaps if he had bombed Moscow a little sooner, when the Navy was sinking Soviet battleships in the Baltic, we might have given Mr Wragge a V.C., like Lieutenant Agar. Wragge got everything right except his timing. Timing is everything in war. Should we suggest to Air Ministry that Wragge be retired and given a gold watch?” The P.M. smiled. “Joke,” he said.
Fitzroy nibbled a digestive biscuit. “All the same, it would be disastrous if the newspapers were to get hold of the story. Imagine what the Daily Express would do with it. ‘R.A.F. Bombers had Moscow in Their Sights.’ That’s what they’d say.”
Lloyd George slammed his fist on the desk. “Official Secrets Act. Send a large Air Vice-Marshal to lecture the entire squadron. Not a word to anyone about anything. Or they’ll be prosecuted, convicted, jailed. Not a syllable.”
“It shall be done,” Fitzroy said. “Intervention? What Intervention?”
“Have some more tea, Jonathan. And another biscuit. You worry too much.”
For the last few miles into Novorossisk the train moved at walking pace. Even this was faster than the stumbling mass of humanity spread widely on either side of the tracks. Some were peasants in the usual shapeless sheepskin clothing. Some were soldiers, often bandaged, wearing tattered uniforms, many of them barefoot. A few might have been from the moneyed class: sometimes fur coats could be seen. There were even men in business suits. Nobody looked up at the train. They plodded on in their thousands, hugging whatever mattered most to them: a sack, a suitcase, a child.
“Not a happy sight,” Lacey said to Borodin.
“No. War is not all bright uniforms and dashing cavalry. The newspapers never show the misery, do they?”
“That chap…” Lacey pointed. “He looks rich enough to take the train. Rich enough to buy the train, in fact.”
“Money is meaningless now. You’ve seen the trains that we passed, broken down, abandoned. A lot of these people were on those trains. Look at the corpses. Almost certainly typhus. It’s a plague here. Everyone’s desperate to escape.”
“Escape where?”
“Anywhere. All they know is that if they stay, the Red cavalry will kill them.”
“But if they crowd together, the typhus will get them.”
Borodin turned away from the window. “Not all problems have solutions,” he said.
The train crawled into town. It was a grey, cold day with spatters of rain being flung by a bitter wind. “Same as ever,” Jessop said. “Nothing changes in gay Novo.” The tracks terminated at the docks, and the train had to nudge its way through the mob of people. Most looked as if they were hungry or sick or both. The dead lay where they had fallen and were trampled upon. When the train stopped, the people nearest tried to rush it and break in. Brazier was on a flatcar with a Lewis gun and he fired a burst in the air. The crowd fell back. “Not so gay after all,” Jessop said.
Wragge and Borodin got off the train. “God help us,” the C.O. said. “There must be five thousand civilians here.”
“More,” Borodin said. “And more arriving every minute. All desperate for one thing.” He pointed to ships anchored in the bay. “Escape.”
“It’s a madhouse.”
“It’s worse than that. It’s a nightmare.”
A warship produced flame and smoke, followed by the deep boom of a salvo. “Hell’s teeth,” Wragge said. “Don’t tell me we’re being shelled.” They waited, and counted the seconds, and heard the crash of explosions far inland.
“They’re shelling the approaches to the town,” Borodin said. “Discouraging the Bolshevik advance. So it must be a British ship.”
“Bully for them.” Wragge relaxed. “Hullo, I think I see a small sign of discipline and order.”
Six Royal Marines with fixed bayonets jabbed and kicked their way through the mob, escorting a cavalry colonel who looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. “You can’t stay here,” he said. “We’ll get you onto a ship. For Christ’s sake don’t touch anyone, there’s typhus and worse everywhere. First, you must empty your train of everything of military value. I’m leaving nothing for the Bolsheviks.”
The Marines helped the squadron to unload the bombs and the bullets, the grenades and the Lewis guns. All got dumped in the Black Sea. They scoured the rest of the train and threw out Lacey’s radio equipment and his files, Brazier’s King’s Regulations, tins of oil and drums of petrol, ground crews’ toolkits and spares, Susan Perry’s medical supplies, the Cossack saddles, even the croquet set and Pedlow’s fly rod. They all went into the sea.