A Splendid Little War Read Free

sex maniacs and the ones who like pulling wings off butterflies.”
    â€œOh, thanks enormously,” the C.O. said. He began going through the list with a red pencil.
    â€œIs it really true that everyone will get paid above his rank?” the adjutant asked. Griffin nodded. “The only reason I ask,” the adjutant said, “is the squadron hasn’t converted from R.F.C. to R.A.F. ranks. Not totally, that is. Some chaps are captains, some flight lieutenants. What’s the R.A.F. equivalent of a colonel?”
    â€œDon’t know. What matters is each chap gets a bucket of roubles every week.”
    â€œSimpson,” the C.O. said. “Isn’t Simpson the one who wears a corset?” He didn’t wait for an answer. The red pencil thudded through Simpson.
    â€œRoubles, you say,” the adjutant said. “I don’t think we can wait forroubles. Not if you want these officers
immediately
.” He frowned hard at a mental picture of complex problems. “It’s their Mess bills, you see. I fear they can’t pay them now. In fact I know they can’t.”
    Griffin looked him in the eye. Neither man blinked. Each knew that R.A.F. Butler’s Farm wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting money out of a pilot once he was on his way to south Russia. Each also knew that the red pencil had not yet finished its work. The C.O. became aware of their silence, and he looked up.
    â€œThe pity is,” the adjutant said, “sometimes the best pilots owe the most money.”
    â€œHow much? To wipe the slate clean?”
    The adjutant thought fast. “Five hundred pounds.”
    While Griffin wrote a cheque, the C.O. finished his list. “Hackett,” he said. “Australian. Tenacious bugger.” He twirled the red pencil.
    â€œOh, you’ll like him,” the adjutant said quickly.
    â€œChuck him in,” Griffin said. “I’ll take him instead of a receipt.” He waved the cheque to dry the ink. “This is War Office money. Cash it fast, before they change their minds about saving the Russian Empire from the Reds. By all reports, the Reds are winning hands down.” He saw the look on the C.O.’s face. “Joke,” he said. “I haven’t the faintest idea who’s winning. A pal of mine at the Foreign Office reckons the Reds are surrounded on all sides by White armies. He’s guessing. Hoping, too, probably. All I know is this bloke Denikin’s running the show in the south and he’s been asking for British squadrons for months.”
    â€œI hope you hammer the Bolsheviks good and hard,” the C.O. said, “After what they did to the Tsar.”
    â€œDirty work. Mind you, we can’t talk,” Griffin said. “We chopped off the king’s head once. Be sure your chaps are at Air Ministry tomorrow, ten a.m. prompt, drunk or sober. Long journey ahead.”
2
    Long, slow journey.
    Griffin had collected about twenty pilots from the best squadrons. The first plan was to send them by train to somewhere in Greece, probably Salonika, and ship them the rest of the way. They got as far as Calais and were recalled. Nobody knew why. Next plan was to put them on a ship in London docks, a Swedish freighter unloading timber. It had nopassenger accommodation. Griffin got on the phone to Air Ministry, who called the Ministry of Shipping, who called the War Office, by which time it was raining so hard the spray was knee-high, and everybody went back to their hotels and unpacked. The train plan was revived and this time they got as far as Paris. But several big avalanches in Austria had closed the line to Salonika and they went to Marseilles instead.
    The city was pleasantly sunny in the early spring. Lots of bars, open all day and half the night, unlike the tight-laced pub hours in England. Wine was cheap. On the pilots’ improved pay scales, very cheap. The Marine Landing Officer had his hands full