A Splendid Little War Read Free Page A

with ships taking troops home to be demobilized, but he managed to find berths for Griffin’s party on a small French liner, got them cheap at short notice. Griffin couldn’t round up his pilots fast enough and the ship sailed. It took the M.L.O. a week to get them on board another vessel, an old Mediterranean ferry that called at Nice, Genoa, Naples and Palermo before it limped into Malta with engine trouble. The captain didn’t trust the Maltese repairs. The ship crawled along the North African coast and finally quit at Alexandria. The captain was Egyptian. He felt at home here.
    Griffin was due some luck. A Royal Navy cruiser was about to leave for – thankfully – the Black Sea. The pilots slept four to a cabin. The weather was fine; they lived on deck, playing poker, watching the Aegean Islands drift by, guessing their names, getting them wrong. Past Gallipoli (bloody steep, bloody rocky, you wouldn’t want to attack up there, not with the Turks firing down, what a shambles) and the cruiser didn’t stop at Constantinople, which was on the left while most of Turkey was on the right, very confusing.
    After that, the Black Sea turned out to be not at all black. “Red Sea isn’t red, either,” Hackett said. “And the Indian Ocean’s green. I’ve seen it.” That started an argument. It was easy to argue with Hackett and difficult to stop. Prove him wrong, and he said: “Yes, that’s what most people think, but most people have brains fifteen per cent smaller than mine.” He went on, dodging and ducking, slipping and swerving. Angering some, amusing others. It passed the time. There was nothing to look at except the Black Sea. Very boring, the sea. All water. Nobody could understand why the Navy got so excited about it.
    Nobody had much to say about Russia because nobody knew much about the Russians. Griffin said the Bolshies needed to be taught a lesson,and that was good enough. There were chaps from all over the British Empire in his squadron, and the Empire was good at keeping the natives in line. None better.
3
    A major from the British Military Mission to Denikin (D.E.N.M.I.S.) climbed onto a broken packing case that was leaking puttees, khaki, infantry, for the use of, and raised his megaphone. The dockside at Novorossisk was loud with the bangs and whistles of unloading freighters.
    â€œKeep together!” he shouted. “Put your luggage on that wagon. It will be safe. It has an armed guard. Keep together and follow me! Do not speak to any civilians. Beware pickpockets. Do not buy, sell or exchange anything. Ignore all corpses, beggars, prostitutes, Frenchmen and mad dogs. Keep together! Follow me!” He climbed down.
    The sky was gloomy grey to the horizon and it leaked bits of rain that stung like hail. The wind was from the north, fierce and cold as charity.
    The pilots climbed onto two lorries. Bellamy found himself sitting next to the major. “Somewhat chilly for the time of year, sir,” he said.
    â€œAbout normal. Gets a damn sight colder. Sea of Azov is still frozen.”
    â€œMy goodness.”
    â€œYou don’t know where that is, do you?”
    â€œUm … to be brutally honest, no sir.”
    â€œOffshoot of the Black Sea. Between us and the Crimea. Hundred and fifty miles across. Solid ice.”
    â€œHeavens. We were led to expect something more like the French Riviera, sir.”
    The major hadn’t smiled since he came to Russia and he saw no reason to start now; but he looked at Bellamy and allowed his eyelids to sink a little. “Russia has two seasons. Too bloody cold and too bloody hot. Who told you that French Riviera twaddle?”
    â€œThe C.O., sir. But I’m sure he was misinformed.”
    â€œYou’re sure, are you? Congratulations. You’re the only person in this bloody country who’s sure of anything.” Already the major was tired of Bellamy. He looked away.
    In the