A Splendid Little War Read Free Page B

other lorry, Jessop and Wragge were trying to decide whether Novorossisk was a dump or a dead loss. “Look at the
mud
,” Jessop said.“The place is all mud. The streets are deep in mud. It’s supposed to be the biggest port in these parts and everywhere you look it’s mud.”
    â€œBut it’s busy. Crowds of people.”
    â€œAll mud-coloured. Maybe that’s what they export: mud.”
    â€œSome of them are waving at us. And cheering. Holding flags. So it’s not a dead loss, is it?”
    They waved back. Nothing extravagant. A nod and a smile to the grateful natives.
    â€œI’ve just seen a man eating a slice of mud,” Jessop said. “If it wasn’t that, it was a portion of rhubarb crumble, which seems unlikely, don’t you think?”
    The lorries splashed through potholes and delivered them to the Novorossisk headquarters of the British Military Mission, in a requisitioned girls’ school. Servants took their caps and greatcoats, brushed them down as if they were prize stallions, and showed them to the cloakrooms. The washbasins were small and low, but the water was hot and more servants stood by with towels, and bottles of hair lotion from Trumper of Bond Street, and boot-polishing requisites to offer a quick brush-up to such footwear as was less than officer-like. Then to lunch.
    The dining-room walls were hung with group photographs of unsmiling girls, immaculately dressed in school uniform. So there had been a time when Novorossisk was not entirely made of mud. A portrait picture of the headmistress, with eyes that could penetrate sheet steel at fifty yards, looked down on the crowd of young men drinking sherry. They were many, and a lot of sherry was going down. Lunch at the Mission was clearly an important occasion.
    The airmen joined in. A tall, hawk-nosed flight lieutenant called Oliphant, balding and therefore looking older than his twenty-three years, was sinking his second sherry and looking for a servant with more, when Griffin prodded his ribs. “Spread the word, Olly. I’ve just got orders. We entrain to somewhere called Ekaterinodar this afternoon. Off to the wars! Bloody good, eh?”
    Lunch was a leisurely affair and excellent. Nobody seemed in a hurry to get back to work. Each pilot had been seated among the hosts. “We don’t get many visitors,” a chubby captain said. His hair was dark blond, as sleek as beaten gold. He stopped a passing waiter. “Rudyard, my dear fellow … Bring butter.
Quantities
of butter. And fresh mustard. This mustard is medieval. Now be off with you!” He clapped his hands.
    Pilot Officer Maynard watched this. He was nineteen, looked seventeen, shaved twice a week whether he needed it or not. “Is his name really Rudyard?” he asked. It was a safe question.
    â€œIt is now. He’s what we call a
plenny
. We have lots of them.
Plennys
are Russian prisoners-of-war, deserters mainly, quite safe, they make jolly good servants. This one’s Russian name sounds like someone knitting with barbed wire, so we call him Rudyard. He likes it, he’s a happy man, didn’t like fighting for the Bolos. Bolsheviks,” he said before Maynard could ask. “We call them Bolos. What they call us I don’t know. Never met one. Poisonous lot, by all reports. Eat with their mouths open, I expect. You know the sort.”
    â€œYou don’t see much of the Front, I take it,” Hackett said.
    The captain looked startled. “Good grief, no. We’re the Supplies Mission. The warriors are all up-country. We make sure the ship unloads its cargo. Once the goods are on the quay they belong to Denikin’s lot. Russian responsibility, not ours. What brings you to Novo, may I ask?”
    â€œWe’re Royal Air Force,” Maynard said.
    â€œPilots.” Hackett pointed to his wings. “We fly.”
    â€œAh, yes. Balloons. Spotting for the