“We’re making a difference,” Wragge said automatically.
“With three clapped-out Camels and three patched-up Nines?”
Wragge felt his temper rising. “We do our best with what we’ve got. If you can come up with an alternative, tell me. That’s all.”
Nobody could. Time dragged.
Wragge was sitting in The Dregs on a hot and sultry afternoon, alone, with all the windows open, thinking it was a lot more fun to command a squadron in action than one that was killing time, when he heard a conversation outside. Two men, perhaps three, were sitting in the shadow of the train, a favourite spot. He thought he recognized the voices: bomber boys. They were talking about war. It was lazy, jokey talk, just chewing the fat. Wragge moved closer to the window. The topic was mutiny.
– That was after Verdun, a voice said. Remember Verdun? Grim business. French Army ran out of coffins, I was told. Anyway, Verdun was what caused the mutiny. Frog troops had had enough.
– Didn’t last long, did it? a different voice said. They shot a few and the rest went back to the Trenches.
– Yes, bleating. Baa-baa, like sheep. Just to let everyone know. Laughter.
– Say what you like, the Frogs weren’t as bad as these Russkies. Didn’t shoot their officers.
– Be fair. Russians only do that when they’re losing.
– Somebody has to lose.
– I wish they’d all lose, and be damn quick about it. I’d like to bomb H.Q. at Taganrog and get the next boat home.
– Moscow’s nearer.
– Alright, bomb Moscow. What’s the difference?
– You get the V.C.
– Posthumously.
Laughter.
Wragge stood up, stretched, walked to his Pullman, lay on his bed for five minutes, got up, went in search of Tusker Oliphant. He found him talking to Patterson. “A word in your ear, Tusk,” he said, and Patterson saluted and went away. “What’s the endurance of a Nine? How long can you stay in the air?”
“Depends. The book says four and a half hours, but De Havillands wrote the book for new Nines, straight from the factory. Would one of our Nines stay up that long? Very doubtful.”
“And speed? How fast?”
“Well, again you can forget the book. Level flight, carrying a pair of big bombs, our absolute maximum, say a hundred, maybe hundred and a bit. But our Nines won’t keep that up. Cruising, let’s say ninety.”
Wragge did the sum in his head. “Four and a half by ninety is just over four hundred miles.”
“Assuming nothing breaks.”
“Four hundred is roughly the distance from here to Moscow and back.”
“Seems right.” Oliphant caught up with Wragge’s meaning. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Excuse me while I fall down and faint.”
“It’s just an idea. Thinking aloud, so to speak. Testing the technicalities. Can it be done? Don’t answer that, give it some thought, work out the practical side.”
“You are talking about Moscow? Russian capital?”
“Forget that. Treat this as a tactical exercise. And don’t tell anyone. Total secrecy. That’s an order.”
“Tactical exercise,” Oliphant said. “Moscow. I don’t think that’s quite how the rest of the world would see it. Don’t worry, I shan’t breathe a word. Of course I may babble in my sleep.”
“Stuff a sock in your mouth,” the C.O. said.
The idea was fixed in his mind. For the next twenty-four hours, when he wasn’t asleep he studied it from every angle, and the more he looked at it, the better it seemed.
There was the excitement of attacking the enemy deep behind his lines, something only an R.A.F. squadron could attempt. There was the satisfaction of surprising the Bolsheviks, hitting them where they least expected it. And the raid would add a new battle honour to the squadron’s flag, if it ever got a flag. They came to Russia to make a difference, and by Harry, what a shining difference this would be! The squadron had fought hard and achieved depressingly little so far; even the glory of tumbling three twin-engined bombers had been stolen by Denikin’s guns. Now was the time to make a big score. It was the sort of big, buccaneering action that other squadrons would talk about for years to come.
He sent for Oliphant and they walked around the airfield.
“Is it on?” Wragge asked.
“It’s just on. What I mean is it’s right on the extreme edge of these Nines’ performance. And that’s assuming a lot of things. It assumes that the weather doesn’t turn lousy, on the way there or back. If we hit a northerly wind and we have to slog through it, then all bets are off. We’d burn up so much fuel we’d never get back here.”
“A northerly wind might blow you home.”
“Might. Or it might drop, and drop us in the manure. And what if the wind comes out of the west? We’d have to crab to Moscow. That’s like putting an extra fifty, sixty, seventy miles on the trip, depending on the strength of the blow.”
“Here’s a thought,” the C.O. said. “Do without an observer-gunner in your back seat. Carry his weight in cans of petrol. For any emergency. You run low, you find a field, land, top up, Bob’s your uncle.”
They stopped, and Oliphant screwed up his face while he pictured the situation.
“This field,” he said. “It’s going to be in Red territory, isn’t it?”
“The Bolos can’t be everywhere, Tusker. And it wouldn’t take long, would it?”
“I’m thinking of this bloody awful engine in the Nine. You do know that it takes two men to start a Puma? One to turn the prop, one to sit in the office and play with the knobs and switches. Unless you were thinking of leaving the engine running while the driver gets out and opens the cans and pours the precious fluid into the tanks, taking care not to spill any on the red-hot exhausts?”
“To be honest, Tusk, I hadn’t worked out the details.”
“Another detail might be the bullets from the nasty Red infantry buzzing about his ears.”
“I suppose I thought that both Nines would land and sort of help each other.” They began walking.
“Ah. That alters everything,” Oliphant said. “The other pilot would hold off the Red Army with his trusty Service revolver while I poured. Then vice versa. That should be worth a double D.F.C.”
“Look: don’t tell me about the problems. Any fool can find a hundred ways of not doing something different. Find some solutions.”
“Well, it would help if your Camels gave us cover on the way out and back.”
“We can do that,” the C.O. said. “Halfway to Moscow is about as far as we can cruise. Yes, we can cover you.”
“Navigation’s no problem. Just follow the railway line.”
They strolled on, Wragge kicking the heads off dandelions, Oliphant’s heels scuffing the turf.
“I don’t suppose you’d rather bomb Kaganovich?” Oliphant said. “Vital rail junction. Very Bolshy. Only fifty miles away.”
“And nobody’s ever heard of it. Moscow’s worth a hundred Kaganoviches. I take it you’ll be leading? With who else?”
“Douglas Gunning. He feels very badly about losing Michael Lowe. Give him the chance to biff the Bolos and he’ll fly to the pit of hell.”
At sunset, before supper, the C.O. called a meeting of all aircrews and ground crews of the surviving machines. They gathered in the open and formed a half-circle. The air was still, and the last rays of the sun caught heads and shoulders and cast long shadows.
“Your squadron has not had a long existence,” Wragge said, “but we have accomplished much. I have no hesitation in saying that we now have an opportunity to crown these achievements with a bold stroke that will secure the reputation of this squadron wherever men fly. Gentlemen, I plan to bomb Moscow.”