“It’s not why we came to Russia, is it?” Oliphant asked.
“They cheered us when we arrived. Seems a long time ago.”
“They liked to cheer. Cheer and say Na Moskvu. Usually when they were sozzled.”
“I say. Look over there.” They stood up. “Isn’t that the Russian father and his daughter? The one he tried to sell? See? On the dockside. Right on the edge.”
Oliphant saw them. “He’s holding her hand. That’s a damn dangerous place to stand. Oh, my Christ.” The father and daughter had jumped. Vanished from sight.
Wragge turned away. “Sweet sodding buggeration in spades,” he said.
“The water must be freezing cold. I don’t suppose they can swim. Most Russians can’t, according to Borodin.”
Wragge walked to the end of the boxcar, stared at the sky, and walked back. “Well, she wanted to escape,” he said. “That was some kind of escape.”
After that there was nothing to say. Time passed. They grew bored, and stiff and cold; then a Royal Marine arrived and they climbed down from the roof. “Colonel’s compliments, sir,” the Marine said. “Please unload all aircraft without delay.” He saluted and left. Oliphant went to tell the ground crews.
“They jumped,” Wragge said to Borodin. “The father and his daughter jumped in the sea.”
“Yes. A lot of people are doing that.”
Amazingly, a small British tank appeared, and it rumbled up and down, emptying a space alongside the train.
“If he could give us a good fifty yards of clearance,” Wragge said, “I bet we could take off. Maximum revs. No problem.”
“What then?” Borodin asked.
“Dunno. The Navy has aircraft carriers. There might be one out there. Or we could fly to Turkey.”
The ground crews set about offloading the Nines and the Camels. They were quick; it was an old routine for them. They had assembled the final aircraft when the colonel and his escort arrived. “Fine machines. You must be proud,” he said to Wragge. “You do realize that we have no choice. Nothing must be left for the enemy. Not a thing.”
The tank’s engine roared and pumped smoke from its exhausts. Its tracks climbed over the tail unit of a Camel and crunched along the fuselage until the undercarriage collapsed and the tank crushed the cockpit, the twin Vickers guns, the radial engine, the propeller.
The C.O. watched his ground crews and saw them standing quite still, all the fitters and the riggers and the armourers. Some had looked away. One or two seemed to be in tears. As the tank moved forward, a young mechanic made a move towards it as if he could save the next Camel. The adjutant and a flight sergeant grabbed him. “Discipline, lad, discipline,” Brazier said, and the airman went back to his place. The tank climbed on top of the aeroplane and collapsed it. Tank-tracks made sparks on paving stones as the Camel got chewed up and shattered. Then the next Camel, and finally the Nines.
The C.O. sought out Patterson, the chief mechanic. “I’m terribly sorry about this,” he said. “Your chaps must feel very let-down.”
“They put heart and soul into their work, sir. Toiled night and day. Owned those aeroplanes. You borrowed them, sir, but they belonged to us. Mind your back, sir.”
They moved away from the tank. It swung around until it was facing the Black Sea. It roared and rolled forward. The driver came out of the turret hatch in a hurry and jumped clear. The tank picked up speed and went over the edge and made a splash that reached up and soaked the dockside. The ground crews gave an ironic cheer.
“Get your men lined up,” the colonel told Wragge. “They must follow me to the embarkation point. Only your squadron. No refugees. Use your bayonets, if you have to. No civilians! The women are the worst. They’ll bribe you with the family jewels, if you let them.”
As they formed up, the train reversed and slowly vanished into the crowd. Wragge realized that he had completely forgotten about Chef and the engine crew. Well, they had whatever food was left in The Dregs, which was something. Where would they go? Nowhere good.
The squadron marched through the wretched crowd. It watched them go, silently and sullenly. They went down some harbour steps and into a boat. Nobody in the boat looked back as it bucketed across the bay. Everyone looked at the British cruiser waiting for them. It was big and clean-cut and reassuringly safe.
The cruiser sailed two hours later. Oliphant and Brazier stood at the rail, watching Novo fade away. “Well, Uncle, that was an utter shambles,” Oliphant said. “I can’t see that we did the slightest bit of good to anyone. If anything, we just helped to make a total balls-up of their whole stupid war.”
“There’s a useful lesson to be learned,” Brazier said. “Interfere in someone else’s family quarrel and you’ll always end up with a bloody nose. And you’ll get no thanks.”
“I’ll try to remember that, Uncle.”
“Nobody else will, Tusker. The interfering will go on. And so will the bloody noses. You watch.”
It was raining in London; had been raining all day. Outside 10 Downing Street the policemen’s capes shone like polished lead. Lloyd George was in Geneva, lucky chap, putting in an appearance at talks about the League of Nations. Jonathan Fitzroy took the opportunity to hold a small sherry party at Number 10. It was an occasion to convey the P.M.’s gratitude to the Sub-Committee on Russia. Former Sub-Committee. It had ceased to be, through force of circumstances. But Fitzroy had a tidy mind, and a word of thanks cost nothing.
“Never knew such a summer,” Sir Franklyn said; “I felt sorry for the county cricketers. Season’s been a washout.”
“The Times says there are floods in America,” Fitzroy said. “Of course, there are always floods somewhere in America.”
“One place you don’t want to be is Russia,” General Stattaford said. “Freezing snow from now until spring.” Silence. Nobody wanted to talk about Russian weather. “All our troops got out before winter,” he said. “British Army knows how to extricate its men. Point of pride.”
“Not all,” Charles Delahaye said.
“Brace yourselves,” Weatherby said. “The Treasury is going to bombard us with statistics.”
“And money,” Delahaye said. “Widows’ pensions, for example. Maintenance of military cemeteries. The Army left 526 men buried in North Russia alone. I can give you the figures for the other campaigns, the Caspian area for instance, and the men we sent to aid Denikin, and the Siberian wars…”
“Some other time, perhaps,” Fitzroy said.
“Then there’s the Royal Navy,” Delahaye said. “The Treasury takes a keen interest in sailors. Warships are costly to replace.”
“Undoubtedly,” Fitzroy said. “But we reviewed that very carefully, didn’t we? The Kronstadt affair, Lieutenant Agar V.C., splendid stuff. We lost a few motor boats, am I right?”
“Not entirely. By July of 1919 the Royal Navy had an average of eighty-eight warships and auxiliaries in the Baltic, at no little cost. They lost seventeen ships, including a cruiser, two destroyers and a submarine. Thirty-five officers and 128 men were killed.”
“What’s your point?” Stattaford said, sharply.
“Simply that our Intervention in the internal affairs of another nation came at a price.”
“We were never publicly at war,” Sir Franklyn said. “Now we are very publicly at peace with the Soviets. Lloyd George deserves a little credit for his secrecy.”
“Denikin might have won,” Stattaford said stubbornly.
“So what?” Weatherby said. “The Kaiser might have won. That’s not what the history books will say, is it?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Fitzroy said. “Please. Let us not bicker. The matter is over and done with. General, let me give you more sherry.”