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OSMANIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
Call No. S^-V5 \ ft%*L Accession No. Gl"-
Author
Title OMtV
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LAST TRAIN: OVER ROSTOV BRIDGE
Last
Train
Over
Rostov
Bridge
by
Captain Marion Aten, D.F.C.
and
Arthur Orrmont
Foreword by Quentin Reynolds
Julian Messner, Inc.
New York
Published by Julian Messner, Inc.
8 West 40 Street, New York 18
Published simultaneously in Canada
by The Copp Clark Publishing Co. Limited
Copyright 1961, by Julian Messner, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 61-13851
To
Air Vice Marshal Raymond Collishaw, C.B., D.S.O.,
O.B.E., D.S.C., D.F.C., R.A.F., and the late Captain
S. M. Kinkead, D.S.O., D.S.C., D.F.C., R.A.F.
Contents
FOREWORD ix
BOOK I Journey to Russia i
BOOK II The Sky Above the Volga 43
BOOK III Nina 129
BOOK IV The Retreat 191
BOOK V Journey's End 309
EPILOGUE 335
GLOSSARY 339
Foreword
The great Russian Civil War (iq 18-1920) was probably the
worst reported conflict of modern times. Few correspondents
were with either the Bolshevik forces (later the name was
changed to Communist) or with the White Russian Army,
and those who were with the troops were plagued by lack of
communications and with strict censorship. Later a few gen-
erals of both sides did write memoirs of those dreadful days;
they were not only hopelessly biased, but for the most part
emphasized the complex political ramifications of the struggle.
At long last a book has been written that humanizes that
war; that tells of it in terms of air and ground battles, in
terms of the gallantry, the cowardice and the suffering of
the millions of Russians who found themselves caught up
in a flow of tragic events over which they had no control.
Strangely enough, an American, Captain Marion Aten, who
flew for the R.A.F., was a witness to thfse events. His story has
been skillfully shepherded through the typewriter by profes-
sional writer Arthur Orrmont. You can read Last Train Over
Rostov Bridge as merely an exciting personal narrative of a
young adventurous pilot who not pnly became dedicated to
the cause of the White Army forces but who found time to
fall in love with an attractive Russian nurse. You can also
read it as a perceptive footnote to history, for Marion Aten,
even then, had an inquiring mind which forced him to the
IX
conclusion that a Russian Bolshevik state could only be a
menace to the eventual peace of the world.
A few words about Marion Aten. His father was a famous
Texas Ranger, Captain Ira Aten, who eventually retired
from the service and bought and developed the successful
8 N Bar Ranch in El Centra, California. Shortly after World
iVVar I broke out young Aten, by then equally at home on a
horse or in the cockpit of a plane, went to Toronto to enlist
in the Royal Flying Corps. When he arrived in France he
was lucky enough to be assigned to Squadron 203 led by
Canadian Raymond Collishaw, the No. 3 Allied fighter ace
of World War I. Collishaw wound up with a record of 68
downed German aircraft even though he only had one eye
(the medical examiners never knew this until after the war
was over). His second in command was Sam Kinkead who
had accounted for 39 enemy planes. These two and the young
pilot from California became a convivial trio, always ready
for a fight or a frolic.
Marion Aten's war came to an embarrassing end when a
flying accident, having nothing to do with combat, resulted
in his left arm being broken in four places. When Armistice
Day came Aten was in the Eastchurch Hospital outside of
London, but he knew that his old squadron mates would be
celebrating the end of hostilities at the Royal Automobile
Club Bar. With his arm in a sling he joined them, and after
a few drinks Collishaw broached the subject of flying against
the Bolsheviks. He, Kinkead and several of the squadron had
already faced the bleak prospect of peace and had joined the
fighting forces of the White Russian Air Force who were
fighting the Bolsheviks with the unofficial blessing of Eng-
land (which was sending supplies to the enemies of Bolshe-
vism).
The boy from California didn't know a damn thing about
Russia except that the Czar had abdicated and was now dead.
He knew that there had been a confusing revolution and
that a man named Lenin had signed a separate peace treaty
with the Germans at Brest-Litovsk. Collishaw, whom Aten
idolized, explained the difference between the "good guys"
and the "bad guys." The Bolsheviks or the Reds as they were
even called then were the "bad guys" and the Whites were
the "good guys."
When Collishaw told Aten that he would be commanding
officer of Squadron 47, three flights with a total of 300 men
(including pilots, ground crew and maintenance personnel)
and suggested that he go along, the young American ordered
another drink and said, "Why not."
A few months later Aten went to South Russia to join
Lieutenant-Colonel Raymond Collishaw and his fighter pilots
who were flying the British Camels, fractious planes that only
responded properly to the hands of skilled pilots. For some
time this was a gay and dashing war, with Collishaw's group
completely dominating the air protecting the ground troops
of General Peter Nicholaivich Wrangel's Cossacks.
There were caviar and vodka and acquiescent and lovely
Russian girls. General Anton Ivanovich Denikin commanded
the White Army. His No. 2 man was Baron Wrangel, a bril-
liant officer with an illustrious World War I record.
At first the White Army gained a succession of quick vic-
tories, but then General Simeon Mikhailevich Budenny, head
of the Red Army under Leon Trotsky (Commissar of War),
conscripted thousands and thousands of workers, to whom
the Bolsheviks had promised paradise, and put guns in their
hands. Suddenly Aten and the other RAF pilots grew up and
began to realize this wasn't fun and games. He flew every day
but at night came to know officers of the White Army (in-
cluding General Wrangel) and in this book he tells us a
story of lost opportunities that might well have changed the
course of the Russian Civil War. Had these opportunities
been seized, the Bolsheviks might conceivably have been de-
feated, thereby completely exterminating the threat of what
we know as Communism.
This part of the story I have never heard before. General
xi
Denikin had exhilarated his troops with the slogan, "We
will be in Moscow by Christmas," as Napoleon had once
said. He determined to push full steam ahead for Moscow,
but decided to divide his troops into three forces along the
way. In vain Wrangel objected that such a course was suicide.
He was a professional military man who realized that when
a sharp thrust was made at an enemy position the thrust
must be single, not divided. Denikin accused him of wanting
to capture Moscow by himself. Wrangel shrugged his shoul-
ders and obeyed orders.
Wrangel, according to the authors, was a truly great gen-
eral, but he couldn't cope with General Budenny and his
rapidly increasing forces. Wrangel asked his headquarters for
new orders countermanding those which insisted that he
advance on Moscow. He felt he might accomplish the mission
with Denikin's reserve troops, but the Commander-in-Chief
was adamant and insisted that Wrangel aim for what had now
become the capital of the Bolshevik government with the
troops that he had.
The authors bring up an interesting question. Had Deni-
kin thrown all of his troops behind Wrangel this brilliant
general might have taken Moscow and what we know today
as Communism might never have existed. This is pure con-
jecture, but the authors make out a good case for it. Had
Wrangel won, the whole course of history might have been
changed. Or had the Allies who were giving token assistance
to the White Army really put their whole strength behind
the fight, Russia today well might be a relatively democratic
state.
The writers of this book, in the midst of their exciting
narrative, raise these provocative points. They are worth
considering.
QUENTIN REYNOLDS
xn
Book I
Journey to Russia
At the Quai d'Orsay Clemenceau coughed
into his yellow hand and returned his eyes to
the official dispatches. At 1600 Pennsylvania
Avenue Wilson drew a shawl around his
bowed shoulders and reached for his pen. At
10 Downing Street Lloyd George impatiently
pressed the buzzer that summoned his first and
second secretaries.
Force without stint or limit, force to the ut-
most had won the war, along with Almighty
God, Right, Truth, Justice, Freedom, the Self-
Determination of Nations, no Indemnities or
Annexations. Now it was time for work in the
new world eleven million dead had made safe
for democracy.
Chapter One
In London on November 11, 1918, as in Paris, in Rome
and in New York, there was celebration. At eleven o'clock
that morning, blazoned by the Fleet Street extras, the news
had come, and at eleven that night the church bells were still
ringing, the boat whistles still blowing, the pubs still roaring,
and people still danced in the streets. They had poppies in
their buttonholes and in their hats, and London was a sea of
poppies from Bayswater Road through Oxford Street, across
the Haymarket and through Trafalgar Square into Whitehall.
Grocers stood by while small boys stole oranges. Tram con-
3
ductors refused to take fares. Bowler-hatted clerks pressed
flasks upon strangers, and the women kisses and sometimes
more than kisses, if the strangers were young and wore khaki
and had eyes haunted by Belleau Wood or Vivy Ridge or
Chateau-Thierry.
If you were that stranger it was good to be alive and young
and whole, a survivor. Oh, it was true enough the world was
a poorer place to live in: so the thinkers had said. The youth
were betrayed and the dream of human perfectibility forever
shattered, and optimism except in the empty words of the
proclamations dead. From now on it would be fashionable
to believe in nothing. But one could believe in nothing and
still have a rattling good time, and that, for a disillusioned
optimist, was the important thing to remember. For the
young back from the war there was youth to spend, youth so
far unsquandered like the combat pay in your pocket, and if
money was exhaustible, youth was not, now that the trenches
were empty and the air above them still, and now that it
was time again for old men to do the dying as the old men
should.
At Pall Mall I got out of the cab that had stopped for my
slinged arm outside of Victoria Station. As I paid my fare
the cabby repeated his friendly warning: "Now you be sure
and stay away from Piccadilly tonight, Leftenant. The
crowd'll bust yer other arm/'
I thanked him and turned down Pall Mall. I had no in-
tention of going to Piccadilly Circus, certain this evening to
be the most crowded place in London, and in triumphant
Christendom, to boot. I planned merely to have a few drinks
with the squadron mates I expected to find at the Royal
Automobile Club bar, and then turn in fairly early at a nearby
hotel. My arm, broken in four places in a flying accident, was
still far from mended. It would be some time before I could
hope to be discharged from the R.A.F. hospital at Eastchurch,
which had given me a forty-eight-hour pass to go into Lon-
don and celebrate the defeat of the Hun.
Pall Mall looked like the set for a naughty revue. Overhead
hung a big yellow Shubert moon: by the light of such the
Zeppelins had lately bombed the city. Down the street, each
against a tin-hatted street light, leaned ardent couples. They
embraced, and parted only to drink from flask or bottle. As I
passed one street light, a young lady in floppy hat and suit
skirt tight at the ankles dropped a pint bottle at my feet. It
smashed, splashing Scotch against my boots. I smiled in en-
couragement and passed on.
"Harry, just because you won the bloomin' war don't give
you any right to paw so," the girl protested.
At the next lamppost a stunning brunette with a Modi-
gliani neck snaked her arm in mine and held me there, cap-
tive. I looked down into smoky eyes like smoky eyes that had
made me foolish one Imperial Valley spring and the memory
of which had driven me away to join the circus. There was a
wise man who said that young boys must join circuses, and
he said it right.
"Darling blueboy," the Modigliani said, "were you very
badly wounded?" She was very drunk, but lovely.
"Come now, Claris, the lieutenant's busy," said her colonel,
a white-moustached War Office type much too old for Claris.
He distinctly emphasized the 'lieutenant/
"Blueboy," Claris asked, ignoring him, "was it a Hun
bullet from one of those horrid black machines with the
crosses on them? Were you very badly hurt?"
" 'My body only/ " I quoted gallantly from Rupert Brooke,
" 'but your eyes do wound my soul/ " With a contemptuous
salute to the colonel, I retrieved my good arm and continued
on, edging past a group of fellow-countrymen in khaki bawl-
ing out Mademoiselle from Armentiers.
A footman in livery was shooing a couple of leather-capped
roisterers away from the Automobile Club's marble steps. "I
don't care if it's bloody Armageddon," the footman was saying
firmly, "this here's a gentleman's club, and we don't tolerate
no disturbances." He prodded a Cockney with a disdainful
toe.
"Good evening, Eustace," I said, answering his greeting,
and passed through the monogrammed door he held open for
me into the tiled entrance hall.
It was like coming out of the storm into the calm of an
aquarium, and the decorous silence hit me like a blow. Off
to the right, in the reading room, superannuated baronets
with brandies at their elbows sat absorbed in the evening
papers, deaf to the sound of revelry and debauch that filtered
in through the French windows. One was reading a bound
edition of Surtees from the library shelves which offered
nothing more recent than Meredith and Gissing. Beyond, in
the billiard room, baldheaded gentlemen prodded colored
balls with sticks of wood, while stiff-backed waiters stood pa-
tiently by with refreshments.
At the back of the entrance hall two young sapper officers
sat ensconsed in telephone booths, arguing young ladies into
doing the town. One wiped a forehead that had most likely
been dry at Ypres.
In the bar, where I had known they would be, sat Colly,
Kink, Bill Daley and Tommy Burns-Thompson. The bar was
a small one and had room for only five; they had saved a seat
for me. Squadron 203 looked after its own.
Kink, the witty one, was first to see me come into the room.
"It's Bunny's ghost! I knew they'd send him West at East-
church."
"Bunny, you bastard, come have a drink," said Collishaw,
the hero and the handsome one.
"God's troth, two drinks for Lieutenant Aten," said Daley,
the rounder, and pounded the bar.
Burns-Thompson, the baby, sat with a grin that managed
to be both wide and sickly. He had just lost ten quid, having
bet me that I would celebrate Armistice at Eastchurch with
a copy of La Vie Parisienne. I was a "poor mender," he said.
George, the bartender, set before me a single Scotch and
soda, silently reminding Bill Daley that at the Royal Auto-
mobile only one drink was served at a time.
Kink shook his head in disbelief. "The Flying Cowboy
6
made it to London by Armistice. The man who thought he
could fly into a Bessemer and out the other side."
He was referring to my accident. At Eastchurch field,
trying to avoid a landing plane, I had tried to fly through a
canvas hangar, a trick only Colly, and perhaps Kink, could
have attempted with any prospect of success.
4 'Where's Bunny's ten quid?" Kink inquired of Tommy
blandly.
Tommy groaned, and reaching for his billfold, counted out
fresh white notes on the bar. He was an Edinburgh Scotsman,
and though as reckless with a bet as an airplane, it pained
him to lose money.
I ordered another round. And another. We drank to the
Armistice, and to the end of the war. To the downfall of
the Hun. To peace, and to the Allied victory. We drank to the
demoiselles of Paris and to the girls of Mayfair. We drank to
practically everything but home, and I was beginning to
wonder why when Colly began to ask me some strange ques-
tions.
"Bunny, do you really plan to go back to that ranch in
California?"
"It looks that way, Colly. La guerre a fini" Outside some-
one smashed a street lamp, and it sounded so much like the
pop of a Very pistol that we all grinned.
Colly frowned. "You didn't see much action, did you, on
the western front? A month's combat, a couple of Hun bullets
in your tail. Nothing spectacular, I mean. No kills in the
air."
"You know that, Colly," I said. The conversation depressed
me. Raymond Collishaw was the third leading Allied ace of
the war. Though sightless in one eye a fact the Medical
Board had failed to discover he had shot down sixty-eight
German aircraft. And the man who sat beside him, Sam
Kinkead, had scored thirty-nine victories in Turkey and on
the western front. Even Bill Daley had two Hun planes to
his credit, and Tommy, one. Squadron 203 was one of the
best known fighter squadrons at the front, and had ended
the war with the second highest bag of enemy machines.
The other boys had fought well for the King; I had only
cost him money.
Colly sniffed. "Ranches sound like a deadly bore. Five to
one you'll get sick of all those cattle and want to join up
again."
Kink, who had been raised on a South African krall, ob-
jected. "Hold on now, Colly, ranching's not as bad as all
that."
Colly turned to face him, raised an eyebrow, and then re-
turned his attention to me.
"Bunny, you like flying, don't you?"
"Love it," I told him truthfully. I had never been the
same since that day in 1912 when, a boy of sixteen, I had
seen and touched my first machine: Bob Fowler's Wright
Model B biplane that had landed in Pasadena on the first
cross-country flight in the United States. When war had
broken out I had left El Centro for Toronto to enlist in the
R.F.C., and though my father had put the train fare in my
pocket, had it been necessary I would have made it to Camp
Mohawk on foot. Caring as much as I did for flying a plane,
it was going to be difficult to give it up for ranching.
"Got a girl back home?" Colly asked me after a pause.
I shook my head, wondering what he was up to. Colly
knew that romantically I was as free as a tailwind.
"I understand," Colly went on, "that your father was a
Texas Ranger."
"Dad pioneered Texas after the Civil War," I said. "He
was one of the best cattlemen in the West."
Colly rubbed his chin reflectively. "Must have been a
pretty independent fellow. Strong individualist, and all that.
Didn't stick close to home and hearth. Went adventuring,
you might say, into the wilderness."
"You might say that. Colly, what in hell are you getting
at? Out with it."
8
Tommy sniggered, and Colly quelled him with a look.
"Suppose another war came along?" Colly said, his gray,
long-lashed eyes narrowing. "You wouldn't exactly mind
flying in it, would you?"
"Good Lord," I said. "Have the Serbs or Montenegrins
broken loose again?"
"You haven't answered my question."
"Give me another war and I'll tear up my demob papers
tomorrow."
"Good," Colly said. "Then how would you like to fly
against the Bolshies?"
"The Bolshies?" I repeated stupidly.
"With the Whites against the Reds, Bunny,'" Kink ex-
plained.
I had no interest in politics and knew next to nothing
about Russia and its current internal affairs. The Czar, I
knew, had abdicated, and now was dead; there had been a
confusing revolution; a sinister man named Lenin had passed
through Germany in a sealed railway car and signed a sep-
arate peace with the Germans at Brest-Litovsk a rather
unsporting gesture. I didn't know how to spell Brest-Litovsk,
which had a faintly indecent ring. I knew the Russian win-
ters were cold, and the people, bundled up in bear rugs,
went about in sleighs. Much vodka was consumed, both in
Moscow and in the provinces.
"I didn't know," I said, "that we were at war with the
Reds."
"We're not," Colly said patiently, "and it's not likely we
will be. With our help the Whites can do the job. This
summer Allied intervention and support got seriously under
way. Allied troops landed at Murmansk and Archangel,
where they've overthrown the local soviet and set up a provi-
sional government of the north. We've got Allied forces in
Vladivostok, and the Japanese are holding strategic points
in eastern Siberia. American troops are guarding the rail-
roads out there, and there are several thousand British sup-
9
porting and instructing Admiral Kolchak the White
muckamuck of the north/'
"Colly," I said, "how the devil would you fly in all that
snow?"
"We're not going to Siberia," Kink said. "We're going to
the south, the Cossack country. We'll be supporting the
counter-revolution that's started up there under General
Denikin."
Taking his time about it, Colly lit a Gold Flake, "I'll be
commanding officer of three flights with a total of about three
hundred men. That includes officers, ground crew, and main-
tenance personnel. You'd be flying Camels under Kink in B
Flight with Bill, Tommy, and a chap named Eddie Fulford,
who'll be joining us later on. The other boys of A and C
Flights will be flying DH-g and DH-gA bombers. It should
be a damn good show and we shouldn't have too much trou-
ble getting the mess over with around this time next year.
Want to come? What do you say we fox 'em?"
Did I want to come? Colly's invitation was an honor; I
knew that only the best pilots of Squadron 203 were being
asked to make the trip. But I temporized, not wanting to
show how eager I actually was.
"A year, you say. I promised the folks I'd get back home
as soon as the fighting was over."
"A year if that," Colly said. "The Whites have all the
military brains and mountains of Allied munitions and
equipment. We could be in Moscow by next Christmas."
"Think of all the Russian women, Bunny," Bill Daley
said. "Throwing themselves at their brave foreign defenders,
begging for a kiss. Countesses, baronesses by the dozen. Might
even bag yourself a princess."
"Combat pay too," Tommy said. "A quid extra a day."
"Temporary rank of Captain," Bill put in.
"New Camels?" I asked Colly.
"Not quite," he told me. "Our ships have seen a lot of
action in Salonika during the war. They're a little bashed.
10
But to service them we'll have the best damn crews in the
R.A.F."
"All right, count me in," I said.
Pandemonium. Kink threw his arms around me and Bill
pounded my back so hard I fell off the stool. Tommy, help-
ing me to get up, slipped himself, and we rolled over the
blue carpet. Colly managed to spill half his Scotch and soda
on my head.
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" George pleaded. "Rules of the
club! Rules of the club!"
In the doorway stood two of the old walruses from the
reading room, staring at us in shock and amazement. The
Times in their liver-spotted hands were like huge warrants
for our arrest. One never shouted in the Royal Automobile,
not even on Armistice night. It was a rule of the club.
Colly raised his glass to the walruses and invited them to
have a drink. Slowly, in concert, shaking their heads and
flanks, the walruses waddled away.
We drank to the walruses. And to Mother Russia, and to
the Czar and the Czarina, dead though they might be. We
drank to the princesses, the duchesses, the countesses, the
baronesses. And even to the Bolshies.
Turning unsteadily to the bartender, Colly asked for a
bar chit and a pencil. He scrawled something on the back of
the chit, and handed it to me. The message read:
Kindly provide Lt. Aten in Dover with transportation to
Boulogne. His eventual destination is South Russia.
Raymond Collishaw, Lt.-Col., R.A.F.
Colly put his hand on my shoulder. "Sorry you can't leave
with us, Bunny; we're taking off in a couple of weeks, and
I doubt if you'll be discharged by then from Eastchurch. But
I'll leave instructions along the route, and you can just hop
along after us."
I looked at the chit doubtfully. "The handwriting's rather
11
drunken, and it doesn't look very official. Can I really get to
Russia on a bar chit?"
"Colly's got direct orders from the Air Ministry," Kink
said. "Don't worry about a thing."
Colly put down his glass and straightened his tie. "I am
late," he said, "for a pressing appointment with a marchion-
ess. Will you warriors excuse me?"
In respectful silence we watched him leave the room.
"There goes a great man," Kink said. "A man of uncon-
querable spirit and incredible powers of recovery. He'll be
sober when he pays off the cabby at Berkeley Square."
"Shall we drink to the marchioness?" asked Bill Daley.
So we drank to that lady, and to her honorable sister, too.
Then, showering George with pound notes, we left the bar,
bound for whatever adventure the night, still young, might
bring.
In the lobby one of the two pleading sappers was still on
the telephone. Tommy suddenly sat down in an armchair and
turned green, and we hurried him into the washroom, where
he threw up in a healthy manner. Outside the club, we
found a Roault taxi at the curb.
"Well, boys," Kink said, "is it on to Piccadilly, to bow to
the whores and pinch the ladies?"
"On to Piccadilly!" we shouted, and piled in.
It wasn't easy to get into Piccadilly. The place was mobbed.
Khaki pushed serge and serge jostled khaki, and chenille and
jersey pushed and jostled both, all shouting, sweating, and
exalted. There were French sailors in red pompons and
French officers in lace-covered kepis and Polish legionnaires,
doughboys, Canucks, Anzacs, and Red Cross officers with a
shine on their Sam Browne belts and leather puttees that
hurt the eyes. For the first time in four years the signs were
lit, and Schweppes, Oxo and Bovril bathed the crowd in a
bright yellow glow. We pressed forward, impelled by the
same atavistic compulsion as our neighbors, toward the Foun-
tain of Eros in the center of the Square; it seemed as though
12
all London meant to renew itself at the springs of the God
of Love.
Around us voices swelled in incessant song. Tommies sang
It's A Long Way From Tipperary, Frenchmen chorused La
Marseillaise and Madelon, American doughboys bellowed:
Ho! for the coonyac, ho! for the wine.
Ho! for the Mam'selles
Every one is fine.
Ho! for the hardtack, bully beef and beans.
To hell with the Kaiser and the goddamn Marines!
And into the stupendous uproar we four shouted the old
R.A.F. battle song of the western front, It's The Only, Only
Way:
It's the only, only way,
It's the only game to play,
He's in a Fokker and you're in a Pup,
And he's only putting your wind right up.
With your good old Vickers gun
You've got him on the run,
Just keep him tight
In your telescope sight
For it's the only, only way!
The crowd was no respecter of R.A.F. blue. I got an elbow
in my ribs that knocked the wind out, and Kink was stabbed
in the ear by an umbrella. Bill Daley got kneed in the groin
and Tommy was knocked off his feet. We reformed our line
and continued forward towards the fountain, Kink holding
a slightly bloodied handkerchief to the side of his head.
A drunken Canuck corporal had climbed the fountain to
the figure of Eros at the top, and was vainly trying to tug
the god from his pedestal. Thoroughly soaked from the jet
of water that came from Eros' mouth, the corporal was find-
ing his perch a slippery one, and as we and thousands
watched, his foot slipped and he barely caught himself from
13
falling into the basin below. Again he grappled with Eros,
tugging with inebriate persistence, while the crowd shouted
encouragement and advice:
"He'll come off you do 4m easy/'
"A Canuck couldn't do it, but an Englishman could! "
"Let a man up there to do a man's job a bloody sailor!"
Around us bets were being made on how long it would be
before the Canuck slipped and fell. An infantryman of the
Fourth King's counted seconds on his watch, and an engineer
wearing the shoulderpatch of the Thirteenth Fusiliers
checked him for honesty. The Canuck, waterlogged and dis-
consolate, was losing his grip again when the firemen arrived,
carrying ladders.
Three firemen in slickers and hip boots climbed into the
base of the fountain and set up the ladder against the lip of
the next basin. One of them mounted the ladder and started
up, and the crowd, anxious to see, pressed forward.
There was no help for it; we were too close to the fountain,
and the mass of onlookers pushed us over the edge of the
bottom basin, together with a civil servant carrying a rolled
umbrella and a young lady of fashion separated from her
escort. Her shrieks were worthier of a more desperate situa-
tion. But all of us got soaked up to our knees in the foot-deep
basin, except for Tommy, who lost his balance and sprawled
full-length. With the help of the firemen we clambered out,
dripping.
The firemen, decent chaps, provided escort through the
laughing crowd, and one of them hailed a taxi. We headed
down Shaftesbury Avenue, bound for Soho.
"What time is it?" Kink asked, wringing water from his
whipcord breeks.
I looked at my watch, but the fountain escapade had put
it out of commission.
"Can't be later than one-ish," said Bill Daley. Taking out
his roll of soggy pound notes, he examined them ruefully.
Tommy sneezed. "Hell of an early hour to be turning in,"
14
he grumbled. "We should have brought a change of uniform
from the base."
"Say," Bill said, "did anybody see what happened to the
corporal?"
None of us had, and we all felt somewhat cheated. An at-
mosphere of damp sobriety had settled over us when the cab
pulled up at the hotel.
The desk clerk's eyes were cool as we approached the desk,
leaving a trail of wet footprints over the carpet. Tommy had
begun to sneeze violently.
"We'd like four single rooms," Kink told the clerk. "If
you don't have them, we'll take a couple of doubles."
"Sorry, sir," the clerk said, "all filled up. Thousands of
men in the city."
I had thought the place looked too damn respectable for
the likes of four dripping flying officers. I said to Kink,
"Come on, we'll try the Devonshire."
"The Devonshire's too far away, and Tommy's got a weak-
ness for pneumonia." He turned back to the desk clerk.
"Tell the manager I'd like to see him."
The clerk hesitated, and Kink said, in his tone of com-
mand which shattered ordinary mortals, "The manager, man,
are you deaf?"
The clerk left the desk and returned with a middle-aged
man with cheerful eyes. Without a word he swung the regis-
ter toward us. "Catching a cold, eh?" he said to Tommy.
"Better get you into bed." After we had signed, he waved
away the bellboy and took us up in the elevator to our second
floor rooms.
I had noticed that he walked with a limp. When he opened
the door of my room and switched on tjie light he tapped his
leg significantly. It gave off a hollow sound.
"Grateful to you R.A.F. chaps," he said. "Ruddy Fokker
strafed our trench one day, got me in the leg, and turned
to come in a second time. I was lying there helpless. If one
of your boys hadn't come from out of the blue and pounced
15
him, I might not be here today. Sleep well, lieutenant. En-
joy the peace."
I had sat down on the bed and taken oft my jacket before
it occurred to me that the war was over, but not for Marion
Hughes Aten. I was going half way round the world to fight
in another.
For a moment but only a moment it seemed like a
silly idea.
Tomorrow, as soon as I got back to Eastchurch hospital, I
would write a letter home. Father would understand, but not
mother. For more than one reason I wished my brother Boyce
hadn't died of a machine-gun bullet near Apromont in the
Argonne Forest last September.
16
Chapter Two
Colly's promised telegram arrived two and a half weeks
later. It read: HUNGOVER BUT DETERMINED, LEFT DOVER TODAY
FOR BOULOGNE. SUGGEST YOU DEPART EASTCHURCH SOON AS
POSSIBLE FOR DOVER WHERE MARINE LANDING OFFICER WILL
ISSUE TICKET FOR BOULOGNE. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS AWAIT
YOU THERE. NICHOLAS II.
The wire was delived to me the day I was discharged from
the hospital and an hour before I was put under arrest and
confined to the base for "an indefinite period at the com-
manding officer's discretion." My offense had been to disobey
the regulation that forbade "social conversation and inter-
course with the auxiliary female force in uniform," namely
the W.R.A.F.s who cooked and served our meals, did our
laundry, signed out our library books, typed our records, and
filed our papers.
That evening a barracks mate and I were talking desultor-
ily with a W.R.A.F. who enjoyed local fame and popularity
for having spat most often into the soup of Colonel Dudgeon,
the most detested officer on the Isle pf Sheppey. I was just
about to excuse myself when Colonel Dudgeon happened by,
swinging his swagger stick and humming Aupres de ma blonde.
My companion bolted cravenly into the darkness, but I
stayed on to face the colonel's wrath. As it turned out I
should have bolted too, but it is a constitutional inability of
17
mine to show so intimate a portion of my anatomy as my
backside to anyone whom I despise.
"Lieutenant," said the colonel, after dismissing the
W.R.A.F., "are you cognizant of regulations regarding this
offense?"
"Yes, sir. I am put under open arrest and ordered to report
to the adjutant every twenty-four hours. I am confined to
Eastchurch until further notice, but I may, meanwhile, re-
quest a court martial."
The Colonel tapped his stick against his boot. "That is
correct. Your knowledge of regulations is commendable. Your
obedience to them is not."
"Am I dismissed, sir?"
"Presently, lieutenant. What's this I hear about your go-
ing to Russia?"
"It's true, sir. But I'm surprised. I didn't know personal
messages were opened at headquarters."
Dudgeon reddened. "Are you accusing me of reading your
mail?"
"No, sir. Just my telegrams."
"Aten," the colonel said softly, with menace, "don't count
on leaving for Russia for a while. Quite a while. It distresses
me to say this, but by the time you get there the war might
well be over. Open arrest has been known to last for months
at Eastchurch, and the court martial section, should you ask
for a trial, is badly jammed up. Struthers, the chap who
talked to the librarian, waited a jolly long time for his. Dis-
missed, lieutenant. Carry on."
The next morning I asked for a court martial, but the
schedule, as the colonel had said, was crowded. The soonest
date the adjutant cguld give me was in March. I wrote to
Colly, care of the Marine Landing Officer in Boulogne, but
the weeks passed and there was no reply, and I had no idea
of B Flight's itinerary thereafter. I pulled a string in White-
hall, but it proved a loose one, and Dudgeon had the satis-
18
faction of telling me that the Air Vice Marshal believed that
discipline in the R.A.F. was of paramount importance. I
seethed and I moped and I contemplated murder, and spent
a miserable Christmas and New Year's Eve in quarters read-
ing a bad translation of a Turgenev novel.
I don't know when it occurred to me that I could simply
walk out of Eastchurch by the back door, but one night in
late January I did just that; I picked up the kit my friend
had checked with the station master, and caught the train
with seconds to spare. As it rattled over the drawbridge that
separated the Isle of Sheppey from the mainland I began to
relax but checked myself; I was hardly safe till I left Sitting-
bourne Junction behind me, and Sittingbourne was two
hours away. Dudgeon might have discovered my escape and
called ahead to the Junction Military Police.
At Sittingbourne the line branched one way to Dover, the
other to London. On the platform an M.P. officer approached
me as I was lugging my kit to the waiting room; and my heart
beat madly for a moment and then seemed to stop. But the
alarm was a false one: he had a brother at Eastchurch and
wondered if I knew him and how Edgar was getting along.
There was only a short wait for the Dover train. I shared
a compartment with an old lady from London who was going
to visit her married daughter in the Cinque Ports town.
"Are you goin' home?" she asked me pleasantly.
"No, well yes, as a matter of fact, I am/'
"Must be good to be going home after this horrible war.
Henry, that's my boy, he just about got away with a whole
skin, fighting for that butcher Haig." She brightened. "Think
how fine it'll be to see your mum and dad."
"Yes, it will be."
"They'll be thrilled to see their soldier lad," she said, and
went on to tell me how glad Henry had been to see his mum,
dad being dead these six years last Christmas. It was con-
versation I found less than cheering, remembering mother's
plea in her last letter that I change my mind about freeboot-
19
ing to a war that was no concern of mine, and excusing my-
self to the old lady, I went into the dining car for a glass of
ale and a smoke.
I sat there for the entire trip. The train passed over the
Dour and came into the town, and I saw the white cliffs of
Dover that fringe the coast on either hand, and on the eastern
height the Castle with its Roman pharos which had once
signaled ships at sea. In the failing light the remains of the
Saxon fort and Norman keep were still visible.
It came to me that Roman and British and Saxon and
Norman had conquered here in turn only to be forgotten.
If that was so, in a hundred years what heart would beat
faster at the reliquaries of the great war that had just ended?
History moved too fast, and time corrupted it; in another
hundred years how many greater wars would have been
fought and unremembered? I had no talent for prevision,
and yet I saw before me now the plane I flew and loved, the
Sopwith Camel, reposing antediluvian as a dinosaur in the
darkest hall of some museum, and children, back from a
weekend on the moon, come to laugh at it, doubting that
such a fragile patchwork of canvas, wood and baling wire
could rise, much less fight, in the air. Why, you could poke
your finger through the wing! Look, Daddy, at that old-fash-
ioned propeller!
From Dover station I took a taxi to the Marine Landing
office on Admiralty Pier. The assistant was on duty. He knew
of no message from Lt.-Col. Collishaw, but perhaps the senior
officer, due to return shortly, did.
"You don't plan on getting across to Boulogne tonight, I
hope?' 1 the assistant said. "Last steamer left ten minutes ago,
packed to the gunnels with demobs bound for the fleshpots
of Paris."
"Then I'll have to wait till morning."
"You been demobbed?"
"No, I'm signing on for another year or so of bully beef
and hardtack."
20
He looked at me as if I were slightly mad. "A pity," he
said, and shuffled some papers.
I asked him for the name of the best hotel in town.
"The King's Arms. You'd best call for a reservation,
Lieutenant. The town's hopping with demobs."
As I put down the telephone the M.L.O. came in. He
remembered a message from Colly, but had mislaid it. After
a long search he found it in the bottom drawer of the files,
under a dirty teacup and a canister of sugar.
It was written on the back of a Gold Flakes wrapper.
"Proceed to Boulogne," it read. "Avoid there a coquette in
red named Mignonette. Tommy unfortunately did not. Fur-
ther instructions M.L.O. Boulogne. Boris Godunov."
"High-spirited fellow, that Collishaw," the M.L.O. said.
"Entertained us royally. We were sorry to see him go. From
all the ribbons on his chest he must have seen a fair bit of
action. What was the white one for?"
"Stefansson's Arctic Expedition/' I said shortly.
He hadn't heard of Colly, and it annoyed me. The pan-
jandrums of propaganda had made Billy Bishop and William
Barker the official Canadian heroes of the air, but for some
unfathomable reason crossed Colly off their list. In day-in-
day-out fighting, Colly's record stood first among British
airmen. And yet his name was unfamiliar to the British army
in France, and almost completely unknown to the British and
Canadian public.
"Yes," I said, "He saw a fair bit of action," and swinging
up my kit, left the Pier Office.
At the King's Arms the desk clerk gave me the last bed in
the house, a cot set up in the laundry room. I had dinner,
and then went into the oak-panelled bar,.
It was packed and very lively. There was no room at the
bar itself, and a girl seated with a couple of British naval
officers asked me to join their party.
I thanked her and sat down. One of the officers, who was
fairly drunk, squinted belligerently at my R.A.F. insignia.
21
"Flyer, eh? Well, we're Dover Patrol." He said it as if I
owed him not only respect but money.
When I nodded pleasantly, his lip curled. "You mean to
say you've never heard of the Dover Patrol?"
"Can't say I have."
"Well, we fed London during the war, damn it."
The other officer winked at me. "That's enough, Rowland.
He probably saved London. Shot down all those Zeps and
Gothas."
"He sounds like an American," the other said accusingly.
"And if he's an American, he believes in prohibition."
The girl, who had been looking at me intently, spoke for
the first time. "He looks like a rabbit a handsome rabbit.
Do they call you 'Bunny', Ducks?"
"As a matter of fact," I said, "they do."
"Flyers mostly rabbits," the belligerent Dover Patroler
said. "Rabbits of the air. Up there stunting, showing off.
Not Dover Patrol. We fed London. Got through nine and
a half million mail bags and didn't lose a parcel or a letter.
Hunted submarines, damn it. Attacked Zeebrugge. I was on
the Swift when it sank a Hun destroyer." He glowered at me.
"Lieutenant Rabbit, you ever sink a Hun destroyer?"
"His name's Lieutenant Bunny," the girl said, reaching
out her hand to cover mine. "He's a perfectly lovely rabbit
who flies in the air. He's going to take me away from these
nasty seafaring bores, isn't he, to dance and dance till dawn?"
I got up from the table, grateful that the barmaid hadn't
yet brought my drink. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to turn
in early for the steamer to Boulogne."
"Sorry, old man," the sober officer said. "Buy you a drink
when the next war comes around." The girl pouted.
"Flying rabbits almost lost the war, damn it," the drunken
officer said. "Couldn't stay in the air against Richthofen's
circus. Dover patrol won the war, I tell you. Fed London,
got through nine and a half million bags of mail . . ."
His voice faded as I left the bar. I spent an hour or so in
22
a crowded pub down the street, and then turned in early.
The steamer left at seven.
It was only an hour's trip across the Channel to Boulogne,
but the sea was rough. In the lounge I began to feel queasy,
and went out on deck for a little fresh air. Abruptly the
steamer wallowed, sank in a deep trough, and rose again,
lifting me three feet in the air and knocking my head against
an unyielding obstruction. I came to in a forest of tree trunks
that turned out to be British and French civilian legs.
"Pauvre soldat"
"Pretty bad blow there."
"He's coming round now. Give me a hand and we'll carry
him inside/'
The accident had raised on the top of my head a bump so
large that my garrison cap barely fit over it. For the rest of
the trip I sat in the galley drinking tea, rubbing my bump,
and feeling sorry for myself. My trip to Russia had started
out, I thought, poorly.
At Boulogne the M.L.O. handed me Colly's message. It
said, "At Hotel Edouard VII, Paris. Instructions there if you
happen to miss us. Kinkead warns you not to fall into clutches
of the avaricious French. When drunk keep money sewed to
inside pocket. Trotsky."
I asked directions to the railway station, and there handed
Colly's chit to an earnest young assistant Railway Transport
Officer.
"Lieutenant, this is rather irregular," he told me. "I think
we'd better wait for the senior officer's approval."
"But the train to Paris pulls out in five minutes," I pro-
tested.
He was sorry, but there was nothing he could do.
The next train was three hours later, and I had no inten-
tion of sticking around Boulogne station while the R.T.O.
perhaps got it in his head to check with Eastchurch.
When the train pulled out I was on it, holding my fare
ready in my hand.
23
In Paris, at the Edouard VII, I learned from Colly's mes-
sage that Squadron 47 had by-passed Paris for Marseilles.
In sheer disgust I decided on a few days rest in the City
of Light. Foolishly, I neglected to take Kink's advice about
money. Candle-lit dinners at Maxim's and the banks of violins
at Tour D' Argent were a delight, and I had every confidence
in Mimi till she disappeared with five hundred francs.
Life was "tres dure, mon petit lapin/' her farewell note re-
minded me.
"Bunny," I could hear Kink's lecture, "you'll never under-
stand women. You weren't born to. You treat a whore like a
countess and a countess like a countess. Damn it all, man, at
least try!"
In Marseilles I picked up another message from Colly at
the R.T.O.'s: "Kink bets you played the fool in Paris. Burns-
Thompson bets not. On our way to Taranto, Italy. No idea
how long there before embarking for Constantinople. Peter
the Great."
"How soon can I get a train for Taranto, Italy?" I asked
the R.T.O.
He scratched his head. "Trains are booked solid for the
next two weeks. The demobbing, you know. Looks like
you're stuck here for a while."
Making the best of it, I got myself a room at the Splendide
and went out to the promenoir at the Apollo. When I got
sick of the gold-toothed whores and oysters and vin de cassis I
started on the sights.
They occupied me only by day, and Marseilles is a tough
town by night. One evening I was peacefully drinking a Per-
nod in a bistro near the harbor when a villainous French
stevedore swaggered up to my table, and without a word, spat
in my glass.
As Colly would have said, it was "a bit too much." Swing-
ing from my boots, I hit the stevedore back into another
table; it crashed over, depositing him and his two friends on
the floor. They scrambled to their feet and came at me with
24
knives, and I might have been floating in the Golfe du Lion
next morning with all my problems solved, had not two
gendarmes passed by at that moment.
My intended assassins were profusely apologetic when they
learned I was not a "sale Limey" but an American. The cap-
tain of police turned me over to the British, and I was shown
into the office of an M.P. major with brand new pips.
He glanced at Colly's bar chit and I saw the familiar look
of doubt come into his eyes.
"You say you're on your way to Russia via Eastchurch?"
"That's right, sir."
"These orders don't look terribly official." He reached for
the phone, and put a call through to Eastchurch base.
"My assignment's very hush-hush, sir," I said hastily.
"State secret, and all that. If you'd care to, please check with
General Comerford at the War Office. He told me I was to
refer all inquiries to him."
He hung up the phone as if it had scalded his fingers. "Oh,
well, in that case, no need to pursue it further. You can go
now, Lieutenant, and good luck."
The Marseilles R.T.O. came through sooner than I had
expected, and five days later I was on my way to Taranto.
Waiting for me at the M.L.O.'s was another message from
Colly. "Keep a weather eye on dancing girls and Levantines
selling diamonds. Take passage immediately for Constanti-
nople. Instructions there M.L.O. Ivan the Terrible."
The M.L.O. was doubtful about getting passage for me
on the Princess Ina, leaving for Constantinople in three days.
But he would try. If he failed, I would be stuck in Taranto,
probably for another two weeks.
That night for dinner I had cozze,< Taranto's celebrated
large mussel, and rather too much wine. Later I dropped into
the bar of the hotel.
The toothy, moustached British officer sitting beside me
borrowed a match and then introduced himself. "Harcourt-
Williams, Royal 72nd," he said. "Due to be demobbed?"
25
I told him I was waiting for a ship to Constantinople.
"Ah, great place for history, Marvelous Byzantine and
Roman ruins. But Taranto's got some history, too, you know.
Are you keen for history?"
"Every now and then."
"Don't sell Taranto short. Why in 927 this town was de-
stroyed utterly by the Saracens, and then rebuilt in 967
by Nicephorus Phocas. He built that bridge over the channel,
toward the northeast of town, and the aqueduct that passes
over it. Fine bit of construction that, I can tell you. Do you
know when the town was conquered by Robert Guiscard?"
"Can't say I do," I said, looking around for rescue.
"Guess," Harcourt- Williams said smugly, and signaled the
bartender for another round.
He looked at me expectantly.
"Around 1000?" I guessed.
Grinning, he slapped me on the shoulder. "Not far off the
mark. It was 1063, actually. Guiscard's son Behemund suc-
ceeded in Taranto, and after his death Roger II of Sicily
gave the town to his son William the Bad. Then, in 1301
Philip, son of Charles II of Anjou, became Prince of the
City. He"
"All this is very interesting," I interrupted, "but could we
perhaps skip on over to Russia? I'm on my way there, and I
don't know a thing about it."
"Russia." Harcourt-Williams looked disappointed.
"I mean," I said quickly, "starting with the Revolution."
"The Revolution." He frowned into his campari. "Well,
to get up to the Revolution, you'll have to bear with me from
the beginning. It's a quirk of mine; otherwise I can't order
my dates. Let's see. Russia starts with the Slavs. No definite
date there, but the Slavs appeared not on the steppe but in
the forest . . ."
He went on to the Antae, the First Federated people, and
from there to the Avars, and the Khazars, too. "I see," I inter-
rupted him, "but can't we move up just a little faster?"
26
He looked at me bleakly. "But dear chap, you've got to con-
sider the Yaroslav era. It was damned important around 1000.
Svyatopolk the Damned killed his brothers, Boris and Gleb,
but Yaroslav, another brother, assassinated him. Then there
was Izyaslav, died in '73. ...
I let him go on for a while, then I said, "I'm getting a bit
confused by all these people and dates. Perhaps if we could
jump to the Revolution of 1905, or was it 1906?"
"It was 1905. But dear fellow, in all conscience I couldn't
possibly do that. Got to cover Ivan the Terrible, Boris
Godunov, and Catherine the II, and then there are the Alex-
anders/'
"Was Catherine the II Catherine the Great?"
"Righto. Died in 1796."
We went back to Ivan the Terrible. It was some time be-
fore we got to Alexander II (died 1881) , and along about
midnight Harcourt- Williams launched into a disquisition on
the Russo-Turkish wars. He was outlining the provisions
of the treaty of San Stefano (1878), when I gave up and
asked for the bill.
The Englishman was indignant. "But my dear fellow, we
were just getting to 1905!"
I yawned as I got down from the stool. "You'll have to
forgive me, captain. I've got to catch a ship. It's the S.S.
Ennui, bound for Tedium, and she's carrying a cargo of
dates."
I regretted my harshness to the captain by the time I
reached my room. But the days were passing, it was taking
ages to get to Russia, and I was beginning to wonder if I
was going to get there at all.
For the rest of my time in Taranto I avoided the hotel
bar, but on one occasion, passing by, I glanced inside to see
Harcourt-Williams deep in historical monologue with a
trapped lieutenant of the British fleet. I passed on quickly.
The M.L.O. wrangled passage for me on the earlier sailing
of the Princess Ina. A week later I was in Constantinople.
27
Colly had left a message with the M.L.O.: "Come on to
Novorossiisk, Russia. You are now where Europe and Asia
meet, so watch out for foul Asiatic diseases. Rasputin/'
"How soon/' I asked the M.L.O. wearily, "can I get a ship
for Novorossiisk?"
"You can't/ 1 he told me, and my heart dropped to my
boots until he explained himself. In a week I could get
passage on a mule transport to Batum, on the east coast
of the Black Sea, and from there I could probably board a
tramp steamer to Novorossiisk. There was no direct route
to Novorossiisk itself.
He wouldn't, however, advise that I go to Batum: not only
was it a very dirty town but malaria infested. He had known
of several people who had gone to Batum and never come
back.
I thanked him and went out to hail a taxi to the Hotel
Pera Plaza, in the European section of the city.
In the shower the nozzle flew off and cut me in the cheek,
and in a bad humor I went down to the bar. There I met
a Mr. Poulas, a wealthy Greek businessman of international
connections. Mr. Poulas was a short, well-dressed man with
heavy eyebrows and unstartled, I might almost say, cynical,
eyes. Almost immediately he offered to show me the town,
but companionably enough agreed to devote this afternoon at
least to pursuits of the less touristic variety. I found him a
most pleasant drinking companion, with a capacity far super-
ior to my own.
We had dinner, with which Mr. Poulas ordered the best
champagne, and then he told me he had some business to
attend to for the evening. He would be glad to put his car
at my disposal.
I said I would probably be turning in early, and he nodded
in his grave way. "Early tomorrow we shall begin with the
Mosque of Mohammed, and devote the day to various Mos-
lem points of interest, saving the Byzantine and Roman for
another time."
28
"But Mr. Poulas," I objected, "you're here on a business
trip."
He smiled. "Business and pleasure, they are for me the
same. You will learn that, Lieutenant. Goodnight."
I left the hotel for a stroll around the European quarter,
ending up for some drinks at the Petit Champs Jardin. Then
I returned to the hotel, had a brandy, and went to bed.
Next morning i came from the dining room to find a
glittering black Rolls parked before the hotel entrance. Mr.
Poulas was sitting in the curtained back seat behind a uni-
formed chauffeur.
"Ah, Lieutenant, you slept well? Were you bothered by
the roaches?"
"A little. Especially in the bathroom. I must have killed
ten of them."
He sighed. "It is criminal for the best hotel in Constanti-
nople to be roach infested. I will send up to your room a paste
which you will find most efficient."
We set off for the Mosque of Mohammed. I found Mr.
Poulas to be an excellent guide, and I enjoyed the sights,
but in the afternoon, after the Shah Zadek, my feet began to
give out from treading miles of mossaic floors, and I begged
off for a bath and a nap.
Mr. Poulas returned me to the hotel, where he again
invited me to dinner. This time I insisted that he be my
guest.
He said nothing that evening of what his real purpose
was in entertaining me so royally. But the next evening, after
we had covered the Seraglio, St. Sophia and the Hippodrome,
he came out with his amazing offer over brandy and cigars.
It was nothing less than that I take over the London office
of his shipbuilding business, at a magnificent salary, after,
of course, my "little tour" in Russia was over.
"I can see your main interests do not lie in business," Mr.
Poulas said. "But you can learn. You are intelligent and
adaptable; you are also a gentleman. You have charm. These
29
are qualities that can carry you far in the shipping business,
where one must deal with many people."
I stared at him, taken at a loss. "But sir, you can't be seri-
ous. I'm hardly the executive type. Nor do I have any feeling
for ships. I'm a flier, Mr. Poulas. My medium is the air, and
I love it. Not the sea."
"Flying is too dangerous. It is about time that you gave up
the pursuit of danger and settled down. One can settle down
very nicely in the shipping business." He paused. "I also,
I must tell you, have a daughter."
He brought out her photograph. I doubt if I have ever
seen a more amazing family resemblance; Mr. Poulas' daugh-
ter, whose name was Athena, looked exactly like her father,
even to the eyebrows.
I returned the picture to him, saying, "She looks like a
very nice girl."
Undiscouraged, he said, "She is an only child and very
wealthy. That is better than 'nice'. My boy, it does not pay
to play the romantic and the world does not turn on dreams.
Idealism is dead. We are entering a time in which men will
fight to become nothing, in which they will find their com-
fort in nothingness, their peace. Man is striving to make him-
self inhuman, and he will succeed. You go to fight that
nothingness, that inhumanity, and I applaud your misguided
courage. But the battle is lost before it is begun. Return from
it, then, to whatever reality stands among the ruins. Serve a
master who will continue to survive. My boy, do you under-
stand me?"
He interpreted my silence tolerantly and got to his feet.
"I shall see you then for breakfast, tomorrow. At eight
o'clock? We still have much to see."
I had my answer for him at breakfast, and it in no way
affected his hospitality. We saw the Golden Gate, the Pege,
the gate of St. Romanus, the tower of Isaac Angeles and the
wall of Leo, against which the Fourth Crusade had attacked.
At noontime the chauffeur produced a magnificent hamper
30
of wine, cheese and game, and we lunched in the limousine.
It was dusk before Mr. Poulas' tour ended, at the ruins of
the palace of Hermisdas.
"I will drop you off at the hotel," he said, "since I am
leaving the city immediately." At the Plaza he held out his
hand.
"Goodbye, Icarus who would fly too close to the sun. We
shall see who is the wiser, you, or I, the earthbound."
I watched the limousine glide away, and went upstairs to
pack my kit for my midnight sailing on the Anglo-Egyptian
to Batum.
After the Pera Palace, roaches and all, the British mer-
chant vessel was a comedown. It was built for mules, not
passengers; and myself and the dozen British officers bound
for Batum, and from there to the oil fields of Tiflis and Baku,
were issued campbeds for sleeping in the mess. We lifted
anchor and headed into seven days of heavy ground swell and
driving rain. The only consolation was that there was no
necessity to watch out for submarines only floating mines.
The beds were hard and lumpy, but the smell was worse.
The whole ship stank of mules, and we drank mule in our
coffee and ate mule with our eggs. Even when we went out
on the hurricane deck for a breath of air, we breathed mule.
An officer named Baker, a tense, thin chap in his thirties,
found the accommodations and atmosphere particularly of-
fensive. Also, as I discovered by the second day out, he de-
tested Americans.
"It's an insult to the dignity of His Majesty's army,"
Baker kept insisting. "Tell me now, Aten, don't you think
so? I mean, I can see you Americans doing something like
this, but a mule transport for British oflScers ... its a bit too
thick. I even saw a rat this morning."
Sargent, a fair, mild butterball of a man with an unexpect-
edly sadistic sense of humor, snorted. "Think of the Greek
muleteers below decks, Baker; they've got it much worse.
Why, the rats nibble at their toes for dessert."
31
"At least you can't say the rats are American," I said to
Baker. "They're too lean for that."
Baker would have replied, except that he spied a rat flitting
past the companionway. "Another rat! A big black one! My
God, they're taking over!"
"I understand," said Sargent, lazily turning over on his
side, "that when you get rats and mules together on an un-
clean ship the result is often bubonic plague."
To escape the mess I would often talk with Mattson, the
first mate, a slow, stolid briarwood of a man who had some
knowledge of Russia. He told me it was a bad place to go.
"It's been hell and it'll be worse before it's over. Former
shipmate of mine took a load of them refugees from Novo
to Constantinople, and he told me some terrible things.
Them Reds has killed and tortured thousands. There isn't
hardly a family that hasn't got one in it dead." He glanced
significantly at my uniform. "Them togs won't keep 'em from
roasting you over a slow fire, Lieutenant, unless you've got
some poison to take first."
The mate shrugged when I asked him about rats as disease
carriers. He was used to the beasts. "If you've got a ruddy
skin," he said, "you don't need to worry yourself about the
plague. The impurities flush out nice from a ruddy skin;
it's the sallow, dark ones, like Baker, who catch it."
On the fourth day I saw my fourth rat, and on the fifth,
my fifteenth. They had begun to swarm up from the holds,
and though Mattson told us that was nothing in particular
to worry about, Baker was terrified.
He warned us to keep away from him, and after every
meal he washed his own dishes and utensils. He smoked
Gold Flakes incessantly to keep off "the germs."
We would look up to find him studying us intently.
"Sargent," he would say, "you're looking greenish." And to
me, "Don't lie, Aten, you've got cramps. That's the first sign."
Sargent kicked my foot under the table. "The mate says
three muleteers are dying below. One's green already. Once
32
he gets convulsions he'll kick the bucket in less than an hour."
Baker swallowed uneasily. "Do I look green? I feel green."
Sargent regarded him critically. "Around the gills, slightly.
Yes, I can definitely see a little verdigris there. Don't you
think so, Aten?"
"Not so much green as blue, I'd say."
"Blue's the second and final stage," Sargent said gravely.
Baker groaned and pillowed his head in his arms. His
voice came muffled. "And no doctor on this disgusting
British tub. At least the bloody Americans would have had
a bloody butcher of a doctor."
The next day, three muleteers died in convulsions. At
Constanta, Rumania, our first port of call, the authorities
took note of our yellow flag and refused us permission to
dock for refueling. A gasoline lighter set out from shore
with a single man on it, a bandana tied around the lower
part of his face. The crew of the Anglo-Egyptain did the
job of refueling.
From the deck we looked upon the grimy quays, coal
wharfs and warehouses of Constanta. To the eyes of land-
lubbers confined aboard a ship flying the yellow flag they
looked inviting.
Suddenly Baker dashed to the rail and began shouting
to the lighter crewman: "Send a doctor! A doctor! English-
men are dying!"
The Rumanian looked up at him, puzzled.
"I tell you Englishmen are dying! For God's sake send
help!"
When Mattson and a crewmember moved toward him,
Baker, making a tremendous effort, tried to hoist himself
over the side. The mate grabbed his belt just in time, and
took him, sobbing, below to the captain's cabin.
Later Mattson told me that they had managed to calm
Baker down with several shots of whiskey. The next day Baker
came back to the mess, where he lay for hours on his cot,
staring up at the ceiling.
33
In Batum harbor, the first Russian territory we had so far
seen, a quarantine launch flying the Union Jack pulled up
alongside the Anglo-Egyptian. The M.L.O. gave us instruc-
tions through a megaphone while the cold February rain
slanted down.
The entire crew and passengers, the M.L.O. said, were
to be held in quarantine camp.
"For how long?" the captain shouted from his bridge.
"A month at least," the M.L.O. bellowed. "If you live.
There's lots of malaria in this bloody town, if you don't come
down with the bubonic."
"And I thought we'd live happily ever after, after the war
was done," Sargent grumbled.
First to land from the ship were the six dead muleteers,
strapped down on stretchers. Though twisted in the final
throes of convulsions, with their mouths gaping wide and their
eyes staring with horror, each one wore a gayly colored ban-
dana, neatly tied at the chin. Stinking of mule, their country-
men shoved off in the launch after them, and then we fol-
lowed.
The stench of waste from the oil refineries made us sneeze
and cough as the launch took us into an empty tanker berth;
there were no docks at Batum. Baker snarled something un-
intelligible at me as I tried to help him over the side.
The M.L.O. took a wire to Colly at Novorossiisk giving
him my whereabouts, and then we went on by lorry to the
camp.
The quarantine camp was a desolate straggle of tents
at the foot of a mountain behind the town. Barbed wire and
a company of Sikhs kept us prisoner. I was assigned to a tent
with Sargent and Baker, and decided to make the best of it.
It took a certain amount of doing. Baker began to be
troublesome again, conceiving a violent dislike for the
camp doctor, and then there was the rain, which was worse
than Baker. Average yearly rainfall on the east coast of the
Black Sea is over ninety-three inches, the highest in the
34
Caucasus, and for two weeks the rain never stopped: it
poured straight down or was blown by gusts of wind through
our tent flap, wetting our clothes, mildewing our boots,
and turning our tempers from gray to black. We settled
deep into the ruts of melancholy, ignoring one another for
hours for Russian newspapers we couldn't read, and snapping
out insults when we did deign to talk. The conviction grew
upon me that I would still be in Batum when the Bolsheviks
surrendered.
One morning there were four inches of water on the dirt
floor. Baker got up, calmly sloshed in bare feet to the tent
flap, and went outside.
"Baker!" I yelled to him, "you forgot your boots!"
Sargent leaped up from his cot. "He's gone balmy again!"
Motioning for me to follow, he plunged through the flap.
We weren't a minute too soon. Baker was talking to one
of the Sikhs on his post at the end of the tent row. As we
approached he grabbed the Sikh's rifle and ran away with it,
firing into the air.
"He's trying to kill God for all this rain," Sargent said
hoarsely. "When God doesn't come falling down he'll start
shooting up the camp."
The rifleless Sikh had already blown his whistle, but the
shots were alarm enough. Turbaned guards poured from the
headquarters shack, and men poked tousled heads out of tent
flaps.
Sargent and I were only a few yards from Baker when he
turned the rifle on us. He was perfectly composed; he might
have been potting at ducks in a shooting gallery. A bullet tore
past my ear, and one slammed into the mud at Sargent's
feet.
It stopped Sargent's forward action, but I was going too
fast to stop. Baker had pulled the trigger on me a second time
when I left my feet in a tackle and brought him down in
the mud. His head slammed against a barbed wire fence
post and he was suddenly still.
35
The doctor came hurrying up, squatted down beside
Baker, and lifted up one of his eyelids.
"Blotto for a while, but he'll be all right. Bring a stretcher,"
he ordered the Sikhs.
They took Baker to the hospital in Batum and from there
to the hospital in Tiflis, for an operation on his brain. Our
quarantine was over three weeks later, and though Sargent
promised to write from Tiflis, I never found out what hap-
pened to Baker.
The M.L.O. got me passage on the S.S. Konslavtina, a
Black Sea tramp, to Novorossiisk. The Konslavtina had come
from the Crimea to pick up passengers in Batum, and its
decks were packed with refugees returning to the cities re-
cently reconquered by the Whites. I shared a cabin deluxe
with seven British officers who, though they were all gentle-
men, had left the worst berth for me. The drain pipe from
the lavatory of the deck above passed above the head of my
berth, and it leaked. I spent the three nights of the trip to
Novoroissiisk sitting at the foot of the bed with my back
propped up against the wall.
The days were more interesting. I was fascinated by the
returning refugees, the first Russians I had seen in a group.
It was easy to separate the bourgeois from the aristocrats;
the bourgeois families always left a child to watch their be-
longings while mama or papa went to the lavatory or for
a stroll, while the upper classes had a certain contempt for
possessions, and made little or no effort to protect them
against theft. Once an elegant baron returned to find a young
man going through his steamer trunk. Without a word and
with no evident anger, he kicked him down the nearest
companionway.
One afternoon on the top deck I made the acquaintance
of Count Krosilev, a retired Czarist colonel returning from
the Crimea. The count, who spoke English perfectly, was
tall, ramrod straight, and wore a monocle with aristocratic
dash. At first I disliked him for a rather sublime arrogance,
but as we talked I saw that his self-assurance was at least
36
half the product of his class. The pride and sense of honor
mixed in with his rigidities were, I thought, Russian virtues
that would be valuable in a fight.
He told me the story of the rise of the White Volunteer
Army under Kornilov and Alexeev. It was an epic one.
Kornilov, born into a poor Cossack family in Siberia, had
made his way by sheer ability to the top rank of the Russian
army, distinguishing himself both in the Japanese and the
European war. Captured by the Austrians with a remnant of
men after saving a whole army from destruction, the general
had escaped in the disguise of an Austrian soldier. Immedi-
ately after the revolution he had been chosen, as the most pop-
ular general in Russia, to command the garrison at Petrograd,
but had resigned in disgust and returned to the front. There,
as commander in chief of the armies, he had been betrayed
into an attempt to force the government to restore discipline
in the army and order at home. Imprisoned with his staff
at Bykhov, Kornilov had escaped from there on the eve of
the Bolshevik triumph, and ridden across country to the Don,
joining Alexeev in an attempt to form an anti-German and
anti-Red army of officers and Cossacks. In February, 1918,
he had walked out of Rostov at the head of three and a half
thousand men, the nucleus of the Volunteer Army, which I
was soon to join.
The general's army had marched into the steppe sur-
rounded by a large Red force, far more numerous and better
armed and equipped than themselves. Yet Kornilov's leader-
ship had made his men invincible, and despite the huge odds
against them 200,000 to 3000 the Reds broke at their ap-
proach. Often a dozen of Kornilov's men would fight, and
defeat, many scores of the enemy. After Kornilov had been
killed by shell fire outside Ekaterinodar on April igth of
last year, General Anton Denikin had taken over the com-
mand of the White armies. By this time the Cossacks of the
southern steppes were in revolt against the Reds, and had
come to the aid of the Volunteer Army.
About the future Krosilev was supremely confident.
37
"Now that we have reached the Donets and broken the
front at Kharkov, we have the Reds on the run. Yet only a
few months ago it seemed as if that devil Lenin's prediction
was coming true the Central Powers and Brest-Litovsk were
crumbling together, and the European revolution was at
hand. What Lenin didn't reckon with was substantial help
from the Allies."
The colonel filled me in on the White plan of attack.
The Whites hoped to reach Moscow and Petrograd by a mili-
tary advance simultaneously from the south, east and north-
west. In the south Denikin's armies were to advance north-
wards to the Ukraine, occupied by the Red Army when the
Germans had withdrawn last year. The left wing of
Denikin's forces was to make for Kiev and Kharkov; the
right, under General Wrangel, was to push along the Volga
and link up with the armies of General Yudenich, striking
down from Estonia. Meanwhile Kolchack, in Siberia, was
organizing a mass advance westwards across the Volga, aim-
ing directly at Moscow.
"We shall have taken Moscow," Krosilev said, "by next
Christmas."
"What about the Red armies?" I asked. "Aren't they build-
ing up?"
"I hear Trotsky's a very capable soldier, especially for a
man who had had no actual military experience. The Red
armies will be more dangerous as time goes on, but not
dangerous enough."
I asked Krosilev to tell me what he knew about Deriikin.
Probably Squadron 47 would be flying under either the com-
mander in chief or under the orders of Baron Wrangel.
"A good soldier, a hard worker. A bit too liberal for my
tastes; he's said some harsh things about the so-called aristo-
crats and officers of the guard. But that's because of his
bourgeois origins Denikin is the son of minor officer of
the line."
"And Baron Wrangel?" Somehow Wrangel interested me
more.
38
Krosilev took off his monocle and polished it with a mono-
grammed handkerchief. "A man of iron, and probably the
most brilliant officer we have. Wrangel isn't, perhaps, as
Russian as most of us; he comes from an international family
of German and Scandinavian lines, a family that has pro-
duced outstanding statesmen and soldiers for centuries. In the
war he was a guardsman, and rose to the command of a
brigade. My brother fought under him at Galatz; he never
knew a man who more commanded the devotion of his men.
I wish he, rather than Denikin, were in supreme command."
The baron, Krosilev told me, was fortunate to have an
extraordinary wife. During the revolution he had been ar-
rested in Yalta and hauled before the people's court. Several
other prisoners, including an old Czarist general and a prince,
had been condemned to death by the tribunal. The tribunal
chief asked the baroness, who wasn't under arrest, why she
was here with her husband, and she had told him she wanted
to stay with him until the end. So impressed had the chief
been by her devotion that he had released the baron, telling
him that he owed his life to his wife.
Like Krosilev, the other refugees aboard ship seemed to take
a White victory for granted. There was singing all day long,
and at night, the Kazachok and wild gypsy dances. Under
the brittle stars concertinas wailed Ochi Ghornye, and lovers
slipped into lifeboats while the old people nodded over mem-
ories. Taking a turn on deck before going back to my leaky
berth, I would see Krosilev standing on the quarter-deck,
hands clasped behind his back and shoulders straight, observ-
ing the festivities like the lord of the manor at one of his
peasant's weddings.
The Konslavtina docked at Novorossiisk in early March
in bitterly cold weather that pierced my winter greatcoat.
To the music of a splendidly uniformed brass band, the refu-
gees trooped down from the gangplank, wiping their eyes.
More than one bent down and kissed the ground.
Krosilev pumped my hand and wished me good luck.
"You will love Russia," he said, "and Russia will love you.
39
But remember, those who have a love affair with us become
a little Russian themselves."
I laughed. "Is that a prophecy?"
"It is a warning," he said, and clicking his heels, saluted
and strode away down the pier.
At the M.L.O.'s office there was a brief, unhumorous mes-
sage for me from Colly: "Report to British Mission No-
vorossiisk for further instructions. R. Collishaw, Lt.-Col.,
R.A.F."
My war had finally begun.
I shared a droshkey to the British Mission with a Russian-
speaking English officer. He talked with the driver, a lugubri-
ous fellow with a straggling brown mustache, who told us
that conditions under the Whites were the same as they had
been under the Reds before the latter left the town, except
that the Bolshies had put the grumblers up against the wall
and shot them.
"When they arrested me," the driver said, the officer
translating for my benefit, "I said, 'Shoot me if you want,
I have a nasty wife and not too much to live for. But think
what good will it do you?' So they let me go."
The driver said that we should send back the Czar as
the only man capable of keeping order, and when the officer
said that the Czar was dead, he refused to believe him. The
Englishman turned to me with an amused shrug. "Ivan here
insists the Czar's in England, as guest of the King."
I asked my taxi companion the time, and he grinned in
answer. "Take your pick," he said. "We have five 'times'
in Novorossiisk. One is local, and the second ship. The third's
Petrograd time, standard throughout Russia for the railways,
and the White army. The fourth's the cement-works time,
announced by the blowing of an hourly whistle, and the fifth,
British Mission time, which is unreliable. There's an hour
and a half difference between the fastest and the slowest of
40
these various times, so I'd suggest that you merely put your
wristwatch in your pocket and wait till we've won the war."
At the Mission I learned that Colly and the Squadron were
at Ekaterinodar, base headquarters of Wrangel's army. My in-
structions were to join them there.
"You'll have to provide the fare," I told the Mission staff
captain. "I spent my last half crown on taxi fare here."
I pulled out my pockets to prove it to him. They were
completely empty, except for a small gray bug, native to the
Konslavtina, which crawled trustingly out into my hand.
41
Book II
The Sky above the Volga
Chapter Three
The spurs of the Caucasus abut deeply on the Black Sea.
The double-engined train, cutting through the notch that
overhung the town, climbed to a considerable altitude in
what seemed a matter of minutes. The seaward flanking
ranges were only around four thousand feet high, but the
main snow-covered ranges were close to twelve thousand. As
a Texas and California boy I had never seen such mountains;
the Chocolate Mountains of the Imperial Valley were
dwarfed in comparison.
It was still sunset as we came to the main ranges, and I
saw, below me, fifty or sixty miles of snowfield changing color
in the dying light. Rocks, cliffs, pinnacles, gleaming fields of
snow were rose, then violet, and deep gentian. There were
pine forests in a smooth bluish plain, and where it ran white
with its rapids, a river. I sat lost in admiration till the light
failed and a draft on my shoulder nudged me into putting
on my greatcoat.
My ticket was first class but I sat in a third class coach
that was dirty, cushionless and cold. The; ordinary third-class
passengers had worse accomodations. At the station in No-
vorossiisk they had filed docilely into incredibly filthy cattle
cars, with what I assumed was typical Russian resignation,
allowing themselves to be packed inside with hardly enough
room to turn around. Those unable to get in had struggled
45
for a place on the platform between the coaches, on the
buffers, and even on the roofs. I wondered how many of
them, should they escape death by freezing, would manage
to stay on during the overnight trip to Ekaterinodar.
Down in front, near the lavatory that was out of order,
sat a fat man in a luxurious fur coat who every now and
then lifted a flask to his lips from which he drank greedily.
The conductor had turned away a family of four so that Fur-
coat could travel in two seats with his luggage heaped around
him.
"He how you call him? speculator," said the small,
smooth-shaven Russian officer who sat beside me. He shook
his head in disgust. "Is no more aristocrats who have the
money, but worse, since the revolution; is bad man like
such/'
I nodded sympathetically, and pulling my greatcoat up
around my ears, arranged myself for sleep.
Waking up later with hunger pangs, I shared the chocolate
bars in my pocket with the officer. Speculator Furcoat had
opened a big straw hamper of table delicacies, and a little
girl from the back of the coach came up to stand beside him
and salivate wistfully. With a grunt he motioned to her to go
away. As she passed by my seat I gave her the last of the
chocolate.
"Spasibo" she whispered, and went on back to her seat.
"She meaning 'thank you/ " said the officer.
From above on the coach roof we heard a scream, and
then, more faintly, the thud of a fallen body. The train
clacked on, and I got up with the intention of pulling the
emergency cord, but the Russian took hold of my sleeve.
"That only muzhik who has fallen off."
Well, aren't they going to stop for him?"
He shook his head. "Train must keep to schedule. Is
regret."
I sat down again. Is regret, I thought uneasily, and tried
to settle back to sleep.
46
Shots woke me. The train now was running over the flat,
level, treeless steppe, lightly dusted with snow, and out the
window I saw a group of mounted men riding along with the
coaches. Tall and well-built, they wore long gray coats with
cartridge belts across their chests, and high karakul hats. Each
had pistols at his belt and in one hand flourished a rifle,
in the other, a long whip. The whip cracks sounded like
pistol shots. And how they rode! Like perfect horsemen in
a dream of perfect horsemen riding perfect mounts. Before
seeing these men I had thought myself a good horseman.
"Dobroye utro!" they shouted at us.
"Kuban Cossacks," my seatmate said, rubbing his eyes,
"They tell us good morning/*
"Those boys know how to ride."
"Very good fighters, too. And how you say?," he panto-
mimed emptying a bottle, "good men for the drink."
The Cossacks veered off into the steppe, firing a rifle
volley in salute.
In another half hour we crossed the Kuban River, and
came into Ekaterinodar, named for Catherine II, great and
lascivious Empress of the Russias. Kink and Bill Daley were
waiting for me in a Red Cross van at the station.
Kink returned my burlesque salute somberly. "I have the
honor," he said, "to present the respects of Colonel Henry
Dudgeon, who requests your presence instanter in East-
church for court-martial proceedings."
Bill looked at his watch. "There's a train back to Novo
at seven tonight."
I turned white. Had I come all this way only to be shipped
back under arrest to Eastchurch?
"Kink, Bill," I pleaded. "For God's sake say you're not
serious."
As Bill swung my kit into the back of the van Kink said,
"Hop in, Bunny. Dudgeon fumed and spluttered, but Colly
got it fixed through General Holman of the British Mission.
As a matter of fact, Dudgeon's been shipped off to Rhodesia
47
for misappropriation of funds. You're free to fly and die in
Russia."
I relaxed happily in the back seat as Kink drove through
the town to the Chernomorskt airdrome on its other side.
As we passed through the main square I stopped jabbering
long enough to point to a large map before which a consider-
able crowd had collected. "What's that?" I asked.
"A military map that shows the White advance," Bill told
me. "At night it's lit up like a Christmas tree."
"How are things going for our side?" I asked.
"Damn well," Kink replied. "The whole of the Northern
Caucasus is in Denikin's pocket, and Wrangel's just liberated
the Terek region in a brilliant campaign. Kolchak's on the
march toward the Volga. It looks like Christmas in Moscow
for sure."
"Now for some of our questions," Bill said ominously.
"Did Tommy win that bet that you'd make an ass of yourself
in Paris? Did you buy diamonds in Constantinople? How
did "
"Hold on, Daley," Kink interrupted. "Let the poor fish tell
all of us together at the drome. Otherwise it's a double
humiliation."
In the airdrome mess Colly was having a second breakfast,
and Tommy sat beside him, nursing a cup of coffee. Neither
said a word as I came in.
Playing along with the game, I let Kink push me down
onto the bench on the other side of the table. Kink and Bill
then joined Colly and Tommy on the side opposite, the
four of them facing me like a tribunal of judges.
"Thanks for the Dudgeon business, Colly," I said.
He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "First things first.
Now, how did you like Mignonette in Boulogne?"
"She was occupied."
"Did you make a fool of yourself in Paris?" asked Tommy.
"I did."
"Pay Tommy," Bill said.
48
"I can't till I cash a check."
"Were you victimized by Levantine merchants?**
"Positively not."
Colly turned to Kink. "Acting-Major Kinkhead, will you
fill in Acting-Captain Aten on the five points of our squadron
incentive plan?"
"Gladly, sir." Kink held out his right hand, palm down,
and bent down a finger as he ticked off each individual point.
"One: first of the flight to shoot down a Bolshie plane is
entitled to the first princess encountered by B Flight. Two:
first medal winner of B Flight is entitled to the first duchess.
Three and four: second kills and second winners are entitled
to the second princess and second duchess, respectively."
"What about countesses?" I asked.
"This country's rotten with countesses and a lot of types
who call themselves countesses but are not. Therefore count-
esses don't count."
"What's the fifth point of this incentive plan?"
"Liquor ration. There is none. We've got enough ale, beer,
Scotch, brandy, rye and vodka for a regiment of the Royal
Irish."
"Wonderful," I said. "I assume we're having a little cele-
bration this evening?"
Colly shook his head. "No prazdniks, as they call them, for
a while, Bunny. B Flight train pulls out today for Beketofka
at the Tsaritsyn front, and you boys fly up tomorrow morn-
ing. A Flight's already at Beketofka drome, waiting for the
snow to melt so we can begin spring operations. I'll be based
here in Ekat, outfitting C Flight for action and generally
directing things. Every few weeks or so I'll be up to see you."
Will we be traveling on these trains?" I asked.
"Living on them. This is a cavalry war, mostly; we'll be
following the Cossacks north toward Moscow, and after the
Whites take Tsaritsyn, we'll be too much on the move to
afford the luxury of a permanent base. When the planes
aren't in the air, they'll be packed up on the moving train,
49
or parked on the steppe our temporary landing fields
trackside. Are you getting the picture?"
"He looks rather stunned/' Kink said. "I'd better show him
the set-up, and get his kit aboard."
Kink drove me to the Ekaterinodar yards, where B flight
train stood on a siding. It included, he told me, an engine,
and tender, two pullman cars, a lounge-mess car, and twenty-
five box freights and flatcars. The Pullmans, the pilots' quar-
ters, were on the continental plan with compartments off a
passageway. The dining car was a combined mess, lounge and
kitchen. In some of the box cars were quartered the hundred
odd ground crewmen and enlisted Tommies assigned to the
Flight; others carried ammunition, bombs, gasoline, and
provisions. The flatcars were for our planes, now in the
hangars at Ekaterinodar drome. There were also a number of
freights with the letters P.O.W. stencilled on their sides.
"Those are the cars for the plennys, the prisoners of war,"
Kink explained. "We picked up a batch of plennys here in
Ekat as laborers, and a couple of them serve as the officers'
batmen. You'll get your pick at Beketofka. The monster you
see hurtling towards us now is my batman, Ivan."
Ivan was a huge bearded fellow, at least six feet five, wear-
ing a British private's uniform several sizes too small for him.
He skidded to a stop before us, and breathing heavily, bowed
from the waist. In his eyes, as he looked at Kink, was a look
of great canine devotion.
"Dobroye utro, Ivan/' Kink said.
Ivan muttered something unintelligible in a basso pro-
fundo voice.
"They were going to put Ivan into a work crew when I
picked him out of the prisoners' compound," Kink said, "but
I don't think that's the reason for all this extravagant affec-
tion. Ivan has a passion for bully beef, eats four tins of the
horrid stuff a day, and without me he wouldn't have known
it existed."
Kink pointed to my kit in the van, and then to the first
50
of the Pullmans. Ivan was lifting the heavy kit as though it
were a reticule when a stubby, roundfaced sergeant major
approached us and saluted. I noticed that he limped.
Kink introduced me. "Sergeant Major Hoskins, the man
who gets things done. Sergeant," he asked Hoskins, "is every-
thing ready to go?"
"Ready, sir," Hoskins said, "except for one minor detail.
Cowderdriirs got all those samovars he bought piled up on
his bunk, and I'm thinking that if General Mudd came by
for a last-minute inspection, they wouldn't look so very sol-
dierlike."
Kink groaned. "You tell Cowderdrill that if he doesn't
stop worrying about those samovars being stolen and move
them immediately to one of the storecars where they belong,
I'll have him drawn and quartered."
"Can't tell him that, sir," Hoskins said with an almost im-
perceptible wink at me.
"Why not?" Kink demanded.
"Because, sir, he'd believe me, and have a fit of hysterics."
"All right, then threaten to turn him over to the Bolshies
for torture. And Hoskins, will you find Lieutenant Grigoriev
and ask him to see me in compartment 9? Not two hours from
now but now/'
Ivan brought my kit into compartment 9, adjoining
Kink's, and departed, with another low bow to us both.
While we waited for Grigoriev, Kink filled me in on the White
Russian liaison officer and interpreter who would be in com-
mand of the train on its trip from Ekaterinodar to Beketofka.
Grigoriev had flown the eastern front during the war and
had twice been decorated with the Cross of St. George, Czarist
Russia's highest military honor. When the revolution began
he had escaped across Bulgaria to Salonika, where he had
flown briefly with the R.A.F. From Salonika he had returned
to south Russia and joined the Volunteer Army. Wrangel
had assigned him to Squadron 47 in Ekat.
"Wonderful chap, Grigoriev," Kink said. "The only trou-
51
ble is that Russky we call him that is a terrible pest about
flying a Camel. I keep telling him that the Russians flew
Nieuports during the war and that they'll never get used to
the Camel's right hand turn. But with Russky it's like talk-
ing to the wall."
"With all respects, you can tell me thus till Kingdom went,
and still I will not believe. Before we go to Moscow yet I will
the Camel fly.' 1
I turned to see a tall handsome blond standing in the door-
way. Good-nature glowed on his face and I liked him imme-
diately.
"I am pleased you meet," Russky said with evident pride
in his English.
"You'll be seeing a lot of Bunny here," Kink told him.
"He's the curious type and he'll be calling on you for a lot
of interpreting.
"I am very good that," Russky said, beaming. "I will with
most pleasure interrupt your questions. Now, if you will
excuse, much responsibility."
"Nice chap," I said to Kink when Russky had disappeared
down the passageway, "but is he the best you could do as an
interpreter?"
Kink shrugged. "You should have seen the one Colly fired
before Russky joined us. At least we can understand Russky.
How do you like your portable digs?"
"Luxurious," I said, looking around at the clean and well-
appointed compartment. "All this plush and brass and a
batman too I feel like they're fattening us up for the
slaughter."
"Speaking of food," Kink grimaced, "I'd better introduce
you to Cowderdrill, the messman. Make a good impression
on him, or there'll be hell to pay in more subtle little ways
than you can imagine."
We went from the Pullman to the lounge and mess car,
which adjoined it. The lounge was elegant, with comfort-
able leather-upholstered banquettes facing on three sides a
gleaming mahogony table. On the table was an assortment
52
of magazines, including copies of L' Illustration and La Vie
Parisienne. In the middle of the car a partition separated
the lounge from the dining area. The several tables that
would have been in the conventional European dining car
had been removed for a single mess table. Against one wall
was a bar. Off to the right were the pantry and kitchen, from
which we heard a loud banging of pots and pans.
"Cowderdrilir Kink called.
"Yes, sir, trotting along immediately/' came the reply.
I couldn't repress a grin at the extraordinary-looking
human being who emerged from the pantry. Utterly lacking
in coordination, he didn't walk as much as lurch and stumble,
as if controlled by the strings of a drunken puppeteer. His
mouth hung adenoidally open to show huge horse teeth.
From the top of his rather turnip shaped head carrot-colored
hair grew in every direction. His face was more freckles than
skin, and his eyes bulged like a frog's surprised in the act of
mating.
He saluted, narrowly missing his right eye. "Yes sir, Cap-
tain Kinkead, sir, did you call?"
"Cowderdrill, my rank is major. Did you get rid of those
samovars?"
"Yes, sir, I did sir, moved 'em to the bomb car. I would
appreciate your putting a lock on there, sir. Wouldn't want
them stolen."
"Nobody's going to steal your damn samovars, Cowder-
drill. Will you get this through your head: Russia is full of
samovars!"
"Yes sir, quite sir, but you'll lock the bomb car just the
same?"
Kink rolled his eyes ceilingward in despair. "Yes, Cowder-
drill, I will. Is there anything else you insist upon?"
"No sir, nothing, sir. I thank you."
"Now this is Captain Aten, Cowderdrill, my adjutant. He
likes his eggs soft-boiled and his meat rare. Can you remem-
ber that?"
"Yes, sir. Meat hardboiled and eggs rare I mean the other
53
way around. Quite sir, I'll remember. Glad you're joining
us, Lieutenant Hatton."
"Let's get out of here," Kink muttered, "before I go quite
mad."
Shortly after dawn the next morning we took off for the
Tsaritsyn front. Kink led the formation; I was last. Coming
off the runway my foot jammed in the floorboards, and the
Camel swung a full ninety degrees to the left. In itself that
wouldn't have been so bad, had it not been for the pile of
bombs, glistening with yellow paint, that lay directly in my
path three hundred yards away in the corner of the drome.
Three hundred yards can be covered quickly in a Camel at
half throttle, but I had time to think of my blackest sins and
wish there had been more of them.
Clearing the bomb pile by inches, I worked my foot free
and turned to the right to rejoin the formation. Kink, who
always saw all there was to see both fore and aft, waggled his
wings and climbed for altitude. The formation followed him
along the railway leading across the steppe.
The steppe was bare and cold, lifeless and depressing. The
villages we passed at intervals intensified the monotony of
earth meeting sky. The houses were identical: square, thatch-
roofed, mud-brown. In every village there were two churches,
one Russian Orthodox, the other Moslem. The Orthodox
church was big, with white walls, green roof and gables; the
Moslem small, with a red roof and a dome. They never varied
in design or color.
Occasionally the railroad made a detour of as much as
three or four miles around a town. This struck me as strange,
since the flat country presented no resistance to a straight
line. I later learned the reason, which was very Russian:
when the tracks were laid, the builders of the railroad had
demanded a bribe to run them through a particular town.
Failing to receive it, they made a detour.
We had been in the air no more than thirty minutes when
54
Tommy dropped out of formation and went down in a long
glide. Engine trouble, I assumed. None of our planes was
in very good condition; only a short time ago they had been
rushed to Ekaterinodar from what had lately been the
Salonika front, and the squadron mechanics hadn't had a
chance to overhaul them.
Tommy landed in a strip of cultivated field near the road
bed. When we arrived at Beketofka Kink would send out
a two-seater DH-g with a mechanic and new parts to get him
under way again.
An hour later Bill Daley wagged his wings and went down
with what appeared to be another case of engine trouble. I
was congratulating myself on my own good fortune when the
gas pressure pump on the center section strut blew off into
the slipstream, missing my head by half a foot.
With no regular gas pump, I was obliged to make use of
the emergency gas pump lever on the control panel. The
pressure gauge began to drop and I started to work the lever
up and down. For some time now the steppe had been bare
of villages, and 1 didn't relish the thought of a forced land-
ing.
I closed in on Kink, who had lost altitude to make the
most of his fuel supply. My arm was numb from pumping
the gas lever; in a few more minutes I would be forced to
land.
Kink's oil pressure pump detached itself from his under-
carriage strut and darted past my starboard wing, and sud-
denly the Volga, slow and enormous, was before us, and
then, on its west bank, Beketofka drome.
We taxied in on a strip of pasture to a group of canvas
hangars camouflaged in grey, brown and green. Off in a
corner sat eight DH-g bombers, half of them with the red,
white and black insignia of the White airforce, the rest with
the red, white and blue emblem of the R.A.F. On a siding
to the right were A and B Flight trains. A Flight bombers
were being unloaded from the flat cars.
55
Russky ran up anxiously. "I see no Tommy, Bill? Some-
thing has delayed?"
"Kaput/' Kink said sadly. "A perfect demon of a Bolshie
fighter caught them with their wings down."
"They're all right," I reassured the horrified Russian "En-
gine trouble. They'll be here by and by."
Russky gave Kink a look of infinite reproach, saluted with
excessive precision, and stalked away.
Kink frowned. "Shouldn't have done that. I keep forgetting
that Russky hasn't developed an R.A.F. sense of humor. Now
he's got something to hold against me, and one of these days
I'll have to let him fly that Camel, and he'll break his damn
neck."
Kink left me to send out the rescue crews, and I went to
my compartment in B Flight train.
Passing by the window I noticed through the curtains that
the lights were on, and that someone was moving around
inside. A thief? A spy? Quickly I ran up the steps and down
the passageway and flung open the door.
A small, freckled youth with a shock of sorrel hair stared
back at me gravely. He was dressed in the black fatigues
of a P.O.W., and he was holding a pair of my flying boots in
his hand.
I grabbed them from him. "What the devil are you doing
here?" I demanded, though it was perfectly plain. "Don't you
know it's the firing squad for anyone caught looting or steal-
ing?"
He hung his head.
I closed the door and sat down on the edge of my bunk to
think the matter over. There was something appealing about
the boy: he had that combination of candor and simplicity
I had already noticed about the Russians. I had no desire
to send him to his death for a crime so minor as the attempted
theft of a pair of boots. At the same time I wanted to dis-
courage him from stealing.
There was a knock at the door.
"Quick!" I whispered to the P.O.W. "Into the closet!"
56
He looked at me without comprehension. I got up, and
opening the shallow closet next to the washstand, motioned
him inside. Without the slightest hesitation he obeyed.
I opened the door. It was Russky.
He glanced inside the compartment. "Plenny no came?"
"What's that, Russky?"
"I send plenny for you to see he is satisfactory. Anikin,
his name."
"You mean you sent me a P.O.W.?"
"Yes, he little Bolshie. Red hair and how you call it?
frecklings. He should polish boots and straighten down, I
tell him. If you like, Feodor Anikin become your batman."
"Oh," I said, getting the picture finally. I yelled for Feodor
to come out.
The closet door opened and Feodor emerged, blinking.
Russky's mouth fell open.
I handed Feodor back my pair of boots. "Tell Feodor,"
I told Russky, "that I am sorry about my mistake. I'd like
him very much to be my batman, and if he does a good job
on these boots I'll give him a pack of Gold Flakes."
As Russky translated, Feodor's face lit up with joy.
Nodding rapidly, he bowed himself out of the compartment,
closing the door behind him.
I explained my mistake to Russky, and he looked at me
brightly. "Good Bolshie, Feodor," he said, "and you will not
regret. But one thing I am failing in the understanding.
Why," he pointed to the closet, "works Feodor in closet with
the door closed? Is not much crowded there?"
At dinner that evening Kink told us that Eddie Fulford,
the Canadian who was joining B Flight, would be flying up
from Ekaterinodar the day after tomorrow.
"Colly says he's a hell of a good pilot," Kink said, "but
something of a deep thinker. Interested in politics and such.
Fulford doesn't have a very high opinion of the Whites,
especially the aristocrats."
"I'm inclined to agree with him/' Tommy said. "I'd swear
57
this Baron Lebedev of the Russian squadron wears perfume."
I had been introduced to the fliers of the Russian squadron,
who were quartered on the A Flight train. They seemed
decent enough fellows, except for Lebedev, who when he
walked switched his hips and smelled, as Bill said, of perfume.
"Is Lebedev representative of the Russian upper classes?"
I asked nobody in particular.
Russky was quick to answer. "Not/' he said fiercely. "Lebe-
dev isolated person. Officer class in general middle-class
how you call it? of substantial substance. Of course re-
actionaries in White army, but reactionaries everywhere, no?"
It was a question we weren't prepared to argue, and Kink
changed the subject by breaking some bad news he had heard
over the wireless on A Flight train that afternoon. The
French had been defeated by the Reds near Kherson, and
together with some Greek troops, had evacuated the city and
sailed for Odessa.
"My God," said Tommy. "I didn't know the Greeks were
in this too."
"They won't be in it long," Kink said, "nor by the looks
of it will the French, either. They're fighting with one hand
and trying to unlock the exit door with the other. I wouldn't
be a bit surprised if they cleared out of South Russia al-
together, and soon."
"God's troth, Kink," Bill said, "we're not so permanent
ourselves. You know how badly opinion's divided in England
on the intervention issue, both among the people and in the
Cabinet. Lloyd George thinks armed intervention on a scale
large enough to beat the Bolshies is impossible. He says it
would take at least four hundred thousand men, and the
Allies aren't willing to throw in a fraction of that number."
"If Denikin and Kolchak keep winning they won't have
to," Kink said. He drew a map from his pocket, changing the
subject. "Here's our flight route for tomorrow's reconnais-
sance beyond Tsaritsyn. It looks like the Reds have moved
some machines into the area. We may have a fight."
58
The patrol took off next morning at eight o'clock, with
my Number 27 Camel behind Kink in wing position.
Minutes later we were over the barbed wire trenches
south of Tsaritsyn and then over the city itself. The Red
Archies sent up a heavy curtain of German H.E. that emitted
a dense, heavy smoke, but their aim was off and we rode
through it easily. Tsaritsyn was badly burned out with its
factories in ruins. Off to the right, near the curve of the
Volga, I saw the broad trench in which, Kink had told us,
lay the bodies of twelve thousand civilians slaughtered by the
Reds when they had taken the town.
We were over the Volga beyond Tsaritsyn when my motor
conked out. There was only one thing to do: turn back and
try to land as close to our lines as possible, hoping meanwhile
that the motor started up again. Kink signaled his recogni-
tion of my predicament, and the flight flew on.
At thirty-five hundred feet I put the ship into a long glide
toward the river and breathed a prayer. At my present rate of
speed and angle of descent I would land smack in the Volga
unless the engine caught again.
It did, miraculously, at two thousand feet. I turned north
to regain the flight, and remembering that Red planes might
be in the area, began to climb for altitude.
I didn't start climbing a minute too soon. There was the
sudden stutter of twin Spandaus, and then a Nieuport shot
past, on its fuselage the red star insignia of the Bolshie air-
force.
It was stupid flying on Mikhail's part. Overconfident, he
had expected to get me with his first burst, and now I was in
a perfect position to return the favor. I dove, and firing at
fifty yards, closed in. My stream of tracers hit. The Nieuport
shuddered, faltered, and fell. It went straight into the river
bank, exploding with a terrific crash.
Then I thought to look above me. High off to my right a
second Nieuport was disappearing into the clouds.
I met the flight coming back from Tsaritsyn. Kink gave
59
me the thumbs up sign; he had seen the burning Nieup on
the ground. At the airdrome I was accorded the honor of first
landing.
I had scored Squadron 47*5 first victory, and that night we
had a prazdnik in the lounge. Colly wired congratulations
from Ekat, and Cowderdrill broke out the best sixteen-year-
old Scotch.
"To Bunny and the princess/' Kink toasted. "May she be
lovely, wicked and rich."
"Too much to expect," Bill objected. "May she be lovely
and wicked."
"That's still too big an order," Tommy said. "May she
be rich."
Cowderdrill came sidling out of the galley while I was
getting a drink at the bar. "Sir, I wanted to inquire, that is,
I wanted to determine if your Bolshie had an easy death?"
"Comparatively," I told him. "He died either from a
bullet or in the crash. No flames, Sergeant."
He visibly relaxed. "That's good, sir. I was concerned."
I decided to josh him along a little. "Sergeant, I can't
say I approve of your attitude."
"My attitude, sir?"
"Yes, Cowderdrill, your attitude. I might even say your
patriotism, or rather your lack of it. Here we are locked in
mortal combat with a godless enemy, and you dare to stand
there and feel sympathy for the bloody Red."
"Sir, it's this way," Cowderdrill answered me earnestly.
"I just can't stand the shedding of blood. Why, if it was you
instead of the Bolshie had gotten his ticket today I would
have felt exactly the same way."
He slid away into the pantry, leaving me there with a glass
in my hand and my mouth wide open.
"News," Kink said as we sat down at the breakfast table.
"It came through last night. The French are pulling out of
Russia for good. Yesterday they evacuated Odessa."
He told us as much as had come over the wires from Colly
60
in Ekat. The French commander at Odessa had received
orders for the removal of all French troops from the Black
Sea port within three days. Anxious to get out, the French-
man had moved too hastily, and ordered evacuation within
forty-eight hours.
As a result the civilian population, only a small number
of which could get passage, had panicked. The evacuation
had been a shambles. Many of the thousands lining the docks
waiting to board the French cruisers, had killed themselves on
the spot.
"This is going to affect White morale badly," Kink went
on. "Not only have the Whites lost one of their chief allies,
but the French evacuation leaves the Crimea with its bottom
exposed, since White units stranded in Taurida have their
left flank unprotected. And now, of course, it's only a matter
of time before the French get out of Sebastopol."
"If the French have given up on getting back their loans,"
Eddie Fulford said, "that means the situation's really hope-
less."
Kink reached for a hunk of hardtack. "Colly says Wrangel's
still after Denikin to push through to Tsaritsyn, join Kol-
chak's left flank, and go on to Moscow via the Volga route.
But Denikin 's turned a deaf ear. His main concern is avoid-
ing a threat of a separation between our troops in the Cau-
casus and the Donets area/'
"God's troth, enough of this major strategy," Bill said.
"What's our assignment for this morning?"
A light came into Kink's sharp black eyes. "Something
special. We hear there's a big conference of Red Commissars
in Tsaritsyn." He got up and went to the map of the
Tsaritsyn area we had tacked up on the lounge car wall, and
put his finger on a large public building in the center of
town. "Trotsky himself might be there. We'll be escorting
A Flight DH-g's carrying one-hundred-twelve-pound bombs.
Our job's to protect the bombers, so no individual scraps on
this one unless I signal. Everything clear?"
"Who's Trotsky?" asked Tommy.
61
We laughed.
"Any other questions?" Kink wanted to know.
Russky cleared his throat apologetically. "Kink, with all
respects, I could go this time maybe? Fly Russian Nieuport?"
"Sorry, Russky," Kink said with a straight face, "you're
too valuable as an interpreter/ 1
We were back forty minutes later with mission accom-
plished. The A Flight bombers had dropped their loads on
target and, despite heavy Archie fire, completely demolished
the Commissars' meeting place. If Trotsky had indeed been
there, pounding the table, now he was sharing the heat with
the Devil in hell.
A couple of Bolshie fighters had come up against us. They
were obvious tyros, and Kink, deeming the bombers safe
under the protection of Tommy and myself, had collaborated
with Eddie Fulford in downing one of them, a lethargic Spad.
Then Eddie had chased a Fokker triplane rather deep into
Red territory, till he thought better of it and turned around.
That night we had another prazdnik for the victors. Some
of the A Flight men and Russian pilots showed up, among
them Lebedev, the exquisite baron. I noticed that Fulford
avoided shaking Lebedev's hand, and ignored the group of
Russian pilots.
I went over and sat down beside him. "What's the matter?"
I said, "don't you like the Russians?"
He grinned at me slowly, and sucked on his pipe, taking
his time with an answer. He was a deliberate man and not to
be hurried. That tortoise-like quality you might mistake for
slow-wittedness, until you saw the way he handled a plane in
the air. Then Fulford was all flash and fire, with the anticipa-
tion of a Billy Bishop and the quickness of a Collishaw, and
you thanked your stars you weren't paired against him. True,
today was the first time 1 had seen him in action, but talents
like Fulford's needed only a five-minute dogfight for demon-
stration.
"You ask me if I like the Russian?" Eddie said. "If you
62
mean that bunch of thin-blooded aristocrats" he indicated
the White pilots "the answer's an unqualified no. If you
mean the Bolshies, the answer's also no. If you're speaking of
the middle class, the intelligentsia, the Cossacks, and the
peasants, then I'd answer like anybody else: some of them.
If that doesn't sound too superior. But I warn you, I'm a
liberal. I don't like a privileged nobility, a bureaucracy
riddled with graft, a secret police, Siberia, a corrupt church,
and the throttling of free thought. Forgive me. I seem to be
making a speech."
"No, go on, Eddie," I told him. "I'm interested. There
isn't anybody else around here who seems to know what this
war is all about."
"There's one Parker, in Hoskin's company. I was passing
by B company train and I heard someone ask Parker what
he was fighting for. He said, 'A quid a day.' "
"Seriously, Eddie," I said, "the White army isn't made up
only of the nobility. It's the officer and the professional
classes, too."
Eddie nodded. "And the church, the landowners and manu-
facturers, the Cossacks, the Mensheviks, the Constitutional-
Democrats, Socialist-Revolutionaries, the center republicans
and the liberals. But face up to it, Bunny. This war is
basically between two groups of people, the haves and the
have-nots."
"Who do you think's going to win it?"
He grinned at me. "I've done enough thinking for one
night. The British Military Mission frowns on too much
thinking. Anyway, we're here to fight."
Chewing on that, I walked away. At the bar, getting a
fresh drink, I had the uncomfortable feeling that Eddie
knew who was going to win the war and that for his own
reasons he was damned if he would tell me.
"We didn't get Trotsky," Kink told us at breakfast one
morning that week. "White intelligence has it he was in
63
Moscow when we bombed out the commissars. But now the
word is he's on his way to Tsaritsyn, coming down the Volga
with a flotilla of gunboats. We'll load up with twenty-pound
bombs and take out after it as soon as Bunny finishes his
tea/'
We caught the forty boat flotilla ten miles above Tsaritsyn
and bombed them at one thousand feet, coming down from
five thousand one at a time. The Red curtain of fire was
heavy. Kink scored a hit astern on the lead ship but our
other bombs missed. We turned around and came back for
a second try.
The Red flight of six Spads and Nieuports caught us com-
pletely by surprise. One riddled Tommy's tail, and he turned
home gimpily for Beketofka as another Nieup came in on
him for a final pass. I was in time to head off the Nieup, and
then there was suddenly a red star in my sights. He rolled,
and I shot at him in short bursts; he rolled again and away,
and my rudder locked in a spin. Out of the corner of my eye
I could see a stubby-winged Spad slipping down, aflame.
Had my spin been less severe another Nieup would have
gotten me; as it was he stitched my wing neatly before Kink
stole in to scare him away.
I leveled out over the gunboats at a terrifying two hundred
feet. Below, the flotilla gunners, lethal dentists, drilled at me
with their .30 calibers. Part of my instrument panel dis-
solved, and a strut flew free.
Then I was past the gunboats and headed for the drome.
Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw another Nieup going
down and the rest of the Red Flight fleeing into the clouds.
B Flight turned and took position behind me, the mother
hen seeing the wounded chick home.
"Gor, sir," my mechanic Charley Lamston blinked when I
landed, "chewed you up proper they did."
"Charley," I said, "remind me never to go to another
dentist as long as I live."
The flight's two victories, one scored by Kink and the
64
other by Bill Daley, entitled us to a prazdnik that night,
though we hadn't done so brilliantly with the flotilla. Trotsky
was still alive.
Kink had contrived to invite a few refugee girls to the
party. All of them were pretty, and two of them were haughty
enough to be princesses. They prompted Eddie to a maxim
about the Russian nobility: "They're all princes and prin-
cesses or counts and countesses at least. Just like the leaves of
a tree; they're there all right, but nowhere near the trunk."
Tommy played court to one of the Russian girls, a sullen
blondinka named Katerina in a striking blue silk dress.
Towards the end of the evening he took me aside. "Let me
borrow your compartment, Bunny?" he asked, grinning.
"Mine's a mess."
I gave him carte blanche, including the use of an illus-
trated volume of Persian love poetry that Kink had lent me.
A few minutes later Katerina's loud scream cut through
the hum of conversation. Cowderdrill, the great oaf, had
spilled caviar on her blue silk dress. Caviar stains silk baldly,
as it does almost everything else, and Tommy's fumbling
efforts to wipe it off with his handkerchief, moistened with
vodka, were only making things worse. Katerina left us shortly
thereafter, no doubt to try her luck with A Flight.
From the pantry we heard muffled groans.
Kink laughed. "Tommy's making Cowderdrill eat all the
caviar he didn't spill. And it doesn't agree with him."
I had drunk more than I should, and on the matter of
caviar I agreed with Cowderdrill. White-faced, I listed to the
lavatory. Too late; Eddie was inside, having difficulties of his
own. I stumbled outside to the tracks. The air revived me.
I stood under the Russian stars for a while, breathing in
deeply, a little homesick for Bromo-Seltzer.
Toward mid-April we heard that the French had evacuated
Sebastopol. Sebastopol was the base of the Russian Black
Sea Fleet, and so that the Reds should not profit unduly from
65
the evacuation, the French had scrapped over a score of sub-
marines. Russky and the other White officers walked around
with long faces and a pessimism we of B Flight refused to
dignify with recognition, knowing that the next White victory
would send them, just as unreasonably, sky high.
Look at the situation, they told us dolefully. A Bolshie
government had been formed in Bavaria, Bela Kun had
taken over Hungary, and it looked as though English troops
would be pulling out of Armenia and Georgia, leaving only
a handful at Batum. Na Moskvu? You didn't dare mention
the word.
It was May before the pendulum swung back violently in
the opposite direction. On the ninth Wrangel scored a
brilliant cavalry victory at Velikokniazheskaya, and Russky
told us, his face shining with joy, that it was certain now
that Denikin would launch major operations northwards
against Kharkov and Tsaritsyn.
"Christmas in Moscow!" he shouted. "I will myself show
you the Kremlin! We will travel the sleigh on the Tverskaya!"
The battle on the Manytsch front, we learned, had been a
bitter one. Twice White calvary under General Chatilov had
forded the river, and twice they had been beaten back. In
late April Wrangel, not yet fully recovered from a bout with
typhus, had gone to report to Denikin, and had been shocked
to hear that despite the fact that the Whites had thirty cavalry
regiments at the Manytsch River, there was no unity of
command. Denikin hadn't dared to put one general under
the orders of another. Romanovsky, Denikin's chief of staff,
had persuaded him to give Wrangel the Manytsch command,
and Wrangel had left for the front promptly.
The situation was a bad one. Red forces were massed in
Velikokniazheskaya village, and in its outskirts, on the
northern bank of the river. The Red artillery was too power-
ful for Wrangel to force a passage, and he turned his atten-
tion to the east, where the river was muddy and shallow.
It was essential that he get his artillery across the river,
66
and using the wooden fences of the neighborhood, he im-
provised a causeway. On the dawn of May 4th he made the
crossing. By noon two cavalry corps and the artillery had
crossed the river; by nightfall the White advance guard had
driven the Reds back toward the west and taken more than
fifteen hundred prisoners.
The White attack began at dawn on the 5th. Putting up
a furious resistance, the Reds turned WrangeFs right flank.
The White general was in a predicament; behind him lay the
only way of retreat, the right bank of the river was poorly
fortified, and he had no fresh reserves.
He resumed the offensive on the 6th, though for three
days his men had had no sleep and their horses were ex-
hausted. The White cavalry, chiefly composed of Don, Cir-
cassian and Astrakhan Cossacks, charged to the sound of
bugles into the teeth of a tremendous artillery barrage. When
the battle was over they had wiped out the loth Red Army
and taken prisoner fifteen thousand men. Wrangel told the
exultant Denikin that his Caucasian Army could be at the
gates of Tsaritsyn in three weeks 1 time.
Colly immediately ordered B Flight to step up its opera-
tions and destroy as many Red planes as possible in advance
of Wrangel's arrival at Tsaritsyn. We were to be especially
alert to Red bombers; it was rumored that the Bolshies had
finally managed to outfit and train pilots and observers for
a number of German aircraft captured during the European
war. If true, this was for us significant news; the Bolshies
could now bomb Beketofka, and our immunity from un-
expected attack was over.
In the next few weeks, patrolling from Tsaritsyn to
Dubovka, base of the Red gunboat fleet seventy miles beyond
it up the Volga, we saw no bombers, but we did run into a
good bit of fighter plane opposition. Kink downed three
red-starred planes, Eddie Fulford and I two, and Bill and
Tommy shared in a couple of victories. Colly was kept busy
wiring congratulations from Ekat.
67
My most interesting victory during that time was achieved
without the firing of a shot. During a dogfight over Dubovka
I spotted a Fokker triplane about a thousand yards north of
the battle. The Fokker was taking no part in the scrap and
apparently observing. I broke off the long-range sporting
event I was having with a cautious Nieup, and went for the
snobbish tripe.
At four hundred yards the Bolshie saw me coming, and
emptied his guns; I could see the tracers going wide to the
left and high. Suddenly he dove, and I went down after him.
Not sure how much ammunition I had left after my foolish
long-distance duel with the Nieuport, I decided to adopt the
tactics Kink would have used in the same situation: holding
my fire until I came within a very short range. The Camel's
telescopic gunsight was set to bull's-eye on a target at one
hundred yards; firing at a longer range than that was merely
by guess and God. Kink's practice was to hold his fire until
he was twenty-five to thirty-five yards from his target. That
meant taking chances; once he had pulled out of his dive
on a Bolshie plane so late that his under-carriage had hooked
the rudder of his victim, arid he had landed with shreds of
it still clinging to his under-carriage struts.
Now the Bolshie pilot looked back, saw me overhauling
him, and increased his angle of descent. I was, however, still
gaining; though the triplane had good maneuverability and
climb at low ceiling, as a diver it was slow, because of the
pressure and wind resistance against its triple wings.
As I approached the tripe to short firing range its star-
board wing began to flutter up and down. Suddenly, with
a terrific boom, the starboard wing folded back against the
fuselage, and a clutch of fabric and broken struts came flying
back at my ship. To avoid the debris I had to pull straight
out of my dive, and one of the triplane's flying wires wound
itself around my undercarriage. The tripe spun swiftly down,
to crash on the steppe, a huge cloud of dust rising from the
wreckage.
68
A lone Red survivor was fleeing the dogfight, and I re-
joined my squadron mates for the flight back home. When I
landed my hands were shaking; I had been more affected
by the bullet-less encounter than if the enemy had hem-
stitched my cockpit with .30 caliber lead.
Our patrol two days later to Urbakb drome, where the
Red squadrons of the Tsaritsyn area were based, was more
dangerous.
We groaned when Kink announced, "Objective Urbakb.
Combined operations with the 'Wanderers/ " The 'Wander-
ers' were the White Russian bomber squadron based with
us at Beketofka, and it was an understatement to say that
we flew with them reluctantly. They were not merely in-
competent, they were feckless, and sometimes they endan-
gered our own skins. Incapable of keeping formation, their
planes would wander off in all directions, and we would
have to shepherd them in like a flock of stupid sheep. In a
fight the guns of their observers were likely to jam, and even
if they didn't jam, they missed. Sometimes their planes dis-
appeared altogether, and on several occasions we had landed
to find them neatly hangared, with the Russians on their
third glass of vodka.
It wasn't a question of cowardice. They were all, including
the perfumed Lebedev, brave men. They were merely bored
by inconvenience and hard work. Russky explained it a little
differently: "With all respects, they not wanting to get in
anglichanie way."
Inevitably there were flights from which Lieutenants
Arbiev, Olonsky and Chiterin did not return. This both sad-
dened and angered us. We resented being forced to choose be-
tween covering the tail of a Squadron 47 man and that of a
Russian. We always covered the Russian's, because if we
didn't he was a gone goose, while the odds were good that a
Squadron 47 man would get away. But we would have re-
linquished the responsibility with the greatest of pleasure.
"One final warning," Kink said, before we left the lounge
69
for the field. "On our last flight with the Russians Lebedev's
observer took me for a Bolshie and put a burst right in front
of my nose. Anybody sees him about to repeat it, wave a white
handkerchief. I'll be grateful."
We met the Bolshie circus in a sunwashed sky over Urbakb.
The White DH-gs dropped their bombs on the drome, de-
molishing what appeared to be a cookhouse, a latrine and an
orderly room, and then the Red planes came up at us with
their grab-bag of captured Allied and German ships Nieu-
ports, Spads, an Albatros, a Sopwith one-and-a-half strutter.
They outnumbered us two to one.
We approached one another head on and the distance be-
tween us closed up with suddenness of a snapped rubber
band. We fired point blank. The Red planes slipped to our
right, and we did likewise, both of us hoping to gain ad-
vantage in the turn.
I had a glance at their goggled faces as we passed. One,
with a white streamer flying from his helmet, the squadron
leader, flew with style, and I wondered if he was a German
flying for pay, a bloodthirsty Turk, or an idealistic Bolshevik
who believed that Lenin had been born, like Christ, to save
the world, but not for God, for man.
I told myself to stop thinking of these men as men like
myself, with hopes and fears and private midnight anguishes.
They were the enemy.
Kink signaled the turn with a dip of his wing. As we
followed him I saw, a thousand feet above, a lone black
Fokker circling like a waiting falcon.
The Fokker was a plane that could beat us all for speed
and climb, and the pilot had the advantage of altitude. I
never saw the Fokker tail, which looked like an ace of clubs,
without hoping I had an ace in my own deck to match it.
But now I had more immediate and pressing concerns.
When we straightened from the turn it was every man for
himself. We caught the Bolshies as their flight whirled to
fight; on the turn the Camel could beat anything against it
in the air.
70
I took a quick burst at a Nieup as he came past my sights,
trying for a position astern. It was, I saw, the stylish squadron
leader.
The Bolshie and I went round and round, alternately
taking shots as chance and skill permitted, like boxers in the
ring. Quickly we lost height in the tight spiral; in a matter
of seconds we had dropped below the level of the other
machines.
I began to sweat. We were following each other's tails
nip and tuck, the man behind firing frantic bursts at the
man before him. I turned desperately to divert the fire from
behind, and found the Nieup dead ahead, centered in my
sights. I pressed the triggers till my thumb knuckles cracked
against the trips. As the bullets struck home the Bolshie
looked back at me, it seemed reproachfully, and then slumped
forward in his seat. His streamer fluttering gayly, he went
down in aimless circles like a scrap of paper in a whirlwind's
cone, and slid into the Volga.
A warning shadow fell across my wings and I looked up-
ward, expecting to see a diving Bolshie.
It was a flaming DH-g, its pilot dead in the cockpit, and
it was slipping straight into my path. I pulled the Camel into
a vertical turn and swerved as the flaming mass plummeted
past. As I watched, the observer jumped, tumbling down
to the river like a trapezist who had missed his grab for the
bar.
Above the Fokker circled triumphantly.
Dry-mouthed I leveled out of the turn, anxious for a
breath of cool, fresh air. A bullet-nosed Spad bore straight
at me, the pilot making no attempt to turn. His courage
was frightening, but I had gone through too much recent
discomfort to make things easy for him, and I held to my
course with thumbs on triggers.
The Spad dove first, and then I saw the reason: Eddie
had cut into his slipstream, his black-nosed guns spitting
orange-red. The Spad lurched, turned belly over, and slipped
into the river.
71
I thanked Eddie Fulford's parents fervently for their
mutual lust, and looked around for another antagonist. The
surviving White Russian planes were grouped now in closer
fighting order, and holding their own. Bill and Tommy, in
double contest, were playing ring-around with a Nieup and
a Spad. Eddie was climbing back up into the main action,
and Kink's Camel was engaged with two red stars, giving
them a flying lesson.
On the ground, as flat as a pan's bottom except where a
ravine cut through to the Volga, were seven flaming gasoline
fires, two of them DH-g's.
As I climbed up toward the Fokker he saw me and dove
away toward Kink, in position on the first of his Bolshies.
Stalling, the Spad slipped away to one side, emitting a wake
of the ghost-white smoke that precedes the flames of a fired
plane, and Kink turned to burst his second antagonist. As he
made his turn, the Fokker, wing tips pointing to earth and
sky, raked the Camel.
Kink went down, straight as a falling bucket in a well,
the second Bolshie following him for the finishing shot, the
Fokker shearing fast away.
It was ridiculous that the best airman of the Turkish front
should die under the guns of a second-rater. But he was
going to within the next three or four seconds, unless a
miracle happened, and I was too far away to help it along.
Sometimes there is justice done. From nowhere appeared
a Camel riding Kink's pursuer's tail, and with sure instinct
Kink swerved in his glide at the instant the Bolshie, his prop
stopped dead, triggered his burst. He missed. Bill Daley's
bullets caught the Bolshie, who went into the ground with
full throttle on.
Kink, his motor dead, landed safely on the river bank, and
Bill followed him down. I circled over them protectively
while Kink struck a match to his Camel, then squeezed him-
self beneath the small center section atop Bill's guns.
What Bolshie planes were left in the air had broken away
72
and were winging north, including the arrogant Black
Fokker. Bill, with Kink aboard, started home, and we fol-
lowed after.
At Beketofka we toted up the score. Five Bolshie fighters
destroyed and two White bombers. From this flight pilots
Konov and Gubichev and observers Stoganov and Rimsky had
not returned.
We had liked them all, especially Konov, who had played
a fine game of chess and was an authority on church iconog-
raphy.
That night I dreamed of the Black Fokker, and waking the
next morning, I knew we would meet again.
73
Chapter Four
Though it was only mid-May, Kink, who always thought
ahead, had an idea about making the lounge car comfortable
for the winter.
"We need a fireplace in which to burn a merry fire against
the Russian cold, and all that. Anybody know where we can
get one?"
"Is mansion down near sawmill by river," Russky said.
"Sacked by Bolshies and looted much, but some things left,
maybe."
Kink glanced at his watch. "We've got a four-thirty patrol.
That gives us a couple of hours. Tommy, you get the van,
and Bunny, would you ask Hoskins for a crowbar and some
heavy rope? Eddie, you call Ivan; we'll need his strength."
"What about bringing Feodor along?" I suggested. "He
was a housewrecker before the Revolution."
"God's troth," Bill Daley said. "If Feodor comes along we'll
have to ask my Mikhail. We don't want any jealousy among
the batmen."
Eddie rubbed his cheek. "If you're ringing in Mikhail, than
I'll have to ask my Valentin too."
"All right, all right," Kink said, throwing up his hands.
"Forget Ivan and the rest of them. But damn it all, fireplaces
are heavy. You're going to regret not keeping these batmen
in their places."
74
Tommy drove the van through the open iron gates and up
the graveled drive of a huge English-style manor house. All
of its windows had been broken, and there were hammers and
sickles smeared in red paint or blood on the door, which
hung on one hinge crazily. I closed my eyes and imagined
I was back in England, and I could see open limousines
parked on the driveway and a liveried footman at the door,
and inside elegant women sipping sherry with stiff-backed
pillars of the Empire. From the tennis court floated an
English voice singing out "Love-thirty, Colonel. Jolly good
shot!" and from the kitchen the titter of a downstairs maid,
pinched by the butler.
My fantasy was rudely shattered when we stepped in the
door. Machine gun bullets had riddled the fine panelling of
the hall. In the drawing room the hangings, saber-slashed,
hung in shreds, and the rugless floors were fouled with horse
manure and human excrement; the furniture, what of it had
been left behind by the looters, was hacked to splinters. Red
cavalrymen had used the mirrors for pistol practice. The
paintings were slashed through; one of them, I recognized,
was a Venetian scene by Turner. In one corner the corpse of
a pet dog, his breed now indistinguishable, lay faintly stink-
ing.
"Like Winter Palace when mobs come through," said
Russky. "So much beauty, destroyed by madmen. They
smashed Venetian mirrors with rifle butts, destroyed old
masters, trampled rare manuscripts and love letters. They
made love on Czar and Czarina's bed; China vases, they were
used like chamber pots. Ugh!" He had stepped in a pile of
manure.
Tommy laughed. "Russky, that'll bring you luck."
Kink told the boys to look through the upstairs rooms; he
and I would investigate the lower floor. We moved into the
next room, which proved to be the main parlor. There, piles
of rubble pushed up against it, was our fireplace.
It was of magnificent black marble with carved cupids on
75
pedestals, bacchic masks and a gilded mirror frame the
mirror itself was broken. Under a heap of half burned leather-
bound books were the andirons and pokers.
"It's a beauty, Kink/' I said, "but it's too big for the lounge
car, and how the devil are we going to get it into the van?"
"Call the boys," Kink said, undiscouraged.
Russky, who had been wandering out back in the garden,
came in shaking his head. He had discovered fourteen bodies
buried in a shallow trench near the summer house. "They
have murder everyone in house with a bullet in the neck.
You must see and believe."
"It's too depressing, Russky," Kink told him. "Come on,
let's get to work."
It took us two hours, but whiplashed by Kink's curses, we
got the fireplace out of the house and into the van, though
we had to break one of its wooden side boards to do it.
"God's troth, but Kink's a bastard," Bill Daley muttered
when we were under way. He examined a skinned finger.
"Gets it into his head to do something and he'll see it through
all the fires of hell."
Kink, in the front seat, didn't turn his head. "I heard that,
Daley. The fires of hell are just what you'll be wanting, come
a Russian winter."
"With all respects," said Russky, "Kink he right. Russian
winters like, like " He abandoned his search for a compari-
son, contenting himself with a shiver, which was all the more
eloquent for the sweat still streaming down his face.
The fireplace was too big to get through the vestibule
of the lounge car. A Flight men stood about shouting noxious
advice and encouragement, but not lifting a finger to help.
It was obvious that a section of the roof would have to be
taken off and the fireplace lowered through it, and a grinning
DH-g pilot quoted an official-sounding regulation which for-
bade precisely that. Kink ignored him and shook his fist at
the other scoffers. "When it's twenty below and your man-
hood's freezing you fellows are staying outside! No invita-
76
tions! Remember that, Black, Carrington, Finch. You too,
Lowrey, with your Welshman's black heart! You'll promise
us your sisters to get in out of the cold, and well laugh at
you! Laugh!"
Kink put Sergeant Major Hoskins and five men to work
on the lounge car roof while we went off on patrol. We
returned from shooting up a locomotive to find the roof
already off and the job half done. Cowderdrill, having com-
plained about the noise of hammering, had retired to his
bunk with a headache. Two privates of B Company served
our dinner, badly, but we solaced ourselves with the knowl-
edge that it wasn't often, in the air force, that you could dine
al fresco under the first of the night's pale stars.
Hoskins did his usual fine job and the fireplace was in-
stalled, flued and plastered snugly in place against the lounge
car sidewall by late afternoon of the next day. There was
only one thing wrong: the cherubs, solidly plastered to their
bases, were facing the wrong way, with their dimpled back-
sides to the beholder.
Kink called in Hoskins, and the Sergeant Major disclaimed
responsibility. "It wasn't me, sir. When I saw them cherubs
last, before we did the plastering, they were facing in the
right direction. Ain't that true, Stebbins?" he asked his
plasterer. Private Stebbins nodded.
Kink's black eyes frosted with understanding. "Cowder-
drill!" he shouted.
In the pantry a dish fell and smashed on the floor. "You're
calling me, sir?" Cowderdrill quavered.
"Come out of there," Kink bellowed.
The messman sidled from his galley, and Kink pointed to
the cherubs. "Cowderdrill, I know you did this. Something
tells me. Now I'm not going to court martial you for it. I just
want to know why."
"Yes, sir, fine, sir." Cowderdrill's Adam's apple agitated
violently. "Well, Major, I thought they was just too immoral
from the front, sir. I mean, no fig leaves. So I just turned
77
'em about. And they look much better. Don't you think so,
Captain Kinkead? Sort of less suggestive, sir, if you follow
what I mean."
In another week Wrangel's Cossacks had taken up positions
before the barbed wire and trenches that defended Tsaritsyn.
Artillery fire became constant night and day.
A Cossack liaison officer arrived to establish his head-
quarters at A Flight Train, and through Russky we learned
from him the near epic story of the general's march from
Velikokniageskaya.
For days, with very little food and almost no water,
Wrangel's troops had marched over three hundred kilometers
of barren steppes, uninhabited except for Red strong points
which had to be overwhelmed and taken. The nights were
cold and damp, and scores of men caught pneumonia. Despite
Wrangel's plea for transport, Denikin was already concen-
trating on the Kharkov front, and headquarters failed to
supply him with needed cars and trucks. Wrangel had made
most of the journey on horseback, riding with Chatilov's
fourth troop. When the stones of the rough road had cut
through the tires of his vehicles, he wound rope around the
wheels and continued on.
Kink invited a number of Wrangel's officers to share our
mess, among them Moslems from the Caucasus who had
declared a holy war against the Reds. The Moslems touched
no alcohol, and spoke a Russian dialect that Russky was
hard pressed to translate. In return the Moslem officers in-
vited us to mess with them in their encampment outside the
city, over which flew their green and yellow-crescented
flag.
We heard there would be no attack on Tsaritsyn until the
artillery, infantry and materiels promised by Denikin ar-
rived. Wrangel's officers were as restive as the general him-
self, who kept bombarding Denikin with telegrams asking
for his promised help; there was a good deal of resentment
78
building up against the commander in chief among all the
higher ranks of Wrangel's Caucasian Army.
As the days passed no reinforcements came, and our patrols
told Wrangel that fresh Red troops and artillery were daily
entering the city. Toward the end of the month we heard
that Wrangel had summoned a council of war and asked his
generals' advice as to whether they should risk an attack or
wait for reinforcements. He told them that the success of an
immediate attack was unlikely, but that on the other hand,
with the Reds constantly strengthening their position, the
odds were that a later attack would certainly fail. Unani-
mously the council agreed upon attack.
"They won't make it," Eddie said. "The Reds are too
strong on artillery."
Rusky was offended. "With all respects, such talk is bad,"
he said stiffly. "We must possess the hope."
"I possess the hope, Russky," Eddie answered, "but I'd
rather have a hole than hope when those shells start pouring
in."
Events proved Eddie right. We did our part, strafing the
trenches and rear areas in advance of the attack, shooting up
a couple of field guns, and downing the three Bolshie fighters
that objected. But the Reds had too many guns and Wrangel
suffered heavy casualties. That night there was no prazdnik
to celebrate the downed Red planes.
Three days later the Reds attacked, driving Wrangel back
to the Tchervlennia River. The word was that he would wait
there for reinforcements. We were ordered to be ready to
pull out of Beketofka at a moment's notice. It was strange
that night to get a wire from Colly in Ekat telling us of the
success of the Don and Volunteer armies to the west and
saying headquarters was optimistic about being in Moscow
by late October. October 1 We couldn't see it. We had identi-
fied ourselves with Wrangel and his fortunes, and at the
moment, on the Tsaritsyn front at least, we were falling
behind.
79
But Wrangel got his reinforcements. An infantry division
and five batteries arrived before the 15th, and he attacked
a day later. Squadron 47 was excused from the operation, but
only because we had fought our battle the day before.
Colly had come up from Ekat to brief us on the mission.
Budenny, the Red's crack cavalry commander, was coming
to the aid of Tsaritsyn. He had two or three brigades and
three thousand men. Unless he was stopped, his reinforce-
ments might mean the difference between victory and defeat
for Wrangel. And if the general was pushed back from
Tsaritsyn further than the Tchervlennia River, the whole
front would collapse.
"Budenny should be fifteen miles from the city by dawn
tomorrow," Colly told us. "It's up to you B Flight boys to
strafe him dead; in this kind of operation a bomber's use-
less. They say his sharpshooters can hit a gnat's eye at a
thousand yards, so watch yourself when you're coming in. The
Cossack cavalry's waiting for him, and they'll reveal them-
selves to you by forming an 'X' in a square. From there you
can play it by inspiration. Any questions?"
"Who's Budenny?" Tommy asked, but this time we didn't
laugh.
Next morning we took off into the sun that climbed the
marshes beyond Mother Volga. We flew over Tsaritsyn,
veered off to the right toward the silver ribbon of the river,
and thence over the sunburned steppe. Beyond the city it
was flat no longer, but cut and scarred by huge ravines that
might have hidden an army.
Suddenly we saw them; a blurred patch below in the
ravines and gullies that rapidly metamorphosed into horse-
men.
We could see that there were two opposing forces. One
group of horsemen, rather smaller than the other, stood in
close order; the other was deploying.
Perhaps fifty horsemen detached themselves from the
80
smaller group and hastily arranged themselves into a hollow
square inside of which they formed the prearranged 'X'.
Facing them across the steppe was Budenny, preparing to
attack.
The Cossacks knew his intention. What they did not know
was that his relatively small attacking force was bait. Be-
hind it, in a deep ravine that curved around the Cossack
cavalry like the blade of a hand scythe, poured the bulk of
Budenny's men.
Kink dipped his wings in command to form a line. He
pointed his nose dawnward, throttle wide, and I swung into
line after him, the others falling in behind.
We were diving five thousand feet at a speed of three
hundred miles an hour. My dive was too steep; I needed
a little less right rudder. Cross a hairline over the vertical
and my tricky Camel would flip over on its back. I eased
back the stick gently; too sudden a jerk would snap the wings
off.
My air speed indicator was graduated in miles per hour
up to three hundred. The telltale needle had passed that
mark and strained against the stop.
The motor meter marked fourteen hundred revolutions
per minute, excessive speed for a rotary engine. The motor
had ceased to turn the prop; what revolved it now was the
blast of air through which I was plunging.
I took a last glance at the oil pressure gauge and noted
the pounds of pressure in my gas tank. If the relief valve
stuck the tank would explode.
I reached down the starboard side of the cockpit and gave
the gun-gear reservoir firing handle a reassuring tug. Should
the firing system lose its pressure the Vickers machine guns,
synchronized to fire between the prop blades, would cease
to function.
The scream of the tortured flying wires had reached a
constant pitch that sounded like the whine of a passing shell.
Seconds dragged as the ground rushed up. I held my thumbs
81
tight on the two trigger levers attached to the joy stick.
Ahead of me Kink's guns pocked the ground, sending up
little exclamations of dust. His ship swerved up and passed
me to the right with the suddenness of a camera shutter's
click.
Five hundred feet above the ravine. The crowded masses
of cavalry gazed up with white faces. I pressed the trips,
easing the joy stick back slowly so that my bullets would
sweep the line of men. A horse reared, a man began to fall.
The horse was still upright, the man still falling when I shot
upward out of the dive and my wing blotted them from view.
I zoomed straight up into the brightening sky. Above me
Kink cartwheeled into line behind Eddie's anchor machine
as it passed him in its dive.
The banshee wail of my wires subsided as my speed cut
down. I could hear the roar of the motor. It was deep and
smooth, and I blessed Charley and his mechanic's filthy
hands.
Then a cartwheel into line behind Kink again, and an-
other start down the hill.
We formed an endless chain of attack. Dive. Shoot. Zoom.
Cartwheel. The Red cavalry was helpless. We came so fast
they had no chance to defend themselves.
A few raised rifles from pony backs. Some stampeded both
forward and back, but Kink had concentrated the attack
at both ends of the column, and the narrow gulley was
choked with horses and men at entrance and exit.
On my third trip around I saw an officer whipping his
horse up the steep side of the gully toward the steppe. I
pushed my left rudder slowly. Dust spurted from the dry,
eroded earth; the bullets struck a few feet short. I pulled
my stick back a fraction and the dust spurts traveled closer
and closer in an ineluctable geometry of line until the horse
reared and the man flung his arms upward and fell. I was
so close I could see the scar on his cheek, the flash of a ring
on his finger.
I felt neither elation nor guilt but only a knifesharp sense
82
of concentration. In the air a man exists in a different element
of action and response; he is detached from the earth and
what he had learned on it of pity and hate; he is himself,
and at the same time he is not quite human.
The Cossacks had now charged the decoys before them.
Kink signaled Bill Daley out of line, and the two of them
raked the decoy columns as the Cossacks galloped in.
The two ammunition belts of eight hundred rounds each I
had started out with were now exhausted. My last two dives
had been dry ones; I had held my place and pretended to fire
for what effect it might have.
Tommy too was dry, but Eddie was firing single bursts of
two shots at a time with a single gun. That was smart; he
was saving a couple of rounds in his starboard gun against
a surprise attack by Bolshie aircraft on the way home. I
should have been as prudent.
Bill, back in the line now, was trying to pick off an un-
horsed officer who was potting at us with a light machine gun
from halfway up the side of the ravine. He missed, and
reaching the bottom of his dive, pulled out to follow me
around again. I saw him wiping off his telescopic sight for
the next try.
On my next run down a jagged hole appeared in the middle
of my port wing. The machine-gunner was beginning to get
our range. Eddie fired a single burst as he followed me down.
I could hear it through the roar of my exhaust like the faint
tap-tapping of a pencil on a window pane.
On my way up again Kink and Bill dove past me on a last
strafe of a handful of cavalry that had managed to get clear of
the gully and were escaping across the steppe. This time
Eddie didn't follow me in the line; flying clear, like myself, of
the machine-gunner, he made a wide circle some four or five
hundred feet above, and I knew he was clearing a jam.
Tommy and I joined him, pulling in behind, and then
followed him down at either wingtip. He dove straight and
steep at his target; we lagged a little in a more diagonal de-
scent.
Tommy turned to the left; I did a vertical turn to the
right, my wings perpendicular to the ground. I was sitting on
the axis of the horizon, pushed deep into my seat by the
centrifigal force of the turn. I looked along the trailing edge
of my right wing straight down at the ground.
Eddie's dive was carrying him straight into the path of
the machine-gunner's bullets. Remorselessly the pencil tapped
on the windowpane, and then Eddie's nose suddenly turned
up. The slipstream from his prop set the dust swirling.
As Eddie zoomed skyward the machine-gunner sprang to
a half erect position, then staggered and fell, rolling down the
gully side into a wounded horse spread-eagled at the bottom.
The horse's hoofs struck out frantically and the man lay still.
A red Very light shot from Kink's Camel the signal to
break away and regain formation. As we turned back to
Beketofka the Cossacks waved. They surrounded a large
group of prisoners; to the south, toward the city, fled the
last remnants of Budenny's troops.
We had been in the air for almost two hours, Kink told us
when he landed at the drome.
That evening Colonel Momontov of Shkura's Wolves, the
dreaded Cossack division, regiments of which had fought
with us that afternoon, came to Beketofka to thank us.
Shkura's men had a wolf's head as their insignia, and their
round Cossack caps were made of the Russian wolf's gray
fur instead of the usual curly Astrakhan wool. Wolf hair
hung shaggily down around the sides and front, and the
Cossacks' eyes glared fiercely through the tangled fringe.
Shkura's raids were noted for bloodiness and ruthless pillage,
and the sensitive Cowderdrill served them vodka and escaped
quickly back to the kitchen.
Shkura's Wolves had counted eight hundred dead in the
ravine. Eddie asked if there had been any wounded, and
Russky said, "Colonel say they all dead when Wolves have
left."
Momontov gave each of us a Cossack souvenir. Kink re-
84
ceived a gold-inlaid kinzhal, the Cossack dagger, and I a solid
silver cigarette case engraved with hammer, sickle and red
flags that had been looted from one of Budenny's dead.
Next day the battle for Tsaritsyn began. Wrangel's tanks
and armored cars attacked followed by the cavalry. The
barbed wire down, the fourth division of Kuban Cossacks
charged the trenches. The Reds retreated to their last trench
line, and by the evening of the igth, three days later, the
Whites were in the town with the Bolshies fleeing north up
the Volga.
It was a major victory, as important as the taking of
Kharkov by the Volunteer Army a short time before.
Wrangel's spoil was immense: over forty thousand prisoners
and a mountain of materiel.
Denikin arrived to confer with the general and told him
his plan of campaign. Wrangel, we heard, was nothing less
than stunned. Completely disregarding the general's advice
to consolidate the rear and fatten up the thin White reserves
before extending the length of the front, Denikin had de-
cided to push full steam ahead for Moscow, dividing his
troops into three forces along the way. Wrangel's army was
to take Saratov as soon as possible, and move on to Moscow
via Nizhni-Novgorod; General Sidorin's Army of the Don
was to proceed ahead through Noronezh-Ryazan, and Mai-
Maievsky, with the Volunteer Army, was to advance directly
on Moscow by way of Kursk, Orel and Tula.
In vain Wrangel had objected that such a course was
suicide. Denikin was ignoring strategy, choosing no principal
direction, and permitting no concentration of troops. The
commander in chief had glanced at him slyly and said, "I see.
You want to be the first man to set foot in Moscow!"
"Denikin seems to be taking a hell of a chance," Eddie
said. "One bad licking and the front crumbles and it's all
the way back to the Black Sea."
"Better Wrangel should command than Denikin," said Rus-
sky.
85
Kink shook his head. "No chance of that. And if they
have another altercation, Wrangel's proud enough to re-
sign." He circled his wilting collar with a forefinger. "Well,
at least we've earned a little vacation. Anyone for a swim?"
We took the van for the short trip to the river. Kink picked
out a sandbar, and we got out of our clothes and into our
olive green issue suits.
The water was delightful. We were lolling between dips
when Tommy started singing:
Bon jour, ma cherie
Comment allez-vous?
Bon jour, ma cherie
How do you dof
Avez-vous fiance? Cela ne fait rien.
Voulezrvous coucher avec moi ce soir?
Out, oui, combienf
As he finished the party of fishermen a little below us
pulled in an empty net. We laughed, not at them but at
Tommy, and the fishermen scowled blackly.
"Unfriendly blighters," Bill said.
"They don't like the Reds and they don't like foreign mer-
cenaries either," Eddie said. "Either way, Red or White,
they still make their pitiful twenty rubles a day."
"With all respects," said Russky in the stiff way he spoke
when angry, "difference it exists. Difference of spirit. Mate-
rialists cannot sense spirit but exists. White color of the
spirit, of freedom; red color of blood."
"All right, you chaps," Kink interrupted, "no political
arguments. We're here for recreation."
Tommy whistled, low. "Speaking of recreation, look to
your right."
A group of girls from Beketofka village had come down to
the river to bathe. To our delighted interest they were un-
dressing on the upper end of the sandbar. They paid abso-
lutely no attention to us, not even to Russky, who in proper
Russian bathing style was buck naked.
86
"Oh my, look at that delicious little brunette/' Bill said
admiringly. "Wouldn't you like to go wandering with that
in a hay field? Russky, what's Russian for 'My Beautiful One,
shall we go wandering in a hayfield?' "
"All respects," frowned Russky, "I no understand."
"You understand all right," said Tommy aggrievedly, "but
you're too much of a rotter to help a poor fellow out."
Now the girls, all six of them, stood naked in the sunlight.
Three were blondinkas. Peasants, they were thick in the
withers and ankles, but attractive for all that. In careful
unison each began to tie a silk kerchief under her chin.
"To keep the hair dry," explained Russky.
"Reminds me of a story a Russian captain told me in
Batum," Kink said. "Seems there was this American consul
who didn't approve of all this bathing in the nude. He built
a bathing box on the beach and changed in it every day.
Then he noticed that the Russians were avoiding him, even
in the water. He asked his servant to find out the reason, and
he reported back, 'Sir, the Russians think you must have a
dreadful disease, covering yourself up that way, and they're
afraid they'll catch it.' "
We were all too busy watching the girls wading into the
river to respond to Kink's story with more than a perfunctory
laugh. We had gotten up to go in after them when suddenly
we heard a tremendous explosion in the direction of the
drome.
"God's troth," Bill cried, "it's the Bolshie bombers!"
There was another great hollow boom, then three or four
in succession. Dust rose slowly into the sky.
"Arses up!" Kink shouted, and grabbing our khakis we
ran for the van. Russky struggled into his shorts as we
bounced over the rough dirt road toward the drome.
It wasn't the Bolshies, but two poor chaps of A Flight
who had broken out of formation with engine trouble and
returned to the field. As they came in to land at fifty feet, the
observer stood up to look ahead over the pilot's shoulder.
The bomb toggle at his seat caught in the pocket of his
87
flying suit and released the bomb pull. The first bomb blew
the wings off the DH-g; the wingless fuselage fell straight to
the ground; and the rest of the full load of one-hundred-
twelve-bombs exploded.
It was more than an hour before we could get to the
blazing wreck.
That night we could see from the lounge to the A Flight
headquarters train, where Major Anderson sat writing home
to two Canadian wives whose men had gone "larking in Rus-
sia," in the words of a Toronto journalist who had opposed
the interference of the Commonwealth in internal Russian
affairs.
We went into Tsaritsyn for a look at the town that we had
so far only seen from the air.
It turned our stomachs. In every street bodies, animal and
human, lay rotting. We could smell the unburied Red vic-
tims who lay in the ravines on the outskirts. In every breath
we took was the heavy, sweetish odor of decay.
The looted shops were empty, the churches, with the ex-
ception of the cathedral, desecrated. In the rubbled streets
with their shattered houses our whispers came back to us in
hollow echoes. People staggered through doorways into the
sun, and sat witlessly picking at their rags of clothes. Starving
children looked at us blankly. In such a place it seemed a
sacrilege to be alive.
"Stay away from the townspeople," Kink warned us.
"They're rotten with smallpox and typhus."
"Let's get out of here," Eddie said. "The stink's making me
sick."
We had started back for the van, parked in the main
square, when a small pig, remarkably dirty and no bigger
than a gin bottle, ran across our path. He stopped in front
of Bill, braced himself on all four legs, and squealed weakly.
Then he fell over on his snout.
Bill took the pig up in his arms. "God's troth, we've got
88
our mascot. We'll call him Clarence, after Cowderdrill." He
glared around belligerently. "Any of you types have objec-
tions?"
''If Clarence doesn't work out well we can always eat him
for Christmas dinner," Eddie said, grinning.
"But Daley," Tommy protested, "how do you housebreak
a pig?"
"You don't," Bill answered.
That afternoon we were expecting Wrangel and his staff at
the drome. When the General was an hour late Kink took us
in the van into Beketofka village to wait for him at the
station.
We found Wrangel on the platform, pacing up and down.
He was a very tall, lean borzoi of a man in Cossack's papakha,
cavalry man's boots, and long-skirted coat; across his chest,
bare of medals, was a bandoleer of cartridges. His staff and
bodyguard stood on the steps of the train talking in subdued
voices. A half dozen ragged urchins and two tousled peasants
at the end of the platform looked on in gaping wonder.
Russky stepped forward and introduced us nervously.
Wrangel cordially shook each of us by the hand. Surpris-
ingly, he knew our names. He apologized for being late; the
stationmaster was absent from duty, and it was necessary for
him to attend to the scoundrel first. In wartime, he reminded
us, a stationmaster's leaving his station was as serious a crime
as a sentry's quitting his post.
He resumed his pacing. Russky told us, in an undertone,
that only a few days before the general had hanged a station-
master and his two assistants for the same offense.
In another five minutes the stationmaster appeared, puffing
and blowing, from a vodka bout in the village. When he saw
the general his fat face turned purple. He put his hand to
his heart and dropped to his knees before the conqueror of
Tsaritsyn.
"Get up!" Wrangel ordered contemptuously, and the man's
babbled mea culpas died in his throat. As Wrangel's tongue
89
tore him to shreds the station master looked to us for in-
tercession. We looked away. He turned his eyes helplessly to
the gathering crowd of villagers at the far end of the plat-
form. They spat out their sunflower seeds and looked down
at the ground.
Finally Wrangel's icy tirade ended. Drawing his kinzhal
he pointed to the station door. Turning to touch his cap at
every step, the stationmaster hurried off and disappeared
within.
Russky explained that the general had spared the station-
master in our honor, but should he ever again be found
derelict in his duty, Wrangel would hang him on the
spot.
It was completely credible to me that this steel-hard aristo-
crat had charged, singlehanded, a German battery and sa-
bered its gunners; had, without penalty, coldly and haughtily
lectured his commander in chief. Never before had I seen
such complete dominance of a situation or so absolute an
air of command.
Wrangel rejoined us, and Russky translated his remarks.
He thanked us for the part we had played in routing Buden-
ny's cavalry; had the Bolshevik general gotten through,
his reinforcements might well have made the city impreg-
nable. He regretted that urgent business made it impossible
for him to mess with us at the drome, but invited us to a
dinner he was giving for his Cossack officers in Tsaritsyn at
the end of the week. General Holman, Commander of the
British Military Mission, would be present.
Again he shook our hands. What was most extraordinary
about the general, I decided, was his ice-blue eyes, their
level directness. You thought: tell this man the truth if
you don't, no matter how good a liar you happen to be, he'll
know it.
A moment later his train pulled out of the station.
Bill whistled. "Now wouldn't I hate to get on that fellow's
list!"
90
"You know," Eddie said, and he sounded surprised, "he
looks like a winner."
There was no morning patrol scheduled, and I came into
the lounge for breakfast wearing slippers. Cowderdrill, fus-
sing at the fireplace, didn't hear me. I waited for a moment,
my stomach growling, wondering what the devil he was up
to, and then pounded my fist down on the mess table. The
sergeant jumped, and what he was holding fell to the floor.
I looked, and gasped. Jewelry, scads of it. Bracelets, bangles,
pendants with velvet ribbons, brooches, bandeaux, rings, a
Russian tiara; earrings, diamond combs and fourches; cuff
links, scarf pins, gold studs, bejeweled vanity cases. They
sparkled and shone in the sunlight, spilling from the small
drawer Cowderdrill had dropped to the carpet.
To the right of one of the boldly buttocked cupids, near
the ornate mantel, was an open rectangular space. The
drawer, one side of which was marble, fit it. Cowderdrill had
found the secret hiding place of a fortune in jewels.
He gulped and shuffled his feet nervously. "It's not what
you think, sir," he said. "Them jewels wasn't in the drawer.
I mean the drawer didn't have nothing in it when I found it.
Them jewels and things I got at the shops in Ekat and Tsar-
itsyn."
I got up and picked over the contents of the drawer. He
was telling the truth. At a distance the stuff had looked real
enough, but it was actually gimcracks, cheap imitation junk
jewelry. Russians were poor businessmen, but Cowderdrill
had still managed to be had.
"Captain," he hastened to assure me, "all I traded for them
jewels was some personal drugs I bought me in Constanti-
nople and some Bovril and a few tins of bully beef. The
paruskies, they love bully beef; they're all like Ivan. Sir,
ain't it true we've got enough bully beef to feed the whole
of Russia?"
On the proceeds of his fake jewelry and his collection of
91
samovars Cowderdrill was undoubtedly looking forward to
retiring from the air force and leading a gilded life in the
casinos of the Riviera with a bogus countess on either arm.
I couldn't bear to be the one to disillusion him. But if Kink
ever found out he was bartering R.A.F. rations on the
outside it would go badly for Sergeant Clarence Cowderdrill.
I had to put a stop to his peculations.
"Sergeant," I said, "if this war goes against us and we
have to retreat you're going to be grateful for that carload of
bully beef we're hauling. We won't have a damn thing to
eat besides bully and caviar. Now I'll forget our little con-
versation if you'll promise to stop this jewelry business im-
mediately. Otherwise I'll have to tell the Major, and it'll be
a court martial for you as sure as Trotsky wears whiskers."
"Yes sir, thank you, sir." He grinned shyly yet proudly.
"Captain, sir, what do you think of them? Ain't they loverly
things, sir? Look at that diamond tiara. Worth a fortune
alone."
"Um, very nice, Sergeant. Quite a brilliant collection. Now
I'd suggest that you get rid of it before the other officers
come in."
Cowderdrill had just closed his secret drawer when
Tommy, in his blue silk robe, came in yawning. "Billet doux
from the Bolshies," he said. "A Nieup dropped a flock of them
over Tsaritsyn." He tossed a sheet of paper on the table. It
was mimeographed in violet ink, and written in English.
The leaflet said that the Reds were very angry about the
British airmen who were aiding the reactionary, Czarist
White forces in their foredoomed efforts to crush the glorious
Bolshevik Revolution. Should they capture any of us, our
fate would be crucifixion, or worse.
I reminded myself I was an American, and wondered if it
would help.
"What could be worse than crucifixion?" I said.
"Torture," Tommy said, sipping his tea. "The Bolshies are
first-rate at it. I saw one of their torture rooms in Ekat. They
92
have a special apparatus for taking the skin of your hands
and arms. It comes off like a glove. Then they put a rat in
a brass bowl against your stomach, and apply hot coals against
the bowl till the rat's driven to eat himself out of his cage.
They've also got a machine that relieves you of your man-
hood in a particularly ghastly way, but I won't go into that
right now, since the details are rather revolting. Cowder-
drill!" he shouted, "where's my bloody kidneys?"
"Coming sir, directly. Right off the fire."
Cowderdrill set down before Tommy an underdone set of
kidneys as red as a commissar's star.
"Ah!" Tommy said with satisfaction, digging in, "just the
way I like them!"
I turned green, and leaving my oatmeal half finished,
bolted for the lav.
Wrangel's party was being held in a chateau by the river
occupied by the staff of the loth Red Army before its hur-
ried departure from Tsaritsyn. A Cossack officer met us at
the door, and showed us up to a second floor ballroom spark-
ling with silver and cut glass.
"What a place!" Tommy said admiringly. "These nobles
must have all the money in the world."
"Had," Eddie corrected dryly. "And a good thing, too."
"With all respects," Russky said coldly, "you are once
again giving birth to anti-sentiments."
"Hell, Russky," Kink joshed him, "Eddie didn't say any-
thing against the Jews. He's got a Jewish girlfriend back
home in Ontario."
"Then that is only thing we have in common," Russky
said with dignity. "My finance she Jewish. And she more
Jewish, I bet, than yours! 9 '
We were a little early, but huge crystal bowls of caviar
were already set out on the dazzling white tablecloths that
covered the long mahogany tables. Before the bowls stood
champagne glasses, from which the caviar was to be eaten
93
with spoons. At every place was a decanter of vodka, with a
shot glass beside it.
We had started in on the vodka, and I was deploring the
Russian lack of imagination in failing to have developed an-
other national drink, when Kink said, "Here comes the
general."
We rose as Wrangel and his staff entered the room, fol-
lowed by what seemed to be an interminable column of
Cossacks, with pistols and kinzhals at their belts.
"Yosefovich, Chatilov, Borodov," Russky identified the
general's staff officers. "Pokrovsky, Saveliev. Also General
Holman."
Some of Wrangel's staff officers had been with him when
the general came to Beketofka, but it was the first time I had
seen our British commander. Holman was a huge bear of a
man with the reticent competence and God-given assurance
of the British professional soldier engraved deeply on his
genial face. He was as tall as Wrangel, and though there
were no men in the group less than middle height, the
two dwarfed the others.
We resumed our seats after the General and his party had
taken theirs. Russky introduced me to the Russian officers
who sat on either side of B Flight. To my right was a captain
of cavalry named Sobolov who spoke English like an Oxo-
nian. He had, he told me, learned the language from his
English governess before learning his mother tongue.
The dinner began. There was zakuski, the Russian hors
d'oeuvres, a meal in itself, and borscht. There were mutton
cutlets baked with cabbage, carrots, and other vegetables,
and buckwheat-flour pancakes served with melted butter,
sour cream and smoked salmon. There were also pancakes
stuffed with chopped beef, combined with kidney fat, chopped
onions and a Bechamel sauce. There were open tartlets of
puff pastry filled with farmers cheese. Caucasian wine ar-
rived, and with it three kinds of vodka, flavored with frost-
bitten cherries, buffalo grass and red pepper. There was
94
aspic with tongue, salted sardines, and smelts cooked in
chicken stock with chopped shrimps and mushrooms. There
was sliced cooked salmon and bream baked with kasha. There
was also a shrimp and fish pie, made with peas, sour cream,
lemon and baked between layers of puff pastry. There was a
boiled suckling pig, served with a sauce of sour cream, horse-
radish, salt and pepper. Caviar was served with every course.
For dessert there was a pie made with almonds, cherry jam,
sour cream, egg yolks and cinnamon; small cheese cakes; a
cake made of cream cheese, chopped almonds, candied peels
and other ingredients; a cream pudding, and French pastry.
I found I could get through it all by putting one thing
on my plate at a time, taking a bite and waiting for the
waiter to whisk my plate away and give me a clean one. Then
I would repeat the process. Kink caught on to my system,
and signaled the rest of B Flight to do the same.
I got talking to Sobolov, and asked him his opinion of
Denikin's campaign for the taking of Moscow.
He shook his head grimly. "1 consider it a serious mistake.
There's no doubt that for the time being we should en-
trench ourselves on the Tsaritsyn-Ekaterinoslav front, so that
the Volga and Dnieper would be covering our flanks. We
could then detach whatever troops were needed for opera-
tions toward the southeast, and at the same time maintain
a strong garrison at Kharkov. Otherwise we have no organ-
ized rear and no bases. And with a disorganized rear there's
no way to stop the violence, marauding and other abuses
going on behind the lines. The people are bound to hold
this lawlessness against us."
I told Sobolov we had heard that relations between Deni-
kin and Wrangel were pretty badly strained. He grimaced.
"Yes, and it hasn't helped for Denikin to renege on his prom-
ise to give us a rest after the taking of Tsaritsyn. We were to
have fifteen days and Denikin changed his mind and gave us
only two. The ist Kuban Cossacks are on their way to
Saratov now. They don't have a chance to take it; the Reds
95
are pouring troops into the city. Well!" Sobolov lifted his
vodka glass. "Live for the day!"
At the next table a Cossack with a fierce mustache got up
on a chair and launched into a ringing speech in Russian.
"Not worth translate," Russky said. "Only ordinary senti-
ments."
The Cossack tossed off his vodka in a single gulp and
shook his head to clear it. Then he smashed his glass to the
floor. Other Cossacks rose to make brief speeches and smash
their glasses and then silence fell over the room as Wrangel
got to his feet. He held up his glass in our direction, and a
smile of extraordinary charm lit his severe face with its high
cheekbones and ice-blue eyes. "To my new Cossacks," he
said in English learned for the occasion. "To my conquerors
of Budenny, to my Cossacks of the air!"
The place became a madhouse. The Cossacks jumped from
chairs to tables, sending the platters and other dishware
flying. The bowls of caviar oozed their black treasure to the
tablecloth. On the dais, next to Wrangel, General Holman
good-humoredly wiped a blob of caviar from his eye.
"Za vashe zdorovye! Za vashe zdorovye!" the long-coated
men shouted, and began another series of toasts, all of them
talking at the same time with a great deal of grandiloquence
and glass-smashing. Several glasses came sailing over our heads,
to shatter against the wall beyond. Those cavalrymen who
were glassless were drinking vodka straight from the decanters
all three kinds.
"You must excuse them," Sobolov said. "We Russians keep
sane by periodically becoming insanely loud or sentimental."
The toast ended, waiters came out to clean the glass
from the square of polished floor bounded by the tables.
"Now Cossack dancing," Russky said. "The kazachok."
"Watch out for their kinzhals," Sobolov said.
A battery of artillery boomed in the distance as two dancers
took the floor. The kazachok they danced to an orchestra
of accordion, violin and balalaika was a wild, free and ex-
96
plosive thing. The dancers leaped high on their toes, whirled,
then squatted on their heels, kicking straight out in front
of them first with one foot and then the other. The flashing
of boots was so rapid I could hardly follow it.
"Where are the kinzhals?" I asked Sobolov.
"Wait," he told me, "for the finale."
Two more dancers had joined those on the floor. The
music stepped up in tempo. In their teeth now all four men
held the points of three kinzhals. Two more Cossack daggers
were tucked behind each ear, while each hand, up-raised,
grasped another.
The Cossacks beat time, clapping their hands as the dancers
did a mad kazachok, ended with a flying leap in the air. At
the height of their leap the dancers shook themselves like
dogs coming out of the water, and the kinzhals rained down,
sticking their sharp points into the floor. One quivered a bare
inch from my foot.
"Na Moskvu! Na Moskvu!" cried the dancers, and as the
audience took up the cry it became a chant exciting, com-
pelling, irresistible. Even Eddie was on his feet, shouting
and waving his glass. Sobolov, his eyes bright, was yelling
with the rest of us.
When the shouting died down the orchestra began to
play a haunting, plaintive melody, the kind you think you've
heard before but haven't. The sudden hush was broken as
the Cossacks, bass and baritone, burst into song.
"The song of Stenka Razin," Sobolov told me. "He was
a Don Cossack, the great Robin Hood of the Volga. Stenka
led the Cossack Revolt of 1671. For years he swept the river
above and below Tsaritsyn with his flotilla of river craft;
when he took a town or a city he redistributed its wealth
among the poor and went his way again. When the Volga
got too small for him he cruised into the Caspian Sea to
plunder the Persians. A Persian princess was one of his prizes,
and her fate is the theme of the song."
As the Cossacks sang Sobolov recited:
97
Behind them rose a whisper:
He has left his sword to woo
One short night and Stenka Razin
Has become a woman too.
What cares he for war or glory,
For spoil or for pelf,
For his princess of the Persians
Is to him all worldly wealth.
Stenka hears the jeering
Of his discontented band,
And the lovely Persian princess
He has circled with his hand.
His black brows have come together
As the waves of anger rise,
And the blood has mounted swiftly
To his piercing, jet black eyes.
"I will give you all you wanted,
Life and heart, and head and hand,"
In echo rolls the pealing thunder
Of his voice across the land.
"Volga, Volga, mother Volga
Deep and wide beneath the sun,
You have never seen a gift given
By the Cossacks of the Don.
And that peace might rule as always,
All my free-born men and brave,
Volga, Volga, mother Volga,
Make my love a grave.
With a sudden, mighty movement
Stenka lifts the beauty high,
And casts her where the waters
Of the Volga sigh.
98
Dance, you fools, and men, make merry,
What shadow darks your eyes?
Let us thunder out a chanty
Of a place where beauty lies."
The song was over, dying in a melancholy whisper, and
as befits a somber moment, there was no applause.
I saw Tommy wipe a bit of moisture from his eye. ' 'That's
a good story," he said to Sobolov. "Is it true?"
The Russian nodded. "It's also true that when Stenka
came out of his solitude weeks later he was a changed man,
more violent and bloodthirsty than ever before. He was
finally caught and brought to Moscow for trial by torture.
The night before they quartered him alive he composed his
epitaph. It went, 'He who rests here, Stenka Razin Timofief,
was an adventurer and an outlaw, but withal a good fellow.
And he loved/ "
Sobolov sighed. "But let us not be sad. Have you any
English songs to sing?"
Bill let out his belt for the second time. "There's one I
can think of might interest the Cossacks if they could un-
derstand it. It describes the duping and betrayal of a name-
less cockney maiden, at length and quite intimately."
"Good, Let's hear it."
"Won't the general mind?" Kink asked Sobolov.
"Not a bit. Stenka put something of a damper on the
party."
To the tune of Stenka Razin Bill began, falteringly, to
sing:
She was poor but she was honest,
Victim of a rich man's whim.
He loved her and he left her,
And she had a ch-i-ld by him.
We joined in, and so did the orchestra and the Cossacks,
the latter humming the tune in their great, booming voices,
not understanding a word we said but certain it was no
99
church hymn we were singing. Twenty-five verses after they
pounded on the table, demanding more.
The party broke up at two. We assured Sobolov maudlinly
that should he ever get fed up with the cavalry, there was
plenty of room for him aboard B Flight train. Kink, who had
stayed relatively sober, swung the van down the drive, but
mistook a ditch for the gate, and five sweating Cossacks
helped us out of it.
Leaving the chateau, we roared out "It's the Only, Only
Way." The night was very black and still. The artillery fire
lighting in flashes on the horizon was like the sleepy growling
of an immense watchdog we had inconsiderately disturbed.
100
Chapter Five
Sobolov was right; the ist Kuban Cossacks failed to take
Saratov and were, in fact, thrown back at Kamyshin. Wrangel
reinforced his exhausted troops, and after three days of
vicious fighting, the Cossack cavalry captured Kamyshin and
took thirteen thousand prisoners. B Flight did its part,
strafing and harassing the Red railway supply lines and rear
areas. A Red machine-gunner creased my helmet and chewed
up Bill's instrument panel, but otherwise none of us was
touched.
Over his sharp objections Wrangel was ordered to con-
tinue the advance on Saratov. "Telegrams, they keep going
forth and back," Russky told us. "Wrangel say he have too
few men and the Bolshies in Saratov have thousands. He begs
for fresh troops."
In late July the Bolshies counterattacked in the Kamyshin
area. The White cavalry beat them back, and the outnum-
bered Pekrovsky defeated Budenny in three days of bloody
battle. But Wrangel was not elated. He reported to Denikin
that a few more such apparent successes would force him to
fall back on the defensive for lack of men.
The Reds attacked all along the line at dawn of August
ist, and the Baron fell back slowly toward Tsaritsyn. B Flight
was in the air for most of the day, coming back to Beketofka
to refuel and then taking off again for the front to attack the
101
troop trains bringing up Red reinforcements. Few of the Red
machine-gunners were accurate, and we would come in lower
and lower on the trains with increasing effect.
During the retreat to Tsaritsyn there were few Bolshie
planes in the air; probably they had been moved to the
other fronts Astrakhan and Kursk where the Reds were
having even worse luck at the moment.
But there were some, there were always some, and the
black Fokker was one of them.
Tommy and I had gone out to escort an A Flight RE-8 on
photographic reconnaissance over Kamyshin. We were ap-
proaching the bend of the Volga at Tsaritsyn when the two
red stars jumped us. Glancing up, I saw my old arrogant
friend, the Fokker with the ace of clubs tail, hovering with
all the confidence of a vulture who had dined well on his
main course and now looked forward to dessert. We were
his dessert, if his comrades should cripple us.
The Bolshies' dive carried them past us without damage,
and I got one of them, a Nieup, in my sights. A long burst
and I had flamed him. That left even odds. I signaled the
RE-8 to head for home on a path the Fokker could not cross
unless he reckoned with me, and when the RE-8 had lum-
bered off and Tommy was occupied with the other Nieup,
I waggled my wings at the ace of clubs, taunting him to
come down and fight.
He dove, firing, and I turned sharply right. As he passed
I dove in turn, giving him a short burst that missed his upper
wing by inches. We closed, and he was even better than I
had thought, spinning neatly out of turns tight as I could
make them and presenting nothing vulnerable to my sights.
Once, outguessing me, he put a burst in my tail. Since neither
of us was giving the other a chance to break off and climb,
we were losing height rapidly; my altimeter showed one
thousand feet, a four thousand-foot loss in the last few
minutes.
The Bolshie tried an Immelman, a maneuver which the
102
Camel could accomplish only at the price of a considerable
loss in altitude. As he went into his upward corkscrew turn
I gave him a long range burst and dove below him. The
tracers passed his nose close enough to smell, and I saw his
right aileron flapping in the breeze. I had cut his control
wire.
Steadily and dangerously we were losing height. I knew
my ammunition was running low, and at five hundred feet
decided upon a maneuver I had once used successfully against
a two-seater fighter on the western front. To avoid the rear
gunner's fire I had dived beneath the two-seater, come up
under its blind spot, and raked its belly from tail to prop
from below.
The Fokker pilot, having lost me, had leveled out. I got
below him while his eyes were still searching the skies above.
Standing on my tail and hanging on my prop, I gave him my
last burst, emptying my guns into the black coffin of fuselage
at twenty yards.
I had to get him. If I failed, his guns would be on me
before Tommy, a thousand yards away, even noticed.
The pilot slumped forward onto his joy stick and the
Fokker went into a straight dive. It crossed over the vertical,
and was going into a loop upside down when it crashed on
its back with terrific force into the river.
Tommy had just sent down his damaged Nieup, and we
flew together back to the drome.
That night Wrangel wired his congratulations from Ekat,
where he was meeting with the Ataman of the Kuban Cos-
sacks. It seemed the black Fokker had been top ace on
White bombers, having downed more than a dozen in all
sectors of the southwestern front.
In celebration we gave Clarence the Pig his first bowl
of Bass ale. Discriminating pig that he was, he loved it.
On my next flight I was forced down with pump trouble
near Kotluban, one hundred miles from Tsaritsyn.
103
A pitchfork-wielding peasant, a dead ringer for Leo Tol-
stoy, ran up to me with the evident intention of forking this
Red marauder, and for a moment I was afraid I'd have to
use my revolver on him.
"Nyet, nyet," I said. "Angliski" I pointed to the Camel's
Allied insignia. "Angliski pilot/'
He looked at me suspiciously, his small eyes glittering,
and it occurred to me that if he had never seen a plane
before his caution was justified.
"Angliski" I repeated, and made flying motions with my
arms.
His face darkened, and he rattled off some Russian, the
gist of which was, I assumed: How can there be such a thing
as an English bird which flies like a man?
That stumped me. Fortunately I had brought some money,
and I pulled out a roll of rubles and English pound notes. I
offered him some rubles, and he shook his head. Then I
held out a ten shilling note with the King's face on it, and he
beamed.
"Ah, anglichanin," he said, and pocketed it with satisfac-
tion.
Tolstoy pointed to a thatched hut a hundred yards away
and invited me for tea, but I thanked him and inquired in
my very stiff Russian for the location of the nearest telegraph.
He pointed across the field to what must have been a road
and then jerked his thumb to the right.
I left him fondling the ten shilling note, and set off across
the field.
Coming to the road, I turned right, and followed it about
two miles to a railroad siding. On the siding was parked a
hospital train of twenty or so cars, each with a red cross on
its side. The smell, half disinfectant and half putrefaction,
was strong enough to bring tears to the eyes.
Outside of one of the cars stood a white-smocked orderly,
smoking.
When I asked him where I could find a telegraph, he
104
shrugged his lack of comprehension and stepped back into
the train.
I stood there for a moment, fuming. Then I swung up the
steps into the car.
It was packed with wounded in double bunks against both
walls. For the most part the men lay comatose, staring up at
the ceiling. A few groaned and one silently wept into his
coverlet; several moaned in delirium. Except for the Rus-
sian that the mumbler spoke I might have been in any hos-
pital train I had ever seen in France or Belgium; the sheets
were clean and the black uniformed nurse coming down the
aisle toward me smiled brightly.
I asked her my question, and shaking her head, she smil-
ingly pointed to the next car. There was someone there, I
gathered, who spoke English.
The next car was dark, with its shades drawn against the
late afternoon sun. I suppose there was little possibility that
I could have avoided running into the young nurse I en-
countered, and probably less that she could have managed
not to spill part of the bottle of carbolic she was carrying
on my leg.
"Oi! prostite!" she cried.
I scowled, and moved back into the half-light of the vesti-
bule to determine the damage.
Fortunately, since I was wearing my flying suit, it was
minor; the leather was only slightly burned. The nurse, who
had followed me out into the vestibule, put down the bottle
and applied a rag. I kept my eyes sourly on the top of her
black headdress, resentful but curious to see what she looked
like once she lifted her head.
The job done, she got to her feet.
"What is the matter?" she said in strongly Russian-ac-
cented English. "Why do you stare?"
I swallowed. "Was I staring?"
She took off her headdress and touched her shining chest-
nut hair. There was no coquetry in the gesture, only femi-
105
nine concern for good grooming. "I would say you were
staring. There is something wrong in the way I look?"
"No, nothing," I fumbled. 'It's just that I didn't expect
to see so beautiful a nurse in Russia."
She laughed. "Oh, we have many beautiful nurses. But
you are repaired now?"
"Yes, I am repaired."
She stooped for the bottle and I moved quickly to pick it
up for her. Our heads bumped, but she managed to hold on
to the carbolic.
"Better luck this time," I said inanely.
"If you will let me pass?"
I wasn't going to let her pass. Quickly I introduced myself.
"I am Captain Aten of Squadron 47, at Beketofka. I was
forced to land nearby and I must get in touch with my squad-
ron. Can you tell me how far it is to Kotluban station, if
we're near Kotluban at all? I can send a wire from there."
"We are near Kotluban, but it is five miles, too far to
walk. If you must get there immediately, I will speak to our
commandant, Dr. Major Alexandrovsky, and he can arrange
transportation for you."
"Oh, it isn't at all urgent," I said, grinning in what I
hoped was a boyishly charming way. "I thought you might
be kind enough to offer me a glass of tea."
"Certainly. I am just going off duty. Please follow me."
I would have followed her to the Kremlin gates and back.
She took me through eight cars of wounded and dying, and
the typhus ward, and though it may have been heartless, all
I saw was the girl before me, small and lissome, gliding along
so gracefully that she hardly seemed to touch the floor. And
all I heard was her lovely voice that greeted the men, and
replied to their greetings in a Russian that made me realize
I had never really heard the language, in all the beauty of
its plaintive cadences, before.
"Tsaritsa moevo serdtsa" I said, repeating the words the
wounded had called out most often to her. "What does that
mean?"
"Tsarina of my heart," she said over her shoulder, blush-
ing. "They are great flirts, the ones who are not so badly
wounded; it keeps their spirits up."
Suddenly it occurred to me that being so desirable to
other men she was no doubt married or engaged, and I
glanced at her left hand. It was ringless.
"The dining coach is not much further," she told me.
"I am sorry to have shown you so many melancholy things."
We came into the dining car. At its end, on a white-
clothed table, stood a huge samovar, with glasses ranged
before it.
I sat down, and she brought two glasses of tea, lemon and
sugar.
"My name is Nina Dmitrievna Anohina," she said.
"Would you have met my brother Alexei? He is a lieutenant
on the staff of General Denikin."
I was afraid I hadn't, I told her. There were thousands of
men on the southern front. Then I dropped my sugar into
my tea, and she laughed.
"No, it is Russian to put the sugar in your teeth and drink
your tea through it."
She showed me, but I proved a dud at it. First I dropped
the sugar and then I swallowed half the cube. Nina had to
pound me on the back before I got it up again. Not only
that: the glass was too hot to pick up in the ordinary way,
and I spilled quite a bit of tea before I got hold of the glass
properly with thumb and extended forefinger.
"You will never be Russian," she said, rather sadly. "No,
you are angliski forever. It is bad, no, that they have locked
your King George up in the Tower of London?"
"Hold on," I said. "First, I am amerikanski, not angliski.
Secondly, King George is not locked up. Where on earth did
you get that information?"
"The Reds have said so. Olga, she is my friend and a
nurse also; she told me she saw it in a Bolshevik propaganda
leaflet."
"What else did they say?"
107
"They say, how you call it, an M.P. has formed a provi-
sional government in London. Also, that the British Navy
is flying the hammer and sickle flag and is on its way up the
Canadian River to help the Soviets of Canada."
"Lenin may be a genius, Nina," I said, "but that isn't
true."
She seemed distressed by the familiarity of my address,
and turned her head away.
"You mustn't believe all this Bolshevik propaganda," I
told her hastily.
"I shall not in future. It is good to meet an amerikanets
from the outside world who can correct these false impres-
sions. Do you know, Captain, I have never before met an
American? Tell me about Chicago. It is a very great city?"
It seemed she thought all Americans came from Chicago.
I told her about Chicago for a while, and then I managed
to switch the conversation around to Nina herself. She was
twenty, she told me, and came from Rostov, near Ivanovo,
in the north. Her father was a merchant. She had attended
the university in Ivanovo, where she had studied English
and become interested in English literature. At seventeen
she had joined the nurses' corps, and served through the
last months of the European war. When the civil war had
broken out she had joined the White hospital at Velikokni-
azheskaya as a nurse's aide.
Last spring the Reds had captured the hospital, removed
the medical staff, and burned it down with five hundred
wounded still inside. A cordon of Red guards had been
drawn around the hospital to shoot anyone who managed
to crawl out of the building.
"You saw all this?" I asked her.
"They made us watch, Captain. They told us the same
thing would happen to anyone who refused to cooperate."
"So you were with the Reds for how long?"
"Six months, until I was sentenced to be shot," she said,
quite conversationally.
108
I set down my glass. "And how did that happen?"
"After the burning of the hospital, the Reds assigned me
to a hospital train near Saratov. A Red commissar, one of the
few who became wounded, was brought aboard the train.
They made me his private nurse. He recovered after a few
weeks of convalescence, and then he forced himself upon
me."
She pulled back her shoulder cape, undid the buttons of
her blouse, and slipped down the top of her shift. From her
left breast a piece of flesh had been bitten. The wound was
still black and blue and the whole breast discolored. I wasn't
shocked; what she had done had been too natural for that.
But it surprised me that she could show me her body
and yet be embarrassed when I called her by her first
name.
I watched her button up her blouse again.
"I gave him poison," she said, "and stood there while he
died. It did not take too long. When they discovered the
body they told me I would be shot in the morning. They
would have done it that night, except that the soldiers were
in the village, drinking. The Cossacks took the village and
the railway yards at dawn."
The dining car door opened, and a big man with a handle-
bar mustache and wearing a blood-stained white smock,
came in and joined us at the table. He drooped with ex-
haustion; sitting there, hunched forward, he was like a
beached whale. Nina introduced him to me as Major Alex-
androvsky, the commandant of the hospital train, and went
to the samovar to get him a glass of tea.
Alexandrovsky said he would be glad to arrange trans-
portation for me to Kotluban station, and Nina left the car
to get a lorry. The major, in passable English, asked if it
looked to us pilots as though Wrangel were going to evacu-
ate Tsaritsyn. I said I didn't know.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and then took up his
glass. "We have shortage of men all over. Wrangel cannot
109
defend Tsaritsyn without more men, and I cannot run my
train without more doctors, nurses and orderlies. Now we
have but one nurse to fifty wounded, and I am afraid it will
get worse.
"Nina must work like a dog/' I said, "yet she looks fresh
as a daisy."
"Daisy?"
"Like a flower. She is fresh like a flower though she must
work very hard."
He smiled. "Nina is like an angel from heaven above.
The men, they worship her. If I did not have her many more
would die."
Nina came back with word that the lorry was waiting out-
side, and I shook the major's hand and said goodbye.
The plenny seated in the lorry driver seat wore the same
black fatigues as did our own P.O.W.'s. In the middle of his
back was a yellow half moon, an aid to the marksmanship of
any guard who caught him trying to escape.
I felt suddenly shy with Nina, but I managed to ask her
if there was much chance of the hospital train coming down
to Tsaritsyn.
"Only if there is a retreat."
"Will you be getting any leave, perhaps?"
She shook her head. "There is too much work and too few
nurses."
"We might be moving up toward Saratov," I said.
"I would enjoy seeing you again, Captain." She smiled.
"We can talk about Chicago, though I think you are a tease,
and do not really live there in what is the state of Chicago?
Michigan."
"You're right. I don't come from Michigan, but Cali-
fornia, which is right next door to Chicago. We can talk
about that."
"I will try to find out something about California, Cap-
tain; we have one or two American books aboard the train.
So that I might discuss it with you intelligently."
110
"Fine. . . . Nina may I call you Nina, or is it too soon
for that?"
"It is soon, but you may call me by the name. And now,
Captain, do svidaniya," she said, and turned inside the train.
There was no road along the track, but the steppe was as
flat as Cowderdrill's feet, and we were at Kotluban station
in a few minutes. I asked the plenny to wait for me, and
went into the station.
Like all the others I had seen it was square and made of
stone. In the center of the waiting room was a big pot-bellied
stove with wooden benches around it. Sunflower seed hulls
littered the floor like chaff from a threshing machine. It was
stifling; with typical Russian horror of fresh air, the windows
were all closed and bolted. A muzhik looked up at me, smiled
like a saint, and returned to the contemplation of his manure-
caked boots.
I had trouble getting across to the stationmaster that I
wanted to send a message on the telegraph; he kept point-
ing the way to the outside privy. Finally he took me into
his littered office and at the operating table I dot-dashed a
message to Kink at the drome. He wired back within
minutes. He had seen me go down and would have already
dispatched a DH-g with mechanic, had I the sense to wire
him my exact location immediately.
The plenny drove me back to Tolstoy's field. An hour
and a quarter later the DH-g landed with mechanic and new
pump. We were back at the drome in time for dinner.
Kink asked why I had taken so long to wire in. He had
to ask me twice.
"I was talking to a girl," I said, " a n\irse, an angel. She's
on the hospital train at Kotluban/'
Kink's sharp eyes probed into mine. What he saw there
disturbed him. "God, Bunny," he groaned, "we're fighting a
war, man. This is no damn time to fall in love."
All at once it came to me in terror that he had correctly
diagnosed my condition. Maybe it was the war and maybe
111
it was Russia, but I doubted it; had I met Nina walking
down Main Street in El Centro I would have followed her
home and knocked down any man who tried to stop me.
Kink looked at me with that kind of respectful pity that
new lovers inspire in all of us. "Bunny," he said, "you better
have a drink. Have several."
Russky and Eddie were having one of their debates on
modern Russian history.
Russky had begun with a salute to the halcyon years of
1906 to 1914, with their balanced budget and booming
trade, their foreign investments and records in production.
Russia, he told us, was giving democracy a chance to work.
He insisted, against Eddie's objections, that because Russian
democracy had failed it had been bound to fail; when Eddie
brought up the immense backwardness of Mother Russia,
Russky replied that the experiment proved at least that his
country could be governed by other means than those of the
Okhrana, the secret police. And Stolypin's land reforms:
could Eddie deny that the Russian premier, perhaps the
greatest of them all, had set up a new class of peasant land-
owners that numbered at least six million? In 1917 the
Bolsheviks were shouting their slogan "All Land to the
Peasants," but Stolypin had already given the peasants three
quarters of what the Reds demanded.
Eddie countered by asking who had proved Stolypin's
most dangerous enemy, and Russky had been forced to
answer: the Empress Alix, wife of the Czar, who fawned
upon Rasputin and showed Stolypin the door. He didn't
deny Eddie's charges that Russia in the last war had been
criminally unprepared. He admitted that military discipline
was brutal and that men in the ranks had been treated like
cattle. We listened in amazement to his admissions of flog-
ging, to the rule that forbade enlisted men to travel in street
cars or eat in public restaurants.
But Russky couldn't understand Eddie's indignation over
the fact that no one could rise to be an officer from the ranks
112
of the Czarist army. "That natural/' he said, "the best officers,
they come from the military academies. Like the Grand
Duke Nikolai/'
"Do you mean to say/' Eddie protested, "that the grand
duke was a good soldier? He lost nearly four million men/'
Waving away Russky's expostulations, he went on: "If he
wasn't a good soldier, than maybe he was better as a states-
man. But how do you explain the million Jews he drove out
of Poland and sent on the roads to wander and die?"
"The grand duke thought they were spies for the Ger-
mans," Russky answered.
"But he was wrong, wasn't he?" Eddie insisted, and finally
Russky had to admit the grand duke had been wrong about
the Jews.
He somehow got on the subject of Rasputin, and Prince
Yusapov's murder of the false but mesmeric prophet who
had held the Empress of all the Russias in the palm of his
hand. Eddie let him finish, and said; "And how did the Tsar
react after Rasputin's death? Here was his chance to break
out of his shell of apathy and indifference. And what hap-
pened? He was more apathetic and indifferent than before.
Do you know what he said to one of the Allied ambassadors?
He said, 'Do you mean that I am to regain the confidence
of my pepole, or do you mean that they are to regain
mine?' "
"So he was stubborn man," Russky said angrily. "That I
do not deny. But he could rise to greatness, too. Listen. I
read you the Imperial Declaration of Abdication, and you
tell me no." He took a well-thumbed piece of paper from
his pocket.
Lighting a Gold Flake, I saw the scene before me as
Russky had once before described it: the parade ground
with its regimental standards limp in the windless air, the
chaplain adjusting his stole, the Bible and the silver cross
on the altar, the standard bearers of each regiment taking
up their positions to hear their Colonels say the words that
changed 300 years of Russian history.
113
Russky read, and his poor English somehow did not spoil
the drama of the words; it made them, in fact, more affecting:
We, Nikolai the Second, by the Grace of God Emperor of all
the Russias, King of Poland, Grand Duke of Finland . . . Let it
be known to all our faithful subjects that in these days of heroic
struggle against an external enemy which has for three years
attempted to enslave our country, it has pleased God to send
Russia a new and terrible trial. Internal troubles threaten to have
fatal reprecussions on the further conduct of the war. The destiny
of Russia, the honor of our people, the whole future of our
beloved country, demand that by all costs the war be continued
to a victorious end. The enemy is making his last stubborn stand
and the hour is near when our valiant army together with our
glorious allies will utterly defeat him.
In these grave days for the future of Russia, our conscience
commands us to facilitate for our people the unification and
organization of all its forces in order to obtain a speedy victory.
For this reason we, in agreement with the Duma of the Empire,
have decided to abdicate the throne of Rusia and to lay aside our
supreme power . . .
As we do not wish to be separated from our beloved son, we
make over our inheritance to our brother, the Grand Duke
Mikhail Alexandrovich, whom we bless at his accession to the
throne . . . We appeal to all faithful sons of our country and call
upon them to do their duty . . . May the Lord help Russia.
Nicholai.
Russky took out his handkerchief and blew into it. "We
weep,' he said. "We are soldiers, and tears are for children,
but we weep as though it is our father who has died."
In the silence Eddie knocked his pipe against the fireplace.
The rest of us cleared our throats and shuffled our feet, or
looked away out the windows. It was hard not to be moved
at the death of an Idea and the passing of an Empire, even
if they weren't your own.
"Time for a drink," Kink said, breaking the spell, and rang
the bell that summoned Cowderdrill.
There was no answering "Yes, sir, right away, sir," from
114
the pantry. Instead Clarence the Pig wandered out and
rooted in Bill's hand. I noticed he was growing by leaps and
bounds.
"Where in the devil has that idiot gone?" Kink said.
"Tommy, go and take a look, will you?"
Tommy came back shaking with laughter. "Cowderdriirs
fallen between two cars up the line. Half of A Flight's trying
to get him out."
We ran to the scene of the disaster. Five cars down, the
center of an uproarious group of off-duty A and B Flight
mechanics, our messman was wedged in between two
freights, snug as a trapped mouse and twice as frightened.
When he saw Kink, Cowderdrill brightened. "Please sir,
you'll get me out? The trains might move."
"If they moved, which they won't, you'll deserve it," Kink
said sternly. "I've told you a hundred times that those damn
samovars of yours are safe and yet you've got to keep on
coming down here to check on them."
"Yes sir, I disobeyed your orders. But Gor, sir, and the
Lud love you, if you don't do something about getting me
out of here, I'll never be able to disobey an order of yours
again!"
Laughter. Kink stilled it with an upraised hand. "Does
any of the audience have a suggestion as to how to get this
man out?" he asked the enlisted men sarcastically.
One A Flight man grinned and said, " 'is every wiggle
wedges 'im in deeper, Major. We thought we might use a
little explosives to kind of blow 'im out."
As Cowderdrill groaned, his great eyeballs swiveling in
panic, the laughter swelled. Again Kink cut it off, this time
more sharply.
"You there, Cross, get the block and tackle. Hammond,
Bradley and Swanson, go along to help."
Tommy and I offered Cowderdrill encouragement while
the A Flight man went for the means to extricate him, but
it was no use, the messman's imagination had created fresh
115
terrors. "Sir," he asked me, "won't I be pulled apart, like a
piece of chicken? What if my top comes along but my legs
stay put?"
We told him that was nonsense, but he was gibbering with
fear when the men came with the block and tackle and set
it up. Under Kink's direction a loop of rope was passed
over Cowderdrill's head and under his armpits, and the
two men on the windlass ordered to crank away.
"It's all right, Clarence," one of his tormentors yelled,
"if the thing don't work, yer sister gets yer pension!"
"If you feel yer arms coming off, just yell!" shouted
another.
And another: "If the rope don't get ye then the Bolshies
will!"
The winch squealed and the rope around the messman
tightened. A Flight men were making the inevitable bets,
most of them loudly convinced that while Cowderdrill might
finally escape from his prison, he was bound to leave at least
one limb behind.
The first effort was unsuccessful; he didn't budge a centi-
meter. Kink pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead.
"Again, Cross. This time a little slower."
The men grunted at the windlass. There was a sound of
ripping cloth, but Kink motioned for Cross and company
to continue. Cowderdrill groaned, bellowed, then yelped in
pain. A cheer went up as he lifted a couple of inches.
"We're getting there," Kink encouraged him.
"Major, we might be getting there, but you're leaving my
ruddy skin behind!"
"Cross," Kink ordered, "slow down!"
Cowderdrill began to emerge, a little of him at a time.
Soon his shoulders and trunk were clear, and then, as a
shout rose from the men, the whole of the messman dangled
in the air. He had, however, left behind his breeches and
underwear, and was naked from tunic to leggings and shoes.
To loud huzzahs and laughter he was lowered to the ground
116
and deposited trackside. The rope was untied. Bets were paid
off while Cowderdrill accepted Kink's garrison hat as a fig
leaf and gratefully swigged from a flask of brandy.
Kink sent a B Flight man to get a blanket. Before the man
moved off I heard him mutter, "Bloody fool. If 'e'd only
stayed there over night I would 'ave 'ad myself a neat five
quid, and nobody the worse for it."
Slowly and skillfully, Wrangel retreated from Kamyshin
to the gates of Tsaritsyn. We had three and four patrols a
day, harassing the Reds streaming down the roads to the
city. They were smarter now, taking cover in the roadside
ditches at our approach, and their fighter planes were on
the scene more often, though for the most part the opposi-
tion they gave us was second-rate. During the first two weeks
of August we bagged ten red stars. Most of the victories
went to Kink and Colly, who came up to the front lines for
a "little vacation" from paper work in Taganrog, to which
base headquarters had now been transferred from Ekat.
Wrangel, awaiting reinforcements he was none too sure
would arrive in time, ordered the gradual evacuation of
Tsaritsyn. Despite his orders that arms and munitions were
to leave first, the civil and military administration second,
and the civilians last, word got to him that the departing
trains were packed with civilians and their household goods.
Russky happened to be at the station one afternoon when
the general descended upon it in all his wrath.
"It was like typhoon had struck the place. Pianos, mirrors,
furniture was all smashed on the platform. Then Wrangel
come across locked carriages whose documents say they carry
munitions. He break them open, and they filled with pas-
sengers have bribed the stationmaster. The general, he court
martial stationmaster and hang him on spot. He swing from
top of station house now."
By the i8th the town was completely evacuated, including
telephone and telegraph equipment, and our Camels were
117
loaded on the flatcars, ready to start south at a moment's
notice. Two days later they were in the hangers again; a
Cossack cavalry division had arrived to take up positions
within and outside of the city. A few Kuban regiments were
in control of Kotluban and the surrounding area; that ac-
counted for the fact that Nina's hospital train was still a
hundred miles to the north. But if Tsaritsyn fell there would
be only isolated pockets of White resistance between Tsaritsyn
and Saratov, and the Reds would certainly capture her train.
The thought made me shudder.
It also made me a more efficient fighting machine in the
three days of ferocious battle between August 22nd and
25th, when the Tenth and Eleventh Soviet Armies attacked
the city. I came back from sorties with my thumbs aching
from pressing the gun trips, and when Kink called us out
again after an hour's rest, there were no complaints from
compartment nine.
B Flight suffered some casualties. While we were away
on patrol a Red flight from Urbakb came over Beketofka
for the first time, bombing and strafing, and two mechanics
and four enlisted men were killed. Hoskins, manning a
machine gun on the runway, brought down a Bolshie Pfalz.
Cowderdrill and Feodor grabbed rifles and blasted away
from the kitchen window. Russky got a Nieup into the air,
but too late.
When Trotsky's attack was over the Reds had lost
eighteen thousand prisoners and considerable materiel. The
rest of their troops staggered back to Saratov. Again Squadron
47 was commended for the part it had played in Wrangel's
victory.
In the cafes of Tsaritsyn Na Moskvu! was heard again.
Now Moscow by Christmas was a reasonable assumption,
and even Eddie ceased to scoff. On the Tsaritsyn front the
Reds had drawn back in confusion. Over the summer months
Denikin had taken two hundred and fifty thousand prisoners
and gained a vast stretch of territory. Now his lines stretched
118
from Poltava in the west, through Kharkov and Pavlosk
toward Kamyshin. He was only three hundred and seventy
five miles from Moscow. It looked as though Yudenich, in
the northwest, would be attacking Petrograd soon. Even
Kolchak's armies had rallied in the east.
If all that was good news, for me, at least, the news we
got in the first week of September was even better. We were
moving up to Kotluban. And not to the town itself, but
outside it, to siding "N." The flat fields along siding "N"
would be our temporary landing field.
Unless I was mistaken, siding "N" was precisely where
Nina's hospital train sat.
As we came into Kotluban station Kink eyed me nastily.
"Good Lord, Bunny, if you don't quit cracking those knuckles
of yours 111 put your hands in splints. Why in hell are you
so nervous?"
"Wonder if well bump into any parushki nurses?" Tommy
said too innocently. "I hear there's a lot of hospital trains
between here and Kamyshin.'*
Eddie, who was writing a letter home to his girl, looked
up from his pad. "Leave the swain alone, why don't you? I
think he's lucky to be interested in a nice, plain girl. Those
fancy countesses gave me a pain in the neck. Grabbing with
their little greedy hands." He looked down at his naked
wrist. "Next time we encounter the nobility, I'm wearing my
watch to bed."
Russky drew himself up as haughtily as a man can when
he is sitting down. "With all respects, you give insult to
women of the nobility. They do not steal from foreign
soldier."
"Not having met a real one yet," Bill said, "I'm not quali-
fied to say. But it so happens I left Beketofka without the
twenty quid I had tucked under my mattress."
"Maybe the plenny take," Russky said, but with faltering
conviction.
119
"Horse apples," Bill replied. "My batman would die for
me, and you know it."
Russky buried his head in a copy of La Vie Parisienne.
His reading knowledge of French was poor, but the risqu
illustrations, he said, had "the intrinsic interest."
"Getting back to the real issue," Kink said, "when a man
joins the R.A.F. it should be part of the articles he signs
that the bloke guarantees not to fall in love. Love ruins more
men than drink. Look at poor Boyce-Porter, fell in love with
a French girl in Dunkirk and deserted; the M.P.'s found him
upstairs in a bistro, shot through the head. Then there was
Dicky Farquar, as good a man who ever flew a Camel. This
woman's husband caught Dicky and the Jezebel in a Bays-
water flat, and Dicky was named corespondent. He had to
resign, and now he's selling autos. And what about Monk
Harvey? You remember Monk Harvey. He "
"Kinkead," I said, "there's ice water in those veins of
yours. That's what makes it so easy for you to play the
cynic."
Kink lifted his untrimmed eyebrows. "Play? My dear boy,
I am a cynic. And that's what's going to bring me alive and
happy through this mess. While one day up there in the
sky you'll be mooning over a pair of eyes or a bustle and a
rude Bolshie bullet will get you in your mooning head."
"But he'll have lived and loved," Eddie came to my de-
fense. "He'll have felt the softer passions that make a brute
a man. And what will you have survived for? I'll tell you. A
mess in Cairo, Aden or Kuwait. Sweating out the sun, the
bugs, the filth and the wogs. Getting drunk every day be-
cause you've forgotten how not to. Sneaking into corners
with the colonel's wife while the old man's playing a chucker
of polo. You call that being alive? You fellows with the
cast-irons hearts simplify life to its inessentials, and then
crow about it, forgetting that you're standing on a dung-
heap."
"And what's your future, Fulford?" Kink sneered. "Lead-
120
ing the vanguard of the Canadian Revolution for the eight-
hour day, the women's vote and compulsory arbitration?
What makes you think that after we take Moscow you're
going to quit the service, any more than the rest of us will,
with the possible exception of Bunny? You've got flying in
your blood and it's crippled you for normal living like every
other manjack in this car. And all the books you read won't
take it out of you. If you don't cop your pocket in a crash,
you'll sweat with me in that mess in Kuwait, and you'll
get blind drunk with me at Shepheard's, and you'll go run-
ning after the colonel's wife. Except that you won't get her.
She'll turn up her none too Grecian nose at all your sickly
talk about the poor, down-trodden natives. And what will you
end up with, you poor cheese? A wog mistress who doesn't
wash her feet I"
Silence. For once Eddie, bested, had nothing to say.
Tommy reached for the Clerget bell to call Cowderdrill
for refreshments, but Kink held up his hand. "Not now,
Tommy. We're coming in."
We came to the siding, and there was a hospital train
parked toward the front of the first track, but it wasn't
Nina's. Her train was numbered 242, wasn't it; or was it
424? It was almost half an hour before the switchman took
us off the main track, and then, going down the number
two siding we passed only refugee coaches stranded and
waiting for engines, a long string of box cars, coal drags
and flats, and several armed locomotives, the broneviks.
Then we stopped, and looking out the window, through
the empty space between the end of one freight and the
cowcatcher of a burned out engine, I saw it: number 242. It
was at the end of the first siding, about thirty yards away.
"Bunny, where the devil do you think you're going?" Kink
said as I bolted for the door.
He didn't wait for my answer. "We've got work to do," he
barked at me. You're off duty at six o'clock!"
First B Flight was called to formation. Then, under the
121
officers* direction, the men unloaded the Camels and wheeled
them into the field beside the roadbed. A maintenance tent
was set up, and small individual tent hangars. It took over
two hours, and afterwards I was too sweaty and grimy to go
calling on Nina without a shower and a change.
I was first out of the shower, and dashed back to my com-
partment.
Feodor had anticipated me. Laid out on the berth was
a complete change of uniform. Resting on the pocket of my
khaki tunic was my Order of St. Vladimir.
The decoration was new since I had seen Nina last, but
I rejected it as too flashy. Cowderdrill's dinner bell rang as
I was combing my hair.
Dinner could wait, and so could the comments of my
flight-mates. Rather than pass through the lounge car I went
out by the Pullman's back door.
I stopped first at the hospital train dining car, but it was
empty, though lit. I asked a nurse in the next car for Nina,
and she directed me to the administration car toward the
head of the train. In the administration car an orderly sat
on duty at the table, cracking sunflower seeds.
It took a while, and involved much pantomime, but he
finally got across to me that Nina was at present in car
seventeen, assisting Major Alexandrovsky in an operation.
At car seventeen, the surgical ward, a nurse sat on the
steps smoking a cigarette.
"Nina Dmitrievna Anohina?" I asked hopefully.
She nodded and smiled and held up ten fingers. Then she
put her hands down and held all ten fingers up once and
twice again.
Thirty minutes, I gathered. I had a half hour's wait.
I tried talking to the nurse, but it was difficult, and she
went inside after a few minutes. It occurred to me, sitting
there, that I was very hungry.
"Captain?"
I turned. There she stood in the vestibule, tired and
122
smudged, with her hair a mess. She was not so lovely as I
remembered.
"Nina, I'm here," I said foolishly.
"I am glad."
She could have, I thought, sounded gladder.
"It took a while," I said, "for me to come."
"Sometime, in a war, time goes slowly. Others, fast."
There was a pause. I said: "You, you're not going to invite
me aboard?"
"I cannot. I have only this moment. There is another op-
eration. We have many wounded from the fighting around
Saratov."
"You're working too hard," I said, selfishly annoyed.
"Nichevo" she said, shrugging, and my resentment van-
ished; I wanted her only to be less tired; I felt a compulsion
to wipe off the smudge that was high on her right cheek-
bone.
But I didn't. "Look," I said. "It's seven o'clock. We're
having a prazdnik tonight about nine. Can you come?"
"Yes, captain. That would be nice. I am tired, but I will
have a little time to take a nap and freshen up for your
prazdnik."
"Yes, take a nap. And bring some nurses. The pretty
ones."
"There is only one, Olga, who is really pretty. But we have
two others who are how do you say? attracting."
"Fine. Bring them." I retreated along the cinder roadbed.
"Nine o'clock. At 47 Squadron's train. We're two sidings over
and to the right. Ask if you get lost."
"At nine, captain."
As she disappeared back into the train, I backed into a
Russian colonel of artillery. He bristled, and spat "chto
takoe!" I brushed past him, not bothering to salute.
The boys were on their vanilla pudding. As I came in
Kink paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.
"Did you find her?"
123
"She's here." I kicked away Clarence the pig and started
in on my Bovril.
"This baryshnia of yours does she have any friends?"
Tommy asked, bright-eyed as a fox and twice as predatory.
"She's bringing a couple over to the prazdnik tonight."
"Who said anything about a prazdnik?" Kink said. "I've
scheduled a dawn reconnaissance for tomorrow."
There was a general groan of disappointment, and Kink
growled, "All right, but we turn in early. Why I cater to
you frivolous types I just don't know. One day General
Holman's going to drop by at the wrong time and tear off
my pips. A squadron! Good Lord, this is a boite de nuit on
wheels!"
Nina arrived with three other nurses at half past nine.
Her nap had done her good, and my flight-mates whistled
in admiration. Tommy quickly appropriated Olga, a slender,
pretty brunette, and Bill, Claudia, a nice looking blondinka.
Eddie sat down with Sonia, a rather hefty but appealing
girl with wide brown eyes who seemed awed by the splendor
of our lounge car.
Kink and Russky had one drink and then excused them-
selves. They returned in an incredibly short time with two
refugee women. One, a stunning Circassian redhead with
cold eyes, was introduced to us as a princess; the other, her
traveling companion, was only a garden variety countess.
They had been stalled overnight in Kotluban, the engine
of their train having been appropriated by a colonel of in-
fantry who had orders from Wrangel to be in Tsaritsyn
with his regiment by midnight tonight. Kink, of course,
paired off with the princess.
Shy with Nina, as she was with me, I was glad for the
prazdnik; it took the strain off our reacquaintance. Our
self -consciousness dissolved in the laughter and conversation,
and I held her close, dancing the foxtrot to the Victrola
Tommy had contributed to the mess. The angliski music
had drawn a crowd outside our windows, and the refugees
peered wistfully in.
124
Kink told Cowderdrill to lower the shades, and then, con-
science-stricken, sent him outside to distribute tins of bully
beef.
"Spasibo, kunak, spasibo/' the refugees called through the
windows, and then shuffled away.
"Your comrades, they are nice," Nina said, sipping the
Scotch and soda I had mixed for her. "Especially Major
Kink. He tries to be the brutal soldier, but does not succeed."
"Don't tell me you think Kink's the cat's pajamas?"
She frowned. "The cat's pajamas?"
"Attractive. Sympathetic. Someone you, ah, wouldn't mind
spooning with."
"Spooning? What is it to spooning?"
"What Kink and the princess there were just doing."
"Princess?" Nina curled her lip. "To me she looks like
actress in the provincial theater some officer how you say
it? has thrown over the side. As to Kink," she said in her
candid way, "I think he is attracting for his type, which is
short and dark, but that you are more attracting than he."
The Circassian, who, during Kink's temporary absence,
had been staring at me under heavy eyelids, came over and
held out her hand. I rose.
Ignoring Nina, she said something to me in Russian I
couldn't understand.
Nina was smiling in a curious, tight way. "The princess
is asking you to dance," she told me. "Do you wish to dance
with the princess?"
"I will dance with the princess," I said obligingly, and took
her in my arms. She danced very close, gluing the length of
her body against mine, breathing Slavic intimacies into my
ear. I wasn't conscious of her leading me, though she must
have; in another minute we were at the passageway that
led to the compartments, and with a beringed hand she was
reaching to open the door.
It happened quickly. Nina rushed up and grabbed the
Circassian's arm, pulled her away from me, and threw the
last of her drink into the princess' face. While the girl
125
stood wiping Scotch and soda from her eyes Nina sprang at
her, spitting Russian invective.
I got between them and shoved. The Circassian went
reeling to one lounge and Nina to the other on the opposite
side of the car. She sat down with a thud.
Tommy turned up the Victrola volume and grabbed for
Olga. As the princess* girl friend hurried to her side, Russky
intercepted and whirled her into the dance. Bill and Eddie
did the same with the two nurses.
Kink, who had just come back into the car, took in the
situation at a glance. With a look of mock disgust in my and
Nina's direction he led the Circassian out of the car and to
his compartment, nodding his head to her every word, not
one of which he understood.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I should have known better. I'd had a
bit to drink."
She avoided my eyes. "I must go now."
"Nonsense," I said. "The party's just begun."
"I am embarrassed. I have a bad temper, a Russian temper.
I also come from a very jealous family."
"I don't think it's so bad to be jealous. It shows spirit,
fire. Why, I'm the jealous type myself."
Nina was ready to change the subject. She fluffed her hair.
"I am very disarranged?"
"No, you look lovely."
"I must be disarranged. Is there a mirror?"
"We have one in the lav."
When she came back fifteen minutes later, I was alone in
the lounge except for Cowderdrill, who was cleaning up.
"Where is everybody?" Nina asked naively.
"Oh, they've all gone on a tour of the train."
Cowderdrill snickered, and I glared at him.
"They will be back soon?" Nina asked.
"Yes, soon."
Cowderdrill turned off most of the lights and went to bed.
I lit a Gold Flake and reached for Nina's hand.
126
"Your English cigarettes smell pleasantly," she said.
"Actually I like them better than American cigarettes."
"American cigarettes, they are made in Chicago?"
"You and your Chicago," I laughed. "No, they're made in
our southern states."
"Tell me about your southern states. You have people like
the Cossacks there?"
"Not quite. But I can't tell you much about the south
except for Texas. I was born and grew up there. At least till
I was ten, when we moved to California."
"I would like to know about Texas."
I started in on Texas, but she interrupted me. "They call
you by a funny name, Bunny. That means rabbit in English,
does it not?"
"Yes, but they're not exactly calling me a rabbit. Bunny's
more of a nickname."
She looked me over carefully. "You do not have long ears,
nor does your nose twitch. I will not call you by that name
but by another. Sasha. It was the name of my pet pony, and
I loved him very much. Do you like it?"
"I like it fine. But what shall I call you. You must have a
nickname too. Would it be let me guess Ninita?"
"Certain ones have called me Ninusha. But it is very
familiar," she said gravely.
"Then it's familar enough for me."
Tommy came into the car, barefooted, in his blue silk
robe.
He started at the sight of Nina. "Any whisky around?" he
asked apologetically.
"No," I said, "and Cowderdrill's locked up the bar."
He left, mumbling.
Bill, wearing only a pair of khaki pants, came in a minute
later. I delivered the same information. As the door closed
after him we heard from the Pullman car, a trill of definitely
feminine laughter.
Nina, blushing, got to her feet. She had finally understood
127
what high points the "tour" of the train included. "I must
get back," she said. "You will accompany me to the train?"
At the hospital train I asked if she would come tomorrow
night for dinner.
"Do you have the food?" she asked, surprised.
"We have the food. It's more a matter of your standing
Cowderdrill's cooking."
She smiled. "He is droll, your Cowderdrill. Like a rag-doll
which has life. All right, I shall come. And now, Spokoinoi
nochi y Sasha."
I reached for her in the darkness of the vestibule. Our kiss
was long and gentle, and she trembled.
"Spokoinoi nochi, Ninusha," I said, and then she slipped
away.
I walked back to B Flight train, whistling.
128
in
Nina
Chapter Six
One hundred . . . ninety . . . fifty. The altimeter needle
dipped to twenty-five feet and my engine gave a last resent-
ful cough and conked out. The grayish-brown steppe rushed
up to meet my wheels and I landed on the level ground as
smoothly as if it had been an asphalt runway.
I snapped up my triplex goggles and swung out of the
cockpit to the ground.
There were three neat bullet holes in the gas tank, and as
I watched the last drops of petrol trickled down into the
hard sunbaked earth. The bronevik machine-gunner had
caught me as I came down in the cartwheel behind Eddie
Fulford. I hadn't known I was hit, and I was coming in again
on the armored train when I saw Eddie pointing at my tank.
Looking down, I had seen the petrol spraying back into my
slipstream. Immediately I had cut away from the action and
headed for home.
B Flight must have knocked out the train and continued
further up the line toward Saratov, hoping to flush more
game. Otherwise, by this time, they would have passed me
on the return trip to Kotluban.
It was afternoon on the steppe, a lonely time. The plain
stretched vast and treeless to the horizon, and I could under-
stand the melancholy of the southern Russian; this immense,
unrelieved flatness overwhelmed the soul and stultified the
131
emotions. Distance, I thought; it was the Russian's greatest
enemy.
Had any human being ever stood where I stood now? A
tartar horseman? A Turkish janizary strayed from his
mercenary band? A Cossack fleeing his boyar for the ad-
venturer's freedom, women and loot?
Over the centuries how many nations had established their
homes in this Scythian wilderness, and how many had sur-
vived? Only those who had been able to defend a given area
at any moment in hand-to-hand encounter with the enemy.
We were fighting the enemy precisely as the Cossacks had
fought their enemies for hundreds of years; from a shifting
base, ready to move forward or back at the note of a bugle,
the glitter of an upraised sword. Our planes were the Cos-
sack's horses, their bivouacs our train and coaches.
This time no pitchfork-wielding Tolstoy came running
toward me across the field. I missed him. I missed every-
body. It was goddam lonely here. I slapped my flying gloves
against my thigh and wondered, what to do?
I took a hard look at the surrounding country. About two
miles straight due south was a slash of earth lighter than the
steppe around it. A road? Perhaps, though there was no
road on my map of the general area.
I decided to investigate.
Distances on the steppe are deceptive; I walked for forty
minutes, and still the road seemed no nearer than before.
Though my throat was dryish I felt no great thirst, and it
occurred to me suddenly that I had no need of water because
it wasn't hot. The weather had changed abruptly, as Russky
had predicted. In the air, still faint but there, was the
exciting tingle, the bite of fall. Summer was over.
After another twenty minutes of walking I came to the
road. It was a real road; no mistake about it; wheel ruts
led both ways into infinity, and they were fairly fresh. I lit
a fag and sat down cross-legged on the ground. Somebody
would be coming along. They had to. Nina was expected at
the train tonight for dinner.
132
The muted drone of engines, high. I looked up: five or
six miles to the west B Flight passed at twelve thousand feet.
Flying at such a height they had undoubtedly missed my
downed ship, the bastards; now I was stuck for fair. Unless
someone came down the road I would spend the night on
the steppe, huddled in my cockpit. And what if I was never
found? I would die here, and Wrangel would enter Moscow
without me, and in the year 1961 a patrol of motorized Cos-
sacks would stumble across my bleaching bones, and report
my death to the President of the Autonomous Republic of
the Don. What would have become of Nina, I wondered.
Whom would she have wed? For of course she would have
married, after grieving for a decent interval of, say, four or
five years.
I waited and I waited. An hour, another half. The sheer
illimitability of the steppe made my eyes ache. I rested them
against my palm and tried to doze, but they kept snapping
open again to scan the horizon right and left. I couldn't afford
to fall asleep. Some stupid muzhik, musing on his millet
crop, would pass me by.
And then I saw a speck coming down the road. It was
another thirty minutes before I could make it out; an ox-
cart drawn by two bullocks. In the back caged chickens
squawked and fretted.
The cart came swaying towards me, axles squeaking. On
the seat sat a farmer in sheepskin kaftan and dusty boots. His
head nodded; he was asleep.
"Kunak! Stoi!" I yelled, and leapt into the middle of the
road.
He jumped two feet. I have never seen such terror on a
man's face before or since, "Chort! chort!" he gasped. He
thought I was the devil.
"Nye chort;' I said. "Angliski pilot."
The bullocks regarded me with bovine skepticism.
"Chort!" the farmer gasped again, and tumbling off the
seat, fell on his knees in the dust before me, pleading for his
life. I could make out most of what he said. He was defi-
133
nitely not the most godly man in his village. Last Sunday,
in fact, he had not gone to church. He would be worse in
future. He would beat his wife when she did not deserve it.
He would soak his soul in vodka. He would enter into an
adulterous affair with Katya, the wife of Vatkin, who had
been after him these last two years. He would sin in a regular
manner if I would only let him go.
I offered him a Gold Flake and tried to explain, speaking
slowly and clearly, trying to remember what Nina had
taught me. Gradually he began to understand, though it
wasn't my Russian but the cigarette that did it. The devil
in Russia would not be smoking a short angliski cigarette;
he would be smoking one of those long Russian ones that
he, Vasili, had once seen in Kamyshin. I lit the cigarette for
him, and watched him pull on it gingerly. He nodded in
satisfaction. Not even the chart rossi would be smoking such
excellent tobacco.
It was a mystery to Vasili why I should want him to take
the team off the road and across the steppe into nowhere,
but when I offered him the rest of the cigarettes he agreed
with a shrug. Obviously he had never before seen an air-
plane. He thought the Camel was some monstrous bird of
prey, and wouldn't go near it till I had rapped my knuckles
against the fuselage to prove that what I was striking was
not flesh but wood, fabric and glue.
We settled on a price for hauling me home, which he
said was not so far away, perhaps ten miles. I got out some
heavy rope I was lucky enough to have with me, and Vasili
helped tie the under-carriage wheel axle to the back of his
cart. I climbed into the cockpit and we were off, the chickens
objecting querulously to this unaccustomed object bobbing
along in their wake.
Actually, had I walked due east from my downed Camel I
would have run into the railway tracks. They led, of course,
straight to the siding, and all Vasili had to do was to follow
them south toward Kotluban.
134
The oxen, however, lumbered more slowly than a man
could walk, and it took another two hours to cover the eight
or ten miles to the siding. Twilight was falling when we
bumped up to B Flight train.
Outside the lounge car Kink and Tommy were taking the
early evening air.
"Bozhe mot!" Kink said. "Look at him, sitting up there
like a damn king! Bill, Russky, Eddie! Come and see the
prodigal's return! "
My other flight-mates were in time to see me clambering
down from the cockpit. I failed to see the joke, and stood
scowling at them while they slapped their thighs and
doubled over in malicious mirth. A number of grinning en-
listed men had gathered down the track.
"The least you could have done," I told Kink accusingly,
"was keep your eyes peeled for me on the steppe. If Vasili
here hadn't come down the road I'd be halfway to the
Ukraine by now."
"Sorry, Bunny," Kink said, wiping his eyes. "As a matter
of fact I was going to send out a search plane as soon as I'd
finished my gasper."
"You could have done that three hours ago," I grumbled.
My feelings were definitely hurt.
"God's troth," Bill got out, still sputtering with laughter.
"It's the first damn time I've ever seen an R.A.F. type with
a chauffeur. How was the ride, just a little bumpy?" He
doubled over again.
"Swear to God," Tommy said, "Kink had a feeling you'd
make it back on your own. And he was right, wasn't he?
You've got to admit Kink's psychic."
"He is also a number of other things," I said coldly. "Will
somebody give Vasili twenty rubles and get my Camel tucked
away? I'm going in to wash."
"Hold on," Eddie stopped me. "You'd better go see Nina
right away. She's worried."
"Worried?"
135
"Cossack headquarters got report that aircraft shot down
and she think you it," Russky told me. "We tell her it White
plane in nearby sector but she believe we try to save her
from the terrible truth."
"She thinks you may have been the White plane," Kink
explained. "She's been over here twice in the last half hour,
and before that she had orderlies running a shuttle service
between the train and the hospital vans, making desperate
inquiries."
"Somebody could have told me," I said, and hightailed it
over to the Red Cross train.
I met her a few yards from our observation coach, coming
down the tracks toward B Flight train.
She rushed into my arms, sobbing.
"Ninusha," I said softly, comforting her, "Ninusha, noth-
ing's happened. I'm here."
She lifted her tear-stained face and smiled. "Oh, I am so
glad, Sasha. I thought you were dead. I was sure of it."
"But Kink must have told you. It was some White plane
shot down in the area. You needn't have worried so."
"I am a worrier," she said, as I wiped away the tears. "My
mind, it is very imaginary. It becomes filled with pictures
that are so very terrible, my Sasha. Do you understand?"
I understood, and I knew why, all of a sudden, I was so
outrageously happy. She loved me. She had thought I was
dead and it had taught her that she loved me.
She pulled away. "I must go. I am on duty and the
Major would be very angry if he knew I had left the train. I
came to tell you I would not be able to come to dinner.
Sonia is ill and I must share her shift with Claudia."
"Then I won't be seeing you tonight?"
She looked down at her shoes. "You may see me later, if
you wish. I will be off at midnight."
I caught my breath. She was offering to come to my
compartment. For a week and a half now I had been after
her, night and day, to be alone with me, but it had been like
136
talking to the wind. She would come to our prazdniks, she
would give me Russian lessons in the lounge car; she had
even said she would go overnight to Tsaritsyn when we both
got leave. But she would not come to my compartment.
A week and a half in wartime seems like many days, espe-
cially when we had no idea how soon we'd be leaving Kodu-
ban, and I had been resentful. Kink and the boys had quickly
established relationships with the other nurses; why not I,
the only one among them who really cared? It seemed un-
fair.
God, what a fool a young man could be. He should learn
to wait. To wait was to win.
"Till midnight, then, Ninusha. I'll be waiting." I was
afraid to say anything more.
She touched my cheek, and hurried away.
A few minutes after midnight she rapped lightly on my
door. Rushing to it, I almost knocked over the bottle of
champagne that Kink thought he had buried successfully
at the bottom of his closet.
Nina stood there, her eyes shining.
"Good evening, Sasha. Do I not say that like an American
girl?"
"You don't, for which I am glad. I'm tired of American
girls now that I'm crazy about a Russian." I kissed the soft
hair at her temple, and drew her inside.
"Champagne!" she cried, and clapped her hands like a
child. "Oh, but we are very gay!"
I took her cape and her headdress and tossed them on the
berth. Holding her at arms length I said, very seriously,
"We are gay and yet we are not gay. I want you to know that
this for me is not just a prazdnik. I have been to many
parties and they are forgotten quickly, the next morning.
But with you "
She put her finger on my lips. Here eyes were still shining.
"Sasha, we do not need to talk, no? I am here and I am
joyous. I have no fear."
137
I held her to me so fiercely that she broke away with a
little laughing cry.
I watched her as she sat at the edge of the berth and took
the pins from her hair.
She laughed. "Sasha, do not stare at me so. It is embar-
rassing; it is like my Uncle Leonid, who suspected me of
meeting young officers when I was late coming home from
the gymnasium. Of course he was right. Can you not pour
the champagne?"
I poured the champagne.
Two days later Colly came up from Taganrog on a surprise
visit. He hadn't come alone; with him was Brigadier General
Mudd.
Mudd was a temporary acting general elevated from three
ranks below. For a while he had been one of General Hoi-
man's staff officers in Ekaterinodar; then, for some reason,
probably at Holman's request when White headquarters had
moved up to Taganrog, London had given Mudd the job
of roving information officer. He now traveled around to
the various British units at the southern front, inspecting
and giving brief talks on the military and political situa-
tion.
To those, that is, who wanted to listen. The British Mil-
itary Mission was somewhat ambivalent about telling the
troops in Russia what was going on. It was an attitude that
reflected that of Lloyd George and the government itself.
Officer personnel might attend these lectures if they wished;
if not, no pressure was brought to bear upon them. It was as
if the government hadn't quite decided whether keeping the
men informed was really necessary or if and this was
more to the point whether such a course of action was
actually desirable at all. The same old story: muddle in the
interests of an amiable vacillation. How expertly led and
superbly performing military units could result from such
a policy I could never understand.
138
Mudd's talk was held in the lounge car. Hoskins had
scrounged an easel from somewhere for his maps and charts,
and Cowderdrill had set out bottles of Bass all around. Colly
sat at the back of the lounge with his collar open, winking at
each of us in turn as he caught our eye. We knew what he
thought of Mudd's information program: a bloody waste of
time. We should be up in the skies against the Bolshies, or
shooting up the Red troops; with winter coming on there
was precious little flying weather left.
Mudd was medium-sized with a pink face, patent-leather
hair and a uniform cut on Saville Row. Russky had evidently
recognized him from somewhere; with knitted brows he
stared at Mudd as he fussed around the easel, setting up his
exhibits with Cowderdriirs fumbling assistance.
"Know him, Russky?" I asked.
"From somewhere but I cannot place. Will come to me
later on/'
Mudd began to speak, his high-pitched voice sounding, in
the upper registers, too much like the squeak of chalk on
blackboard. "We are engaged," he said, "in a vast conflict on
three fronts which has engaged many thousands of men. We
here on the southern front see only part of that conflict, large-
scale though it may be. It is the purpose of these talks, which
we hope to give from time to time, to broaden your perspec-
tive on a total picture which, perhaps, no man can view in
its entirety or hope to describe in all its aspects. So," he said
with a conciliatory smile, "we shall hope only for the mid-
dling best."
Here we go a-middling again, I thought.
"Obviously in a brief talk I cannot cover as much ground
as I would like. I plan to discuss mostly the more current
events: you are all more or less familiar with the pattern of
Allied intervention which began in Russia in the summer
of last year. Today I propose to discuss the difficulties of
Cossack Separatism that currently plague General Denikin,
and that are giving the British Mission some cause for
139
alarm." He took a deep breath; in the pause I heard Colly
belch distinctly.
"During the Czarist regimes," Mudd went on, "the Don,
Kuban and Terek Cossacks had enjoyed a large degree of
self-government under their military chiefs, the Atamans. As
privileged landowners of the steppes they paid few or no
taxes, instead serving long periods of military service, in
which they provided their own horses and men. Now in all
the Cossack territories there was an almost equal number
of Inogorodtsy, people from other towns who had entered
the Cossack country as settlers, or who had been there
when the Imperial ukases gave possession of it to the
Cossacks. The outlanders bitterly resented the privileges of
the Cossacks, and the conflict between the two explains a
good deal of the present difficulties of the Volunteer Army
on the steppe.
"After the revolution of March 1917 the Cossack terri-
tories turned toward democracy. The Cossacks formed coun-
cils to discuss their affairs, and the outlanders pressed for
their share of control. When the Bolsheviks came, the out-
landers and a few of the younger Cossacks took sides with
them. But with the approach of the Volunteer Army, the
Cossacks became definitely anti-Red. However, separatist
sentiment of the Kuban Cossacks grew as anti-Bolshevik
forces came to depend upon them increasingly for food and
men. In December, 1918, as soon as the Reds had been
driven out of the Kuban, the Kuban council, the Rada, sent
a deputation to the Paris Peace Conference to set out their
position and their claims. They demanded recognition of the
Kuban as a separate and independent state. This was plainly
ludicrous, and the conference made it clear that no such
ambition could be entertained.
"However, still aiming at separatism, the Kuban thereafter
joined with the so-called 'Republic of Mountain Peoples',
who claimed to represent the tribes of Daghestan and the
Caucasus mountains. Agreement between the two bound
140
them to respect one another's independence and integrity
and in effect eventually to withdraw assistance from the
White armies in the interests of neutrality. Separatism among
the Cossacks became critical during the past summer months,
and General Wrangel was sent by General Denikin to the
Kuban to pursuade them to remain loyal to the White cause
and to send reinforcements and supplies for the Kuban troops
who were fighting with him at Tsaritsyn. He succeeded, but
only at the threat of dissolving the Rada. The situation for
the future is not precisely an encouraging one. The Rada is
becoming more self-willed and demagogic, and is fiercely
opposing General Denikin. His rallying cry, 'Russia, One
and Indivisible* is looked upon by the Cossacks with disfavor.
There will be more problems to solve before our Cossack
allies will band together in amity for the decisive destruc-
tion of the Bolshevik threat."
As Mudd put down the pointer with which he had been
taking desultory stabs at the easel, Cowderdrill began to
applaud. Kink's glare made him stop abruptly. Smiling
blandly, Mudd asked if we had any questions.
"I'd like to ask him about the French loans and the British
big money interests," Eddie muttered, "but I wouldn't want
to be a shavetail again."
There were no questions.
Colly came forward to join us in another round before the
General went on his inspection of the squadron.
"So, sir," Colly said, "you still think it's definitely Moscow
by Christmas? Some of us are beginning to wonder."
"Absolutely, Colonel," Mudd said. "I have no doubts
at all."
I asked the General if he had ever been in Moscow.
"Oh, yes, before the war, in 1912. I've seen quite a bit of
Russia, as a matter of fact. I even survived a trip on the
Trans-Siberian to Vladivostock. It's a good thing we'll have
won the war by New Year's; you have no idea how cold the
Russian winters can get. Why, in Vladivostock it was ninety
141
degrees below zero. One side of the locomotive froze solid,
and there was a full fire in the box. The passengers kept
warm by beating one another/*
We smiled politely.
"However, gentlemen," Mudd went on, "the winter never
gets too cold for a good flying man. I've flown in weather
that froze the oil in the tank/ 1
I doubted that; not even General Mudd could fly with a
chunk of ice in his oil tank. From the look on the faces of
my flight-mates, I knew they were just as dubious.
"No, gentlemen/' Mudd shook his head. "If you think this
is an honest-to-goodness war you're mistaken. Before the
Revolution I was with a French squadron flying with the
Czar's troops in Poland. When the Austrians broke
through "
Russky's face lighted with sudden, delighted recognition.
"Now, sir, I remember. I was liaison officer between French
and Russian squadrons. You then captain. When Hun sweep
through you ride away in lorries at night, leave aeroplanes
behind. Many Spads, Sopwiths, DeHavillands. We have to
fly aeroplanes away for you when the Austrians a mile from
the drome."
Mudd's pink face darkened to red. "Lieutenant, you must
be mistaken. Um, yes, quite." He took a long swallow of
Bass. "You're confusing me with someone else."
"Am not mistaken," Russky said stubbornly. "After we
save aeroplanes from capture you take them back and sign for
them." He turned to Kink, who was staring up at the ceiling
with vast interest. "True, Kink, is true. I know, was there."
In the silence General Mudd spooned up caviar and spread
it on a cracker. Then he began to chatter. Wasn't it wonder-
ful, all this fresh caviar? Better than the Crillon bar in Paris.
Where had we managed to find a jewel like Cowderdrill?
The fireplace was a definite inspiration. Squadron 47 was
writing an imperishable record across the Bolshie skies; he
wouldn't be surprised if General Holman had a few more
142
decorations in his bag for us. If we needed any extra rations,
he'd be delighted to send them along as soon as he returned
to Taganrog.
Kink made the most of it, and said we were short of rum.
The General promised a dozen gallons.
Colly asked Cowderdrill for another ale. "General," he
said innocently, "did you ever recover that Ford van those
brigands got away with in Ekat?"
B Flight cleared their throats in unison. Early in the year,
while Colly was outfitting the squadron in Ekaterinodar, the
boys had filched the van he spoke of from a warehouse siding.
They had painted red crosses on its sides and hidden it in a
brothel alley. Nobody ever questioned Red Cross markings,
Kink had said. He was right. The van had come in very
handy.
Mudd shook his head sadly. "I'm still quite upset about it.
Mind you, it's not the loss of the van that bothers me so bally
much. It's the fact that someone in my command had the
audacity to steal his Majesty's property right from under my
nose."
"God's troth, sir," Bill said, "maybe Makhno's got it." He
was referring to the renegade bandit whose black-flagged
Green Guards fought to the death every army and govern-
ment Red, White, and the Forces of the Ukrainian Direc-
tory.
"I think not," Mudd said decisively. "The plennys told me
it was some of my own men. If I ever find out who's respon-
sible, I'll trundle them back to Blighty under arrest."
During the eight hours he was with us, General Mudd
spent five of them riding around in his pilfered van. He
made a special point of commending Hoskins upon the Ford's
excellent condition.
Colly stayed on another day, taking part in three patrols
in which he traded two Bolshie planes and fifty Red infantry-
men for a couple of bullet holes in his rudder.
He landed from the last patrol with a bad headache and
143
an upset stomach. Kink insisted upon putting him to bed,
and asked Major Alexandrovsky to drop over for a diagnosis.
"It looks like typhus/' the Doctor told us. "I am not quite
sure. We will know tomorrow."
"But we were all innoculated against typhus," Kink pro-
tested.
The doctor shrugged. "The Russian bacillus may be too
hardy for your angliski vaccine. But do not be too anxious.
The colonel may be better tomorrow." He grinned at me. "It
may have been some of your execrable bully beef that was
tinned in the days of Queen Victoria. I will send Nina
Dmitrievna over with a purgative."
Next morning Colly woke thoroughly nauseated and shak-
ing with chills, and Alexandrovsky told us it was definitely
typhus.
"Damn it all, doctor," Colly told the big man, "I've got to
get back to Taganrog. Kink, get a plane ready."
The doctor motioned for Nina to give him a combination
analgesic and sedative. "My dear Colonel, resign yourself to
at least a week in Kotluban. You are in no condition to be
flown back to Tsaritsyn, and so far as I know there are no
hospital trains due through Kotluban for the south for at
least ten days. Consider yourself fortunate. Nina Dmitrievna
will act as your nurse, when I can spare her."
Colly lay back on his pillow, groaning. "I should consider
myself fortunatel Thirty-seven crashes and I wind up dying
of a foul disease transmitted by a louse or a flea. Aten here's
the only one who's getting the clean end of the stick a
chance to see his girl. And I hate him for it."
"You can monopolize her, Colly," I told him. "I promise."
"Oh, get the hell out," Colly said. "All of you except Nina.
And Nina, I want you to bring me a Scotch and soda right
away. I'm thirsty as the devil."
"For you there is no Scotch and there is no soda," Nina
said firmly. "For you are the liquids which are non-alcoholic,
such as water and tea and broth."
144
"He should have broth immediately," the doctor said.
"Preferably beef."
Kink said, "We're out of Bovril and we don't have a steer
in the house." He turned to me. "Bunny, you're forage
officer this week. Go out and buy a steer or a bullock." He
handed me a hundred rubles of squadron funds. "Pay the
muzhik what he wants, and bring Russky along as interpre-
ter."
I found Russky in the lounge, lost in a copy of La Vie
Parisienne. We took the van and followed the cart tracks to
a farm about two miles from the village. Two broad-beamed
peasant women were plowing a field for winter wheat with
a stick-like affair that might have been novel in the days of
Peter the Great. I pulled the van into a farmyard that was
full of thin pigs and scrawny chickens. A little sad-eyed boy,
raggedly dressed, sat near the house, singing to himself and
desultorily mending harness.
Russky gave him a few kopecks and asked that he repeat
the song for my benefit.
Shyly he sang:
Ekh, sharaban, da, sharaban,
Ne budet deneg tebya prodam!
Ekh, sharaban,
Da, trogai, trogai!
A ya poidu
Svoey dorogoi!
(Ah, charabanc, yes, charabanc
If all my money goes, I must sell you.
Ah, charabanc,
Get along with you, giddap!
And as for me,
I'll go my own road!)
A middle-aged peasant in blouse, boots and military cap
came out of the mud and clay farmhouse. As he saw our
uniforms his eyes lit with cupidity.
I looked around the farmyard while Russky palavered with
145
the peasant and a hen pecked curiously at my boots. On a
lean-to wall hung farming implements so primitive that the
average American farmer would have been hard pressed to
identify them. A steer looked out at us stupidly from his
stall adjoining the house. On cold winter nights he slept
with the muzhik and his family.
Russky told me the farmer wanted eighty rubles for his
"magnificent beast," and though it was a third too much, I
approved the deal. We went into the house to seal it with a
glass of vodka.
Inside were a table, chairs, and the inevitable Russian
stove, a Dutch oven six or eight feet long. All the furniture
was painted brightly in cheerful red, yellows and reds. There
were ikons on all four walls. A big samovar sat on the middle
of the stove. Off in one corner, lying on a heap of dirty cloths,
was the grandfather of the house, a squat and powerful man.
To my amazement I saw that he was smoothing out his
shroud, made of a number of pieces of linen sewed together.
"Is nothing the matter with old man/' Russky whispered
as we sat down at the table, "but he has decided he is going
to die."
"Why should he die if there's nothing the matter with
him?" I wanted to know.
Russky shrugged. "Is Russian peasant. He will die."
The peasant's wife smilingly served us small glasses of
vodka, and withdrew to the other side of the room. Russky
and the peasant talked. The latter had heard many rumors
which he wanted verified.
Was it true that the Whites had taken Moscow, and that
Lenin had been hanged from the top of the Kremlin? Would
the English and the Americans now come to put the Ameri-
can President on the throne? Or would the Pope take over?
Would Russia give up farming for the making of the auto-
mobile? If it did that would not be good for him, Nicolai,
who knew nothing about the making of an automobile and
would not enjoy working in the cities.
146
Russky made no effort to set Nicolai right but merely
nodded his head at every question, a method of response
which seemed to satisfy the peasant.
The amenities concluded, we went outside to get the
steer, and tied him to the rear of the van bumper with a
length of rope for which the farmer demanded another two
rubles. As we started off down the road the little boy waved
a melancholy farewell.
Our progress was slow and painful. The steer, who was
either lazy or sensed his fate, began to balk, and we had to
drag him along at two miles an hour. That would have been
all right, except that the rope began to fray. Russky got out
and prodded the beast from behind with a letter opener he
improbably and typically had on his person.
A mixed crowd of B Flight enlisted men, hospital train
orderlies and refugees greeted our appearance with expectant
grins. Some of the British and hospital train personnel had
already seen me in action with the oxen of the week before,
and they were clearly looking forward to a second act of the
bovine follies. When Russky untied the steer, he took the
opportunity to make his break, and lumbered clumsily to-
ward the tent hangars set up thirty yards or so trackside.
"After him!" I yelled, "He'll tear down the hangars!' 1
We were too late to prevent the steer from invading one
of the tents, knocking it down, and smashing the aileron of
a parked Camel, but five or six B Flight men succeeded in
heading him off from the tool tent. Bewildered by all these
foreign Jfaces, the steer allowed me to slip a noose over his
head and lead him back to the train.
Cowderdrill was waiting with a huge butcher knife and a
bungstarter. "Right, sir, fine, sir," the m^ssman said. "Now
if you'll just pick three or four of these loafers to assist me
in the slaughter, we'll have broth for the colonel tonight."
"Stevenson, Plummer, Oliver, Templeton!" I bawled at
four enlisted men who were melting away. There's work to
be done! Hop to it!"
147
From the lav, wiping away the dirt and grime of the chase,
I could hear the steer's loud and dramatic end. I was towel-
ing off when I heard Kink growling from the open doorway:
"Bunny, do you realize the mechanics can't get that damaged
bus into the sky until tomorrow afternoon? That means
we'll be one plane short on morning patrol. Another C.O.
would have you up for court martial."
"I'm sorry, Kink. The dumb ox got away from me."
He tapped his head significantly. "You're not thinking.
I warned you. I told you not to get barmy over a foreign
female."
"Yes, sir. Is there anything else, sir?"
He left, muttering, "It's not a goddam squadron I'm run-
ning. It's a goddam circus."
The broth perked Colly up a little, but in the early morn-
ing hours I heard his moans coming from the compartment
adjoining mine. I got up, slipped into my khakis, and went
next door.
He was lying spread-eagled on the bunk, sweating profusely
and slightly delirious. His full-modeled, almost girlishly-
shaped lips were bloodless, and the only color in his face
were the two faint spots of red high up on his cheeks.
The wet cloth for his forehead I got from the lav seemed
to help a little, but after a few minutes he was off again,
muttering disjointedly of his training days in England, of
air battles on the western front; of comrades, famous and
unsung, who had been buried in squadron cemeteries long
before I arrived at the front.
"Petrol on! Switch off! Suck in, sir. . . . Turning home,
back to Ochey, and we haven't lost a man. . . . Coming into
Burbach watch the Archie; when the Boche bracket you, you
dive! . . . The fool, he's hanging his own crepe up! ... Six
Halberstadts north of St. Julien, high in the sun. And Allmen-
roeder's bright green Albatros. . . . Sandy Alexander copped
his packet; whose next for an empty chair? My God, they're
blowing up the ridge!"
148
He started up from the bunk, his eyes staring, back now
in the day the British blew up the Messines-Whyschaete ridge
in the greatest explosion ever made by man. I had heard of
how, early in the morning of June 7, 1917, the entire Ger-
man defensive position, two years in the building, had gone
up in a roar of dirt and steel and German flesh, and of how,
after the British guns had opened fire, the Tommy battalions
had swept up the hill. Going over to do battle with the Huns,
Colly's loth Squadron had seen craters as much as four hun-
dred fifty feet across.
"It's all right, Colly," I told him. "It's over. You're here;
you're safe." I wished I could have been speaking the entire
truth.
But it made no difference; he didn't recognize me, he
didn't know I was there. His head lolled back on the pillow,
and twisted from side to side.
"Lowenhardt's the best, and Lothar, Manfred's kid
brother . . . And don't tangle with Udet . . . Put death from
your mind and you're the last to die. ... At Operations Tent
you study silhouettes from every angle; they're your passport
to the girls back home. . . Two Pfalz and a Fokker in one
afternoon that's shooting. . . It's spring, Charley boy; you
can tell when the dunghills start to smoke in the sun. . .
Dammit, Jones, I tell you it's a sooty spark plug. . . Have a
care, boys, when you criss-cross on the turns. . . Today we're
over Zeebrugge, so wear your woollies. . . ."
His voice faded.
I was reaching for the sedative when Nina came into the
compartment. She took the bottle from my hand. "You
should call me, Sasha," she reproved me, "before you give
medicine to the Colonel. He does not need this now. The
worst of it is over."
"You mean the fever's breaking?"
"No, but for now he will sleep. See, his eyes are closed."
As I watched the redness left Colly's cheeks and his
breathing became less labored. When Nina smoothed his
forehead he didn't stir.
149
"Come," she said, and led me next door into my compart-
ment.
She kissed me lightly and took off her cape.
"Hey," I said. "What if the Doctor sees that your little
white bunk hasn't been slept in?"
"Claudia has taken care of any contingencies, my Sasha,
by rumpling up the sheets. Tomorrow night I will do the
same for her."
I took her in my arms. "You're a shameless hussy."
"Would you wish me any different? Do I not please you
this way? I am as forthright as I am shy; it runs in my family.
When we Anohinas love a man we show it. But you must
remember that we do not love so easily."
"I know that. And I like you shameless."
"Then kiss me, and do not talk so, Sasha. It is getting
cold. Like most men you are a regular chatterbox always at
the wrong moment."
Tsaritsyn was a different town from the looted husk we
had last seen in July. The shops were open and the market
place filled with shrewd women bargainers. Nina pointed to
a molodka threatening to hit a stall-keeper with a frying
pan. "The price will accordingly come down a ruble," she
told me.
"Not two or three?"
"No, for that she would have to hit him with it."
We passed a cinema that was featuring a western, and I
asked her if she would like to go in.
She shuddered. "No, there is too much shooting and death.
Your Indians, they frighten me."
I smiled. She, who was surrounded night and day by the
wounded and the dying, was afraid of Indians. It was an-
other example of Russian logic, or the lack of it.
We did some shopping. I bought her a heavy shawl for
the cold weather and was about to pay an unreasonable price
for a bowl of Yardley's shaving soap when Nina snatched it
out of my hand and began to haggle furiously with the pro-
150
prietor. We came away, having paid half what the man asked
for.
"You must be firmer with these brigands," Nina lectured
me gently. "What will you do when I am no longer here to
save you from being cheated?"
The sky seemed to darken and the light to fail. I had put
out of my mind the knowledge that some day soon, perhaps
tomorrow, when we returned to Kotluban from our over-
night leave, the hospital train would have received orders
to leave or B Flight would have been moved elsewhere. It
was best not to think of the future. More, it was imperative.
"Ninusha," I said, "you mustn't talk like that."
She squeezed my hand. "I am sorry. I would prefer to
think we will never be parted. But my mind does not work
in that fashion."
"I know," I said bitterly, "you're a hell of a lot more real-
istic than I." For some reason, perhaps because we were
passing a hotel whose architecture reminded me of the Pera
Plaza in Constantinople, I thought of Mr. Poulas. I won-
dered if he'd found a promising young man to manage his
business and marry his hairy daughter.
"Do you resent my realism?" Nina asked me.
"No. You can take care of the family finances. I can't
balance a checkbook to save my life, and I'd rather fight a
Bolshie circus single-handed than figure out the small print
in an insurance policy."
"Well," she said comfortably, "that is because you are a
soldier. You have no patience for the mundane things." She
smiled up at me. "But you will stop your frowning and be
happy for me today, no? You will not make me sad?"
"I will devote the day and the night both to making you
happy. If I frown you may slap me. If I scowl you may slap
me twice. And if laugh you may kiss me, oh, three or four
times."
"Then laugh, Sasha, for I would very much prefer to
kiss than slap you."
We walked about the town, had tea in a cabaret, and then
151
sat in the park watching the droshkeys go by and tossing
cracker crumbs to the pigeons. The pigeons, sleek, alder-
manic birds, looked better fed than the people. When the
sun went down we took an izvozchik to the Black Cat, where
I had arranged for Kink and Russky to meet us for dinner.
The Black Cat was a basement restaurant with hand-woven
tapestries, royal Bokhara rugs, and gleaming silverware on
table cloths of a startling whiteness. The past months had
made us unaccustomed to the color white, and Nina's breath
caught with pleasure. The place was filled with Cossack
officers, civilians, and more elegant women that I had ima-
gined had escaped ravishment by the Reds. An orchestra
was playing the wild, heart-tingling music of the Don.
The head waiter took us to a table near that of a high-
ranking officer I saw was General Restigiev, of Shkura's
Wolves. Kink and Russky arrived a moment later, and some
of Restigiev's Cossacks recognized our squadron leader as
he came into the room.
"Captaine Kinky! Captaine Kinky! Za vashe zdorovye!"
They shouted to him.
Kink waved his arms goodhumoredly like a fighter re-
sponding to applause as he enters the ring.
I had forgotten that it was the Russian custom, when
either soldier or officer entered a public place, for him to
approach the highest-ranking officer present, salute, and ask
permission to be seated. The three of us excused ourselves
to Nina, went over to the general's table, and made our re-
quest.
Restigiev, a fierce-looking man with ice-blue eyes like
Wrangel's, replied that he would grant his permission only
on the condition that we join him and his party of two
officers and three women guests. We said we would be de-
lighted.
One of the officers named Korgonovsky, a tall, hollow-
chested captain with a sweeping mustache, impressed us
with more than his hirsute adornment. The nails of his little
152
fingers were at least two inches long. He had, we learned,
sworn to let them grow till Shkura's wolves entered Moscow.
That might well be soon, Korgonovsky told us happily.
In a moment the general would rise and tell the entire room
a piece of very good news.
I saw the captain exchange a look with his superior. Then,
casually, Korgonovsky took a pistol from his belt and fired
it at the ceiling. Nina and the other women shrieked; then
there was absolute silence as Restigiev rose and cleared his
throat.
Russky translated what he said after the bedlam stilled.
The White Army had scored a major victory. This afternoon
Denikin had taken Kursk, two hundred and eighty miles
south of Moscow.
The orchestra struck up the Bozhe Tsaria Khrani, the
national anthem. At its conclusion there was a moment of
silence, and then the dancing began. Nina and I went out
on the floor.
It was rough going. The Cossacks moved among the more
conventional dancers with razor-sharp kinzhals held in hands
and teeth, and whenever the fancy to do a dagger dance
seized one of them, he called for more kinzhals from his
companions, and bristling with knives, launched into his
own fiercely individualistic version.
There were as many as half a dozen doing the dagger dance.
It was all clean fun, of course, but I found it rather alarming.
When I said as much to Nina she only smiled and shrugged
and said "Nichevo"
A shower of daggers from the final leap of a kinzhal dancer
convinced me finally that we had better retreat to our table.
Kink got up as we sat down. Korgonovsky had persuaded
him to try the knife dance. One blade held in each hand and
the point of a third held between his teeth were all that he
could manage. Someone slapped a wolf-hair shapka on his
head, and we watched him charge onto the polished floor to
spirited Cossack applause.
153
"Hell kill himself/' I told Nina.
"He is more likely to wound one of the bystanders."
Nina, as usual, was right. When it was over Kink had
suffered nothing worse than a slightly cut lip, though a huge
Cossack sergeant got a dagger through his toe. The big fellow
bellowed with pain and then shouted with laughter, giving
Kink a slap on the back that sent him half way across the
dance floor.
Kink sat down dabbing at his lip with a handkerchief.
"God, I was a fool to do that." He scowled at me. "Why did
you let me, Aten? You call yourself a friend?"
At that moment the lights went down. A pale spot was
thrown on the dance floor, and a plump diva from the Mos-
cow Opera got up to sing. She was followed in turn by a
young contralto of the St. Petersburg Opera, who was fol-
lowed by a tall basso. The basso, with a voice that shook the
wine glasses, sang Chorniye Gusary, the song of the Black
Hussars. The Cossacks, men who were sensitive to music for
all their arrant masculinity, gave the refugee artists an ova-
tion, though you couldn't help thinking that these singers
would have done still better on the opera stage or that of a
concert hall. The atmosphere of civil war was hardly con-
ducive to their best performance.
As if she had read my thoughts and extended them to in-
clude those other artists, the lovers of the world, Nina's hand
reached beneath the table and clasped mine.
"You are frowning again my Sasha," she whispered. "Re-
member, you promised to be gay."
Kink's eyes, with their combination of skepticism and
sympathy, met mine for an instant. Then he looked away.
An aide from another table came to whisper something in
Restigiev's ear. The general pushed aside his zrazy s kashoy
and called for the waiter. He had unfortunately been called
to a staff meeting, he told us. Settling the bill, he took out
a sheaf of paper rubles that could have choked a mule. The
money was in perforated squares, like sheets of postage
154
stamps. He detached the amount of the check in twenty ruble
notes like a postmaster tearing off stamps in lots of hun-
dreds.
We had become accustomed to devaluated currency: the
exchange value of the ruble had fallen from fifty cents to
one cent at the time. But it was astonishing to see such a
quantity of rubles in virgin sheets, fresh from the engravers.
"Do you print your own money, General?" I asked Resti-
giev, through Russky, jokingly.
He laughed. "No, Captain, that is harder work than fight-
ing for it."
It was, I thought, entirely possible that Restigiev's money
had been looted three times: first from the Bolshies, then
from the Whites by the Bolshies, and then back from the
Bolshies again by Shkura's Wolves. The Cossacks might have
been poor speculators few of them had any sense of money
but they nonetheless knew how to get their hands on it
in unconventional ways.
The General raised his glass in a last toast. "To Christmas
dinner in Moscow! You shall all be my guests/*
We drank to it.
Korgonovsky moved his glass away and extended his long,
surprisingly graceful hands on the table. He looked down at
the overgrown nails of his little fingers. "At that dinner I
shall cut off these nails with Lenin's scissors, after cutting
out his heart/'
Russky shook his head dolefully. "Is not possible. Lenin
has no heart. Trotsky maybe but not the evil Little Father,
the anti-Christ."
Kink sighed. "Here we go again, getting serious, and I'm
to bunk tonight with this lugubrious type."
We left the cafe with the indefatigable Cossacks shouting
out their twentieth reprise of Chorniye Gusary. Kink and
Russky discreetly parted from us at the corner. It was under-
stood that we would meet at the station tomorrow morning
for the return trip to Kotluban.
155
I hailed an izvozchik and gave the name of Tsaritsyn's
best hotel. (Kink and Russky, we had agreed, would be stay-
ing elsewhere.) The driver let us oft at the hotel we had
passed by that afternoon.
Inside it in no way resembled the Pera Plaza. Though the
lobby decorations were faintly Byzantine the walls were
cracked and chipped, and a dusty rubber plant drooped dis-
consolately in front of the window. The lights were so dim
that I took Nina's hand, crossing the threadbare carpet to
the desk.
"It is not so bad/' she said cheerfully. "At least we will
have a nice big room to ourselves."
I rang the call bell on the desk, but no one came. When
I rang it again, impatiently, Nina put her hand on my arm.
"Sasha, you are not in Chicago. They will take a while
to come."
"Does this happen in all Russian hotels?"
She nodded. "The best even. The desk clerk is probably
having a glass of tea. He would not come if your President
Wilson himself were ringing."
"Suppose I was the Czar?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Ah, in that case he would finish
his tea quickly."
After another ten minutes a wiry old man, dressed in west-
ern style, shuffled through the door behind the desk and
greeted us with a dobry vecher. I asked for a room in my
execrable Russian. Cupping his hand behind his ear, he
heard me through, then signified his lack of understanding.
"Sasha," Nina said, "let me talk to him. It is necessary."
The desk clerk heard her out and without a word shuffled
out the door again.
"Where the devil is he going?" I asked Nina.
"To get the manager."
"Oh, Lord. Why do we need the manager?"
"Sasha, it is the way things are done in Russian hotels."
Disgustedly I sank down into a shabby armchair and closed
156
my eyes. What a fine beginning to the beautiful romantic
interlude I had planned so carefully.
In another quarter of an hour the manager emerged. He
was a bald, clean-shaven man in his fifties, wearing a celluloid
collar and high button shoes. He spoke English, and with a
vengeance. Ignoring Nina, he drew up a chair beside me and
began to chatter away.
"You are not Englishman but amerikanski, I am right?
I can always tell the amerikanski; it is for me the talent. I
love America. For seven years I live in New York City and
have many relatives in the United States. I remember the
Singer Building, the Voolvorth Tower, Central Park. The
first time I see the elewated I cry, it is so beautiful. You have
traweled the elewated much?"
"Sir," I said. "We're a little tired. We'd like a room. If
you'd be good enough to "
"I am in hotel business seven years in New York City, but
my wife, she prefers to return Russia." He spat into a potted
plant. " Tor what?' I asked her, 'for rewolution?' You under-
stand, I see it coming. I know blood will run in the streets.
Tor blood,' I ask her, 'you will give up all the blessings of
America? The food, the freedom, the air you can breathe?'
Listen, I tell you what life in America, it means to me."
He told me. Nina took the chair next to mine and sat
listening with her chin in her hand, lost wistfully in some
dream of fabulous America.
Finally the manager, whose name was Mr. Termitsky, ran
down like the buzzer of an alarm clock, and with great
courtesy invited me to sign the register. Mr. Termitsky him-
self took us up in the wheezing elevator to our second floor
room.
"Is bridal suite/' he said, opening the door. "Not so beauti-
ful as my hotel in New York but comfortable, no?"
I didn't answer. I had been foolish to expect anything
better, but the place appalled me. Shrapnel had torn through
the window, now boarded up, and buried itself into one of
157
the walls; broken glass still littered the floor, along with little
heaps of lathe and plaster. A section of the ugly fretwork
mantel had been gouged out, though the mirror was still
intact, and a brick propped up the broken fourth leg of a
table.
"Mr. Termitsky," I said, "haven't you another room that
hasn't been damaged in the bombardment?"
He nodded enthusiastically. "We have several, but they
are not the bridal suite. Moreover, they are small."
"Sasha," Nina said, "we have not seen the bedroom," and
she pulled me through the archway into a small room domi-
nated by a huge double bed. Shoved up against one wall was
a scarred armoire; against the other, near a window, shattered
at the top, stood a small table with a beaded lamp that was
bulbless. The bed was unapproachable from either side; to
get into it you would have to vault over the headboard.
"Is comfortable," Mr. Termitsky said. "You would sink
into it like a cloud. Try."
Nina shook her head at me in warning and assured Mr.
Termitsky, in Russian, that the rooms would be fine. The
door closed behind him.
She erased my frown with her cool fingers. "Sasha, be prac-
tical. This is the best hotel in Tsaritsyn. And the bed is
comfortable. See?"
"It's just occurred to me," I told her, "that we don't have
a bathroom. I'm ashamed to take you to a place like this."
"The bath is down the hall." She put her arms around me.
"Come, try the bed."
"I would, if I knew how to get into it."
She giggled. "I will show you." Pressing her length against
me, she pushed me back till we had both toppled over the
headboard and onto the coverlet. We lay there wrestling and
laughing till it came to me that kissing would be more fun.
Mr. Termitsky was right. It was a very soft bed. . . .
The clatter of dishes awakened me.
Nina stirred, and I said, "What's that?"
158
"Dishes, Sasha," she murmured, and snuggled her head
on my shoulder.
"Of course they're dishes. But where would they be wash-
ing dishes at this time of night?"
"In the kitchen. We are over the kitchen. Go back to
sleep."
I groaned. "How can I go back to sleep when they keep
rattling those dishes? It's intolerable."
Nina didn't answer; she had dozed off again.
The dishwashing lasted for two hours. Fortunately my
Gold Flakes and matches were on the table next to the bed.
Mr. Termitsky had neglected to supply us with an ashtray,
so as I finished each cigarette I tossed the butt out the
broken pane of the window to the alley outside.
If Mr. Termitsky had a fire in his damn hotel it would
serve him right.
159
Chapter Seven
We came back to Kotluban to find Colly intermittently
delirious and broken out in dark red spots scattered over his
chest, arms and legs. In his less lucid moments the only one
of us he recognized was Kink. Alexandrovsky said that Colly's
case was approaching the critical stage; if there was no south-
bound hospital train through Kotluban in the next few days
he would recommend that we bring him to Tsaritsyn by
ordinary coach. Though such a trip had its dangers, it was
necessary; the hospital train was running out of typhus drugs.
The next day, to our relief, a southbound Red Cross train
from Saratov stopped at the siding. Alexandrovsky went
aboard to make arrangements for Colly and to transfer some
of the Saratov wounded to his own vans. The train from the
front was at least thirty cars in length, the longest I had seen.
Bandaged men stared through the windows with bitter or
indifferent eyes. Some asked for cigarettes, and we handed
up what gaspers we had on us. The stench was as bad as the
Chicago stockyards with a favoring wind. A crazed soldier
made a break from one of the vans and was captured when
he tripped over a switch down the track. In the scuffle his
bandages came off and I had to turn away from the ruin of
his face; half of it had been sheared away as by the stroke of
a meat cleaver, and his left eye hung by a viscous thread.
My God, I thought, sickened; in the past few weeks we've
forgotten what war is like.
160
One of Wrangel's staff officers, a cavalry captain with a
shattered elbow, gave us some news. While Wrangel was
holding his own before Saratov, at the moment there was no
chance of his taking the town. He had too few men and
General Erdeli, on his right flank in the Astrakhan area, was
retreating. Wrangel had asked Headquarters for new orders
countermanding those issued for the advance on Moscow,
and when Romanovsky, Denikin's chief of staff, had insisted
that he resume the attack on Saratov, Wrangel had gone to
see him in Taganrog.
In Taganrog Wrangel had desperately repeated all his
arguments against the Moscow advance. But Romanovsky
was adamant. Wrangel told him he was through and de-
manded that the chief of staff replace him. Romanovsky's
reply was characteristic: without Wrangel, he said, Denikin's
plan could never be achieved.
Bleakly pessimistic, Wrangel had returned to the Saratov
front. Not only was Saratov impregnable, but at the junction
of the volunteer armies the Reds outnumbered Denikin three
to one. Only a miracle could save the commander in chief
from a terrible defeat. To make things worse, conditions be-
hind the lines were more chaotic than ever. Makhno was
looting trains and depots with impunity, and White official-
dom was losing what little control over the civilian popula-
tion it had. When you paid a man too little to live, what
course had he but to be corrupt? The peasants were crying
for land and getting a stone in answer. There had been no
improvement in relations between Denikin and the Kuban
Rada.
"On the surface it looks as though we are winning," the
captain said, "but there are those of us who know better.
God save Russia."
We took Colly aboard the hospital train on a stretcher and
found him a fairly clean bunk in the officers' typhus ward.
Most of the men in the car were in more serious condition
than he; the reddish brown rash covered their entire bodies
161
and they had completely lost their grip on reality. What
worried me most was the lack of doctors and nurses. How
could Colly get the attention he needed when there was only
one nurse to every two hundred men and one doctor to every
five hundred? And what if he got worse? I solaced myself
with Alexandrovsky's promise that Colly would be all right
unless Makhno's Green Guards attacked the train, or if there
was some other unforeseen disaster. And somehow I couldn't
see Colly fading out that way; he was the kind of man who
would die not from a bandit's bullet but in bed, old and full
of honors. Besides, Feodor was going along with him.
Colly, lucid at the moment, made an effort to smile. His
voice came in a dry whisper. "So long, you blokes. Sorry I've
been such a mess of trouble. And thanks, Bunny, for the loan
of your batman."
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," Kink said. "There's a
hospital room waiting for you in Tsaritsyn with the prettiest
nurse in south Russia. I arranged it personally."
"Kink," Colly whispered, "you have some morphine?"
We looked at one another.
"I'm not the type for suicide," Colly said. "May need
to get a little sleep. These fellows, they're going to be noisy.
Promise I'll give it to the Doc . . . promise."
From his pocket Kink took the vial of morphine all of us
carried in case of capture by the enemy. He shook out half
the grains, capped the vial, and slid it under Colly's pillow.
He hadn't given him enough for a lethal dose.
The train lurched forward.
"Wire us as soon as you get to the hospital, Colly," I re-
minded him.
He nodded, closed his eyes and said, so low that we could
hardly hear, "We'll fox 'em."
We watched as the train got under way. Feodor, dressed
in a pair of Tommy's fatigues, waved from Colly's window.
The train gathered speed and disappeared toward Tsarit-
syn.
162
"God, I'm sick of trains and train farewells." Kink mut-
tered. "There's so much death in them. And one of us should
have gone along with him. I know it."
He was probably right, but Colly would have pulled his
rank and forbade it. We had already broken regulations by
allowing Feodor, a P.O.W., to accompany him.
A packed refugee train had pulled into the space just
vacated by the hospital train. Already the Kotluban peasants
were bartering and selling food and produce at its windows.
There were suddenly shouts and screams from one of the
coaches, and as we watched three big leather portmanteaus
and an expensive polushubok, a winter fur coat, were hurled
from a window to the roadbed below. Their owner, heaved
from the vestibule, as abruptly followed, landing on her
bottom on the cinderbed and setting up a terrible howl. She
was answered by a flood of invective from a woman who had
pushed her way to the window. Evidently the issue had to
do with amour; after spitting in the direction of the bary-
shnia, the woman on the train turned to pummel the shame-
faced man behind her.
The peasants, peddling their pancakes and boiled beef,
paid no attention. They found such an event commonplace,
as indeed it was. But we were fascinated. The girl who had
been so unceremoniously ejected from the carriage was lush
and lovely.
"Bozhe moi," Tommy said admiringly, "that's what I call
a woman. Do we toss for her?"
Kink squared his shoulders and straightened his tie. "Gen-
tlemen, in Cossack country the spoils of war, when they're
indivisible, belong to the Ataman. Step aside."
"Think a moment," Eddie warned him. "She may be a
perfect hellion. She was pretty unpopular on that train. You
don't know what you're getting into."
Kink looked at him blandly. "Oh, don't I?" He stalked
away toward the fallen angel.
As the train pulled out the young woman struggled to her
163
feet and shook her fist after the departing refugees. We
watched as Kink offered her his handkerchief and put on
the charm. He bent to kiss her hand. Then he whistled, and
Ivan charged upon the scene, to dust off the polushubok and
pick up the portmanteaus. He lugged them away toward the
B Flight Pullmans.
Kink brought his spoils of war over to where we stood and
introduced us to the Countess Nona Beresofsky.
She was still indignant. "They have throwed me out," she
complained in a husky contralto that sent shivers down even
my own thoroughly committed spine. "But the dirty pigs do
not take my ticket to Novorossiisk where my husband waits.
I will catch next train."
"No more trains today or tomorrow, Countess, as I told
you," Kink said smoothly. "You'll have to accept the poor
hospitality of the Royal Air Force."
She looked about her with haughty distaste. "You have
here no hotel?"
"Kotluban's just a village," Kink said. "We have only a
vodka house, a grain merchant, a blacksmith and a tax col-
lector."
We nodded in corroboration.
"Oh, quelle douleur" the Countess wailed, dabbing at her
eyes with Kink's handkerchief. "]e suis perdue." Her dis-
tress seemed real enough, but on the other hand I noticed
that the handkerchief was dry as an empty glass.
"Not at all," Kink said. "You have an invitation to B
Flight train. Our private compartments are quite comfort-
able."
The Countess smiled. "Major, you and the desolation of
Kotluban have persuaded me. If there is hot water I will be
more than content."
The Countess caused a sensation among Squadron 47*8
enlisted men. It was as if all the sophistication and glamour
of Nevsky Prospect had come to our little provincial chicken
scratch in the dirt of the steppe. The mechanics and main-
164
tenance men paused at their football to stare with reverence
.at the way Nona's hips moved beneath her traveling suit.
Cowderdrill, watching from the kitchen, stepped on Clarence,
who was underfoot, and knocked over a pot of stew. Even
the invulnerable Hoskins swallowed.
Kink and I accompanied Countess Nona to her compart-
ment, which she surveyed with satisfaction. "Is so much better
than refugee train," she shuddered elegantly. "Even in first
class is vermin and smells and dirty bodies. I must pay twenty
rubles for hot water when we stop at station! Was never this
way even during war with the Hun. And we move like turtle
does. Four hours once it took to go three verstsl I leave Koslov
two weeks already, and today I am here only. Perhaps I will
get to Novorossiisk never I "
"Countess, one must not despair," Kink said. "That's a
rule we have here. And now we will leave you to your toilette.
The lav is to your right. Tea will be served in the lounge car
in thirty minutes/'
Kink hustled me down the corridor with his finger to his
lips. In the vestibule he did a little jig of victory and anticipa-
tion. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and gave me his
somber look. I sighed, knowing there was a "little request"
coming.
"Bunny, old man," he said. "I want your assistance in a
certain delicate matter. You owe me a favor remember that
destructive steer of yours. Now there's a southbound coach
scheduled to pass through tomorrow afternoon. I'd prefer
that the countess didn't catch it."
"Why?" I asked.
It was his turn to sigh. "Oh, come now. Try to be cynical
for a moment. What possible motive could I have?"
"Oh," I said.
"Precisely."
"But Kink," I said, "what if she decides to stay on for a
while? You might not be able to get rid of her so easily."
"She's got a husband waiting for her in Novorossiisk,
165
hasn't she? What makes you think she'll want to stay on for
more than a couple of days?"
"I don't know. Maybe she hasn't got a husband waiting
for her. Maybe she does and she's not all that anxious to see
him. Kink, you better be careful. There's something about
this baryshnia I just don't like. And suppose Olga finds out?
These Russian girls will scratch your eyes out if they catch
you cheating."
"Am I married to Olga? Listen, leave it to me. Are you
going to help a friend out or not?"
I told him I would, and he gave me instructions. Tomorrow
afternoon I was to take the Countess on a picnic on the
steppe. Cowderdrill would pack a hamper and I could take
the van. I was to return no sooner than three o'clock; by that
time, allowing for delays, the train scheduled to arrive in
Kotluban at one o'clock would have come and gone.
"But Kink," I protested. "Who ever goes for a picnic on
the steppe? What if it rains? And what about the afternoon
patrol?"
"It's not going to rain and Charley tells me your spark
plugs need overhauling. In any case, you're excused from
patrol."
"But why me? Why not Tommy, or Eddie, or Bill?"
"Bunny, you're in love. You're the only one I can trust
with Nona." He left me, whistling The Pilot's Lament.
Nina was on duty that night and didn't come to dinner;
nor did I see her later on in the evening. That made it easier.
Over dessert I broached the picnic to Nona, and after a
curious look at Kink, she accepted my invitation. At noon
the next day Cowderdrill had ready a hamper of cold fowl,
hard-boiled eggs, and a bottle of Crimean wine. It was a
beautiful, cloudless day with that peculiarly golden light that
falls over the steppe in the week or two before winter arrives
in earnest. It was cool, but not too cool. I had to admit it
was a fine day for a picnic.
We got back a few minutes after three. Cowderdrill was
outside with Clarence, who greeted Nona effusively, pushing
166
his snout up her skirts. She kicked him away and hurried up
the steps into the Pullman.
I gave Clarence a neckrub and he grunted with pleasure.
"Tsaritsyn train's been and gone, sir," Cowderdrill said,
"though beggin' your indulgence, I wish the lady'd caught
it. I don't like them that mistreats an affectionate animal."
"Neither do I, sergeant," I said, and as the sergeant and
the pig disappeared into the train, sat down on a packing
case and lit a gasper. I let smoke and breath out in a long
sigh: it had been quite a picnic.
Nona had polished off most of the chicken and half of the
wine. Then, acting on an impression that Kink, having lost
interest in her, had turned her over to me, she had made it
clear that any advances I might make would not be rejected.
When I made it clear in my turn that I intended to make no
advances, she had lost her temper and demanded to be taken
back to the train. Only by inventing engine trouble could I
manage to get back after the Tsaritsyn train had left, and
Nona's complaints, while I poked around under the bonnet,
had not made pleasant listening.
I finished my cigarette and went to look for my girl.
Claudia was in the headquarters car. When I asked for
Nina she said she was on duty.
I glanced at the peg board. "The board says she's off. Are
you sure?"
She looked at me, I thought, strangely. "Wait," she said.
"I will see."
She came back alone. Nina had a headache and was lying
down. She wouldn't be able to see me.
I was puzzled. Nina had the constitution of a horse a
thoroughbred horse. She had never been indisposed in all
the time I had known her, except for, as she put it, "the
month that is my time."
"It's nothing serious?" I asked.
"Is headache," Claudia said, turning to her paper work.
"Will be better later on."
I asked her to tell Nina I'd be back again after dinner, and
167
went to my compartment. It was a mess, had been a mess
since Feodor had left me yesterday. I thought of Colly and
wondered if he were safely settled in the hospital at Tsarit-
syn. We would be getting word of his safe arrival any moment
now. Feodor should be back tomorrow, on the early morning
train.
I dozed off and was awakened a few minutes later by the
Flight's return. I got up and went out to the landing field.
Kink and Bill were helping Eddie across the field, with
Tommy following behind.
I ran towards them. God, had Eddie been hit?
When I reached them Eddie lifted his head and grinned
at me palely. "I'm all right, Bunny. Just got my shoulder
creased by a Bolshie bullet and lost a little blood. Kink shot
the bastard down."
Kink met my eyes, but with an effort. "We ran into a flight
of seven Red Spads. They ganged up on Eddie. His bus is
a sieve."
As we walked on to the hospital train, I didn't have to
remind Kink that had I been along today the odds against
us would have been more even. He'd never make the same
mistake again.
Alexandrovsky examined the bullet crease, bandaged it,
and recommended that Eddie stay out of action for a couple
of days. Kink, Eddie and Tommy went back to B Flight
train to see if there was any news from Colly, and I went
on looking for Nina.
I found her in the surgical ward, drying her hands on a
piece of waste. "Yes, Sasha?" she said coolly.
I moved to take her in my arms, but she pushed me away,
"Ninusha, Malenkaya Ustritsa, Little Oyster, what have
I done?"
Her lips were tight. "Please do not play the worldly one
with me. Have you no shame, to come looking for me after
what has occurred?"
"Nina, stop this nonsense. If you're speaking of the pic-
168
nic, and I assume you are, I was doing Kink a favor. He
didn't want the Countess to catch this afternoon's train.
Does that explain it?"
I could see that she was wavering, but she had suffered
too much to let me off as easily as all that. "You were away
three hours/' she said. "Much can happen between a man
and a wanton slut in three hours, especially when they are
in the middle of the steppe."
"You know nothing happened. Now stop it."
One of the doctors called to her from the ward.
"I must go now," she said.
"Will you come to dinner tonight?"
"I cannot, but thank you. I am taking Claudia's duty."
"I happen to know you're not. Claudia's on duty now."
She smiled. "All right, Sasha. I will come."
I reached for her, and one of her tears wet my cheek.
"You're a silly ustritsa/' I told her. "I adore you and
could touch no other woman. Do you believe that?"
She nodded doubtfully. The doctor called again. I whacked
her on the fanny and left the train.
When I came into the lounge car I knew something was
wrong; the boys had no drinks before them. The face Kink
raised to me was strained.
"Colly isn't in Tsaritsyn, and the hospital doesn't know
if his train got in or not."
"Damned incompetents!" barked Eddie.
"God's troth, I'll bet the Green Guards got the train,"
said Bill.
"Bull turds!" Kink snapped at him. "Makhno doesn't
put trains under his arm and carry them off. He loots, he
rapes, he takes a few paruski prisoners to fight for him. If
Makhno had stopped the train he would let it go on again,
and Colly would have made it to Tsaritsyn."
"Maybe he's holding him for ransom?" Tommy put in.
"Is not probable," Russky said. "Would not take sick man
who might die. British would accuse Makhno of killing
169
him. And Makhno fears British more than Whites and Reds
put together."
I asked Russky what he thought had happened.
"Is three main possibilities," he said. "One, train went
through Tsaritsyn before Feodor could get Colly off, and is
now on way to Ekat. Two, train has not yet got to Tsaritsyn
because of delays or Makhno. Three, Feodor has taken Colly
off."
"Why should he do that?" I asked.
"Maybe doctors all taken by Makhno and Feodor thinks
Colly has more chance off train in village. Kink gave him
money so he can pay. Maybe so many die in typhus ward
that Feodor frightened Colly would die there too."
Kink got up and began to pace the floor. "Colly in the
hands of that ignorant plenny who the Whites might jail
any minute; it makes me sick! God damn it, one of us
should have gone along with him!"
"Feodor may not have much education," I said, "but he's
smart as paint and he's loyal to the death. You know that,
Kink."
He made a gesture of apology and sat down again. "Sorry,
Bunny, you're right. Feodor's a jewel. It's just that this Colly
business has shot my nerves. And being cheek to jowl with
the hospital train's beginning to get me down. The death, the
suffering, the corpses! Do you know how many bodies the
Red Cross crew carted off into the steppe this morning?
Over forty. They were stacked like cordwood. And the
morning before it was thirty-five. Typhus, most of them. I
used to love Russia and the paruskies, now I'm beginning to
hate everything about the place and the people. They're
either beastly cruel like the Bolshies, or they're so weak-
livered, self-pitying and incompetent that you can under-
stand somebody like Ivan the Terrible or Lenin coming
along and cracking the whip to make them jump. They
crave the whip; that's the trouble. And these inhuman
steppes; they're so vast, so endless; they dwarf the personality
170
and make you feel like a bloody cipher. You get swallowed
up and vanish without a trace. Like Colly. I'll tell you this:
if Colly's dead I'm going to resign my commission and go
back home."
We knew he was only letting off steam; none of us could
resign our commissions. But we didn't dispute him, it was
good for him to get his frustrations off his chest. And I
thought of Nina; if it was tough for us, how difficult was it
for a young girl sheltered for all her life in the drawing
rooms and conservatories of upper-middle-class Russian life?
How could she stand the filth, the pain, the death? For her
it was never ending; no sooner would a bunk be empty than
a train from the front would bring more wounded to scream
and suppurate and die. That blankness in her eyes when she
came from a day or night of nursing and assisting in the
surgical ward was it her defense against death and the ter-
rible cheapness of it? It must be so, I thought, though I
had never discussed it with her. She never spoke of her work,
much as a soldier never speaks of the men he has killed in
battle.
Kink rang the Clerget bell and Cowderdrill scrambled
out of the pantry with Clarence at his heels.
"I understand that General Mudd's conscience rum has
arrived," Kink said. "Break it out, Cowderdrill, and make
us some hot toddies. It's chilly. We might as well be drunk
and warm at the same time." He glanced toward the fire-
place. "And get some coal from the tender and a batch of
those Denikin communiques we use as lav paper. We'll start
a fire."
"Yes, sir, right away, sir," Cowderdrill swallowed, "And,
um, sir, the Countess Nona has been asking for you. She'd
like you to come to her compartment."
Kink replied with an obscenity.
The toddies were excellent and the fireplace drew very
nicely; not a wisp of smoke escaped into the lounge. But
we were all too grim to feel the rum and after a while, one
171
by one, we made excuses and left for our compartments, ex-
cept for Russky, who had picked up a copy of La Vie Paris-
ienne and was reading it with his usual absorption.
"My God, Russky," I said, "don't you ever get tired of
sex?"
He smiled sadly. "When my heart is melancholy it gives
me how you say it? the uppick. I think if I live through
the war of how many beautiful baryshnias I will meet and it
makes me feel better."
"I thought you had a pretty fiancee and were going to
marry her after we take Moscow?"
"Oh, but I will. Is only that your comrades they have
corrupted me" he tapped his blond head "in the intel-
lect. In the body I do not intend to do much bad but the
mind it is lustful. You have read the Confessions of Rous-
seau? He speaks of same phenomenon. In chapter five "
"Russky," I interrupted him hastily, "we'll talk about it
later."
I just didn't feel like an intellectual conversation.
After dinner the gloom was still thick in the lounge. Nona
retired early, with a headache, and was followed shortly by
Kink, who complained that Cowderdrill's beef Stroganoff
had upset his stomach. Nina and I were next to go, taking
the checkerboard with us to my compartment.
We didn't play long: as soon as Nina saw she was losing,
she threw all her counters away in typical Russian fashion,
in a series of wild, desperate moves.
"It is boring to lose always," she said, and knocking the
board aside, sat down in my lap.
When I tried to kiss her she put her fingers to my lips.
"Shush," she whispered, "I am listening."
From Kink's next door compartment came a giggle and
the rustle of shed clothing.
"Don't be indecent," I told her. "Kink deserves his priv-
acy. Would you like him to listen to us?"
172
"But Sasha, of course he listens. And if he does, why
should I not listen to him?"
"You're not supposed to be interested in Sam Kinkead."
She kissed me swiftly. "I am not. I am interested in you,
my shy soldier. And I hate that woman," she said without
transition, "she who has taken him away from Olga, who
now is miserable."
"Olga shouldn't have fallen for him. Kink told her not to,
he doesn't owe her a thing. And anyway, as soon as Nona
leaves hell take up with Olga again. Nona's just for the
scented moment."
She laughed. "Oh, you men, you are so stupid! Do you
think he will get rid of her so easily? No, the trollop will be
with Kink for the rest of the war, unless she finds someone
better. A colonel, or a general, with a private coach."
"Nona says she's got a rich man wating for her in Novo-
rossiisk."
"That is kavardak" Her grey eyes were wistful. "But
I envy her. She will be seeing you when I am gone. Soon,
skoro budet, will be our parting, Sasha. I know it."
"Seychas budet will be our parting," I said. Seychas budet
in Russian meant instantaneoulsy, but we of B Flight used
it in our own ironical, private sense to mean never. It was
one of our comments on Russia and the Russian character.
She squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. "No, Sasha, do not
joke. I have the certainty that we will be separated soon.
Last night I woke up with the most terrible dream."
"It must have been indigestion."
"No, it was the truth. In the dream our trains were on
the same track, going to the same destination, and then you
were switched off to another track and went off in the op-
posite direction, so fast that we did not have a chance to say
good-by."
"Ninusha, dreams are only an expression of our fears.
They don't necessarily tell us our futures."
"I believe that they do."
173
It suited me at the moment to be above such superstition
kavardak. "My little oyster," I said, "you are half Russian,
half Christian, half Tartar and half saint. And I don't know
which half of you I adore the most."
She gripped my tunic lapels tightly. "Do you love me
really, Sasha? If I was sure of that I would have more hope."
"I love you beyond description."
"With you it is not like Kink? If a volupte baryshnia came
along you would not forget me?"
"You are everything voluptuous to me, tsaritsa moevo
serdtsa. You are passion and sweetness and goodness and all
my hope. My present and my future both. How could I for-
get?"
"Then prove it to me, Sasha," she said. Take away my fear."
If I had known that now was the only time we were to
have for love and loving I could not have proved it to her
better.
Three days later General Holman, and one of his staff
officers, Colonel Bingham, arrived in Kotluban with two
pieces of news.
One was very good news. Colly was safe at the hospital
in Novocherkassk. Feodor hadn't taken him off at Tsarit-
syn; there had been a pitched battle going on in the train-
yards between a band of Bolshie saboteurs and a sotnia of
Cossacks, and the engineer had gone on through with his
throttle wide. When he stopped ten miles outside the city
to let his Tsaritsyn passengers off there had been no stretch-
ers available for the wounded and the ill, and Feodor had
decided to take Colly on to Novorcherkassk.
It had been a lucky decision, Holman told us. The Tsarit-
syn hospital was jammed with wounded and typhus-stricken
and for several days had been out of drugs. It was unlikely
that Colly would have survived there. But the journey to
Novocherkassk had been no picnic, and Colly had told
Feodor that he could stand the filthy, stench-ridden typhus
174
ward no longer. Feodor had taken him off the train at a small
station stop while the orderlies were dragging out the
corpses of the typhus victims who had died the night before.
Standing on the station platform was a Russian woman
who had met Colly in Ekat. She brought Colly and Feodor
to her house in the village and nursed Colly through the
worst of the disease. When he was able to be moved, Feodor
had taken him to the Novocherkassk hospital. The doctors
said he would be up and around in a week or two. Feodor,
Holman added, was on his way back to Kotluban now.
"Good man, that little plenny" the General said. "If the
Whites had more like him they'd win the war hands down."
We were still beaming when Holman dropped his heavy
bomb. The R.A.F.'s war in South Russia was over. An air
ministry order had come through ordering all British com-
bat units to leave; only the instructional mission would re-
main with Denikin's armies.
Kink broke the stunned silence. "Sir, do you happen to
know why?"
"The War Office gave no reasons, Major, it never does,"
said Holman, "but I can guess. Public opinion in Britain
is thoroughly against this war, and now that the French have
pulled out the government is more reluctant than ever to
pursue it. That Sherwood-Kellogg letter in the Daily Express
against the war didn't help much, either. Winston Churchill's
the only man who seems to see the Bolshevik threat, and
Lloyd George keeps shouting him down."
"But we're doing so well at the moment," Kink said.
"Kolchak's just reoccupied Tobolsk, and the Poles are push-
ing into Red territory; Denikin's knocking at the gates of
Voronezh. And Yudenitch is about to attack Petrograd. Why,
the Whites have almost a third of European Russia within
their lines!"
"There's a possibility," the General said, "that a contin-
ued White advance would change the War Office's mind;
the fact that we've been ordered to evacuate gradually rather
175
than immediately seems to indicate that. But meanwhile
these are our orders." He grinned. "However, gentlemen,
they are not necessarily your orders. Colonel Bingham, will
you describe the volunteer plan?"
Bingham, a quiet man with fine eyes, put down his tum-
bler of Scotch. "Gentlemen, Colonel Collishaw pleaded so
hard from his hospital bed that Squadron 47 be kept at the
front, that General Holman has arranged to attach it as a
unit to Wrangel's Army, provided enough men volunteer
for continued service. Several men in A and C Flights elected
to go home, but if B Flight is unanimous to stay, Wrangel
will have a close-to-strength squadron."
"I know all of us want to see the war through, General,"
Kink told Holman. "I don't need to poll the officers. But if
you'll excuse me, I'll call the enlisted men to formation and
get their votes."
Not a single one of B Flight's ninety-odd enlisted men
failed to volunteer. Kink's voice broke as he gave the results
to Holman before he and Bingham boarded their private
train for the return trip to Taganrog. We knew the news of
B Flight's loyalty would be good medicine for Colly.
That night we had a special prazdnik to celebrate Colly's
recovery and our narrow escape from recall. With us was a
special guest, the female leader of a Cossack sotnia on its way
to join Wrangel at the Saratov front. Katrina Kovich and
her men had fought with us against Budenny in the ravines
beyond Tsaritsyn.
When I told Nina that Squadron 47 had almost been sent
home she burst into tears and simultaneously hugged me,
overjoyed.
"I am sad because you are not out of danger and happy
because we are together still. Is that selfish, Sasha? Are you
disgusted with me?"
"I'm used to your Russian extremes. Now dry those eyes
and come over and meet Kitty of the Kuban, our guest of
honor."
176
Nina made a face. "The woman who is dressed like a Cos-
sack man?"
I tried to frown. "Don't be jealous of a pretty girl who's
fighting for her country. Besides, she's no competition. She
and Tommy are already a duet." On the lounge opposite us
Kitty, a good looking, dark and extremely vital young girl,
sat tete a tete with an enraptured Tommy, while Russky
acted as interpreter.
"Yes," Nina said, mollified, "she is attracting. You will
introduce us, Sasha?"
Kitty's soft voice and agreeable femininity made it almost
impossible to believe she was a soldier, but this was a strange
country which bred even stranger women. Once in Tsaritsyn
a slip of a Cossack girl had been pointed out to me as a vet-
eran of one of the Don cavalry brigades. I couldn't believe
that Denikin had awarded her the St. George Cross for
sabering three Red machine gunners, pistolling two more,
and then, under heavy fire, binding the wounds of her squad.
Through Russky Kitty told me that she knew all of us
from that day on the steppe when we had routed Budenny
and saved the Cossacks from encirclement and annihilation.
Was it not Kink who wore the little flag on his aeroplane? I
told her that the little flag she referred to was Kink's flight
commander's streamers which flew from either wing strut
of his ship.
Kink left Nona and came over to propose a toast to our
charming visitor. Nona, temporarily in the background,
poutingly cranked up the Victrola and put on a turkey trot.
I turned to see Sergeant Hoskins in the doorway, trying to
get Kink's attention, and went over to see what he had on
his mind.
"Pardon, sir, for disturbing you, but one of the freights
has caught fire."
I alerted Kink, and we of B Flight piled out after him
down the track. The crisis was real. Our terminal boxcar
was blazing. It was empty except for crates and boxes, and
177
constituted no great danger in itself. The trouble was that
it was next to one of the ammunition cars, and the coupling
was badly jammed.
While Hoskins and his men tried to put out the boxcar
fire, Kink and I set to work with a sledge and a crowbar to
get the link and pin coupling unjammed. Russky, Tommy
and Bill held back the crowd of refugees, who had no idea
of the seriousness of the situation and were frankly enjoying
the whole business. It was a relief from the boredom that
plagued them worse than hunger.
Sparks rained down as we worked at the coupling; Hos-
kins wasn't having much luck with the fire. We had too little
water to fight it effectively.
"Bozhe moi;' Kink said, his face streaming with sweat,
"if we don't do the job in the next five minutes the heat's
going to drive us away. And if that happens at least ten
cars are going to go up in the blast. All our liquor, food and
winter clothes. Holman will reduce me to the bloody ranks.
Put some muscle on that crowbar, man!"
"I'm with you, kunak. Let's try the sledge again."
It took us another ten minutes, and the heat seared our
faces and necks like a dragon's breath, but under the ham-
mer blows the coupling finally shattered. Kink yelled for
Hoskins and his men to join us, and together we pushed
the burning freight a hundred yards down the tracks. More
than one of us singed our hands doing it.
We were walking away from the blazing car when Tommy
suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead. "Lord, Kink, I
forgot to tell you! There's a hundred and twelve pound
bomb aboard that freight! I planned on unloading it to-
morrow. Runl Run for your bloody lives!"
We ran. We were seventy-five yards away when the bomb
exploded, and the concussion knocked us flat on the ground.
Flaming debris fell and floated down around us. Kink was
the last to get up; he lay on the cinderbed for quite some
time, drumming his fingers on the ground.
178
I offered him a Gold Flake. He looked at all of us in
turn, except Tommy. Then he said, very quietly, "Anybody
got a match?"
Later that night Nina suddenly stopped rubbing oint-
ment into the superficial burns I had sustained from the
blazing freight and sat bolt upright on the bunk.
"What's the matter?" I asked her.
She frowned. "I am thinking that I would not fit as the
wife of a how do you call it? rancher," she said. "I am
almost positive."
I was both amused and relieved; relieved it wasn't gloom
and doom she was talking, but of our future, in however
perverse a way. I knew she was only waiting for me to reas-
sure her our life together, after the war, would be all Cali-
fornia sunshine, oranges, and love.
I frowned too. "Why are you so positive?" I said, going
along with it.
"For one thing, you have no Russian Orthodox Church
in the Chocolate Mountains."
"Nina," I reminded her. "I don't live in the Chocolate
Mountains. The town of El Centro is below the Chocolates,
in the Imperial Valley."
"Khorosho, then in your village of El Centro."
I let the insult pass. "It's true there's no Russian church in
El Centro, but every Sunday I'll fly you to Los Angeles in
my private plane. I promise. There's bound to be a Russian
church in Los Angeles."
"Sasha, do not joke, I am serious. From what you have
told me of the ranch, I know there are no luxuries. Now I
wish to warn you. I come from a bourgeois family of much
solidity and this perhaps may be a source of friction between
us."
"You mean the inconvenience of an outhouse?"
She blushed, being at the moment not a nurse but a pros-
pective bride. "Yes. Is it not very uncomfortable to live on
179
a ranch which does not have the conveniences? Especially in
the cold weather?"
I sat up on the bunk and pretended anger. "Now look
here, Ninusha. A rancher needs an honest to goodness wife
who doesn't mind getting her hands dirty, not a choosy,
complaining aristocrat who spends all her time at the hair-
dresser's and at church."
She bridled. "Ekh, you are doing me a favor? Remember,
the Anohinas are important people in Rostov. They are
not peasants but people of means. My father was a Council-
lor, and once he met the Czar I"
"Well, damn it, the Atens aren't peasants either!" I tried
to keep my face straight. "We're good Dutch and Scotch-
Irish stock, and you won't find a book on Texas history that
doesn't have my father in it."
Her face was white. "Sasha, do not swear at me."
"Dammit, I'm not swearing!" I laughed and reached for
her. "You little foolish oyster, don't you know I'm kidding?"
She held away from me a little. "What is kidding?"
"The great American occupation. Chaffing you along,
teasing."
She looked at me gravely. "Then you do not mean what
you said? You would not mistreat me on the ranch? I would
be a lady?"
"I'd beat you very seldom, and you'd always be a lady, yes."
She kissed my shoulder, near the burn, and turned her
earnest face to me. "Sasha, I do not mean to make de-
mands, to be difficult. It is only that I think that if we talk
about certain things they will come true. It makes them
more real. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"So. How is it where you are burned?"
"Better. Your touch healed it."
I tried to take her in my arms, but she eluded me. "No,
you must sleep now."
"Ninusha, I'm perfectly all right, believe me."
180
She kissed me on the forehead and moved to the door. "I
must start now being a lady. Goodnight, Sasha." The door
closed behind her.
Russian temperament, I thought, sighing, and turned out
the light.
Next morning, when I came into the mess car for break-
fast, Kitty and Tommy were holding hands on the lounge.
Beside them sat Russky, his hair disheveled and his eyes
gummed with sleep. Good Lord, I thought, they'd gotten him
out of bed to interpret for them. I wondered if he had been
on call during the night.
Tommy looked up at me glumly. "I keep telling her I
mean Russky does for me that war isn't for women, and
she keeps telling me to give up flying and come along with
her sotnia for much adventure."
I got myself a cup of tea at the buffet. "Why don't you
offer to teach her how to fly? There's no reason why a woman
can't join this crazy outfit. Tell her that a Vickers on a
Camel can mow down more Bolshies in five minutes than
a Cossack sabre can account for in a week."
Russky duly translated, stifling a yawn, and Kitty smiled
and answered back in Russian. Russky translated for her:
"I will make bargain with Tommy. When we are in Mos-
cow and the war is won, he will teach me how to fly. Until
then is better he fly aeroplanes and I with my Cossacks
ride."
"Tommy," I told him, "you've got a reasonable woman
here, besides a looker. She'll keep you on the straight and
narrow. Better marry her before you explode another freight
and Kink ships you back to Blighty."
"I've already proposed to her," Tommy said. He shook
his head. "She wants to wait till the war's over."
"And a damn good thing!" Kink shouted from the door-
way. "Burns-Thompson, if you complicate my life again
I'll drop you in the middle of Moscow and watch you
181
bouncel I mean it!" He stalked to the buffet, and I could
hear him muttering, "Damn pipsqueak lovers. Sex is for
the mature. Youngsters can't handle it worth a damn. . . ."
His entrance speech had awakened Russky abruptly.
"What to translate next?" he asked Tommy anxiously.
"There is something that I miss?"
Kitty got up from the lounge. She must go, she said; her
troop was waiting. She thanked us for our hospitality. We
would meet again in Moscow, God willing, and until then,
do svidaniya.
She kissed Kink, Russky and I, and we kissed her back
with enthusiasm, not just because this was a kissing country
but because she was such a good-looking girl. Then she and
Tommy disappeared into the vestibule for their private
good-by.
Through the window we could see Kitty's sotnia lined up
outside on the steppe in four rows of twenty-five horsemen
each. The Cossacks cracked their nagaikas as their animals
neighed in the icy air; a few of the men, from sheer excess of
good spirits, fired pistols.
"Is very fine specimens of men," said Russky. "Did you
know that first Cossacks would plunge their new male babies
into snowdrifts? All survived, became fighting Cossacks. All
who did not. . . ." He didn't have to finish the sentence.
"I'd hate to marry a girl who flew better than I did," Kink
said. "If Tommy does latch up with that female Cossack
after this war, which I don't anticipate for a second, mind
you, he'll have to be the best damn soldier in his wing.
Which, of course, I don't anticipate either."
Kitty emerged from the vestibule, blew Tommy a fare-
well kiss, and leapt up gracefully into the saddle of her
mare. With a wave of her hand she signalled the sotnia for-
ward. Shouting "Na Moskvu! Na Moskvu!" they swept over
the frost-whitened steppe toward Saratov. It was a stirring
sight.
Tommy slumped back into the lounge. "The first girl
182
I've ever really loved, and she has to be a soldier. You know,
chaps, that hardly makes you feel like a man/'
"You felt like one last night," Kink snapped at him. "Those
sounds from your compartment proved it. . . And that's
enough sentiment before breakfast. Get snapping on those
eggs of yours. We've got a patrol this morning, and I'm going
to get you bastards back before it snows. Where's Daley and
Fulford? Still sleeping? Dammit, they bribe their batmen to
let them get an extra forty winks. This isn't a squadron, it's a
damn hotel!" Cursing, he left the lounge to rout out Eddie
and Bill.
It was a fairly eventful patrol. We bombed out a bridge
above Balashov, and then sighted an armored train a mile
or so beyond the bridge, running for safety at full throt-
tle.
Coming in on the bronevik we noticed that their guns
lacked sufficient declination to get us in their sights if we
flew level with the train. We dove, and leveling out close to
the fleeing engine and the turreted cars, slowed down to their
speed and chased them along the road bed.
The firemen shoveled coal frantically, the engineer's head
popped turtlelike in and out of his window. We played with
them, slowing down and letting the train run ahead, then
catching up again. Kink waved in friendly fashion to the
engineer, but the man must have been a fanatic Bolshie: he
made an indecent gesture and spat.
Then the game was over. Kink signaled for us to form
a line, and climbing above our bombs' concussion range, we
laid our sights along the train. Wiggling his wings, Kink
went in against a hail of lead and dropped his eggs. His ac-
curacy was, as usual, phenomenal. We followed in close
order, scoring several hits. The train rolled off the rails and
lay on its side, smoking.
We reformed and headed for home. Flying right wing,
I was first to see the convoy of red-starred lorries crawling
over the rough road that led from Balashov to Rtishevo.
183
I signaled to Kink, climbed to get a longer interval of
fire in my dive, and then went down in leisurely fashion,
Vickers chattering.
My guns were raking the convoy and doing a nice bit of
damage, but when I tried to pull out of the dive I couldn't;
my metal map case had fallen off its hooks and jammed the
stick. I had about eight seconds to think of where I would
crash the plane, and, if I came out of the crash alive, whether
I could get the contents of my morphine vial down before
the Bolshies arrived and put a gun in my back.
A tarpaulin peeled off and a heavy machine gun opened
up at point blank range. A bullet sang through the bottom
wing and nicked my main spar. Another tore a jagged hole
in the starboard aileron. A cut fuselage bracing wire set up
a hum that tickled my spihe like an electric vibrator. All in
five seconds, or six.
I thought of Nina, absurdly of how she lost at checkers,
and it seemed to give me strength and luck. The stick came
free when I kicked at it a last, desperate time, and I zoomed
up and over the lorries. Three machine guns and fifty rifles
threw lead in search of my guts. Men in heavy brown wool
uniforms ducked as I passed over them at a dozen feet.
And then Flight B was on my tail, scattering the column,
and I was homeward bound. Back at the field Charley
counted thirteen bullet holes in my fuselage.
Kink came over, scowling, "Dammit, Bunny, I told you
to have those map hooks fixed and you didn't."
My mouth dropped open foolishly; though his X-ray eyes
had seen through my plane to other operating deficiencies
in the past, Kink's talent for diagnosis never failed to amaze
me. He always knew what had gone wrong, sometimes be-
for you did. This time his omniscience annoyed me, and I
was still a little peeved at the way he had spoken to Tommy
this morning, so I said: "It wasn't the map case. It was the
stick itself that jammed."
Kink looked at me steadily and said, "You know, Bunny,
184
if you weren't my friend, I'd say you were a liar." Then he
walked away.
"Call me a liar, Charley/' I said to my mechanic.
Charley sighed. "I know, sir, ain't it a caution? Sometimes
I wonder if that man ain't God."
On the morning we turned out for Russky's flying debut
on Camels the steppe was white as far as we could see; last
night the first snow had fallen, not in quantity, but enough
to let us know we had left only a few weeks at most of reg-
ular flying weather. With the advent of the heavy snows
there would be no more Bolshie planes spinning downward
like tops whipped by our ingenuity and craft; no more drop-
ping of our deadly eggs on the skillets of the broneviks; no
more winging back at twilight with the knowledge of a job
worth doing well done on a bridge, a crossroads, an antlike
pullulation of brown-uniformed men blindly and obscenely
bound on our destruction.
When Feodor brought in my tea that morning and I lifted
the shade to glance outside, a desolation had settled over me,
as white and shroudlike as the snow. Somehow I had known
that we would never fly again, white eagles in a red dawn;
the part we had played was done, and our guns were muted.
Come next spring the war would be over, for good or ill. And
with the war our adventure, and with our adventure, our
youth.
"God's troth, but you're pensive, Bunny," Bill Daley said.
"Didn't you hear what I said?"
"Sorry, Bill. I was thinking winter thoughts."
"I asked if you thought Russky was going to make it."
"He will, but I don't see what difference it makes, except
to Russky. We've had about our last patrol for the winter,
and Kink knows jit. If Russky crashes it won't be from a
Bolshie bullet."
"You think Kink warned him about the right hand turn?"
Bill fretted as Kink and Eddie strapped Russky into the cock-
185
pit. "Or about the throttle and adjustment levers? Russky
ought to watch the gun butts on landing, or otherwise he'll
bash in that perfect Roman nose."
"Don't worry your head/' I assured him. But I was more
than a little apprehensive myself. Kink had surely read
Russky the book on flying a Camel, but that didn't mean
Russky had listened to him carefully. A Camel was a tricky
machine, less nervous than a Nieup and more solid on
frozen ground, but it had a whole set of neurotic symptoms
of its own. It was more stable on its back than in normal
flying position. In the right-hand turn, unless you were quick
on opposing rudder, the nose dropped with incredible speed
and pulled the ship into a power spin. If you manipulated
your throttle and adjustment levers improperly you stalled
the engine. There was a definite art to "blipping" the engine,
switching it on and off to control your average speed. On
landing, if you had a nose-in crash, you were thrown for-
ward and bashed your nose against the gun-butts. Such facial
damage was usually permanent, and before the afternoon
was over Russky stood a good chance of ending up with a
disfiguring "Camel Face."
Kink and Eddie joined us at the field's edge as two me-
chanics kicked chocks under the wheels of Russky's under-
carriage. Charley, the third mechanic, his hands on the prop,
called out, "Petrol on! Switch off! Suck in, sir!"
Russky moved his throttle forward and repeated, "Petrol
on! Switch off!"
Charley swung the prop to "suck in" the fuel mixture.
Then he called out, "Contact!"
"Contact!" Russky repeated, and the air was filled with
the bittersweet stench of half-burned castor oil.
The rotary engine roared, then idled into a mutter that
lasted for about a minute. Russky opened the throttle grad-
ually until the engine roared again steadily, whereupon he
throttled it down again.
He waved his arm from right to left, in the signal that
meant "Cast off the chocks."
The two mechanics removed the chocks, and Russky, his
nose pointing into the wind, leapt forward, rising smoothly
and well to meet the morning.
All was well until he made a turn over our heads, leveling
with such a jerk that the ship turned in the opposite direc-
tion.
But the mistake wasn't fatal. Russky's pilot instinct got
him out of it, and he came in on a steep glide to land.
"Oh Lord, he isn't changing his angle of descent," Kink
groaned. He signaled to Russky wildly, but if he was look-
ing he paid no attention; his under-carriage hit the ground
at too sharp an angle and he bounced once, twice, up into
the air, sending the frost and dirt flying. Pulling on his stick
he was off again, going five miles in a straight line before he
turned around and came back to taxi in.
This time he made the same kind of landing, only a little
worse. His left wheel wobbled off as he came to a stop, and
we rushed up to the plane to see the total damage.
Russky lifted his goggles gaily. "Kink," he said, "what is
the matter with altimeter? I watch closely like you said and
when I come down very close to ground it say one hundred
feet."
Kink paled. "Do you mean to say you landed by looking
at your altimeter instead of at the ground?"
Russky looked at him, puzzled. "Of course, I watch all
the time and it say one hundred feet. Altimeter no bloody
good."
"Russky," Kink said very slowly, "for your information
the altimeter doesn't register under one hundred feet. I
thought you knew that."
Russky ignored the implied criticism. He smiled beatifi-
cally. "I forget. Now I go with you and boys on patrol?"
The look Kink gave him was full of sorrow. "No, you're
officially grounded. I can't trust that literal mind of yours.
If you got Bill's red Camel in your sights you'd shoot it down
because red's the Bolshie color. Now isn't that true?"
"Oh, no," Russky protested. "I know Bill flies Camel
187
with red wingtips and I would look at his face very careful
to make sure before I shoot. Oh, very careful, indeed."
Next morning I woke to hear Nina arguing with Feodor
in the passageway outside my compartment door about
who was to serve the captain's tea. There was something
about her voice, not precisely lack of animation, not pre-
cisely stubborn quietness, that alarmed me, and I shouted
for Feodor to give her the mug and go about his busi-
ness.
She came in, her eyes not meeting mine, and I knew what
had happened. The hospital train was moving; she was
going away.
She gave me the tea and sat down on the edge of the
bunk. I gave the mug back to her and she set it on the floor.
I said, "When?"
"Now. I have only minutes."
"So soon?"
"We would have left two days ago, except that the major
could not get a locomotive engineer."
"Where are you going? To the Astrakhan front?"
She shook her head. "To Orel, to receive the wounded
from Kutepov's army."
I felt numb. She was getting into the thick of it.
"Do you know how long you'll be there?"
"No. The doctor's orders merely say that we should pro-
ceed as soon as possible toward Kharkov."
I took her hand, which was very cold. "It won't be too
long, Ninusha. This war can't last more than another five or
six months."
She smiled faintly. "And then we will meet in Moscow?"
"Then we will meet in Moscow, for a victory celebration.
And we will stay at the best hotel, the National, on Gorky
Street, not over the kitchen, and take droshkey rides and go
to see the animals at the zoo and have every hour and every
minute to ourselves."
188
"Oh, Sasha," she said, and the tears came, and I held her
close.
"All isn't lost, Ninusha," I said. "We're both alive. Our
flying operations are about finished for the winter. Who
knows what can happen?"
"Yes, that is the trouble. Who knows?"
"You mustn't be a pessimist."
"I think we are parted, Sasha. For all time."
"Kavardak, and you know it. A good-by isn't a parting
but a good-by."
"Please kiss me, Sasha, very hard. So that I can take with
me the taste of your kisses. And handle me, roughly, so that
I can bring with me the feel of your hands."
After a moment I got up and began to get dressed. "I'll
see you off," I told her, but in that instant the whistle blew
from the hospital train. Nina said, "There is no time. You
must watch from the window."
She came back into my arms and pressed her cheek against
mine, and then she rustled swiftly from the compartment.
Soot belched from the smokestack; the hospital train was
already switched onto the main, southbound track to Tsarit-
syn, and about to start. I watched through the window as
Alexandrovsky helped Nina up the steps to one of the vesti-
bule platforms. She turned and waved, and then the train
gathered speed slowly and took her away.
I looked up to see Feodor standing in the doorway with
another mug of tea.
"Spasibo, Feodor," I said, and took it from him.
It was strong and bitter.
Feodor shut the door behind him. I sat there in pajamas
arid socks, staring at the carpet where it was fraying slightly
in the middle of the floor.
189
Book TV
The Retreat
Chapter Eight
It was as if, with Nina's departure, mercy left us and the
sky fell in.
There had been signs of the approaching disaster; though
Denikin took Orel and Novosil, only two hundred miles
south of Moscow, on October i3th, the Reds occupied Kiev
two days later, and for some days previous troop trains from
Saratov had been passing Kotluban on their way to Tsaritsyn.
It was obvious the Saratov front was pulling back, and Colly
wired Kink from Taganrog to get ready to withdraw with
it. Trotsky, he said, was battering at the junction between
Sidorin's Army of the Don and the Voronezh-Lisky front of
the Volunteer Army, and now B Flight would probably be
attached, along with units of Wrangel's troops, to Mai-
Maievsky's Volunteers. B Flight would be more valuable in
the open field, assuming the heavy snows held off, than in
defending Tsaritsyn.
We went to work dismantling the Camels and the hangars
and loading them onto the flats.
There was more bad news on the igth. Trotsky, with an
overwhelming numerical advantage in men, had split open
the Don- Volunteer junction. The Whites were evacuating
Kursk and Orel in a hurry.
"The chickens are coming home to roost," Kink said, "ex-
cept that they look more like buzzards. If Denikin had taken
193
Wrangel's advice and concentrated heavy cavalry strength
around Kharkov, as an army of maneuver, we wouldn't be in
this pickle today."
"When Yudenitch take Petrograd," Russky said hopefully,
"situation changes."
"Not enough," Kink told him. "Denikin's spread his lines
too thin. It's like holding a broken dike. You can stop a leak
at one point, but the water's going to come through at a
dozen other places. Do you realize how badly we're out-
numbered by the Reds? The effective White forces, including
the Cossacks, are about a hundred thirty thousand men. The
Reds have one hundred eighty thousand, and huge reserves.
On Mai-Maievsky's front it's twenty thousand men against
fifty."
Russky had no answer to that.
A few days later Kink came into the lounge car with a Red
communiqu6 dated October 22nd. Russky translated and
handed his pencil scrawl around:
On all fronts our enemies are retreating. Kolchak's rout is near.
Archangel will be ours in the course of a few weeks. Our aim is
no longer to defend Petrograd, but definitely to crush Yudenitch.
In two or three more weeks we shall have finished with him.
On the southern front we have learned the art of fighting
against the enemy's methods. Denikin's position is hopeless.
Our forces and our reserves have increased to such an extent
that victory is certain.
"Is merely propaganda," Russky said contemptuously.
"Yudenitch will take Petrograd. We will rally, the morale will
improve. Is still chance Moscow by Christmas."
Eddie finished his rum toddy. "I've only one thing to say
to that, Russky. Those fingernails of that Shkura Wolf you
met in Tsaritsyn last month must be growing as long as
regret."
On the 28th, the day that Yudenitch suffered an over-
whelming defeat at Petrograd, Colly wired orders for B
Flight to proceed immediately to Kharkov. There we would
194
join the Volunteer Army under Mai-Maievsky. Four of
Wrangel's Kuban cavalry divisions, Colly said, were being
shifted from the Caucasian Army's right flank to help the
hard-pressed Volunteers.
Though we hated leaving Wrangel's command, we wel-
comed the promise of action; and there was no doubt that
we would be more valuable to an offensive force than to an
army in retreat. For me the news was at least half wonderful.
I might be seeing Nina, and much sooner than I'd expected.
"What's our route?" I asked Kink quickly.
"From Tsaritsyn east on the lateral route to Debaltsevo,"
Kink answered my question, "and from there to Rostov
and Taganrog. At Taganrog we'll go north again, to Kharkov,
by way of Kupyansk."
If Alexandrovsky's train hadn't already left the Kharkov
front, I thought, we might be running into it on the leg from
Debaltsevo to Kharkov.
"All right, Bunny," Kink said, "Get that ineffable look off
your face. It sickens the soldier in me."
We left Kotluban at noon of October agth, on the express
track with official right of way through to Rostov. It was
a seven-day trip that in ordinary times would have been
no more than two, but even with a clear track there were
delays; the refugee exodus had begun from north to south,
and when we came to a siding or a junction, refugees
waiting for a southbound train would beseech us for a place
on the boxcars, on the flats, for a handhold on the roofs. The
terror and desperation of these people, most of them with
infants or children in arms, was pitiful, and it upset Kink
to refuse them. For most of the trip he was in a vile mood,
snapping at us and ignoring Nona. H even moved her to
another compartment.
In retaliation the Countess threatened to leave at the first
opportunity. That was all right with Kink; he wanted no-
thing better than to get rid of her. He was back at war in
earnest and a woman was superfluous, especially one who
195
complained about the food and expected Ivan to do her less
personal laundry.
"Dammit," I heard him shouting at her, "when I look at
you I can understand the Bolshies! Don't you understand that
people weren't put on this earth merely for your conven-
ience?"
"Chart evo poberi!" she shouted back, telling him to go to
hell. "You are nothing but a stupid bourgeois! A mere
Major! Sometime I will find a man who appreciates beauti-
ful woman and treats her well."
"Madam," Kink told her coldly, "your conversation im-
plies a certain assumption of permanence aboard this train.
Let it be understood that you're going no farther than Ros-
tov, and you're perfectly free to get off before then if you
choose. And if a general's coach should come by I'll be de-
lighted to flag it down and recommend you in the highest
terms. If I weren't a gentleman, I'd throw you out now, bag
and baggage."
Though we stopped briefly at Tsaritsyn, Nona made no
effort to get off there, and we guessed we were stuck with
her till we hit the Black Sea ports.
The news we heard en route to Rostov was all bad. Kol-
chak had evacuated Omsk and, except around Kharkov,
Denikin's armies were in full retreat; the Hampshires had
sailed from Vladivostock for home. There were a number of
wild rumors: the Reds had slaughtered the entire population
of Kotluban because the angliski airmen had had their base
there; there had been a revolution in the United States, and
President Wilson had joined forces with the Bolsheviks
and was about to declare war on Britain, Poland and the
Ukraine.
I kept peering out the window for Nina's train. Though
she was probably still at Kharkov, I had become obsessed
with the thought that one day we would pass Alexandrovsky's
vans on the local track. Tommy, our other starcrossed lover,
was equally convinced that he would run into Kitty.
"Quit that mooning, Bunny," Kink snapped. "Your ba-
196
ryshnia isn't within five hundred miles of this sector. Anyway,
you better get cracking. You're taking over the guard in fif-
teen minutes."
"May I remind you that I had guard duty last night?"
Kink spread margarine on his toast. "You might," he
growled, "but I wouldn't advise it. Eddie, I'm giving you
inspection this morning. Rout out that sluggard Daley and
our braw Scot lover and take them both along. I want you
to crack down on the Ac Emmas; the mechanics' bunks are
in disgraceful shape. You and the rankers both have got to
learn this isn't a damn sightseeing trip I'm wet-nursing; it's
Collishaw's squadron, and that means the best."
That day we made pretty fair time, and Kink was cheered
enough by our progress to allow a little entertainment after
dinner.
It was a nostalgic evening; now that it looked as though
the war was ending in defeat, our thoughts turned to another
war that had ended in victory. We sang all the old songs,
glass in hand, booming them out to the accompaniment of
the clicking wheels as B Flight train ran on through the
Russian night and the cold rain fell and the fog closed in
like the ghosts of Makhno's raiders.
We sang, in bad French:
La Madelon vient de nous servir a boire
Sous la tonnelle au flanc de son jupon
Et chacun lui raconte une histoire;
Une histoire a sa fa$on.
La Madelon pour nous n'est pas severe
Quand on lui prend la taille ou le menton,
Elle rit y c'est tout le mal qu'elle salt faire,
Madelon, Madelon, Madelon.
And we sang:
The young aviator lay dying.
As under the wreckage he lay,
To the mechanics assembled around him
These last parting words did he say:
197
'Two valve-springs you'll find in my stomach.
Three spark plugs are safe in my lung,
The prop is in splinters inside me,
To my fingers the joy stick has clung.
'Take the cylinders out of my kidneys,
The connecting rods out of my brain;
From the small of my back take the crankshaft
And assemble the engine again.
And we sang:
Stand to your glasses, steady!
The world is a world of lies;
A cup to the dead already
And here's to the next that dies.
And we remembered. About oatmeal and Karo, and the
afternoons over Amiens hot and full of pockets, and the
trenches like ringworm below on the scabrous dun face of
the earth, and making yourself small as the Archie crumped
up and a piece of steel singed your linen. About how your
eyelids were sandy on dawn patrol and how the gun flashes
winked over the landscape in little points of bluish light;
about singing Madelon in the estaminets and fighting over
the affections of a trollop and better, more aristocratic love
in London on clean sheets in a borrowed flat. About out-
racing a Pfalz in a Spad on the level and how it felt in cloudy
weather to knife through the clinging wet and leave the
ragged wisps trailing out behind.
We remembered these and a hundred other stoicisms,
griefs and triumphs.
We remembered, and sometimes we did not.
"Kink, you got first kill a Fokker over Merville. Colly
made the second kill that afternoon. A Halberstadt."
"Little Benny Bates was the best Ac Emma. Dammit, I
say he wasl Fixed my bus in half an hour, and my rudder
shot full of holes."
198
"Allmenroeder got Hank Henry, not the Baron. Look it
up in the record books if you don't believe me."
"My girl was Mignonette. You had Celeste. Now come oft
it, Tommy, don't you remember that crazy night? You
thought the police were the fire department, and you jumped
into the garden without a damn stitch on."
The party began to break up when Nona came en negli-
ge and complained about the noise. Kink told her we would
damn well make as much noise as we wanted, but we began
to whisper anyway, and then Clarence wandered in sleepily
and did a mess on Kink's highly polished boots. When Kink
came back from the lav Tommy had passed out and Bill
and Eddie were snoring.
Kink staggered to one of the lounges and sat down heavily.
"Hell," he said, "I thought you types could drink. This isn't
a squadron I'm running, it's a goddam kindergarten."
He passed out himself a moment later, and Russky and I
had the job of hauling him back to his compartment.
Approaching Rostov we were stopped at every station
by bands of Wrangel's military police, who had full powers
to search all trains returning from the front for stolen goods,
deserters and marauders. Once we had established our cre-
dentials we were quickly waved on, but the delays were time-
consuming. Though our Russian engineer had promised
Kink he would get us to Rostov no later than the morning of
the 7th, we didn't pull into the Rostov yards till after twi-
light of the next day.
The stationmaster told us there was no possibility of get-
ting out till tomorrow morning; the heavy traffic east had
put the switches to the Taganrog tracks out of order and they
were being repaired. Kink wired Colly in Taganrog to ex-
pect us tomorrow morning, posted a guard on the train, and
gave the rest of the squadron leave till one a.m.
We left the yards and went into the town. The war maps
in the shop windows showed ever-narrowing circles of red
199
around Omsk, Kursk and Kharkov, and half the cafes in the
main streets had been requisitioned for the troops, but
aside from that you wouldn't have known a losing war was
on. The trams were running, the parks were open, the
theaters and restaurants doing a good business. At the kiosks
there was a choice of half a dozen newspapers. We had dinner
at what seemed the best cafe, and later sampled a few of the
others that offered entertainment.
We met a cavalry captain who told us some harrowing
stories of the Caucasian army's retreat. In one town the last
hospital train had been about to leave in the evening when, in
the dim light of the station lamps, he had seen some strange
figures crawling along the platform. They were White
officers ill with typhus, wearing gray hospital gowns. Rather
than be left behind to be tortured and murdered by the Reds,
they had crawled through the slush from the hospital to the
station. The doctor in charge of the train had refused to
allow them on, claiming that his cars were full. But there
was still room: in one compartment he found a civilian and
three ladies busy manicuring their nails. They had bribed
the doctor to get the places. The captain had thrown the four
of them out on the platform and put the doctor under arrest.
In an action behind Red lines the captain and his company
had come upon a house the Reds had set afire with a hundred
villagers inside. There had been only one thing to do, since
the house was blazing: unlimber a light artillery piece and
shell the walls so as to bring them down, allowing those who
were still alive inside to escape. Twenty-five men, women and
children had gotten away; the rest had perished.
"You cannot imagine the cruelty of these Bolshevik beasts,"
he told us. "They rival Tamerlane. They wish to make a river
of blood on which they can float down to the sea; the Don
isn't good enough for them. One million, seven hundred
thousand died in the Red Terror of last year. I have lost my
wife and two children, also my home. Now all I wish to do
is die fighting against the bastards with a sabre in my hand."
200
"Do you think anything can stop them from sweeping
down to the sea, Captain?' ' Eddie asked.
"It is perhaps not good to say this," the Major said, "but
I do not think anything will stop them now. I would advise
you can get a ship at Novorossiisk as soon as possible and leave
for home. This is your war no longer. It is not even ours any-
more. It is between the Reds and God, and I think that God
is going to throw in the towel."
Wrangel, the captain told us, was currently in Rostov,
waiting for Denikin's arrival for a crucial meeting. The talk
was all against the commander-in-chief, and no one had any
confidence in Mai-Maievsky and his Volunteer Army; people
went up to Wrangel in restaurants and asked when he was
taking over Mai-Maievsky's command. Though the burly
general was popular with his troops and tough as nails, his
drinking bouts and orgies were a scandal and had affected
the morale of his men.
We looked at one another hopefully. Not that we had any-
thing against Mai-Maievsky, but we much preferred to serve
under Wrangel.
Coming out of the cafe we saw a group of mounted
Cossacks bringing in a batch of prisoners. Their captives,
bound by the ankles and wrists at the end of lariats attached
to saddle trees, were forced to keep pace with the trotting
horsemen. One prisoner slipped and fell, and I sucked in
my breath as the Cossacks, refusing to stop, dragged him
along the cobble stones until he staggered upright again,
torn and bleeding. But then I thought of the villagers stum-
bling out of the burning house, and turned away.
When we got to the train Hoskins ha,d a surprise waiting
for us: the tarpaulin-covered body of a Bolshie the guard
had caught trying to dynamite one of the ammunition cars.
"The bugger slipped in as cool as could be," Hoskins told
us, "and was setting the charge. Carstairs of C platoon got
him with a knife before he finished with the wiring. Sir," he
asked Kink, "I know we'll be tangling with Makhno's bri-
201
gands, but are we likely to be running into much more of
this?"
Kink bit down on his lip. "A lot more, sergeant. When
the Reds are on the march the local Bolshies make trouble
in the towns and cities. Get rid of the body and double the
guard. These saboteurs are too smart for comfort. I don't
like the way this one figured out where the ammo was."
That night the snow came down heavily, muffling the
sounds of shunting trains in the yard, but none of us slept
too soundly. Once I woke, sweating, from a dream in which
a Red Commissar, laughing madly, carried Nina away on a
sledge loaded with high explosive, mocking me with the lit
match in his hand.
Waking the next morning, I rolled up the shade and
looked outside at the snow-covered yards. Five feet away
on the next track was parked one of the White infantry's
regimental trains, and I had a clear view into its diner. In
the lavishly upholstered coach sat two people having break-
fast. One of them was a fat colonel with a white handlebar
moustache, the other was Nona. Two waiters in privates' uni-
forms and white jackets, napkins on arm, hovered defer-
entially in the background. The colonel lifted Nona's hand
and kissed it; Nona laughed and playfully waggled her
fingers against his thick lips.
As I watched, Nona and the colonel began silently to drift
away, and for a moment I wasn't sure which train was moving,
Nona's or mine. Then, by fixing my eyes upon a signal box
on the snowcovered ground, I could tell it was Nona's. I
waved, but she wasn't looking in the direction of B Flight
train, she was busy with her omelet now, and couldn't have
cared less.
When I told Kink that his bird had flown he grinned in
relief. "Bunny, if we have any more time for hanky-panky
before the roof caves in, I'm going to choose myself a peasant
girl with thick ankles and a bum the side of a barn. They're
flattered to death that a dashing angliski looks at them, and
202
they tickle." He looked at me thoughtfully. "Olga tickled. Do
you know that Nona never tickled; absolutely insensitive.
If a girl can be tickled that shows she's got a soul."
He might be right, I thought. Nina tickled.
We left Rostov half an hour later for the short trip to
Taganrog. The approach to the yards was jammed with
trains armored, hospital, regimental and refugee and
Colly, anticipating the jam, was waiting for us at the switch-
man's hut at the entrance to the yards. He swung aboard
looking fit and handsome; it seemed incredible that only a
few weeks ago he had almost died from typhus.
He refused a drink. "General Holman wants me to get you
chaps Kharkov-bound as soon as possible, so we don't have
much time for a reunion. Where's the imcomparable Feodor?
I've got a present for him."
I called Feodor, who came shyly in, and Colly shook his
hand and presented him with a gold wristwatch. On the
back was the engraved inscription: "To my friend Feodor
Anikin, who saved my life, in eternal gratitude and admira-
tion. Raymond Collishaw."
Russky translated Feodor's reply. "He say he is over-
whelmed. He has always wanted wristwatch but does not
deserve a gold one."
Feodor was crying, the tears streaming down his cheeks,
and in embarrassment at this paruski display of emotion
we turned our eyes away.
"All right, Feodor, you better go now," I told the batman
in my halting Russian, "or we'll all be blubbering."
"Spasibo! Spasibo! Spasibo!" Feodor said, and turning,
rushed from the lounge.
"There goes a man," said Colly, and blowing his nose,
returned to business. He didn't like to be the bearer of ill
tidings, but there was more bad news. A few days ago Lloyd
George had made a speech at Mansion House in which he
said that the British Government considered the civil war
in Russia over. Denikin's rout was continuing, and there
203
was already heavy fighting around Kharkov. It was no longer
possible to concentrate the Cossack cavalry around Kharkov
as Wrangle had advised Denikin to do, and if the Reds took
the city, Russia's Pittsburgh, the Whites' chief strategic
position would have been irretrievably lost.
"I'm not even sure you chaps can get to Kharkov, the con-
gestion on the line is so bad," Colly went on. "But go as far
as you can, unlimber the planes, and wait for orders. If we're
lucky, the snow and the weather won't be so bad for a while
that you can't help Mai-Maievsky. I'll be coming up the line
with A Flight train as soon as they get to Taganrog. C Flight's
out of it, I'm afraid; Holman doesn't think there's room for
more than one bomber flight at the front, especially with
winter on the march. Kink, I assume you've got something
to keep the engines warm?"
Kink nodded. "Kerosene lamps covered with asbestos."
"Colly," Russky said hopefully, "I fly Camels now?"
"You can count on it," Colly laughed. "We're going to
need every scout we can get into the air to tangle with the
Bolshies."
"What about Wrangel taking over Mai-Maievsky's com-
mand?" asked Eddie.
"We understand in Taganrog that it's only a matter of
time. I hope he takes on the job before things get much
worse. When he does, at least you'll be flying for the best
there is." Colly glanced at his watch. "Meeting at Mission
H.Q. in fifteen minutes. In typical British fashion, we're
setting a time for consideration of when to burn headquarters
documents and papers." He shrugged. "Sorry I've got to
buzz off; I've got a lot more to say to you intrepid types, but
it'll have to wait till we meet again on the way to Kharkov."
"How long is that likely to be, Colly?" Kink asked.
"A week or so, most likely. So long, chaps, and let's fox
'em."
We watched him go, reluctantly, and it seemed so suddenly
dark in the lounge car that Kink asked Tommy to turn on
the lights.
204
We sat outside the Taganrog yards for three hours, and
then the congestion let up enough for us to get through to
the northbound tracks. As the switchman put us on Kink
noticed that Cowderdrill was missing.
"Just like the bloody clown to hold us upl God knows
what he's up to. Bunny, go tell the switchman we won't be
moving out for a while. Bill, ask Hoskins to organize a search.
And Russky, put down that dirty magazine 1"
Hoskins returned with Cowderdrill twenty minutes later.
The messman carried two huge samovars under either arm,
and two of Hoskins' men were dragging a cardboard box
which held five others. On Cowderdrills' homely face was
the unholy light of commercial triumph.
Kink sent Hoskins to tell the switchman we were ready
to leave, and turned his furious attention to the errant
Cowderdrill.
"Sergeant, absence from your post in wartime is an of-
fense punishable by death. Do you realize that?"
"Yes sir, quite sir, but I wasn't exactly absent from my
post, sir. I was just in the station, buying up samovars. Oh,
it's terrible with them refugees, sir. They're sleeping on the
benches and on the floor, and they're so discouraged that
when you step on them they just grunt and roll over."
"The station is not your post, Sergeant. Now haven't I
told you a hundred times that these samovars are worthless?
Dammit, man, put the goddam things down!"
Cowderdrill set the samovars down on the carpet and
hung his head. "Yes, sir. You have that, sir."
"And you still don't believe me?"
"Well, I don't think you're completely right, sir," the
messman said. "Now for instance, when this here war is over,
the Russians are going to need their samovars again, sir. And
I'll be one of the few that can sell them back to them."
Kink put his face in his hands and groaned. "Bozhe moi,
I can't take much more of this. Back to the pantry with you,
Cowderdrill. Just stay out of my sight."
Cowderdrill picked up his samovars, frowned, and set them
205
down again. "Yes sir, quite sir, but permit me to ask, if I'm
to stay out of your sight, how am I going to serve you
dinner?"
Kink got to his feet and left the car, carrying himself very
tightly. As he went out the door we could hear him mutter-
ing, "I didn't hear that. I didn't hear that. I didn't. . . ."
There were few trains going north, and the line was fairly
clear till we arrived at Debaltsevo, the junction between
Taganrog and Kharkov. But then the trouble began, with an-
other two hundred miles to go.
There was a terrific, monumental jam in the Debaltsevo
yards. The stalled southbound trains extended as far back
as we could see, and when we got out to inquire about getting
on a northbound track, we discovered that the stationmaster
and his assistants, overwhelmed by the magnitude of their
task and the clamor of complainants, had simply disappeared.
But there was worse to come. When we got back to B
Flight train we learned that our Russsian train crew had
struck for higher wages. They wanted ten rubles more a day
per man, or they would take us no further. After all, they
had their wives and children to think of. Not only were we
heading into enemy country while everybody else was fleeing
from it, but we were in Makhno country, too. It was a wonder
that we hadn't been attacked yet by the fierce brigands of
the Green Guards.
Patiently Kink explained through Russky that he had
no power to raise salaries. The engineer then suggested that
he call or wire the British Mission at Taganrog and get
authorization for an increase. Kink agreed, but in attempt-
ing it discovered that the telephone and telegraph wires
were down, cut by Red saboteurs, Makhno's band, or by one
of the several less identifiable outlaw groups that roamed the
country.
The engineer was leaving the cab when Kink pulled his
revolver on him. He and his crew, Kink said, were staying
206
whether they liked it or not, at least till we reached Kharkov.
He had better get used to the idea. A guard would be posted
on the engine and tender, and any man trying to get away
would be shot as a deserter.
Back in the lounge car Kink tossed his greatcoat down in
disgust. "You can't fight a war when somebody's sticking a
knife in your back. Dammit, things are really getting
scratchy."
In the end, we organized a search party for the station-
master and his men, and with the help of some cavalrymen,
found them in a tavern in the village. We rubbed their faces
in the snow to sober them up, and dragged them to the
station house, where, after a while, they came back to their
senses. Gradually the chaos of the yards returned to normal
disorder, though it wasn't till the afternoon of the next day
that B Flight train got out of Debaltsevo.
Even then it was like swimming upstream against a power-
ful current. The endless southbound trains, packed to the
platforms with white-faced refugees, overflowed every junc-
tion big and small, and it would take hours, and sometimes
whole mornings and afternoons, to get past the tangles and
the snarls. We bribed more than one stationmaster with food
and clothing; we knocked down more than one and threat-
ened him with a rifle slug till he threw the switch that let
us through.
It was a hell, a nightmare of traffic, and it frayed our nerves
to the breaking point. We would have welcomed a bandit
raid, but there was no relief from the stopping, the starting
and the crawling; only the stream of refugees frightened,
apathetic, stunned and humble. Too humble. Kink was a
perfect ogre, and we tried to stay out of his way. Even good-
natured Russky growled when you asked him a reasonable
question, and nobody at all could talk to me; I had grown so
irritable looking for Nina's train that I threw a punch at
Eddie when he tried to kid me about it.
For three days we made our way from station to station
207
as the line momentarily cleared and opportunity arose,
through the beautiful Donets Basin with its winding little
streams frozen solid, its great groves of pines capped with
snow. There had been no trees worth speaking of back on
the steppe, and the pines were the first things I noticed in
the changing scenery. They made me think of Christmas, soon
approaching, and they made me think of it bitterly. Na
Moskvu! I wouldn't be spending Christmas with Nina in
Moscow or anywhere else. The odds were ten to one she had
already passed me on her way south.
We came finally to Kupyansk station. The village itself,
a few versts to the east in a valley, was one of the many
south Rusian communities that had refused to pay blackmail
to its original builders, and the railroad, accordingly, had
detoured around it.
We could go no farther; the double track ahead was
blocked with southbound trains, following one another so
closely that they seemed coupled together. In fog and mist
we pulled into a siding, the only train in that vast assortment
of rolling stock that was headed north towards the Kharkov
front a hundred miles away.
The bearded stationmaster, the fur of his shuba up to
his ears, appeared through the fog to tell us that a body of
roving cavalry under Momontov had raided through the
Red lines as far north as Tula, only a hundred and twenty
miles from Moscow. He added casually that the Bolshies had
captured Omsk and split Denikin's center. Swayed by hunger,
defeat and Lenin's skillful propaganda, Volunteers were
deserting to the Reds by the thousands.
Kink had the ground crews unload two Camels and rig
them for flying. They sat in a field alongside the track with
asbestos-wrapped kerosene lamps under their engines, ready
for action when the fog lifted. Cowderdrill broke out the
rum and we sat drinking hot toddies while the whole world
fled past in an unbroken stream of hospital vans and refugee
trains. I had never known there were so many people in
208
Russia. Hopefully, unrealistically, I kept peering out the
fog-shrouded window for Red Cross train 242, until my
eyes blurred and I got a raging headache.
"Christmas in Moscow," Tommy kept repeating ag-
grievedly. "What bloody rot."
Finally Russky squared his shoulders and replied, "All
respects, tide may yet turn. We must not give up the hope."
Eddie snuffed out his half-smoked gasper, making a face;
we had run out of Gold Flakes and were now reduced to
Woodbines. "Come now, Russky," he said, "let's be realistic.
The army has ceased to exist as a fighting force. We've got less
than half the men the Reds have. The railway workers are
leaving their jobs. Makhno and dozens of other guerillas are
raiding the interior with nobody to stop them. The Bolshies
have practically won the goddam war, and none of your crazy
optimism is going to change things an iota."
"If we pray," Russky insisted, "is possible things improve.
Denikin will shortly put railroads under better control. He
will fortify bases behind the lines and organize police. We
must despair not, is unchristian."
"If Wrangel could only get Denikin to agree with him on
something," Bill Daley said, "or the other way around, I
might see some sense in what you're saying. But God's troth,
Russky, the dice are cast, and it's come out just plain craps."
"What is 'crap'?" asked Russky.
Kink fixed his eyes upon him more sadly than sourly.
"Crap, Russky, in this context is a number of different
things. It's White poverty of money and equipment, in-
efficiency, old regime bureaucracy, and disorganization. It's
separatism, the landed gentry, crooked officialdom and profi-
teering. It's Denikin's inflexible 'Russia, One and Indivisi-
ble.' It's the Bolshies' slick lies of Land and Freedom. It's
British policy, which helps the Whites with one hand and
knocks them down with the other. It's the Americans and
the French and everybody else who've just about lost this
war because they were never sure they wanted to fight it.
209
It's a score of other things, from bad strategy to typhus, from
staff intrigues to a lack of an esprit de corps. And the worst
crap of all is this: that we're losing a war that we could have
won."
We were silent. The logs blazed in the fireplace and outside
the tightly sealed windows the snow came down in huge
soft wet flakes, snowflakes that here, in Russia, the biggest
country in the world, were bigger and softer and wetter
than anywhere else. The trains inched and shuttled and
rocketed by. We sat warm and cozy and full of hot buttered
rum and ashamed.
210
Chapter Nine
On our second day at Kupyansk the passing trains con-
tained a sprinkling of uniformed men. On the third day
there was quite a few. On the fourth we saw about as many
men in uniform as refugees, and thereafter the trains came
by loaded with infantrymen, cavalrymen and artillerymen
packed solid inside and out. Despite the cold and the inter-
mittent snowfall, soldiers and Cossacks sat and lay on the
tops of the coaches, clung to the steps, hung out of the open
windows. A good many had flasks of vodka from which they
drank continuously and uproariously. If it hadn't been for
the hospital trains, endless, funereal and stinking of iodo-
form, I would have been reminded of students and alumni
returning from some glorious gridiron victory.
Kursk had fallen to the Reds, the men shouted at us, and
laughed, asking what we sat there on the siding like duraki.
"Skoro budet Bolshies!" they shouted, their breaths frost-
ing in the cold, sharp air. Some pantomimed a sharp knife
and a slit throat. None of them would stop, not even for a
drink. That, more than anything else, told us how serious
the situation was.
The stationmaster developed a fondness for the fireplace
and Cowderdrill's rum toddies, and regularly visited B Flight
train. We liked the man for his sad eyes and enormous
moustaches, but every time he took off his shuba we came
to expect more bad news.
211
"He say Mai-Maievsky so drunk last week he not answer
dispatches," Russky translated.
Or it was:
"Stationmaster say many Don Cossacks desert."
"Kuban cossacks, he say, do not feel like the fight when
their headman say there is no way to stop Bolshies."
"Many White officers are leaving front to sell loot in
Ekaterinoslav Province. We have seen the many luggage
vans? One regiment carry behind it over a hundred car-
riages."
"In Slavynsk they are starving."
"Denikin has sent armed force to Kuban, arrested dozen
members of Rada, and hanged one of them. When Wrangel
force new Constitution on Rada, many Kubans very mad."
The trains kept passing and the snow kept coming down.
On November 25th we heard that Wrangel had assumed com-
mand of the Volunteer Army on the day before, choosing
Chatilov as his chief of staff. But by the 27th we had still
received no orders.
Even if we had, it wouldn't have made much difference.
During the night someone had stolen our engine. Kink,
not dreaming that thieves would have any use for a loco-
motive in all that niagara of rolling stock, had neglected
to put a guard on it.
On the tenth day the trains stopped coming and the track
was clear. We were alone with the Stationmaster, two hungry
mongrels, and a lame ox. There was nothing else alive on
that dreary knoll; even the villagers had fled southward.
The snow stopped and the fog finally lifted enough for
flying weather of a sort. Kink and Tommy took off to in-
vestigate. They were gone for an hour and a half and came
back with enough bullet holes in wings and fuselage to
discourage any further sorties of the kind.
"Both wings of the Volunteers are falling back," Kink
told us, "and Budenny's outflanking them. If we're lucky,
the Red cavalry vanguard should be at Kupyansk within
212
forty-eight hours. If we're not, they should be on our tails
in another twenty-four. Chaps, I'm sorry about that damn
engine."
"What the hell," Bill said. "We couldn't have run it our-
selves anyway."
"If you've lost your morphine vial, Cowderdrill," Eddie
said to the mess sergeant cheerfully, "I'll loan you mine."
Cowderdrill shook his head. "Oh no, sir. I think drugs
is immoral. I'll take my rifle and put a bullet through my
head."
"After you've killed a few Bolshies, Cowderdrill," I said
sternly. "Remember that."
"Must I, sir?" the messman pleaded. "I'd hate to kill a
man face to face like. If I shot myself as soon as the Bol-
shies attacked, would that be all right, sir? Then you
wouldn't have to be angry at me for not fighting."
While I was figuring that out Kink said, "Break out the
Lee-Enfield .gog's, Bunny, and distribute them to the men.
We can pot at the bastards from the windows."
"The plennys too?" I asked.
"The plennys. We can count on their loyalty a hundred
percent. The only food within a hundred miles is on this
train."
To my surprise, the P.O.W's accepted the rifles with an
enthusiasm that far exceeded that of the enlisted men, most
of whom were quietly fed up with our situation. Feodor,
especially, was overjoyed.
"Is prettier much than Red rifle," he said admiringly of
the well-oiled Lee-Enfield. "Will boom-boom many Reds!"
"You bet," I said, and handed a rifle to Ivan. The shaggy
giant, laughing delightedly, swung it around his head like
a war club, and I ducked just in time.
"No, Ivan, you shoot it," I said, and showed him how. But
I had an idea that come a fight, Ivan would revert to the
primordial and use the rifle like a shillelagh.
We had two welcome visitors next day at noontime: Colly
213
and General Holman, who emerged from the fog in the cab
of a lone engine and tender. They were, we told them, just
in time for lunch. Coming into the lounge car, Holman had
to bend his head to keep from striking the lintel of the door.
Except for the weather and the menu caviar, bully beef
and rum toddies it might have been a social occasion, for all
the anxiety that Holman showed. In the best tradition of
the British officer, for whom imperturbability is as de rigeur
as courage, he spoke, for a solid hour, of anything and every-
thing other than the predicament that we were in. We dis-
cussed London, Paris, the little bar at the Savoy, the Long
Bar at the Trocadero; when we ran out of bars we discussed
women. There were no names mentioned; in a British
officers mess it was tradition that, favorably or otherwise,
a woman's name must never pass a gentleman's lips. Should
it do so, the offending officer is obliged to stand a round to
all present.
Tommy made sure the general's hot toddy mug was kept
brimming, and Colly rebuked him for it. "For God's sake,
Tommy, the general's got a reputation to keep up. You've
only got to keep your rum downl"
Holman lidded his eyes and grinned. "Correction, Colly.
I have my spirits to think of as well as my reputation. Burns-
Thompson, pour awayl"
Our laughter broke the tension, and leaning forward,
Holman said, "Of course you want to know our present
situation. Gentlemen, I intend to hide nothing from you.
The Reds should be in Kharkov within a matter of days.
Only a miracle will prevent them from retaking Kiev. Deni-
kin's center and both wings are falling back. Mai-Maievsky's
already left the army and Wrangel's taken over, but there's
nothing he can do with disorganized, completely outnum-
bered troops. There's nothing you can do. The White's next
line of defense will undoubtedly be the Tananrog-Rostov
area, and if Denikin doesn't stop the Bolshies there, the war
is lost. So far as your own immediate situation is concerned,
214
only a short length of destroyed track north of Kupyansk has
prevented Red broneviks from being in your midst at the
moment. Budenny's advance scouts are only about twenty
miles away."
From the pantry we heard a crash. Cowderdrill had
dropped a tray of glasses.
Holman cleared his throat. "I notice you have no engine.
I'll pull you into Debaltsevo and you can get a locomotive,
engineer and firemen there. Colly was farsighted enough to
arrange for a pool of train crews at the junction. It's going
to cost Lloyd George a couple of pounds, but maybe Winston
can calm him down about it."
Hoskins knocked and came into report rifle fire from the
north. When we opened a window we heard it a faint
sound like the popping of firecrackers in the far distance.
We went to work dismantling the two Camels and loading
them onto the flats. Minutes later, with Colly at the engine
controls, we were under way. We waved our do svidaniyas
to the stationmaster from the lounge car windows. He and
his two mongrels dwindled into black specks against the
white of snow and disappeared.
It was a four-day trip to Debaltsevo. Hundreds of trains
had joined the hegira from stations along the way; on long
stretches of track the trains were piled up cowcatcher to
caboose. Guerrilla bands began raiding on the second day
out, and Kink inaugurated a system of standbys and alerts
that kept us in uniform around the clock.
The outlaw bands would most often attack at night, rid-
ing in close to the coaches on their fast ponies, sending up an
assortment of vari-colored flares they had captured in their
depot raids, and trying to pick us off through the windows.
The Greens were superb horsemen, and they had learned the
Cossack method of shooting in full gallop from beneath
the bellies of their mounts. But if the flares allowed them
to see us they allowed us to see them too, and even with
215
their fancy equestrian tricks they made better targets than
we did.
Tommy suggested that we start a pool, the winner of which
would have potted the most Green Guards by the time we
reached Debaltsevo. Holman and Colly joined in with enthu-
siasm, and Colly, with his incomparable shooting eye, left all
of us far behind. It was characteristic of him that the shooting
match should engage all his energies, now that for the mo-
ment he had nothing more important to do, and time after
time I would be sleeping soundly in my bunk after a spell
of guard duty when he would come in to rouse me for an-
other event in the competition.
"Bunny, didn't you see that flare behind the snow bank?"
he would say, excited as a kid at a shooting gallery. "Come
out and join the fun. You're right behind Kink in the stand-
ings; maybe tonight you'll pass him. Make believe it's cow-
boys and Indians and the varmints are after your sweetheart's
scalp."
In the lounge car I would take my usual place beside the
general, and with an open box of cartridges at my feet, bang
away at the lines of horsemen that would appear suddenly
over the brow of a snowbank or hill, and then sweep in on
the slow-moving train and around it to the other side, con-
centrating their fire on the machine-gunners in the vestibules
and then, as their charge carried them past the Lewis men,
aiming for us through the windows of the coaches.
"Nice shot there, Captain," Holman would say, "you got
number three, line two."
"Was that your shot toppled number eight, line three, sir?"
I would ask the general.
"Not sure. Might have been Gregoriev."
"No, sir," Russky would reply at the next window, "I
missed big fellow. Was you."
Russky, of course, had gotten the guerrilla, but as I had
learned, a Russian considered it more important to please a
guest than to tell the truth.
216
"Dammit, Tommy/' Colly would complain from the other
side of the lounge, "I told you I was aiming for the big one!
Why did you have to go and take my man?"
"Sorry, skipper. Sometimes the bastards don't give you a
chance to think."
The raids lasted from about twenty to thirty minutes,
never more. If by this time the Green Guards had failed to
knock out most of the defenders, they gave up the attack as
a bad job. Usually, after a skirmish, we would count ten to
fifteen bodies on the snow; our own casulaties would be nil
or at the most one or two superficially wounded, from
ricochets. When we came into Debaltsevo junction we had
four plennys and five enlisted men in bandages. The lounge
car walls were badly chewed up, the fireplace chipped in a
dozen places, Russky had two bullet holes through his garri-
son cap, and Cowderdrill was a nervous wreck. But there
were no serious casualties and we had traveled roughly half
the distance to Taganrog.
Others, though, were less fortunate. We passed several
trains tipped over, looted and burned, with only a few charred
corpses to show that refugees had met their death there. What
had happened to the hundreds of men, women and children
who had been on these trains we never found out; either the
guerillas had herded them out into open country and
slaughtered them there, or they had been picked up by other
trains that had come along later on. Stationmasters along the
way were reluctant to discuss the question; they had enough
trouble on their hands just getting the flood of trains through,
and as long as the authorities were too busy to make inquiries
Nichevo!
At the junction Colly collected his shooting match win-
nings, got an engine and crew for us from one of the pools,
and switched the engine that had hauled us to Debaltsevo
over to A Flight train, waiting for him on one of the sidings.
General Holman, who had promised to catch up with us in
Taganrog, dashed off on a spur line to find some lost tank-
217
men. The stationmaster told us it would be a couple of hours
before he could get us through to the southbound track, and
we went over to A Flight train for a reunion. The boys were
grim, and we stayed for only a while.
Cowderdrill was waiting for us outside the train. "Sir,"
he said to Kink, "I hope you won't be angry, but there's some
refugees I let into the lounge. They was such well-spoken
and fine-looking people I didn't have the heart to turn 'em
away."
"What did they bribe you with, Sergeant," Eddie asked,
"money or samovars?"
Cowderdrill blinked respectfully, but didn't answer the
question.
"Sergeant," Kink snapped, "if we take one we have to take
as many as we can. You know that."
"Yes sir, quite sir, but them back there are real aristocrats,
the cream of the paruski nobility. They even acted royal to
the pig. Sir, you'll see what I mean when you talk to 'em."
"You're just a disgusting snob, like all the British," Kink
said and pushed past him into the car.
Perched on one of the lounges was a couple which, had it
not been for the overcoats and furs they wore, might have
been posing for a picture. The man, tall, pince-nezed and
scholarly looking, sat straightbacked and faintly smiling; he
wore a shapka, a stone marten greatcoat and highly polished
leather boots. The woman, her eyes slightly downcast but
still looking at the imaginary photographer, was slavically
dark and handsome, and swathed to the ears in the most
luxurious mink I had ever seen. I had the feeling that under
the mink she wore a fortune in jewels and diamonds.
They were certainly aristocrats; for all we knew they might
have belonged to the Imperial Circle at St. Petersburg and
been related to the Tsar himself. Considering the way they
were dressed, I wondered how they had gotten this far with-
out having been murdered and stripped for their clothes.
The man rose, clicked his heels and introduced himself
218
and his wife in perfect English. They were, he said, Count
and Countess Orloff of Novgorod. They hoped to make their
escape to Paris, where their children were waiting for them.
The count hoped we would forgive his intrusion, but he had
his wife to think of and a drowning man clutched at every
straw. If we were bound for Rostov, as he assumed we were,
would it be possible for us to take them along?
Kink sat down and rubbed his jaw. "Count," he said, "I
appreciate your predicament, but I have strict orders against
carrying any refugees. There are at least twenty refugee trains
on these sidings; what's to prevent you from taking one of
them?"
The Count smiled. "I might say typhus, Major, but I would
be lying to you. There is only one thing that prevents us from
taking a refugee train: the Orloff diamond. We are well
known in this part of the country, Major, and so is the dia-
mond. We would be murdered for it very quickly."
"Kink," Russky broke in excitedly, "the count speaks truth.
The Orloff diamond is one of the great stones of the world.
Like the Koh-i-nor, the Hope, the Porter Rhodes or the
Stuart. It weighs over one hundred ninety carats, and has
great history it was stolen by French soldier from the eye of
idol in Brahmin temple, and after that stolen from the sol-
dier by captain of a ship. From ship's captain Prince Orloff
bought it for one hundred thousand pounds."
The count bowed in Russky 's direction. "Lieutenant," he
said, "I must congratulate you on your knowledge of the
great stones. I would, however, make one correction. The
Orloff diamond cost my ancestor only ninety thousand
pounds."
"Bozhe moi" Kink groaned, "We haven't got trouble
enough." He squinted up at Orloff. "Tell me, does this dia-
mond have a jinx attached to it? So many of the great stones
do."
The countess spoke up then. "No, Major, there is no jinx."
She smiled sadly. "We do not feel it has brought us bad luck,
219
since we are still alive. We hope you will not prove us wrong."
Eddie tossed his Woodbine stub out of one of the bullet-
shattered windows. "Kink, you're not asking for my opinion,
but I can see you're weakening. If we've got orders against
taking on refugees, I don't see why we should make any ex-
ception for the count and countess here. The Orloff diamond
is about as neat a symbol of the old regime as you could find.
We haven't been fighting this war to save the nobility, or
have we?"
I looked at the elegant couple. You had to admire them;
they didn't turn a hair.
Eddie's objection had precisely the opposite effect he had
intended. "Dammit, Fulford!" Kink yelled, "I'm in command
here and nobody, especially no parlor pink, is going to tell
me what to dol I'm sick and tired of all your talk about
the British cornering the oil fields, and the goddam Mor-
gan-Baker-Stillman interests, and Wilson cramming the jailsl"
He turned back to the Orloffs. "Count, you're welcome to a
compartment in our Pullman car. I make only these condi-
tions: that you take your meals there, keep your shades down,
and stay out of sight." He waved away their thanks. "Bunny,
will you show the count and countess to compartment
twelve?"
The Orloffs, I noticed, had only two pieces of luggage, the
countess' vanity case, and a leather briefcase with a double
lock. In it, I was somehow sure, was the fabulous diamond.
While the count was washing up in the lav the countess
hung up her mink in the closet and took off her babushka.
When she turned around I had to catch my breath. There
was a fortune in jewelry around her neck and arms, and in
her hair she wore a tiara, in each of whose seven points there
was a diamond. She positively glittered with diamonds,
emeralds and other precious stones I wasn't lapidary enough
to identify.
As I watched she began to take them off.
"Forgive me for saying so, Countess," I said, "but wasn't
220
it rather foolish for you to wear your jewels on the trip? And
the clothes you traveled in were hardly suitable for a flight
from the Bolshies."
"Oh, we had no chance to change, Captain," she said. "It
is hard to believe, but the Reds came in the front door of our
Kharkov chateau as we went out the back. We had to leave
everything except what we had on and what I could snatch
from my jewel box. Fortunately my husband had just re-
turned from the city and the sleigh was in the drive. Other-
wise we would never have escaped. As we left the house the
Reds began to shoot the servants."
"You came by sleigh all the way to Debaltsevo?"
She nodded. "Once a peasant took us in, and another time
a village doctor, but the rest of the nights we slept in the
sleigh under the fur robes. My husband bought food in the
villages. Once he had to shoot a man who would have in-
formed upon us. Our horses dropped from exhaustion just
outside the junction. We had to leave them with the sleigh
on the road."
"And you are hungry now?" I asked her.
She sat down weakly on the edge of the bunk. "We have
not eaten for a day and a half. But we do not wish to bother
you. The major has already been so kind."
"It's no bother," I said, and brought tea and biscuits. They
were the last of the biscuits, I noticed; from now on the food
situation was going to be increasingly tight. We had nothing
left but Bovril, hardtack and bully beef, and the retreating
Dobrievolsky army had already requisitioned whatever food
had been available along the railroad. In the light of that
Kink had been doubly generous in taking the Orloffs aboard
the train.
The count, carrying the briefcase, came back from the lav
as I was leaving the compartment. When he saw the tea and
biscuits his eyes lit up but the rest of his face remained
politely expressionless. I left after accepting his repeated
thanks.
221
For a moment I listened at the compartment door. The
Orloffs may have been starving, but they were the Russian
nobility, not animals, and they intended to observe the ameni-
ties until the end. Slowly, deliberately, they poured the tea,
and slowly, deliberately, they munched on the biscuits. They
would rather have died than bolted their food down, even
before one another.
I wondered if it was upon such shoals of stubborn pride
that the Romanovs themselves had foundered.
Finally a junction official switched us through, and we
came from the siding onto the main tracks and a place among
a line of coaches that extended forward and back for miles
in both directions. Alongside was another track as closely
packed as the one on which we traveled. It was another hell
of traffic, worse than that between Debaltsevo and Kupyansk,
and we were doomed to suffer it for all the one hundred forty
miles from Debaltsevo to Taganrog. We were lucky to make
ten miles a day, moving forward a few yards at a time as the
train before us moved forward, followed behind by another
coach which usually bumped us when we stopped. And some-
times we would even have to move back to let in another
train from a siding along the way.
Our engineer developed a bad case of nerves and began
drinking heavily. We could hardly blame the man, but then
Kink caught him trying to sneak away with his bundle of be-
longings, and had to double the guard on engine and tender.
As we came into Makeeva, the train on the track alongside
burned out its boiler. With stolid disgust, indifferent to in-
sults or blows alike, the occupants of the train behind it piled
out of their coaches and pried the offending engine and
coaches off the train with jacks. It took them six hours to do
it, and they never once stopped to rest. The passengers of the
junked train fought their way into others and the fleeing line
crawled on.
The crowded and unsanitary living conditions caused
222
hundreds of new typhus cases daily, and the refugee death rate
climbed to fantastic heights. Every station had its rows of
frozen, unburied bodies, and mornings at seven we would
wake to women's lamentations over a son, a husband, a
brother found dead.
There were no doctors except the desperately overworked
medical men on an occasional hospital train, and drugs had
long been non-existent. If we fared better than the civilians
it was only because we had an official R.A.F. medicine
chest.
Since all of us were medical illiterates, we drew lots to
determine who should be train doctor. I won, or rather lost,
the draw.
Kink and I unlocked the big straw pannier with its baffling
array of bottles, boxes, little nippers and knives. There were
no instructions other than the admonition: "Keep this chest
dry." Finally I found a gallon tin, labeled powdered quinine,
that held no mystery for me.
When Hoskins reported three men sick I gave them a table-
spoon of quinine in half a glass of water. The next morning,
when I called with the gallon tin, all three were out of bed
and playing cards on the top of a packing crate.
Private Simpson eyed the quinine with loathing. "Hime
all right, sir. That rotten stuff brought me around in a
twinkle."
"You, Beasley?" I asked the man on his right.
"Fine, sir. Won't be needin' any more of that."
"And how about you, Costigan?"
"Sir, I never felt better in all me life."
I kept the can of quinine in the bar. When anyone re-
ported sick I gave them a quinine cocktail first and inquired
into their symptoms afterward. Cowderdrill got a dose for his
chilblains and Clarence, for a runny nose. Both recovered
promptly.
But there was one enlisted man for whom the pannier
held no cure. He developed pneumonia quickly, and one
223
silent, snowy afternoon outside Gorlovo, he died. We buried
him as best we could in the frozen ground with Kink read-
ing the service from the Bible. Behind us, in one of the ref-
ugee coach vestibules, a little girl aired her doll as we shov-
eled dirt over Private Samuel Brown, who next to my own
Charley Lamston, had been the best damn Ac Emma in
Squadron 47.
The next morning Russky was absent from the breakfast
table. I thought he might be talking to the Orloffs, but the
countess told me she hadn't seen him that morning.
When I knocked on his compartment door he called
weakly, "Do not come in. The health is badly."
I found him shivering with a chill. He had a splitting
headache and his pulse beat was rapid; his tongue was coated
white. My heart sank. I knew the symptoms all too well:
Russky had the tif.
Through chattering teeth he said: "I will be well for Christ-
mas? Bunnuski, you will recover me for Christmas, yes?"
"Hell," I said, "Christmas is a week and a half off. I should
have you up and around in a jiffy, and if it's anything half-
way serious, don't worry in another two or three days we'll
be in Taganrog, and they've got the best hospital south of
the Donets River."
He clutched my hand. "I have same symptoms as Colly.
It is the tif, I know. Do not leave me in the hospital. Pozhal-
uista, Bunnuski. I will die there."
Now was no time to talk sense. "Stay where you are," I
kidded him. "I'll get some quinine and blankets."
He couldn't keep the quinine down. When he begged
the boys to take their long faces out of the doorway and
let him get some sleep, I motioned them back and shut the
door behind me.
"The bug?" Kink asked.
I nodded. "We ought to get him to Taganrog as soon as
possible."
Kink looked out the window at the snarl of motionless
224
trains and smashed his fist against the wall. We hadn't moved
twenty yards since reveille.
"Attend to him, Bunny, will you?" he said in his tight,
dangerous voice, and we watched him continue on down the
passageway to the enlisted men's cars for his regular morn-
ing inspection. Woe to the Tommy who hadn't oiled his
rifle or polished his shoes.
The approaches to Taganrog were hopelessly blocked
with a sea of trains. Two miles out Kink unloaded the Red
Cross van and the two of us went into the town to find a doc-
tor for Russky. He was worse; sooner than usual the mul-
berry rash had broken out over his chest and legs, and most
of last night he had been in delirium.
The hospital was a madhouse. The line of stretchered
wounded and sick waiting at the receiving ward was three
blocks long, and one glance inside the chaotic entrance hall
convinced us that there was no possibility of snaring a staff
doctor. We took an izuozchik on runners to the better part
of town, and, on the off chance, cruised around looking for
a man with a small black bag leaving one of the houses. Luck
was with us; within half an hour we found a doctor, and he
was willing to take a look at Russky on the train.
The doctor told us Russky had both typhus and smallpox.
His chances were poor unless he was moved immediately
to the hospital, bad as conditions there were. Patients at Tag-
anrog would be moved to Rostov when Taganrog was evacu-
ated in the next few weeks, but the doctor wouldn't advise
that we take Russky on to Rostov now; the delays en route
and the lack of drugs would probably prove fatal. The doc-
tor had a certain amount of influence with the staff doctors
at Taganrog hospital and could get Russky a bed in the
typhus ward. But we must hurry.
We took Russky into the van on a stretcher and brought
him to the hospital. The doctor hadn't exaggerated his in-
fluence; orderlies took Russky directly into the typhus ward
225
and put him in a bed near a window. He smiled up at us
from his slipless pillow.
"It is all right you bring me to hospital; I know it would
be bad for me on train. I will get well, I promise, though
not in time for Christmas/ '
"I brought along a stack of Vie Parisiennes" I told him.
"They're under the bed."
"Colly and Colonel Bingham will be looking in on you,"
Kink said. "You'll have the complete resources of the British
Empire at your beck and call."
Rusky closed his eyes for a moment. "Kink, I am sorry
we did not fly together with the Camels. It would have been
much fun."
Kink's fists were clenched tightly. "When this war is over
we'll fly together, kunak, and you can take up a Camel any
damn time you please. Now you just hold on."
"I will hold on, Kink," he said in a dry whisper. "You and
me and all the boys, we fox 'em."
A nurse came over with a sedative, and indicated that it
was time for us to go.
"Do svidaniya, Russky," we said.
"Do svidaniya, Kink, Bunnuski. We fox 'em, you and
me."
Outside the ward Kink said, "God dammit, I should have
let him fly with us at least once. You sod, why didn't you
talk me into it?"
As we drove away from the hospital the snow began to
come down in thicker flurries. Halfway to the yards Kink got
out and took a rag to the windshield. I think he welcomed
the opportunity to blow his nose in private. And it gave me
a chance to blow mine.
Back at the yards there was such a scurrying and commotion
that we were sure for a moment that the Bolshies had attacked
the town. Hundreds of refugees, impatient of the stalled
trains, were taking their valuables off and piling them into
226
carts with starving horses or oxen drooping in the traces. In
these carts they planned to ride to Rostov, thirty-seven miles
away by rail, in the snow and cold. I saw a grande dame ex-
change a diamond ring for a cart with a broken axle, and a
chinovnik in a furlined overcoat gave a gimlet-eyed townsman
a suitcase stuffed with rubles for a pram at least fifteen years
old.
At B Flight train another group of refugees, put off a
string of coaches by some Cossacks who had commandeered
it, were besieging Eddie, Bill and Tommy for a place on
our boxcars and flats, offering them anything from jewelry
to their daughters and wives. At the back of the vestibule
crouched Cowderdrill, a butcher knife in his trembling
hands.
We pushed through the crowd to the vestibule steps. The
hope that Kink's rank and natural authority inspired on
dozens of upturned faces was a pitiful thing to see. I found
myself looking into the fevered eyes of a typhus-stricken
child, and as a snowflake made her blink, I had to turn
away.
From the steps Kink made a speech in broken Russian to
the effect that B Flight train was the property of the British
Air Force and that we were forbidden to take on refugees.
"Nye refuganski poyezd!" he shouted. "Nye refuganski!"
I hoped none of the more desperate of the crowd had
peeked into the Orlotf compartment; if they had, they
might have torn us to pieces.
But as Kink spoke, the hope faded, the faces crumpled,
the people turned away. And then, as if it were a sign from
heaven, the train ahead jerked forward. Slowly, painfully,
only a yard or two or three, but the train was moving, and
so was the train ahead of it, and in a mad dash and scramble
the refugees rushed to try and find places in the jam-packed
cars.
Kink sighed and shook his head. "If we move more than
twenty yards tonight it'll be a miracle. Boys, lets go inside
227
and get a drink. I'm due at the British Mission, but if I got
any more bad news today I think I'd sit down on my fanny
and burst into tears."
Later that afternoon Colly and Colonel Bingham brought
the bad news with them. The Reds had taken Poltava and
Novo Nikolaivsk and recaptured Kiev. Kolchak's troops had
fought their last battle in Siberia, and revolutionaries were
bound to overthrow his government in Irkutsk. Daily, the
cities and villages of the Ukraine were falling into the hands
of the Reds. The Bolshies were consolidating their gains in
the Donets Basin, and it looked as if nothing could stop them
from splitting Denikin's forces in two. If that happened the
Red Army, outnumbering Denikin's troops by almost nine
to one, would be pitted against them at the commander-in-
chief's line of defense at Rostov.
Kink made a face. "And our orders, sir?" he asked Bing-
ham.
"To establish a base a short distance south of Rostov from
which you can operate as soon as the line holds firm. God
knows if you'll be able to get any planes into the air in this
weather, but we'll hope so. So far we've seen as little Bolshie
aircraft as we've seen Bolshie artillery, but if they should get
cracking with either one I hesitate to think of the slaughter."
"Colonel," Eddie asked. "Do Denikin and Wrangel finally
agree on how to fight this war?"
Bingham smiled his brief but warming smile; this time it
was touched with disappointment. "No, Captain, I'm afraid
not. Wrangel thinks the Whites should evacuate Taganrog
and Rostov immediately, and retreat to the Crimea, where
they'll have good protection. Denikin refuses to desert the
Cossacks and lose touch with their surviving fighting organ-
izations. In the Taganrog-Rostov area he hopes to reform
his troops and hold the crossing of the Don."
Kink asked which strategy the colonel thought was the
better one.
"Only time will tell, but I'm inclined to go along with
228
Denikin. He's an excellent military man, you know. Any-
one who could rise from the ranks as spectacularly as Deni-
kin has must have ability of a rare order. He might not be
as brilliant as Wrangel, but he's not as proud and imperious
either. Denikin's been blamed for mistakes that aren't his
fault at all: lack of discipline among his officers, the break-
down of morale, corruption, brutality and incompetence.
I doubt if any other man could have done better, consider-
ing the inconsistency of Allied aid and the lack of coordina-
tion among Russian forces in the field."
Kink shifted in his chair uneasily. "Yet, sir, it looks as if
Wrangel was right in thinking the Whites wouldn't be able
to hold Taganrog. They'll be evacuating it any day now."
"I don't deny that," Bingham said, "but if you'll permit
me a little irony, at least we have Denikin's promise that he
won't leave Taganrog without taking the Mission staff and
archives along."
We told the colonel and Colly about Russky, and they
promised to look in on him as soon as they could. Bingham
told us he was sending over what food supplies the Mission
could spare a few dozen cans of bully beef and some hard-
tack. The unappetizing stuff arrived shortly before dinner.
That evening, around eight o'clock, we heard firing south
of us in the yards. "Must be some Cossacks putting refugees
off trains," Bill said, and settled back comfortably to relight
his pipe. The lounge was cozy and warm again; Hoskins,
through some miracle, had found a glazier to put in new
windows for those that had been broken in our skirmishes
with the Greens.
The firing became heavier and closer, and Kink put on
his greatcoat and went outside. I went along.
A fairly heavy fog had descended upon the train yards,
though it had stopped snowing. As we stepped to the ground
a bullet hit the coach three feet above Kink's head and
ricocheted away. At that moment Hoskins loomed up be-
fore us in the fog.
229
He saluted. "Major, I hear the Bolshies have timed an
infiltration with the approach of some Red cavalry. The
cavalry hasn't showed yet, but it looks like the infiltraters
have."
"All right, Flight. Alert the men and order half of them
out with rifles; post the rest to guard the train. The captain
and I'll do some reconnoitering."
Unholstering our revolvers, we moved toward the sound
of firing, keeping to the cover of the trains and watching
out carefully for the spaces in between; from one of these
a Bolshie could shoot before we saw him. A few refugees
threw open their coach windows to ask startled questions,
but by now most of them were used to night attacks, and at
the sound of rifle fire they automatically stretched out full-
length on the filthy floors.
We had gone about sixty yards down the track when a
man emerged suddenly from behind a box car, put a rifle
to his shoulder, and sent two shots off to our right. Kink
and I dropped to our knees and pulled our triggers almost
simultaneously. The man stumbled and pitched forward
onto his face.
We went up to the body and turned it over. One of our
bullets had passed through his neck. The man was dressed
in civilian clothes and wore a red-starred military cap.
Another shot to our left kicked up dirt and snow, and
we retreated to the shelter of the train.
The gunfire was concentrated two hundred yards ahead
of us, around the station and behind us, a mile distant at
the entrance to the yards, where there was a small Cossack
guard. "Pretty obvious what they're after," Kink said.
"They're trying to knock out the Cossack sotnia guarding
the station, and then fan back to wipe out any scattering of
opposition from the trains. Soon as they've done that they'll
send up a flare and the cavalry on the outskirts of the town
will know it's safe to ride in."
"What if they don't knock out the guard at the station?"
230
"Good question. Then they'll fall back here in strength,
hoping to draw the station Cossacks out after them. Go back
to A and B Flights and get all the men, except for a handful to
guard the trains with the boys. Send forty to me, and take
the rest around the outside tracks to outflank the Bolshies.
If it works, we'll catch the bulk of them between us."
Bully beef had upset my stomach and I didn't particularly
like the idea of a special mission in fog that was thickening
so badly you couldn't tell friend from foe, but I did as I
was told.
Halfway to B Flight train an infiltrator lurched at me
from between a cowcatcher and a caboose. I sidestepped and
he slipped and fell, and then I lost him in the fog as he
scrambled up and away. I sent a few shots in his general
direction, but they missed, whining off the side of the train.
Eddie met me at the steps of the lounge, and together
we rounded up the men of the flight. After the boredom of
the last few days they were anxious for a fight.
The gunfire at the north of the yards slackened as I led
the men around the outside tracks toward the station. It
looked as though Kink was right; the infiltraters were with-
drawing from the station and coming down the yards.
We took positions behind a string of boxcars at a siding
and waited for the Reds to come. "Tell the men to be abso-
lutely quiet," I told Hoskins. "And remember, they're not to
follow after the Bolshies till I give the word."
Hoskins nodded and limped down the line to deliver the
order. A few minutes later we saw the first of the Bolshies
drifting back through the yards. They had, I saw, been well
trained; they kept to cover, and they carried their rifles
before them, so that they shouldn't knock against obstacles
only dimly glimpsed in the fog. From the station the rifle
fire was only desultory now.
I counted over a hundred men; beyond them, along
other tracks, there must have been a couple of hundred
more making their way toward the yard entrance.
231
When the first pursuing Cossacks filtered through the
gloom I gave Hoskins the signal and we rose to follow.
We had barely taken cover behind another string of flats
when Kink and his men, stationed at four different points,
opened with their first volley. Reloading as fast as we could,
my group pumped bullets into the knots of astonished men.
Caught in the murderous crossfire, the Bolshies went down
in droves, and those who had escaped scrambled for the
undersides of the nearest trains.
"Let's get the bastards! Watch their knives!" I yelled, and
leapt from cover.
For the next three-quarters of an hour it was a deadly
game of hide and seek, of peeking around corners and be-
hind wheels to see if the man lurking in the shadows wore
a shapka, a garrison cap or the military type hat worn by
the Bolshies, and pulling or not pulling your trigger accord-
ingly. Bullets hit the train sides, producing the sound of
struck gongs; they smashed the windows of refugee cars and
sang and whistled overhead. Rifle flashes lit the yards like
sparklers on the fourth of July. The fog was lifting, but it
was still the most dangerous kind of close combat.
The plennys were fighting along with the rest of us. I saw
Feodor blazing away from a box car window, and the huge,
bear-like Ivan searching for infiltraters with his rifle held
like a club. Something glistened on the end of the polished
stock: Bolshevik blood.
The Red cavalry vanguard never entered Taganrog yards.
Though many infiltraters had managed to escape, to betray
their city another day, we counted next morning over a
hundred Bolshie dead. The Cossacks had suffered twenty-
odd fatal casualties; B Flight had gotten away with knife
wounds and a bullet through the bugler's arm. A Flight had
two Tommies dead and a couple of others wounded. It was
nonetheless a decisive victory, and we had Kink's strategy
to thank for it. Had the Red cavalry been able to come in
from the outskirts of the town, the Cossack station guards
232
would have been no match for the combined infiltraters
and cavalry, and not many people in the yards, including
A and B Flights, would have survived.
233
Chapter Ten
We got out of Taganrog at one o'clock the next afternoon
loaded down with the refugees Kink had finally decided to
take aboard the train. Colly had gone to see Russky at the
hospital that morning, and was due back around noon with
a report, but at lunchtime the switchman got us on the east-
bound local track, and Kink decided we had better take ad-
vantage of it. We pulled out of the yards with a Cossack
regimental band playing a tuba-heavy version of Rule,
Britannia, in appreciation of the part we had played in last
night's little unpleasantness.
The roadbed was only double track, with the express
track kept clear for headquarters trains. Two broneviks
patrolled the thirty-seven mile stretch twenty-four hours a
day. If a refugee train sneaked into the stretch of open track
it was confronted by the turreted guns of an armored train
and forced off onto a siding.
The trip to Rostov was another exercise in Jobian
patience. The line crept forward, a mile an hour, sometimes
only two or three miles in a morning, an afternoon. When
we passed a station it was necessary to keep our engine
jammed tight against the rear of the train ahead; otherwise
refugee coaches, waiting for a box-car length of space to
pounce on, would cut into the line. Kink had sympathy for
the refugees, but our orders were to get to Rostov as soon
as we could.
234
Seaward, three hundred yards at this point, lay the Azov,
cold and bleak and fog-shrouded. The wagon road on the
landward side of the tracks was black with refugees, soldiers,
and mounted Cossacks on patrol. The civilians and military
traveled in carts, sleighs, on horse and on foot. Both were
typhus-ridden, and bodies, some stripped of their outer
clothing, dotted the landscape.
"God's troth," Bill said, "this is a race precious few of those
poor sods are going to win."
"We might not get through ourselves, you know," said
Eddie. "We're in a bottleneck, and something's bound to
get left as dregs."
"Never thought of that," said Tommy.
"It's that monolithic British chauvinism of yours," Eddie
chided him. "You just can't admit you can be worsted by
anybody on earth."
"Don't call me an Englishman," Tommy said coldly. "I'm
a Scot. And I don't know what chauvinism means, but it
sounds like an insult. Take it back."
"Suppose we compromise and I take back 'monolithic* in-
stead?" Eddie said innocently "Will that do?"
Tommy hesitated. "I guess so."
Later in the day we stopped at one of the many way sta-
tions to take on water, and a few seconds afterward Kink
slammed into the lounge. "Everybody out with buckets, pans
and tins. The water tank's frozen solid and we've got to
get the tender filled with snow. Bill and Tommy, rout out
the refugees and the Tommies. You too, Cowderdrill. No-
body's excused but the Orloffs."
Everybody capable of standing on their feet turned to,
except for the count and countess. But there was one unap-
proved exception: an arrogant baron from Slavyansk who
had appropriated a corner of one of the freights and rode
with a cologne-soaked handkerchief pressed to his very
long nose.
When we hauled him out trackside he began a speech in
Russian to the effect that manual labor was demeaning and
235
that his family hadn't soiled its hands with work in five
hundred years.
"The Rewalution comes, you vork," Kink mocked hinu
He motioned over a couple of enlisted men. "Roll this cove
in the snow till he gets the spirit of cooperation."
With the refugees looking on blankly, the Tommies rolled
the baron in the snow. He got to his feet screaming and spit-
ting with rage.
"Roll him a bit more," Kink said.
They rolled him till he arose groggy and gasping. Floun-
dering dazedly, he started for another train.
"Head him off!" Kink shouted. When the baron was
brought before him again, Kink said he wasn't getting off
that easily. It was either work or get rolled. The baron finally
gave in.
A bucket of snow melts into only a few cupfuls of water,
and it took us half a day of dumping snow into the tender
to raise enough steam to get under way.
In one way I was glad that we moved so slowly. It gave
me a chance to look for Nina's train among the many hos-
pital vans sidetracked by burned out boilers and frozen
switches. Though the stationmaster at Taganrog hadn't re-
membered Nina's train, I was sure Alexandrovsky had passed
through Taganrog toward Rostov before we had.
On our third day out the staff cars began passing on the
open track. Drawn-faced officers stood looking dully out of
the windows of the coaches clicking by at express train speed.
Obviously Taganrog was being evacuated. One string of
trains had a palatial dining car in which an orchestra and
jugglers entertained a fat general with white, close-cropped
hair. In cinema dramas to come of the Civil War, I thought,
such a scene would undoubtedly figure.
"Look at that," Kink said disgustedly. "There's one reason
why we're losing the goddam war."
"If Russky was here," Eddie said, "he'd remind us that
Denikin's wife has only one dress made from the lining of
236
her husband's dress uniform, and that the Wrangels don't
have a penny to their name."
Kink chewed on his lip moodily. "Denikin s clearing out
of Taganrog sooner than I thought. And when he goes the
Mission will be going with him. I hope Russky's being taken
care of."
"Colly will see to it that he gets to Rostov hospital," I
told him. "Don't worry."
"On the contrary," Kink said. "I've got to keep worrying.
Not only about Russky but about every goddam refugee
we've got on this train, even the baron. If I quit, I might
stop being human." He closed his eyes for a moment.
"Alenka, that little black-eyed girl in freight sixteen, she
died last night. When I went in there she was still holding
onto that pitiful doll. And what's-his-name, that unpro-
nounceable lawyer from Gorlovo not one of his family's
going to last the trip. If we only had some quinine left!"
"We're feeding them, Kink," Eddie reminded him. "What
more can we do?"
Kink looked at him. "Eddie, I wish I knew."
Hospital expresses and staff trains from Taganrog con-
tinued to flash by at intervals through the night and into
the next day. Aboard one of them were undoubtedly Hoi-
man, Bingham, Colly, and other officers of the British Mis-
sion. General Mudd's train, improbably, came last. It passed
us while we had stopped again to snow the engine, and
though Mudd's engineer was making faster time than had
any of the others, the brigadier rose a few notches in our
estimation for bringing up the rear. After Mudd had passed
the patrolling broneviks allowed the express track to be
put into use, though there was still so much rolling stock
that it seemed to make no difference in the general rate of
progress.
And then, all of a sudden, it was Christmas Eve.
Kink introduced the intimately related subjects of Clar-
ence and our Christmas dinner.
237
"I don't like to bring this up," he said, "but Clarence isn't
a piglet any more, and if we have bully beef and hardtack
for tomorrow's dinner I'm going to be utterly depressed."
Tommy, who was fond of the pig, looked distressed. In
the pantry we could hear Cowderdrill agitatedly slamming
doors.
"I agree with Kink," I said. "We can't keep Clarence for-
ever, and he's better off in our stomachs than in the Bolshies'."
I was very hungry, and there were refugee children who were
hungrier than I.
"God's troth," Bill protested, "eating that pig would be
an act of cannibalism. Why he's practically a human being."
"I say an end to this sentimentalism," Eddie said. "Clarence
isn't a human being but a hog, and hogs are meant to be
et."
"In these brutal times," Bill went on with an air of injured
dignity, "we have a goddam obligation to observe the god-
dam finer sentiments. I know Russky would have been against
turning Clarence into a loin of pork. If we put him to the
knife we'll only be lowering ourselves to the level of the
Bolshies."
"We'll take a referendum on it," Kink said. "Since Cow-
derdrill's taken care of the animal, it's only fair to give him
a double vote. Sergeant!" he yelled.
The messman stumbled into the lounge, his face as gray
as one of his ill-laundered napkins. Clarence waddled after
him. "Yes sir, you called, sir? Rum toddies? A spot of Bovril?"
"Don't pretend," Kink told him. "You heard every word.
Now what's your vote on Clarence?"
Cowderdrill swallowed. "Well, sir, you put me in a hard
spot there."
"Your two votes, Sergeant," Kink said grimly.
The mess sergeant scratched his head. "Well, sir, I'm at-
tached to the creature, and I keep remembering when you
picked him up in Tsaritsyn and he wasn't no bigger than
a quart of Gordon's. I'd miss his company, but when I see
refugee children coming round with their hands out and
238
their eyes like saucers, it breaks my heart. And a pig is a
pig, and the way things is going, he ain't never going to get
any fatter than he is right now." He paused. "There's only
one thing, sir."
Kink waited.
"I couldn't bear to slaughter him myself, sir. Could Ivan
do the job?"
Kink looked away from Clarence who was rooting at his
boots and grunting affectionately. "All right, Sergeant. Call
Ivan now. Let's get it over with."
Christmas dinner was hardly a gala affair. None of us
had much appetite for loin of Clarence, and Bill and Tommy
couldn't eat it at all. While Cowderdrill distributed the
cooked ham, sides and butt to the refugees and plennys at
the kitchen door, we concentrated on the rum and reminisced
about other, better Christmas dinners at home.
"My mother made a fine haggis," Tommy said. "I used to
eat myself sick. And the good Scotch whiskyl We had gallons
of it Uncle John was in the spirits business."
"Dad never allowed liquor at home," I told them, "but
mother's Christmas dinners were wonderful. A twenty-five
pound turkey, five kinds of potatoes; mince, apple and
pumpkin pie."
"We'd have a set of beef ribs it took two farmhands to
carry in the kitchen door," Kink said, "and roast new potatoes
the size of big peas, and a Yorkshire pudding that would
melt in your mouth."
"Please, boys," Bill implored us, "My old lady wasn't so
bad a cook herself."
"It was a stuffed goose on the Fulford's groaning board,"
said Eddie, "and when we'd picked one clean my mother
would bring in another."
Tommy pushed roast pork around on his plate. "I wonder
what they're feeding Russky at the hospital. Bones-of-chicken
broth, if he's lucky. And Kitty's probably having the last
of the hardtack we gave her."
Nina, I thought for the tenth time that day; what was
239
Nina having for her Christmas dinner? Was she having
anything at all? And where was she having it? Five, ten miles
down the track, on some siding quiet with the terrible
stillness of typhus and death? Was she at Rostov hospital?
Or had Alexandrovsky's train crossed Rostov Bridge on its
way to Ekat?
I looked out the window to see if the coaches on the ex-
press track were moving.
"Come on, Bunny," Kink said. "Quit that woolgathering
and join us in a toast."
"I didn't know there was anything to drink to."
Kink grinned sardonically, arching his Mephistophelian
brows. "To Christmas in Moscow, Captain. The toast that
Napoleon's generals drank in Vilna. The toast we drank with
Wrangel and Restigiev at Tsaritsyn."
We rose and extended our toddy mugs.
"Gentlemen!" Kink shouted, "To Christmas in Moscow!"
We had drunk the toast to its bitter dregs when we turned
to see Hoskins standing in the doorway.
"Don't like to disturb you, sir," he said to Kink, "but
there's trouble at the engine."
"What trouble, Flight?" Kirk said wearily.
"The engineer and the fireman tried to escape, sir. The
guards had to club them about a little till they settled down.
Now they won't run the engine."
Kink sat down. He didn't seem terribly concerned. "Chain
them to their places, Hoskins. Tell them they won't get fed
until they realize their responsibilities to General Denikin,
General Wrangel and His Majesty the King."
"Right, sir. Then can I relieve the engine guards for their
Christmas dinner?"
"Yes, Flight. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Major. Merry Christmas, Captain Aten,
Captain Daley, Captain Fulford, Captain Burns-Thompson."
Tommy and Bill wished Hoskins a Merry Christmas in
return, but Eddie and I only nodded. We were fed up with
240
the words and the hollow sound of them and we didn't
have the heart.
The following night, at a station about twelve miles from
Rostov, we unexpectedly drew alongside General Mudd's
train. Mudd's boiler had burned out and his engine, tender
and five coaches were blocking the line. The brigadier
dropped over a few minutes later, pushing his way through
a crowd of apathetic refugees who, used to such delays,
merely had an academic interest in determining what or who
had caused the latest inconvenience.
Mudd explained that his train had been the last to leave
Taganrog. Denikin and Russian headquarters, panicking at
the approach of the Bolsheviks, had abandoned the town
without a word of warning to the British Mission. Holman,
Bingham and Colly had already left for Rostov with half of
the staff, but there were over a hundred men left and the
bulk of the archives were still sitting on the station platform.
Wrangel, returning from the front, had learned of Mudd's
situation and sent a train from Rostov. It had been one of
his last official acts before relinquishing command of the
defeated Dobrievolsky Army.
Mudd was pale and his face was deeply lined; some of
the patent leather shine had gone out of his carefully
groomed hair. He declined a drink and sat back with one
hand shading his eyes.
"I've got a suggestion, sir," Kink said. "I can drop part
of my train and pick up yours."
Mudd shook his head. "No, Major. I'll wire General Hol-
man to try and send another engine. I wouldn't think of
putting you out."
"Then we'll stand by till your new engine arrives," Kink
told him. "It seems the broneviks have stopped patrolling,
and we have no idea of what might be coming down that
track."
"I won't have it," Mudd said definitely. "Push along while
241
you have the chance. In any case, I wouldn't leave here till
I saw you safely away." He smiled faintly. "One of us has
to make Rostov Bridge before the Bolshies."
After the general had left Bill said, "We misjudged old
Mudd, you know? A man can change. A losing war sometimes
brings out the best in him."
Twenty minutes later Mudd's train pulled out with a
swish of airbrakes, and we rushed to the windows to see what
was going on.
"I'll be damned," Eddie said. "He got an engine. Now
where in this God-forsaken hole would be find an engine?
He might be a great soul, and all that, but he's certainly no
miracle man."
The corporal of the engine guard, Lewis gun on his
shoulder, stepped into the lounge. "Sir," he blurted, "the
general took our locomotive and crew."
"What?" Gink said, amazed.
" 'e said it was all right and 'e put 'is guard on in our
place. It was a general talkin', sir. I 'ad to obey 'im."
"Are you sure it was General Mudd, Mallows?"
"The general 'imself, sir, and nobody with 'im but two
'eadquarters sentries, 'e even took the paruski train crew,
sir. 'e said they might come in 'andy."
"All right, Corporal," Kink said calmly, "dismiss the en-
gine guard. We don't have much use for it."
Kink rested his forehead against the cold marble of the
fireplace mantel. His fingers gripped his Woodbine so tightly
that it broke in half. Straightening with a quick movement,
he flung the broken gasper into the fireplace and laughed.
"Tommy," he said, "Go out and find some refugee girls
that are typhus-free and who can dance. Tonight we're going
to have a real prazdnik. It damn well might be our last."
Our engineless state, so far as I was concerned, was not
without its advantages; it gave me a chance to look for Nina.
When I woke Kink at dawn and asked his permission for
242
a half day's leave, he gave me his reluctant consent. "But
remember," he told me, "If we can find an engine before
noon we're going on without you. And to save my neck I
won't hesitate for a minute to report you dead. You know
what that means in the R.A.F. you'll have a hell of a time
proving you're alive." He scowled, pulled the covers over
his head, and turned over.
I would have taken the Red Cross van, except that the
wagon road was too rutted and icy for the worn tires. I de-
cided to go on foot, a more rapid method of transit than
hitching a ride on one of the slow-moving trains on the local
track.
A mile or so out I came across one of the many saddled
but riderless horses we had been seeing from the train since
leaving Taganrog. Vaulting into the saddle I noticed that
the horn was caked with blood. Why one of the fleeing
refugees hadn't appropriated the emaciated bay I didn't
know; perhaps it was because a horse had to be fed, and if
they had any food at all, the refugees had to save it for
themselves.
The misery I had seen aboard the trains, heart-rending
though it was, was nothing compared to that of the road.
Singly and together, scores of refugees lay dying and dead
from cold, starvation, typhus, smallpox or all of them com-
bined. I passed a mother with two children huddled up
against her, like animals, for the last warmth she could give;
some passerby, taking pity, had tossed an Oriental rug over
them and then gone on his way. A demented woman sat on
the roadside counting and recounting her fingers. The
weather had turned more sharply cold, and adults and chil-
dren walked alongside or rode on the rough carts, the ancient
buggies, the rusted sleighs, with frostbitten feet and fingers.
From none of them was there any sound of agony or com-
plaint. It was as if they were conserving their energy for what
still lay before them, or as though they had learned the
futility of any reproach to man or God.
243
The next station, three or four miles away, was jammed
with holed up trains. Refugees milled around the platforms,
but at the top of every flight of steps stood men who were
kicking out at the people trying to get on. They shouted at
them, "Zaniato! Zaniato!"
The station house was crowded with refugees jostling for
a place around the pot-bellied stove. A knot of people sur-
rounded me, asking for news or information.
"Nyet novy." I told them in my pidgin-Russian, and in
English, for good measure, "I have no news."
A plump woman in a man's shuba, her face marked with
the first lesions of smallpox, began to cry.
"Prostite" I said, "Prostite" and backed the bay away
toward the siding. At its end there was parked a Red Cross
train.
A middle-aged man followed me for a way, shouting
violently and waving his arms. I imagined he was reproach-
ing me for having the insolence to be sorry that I had no
news, not even bad news, when people were dying like flies
and God knew how close the Bolsheviks were to Rostov.
I rode up the siding to the hospital train. A shell had
struck the side of the headquarters car, obliterating its num-
ber. The train looked familiar, and my heart gave a lurch.
I tethered the horse to a tree branch, and swung up the steps.
There was nobody in the first car but those the tif had
struck down: soldiers, frozen stiff, piled willy-nilly upon one
another on the wooden bunks. They were part of a regiment
of cadets, none of them older than twenty. Putting my
handkerchief to my nose, I hurried through the car and into
the next.
It was the same, as was the next, except that in the third
car lay the wounded for whom the tif had been only a final
complication. Panic-stricken now and unthinking, dreading
that I would find Nina dead in the next car, I threw open
the connecting door and stumbled through it.
It was the nurses' quarters, and four nurses lay dead on
244
the bunks and on the floor. Like the girls of hospital train
242 they wore black Red Cross habits with red brassards and
black kerchiefs, but they weren't Nina, Olga, Sonia and
Claudia, and this wasn't hospital train 242.
I left the car.
A young man in an expensive polushubok was busy un-
tethering my horse from the branch.
"Von! Von!" I shouted, and ran towards him, unholstering
my revolver.
He dropped the bridle and sprinted away down the siding,
glancing back over his shoulder frantically for the bullet
he was sure was coming after him.
I returned the Smith fe Wesson to its holster and took the
bay back to the road. It was almost nine-thirty; I had to get a
move on.
It took me an hour to get to the next station on the line.
Midway I ran into a sotnia of Cossacks, dragging their typhus
victims behind them in carts. They hogged the road, and
when I tried to pass, three of them unsheathed their sabres
and shouted at me to get back.
Their eyes glittered with fever, and I knew they were
in no mood to be crossed. I fell back.
The next station was larger than the last, and its sidings
and passing tracks were black with trains. I sought out the
harassed stationmaster and asked him if he had seen Alex-
andra vsky's vans.
He took me into his office and consulted his scrawled work
sheet. Then, loosing a torrent of Russian, he pointed east,
toward Rostov. He had definitely mentioned hospital train
242.
Not bothering to wipe his spittle from my cheek, I took
him by the lapels. "Do you mean the Red Cross train was
here, but it left yesterday?"
"The day before yesterday," he told me.
I asked him how far it was to the next stop, and he said
it was three miles.
245
"Spasibo" I said, and gave him twenty rubles. He glanced
around furtively for the military guard, and stuffed the notes
in his pocket as I went out the door.
The bay pulled up lame half a mile down the road. I left
him in the hands of a local peasant, and continued the rest
of the way on foot. The plodding refugees thought I was a
madman for hurrying so fast. Zamedlite! Slowl" they shouted
at me, and one wit yelled that the speed limit was forty
kilometers an hour; I would be arrested by the Cossacks
for going too fast.
I hardly heard them. Head down I ploughed forward
through the slush, and if someone got in my way man or
woman I pushed him aside. I was unconscious of the effort
involved until I reached the station. There, exhausted, I
collapsed on the side of the road.
After a while I got up and went toward the siding. I
doubted that Nina's train was here; in two days time her
train should have been able to cover more than three miles,
even in this molasses of rolling stock. Still, it was possible
the engine had been stolen or commandeered or that the
boiler had burned out from lack of water.
I cursed myself for my selfishness. How could I wish that
Nina hadn't reached Rostov and crossed the bridge? To be
stuck somewhere in the eight or ten mile stretch between
here and the bridge might mean the difference between sur-
vival and a Bolshie bullet.
I went down the siding, looking at the numbers on the
hospital vans. There were two trains, one behind the other.
The boiler of the first was burned out; that meant that the
same was true of the second train, otherwise it would have
been ahead on the siding.
A big man in a rumpled major's uniform passed me, and
then turned around. "Captain, pozhaluista, it is you?"
It was Alexandrovsky, but so thin and haggard I hadn't
recognized him. I gripped his hand. For a moment I couldn't
speak.
246
He saw my heart in my eyes. "I know after whom you have
come," he said, "so I will not waste the time in conversation.
Captain, kak zhal, Nina is ill. She is very ill."
I looked at him.
"Five days ago she was struck in the shoulder by a sniper.
The bullet was a dum dum; it shattered the shoulder bone
and made a terrible wound."
He reached out and steadied me with his hand under my
arm. I couldn't bear to ask it, but I had to. "Major, will she
live?"
"If the tetanus does not set in, she might recover, captain.
But we had for her only one dose of serum, and even if we
had more I could not make to you the absolute promise."
I asked him if I could see her now.
"Certainly, though I would prefer that you do not stay
too long: she should not have too much excitement."
He led me to the nurses' quarters. Entering the car it
was as if I had dreamed the hospital train of earlier this
morning in preparation for this, the reality. It was the same
car, with the same furnishings, the same pearly light of a
clouded winter day coming in through the curtained win-
dows, the same odor of stale camomile. Only two things
were different: the ikon on the wall was of the crucifixion,
not the resurrection, and only one of the four bunks was
occupied.
In that bunk lay Nina.
I fought to disbelieve it, to stay in the borderline of
ambiguity between a future I had prefigured and a present
that I could not accept. Alexandrovsky coughed in the door-
way and then closed the door behind him.
I had no choice but to accept.
The blanket was pulled up to her armpits. She wore a
gray hospital robe under which I could see the bloodstained
bandage. Her head was turned away from me, her long hair
spread out on the pillow.
I went over to her and knelt by the side of the bunk. She
247
turned her head and opened her eyes and smiled. In the pallor
of her face they were enormous and bright.
"Zdravstvuite, Ninusha," I said, and kissed her on the fore-
head. It was warm and slightly flushed; she was running a
low fever.
"Zdravstvuite, Sasha," she said, in a voice that was half-
whisper but not weak, not the voice of a dying girl, and I was
suddenly drunk with hope/'
"I knew you would come/' she said. "It was a very strong
feeling/'
"I would have come looking for you before, Ninusha, if
I'd been able to get away."
"You have lost weight," she said. "You are thinner."
"Don't talk about me. We haven't the time; the major
says I mustn't stay too long. Listen to me now. The boiler of
your train's burned out and there's no way for the hospital
train to get to Rostov. In a very short time, perhaps tonight,
perhaps tomorrow, I'll come by and take you off. I'm sure
Alexandrovsky won't mind."
I had forgotten that we had no engine; yet, had someone
reminded me of the fact, I would have told them, with per-
fect certainty, that we would get one.
"No, he will not mind if you take me. That would be
very nice, Sasha. We would be together for a while." She
stiffened in a sudden spasm of pain. "But I would not want
to be a burden."
"Stop your kavardak, Ninusha. We'll be together for more
than just a while. I'd almost two hundred miles to the
hospital in Ekat, once we crossed the bridge, and you can
imagine how long that's going to take with conditions on the
railroads as bad as they are just now."
She smiled. "Yes, they are very bad. I know your im-
patience, Sasha. Have you been very bored?"
"No. I had you to think of."
She closed her eyes. "I am glad, Sasha."
Alexandrovsky knocked lightly.
248
I leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. "I must go
now."
Lifting her good arm she reached up and brushed the back
of her hand against my cheek. She was crying. "Sasha, say you
will take me to California and that we will live on the ranch
with your dog and all the animals, even though it is not true.
Say we will be together and again lovers, even though you
lie. Lie to me, Sasha, so that I may have some hope. Pozha-
luista, my beloved, please."
I wiped her tears. Somehow I managed to keep my voice
flat and level. "It would be no lie if I told you that, Ninusha.
Trust me. I'll come for you soon, and we'll spend New Year's
Eve together. That I promise."
I went to the door and opened it and closed it behind me
without looking back.
Alexandrovsky was waiting in the passageway. "Captain,"
he said, "there is a patrolling bronevik on the express track
heading east in a few minutes. They will take you back,"
I thanked him and asked if I could take Nina off the
hospital train when we came past the station. He nodded.
"If you can get her to a hospital sooner than I can, I have no
objection. If it is later a case of tetanus we would be equally
helpless."
I tried to put my mind on something else. "And Olga and
the other nurses, they are well?"
"They are well except for Claudia, who has the smallpox."
He looked at his watch and told me the armored train was
about to leave.
A platform guard pulled me aboard as the bronevik was
pulling out of the station. He pointed the way toward the
headquarters car, and I entered it to find a major and his
adjutant sitting at a table. They spoke very little English,
but I managed to piece out the latest bad news: Lihaya,
seventy-five miles from Rostov, had fallen, and the Reds
were advancing on Alex-Grush and Novocherkaask with very
little to stop them. When they took Novocherkaask the Bol-
249
shies would be able to flank Rostov from the north and east,
and cut off the southbound line to Ekat.
"Ochen plokho, very bad," they said, and went on to tell
me of the latest difficulties between Denikin and Wrangel.
Wrangel recently had gone to Ekaterinodar to raise troops
among the Kuban and the Terek Cossacks. Arriving there he
was furious to discover that Denikin had dispatched General
Shkura on the same mission. Among Shkura's staff were two
Intelligence Department agents sent by Romanovsky to in-
form headquarters of Wrangel's actions and movements. To
add injury to insult, these agents had spent their time in Ekat
fomenting rumors that Wrangel planned a coup d'etat to re-
establish the monarchy.
Wrangel had arrived in Rostov planning on a showdown
with the commander in chief. There he had delivered his
report to Denikin, refused command of the Kuban troops
and stated his opinion that Novorossiisk should be fortified
immediately. Denikin had disagreed, saying that to fortify
the city would be to admit the possibility of disaster and
would result in hopeless panic. At that point, holding out his
hand, Denikin had signified that the interview was over.
Wrangel had saluted, ignoring his outstretched hand, and
left the room. But later in the day, having changed his mind,
the commander-in-chief had given Wrangel the job of turn-
ing Novorossiisk into an armed camp.
"Ochen plokho" the major said, and shook his head.
The bronevik had been going along at a steady clip, and
looking out the slit I saw we were approaching our station.
It occurred to me that the major seemed to have no definite
orders, and if such were the case, he might be able to tow
us into Rostov. It could be managed easily enough if we left
some of our freights behind, bitter news as that would be to
the refugees.
I put the question to the major, and he agreed. He would,
in fact, be delighted to pick us up tomorrow morning on
the return leg of his Rostov-Taganrog patrol. I was feeling
250
halfway alive again when I swung off the train and took the
news of our deliverence to Kink and the boys.
The bronevik didn't show the next morning, or even that
afternoon. There was only the endless drag of refugee trains
past the siding, and at twilight Kink, worn out by his vigil,
called it a day, and asked Cowderdrill for a double toddy.
"They probably got et up by some Red tanks outside of
Taganrog/ 1 he said. "Or Makhno's torn up the tracks. We're
right back where we started."
"I can feel the Bolshies' horrid breath on the back of my
neck," said Eddie.
I couldn't afford to believe the armored train wasn't
coming. "How do we know what happened?" I said. "Maybe
they stopped off for a prazdnik with some live-for-the-day
baryshnias. Or maybe they discovered a vodka warehouse
along the way. Anyway, we're forgetting the chance that
Mudd might send back the engine."
Eddie's disgusted look showed me what he thought of that
possibility. He took a long swallow of toddy. "I'm thinking
the bronevik deserted to the Reds."
Bill glanced out the window. "Do you know what these
bastards are doing? They've opened up a switch behind us
and they're moving off the trains without even bothering to
shunt us to another siding!"
Kink closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "I find
it hard to summon up any indignation. Though such an
attitude hardly befits a leader of men, I just don't give a
ruddy damn."
Tommy came in from the Pullman car with a cheering bit
of information. The Orloffs had quietly quit the train for a
more reliable means of transportation. They had left a note
on one of their neatly made up bunks thanking us for our
hospitality and wishing us the best of luck.
"Don't say it," Eddie said, anticipating the thought in all
our minds. "Ill say it for you: like rats deserting a sinking
251
ship. Not that you can blame them. I've noticed that about
the aristocrats; they're much more adaptable in the face of
disaster than the lower orders. The Orloffs and their kind
will be surviving grandly when we bourgeois are six feet
underground."
"They might have said do svidaniya" Bill said a little rue-
fully. "Them and their damn diamond."
"I think it showed good taste that they didn't," Kink said.
"They realized how much it would have depressed us." He
glanced up at Cowderdrill, who was standing there with a
woebegone expression on his extraordinary face. "What's
the matter, sergeant? Feeling fretful about the Bolshies?"
"Sir, I was rather hoping that if something happened to
the Orloffs, not that I wished it, sir, you understand; but if
something did happen to them, why, we would have in-
herited the diamond. As spoils of war." He sighed. "That's
why I'm sorry they left us, sir."
"I suppose you've already spent your share of it on those
Riviera trollops that keep tripping through your imagina-
tion?" Kink asked, not benignly.
Cowderdrill blushed. "Well, sir, as a matter of fact, I did
think a little of what I could do with my share. It rather
took my mind off the Bolshies."
Kink closed his eyes again. "Well, I'm afraid you'll have
to depend on the fortune you'll make from the samovars.
Of course that should be more than sufficient. As it is, I can
see you losing a thousand pounds at Monte Carlo without a
quiver."
The messman brightened. "Now that you mention it, sir,
I believe you're right. You've made me feel much better,
sir. I'm grateful."
"Don't mention it," Kink said. "Just repay me by showing
a little imagination with that hardtack and bully beef we're
going to have tonight for dinner. How about braising the
bully, sergeant? Have we had it braised yet?"
"Well, sir, you can't braise bully beef. You see, sir, braising
252
is for them meats that ain't tender enough for roasting or
broiling. Now as bully beef's just corned beef, you can't "
"As you were, sergeant," Kink said wearily. "I was just
pulling your leg, but every time I do, it comes off in my hand.
You may serve dinner."
But we didn't have dinner till considerably later that
evening. As Cowderdrill stumbled off toward the kitchen the
guard knocked and came in to tell us that the bronevik was
outside on the main track and ready for us to hitch on.
253
Chapter Eleven
The bronevik major gave us thirty minutes to detach six
freights and couple B Flight train onto his terminal car.
Mutely the dispossessed refugees piled out with their belong-
ings and mutely they transformed to other cars in the line
behind us. With one exception, they expressed neither grati-
tude for past favors nor blame for present inconvenience. Only
the baron from Slavyansk was on hand to object as we pulled
out of the station; he stood in the middle of the track, shaking
his fist and hurling maledictions at the perfidious angliski.
The major offered no explanation for the delay, but he had
no need to; we saw several good-looking refugee girls, scantily
clad for the cold weather, peering from the windows of the
Pullman section.
When we came to Nina's station Eddie helped me carry
the stretcher into Alexandrovsky's train. Kink came along to
say hello and good-by to Olga.
The doctor met us in the vestibule, looking at least no
grimmer than he had on our last meeting, and I took that as
a good omen: Nina must be improved.
That wasn't exactly true, he told me. She was no better,
but at least she was no worse, and holding her own.
"You have sterile gauze?" he asked me.
"Yes, and cotton."
"Good. In a day or two put on a pressure dressing and
254
change the dressings regularly thereafter. Avoid too much
iodine and such; nature heals a wound best. If an abscess
develops, open the wound and drain it; Nina Dmitrievna
will direct you. And morphia, are you well supplied with
that?"
I nodded, and asked him how I would recognize the signs
of tetanus.
"They are very obvious, captain. A stiffness in the back
of the neck or in the muscles of the jaw and face. There is
difficulty in opening the mouth and its corners are drawn
downward and back; they become fixed in that position. The
muscular contractions are very painful, and that is when
you might need the morphia. Let us hope you do not."
I shook his hand. ' 'Doctor, I'm very grateful. Look, there's
still some room on our train. I know Kink wouldn't mind.
Why don't you and the nurses. . . ."
"My boy, the commanding officer of a hospital train is
like the captain of a ship. There is no deserting it ... Go now
to your Nina. I will send in some orderlies to help."
Nina was asleep, and so peacefully that I hated to wake
her, but when Eddie and I closed the door behind us she woke
with a happy little cry.
"Hush," I said, "save your strength. This is going to hurt
a little."
"I do not care. Zdravstvuite, Eddie."
"Hello, yourself," Eddie said. "You're looking lovely."
She smiled. "I am looking terrible."
"Please," I told her. "You mustn't talk."
The orderlies came in then, and together we lifted her
from the bunk to the stretcher. Hurting her badly was un-
avoidable, and twice she gasped with the pain and her face
turned white. When she was on the stretcher I checked the
gauze, but there was no sign of hemorrhage.
The bronevik blew its whistle as we came out to the plat-
form. Olga and Sonia were there to say their farewells. Kink,
I noticed, looked very uncomfortable.
255
The girls kissed Nina on both cheeks and then did the
same with us. Both were weeping.
"Hey, this isn't a Chekhov play/' I tried to say gaily.
"We'll all meet in Ekat or Novorossiisk for a first class
prazdnik. By that time she'll be bouncing around."
"Of course," Olga said. "We must act like the grown-ups."
Kink licked his lips. "It's time to go, Bunny."
Alexandrovsky came out and kissed Nina good-by, and
then we carried her to B Flight train. As we turned into the
Pullman the bronevik started off. Kink waved to the doctor
and the girls from the window.
He took off his garrison cap and wiped his brow. "Whew!
That was worse than the retreat from Moscow!"
Nina smiled faintly. "It is all right, Kink. Olga is over you
now. It was not so bad for her as you think."
I didn't want her to get started talking and motioned
to Kink not to reply. What she needed most was sleep.
Nina bled a little when we transferred her from stretcher
to bunk, but examining the bandages herself, she told me
it wasn't serious. Diffidently she asked if I could change the
bandage in another hour or two.
I pulled down the shade. "Ninusha, let's get something
straight you're no bother. Now I'm going to bring you some
Bovril, and then I want you to get some sleep. After that
Feodor and I will change the bandage. You're going to be a
good girl now, and listen very closely to papa."
When I brought in the broth she had fallen asleep, and
I tiptoed out again. Back in the lounge the boys were looking
out the windows at the mouth of the icebound Don. It wasn't
the same river we had seen only a short time ago, passing
through Rostov to Taganrog and the front; then the Don,
though flowing fairly swiftly, had been quiet, serene. Now, in
a way I had never seen before, the ice, as though whipped
from below by a gigantic eggbeater, was frozen into hillocks
and ridges, some of them two feet high.
Bill shivered. "God's troth, I wouldn't want to cross that
256
ice with the Reds shooting at my tail. You'd slip and break
your neck crossing the first mountain range to the second."
"It's smoother and flatter near the bridge," Kink said.
"This is where the river runs into the sea."
By nightfall we were only half a mile out of Rostov, though
the congestion ahead on both express and local tracks was
so bad that it looked as though we would have to spend the
night where we were sitting.
It had begun to snow again, and as though the first flakes
of the new fall were a signal, a rattle of rifle fire broke out
down the tracks around the refugee trains that were behind
us and on the exposed right-hand line. There were shouts and
screams; caught by surprise, some refugees had been shot at
the windows.
The armored train, on the express track, was blocked off
from replying directly to the rifle fire by a refugee train on
the local, but it nonetheless swung into action immediately,
and began lobbing over star and four-inch shells. B Flight
train shook from the recoil of its turreted guns.
"Lights out and rifle stations/' Kink said. "That refugee
train blocking us out is going to pull ahead."
He was right, and in the next minutes the refugee coach
on the local track moved forward, leaving us open to the
Red attack.
Like the Green Guards the Red Cavalry used Verys, and
as we waited with fingers on trigger guards, the night became
brilliant with red and yellow and green flares. Three hundred
yards over the level snowscape we could see two big tank?
and about five hundred horsemen deploying in loose, irregu-
lar lines. By now what Cossack patrollers and refugees there
had been on the wagon road had crossed the tracks to take
shelter behind the trains on the express line. Red bullets
had dropped a dozen of them.
As the tanks began to throw their shells the horsemen
moved in fifty yards closer at a slow trot and recommenced
their fire. It was concentrated on the refugee trains, and I
257
wondered what possible motive the Reds could have for this
slaughter of the innocent; certainly by now the lack of
retaliatory fire from the refugee trains had told the Reds
that they contained no soldiers. A tank shell hit a refugee
coach fifteen or twenty cars down, and the cries and screams
of the wounded carried clearly through the crisp, clear
air.
Our Lewis guns were taking a heavy toll of the cavalry
and a direct hit by one of the armored train's shells put a
Red tank out of commission. The Reds drew back out of
range, and I got up from my place at one of the lounge win-
dows and went into the Pullman section to see Nina.
In the darkness I took her hand. "It's a Red attack," I
told her. "We've beaten them off for the moment."
"I am not afraid. We had many such raids coming down
from Orel, from the Green Guards and Bolsheviks both. The
Bolsheviks were the worst; they would shoot at the white of
the men's bandages. Then, when an armored train came up,
they would run away."
"They get bolder with success. Do you feel all right? How's
the pain?"
"I am not too badly, Sasha. Feodor has been giving me
aspirin."
"Good." I kissed her on the forehead and tugged the
blankets up to her chin. "Keep warm, Ninusha. I'll be back
skoro budet."
I had just picked up my Lee-Enfield again when the
cavalry attacked for the second time, coming within two
hundred yards of the tracks. The bronevik and Lewis fire
was devastatingly accurate, and the Reds fell back again,
without being able to carry off their wounded. The other
tank sat on the lip of a snowbank, motionless and smoking.
Kink put his hand on my shoulder. "Bunny, see if the
men are khorosho, will you? That Red lead might have done
some damage. And watch out for infiltraters; some may have
come in around the back.
258
I left the train on the seaward side and went toward the
rear, cocked rifle on my hip at the ready. As I came to the
last car a figure rounded the end and we met head on. He
fired his pistol point blank into my face.
I lunged forward into the blinding flash, and as I lunged
the tip of my rifle muzzle sank into the pit of his stomach.
I pulled the trigger. He slipped backward into the snow, and
I feel across him.
Was I dead? I should be. I could be.
But if I'd been dead than I wouldn't have been listening
to the death rattle in the Bolshie's throat.
The couplings crashed and the train moved forward. I got
up unsteadily and felt my face and throat. No damage. Then
I pulled at the stock of the rifle. It stuck. The muzzle, follow-
ing the bullet, had gone through the cavalryman's body and
caught between his ribs and his spine. I tugged again at the
rifle and it came free.
Beside the dead man lay a package of dynamite sticks tied
together. He had been sent to blow up the tracks.
I picked up the dynamite and trotted after the red tail-
light of the train. As I ran I kept telling myself insanely that
if I had had time to tie my pistol to the Red's rifle and
stuck the muzzle forward into the snow, they would have
formed a cross.
Early that morning we came into the Rostov yards and un-
coupled from the bronevik; the major had orders to carry
a general's train across the bridge and could take us no
further.
The yards lay a quarter mile from the bridge on the flat
north bank above the river. Bordering the bank rose an un-
broken line of snowcovered bluffs. From our place on the
siding we could see across the river to the low south bank,
where the Don had overflowed and spread out onto the
steppe in a vast, shallow, frozen lake.
The bridge itself was arch-supported, and about three
259
hundred yards long and seventy feet wide. It had a double
track, a foot path, and a crossing for vehicles. Now, and for
the next five days we were in Rostov, it was covered, night
and day, with refugees and the military in trains, in carts,
on horse and on foot.
General Brough, the British Railway Transport Officer,
came for breakfast from his office at the station.
He told us that Holman, Bingham and the rest of the
Mission staff had already crossed the bridge and were south-
ward bound; so was Colly, with A and C Flights. Colly had
arrived in Rostov to find A Flight already there waiting for
him. The A Flight boys had gotten to Rostov from Tsaritsyn
faster than we had made it from Kupyansk.
Brough said it was going to be a devil of a job getting
an engine for us, but that he would do his best. Rostov sta-
tion had no personnel remaining on duty and the railway
organization itself had ceased to function. Maneuvering of
the trains was now left entirely to the passengers. If he failed
to get us a locomotive, the general said, we should be pre-
pared to leave the train and walk across the bridge.
"Sir, what's the war news?" Eddie asked with a straight
face, and we laughed.
Brough took a typed sheet of paper from his pocket. Ex-
plaining that he had translated it from a Red communiqu,
he handed the sheet around. It read:
As of this day of December goth the Donets Coal Basin is in
the hands of the Red Army. We have cut Denikin's forces in
two. We are battering at the gates of Tsaritsyn and Krosnoyarsk,
and will soon take both cities. The remainder of Kolchak's forces
will shortly lay down their arms. Within a matter of days we
shall have captured Taganrog. Rostov will fall soon thereafter.
The year 1919 has been a year of victory for the working classes
on the front and in the rear. It was a year of consolidation for
the Soviet authority. The Red Army on the field of battle in-
flicted deadly decisive blows against the counter-revolution. Under
the mighty blows of the Red Army the hordes of Czarist generals
260
have melted away. With red standards and a shout of victory we
shall break into the New Year of 1920.
In the next year we shall attain a victorious end to the civil
war. In all Siberia, in the Ukraine, on the Don, in the Caucasus,
they desire the Soviets.
"What's today's date?" asked Tommy.
"The gist," Bill answered him.
"Then it's New Year's Eve," Tommy said, surprised.
"Since Christmas we've completely lost track of the time."
"Sir," Kink said. "Would you care to join us tonight for
a kind of conservative prazdnik? Perhaps our long faces
could stand some shortening."
Brough shook his head and got to his feet. "No, thank you,
Major. I must be on duty all night at the station. But if
your messman will send over some of those celebrated rum
toddies of his, I'd be delighted to drink with my adjutant to
the New Year and to some better luck."
When I went in to see Nina a few minutes later Feodor had
just finished changing her bandages. "Is better," he said,
beaming. "Notice, more the color in the cheek."
"Cheeks, Feodor," I corrected him, smiling. He was right.
Nina had lost some of her deathly pallor and her eyes were
brighter.
I smoothed her hair. "I know it's going to be a happy New
Year because you're getting better."
"Yes. I hope so."
She seemed to be in some doubt about it, and I said, "I
know so. None of that Asiatic pessimism of yours now. Do
we promise?"
She smiled. "Khorosho, we promise. Sasha," she began
hesitantly, and stopped.
"Tsaritsa moevo serdtsa, I know you've got something un-
pleasant to say. Out with it."
"It is not so unpleasant, Sasha. I know your comrades will
want to have a prazdnik tonight and I do not wish you to
spend the evening here, playing checkers. Especially since you
261
will have to move my counters for me. It is so tedious for
you."
"Being with you is never tedious, and moving your count-
ers is a joy."
"You are laughing at me."
"No, I'm not."
"But I am serious. And I should sleep."
"It's New Year's Eve and maybe if you sleep this after-
noon you'll be able to stay up for a while tonight. Anyway,
I'll be back early from seeing Russky at the hospital."
"Is that so? I should have thought the hospital would by
now have been evacuated."
"From what we hear they're not going to move the
wounded, but leave them there with some prisoners to ar-
range protection when the Reds come in."
Nina looked at me in shocked surprise. "Do you mean
they are trusting the Reds to spare the sick and wounded?
That is a fatal stupidity. They will murder them all."
"Ninusha," I said gently, "the Reds are winning the war.
They'll be inclined to be magnanimous. There are five thou-
sand wounded and sick at Rostov hospital; they wouldn't
kill that many people. Naturally you remember what hap-
pened at Velikokniazheskaya, and I can understand why
you're not able to forget. But it isn't likely to happen again."
She turned her head away. "Sasha, you do not understand
the Bolsheviks."
"We won't argue about it," I said, and got up from my
chair. "Have you had your aspirin?"
She nodded.
"Then I'll leave you for a while. I promised to take
Tommy's guard; he's out looking for Kitty again."
"Sasha, if Russky is better, take him with you on the train,
pozhaluista."
"Try to get some sleep," I said, and left the compartment.
After the evening meal the five of us took the van into the
city to the hospital. Rostov was as deserted as a poor man's
262
funeral. The shops were shuttered and the houses dark, ex-
cept for an occasional glimmer of light through blinds
behind which one was conscious people were peering appre-
hensively. The streets were empty save for a battery of field
guns clattering through from the north and an exhausted
troop of Don Cossacks drooping in their saddles. As we passed
them one raised his sabre ironically and shouted, "S novym
godom! S novym schasteim!"
"Happy New Year to you," muttered Eddie.
We drove by seventeen lampposts from which seventeen
men hung motionless in the windless air, the snowflakes
gathering in the folds of their clothes. One victim, bare-
chested, had been hung by a noose made from his shirt.
Kink whistled in a descending scale. "That's a bad sign.
Whenever the White Army starts hanging men wholesale it
means they don't plan on being around too long."
The hospital seemed infected by the same silent, pro-
testless paralysis that gripped the town. It was as if doctors
and nurses alike had fled into dream to avoid the terror of
reality. Kink had to speak twice to the nurse at the desk be-
fore she looked up from her work, and as we went down the
corridor to Russky's room the doctors we passed seemed like
somnambulists, walking the night with unseeing eyes. The
call bells rang ceaselessly, but one felt that a private under-
standing existed between caller and called that no serious
attention would be paid to them.
In the semi-private room Colly's influence had undoubt-
edly wrangled for him, Russky lay in bed staring listlessly
up at the ceiling. But it looked as though he were making
a good recovery; the mulberry rash had faded almost com-
pletely, and though he had lost a great deal of weight, the
eyes he turned to the door as we entered were fairly bright.
"Don't expect any wildly enthusiastic greeting," I told the
boys. "During convalescence typhus patients are pretty badly
depressed."
We got no wildly enthusiastic greeting, but clearly Russky
263
was as glad to see us as we were to see him. Leaving the
hospital in Taganrog, Kink and I had been sure we would
never see him alive again, and that certainty had been
symptomatic of our general feeling of hopelessness and de-
feat; now that he was before our eyes again, alive and on the
mend, we could tell ourselves that omens were false and only
competence and luck mattered.
"You will excuse/' Russky said, smiling. "I am weak and
cannot greet you as I would like. In a few days when I am
better and back on the train, will be different."
We were careful not to exchange glances. Evidently they
hadn't told him there was to be no evacuation of Rostov
hospital. Remembering what Nina had said I felt a chill; if
the hospital authorities thought there was no danger from
the Reds, why should they be so reluctant to tell the sick and
wounded what their plans were?
We brought him up to date on our composite biography
since leaving Taganrog and listened to his. He had arrived in
Rostov four days ago on a Red Cross train with a thousand
men packed into it; at Rostov station more than half of them
had been taken off dead. "They put me near broken window
and I think it save me, the fresh air. Can you believe?"
We could believe. During the retreat we had observed
that the cold and open air had been more beneficial than not
to the typhus-stricken; the people who had traveled the
wagon roads in open carts had fared generally better than
those carried in the closed hospital vans and refugee trains.
Kink was giving Russky an edited report on the latest
military developments when a nurse came in to shoo us out.
Visiting hours were over. We left, promising to look in
again tomorrow if we could.
"It's a load off my mind to know Russky isn't going west,"
Kink said, "but that hospital gave me the willies. Let's get
a drink."
"Where do you get a drink in this graveyard of a town?"
Bill said.
264
"We'll try the Hotel Rostov," Kink told him. "If it's closed
we'll know there's no sense trying anywhere else."
Though the Rostov's rococo lobby blazed with lights, there
was no doorman on duty at the entrance. We stamped the
snow off our boots and walked over Persian carpets to the
ornate desk. Eddie pushed a bell, and it rang loudly in the si-
lence, but no one came to answer it.
' 'Reminds me of the Crillon during a Zeppo raid," Eddie
said. "Once I dropped in while the bombs were falling, sat
down at the writing desk, and wrote three letters to my girl."
Kink moved oft toward the glass-enclosed palm court with
its fountain in the center. The fountain was dry. In one of
the delicate chairs sat a beefy porter with his dirty boots
up on a table top. Before him was a bottle of sparkling wine
and a brimming glass. He was smoking a long black cigar.
"The revolution comes to Rostov," Eddie laughed.
Tommy grinned. "Kink, ask him for a table for five near
the fountain and away from the string quartet."
"Pozhaluista, ofitsiant" Kink said, asking the man to call a
waiter.
He was ignored.
"Daite nam viski!" Kink snapped out.
The man spat on the floor.
Kink stepped forward to teach the lout better, but we
restrained him. "Forget it," I said. "The help's probably
looted all the liquor anyway. Let's go back to the train."
On our way back to the yards, the snow had drifted so
heavily at the street corners that several times we had to get
out, put down the boards we carried in the back, and use
them to get the van across the worst of the snowdrifts. A wet
and starving wolfhound watched us for a while from the
shelter of a doorway and then, licking his chops, vanished
down an alley.
When we got back to the train Kink and the boys settled
down to some serious drinking. I excused myself, made a cup
of Bovril for Nina, and brought it in.
265
She was dozing in the dim light Feodor had left on, but
awoke as I came in the door.
I made her drink the hot broth though she didn't feel like
it; the steam heat we were getting tonight was none too
satisfactory.
She handed me the empty cup. "You did not celebate the
New Year in the city?" she asked me.
"It wasn't very gay in Rostov," I said.
"Do you not wish to join your comrades in the lounge? I
can hear them singing/'
"Ninusha, for the last time, I'd much rather be here with
you to collect my kiss at midnight."
She looked at me, puzzled. "But can you not kiss me any
time?"
"This is a special kiss. In the United States it's the custom
on New Year's Eve to kiss your girl on the stroke of twelve."
"Why, Sasha?"
"Well, it's a kind of promise of love and devotion for the
coming year. The sealing of a bond. The lover's recognition
that he's the slave of time, and can never afford to forget it."
"That is sad but nice. But is it not true that you do not
kiss much in America except on special occasions?"
I laughed. "Listen, we do quite a bit of kissing in America,
even if we aren't as partial to it as the Russians."
"You disapprove of all our kissing?"
"I didn't say that. Let's say it's going to take me a while to
get used to it." I pulled the blanket up. It was quite chilly
in the compartment and getting colder.
Suddenly I sneezed, and sneezed again.
"You have a chill?" she asked me.
"I guess so. We were up to our knees in the snow tonight,
getting the van through the drifts in town."
"Take an aspirin."
"I'll be all right."
"Take some aspirin, Sasha. There is water in the carafe."
I took two aspirin tablets, and then she insisted upon feel-
266
ing my forehead for fever. I was running a slight temperature,
though I felt perfectly well. I had to go on feeling perfectly
well. Now was no time to come down with flu or pneumonia.
Someone knocked at the door, then opened it. It was
Tommy, two sheets to the wind, with a glass in his hand.
I could hear the boys roaring out Madelon from the lounge.
"Two minutes to midnight," Tommy announced. "Kiss
her for me, Bunny. Wish I had Kitty here to kiss. Wish Nina
the app the happiest Yew New Year ever." He saluted
with drunken precision and closed the door.
"If I'm coming down with something," I said, "maybe I'd
better not kiss you."
"It is khorosho."
I waited a few moments and then, whispering "S novym
Godom!" bent and kissed her mouth. It was soft and sweet.
She looked up at me in the dimness. "Happy New Year,
my beloved," she said. "I love you much."
267
Chapt
er
By noon the next day Brough had found us an engine, but
when we went to pick it up at one of the filthy train sheds, we
discovered that the boiler had a life expectancy of two or
three hours at the most. It would have taken us over the
bridge and a few miles south and then noisily expired. Kink
yielded the dying locomotive to an optimistic chinovnik who
had taken over one of the stalled refugee trains. Then he
went to Brough for further instructions.
He returned with orders to pack a minimum kit and stand
by to walk away from B Flight train. Meanwhile the general
would keep his eye out for an available engine.
"God's troth, he'd better," Bill said darkly. "If we don't
leave Rostov alive, Ramrod Brough won't either."
"That's enough," Kink admonished him sharply. "Let's
stop this whining. The Tommies' morale is bad enough. I
don't want to hear any of you criticizing a superior officer
from now on in."
I saw now that the odds were heavily against our finding
a locomotive that worked. There was only one thing for me
to do: find a place for Nina on one of the trains that had
already gained the bridge.
I took a walk past the packed station and down to the
entrance. It was jammed with stalled traffic, and the river to
either side was black with crossing fugitives moving slowly
268
across the slippery ice. Some had linked arms to minimize the
spills and falls, but it was rough going; many of the aged lay
groaning with broken hips and sprained ankles, waiting for a
Good Samaritan to come along and drag them to the opposite
bank. Few people had time for pity; they had their own
families and relatives to think of. Most kept looking over their
shoulders for signs of the Reds on the bluffs above the yards.
Midway on the bridge was a stalled hospital train. I swung
aboard and asked an orderly for the commandant. He directed
me to the headquarters car. There I found a colonel of the
medical corps, sitting at his desk and staring at the wall.
In my labored Russian I asked if he would take Nina
aboard.
"Nyet," he said.
I took out a bundle of rubles and pound notes and put
it down before him. It was quite a bit of money.
"Vsio" I said, telling him to take it all.
"Nyet, Nyet" he repeated. Had I any idea how crowded
his train was? Last night he had had to force over a hundred
refugees off the roofs and buffers at gun point. A healthy
passenger would have been bad enough, but to make room
for a stretcher he would have to put two or three soldiers
off. He was sorry, but it was out of the question.
I turned and walked out of the car. He called me back and
pointed to my money on the desk.
Beyond the string of hospital vans sat a combined military
and refugee train with an infantry private on guard in every
vestibule. In response to my question, one of them gave me
the number of the commanding officer's compartment and
jerked his thumb to the rear.
The commanding officer was a lieutehant-colonel of the
quartermasters. Crowded into his compartment, meant for
one, were his wife and three children. The youngest, an in-
fant, lay in a basket on the floor.
He came out into the passageway and spoke to me in
French.
269
"Captain, what can I do?" He shrugged helplessly. "Even
the lavatories have their passengers. You saw how my own
family is traveling. I sleep in my office in a chair. Even if we
had a spare inch of room we have no doctor, and I could not
take the responsibility."
I told him he need assume no responsibility.
"No, I am sorry," he told me. "And there is no use try-
ing the trains ahead. They are as jammed as mine."
I tried two or three more and discovered he was right.
Going back to B Flight train a terrible feeling of fatigue and
depression came over me. If we had to walk across the bridge
how would I take Nina? On a stretcher of course, but could
she survive the cold, the snow, the exposure if there was
no train to take us on the other side? I didn't ask myself
if taking her was fair to the Flight or if Kink, indeed, would
allow it; the thought didn't cross my mind.
Back in my compartment I went over the greatcoats, furred
and leather, my flying suits, uniforms, shirts and shoes,
putting this aside, rejecting that. I picked over photo-
graphs, letters from home and souvenirs. A snapshot of Nina,
standing in the vestibule of the hospital train, shielding her
eyes from the Kotluban sun. Another of her, candid, bending
over to empty a basin on the roadbed; what lovely hips she
had, even in the shapeless Red Cross uniform. The negative
of the print of myself she had in her locket. My aviator's
certificate from the Federation Aeronautique Internationale.
A snapshot of Charley Lamston grinning beside my Camel on
the steppe. Others of Colly, Kink and the rest of the boys at
Kupyansk, standing in the snow. The cigarette case given to
me by one of Shkura's Wolves. More pictures of Feodor, Ivan,
Kitty, Nona, some of the casual prazdnik girls. An eighteen-
inch bottle of blue liqueur. My medals: the Cross of St.
George, the Order of St. Vladimir, the D.F.C.
I replaced the rubber band around the snapshots and
cigarette case and tossed the liqueur and the medals into the
270
waste can. It was a gesture, but I knew my own hands would
never fish the decorations out again.
I decided I could part with the blue riding breeches with
white leather facings, but for the life of me I couldn't throw
away my old plaid dressing gown; it had the scent of Nina on
it. Nor could I abandon the stone marten shuba I had bought
in Taganrog from a refugee. Three times I made a bundle
and each time it was bigger. Finally I stuffed everything
back into the trunk but the snapshots and the shuba and
locked it. Then a wave of weakness hit and knocked me
across the bunk.
"Bunny, where in the devil's your . . . What's the matter,
man?" It was Kink, standing in the doorway.
"I don't know," I told him. But I did know; I'd been
hiding it from myself all morning. "I must have the flu. I'm
sorry."
"Sorry, hell. Get into bed. You've got to pull out of this!
You're the only shanker bosun we've got. And I'm damned
if we'll carry you across that goddam bridge on our goddam
backs!"
I gave him a sickly grin. "Get the medical pannier, will
you, Major? Til start on an aspirin diet."
For the next twenty-four hours Feodor was kept hopping
between Nina's compartment and mine. Kink wouldn't let
me get out of bed to see her, nor would he allow my flight-
mates to come farther into the room than the door. Tommy
insisted upon setting the Victrola in the corridor and posted
his batman to change the records. Finally I convinced him I
could take just so much of Smiles and Dardanella, and ma-
chine and batman disappeared. Actually, more than the repe-
tition of the dance tunes it was the contrast between their
tiny gaiety and the snow-smothered silence from the yards
outside that was getting me down.
I had a medium-bad case of the flu; despite aches and
pains and a hacking cough that developed quickly, my
temperature went down to one hundred one degrees and the
271
gastrointestinal symptoms were minor. I tried to get as much
sleep as I could, obsessed by the idea that the more rest I
crammed in the more quickly I would recover.
The next afternoon I awoke, sweating, with the inescapable
and terrible conviction that something had gone terribly
wrong. "Feodorl" I shouted, and after a moment he came
running in.
"Nina Dmitrievna she is khorosho?" I asked him.
His face told me what I was afraid was true.
I sat bolt upright in the bunk. "Feodor, what's happened?
Out with it, man!"
He struggled to tell me. I caught the words ochen bolna,
very sick. Struggling out of the bunk, I got into my dressing
gown and slippers and went down the passageway to Nina's
room.
Her condition seemed no different than before. She lay
resting, eyes closed, in the shade-drawn compartment; beside
her were the familar water glass and aspirin. Feodor had
covered her with the stone marten shuba as I had asked.
"Ninusha," I whispered.
She turned her head to me. She spoke, and did so only with
difficulty; it was hard for her to open her mouth. Tetanus had
set in.
"Sasha," she said, "you are feeling better?"
"Don't talk."
"It is the lockjaw."
The few words had exhausted her, and her jaw trembled
from the effort of speech. I said, "Ninusha, don't talk. Just
nod to my questions. You're in pain?"
She shrugged, and I took that to mean that the pain was
slight. It would get worse, much worse, and I decided to
wait with the morphia. As long as she didn't ask for it. ...
Desperately I tried to pretend cheerfulness. "Listen, I
know that if tetanus comes on immediately after a wound
and you have nothing to fight it with, the prognosis is bad.
But your symptoms didn't begin until after a week. So don't
give up, Ninusha. Please don't give up."
272
She tried to smile.
"Well find some antitoxin. The boys will turn the damn
town upside down. I'll be back soon. You sleep now."
Kink was waiting for me in my compartment, smoking a
Woodbine furiously. He waited till I had gotten back into
bed.
"We thought we'd wait to tell you, Bunny. I thought you
weren't in any condition to know."
"Well, now I know."
"She can recover. It's been known to happen."
"Kink, I don't believe in miracles."
"I sent Tommy and Eddie over to the hospital. They're
going to make a last try there, and if that doesn't work they're
going to hunt up that doctor who helped Russky."
"Thanks, kunak."
"I can see you want to be alone. I'll let you know when
the boys get back."
"What's new with the Bolshies?" I asked him.
"The Cossacks beat off a probing action to the northeast
of town. You may have heard the rifle fire. The bastards left
a lot of dead; they won't be back for a while."
"Any news on an engine?"
"No, but Brough's still trying."
"We've got to keep trying, don't we, Kink?"
"That's right, kunak. As soon as we stop we're dead men."
"I feel dead already," I said.
He left the compartment, not dignifying my unsoldierly
self-pity with a reply.
There was no tetanus antitoxin to be h^d in Rostov. The
hospital had none; the doctor who had put Russky in the
hospital had none; the hospital trains in the yards had been
out of it for months. There was no lack of morphia, but
morphia was the one thing we had plenty of.
I didn't have to tell Nina the boys had returned without
the serum; she had known they would never find any in the
city. Through the long afternoon and the short twilight I
273
sat beside her, swathed in a cocoon of blankets. Every half
hour I took a couple of aspirins from the bottle that sat
next to the small brown tube of morphia pills on the tray.
When her muscle cramps began I would start giving her
the pills.
From time to time I reminded her that the train would
leave when we got an engine, and that if we did not, Feodor
and another plenny would carry her across the bridge.
She didn't answer.
When Feodor came in with her beef tea we began to hear
rifle fire from the outskirts of the city. Cossacks putting down
hoodlums and looters, Feodor told me. The Red vanguard
had yet to return for a second attack.
Nina had difficulty in swallowing the Bovril, and I gave
her a morphine tablet, hoping it would relax the face and
throat muscles enough for her to take the broth from Feodor's
spoon a little later on. In a minute or so she had fallen
asleep.
"Tell me if she wakes and has severe pain," I told Feodor.
"Meanwhile I'm going to try to get some sleep myself."
Feodor's knock woke me three hours later. "Is pain," he
said. "Captain, you come?"
She had agonizing cramps in both her legs, and I made
her choke down another morphine tablet with water before
pulling back the blankets and gently massaging her calves.
Finally, whether by the quick action of the drug or my
massage, the cramps disappeared and she sank back on the
pillow, exhausted.
"I just change bandage, when pain it come/' said Feodor.
"Is now better?"
"Yes. Spasibo. I'll call you when I need you."
I wiped her perspiring temples. Her eyes held both the
memory of pain and shy apology, and both worked to break
my heart. Her mouth began to strain for words and I put my
finger on her lips. "No, don't try to talk, Ninusha. Sleep. I'll
be here with you."
274
For a long time I watched her as she slept. Tomorrow she
would be worse, I knew. The next day, or the day after, she
might be dead.
At dawn the tin-pan rattle of one of our Lewis guns
briefly broke the stillness of the crowded yards below the
bluffs. Then there was silence.
I got up and put on my uniform, fleece-lined boots and
heavy greatcoat. I was still weak, but the fever was gone. It
was as cold in the compartment as a butcher's freezer.
From the bluffs a Vickers started up, its tone measured
and deeper than that of the Lewis, which now resumed its
fire. The Reds were shooting at the trains from three hundred
yards away; the bullets whined overhead with a rising inflec-
tion.
It had happened. The Reds had ringed the town.
I stuffed the packet of photos and souvenirs in my great-
coat pocket and closed the door behind me. Brough was com-
ing down the passageway. Each of the boys stood, fully
dressed, in his compartment doorway. Kink stepped out and
saluted. The general looked as though he hadn't slept in a
week, but he returned the salute precisely.
"Major," Brough said, "the White rear guard crossed the
river last night and the Bolshies are entering the town now
against token resistance. We've got an ice breaker on its way
down the Don to forestall Red pursuit once we and the
refugees have made our way to the other side. The bridge
is set to be blown up in an hour. A mission train's waiting at
the bridge entrance. There's room aboard it. Withdraw B
Flight to the bridge immediately."
Brough returned Kink's acknowledging salute, turned on
his heel and left the car.
"That's the first definite order I've had since the retreat
began," Kink said with satisfaction. He turned to me.
"Bunny, you up to forming the Flight in marching order?"
"There's Nina," I said. "I've got to get her on a stretcher."
275
I looked at him, willing a certain answer. He might refuse.
He was a soldier and would probably refuse.
But he didn't. He said: "Eddie, form the flight outside
on the lee of the train. Tommy, get Ivan to help with a
stretcher. We've got to get out of here as soon as we can. The
Reds will be bringing more machine guns and maybe even
artillery up on those bluffs. It won't be pleasant."
I went into Nina's compartment.
Feodor slept soundly, slumped forward in his chair; not
even the machine-gun fire had disturbed him. Nina lay with
eyes closed, the blanket rising and falling with her regular
breathing. On the carpet, touching the loosely extended
fingers of her hand, was the vial of morphine tablets and an
overturned water glass. The vial was empty.
"No," I said, and rushed to her as Feodor woke with a
start.
She was still conscious, but going fast; as soon as she had
heard the Lewis gun open fire, she must have taken all the
pills, by some superhuman effort forcing all of them past her
clenched teeth and swallowing the lot down with a mouthful
of water.
"Ninusha," I asked her, "why? We were going to take you
on a stretcher. We were going to carry you across. I'd made
plans for it. Why?"
I kept repeating my question though it was senseless. I
knew why. She had known we would get no engine. She was a
nurse and she had known she would never have survived even
if I had gotten her across the bridge and into a train on the
other side.
"I sleep," Feodor said brokenly. "She take while I sleep."
"Leave us," I said.
I took her hand and she turned her head toward me on
the pillow. She was trying to speak. Her jaw and throat
muscles stretched taut but she couldn't open her mouth; the
corners of it were drawn downward and back and fixed in
the risus sardonicus. I thought: she willed herself to take
poison but she cannot will herself to speak.
276
She tried to speak one last time and then, as though a
curtain had come down between her eyes and mine, I lost
her to the dark.
Someone knocked against the side of the train.
I don't know how long I sat there before I felt Bill's
hand on my shoulder. "Sorry, Bunny," he said, "but the
Flight's outside. We're ready to move. I brought your kit, old
man."
I followed him out of the compartment and out to the lee
of the train where Eddie had formed B Flight's ranks in the
freezing rain. The men carried rations and a rifle, or a light
machine gun; their kits were at their feet. I noticed that Mal-
lows' nose was dripping and that Walters, in shaving, had cut
his cheek; that Cowderdrill stood at rigid attention though
the formation was at ease. The pocket of his heavy overcoat
was stuffed with his junk jewelry, but he had been forced to
leave behind his samovars. I felt like shouting at Mallows to
wipe his goddam nose and thought I had, but when I looked
at him again I saw that his face showed no trace of embarrass-
ment or emotion.
Hoskins and half a dozen men were still at the Lewis guns
on the platform, shooting at the bluffs. The Reds had moved
up more machine guns and the air above us hummed with
lead; much of it was hitting the refugees on the tracks beyond
us who were leaving the trains for the ice and the bridge in
a panicked flood. Their cries and screams were drowned
out by the noise of the firing.
From around the terminal coach on the adjoining siding
stumbled a crazed woman who held her hands before her
as if she were blind. She ran down the track toward the en-
trance to the bridge three hundred yards away, falling and
getting up to run again, till she came to an open space on
the line, where she fell for the last time and lay motionless.
I had an errant, though to me perfectly logical, thought.
If all these hundreds and thousands of people were dying and
would die, then Nina's death would in their light be less
terrible. If five or ten thousand died than I could consider
277
her one of the five or ten thousand and grieve for her the
less.
In the growing daylight we could see the hordes of refugees
crossing the river over the ice and the bridge and, beyond
them, to the wide ice-covered flats on the other side where
what units were left of the Dobrovolski Army were forming
in some kind of order for a stand. The infantry in the fore-
ground wheeled into position; the artillery massed for action
in the rear. On the flanks the supporting cavalry swung into
protective reserve. From the bluffs Red shrapnel burst over
and among them, killing men and horses, staining the yellow
ice with red. When a man fell the space filled; it was like a
demented game of chess. The Bolshies were moving up more
and more guns to shell the deploying Whites; evidently they
considered machine-gun bullets good enough for those of us
on the north flats who had not yet gained the bridge.
"My God, what a sight," said Eddie. "Like a huge canvas
by David."
"You arty bastard," I said, "men are dying out there." My
voice was curiously flat in my ears, as though they were
stuffed with cotton.
Eddie gave me an understanding glance and looked away.
From beneath the wheels of the stalled coach on the next
siding crawled a wounded Russian officer. Shot in both legs,
he could raise only the upper part of his body, like a dog
whose hindquarters had been crushed on the road by a pass-
ing auto. Fascinated, we watched him approach and beg
hysterically that we take him with us.
"Not able," Eddie said loudly, in the way we shout at
someone who does not understand our language. "No stretch-
ers. Doubtful if we can get away ourselves. Understand?
Sorry."
The Russian may not have understood Eddie's words, but
he comprehended the negative shake of his head. Quickly
he shifted his weight to one arm, drew his revolver, and shot
himself through the temple.
278
Kink came down the steps of the train with the machine
gunners following after.
"Tommy, take four men and fire the Camels and the
store-cars," he said, but then, as Tommy picked out the first
of the men, he changed his mind. "Order countermanded.
God knows how many paruskies would get it when the bombs
went up."
He called the Flight to attention. "Form fours. Right
turn. By your left. Quick march. We're bound for hell, men,
but who dares to say we can't take itl"
A cheer went up from the marching Tommies. The
column moved toward the bridge, Kink leading, the officers
at intervals flanking the line of fours. A mob of refugees,
almost all oldsters, trotted after us, carrying their pitiful
bundles; most of the younger people had already crossed the
bridge.
The freezing rain had stopped. Now the fire from the
bluffs passed overhead in a horizontal hail, spraying every-
thing in sight. The noise of the shrapnel bursting across the
river was a continuous crunch, crunch, crunch. The Whites'
unprotected artillery on the flats was beginning to bear on
the bluffs, and we would have taken courage from the whin-
ing shells had we not known that the gunners' range might
shorten any second. Ahead we could see where the lines of
sidings began to converge into the double tracks that led
to the bridge and over it.
We marched forward another forty yards. Then "Flight,
halt," Kink ordered. "Fall out, the officers."
We gathered around him. We knew what the trouble was;
between the last car of the train ahead of us and the tender
of B Flight train was a gap about two freight cars in length.
It was scattered with refugee dead. A nest of Red machine
guns, half concealed on the brow of the bluff, swept that
open space ceaselessly. Nothing that was alive could cross it.
We had a choice. We could double back thirty or forty
yards and, under the cover of trains on another siding, make
279
our way down to the river and start across the ice. That was
the easier way, except that fewer than half the refugees who
had crossed the ice since the Reds had gained the bluffs
had made it to the other side. The ice was windrowed with
their dead and dying.
Our only other course was to cross the open space, at
whatever cost, and make our way behind the cover of the
trains to the station house and from there to the entrance
of Rostov bridge. The Reds had no intention of shelling
the bridge or its crawling traffic; they needed it as a means of
coming into direct contact with the Volunteers.
"Look!" Tommy shouted, his voice barely carrying above
the din. "Coming toward us down the track!"
In the lee of the coach beyond the gap lurched and stum-
bled a colossus of a man. He wore the black riasa and car-
ried the crozier of the Orthodox Church; the gold cross
hung from a heavy chain on his massive torso. Guiding him
were two young girls in shapeless convent uniforms. He
was blind.
We yelled a warning for them to stay where they were,
to advance no further. They paid no attention. With bowed
heads the girls led the priest on. They were the first to fall,
barely four paces out of the shelter of the boxcar; then the
huge priest leapt up, clawing at the air, and fell across their
bodies. The machine gunners on the bluff lowered their
sights and poured bullets into the dead patriarch till chunks
and fragments of him, like chippings from a woodblock,
began flying through the air. Behind us, in the crowd of
refugees, we could hear women retching into the snow.
"All right," Kink said, "what's it to be? The river or the
bridge?"
It occurred to me that our situation was like something
out of a nickelodeon melodrama. Like my flight-mates, I
took another look out over the ice of the hundreds of
wounded and dying refugees; and then I looked back at the
priest. He had been cut in half, and still the machine gun
280
fire minced him into smaller pieces. The pool of blood in
which he lay seemed fed by some inexhaustible spring.
Panicking, some of the refugees hurled themselves past
us and into the open space. One jacknifed within a second
of entering the line of fire; another was struck midway and
fell sliding on his face. A shawled molodyka, with an infant
in her arms, almost reached the safety of the freight before
the gunners cut her down. As she pitched forward the baby
rolled out of her arms to lie inches beyond the reach of her
outstretched hands. It lay there kicking. The young woman
made a feeble effort to rise and then was still. The infant
squalled.
"Gods troth, the baby wasn't touched," Bill said, and
dropped his rifle and kit to the ground. I grabbed one of
his arms and Kink held on to the other.
"It's no use," Kink said. "They'll get the child too."
As we watched the infant, as though pushed and prodded
by an invisible hand, slid backward on the ice, leaving a
widening bloodstain beneath it. It was quiet now.
The boys turned their faces aside but my own eyes con-
tinued to observe the horror. I was unshocked, completely
drained of emotion. Nothing could touch me now.
Bill spoke in a monotone. "If we're going to die, why
don't we charge the bluffs and cop our packets fighting?"
"Unnecessary, captain," Kink said. "Look at the bluffs
now."
The mist had turned to fog. The formidable bluff walls
looming grayly over us were gradually disappearing. A thick
rolling fog was sweeping in on everything yards, flats, river.
As though a single order had been given and instantly
obeyed, the Red machine guns fell silent.
Kink took immediate advantage of the opportunity.
"Flight, attention," he called to the men. "Close column.
By your left. Quick march."
We quick-marched past the open space and down to the
station. The place was in an uproar. Refugees fought for a
281
place on train roofs and buffers, even on the fire boxes.
Others were climbing up the water pipes outside the station
to its roof, and trying to jump from there to the roofs of
trains. The distance was too great: some missed, falling to
the tracks where they squirmed in agony with broken arms,
legs and backs; those who landed on the train roofs knocked
off others. Women and children were screaming; men bel-
lowed pointlessly like pole-axed steers. A young boy knocked
down an old man trying to scramble inside an open coach
window and tried to hoist himself up instead, but he failed
to reach the sill. No hand reached down to help him.
Rounding a turn in the tracks we saw, half a mile up the
river, the smoke of the approaching icebreaker.
We slogged on through the masses of refugees down to the
bridge entrance. Waiting for us there was the Mission train.
We scrambled aboard, packing ourselves into the three
coaches, and the train got underway.
Slow as its progress was, it took us over the bridge faster
than we would have made it in marching order. The footpath
and vehicular road were mobbed with Volunteers and
refugees. The soldiers observed good discipline, but the shells
whistling over their heads had panicked the refugees. They
pushed and shoved aiid trampled. An old woman fell and lay
motionless; a pregnant girl, kicked aside, sank groaning to the
macadam. A small dog, separated from its master, ran to and
fro, barking up into faces. Some of the refugees tried to claw
their way up the coach sides and into the windows. The Tom-
mies clubbed them back.
We were strangely silent. During the twenty-minute trip
none of us said a single word.
The train stopped fifteen yards from the other side, and we
poked our heads out the windows. Ahead, on the embank-
ment, was a long line of stalled and empty trains, abandoned
by the refugees when the shelling had begun. Beyond these
stretched, southward, an endless concatenation of other loco-
motives, coaches and freights. They were moving very slowly,
if at all.
282
The fog was too dense to see the icebreaker, but now we
could hear its horn. To our right ghostly groups of refugees
still crossed the river ice.
Kink snapped a command, and we left the train for the foot-
path that led to the wagon road. As I shouldered my kit I
glanced behind me. A few refugees were still emerging from
the fog, but the bridge tracks were clear of rolling stock.
We had been on the last train to cross Rostov bridge. In
minutes the Volunteers would demolish it.
We walked another half-mile before Kink ordered the
column to halt and fall out. As we unshouldered rifles and kits
and sat down at the side of the road, we heard a series of
hollow detonations from the direction of the bridge.
"They've blown it," Tommy said. "And that, gentlemen,
ends the Battle of Rostov on the Don."
In my mind I saw the first Red soldier enter compartment
twelve. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and glanced at the
dead young woman before him. He called back to his com-
rades searching the rest of the car, "Dead, only one dead
girl/'
And then slammed the door on silence.
We walked eleven miles along the wagon road till we
came to a Mission train stalled on the local track. General
Brough was in the headquarters car, poring over military
maps. He had caught up with his train only a few hours ago,
after hitching a ride with his aide and batman on one of the
refugee coaches. Anticipating we would find him eventually,
he had coupled several empty refugee coaches and boxcars
onto the Mission train. Had Brough been less resourceful,
there would have been no room either for us or for our
hundred enlisted men.
The aide assigned the Tommies to the boxcars and us
to one of the filthy day coaches. We cleaned up as well as
we could and presented ourselves in the messcar for dinner.
It wasn't an auspicious meal: a small slab of hardtack, a
raw onion, marmalade and a cup of Bovril, but the Bovril
283
was steaming hot and we gulped it all down, and bit our
tongues so that we wouldn't ask for more.
Not a word was said about what had happened that morn-
ing. The Mission officers talked about Sandhurst, punting
on the Thames, the Oxford-Cambridge cricket matches and
the London theater season of 1917. But I noticed that the
hands of more than one of them were trembling, and one
Guards type relit his glowing Woodbine at least three times.
I excused myself and went to the lounge. One by one the
boys came in after me. Kink took a chair five seats down,
respecting my desire for privacy, and the others sat down near
him.
Kink turned to no one in particular and said, "Their god-
dam bar is empty."
"No fireplace, either," Bill said. "Improvident of them,
wouldn't you say?"
"The lav's filthy," said Eddie. "Ours was spanking clean
up to the end."
Tommy sighed. "Good-by to old B Flight train. Well
never see its like again."
"We will, by God," Kink said fiercely. "We'll get out-
fitted in Ekat new train and new Camels. The Whites'll
hold the Don at Rostov and in another month or less we'll
come roaring back and fill the Bolshies' arses full of lead.
Can you imagine a chap like Colly quitting; a man like
Holman? Do you know what Brough told me about Hoi-
man? On the way from Taganrog to Rostov a Red cavalry
patrol attacked his train. He got out in a hail of bullets,
unshipped a light Lewis, and put the Reds to flight. Outside
of Rostov he commandeered a tank and drove back two
companies of Bolshies. They left over sixty dead."
The boys were silent: they knew we were licked, beaten,
through.
And I for one didn't give a lead soldier. I wanted to get
out of Russia as soon as I could; if Lloyd George had a trans-
port waiting in Novorossiisk harbor that was just dandy.
284
The country was too much for me; it was like a pet bear
that had turned against me and tried to claw my heart out.
Two Mission officers came into the car, and I got up and
went back to the daycoach. As I passed the boys kept their
eyes on their shoes.
Feodor was making up a bunk for me on two of the day-
coach seats with boards and a couple of Lysol-smelling
blankets he had appropriated somewhere. The floor beneath
was swept neatly clean of its dirt and refuse.
"Spasibo" I said, and stretched out on the boards. They
were uncomfortable, but better than nothing, and I was so
exhausted I could have slept on the floor.
He stood there, shifting from one foot to the other.
Finally he said, "Capitain, I have put medals in your kit.
You do not mind, I hope. And, Capitain, you do not blame
me for the death of Nina Dmitrievna?"
I shook my head. "Nobody's to blame, Feodor."
He nodded and, shoulders hunched, shuffled away to the
plennys' boxcar and his bed of straw.
We covered three miles that night and two the next
morning; there were roughly one hundred eighty more to
go till we reached Ekat. A muzhik who had hitched a ride a
few miles back and then, dismayed at our rate of progress, had
dropped off to walk, overtook us on foot, waving a scrawny
chicken. Carts, troikas and brichkas filled with civilians and a
scattering of Kuban Cossacks passed unceasingly on the wagon
road. Most of the Cossacks had the shifty look of deserters;
there were few men in uniform who didn't belong with the
thirty thousand Volunteers on the south bank of the Don.
Late in the afternoon we ran into some bad congestion
at a fair-sized stop. We knew it would be a while before the
train got under way again, and hearing shouts and sounds
of revelry from near the station house, the boys left the
lounge to investigate.
"Come on, Bunny, sounds like fun!" Kink yelled from the
285
roadbed, and I put on my scarf and greatcoat and joined
them.
The noise was coming from a square cement building
thirty yards from the station. We passed through the gates
into the yard, where the racket was almost deafening. Kink
opened a big steel door and we entered the building.
It was a vodka factory. About fifty Cossacks and a mob of
civilian men from the town were making the place a sham-
bles. In the process they were also getting magnificently
drunk.
Bill licked his lips. "For a man who hasn't had a drink
in over forty-eight hours, this place is a find. Where do we
start?"
Kink shrugged. It was hard to know where to start. The
Cossacks were firing at the cisterns with rifles, making holes
from which they drank. Men stood by other holes and
spigots with caps, pails and flasks. Some caught the vodka
in the palms of their hands and drank it on the spot. One
bucket-carrying Cossack, balancing high up on the side of
cistern, fell in, and two of his comrades, roaring with laugh-
ter, scrambled up the ladder to pull him out. Vodka flooded
the concrete floor; the peasants and a few ragged townsmen
bent down to lap it up like dogs.
"What do we do?" Tommy asked. "Line up at one of the
spigots?"
"There should be a storeroom," Kink said. "Let's take a
look."
At the nearest door stood a circle of Cossacks, their arms
linked fraternally, roaring out a drunken Chorniye Gusary.
As we pushed past them one cavalryman good-naturedly
pressed upon us a dirty pail of the colorless, potent liquid.
We refused with thanks.
We went through the door and into a passageway that
led, evidently, to the manager's office. Passing the room we
glanced inside. Two plump peasant women were playing the
Russian equivalent of strip poker with a couple of Cossacks.
286
The women were losing; they were down to their shifts. One
of the Cossacks was bootless.
Bill turned to Kink. "You want to wait and see what hap-
pens?"
Kink shook his head, and we passed on.
At the end of the hall we ran into a drunken watchman
who pocketed Kink's ten rubles and motioned us through
another door. We went through the door and found our-
selves outside again in the yard.
Tommy tried the door and found it locked. As he lifted
his fist to pound on it the train whistle blew.
Kink laughed. "Well, it's fate, chaps. We don't get a drink
till Ekat."
The line had cleared temporarily and the Mission train
was pulling slowly out of the station. We sprinted for it
through the slush and snow.
Midway Tommy slipped and fell. When he got to his feet
he grimaced painfully; he had twisted an ankle.
We hoisted him on to Bill's wide shoulders and trotted on.
Kink slowed down to a walk. "No need to rush. The damn
train's stopped again."
We climbed aboard laughing, and I realized it was the first
time I had found anything to laugh about in days.
287
Chapter Thirteen
A week later, at Tihoretskaya, we caught up with one
of the Mission trains that had left Rostov shortly after
Holman and A and C Flights had departed the city. Holman,
a Mission major told us, had arrived in Novorossiisk along
with the rest of 47 Squadron, which had immediately been
ordered to the Crimea. Conditions in Novorossiisk were
very bad, the Major had heard by wire; the town was fuel-
less and jammed with refugees, most of them typhus-ridden
and without shelter. Wrangel was getting all too little
cooperation in fortifying the town from the Denikin-ap-
pointed military governor and the commandant of the fort.
Trouble between Denikin and the Kuban Cossacks had
reached another boiling point; the Rada had elected a new
Ataman who was in open opposition to Supreme Headquar-
ters. Now the White armies were in the Kuban on borrowed
time. And news from the Crimea and southwestern Russia
was none too good. General Slashchov, a confirmed drug
addict, was suffering reverses on the Peninsula, while in
New Russia General Schilling was losing what little author-
ity he had over his discouraged troops. Public demand was
increasing for his dismissal and the appointment of Wrangel
in his place.
Brough asked the major what he had heard about the
situation on the Rostov front.
288
"The Reds are drawing up heavy reserves, and General
Holman understands the Volunteers can't hold out much
longer. Of course the Whites were pretty fired up about
what happened in Rostov when the Reds came in."
Kink leaned forward tensely. "What did happen, Major?"
"Well, a lot of slaughtering, you know, of what bourgeois
elements still were left. And then there was the hospital. The
Reds drenched it with petrol and burned the place down
with over five thousand wounded inside."
We sat there, stunned. Finally Kink said, "The bastards.
The bloody, murdering swine."
Brough remembered Russky, and tried to make things
easier by saying we would get a replacement for him in Ekat
or Novorossiisk, but somehow that only made it worse. We
excused ourselves and walked numbly back to the coach.
How guilty should I feel, I wondered. Should I have taken
Nina's advice and talked Kink into taking Russky out of
the hospital and on to the train?
Kink seemed to kno
