Griffin took with him the adjutant, Count Borodin and Hackett. In the other carriage went Oliphant, Wragge and a couple of bomber pilots, Tommy Hopton and Douglas Gunning. Their plennys had worked hard. Buttons were bright, creases were sharp. The carriages crossed the aerodrome and turned south. The weather had cleared and the evening skies were an immense eggshell blue fading to yellow. Squadrons of little birds took off and circled and settled. Griffin stretched his legs. “This is the way to travel, adjutant. We never had this in France.” Brazier nodded. He was looking to the left. “What’s going on over there, count?” Two hundred yards away, a crowd of men were digging a hole. It was long and deep; already they had created a heap of earth along one side. The setting sun caught the steady action of shovels being swung. Nobody paused, nobody looked at the carriages. At least two hundred men were at work. Probably more. “A place to bury the typhus victims,” Borodin said. “The disease is raging in Tsaritsyn, I’m afraid.”
