Cry Wolf Part 20

"Cash on the nail, or you get your arm broken. This old b.a.s.t.a.r.d Gareth glanced again at Gregorius, I no offence, of course.

But this old b.a.s.t.a.r.d wouldn't trust his own mother, probably with good reason. I'm absolutely appalled! I've met some shockers in my time but this chap takes the biscuit." There was a deep respect in Gareth's tone, which changed to mild alarm as the Ras gathered the cards preparatory to the next deal, and he turned to Gregorius.

"Please explain to your dear grandfather that, though I'd be delighted to accommodate him at a future date, I do think he should now concentrate a little of his skills on confounding the common enemy.

The armies of Italy are waiting. Reluctantly, the Ras laid the cards aside and, with a sharp speech in Amharic, put the war council into session, then immediately turned to Jake Barton.

"My grandfather wishes to know the state of his armoured squadron.

He is impressed with the cars, and is certain that they can be used to great advantage."

"Tell him that he has wrecked a quarter of his armoured squadron. We've got three runners left." The Ras showed no remorse at this rebuke, but turned to his commanders and launched into a long vivid account of his exploits as a driver, his wide gestures describing the speed and dash of his evolutions. The account was punctuated by loyal exclamations of wonder from his officers, and it was some minutes before he turned back to Jake.

"My grandfather says that three of these wonderful machines will be enough to send the Italians running back into the sea."

"I wish I shared his confidence," remarked Gareth, and Jake went on, "There is one other small problem, we are short of crews drivers and gunners for the cars. We'll need a week or two to train your men." The Ras interrupted fiercely, almost as though he had understood Jake, and there was a fierce murmur of agreement from his commanders.

"My grandfather intends to attack the Italian positions at the Wells of Chaldi. He intends to attack immediately." Jake glanced at Gareth, who rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Give him the word, old son," he said, but Jake shook his head.

"It'll come better from you." Gareth drew a deep breath and launched into a long explanation as to the suicidal futility of a frontal attack, even with armoured support, against guns dug into a commanding position.

"The Italians must advance. That is when our chance will come."

It took all Gareth's eloquence to make the Ras agree, albeit reluctantly, to wait for the enemy to make the first move, to watch with his forward scouts for the moment when the Italians left their fortified positions above the Wells and moved out into the open gra.s.sland where they would be more vulnerable.

Once the Ras had agreed, scowling and muttering, to cool his ardour that long, then Jake could take over from Gareth and suggest the tactics that might best be employed.

"Please tell your grandfather that we come back to my original warning we do not have crews for all three cars."

"I can drive,"

interrupted Vicky Camberwell, suddenly aware that she was being squeezed out of consideration.

Gareth and Jake exchanged glances again, and were both instantly in complete agreement, but it was Gareth who spoke for them.

"It's one thing acting as a ferry driver, and another as a combatant, my dear. You are here to write about the fighting, not get mixed up in it." Vicky flashed a scornful glance at him and turned to Jake.

Jake she began.

"Gareth's right." He cut her short. "I agree with that all the way." Vicky subsided angrily, knowing there was no profit in arguing now not accepting their lordly decrees, but willing to bide her time.

She listened quietly as the discussion flowed back and forth. Jake explained how the cars should be used to shock the enemy and punch open the Italian de fences so that the Ethiopian cavalry could stream through and exploit the disordered infantry.

The Ras's scowls smoothed away, and an unholy grin replaced them.

His eyes glowed like black coals in their beds of dark wrinkled flesh, and when at last he gave his orders, he spoke with the ringing and final authority of a royal warrior that brooked no further argument.

"My grandfather decrees that the first attack will be made upon the enemy as soon as they advance beyond the caves of Chaldi. It will be made by all the hors.e.m.e.n of both Harari and Galla, and led by two armoured cars. The infantry, the Vickers guns and one armoured car will be held in reserve here at the Sardi Gorge."

"What about the crews for the cars?" asked Jake.

"You and I, Jake, in one car, and in the other car Major Swales will be the driver and my grandfather will be the gunner."

"I.

can't believe it's happening to me," groaned Gareth.

"That old b.a.s.t.a.r.d is stark raving b.l.o.o.d.y mad. He's a menace to himself and everyone within a fifty-mile range."

"Including the Italians," agreed Jake.

"It's all very well for you to grin like that you won't be locked up in a tin can with a maniac. Gregorius, tell him-"

"No, Major Swales." Gregorius shook his head, and his expression was remote and frosty. "My grandfather has given his orders. I will not translate your objections though if you insist I will give him an exact translation of what you have just said about him."

"My dear chap."

Gareth held up his hands in a gesture of capitulation. "I count it an honour to be selected by your grandfather and my remarks were made in fun, I a.s.sure you. No offence, old chap, no offence at all." And he watched helplessly, as the Ras picked up the pack of playing cards and began to deal the next hand.

"I just hope the jolly old Eyeties get a move on. I can't afford much more of this." Major Luigi Castelani saluted from the entrance of the tent.

"As you ordered, my Colonel." Count Aldo Belli nodded to him in the full-length mirror a brief acknowledgement before he switched his attention back to his own image.

"Gino," he snapped. "Is that a mark on the toecap of my left boot?" and the little sergeant dropped to his knees at the Count's feet and breathed heavily on the boot, dulling the glossy surface before polis.h.i.+ng it lovingly with his own sleeve. The Count glanced up and saw that Castelani still lingered in the entrance. His expression was so lugubrious and doom-laden that the Count felt his anger return.

"Your face is enough to sour the wine, Castelani."

"The Count knows my misgivings."

"Indeed," he thundered. "I have heard nothing but your whines since I gave my orders to advance."

"May I point out once more that those orders are in direct-"

"You may not. 11 Duce, Benito Mussolini himself, has placed a sacred trust upon me. I will not fail that trust."

"My Colonel, the enemy-"

"Bah!" Scorn flashed from the dark, heavily fringed eyes.

"Bah, I say. Enemy, you say savages, I say. Soldiers, you say rabble, say U "As my Colonel wishes, but the armoured vehicle-"

"No!

Castelani, no! It was not an armoured vehicle, but an ambulance." The Count had truly convinced himself of this. "I will not let this moment of destiny slip through my fingers. I refuse to creep about like a frightened old woman.

It is not in my nature, Castelani, I am a man of action of direct action. It is in my nature to spring like a leopard at the jugular vein of my enemy. The time of talking is over now, Castelani.

The time for action is upon us."

"As my Colonel wishes."

"It is not what I wish, Castelani. It is what the G.o.ds of war decree, and what I as a warrior must obey." There did not seem a reply to this and the Major stood silently aside as the Count swept out of the tent, with chin upheld, and with a firm, deliberate tread.

astelani's strike force had been ready since dawn.

Fifty of the heavy troop transporters made up a single column, and he had spent most of the night deliberating on the order of march.

His final disposition was to leave a full company in the fortified position above the Wells of Chaldi, under the command of one of the Count's young captains. All other troops had been included in the flying column which was to drive hard on the gorge, seize the approaches and fight its way up to the highlands.

In the van, Castelani had placed five truckloads of riflemen, and immediately behind them were the machinegun sections, which he knew he could bring into action within minutes. Another twenty truck-loads of infantry followed them ten in the extreme rear. Under his eye and hand, he had placed his field artillery.

In the event of the column running into real trouble, he was relying on the infantry to buy him the precious time needed to unlimber and range his Howitzers. Under their protective muzzles, he was mildly confident that he could extricate the column from any predicament into which the Count's newfound courage and vaunting visions of glory might lead them mildly, but not entirely, confident.

Beside each stationary truck the driver and crew were sprawling on the sandy earth, bareheaded, tunics unb.u.t.toned and cigarettes lit.

Castelani threw back his head, inflated his lungs and let out a bellow that seemed to echo against the clear high desert sky.

"Fall in!" and the sprawling figures scrambled into frenzied activity, grabbing weapons and adjusting uniforms as they formed ragged ranks beside each truck.

"My children," said Aldo Belli, as he began to pace down the line.

"My brave boys," and he looked at them, not really seeing the mis-b.u.t.toned tunics, the stubble on their chins, nor the hastily pinched-out cigarettes behind the ears. His vision was misted with sentiment, his imagination dressed them in burnished breastplates and horsetail plumes.

"You are thirsty for blood?" the Colonel asked, and threw back his head and laughed a reckless carefree laugh. "I will give you buckets of it," he said. "Today you will drink your fill. The men within earshot shuffled their feet and glanced uneasily at each other. There was a definite preference for Chianti amongst them.

The Count stopped before a thin rifleman, still in his teens, with a dark s.h.a.ggy mop of hair hanging out from under his helmet.

"Bambino," said the Count, and the youth hung his head and grinned in sickly embarra.s.sment. "We will make a warrior out of you today,"

and he embraced the boy, then held him off at arm's length and studied his face. "Italy gives of her finest, none are too young or too n.o.ble to be spared sacrifice on the altar of war." The boy's ingratiating grin changed swiftly to real alarm. -Sing, bambino, sing!" cried the Count, and himself opened "La Giovinezza" in his soaring baritone while the youth quavered uncertainly below him. The Count marched on, singing, and reached the head of the column as the song ended. He nodded to Castelani, too breathless to speak, and the Major let out another bull bellow.

"Mount up!" The formations of black-s.h.i.+rted troopers broke up into confused activity as they hurried to the c.u.mbersome trucks and climbed aboard.

The Rolls-Royce stood in pride of place at the head of the column, Giuseppe sitting ready at the wheel with Gino beside him, his camera at the ready.

The engine was purring, the wide back seat packed with the Count's personal gear sports rifle, shotgun, travelling rugs, picnic hamper, straw wine carrier, binoculars, and ceremonial cloak.

The Count mounted with dignity and settled himself on the padded leather. He looked at Castelani.

"Remember, Major, the essence of my strategy is speed and surprise. The lightning blow, swift and merciless, delivered by the steel hand at the enemy's heart." Sitting beside the driver in the rear truck of the column, eating the dust of the forty-nine trucks ahead, and already beginning to sweat freely in the oven heat of the steel cab, Major Castelani inspected his watch.

"Mother of G.o.d," he growled. "It's past eleven o'clock.

We will have to move fast if we At that moment, the driver swore and braked heavily, and before the truck had come to a halt, Castelani had leapt out on to the running board and climbed high on to the roof of the cab.

"What is it?"he shouted to the driver ahead.

"I do not know, Major," the man shouted back.

Ahead of them the entire column had come to a halt, and Castelani braced himself for the sound of firing certain that they had run into an ambush. There was confused shouting of question and comment from the drivers and crews of the stranded convoy, as they climbed down and peered ahead.

Castelani focused his binoculars, and at that moment the sound of gunfire carried clearly across the desert s.p.a.ces, and the swift order to deploy his field guns was on Castelani's lips as he found the Rolls-Royce in the lens of his binoculars.

The big automobile was out on the left flank, racing through the scrubby gra.s.s, and in the back seat the count was braced with a shotgun levelled over the driver's head.

Even as Castelani watched, a flock of plump brown francolin burst from the gra.s.s ahead of the speeding Rolls, rising steeply on quick wide wings. Long blue streamers of gunsmoke flew from the muzzles of the shotgun, and two of the birds exploded in puffs of soft brown feathers, while the survivors of the flock scattered away, and the Rolls came to a halt in a skidding cloud of dust.

Castelani watched Gino, the little Sergeant, jump from the Rolls and run to pick up the dead birds and carry them to the Count.

Torco Dio!" thundered the Major, as he watched the Count pose for the camera, still standing in the rear of the Rolls, holding the dangling feathered brown bodies and smiling proudly into the lens.

There was a rising feeling of despondency and alarm in the Ras's army. Since the middle of the morning, through a day of scalding heat and unrelenting boredom, they had waited.

The scouts had reported the first forward movement of the Italian force at ten o'clock that morning, and immediately the Ras's forces had moved forward into their carefully prepared positions.

Gareth Swales had spent days selecting the best possible ground in which to meet the first Italian thrust, and each contingent of the wild Ethiopian cavalry had been carefully drilled and properly cautioned as to the sequence of ambush and the necessity of maintaining strict discipline.

The chosen field was situated between the horns of the mountains, in the mouth of the funnel formed by the debouchment of the Sardi Gorge. It was obvious that this was the only approach route open to the Italians, and it was nearly twelve miles wide.

The attackers must be led in close to the southern horn of the funnel, where the Vickers machine guns had been sited on the rocky slopes, and where a minor water course had chiselled its way down to the plain. The water course was dry now, and it meandered out into the plain for five miles before vanis.h.i.+ng, but it was deep and wide enough to conceal the large contingents of Harari and Galla hors.e.m.e.n.

This ma.s.s of cavalry had been waiting all day, squatting beside their mounts in the sugar-white sand of the river bed.

The two separate factions had been diplomatically separated. The Harari were placed at the head of the trap, nearest the rocky slope of the mountain with the Vickers gunners hidden on their flank in strong posts amongst the rocks.

The Galla, under the scar-faced Gerazmach in the blue sham ma were grouped farther out on the open plain at a point where the dry water course turned sharply and angled out towards the gra.s.sland.

Here in the bend, the banks were still steep enough to conceal fifteen hundred mounted men. These, with almost three thousand of the Ras's own cavalry, formed a formidable offensive army especially if thrown in unexpectedly against and unbalanced enemy. The mood of the Ethiopians, ever sanguinary, was aggravated by the many hours of enforced inactivity, crouching without cover from the blinding sun on a white sand bed which reflected its rays like a mirror. The horses were already distressed by the heat and lack of water while the men were murderous.

Gareth Swales had contrived a net, using the natural wide curve of the water course, into which he hoped to lure the Italian column. Two miles farther out in the plain, beyond where he now stood on the turret of the Hump, a fold of ground concealed the small band of mounted men who were to provide the bait. They had been waiting there since the scouts had first reported the Italian movement early that morning.

Like everybody else they must by this time be restless, bored and thoroughly uncomfortable. Gareth wondered that this huge amorphous body of undisciplined, independent, spirited hills men had so long maintained cohesion. He would not have been surprised if by this stage half of them had lost interest and had set off homewards.

The only person who was occupied and seemed happy enough was Jake Barton, and Gareth lowered his binoculars and regarded what he could see of him with irritation. The front upper half of that gentleman was completely hidden within the engine compartment of Priscilla the Pig, and only his legs and backside protruded. The m.u.f.fled strains of "Tiger Rag" whistled endlessly added to Gareth's irritation.

"How are you coming along there?" he called, merely to stop the music, and Jake's tousled head emerged, one cheek smeared with black oil.

think I've found it," he said cheerfully. "A lump of muck in the carb," and he wiped his hands on the lump of cotton waste that Gregorius handed him. "What are the Eyeties up to?"

"I think we've got a small problem, old son," Gareth murmured softly, turning once more to resume his vigil, and his expression for once was serious and concerned. "I must admit that I banked on the old Latin dash and swagger to bring them charging down here without a backward glance."

Jake came across from his car and clambered up beside J Gareth. The two armoured cars were parked at the extreme end of the curved water course, just before it lost its ident.i.ty and vanished into the limitless sea of gra.s.s and rolling sandy hills. Here the banks of the river were only just enough to cover the hulls of the two cars, but they left the turrets partially exposed. A light cover of cut Thorn branches made them inconspicuous, while allowing them to act as observation posts for the crews.

Gareth handed Jake his binoculars. "I think we've got ourselves a really wily one here. This Italian commander isn't rus.h.i.+ng. He's coming on nice and slow, taking his time," Gareth shook his head worriedly, "I don', like it at all."

"He's stopped again," Jake said, watching the distant dust cloud that marked the position of the advancing column.

The dust cloud shrivelled, and subsided.