Cry Wolf Part 30

"How's that again? "Jake puffed gratefully at the cheroot.

"Next time those tank men lay eyes on us, they'll not stop to count consequences, but they'll be after us like a pack of long dogs after a b.i.t.c.h."

"And that's a good thing? "Jake removed the cheroot from his mouth to ask incredulously.

"That's a good thing' Gareth a.s.sured him.

"Well, you could have fooled me." He drove on for a few more minutes in silence towards the mountains, then shook his head bemusedly.

Tranged? What the h.e.l.l kind of word is that?"

"Just thought of it this minute," Gareth said. "Expressive, what?" -" The Count lay face down upon his cot; he wore only a pair of silk shorts, of a pale and delicate blue, embroidered with his family coat of arms.

His body was smooth and pale and plump, with that sleek well-fed sheen which takes a great deal of money, food and drink to nourish. On the pale skin his body hair was dark and curly and crisp as newly picked lettuce leaves. It grew in a light cloud across his shoulders, and then descended his back to disappear at last like a wisp of smoke into the cleft of his milky b.u.t.tocks that showed coyly above the waistband of his shorts.

Now the smoothness of his body was spoiled by the ugly red abrasions and new purple bruises which flowered upon his ribs and blotched his legs and arms.

He groaned with a mixture of agony and gratification as Gino knelt over him, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and worked the liniment into his shoulder. His dark sinewy fingers sank deeply into the sleek pale flesh, and the stench of liniment stung the eyes and nostrils.

"Not so hard, Gino. Not so hard, I am badly hurt."

"I am sorry, my Colonel," and he worked on in silence while the Count groaned and grunted and wriggled on the bed under him.

"My Colonel, may I speak?"

"No," grunted the Colonel. "Your salary is already liberal.

No, Gino, already I pay you a prince's ransom."

"My Colonel, you do me wrong. I would not speak of such a mundane subject at this time."

"I am delighted to hear it," groaned the Count. "Ah!

There! That spot! That's it!" Gino worked on the spot for a few seconds. "If you study the lives of the great Italian Generals Julius Caesar and-" Gino paused here while he searched his mind and more recent history for another great Italian General; the silence stretched out and Gino repeated, "Take Julius Caesar, as an example."

"Yes?"

"Even Julius Caesar did not himself swing the sword. The truly great commander stands aside from the actual battle.

He directs, plans, commands the lesser mortals."

"That is true, Gino."

"Any peasant can swing a sword or fire a gun, what are they but mere cattle!"

"That is also true."

"Take Napoleon Bonaparte, or the Englishman Wellington." Gino had abandoned his search for the name of a victorious Italian warrior within the last thousand years or SO.

"Very well, Gino, take them?"

"When they fought, they themselves were remote from the actual conflict. Even when they confronted each other at Waterloo, they stood miles apart like two great chess masters, directing, manoeuvring, commanding-"

"What are you trying to say, Gino?"

"Forgive me, my coUnt, but have you not perhaps let your courage blind you, have not your warlike instincts, your instinct to tear the jugular from your enemy ... have you not perhaps lost sight of a commander's true role the duty to stand back from the actual fighting and survey the overall battle?" Gino waited with trepidation for the Count's reaction. It had taken him all his courage to speak, but even the Count's wrath could not outweigh the terror he felt at the prospect of being plunged once more into danger. His place was at the Count's side; if the Count continued to expose them both to all the terrors and horrors of this barren and hostile land, then Gino knew that he could no longer continue.

His nerves were trampled, raw, exposed, his nights troubled with dreams from which he woke sweating and trembling.

He had a nerve below his left eye that had recently begun to twitch without control. He was fast reaching the end of his nervous strength. Soon something within him might snap.

"Please, my Count. For the good of all of us you must all curb your impetuosity." He had touched a responsive chord in his master. He had voiced precisely the Count's own feelings, feelings which had over the last few weeks" desperate adventures, become deep-seated convictions. He struggled up on one elbow, lifted his n.o.ble head with its anguished brow and looked at the little sergeant.

"Gino," he said. "You are a philosopher."

"You do me too much honour, my Count."

"No! No! I mean it. You have a certain gutter wisdom, the perceptions of the streets, a peasant philosopher." Gino would not himself have put it quite that way, but he bowed his head in acquiescence.

"I have been unfair to my brave boys," said the Count, and his whole demeanour changed, becoming radiant and glowing with good will, like that of a reprieved prisoner. "I have thought only of myself my own glory, my own honour, recklessly I have plunged into danger, without reckoning the cost. Ignoring the terrible risk that I might leave my brave boys without a leader orphans without a father." Gino nodded fervently. "Who could ever replace you in their hearts, or at their head?"

"Gino." The Count clapped a fatherly hand to his shoulder.

"I must be less selfish in the future."

"My Count, you cannot know how much pleasure it gives me to hear it," cried Gino, and he trembled with relief as he thought of long, leisurely days spent in peace and security behind the earthworks and fortifications of Chaldi camp.

"Your duty is to command!"

"Plan! said the Count.

"Direct!" said Gino.

"I fear it is my destiny."

"Your G.o.d-given duty." Gino backed him up, and as the Count sank down once more upon the cot, he fell with renewed vigour upon the injured shoulder.

"Gino," said the Count at last. "When last did we speak of your wages?"

"Not for many months, my Count."

"Let us discuss it now," said Aldo Belli comfortably. "You are a jewel without price. Say, another hundred lire a month."

"The sum of one hundred and fifty had crossed MY mind, murmured Gino respectfully.

The Count's new military philosophy was received with unbounded enthusiasm by his officers, when he explained it to them that evening in the mess tent, over the liqueurs and cigars. The idea of leading from the rear seemed not only to be practical and sensible, but downright inspired. This enthusiasm lasted only until they learned that the new philosophy applied not to the entire officer cadre of the Third Battalion, but to the Colonel only. The rest of them were to be given every opportunity to make the supreme sacrifice for G.o.d, country and Benito Mussolini. At this stage the new philosophy lost much popular support.

In the end, only three persons stood to benefit from the rearrangement the Count, Gino and Major Luigi Castelani.

The Major was so overjoyed to learn that he now had what amounted to unfettered command of the battalion that for the first time in many years he took a bottle of grappa to his tent that evening, and sat shaking his head and chuckling fruitily into his gla.s.s.

The following morning's burning, blinding headache that only grappa can produce, combined with his new freedom, made the Major's grip on the battalion all the more ferocious. The new spirit spread like a fire in dry gra.s.s. Men cleaned their rifles, burnished their b.u.t.tons and closed them to the neck, stubbed out their cigarettes and trembled a little while Castelani rampaged through the camp at Chaldi, dealing out duties, ferreting out the malingerers and stiffening spines with the swis.h.i.+ng cane in his right hand.

The honour guard that fell in that afternoon to welcome the first aircraft to the newly constructed airfield were so beautifully turned out with polished leather and glittering metal, and their drill was so smartly performed, that even Count Aldo Belli noticed it, and commended them warmly.

The aircraft was a three-engined Cap.r.o.ni bomber. It came lumbering in from the northern skies, circled the long runway of raw earth, and then touched down and raised a long rolling storm of dust with the wash of its propellers.

The first personage to emerge from the doorway in the belly of the silver fuselage was the political agent from Asmara, Signor Antolino, looking more rumpled and seedy than ever in his creased, ill-fitting tropical linen suit. He raised his straw panama. in reply to the Count's flamboyant Fascist salute, and they embraced briefly, the man stood low on the social and political scale before the Count turned to the pilot.

"I wish to ride in your machine." The Count had lost interest in his tanks, in fact he found himself actively hating them and their Captain. In sober mood he had refrained from executing that officer, or even packing him off back to Asmara. He had contented himself with a full page of scathing comment in the man's service report, knowing that this would destroy his career. A complete and satisfying vengeance, but the Count was finished with tanks. Now he had an aircraft. So much more exciting and romantic.

"We will fly over the enemy positions," said the Count, at a respectable height." By which he meant out of rifle shot.

"Later," said the political agent, with such an air of authority that the Count drew himself up in a dignified manner, and gave the man a haughty stare before which he should have quailed.

"I carry personal and urgent orders from General Badogho's own lips," said the agent, completely unaffected by the stare.

The Count's stiffly dignified when altered immediately.

"A gla.s.s of wine, then," he said affably, and took the " man's arm leading him to the waiting Rolls.

The General stands now before Ambo Aradam. He has the main concentration of the enemy at bay upon the mountain, and under heavy artillery and aerial bombardment. At the right moment he will fall upon them and the outcome cannot be in doubt."

"Quite right," nodded the Count sagely; the prospect of fighting a hundred miles away to the north filled him with the reflected warmth of the glory of Italian arms.

"Within the next ten days, the broken armies of the Ethiopians will be attempting to withdraw along the road to Dessie and to link up with Baile Sela.s.sie at Lake Tona but the Sardi Gorge is like a dagger in their ribs. You know your duty." The Count nodded again, but warily. This was much closer to home.

"I have come now to make the final contact with the Ethiopian Ras who will declare for us, the Emperor-designate of Ethiopia our secret ally. It is necessary to coordinate our final plans, so that his defection will cause the greatest possible confusion amongst the ranks of the enemy, and his forces can be best deployed to support your a.s.sault up the gorge to Sardi and the Dessie road."

"Ah!" the Count made a sound which signified neither agreement nor dissent.

"My men, working in the mountains, have arranged a meeting with the Emperor-designate. At this meeting we will make the promised payment that secures the Ras's loyalty." The agent made a moue of distaste. "These people!" and he sighed at the thought of a man who would sell his country for gold. Then he dismissed the thought with a J wave of his hand. "The meeting is fixed for tonight. I have brought one of my men with me who will act as a guide.

The place arranged is approximately eighty kilometres from here and we will move out at sundown which will give us ample time to reach the rendezvous before the appointed hour of midnight."

"Very well, the Count agreed. "I will place transport at your disposal." The agent held up a hand. "My dear Colonel, you will be the leader of the delegation to meet the Ras."

"Impossible." The Count would not so swiftly abandon his new philosophy. "I have my duties here to prepare for the offensive." Who knew what new horrors might lurk out in the midnight wastes of the Danakil?

"Your presence is essential to the success of the negotiations your uniform will impress the-" My shoulder, I am suffering from an injury which makes travel most inconvenient I shall send one of my officers.

A Captain of tanks, the uniform is truly splendid."

"No. "The agent shook his head.

"I have a Major a man of great presence."

"The General expressly instructed that you should lead the delegation. If you doubt this, your radio operator could establish immediate contact with Asmara." The Count sighed, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then regretfully abandoned his vow to remain within the perimeter of Chaldi camp for the duration of the campaign.

"Very well," he conceded. "We will leave at sundown." The Count was not about to plunge recklessly into danger again. The convoy which left Chaldi that evening in the fiery afterglow of the sunset was led by two CV.3 cavalry tanks, then followed four truck-loads of infantry, and behind them the remaining two tanks made up a formidable rear guard.

The Rolls was sandwiched neatly in the centre of this column. The political agent sat on the seat beside the Count, with his feet firmly on the heavy wooden case on the floorboards. The guide that the agent had produced from the fuselage of the Cap.r.o.ni was a thin, very dark Galla, with one opaque eyeball of blue jelly caused by tropical ophthalmia which gave him a particularly villainous cast of features.

He was dressed in a once-white sham ma that was now almost black with filth, and he smelled like a goat that had recently fought a polecat. The Count took one whiff of him and clapped his perfumed handkerchief to his nose.

"Tell the man he is to ride in the leading tank with the Captain," and a malicious expression gleamed in his dark eyes as he turned to the Captain of tanks. "In the tank, do you hear? On the seat beside you in the turret." They drove without lights, jolting slowly across the moon-silver plains under the dark wall of the mountains.

There was a single horseman waiting for them at the rendezvous, a dark shape in the darker shadows of a ma.s.sive camel-thorn. The agent spoke with him in Amharic and then turned back to the Count.

"The Ras suspects treachery. We are to leave the escort here and go on alone with this man."

"No," cried the Count. "No! No! I refuse - I simply refuse." It took almost ten minutes of coaxing, and the repeated mention of General Badoglio's name, to change the Count's stance. Miserably, the Count climbed back into the Rolls, and Gino looked sadly at him from the front seat as the unescorted, terribly vulnerable car moved out into the moonlight, following the dark wild horseman on his s.h.a.ggy pony.

In a rocky valley that cut into the towering bulk of the mountains, they had to abandon the Rolls and complete the journey on foot. Gino and Giuseppe carrying the wooden case between them, the Count with a drawn pistol in his hand, they staggered on up the treacherous slope of rocks and scree.

In a hidden saucer of rock, around the rim of which were posted the shadowy, hostile figures of sentries, was a large leather tent.

Around it were tethered scores of the wild, s.h.a.ggy ponies and the interior was lit by smoky paraffin lamps and crowded with rank upon rank of squatting warriors. Their faces were so black in the dim light that only the whites of their eyes and the gleam of their teeth showed clearly.

The political agent strode ahead of the Count, down the open aisle, to where a robed figure reclined on a pile of cus.h.i.+ons under a pair of lanterns. He was flanked by two women, still very young, but full-blown heavy-breasted, and pale-skinned, dressed in brilliant silks, both of them wearing crudely wrought silver jewellery dangling from their ears and strung about their long graceful necks. Their eyes were dark and bold, and at another time and in different circ.u.mstances the Count's interest would have been intense.

But now his knees felt rubbery, and his heart thumped like a war drum. The political agent had to lead him forward by the arm.

"The Emperor-designate," whispered the agent, and the Count looked down on the bloated, effeminate dandy who lolled upon the cus.h.i.+ons, his fat fingers covered with rings and his eyelids painted like those of a woman. "Ras Kullah, of the Gallas."

"Make the correct reply,"

instructed the Count, his voice hoa.r.s.e with strain, and the Ras eyed the Count with apprehension as the agent made a long flowery speech.

The Ras was impressed with the imposing figure in its sinister black uniform. In the lamplight, the insignia glittered and the heavy enamelled cross on its ribbon of watered silk blinked like a beacon.

The Ras's eyes dropped to the jewelled dagger and ivory-handled pistol at the Count's belt, the weapons of a rich and n.o.ble warrior and he looked up again into the Count's eyes. They also glittered with an almost feverish fanatical light, the Count's regular features were flushed angrily and a murderous scowl furrowed his brow. He breathed like a fighting bull. The Ras mistook the signs of fatigue and extreme fear for the warlike rage of a berserker. He was impressed and awed.

Then his attention was drawn irresistibly away from the Count, as Gino and Giuseppe staggered into the tent, sweating in the lamplight, and bowed over the heavy chest they carried between them. Ras Kullah hoisted himself into a kneeling position, with his soft paunch bulging forward under the sham ma and his eyes glittering like those of a reptile.

With an abrupt command, he cut short the agent's speech, and beckoned the two Italians to him. With relief they deposited the heavy chest before the Ras, amid a hubbub of voices from the dark ma.s.s of watchers. They pressed forward eagerly, the better to see the contents of the chest, as the Ras prised open the clips with the jewelled dagger from his belt, and lifted the lid with his fat pale hands.

The chest was closely packed with paper-wrapped rolls, like white candles. The Ras lifted one and slit the paper cover with the point of his dagger. There was a silent explosion of flat metal discs from the package. They cascaded into the Ras's ample lap, glittering golden and bright in the lantern light, and he cooed with pleasure, scooping a handful of the coins. Even the Count, with his own vast personal fortune, was impressed by the contents of the chest.

"By Peter and the Virgin," he muttered.

"English sovereigns," the agent affirmed. "But not a high price for a land the size of France." The Ras giggled and tossed a handful of coins to his nearest followers, and they fought and squabbled over the coins on their hands and knees. Then the Ras looked up at the Count and patted the cus.h.i.+ons, grinning happily, motioning him to be seated, and the Count responded gratefully. The long walk up the valley and his fevered emotions had weakened his legs. He sank down on the cus.h.i.+ons and listened to the long list of further demands that the Ras had prepared.

"He wants modern rifles, and machine guns," translated the agent.

"What is our position?" asked the Count.

"Of course we cannot give them to him. In a month's time, or a year, he may be an enemy not an ally. You cannot be certain with these Gallas."