long slim leg to the crutch. The wound was deep and blue in the darkly
lustrous flesh, and Jake tore the flapping trouser-leg free and wound a
turn of it around the thigh above the wound.
Using both arms and the strength of his shoulders he drew the crude
tourniquet so tight that the flow of blood was instantly stemmed and he
tied the ends of the bandage with two swift turns, and then looked up
just as the RollsRoyce skidded to a violent halt across the front of
the armoured car.
There seemed to be a state of utter confusion amongst the occupants of
the Rolls, and again Jake felt a sense of unreality. In the front
seat, the driver gripped the steering wheel in one hand and a rifle in
the other with white knuckles and fingers that shook like those of a
man in fever.
His ashen face was shining with the sweat either of some terrible fever
or some equally terrible terror. On the seat beside him crouched a
small wiry figure with a rifle slung over one shoulder and with a brown
wizened monkey face partly obscured by a square black Leica camera with
an enormous bellows lens. In the back seat of the Rolls was a large
powerfully built man, with a granite face and the level controlled
manner of a man of action. A dangerous man, Jake recognized instantly,
and he saw that he was a major.
He held a rifle in one hand and with the other was trying to help to
his feet a smaller, more handsome man in a splendid uniform of
elegantly tailored black gabardine adorned with silver badges and
insignia.
On this officer's head, a brimless black helmet with a silver skull and
crossbones rode at a jaunty angle, like a pirate in a Christmas
pantomime, but the face below it was fixed in the same pale emotion as
that of the driver. It became clear to Jake that the last thing this
gallant wanted was to be helped to his feet. He was curled up in the
corner of the seat in such a way as to offer the smallest possible
target, and he slapped petulantly at the Major's helping hand.
Protesting shrilly and brandishing an expensively plated and engraved
pistol, it was clear that his presence in the Rolls was by no means
voluntary.
Jake stooped over the body of the girl and slipped one arm under her
shoulders and the other beneath her knees, careful not to inflict
further hurt. Jake stood up with her in his arms while she clung to
him like a child.
This action caused the big stern-faced Major to turn all his attention
on Jake, to level his rifle at him and call a peremptory order in
Italian. It was clearly an order to stand where he was, and, looking
into the muzzle of the rifle and into the pale expressionless eyes,
Jake knew that the man would shoot without hesitation if he were not
immediately obeyed. There was a deadliness, a quiet aura of menace
about him that chilled Jake as he stood with the slim warm body in his
arms, and he collected his senses and his words.
"I am American,"he said firmly. "American doctor. "There was no
recognition in the Major's expression, but he turned his head and
glanced at the officer who stirred receptively, half-rose in his seat,
then thought better of it. He sank back again, speaking carefully
around the bulk of his Major.
"You are my prisoner," he cried, his voice unsteady, but his English
clear and unaccented. "I place you in protective custody." "You are
contravening the Geneva Convention." Jake tried to make his tone
indignant, as he sidled towards the invitingly open rear doors of the
car.
"I must inspect your credentials." The officer was recovering rapidly
from his recent indisposition. Fresh colour flooded the classically
handsome face, new interest flashed in the dark gazelle eyes, and the
smooth baritone voice gained strength and a fine ringing timbre.
% Colonel Count Aldo Belli, command you to account to me." His gaze
switched to the huge steel body of the car.
"This is an armoured vehicle of war. You fly false colours, sir." As
the Count spoke, he realized for the first time that neither the big
curly-headed American nor the big oldfashioned vehicle which towered
the turret and his courage came flooding back. Now at last he leaped
to his feet, throwing out his chest, one hand on his hip, the other
aiming the pistol at Jake.
"You are my prisoner" he declaimed once more, then from the corner of
his mouth he growled at the front seat, "Gino, quickly. A shot of me
capturing the American."
"At once, Excellency. "Gino was focusing the camera.
"I protest," shouted Jake, and sidled another few paces towards the
inviting rear doors of the car.
"Stay where you are," snapped the Count and glanced at Gino. "All
right? "he asked.
"get the American to move a little to the right," Gino replied, still
peering into the view-finder.
"A little to the right!" commanded the Count in English, gesturing
with the pistol, and Jake obeyed, for it brought him closer to his
goal, but he was still shouting his protests.
"In the name of humanity and the International Red Cross-"
"I
shall radio Geneva today," the Count shouted back, "to enquire of your
credentials."
"Smile a little, Excellency," said Gino.
The Count burst into a radiant smile and half-turned towards the
camera.
"Then I shall have you shod' he he promised, still smiling.
"If you let this girl die," yelled Jake, "it will be the act of a
barbarian." The smile vanished instantly and the Count scowled darkly.
"And your actions, sir, are those of a spy. Enough talk surrender
yourself" He lifted the pistol threateningly and aimed at the centre of
Jake's chest. Jake felt a chill of despair, as he saw the big Major
reinforce the order by sliding the safety catch of his rifle to the
fire" position and pointing it at Jake's belly.
At this critical moment, the driver's hatch of the armoured car flew
open with a clang -that startled them all and Vicky Camberwell rose to
view, her blonde hair awry and her cheeks burning with anger.
"I am an accredited member of the American Press Association," she
yelled as loudly as any of them. "And I assure you that this outrage
will be reported to the world in every detail. I warn you that-" There
was much more in this vein, and Vicky's anger was such that she could
not remain still, she jumped up and down and flung her arms about in
wild gesticulations for the moment completely oblivious of the fact
that she was bared to the waist.
Her audience in the Rolls was under no such illusion.
Every man of them was a member of a nation whose favourite pastime was
the adoration and pursuit of beautiful women, and every one of them
considered himself to be the national champion.
As Vicky's bounty wobbled and swung and bounced with agitation, the
four Italians gaped half in disbelief and half in delight. The raised
weapons sank and were forgotten. The Major atte
mpted to rise to his
feet in a gesture of chivalry, but was thrust firmly backwards by the
Count. The driver's foot slipped off the clutch and the Rolls bucked
violently and the engine stalled. Gino uttered an oath of approval,
raised the camera, found the film was expended, swore again and opened
the camera without taking his eyes off Vicky, dropped it from clumsy
hands, and abandoned it, grinning beatifically at this blonde vision.
The Count began to raise his helmet, remembered he was now a warrior
and with his other hand threw out a Fascist salute, found he was still
gripping the pistol and did not have enough hands, so he held his
helmet and the pistol to his chest with one hand.
"Madam," he said, dark eyes flashing, his voice taking on a romantic
ring. "My dear lady-" At that moment, the Major tried again to rise
and the Count shoved him back into the seat once more while Vicky
continued her tirade with no diminution in fervour.
Jake was completely forgotten by the Italians. He took four running
steps and dived through the rear doors into the steel cab of the car.
He rolled over and dropped Sara into the space for the ammunition bins
behind the driver's seat, and in a continuation of the same movement he
kicked the doors closed and turned the locking handle.
"Drive!" he shouted at Vicky, although only her backside was visible
as she stood on the driver's seat. "Come on!" and hauled her
downwards so that she sat with a thud on the hard leather seat, still
shouting abuse at the enemy. "Drive!" Jake shouted louder still. "Get
us out of here!" The shocked dismay of the four Italians, as Vicky
disappeared abruptly from view like an inverted jack-in-abox, lasted
for many seconds and held them paralysed by disappointment.
Then the armoured car's engine roared and it bounded forward, straight
at them; swinging broadside at the last moment, it hit the Rolls only a
glancing blow, crumpling the front mudguard and shattering the glass
headlamp, before it tore off in its own dust storm towards the broken
ground beyond the wells.
Castelani was the first to act; he leaped to the ground and raced to
reach the crank handle, shouting at the driver to start the engine. It
fired at the first kick and the Major sprang on to the running board.
"Chase them," he shouted in the driver's ear, brandishing his rifle,
and once again the driver sprang the clutch and the Rolls leapt forward
with such violence that the Count was tumbled backwards onto the soft
leather seat, his helmet sliding forward over his eyes, his polished
boots kicking to the skies and his trigger finger tightening
involuntarily. The Beretta fired with a vicious crack and the bullet
flew an inch past Gino's ear, so that he fell to the floorboards on top
of his camera, and whimpered with fright.
"Faster!" shouted the Major in the driver's ear. "Head them off,
force them to turn!" and his voice was louder and more authoritative.
He wanted a clean shot at the few vulnerable points in the car's armour
the driver's visor or the open gun-mounting.
"Stop!" screeched the Count. "I'll have you shot for this." Side by
side, the two vehicles pitched and lurched together like a team in
harness, not ten feet separating them.
Within the armoured car, Vicky's vision through the visor was limited
to a narrow arc ahead, and she concentrated on that as she shouted,
"Where are they?" Jake picked himself out of the corner where he and
Sara had been thrown, and crawled towards the command turret.
In the Rolls alongside, Castelani braced himself and raised the rifle.
Even at that close range, five of his shots struck the thick steel hull
with ringing sledgehammer blows and went whining away across the desert
spaces. Only one bullet entered the narrow breech of the gun-mounting.
Trapped within the hull, it ricocheted amongst the three of them like
an angry living thing, splattering them with stinging slivers of lead,
and bringing death within inches before it ploughed into the back of
the driver's seat.
Jake popped his head out of the turret and discovered the Rolls running
hard beside them, the burly Major frantically reloading his empty
rifle, and the other passengers bouncing around helplessly.
"Driver!" shouted Jake. "Hard right!" and felt a quick flush of
pride and affection as Vicky responded instantly. She swung the great
armoured hull so suddenly that the other driver had no time to respond,
the two vehicles came together with a shower of bright white sparks and
a thunderous grinding crash.
"Save us, Mother of God!" shrieked the Count. "We are killed." The
Rolls reeled under the impact, shearing off and losing ground, her
paintwork deeply scatted and her whole side dented and torn. Castelani
had leaped nimbly into the back seat at the last possible moment,
avoiding having his legs crushed by the collision, and now he had
reloaded the rifle.
Closer," he shouted at the driver. "Give me another shot at her!" But
the Count had at last recovered his balance and pushed his helmet on to
the back of his head.
"Stop, you fool." His voice was clear and urgent. "You'll kill us
all," and the driver braked with patent relief, smiling for the first
time that day.
"Keep going, you idiot," said Castelani sternly, and placed the muzzle
of the rifle to the driver's ear hole His smile switched off, and his
foot fell heavily on the pedal again.
Stop!" said the Count, as he dragged himself up again, adjusted his
helmet with one hand and placed the muzzle of the Beretta pistol in the
driver's vacant ear hole "I, your Colonel, command you."
"Keep going," growled Castelani. And the driver closed his eyes
tightly, not daring to move his head, and roared straight at the
ramparts of red earth that guarded the wadi.
In the moment before the Rolls ploughed headlong into a wall of
sunbaked earth, the driver's dilemma was resolved for him. Gregorius,
for lack of another ally, had appealed to his grandfather's warrior
instincts, and despite the vast quantities of tej that he had drunk,
that ancient had responded nobly, gathering his bodyguard about him and
outstripping them in the race down the wadi. Only Gregorius himself
kept pace with the tall, gangling figure as he ran down to the plain.
The two of them came out side by side, and found the Rolls and the
white-painted armoured car bearing down on them at point-blank range in
a storm of dust. It was a sight to daunt the bravest heart, and
Gregorius dived for the shelter of the red earth ramparts. But the Ras
had killed his lion, and did not flinch.
He flung up the trusty old Martini Henry rifle. The explosion of black
powder sounded like a cannon shot, a vast cloud of blue smoke blossomed
and a long red flame shot from the barrel.
The windscreen of the Rolls exploded in a silver burst of flying glass
splinters, one of which nicked the Count's chin.
"Holy Mary, I'm killed," cried the Count, and the driver needed nothing
further to tip his allegia
nce. He swung the Rolls into a tight,
roaring U-turn and not all of Castelani's threats could deter him. It
was enough. He could take no more. He was going home.
"My God," breathed Jake, as he watched the battered Rolls swinging
tightly away, and then gathering speed as it accelerated back towards
the ridge, the arms and weapons of its occupants still waving wildly,
and their voices raised in loud hysterical argument that faded with
distance.
The Ras's cannon boomed again, speeding them on their way, and Vicky
slowed the car as they came up to him. Jake reached down and helped
the ancient gentleman aboard.
His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled like an abandoned brewery, but
his wizened old face was crinkled into a wicked grin of satisfaction.
"How do you do?" he asked, with evident relish.
"Not bad, sir, "Jake assured him. "Not bad at all." little before
noon, the formation of armoured cars parked in the open grassland
twenty miles beyond the wells. A halt had been called here to allow
the straggling mass of refugees that had escaped the slaughter at
Chaldi to come up with them, and this was the first opportunity that
Vicky had to work on Sara's leg. It had stiffened in the last hour,
and the blood had clotted into a thick dark scab. Though Sara made no
protest, she had paled to a muddy colour and was sweating in tiny beads
across her forehead and upper lip as Vicky cleaned the wound and poured
half a bottle of peroxide into it. Vicky sought to distract her as she
worked by bringing up the subject of the dead they had left scattered
about the water, holes under the Italian guns.
Sara shrugged philosophically. "Hundreds die every day of sickness and
hunger and from the fighting in the hills.
They die without purpose or reason. These others have died for a
purpose. They have died to tell the world about us--" and she broke
off and gasped as the disinfectant boiled in the wound.
"I am sorry," said Vicky quickly.
"it is nothing, "she said, and they were quiet for a while, then Sara
asked, "You will write it, won't you, Miss Camberwell?"
"Sure," Vicky nodded grimly. "I'll write it good. Where can I find a
telegraph office?"
"There is one at Sardi," Sara told her. "At the railway office."
"What I write will burn out their lines for them, "promised Vicky, and