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
grassland 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 horsemen 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 bastard is stark raving bloody 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 assure 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
polishing 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 gods 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 unbuttoned 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-buttoned 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 shaggy mop of hair hanging out from under his helmet.
"Bambino," said the Count, and the youth hung his head and grinned in
sickly embarrassment. "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 noble
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-shirted troopers broke up into
confused activity as they hurried to the cumbersome 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 God," 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
Castelani focused his binoculars, and at that moment the sound of
gunfire carried clearly across the desert spaces, 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 grass, 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 grass 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 vanishing, but it was deep and wide enough to conceal the
large contingents of Harari and Galla horsemen.
This mass 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 grassland.
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