"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.