However, Giuseppe, faced with the prospect of death, hit the brakes so hard that the Count was catapulted forward, howling protests, to hang over the front seat, his ample black-clad buttocks pointing at the heavens and his glistening boots kicking wildly as he fought for balance.
The sheet of bullets from the swinging Vickers passed mere inches ahead of the Rolls, and Giuseppe swung the wheel to hard opposite lock, released the brakes and trampled hard on the throttle. The Rolls kicked over hard, wheels spinning for purchase, then bounded ahead with such impetus that the Count was thrown backwards again, crashing into a sitting position on the rear leather seat, his helmet falling over his eyes.
"I'll have you shot," he gasped, as he struggled weakly to adjust the helmet. Giuseppe was too busy to hear him. His duck and swerve had beaten the Ethiopian gunner, and the superior speed of the Rolls was carrying it swiftly out of harm's way. just a few more seconds then the ancient but splendidly toothed head of the gunner appeared once more in the turret, and the bows of the armoured car and the questing muzzle of the Vickers swung back. The gunner dropped back behind the gun and the roaring clatter of bullets sounded high above the bellow of straining engines.
Once again, the dust storm of bullets tore up the earth, swinging rapidly towards the Rolls.
Slightly ahead of the two vehicles, another growling, labouring troop-carrier loomed out of the dust on a parallel course with them, but travelling at only half the speed under its heavy load of terrified troopers.
Giuseppe touched the wheel, swaying out slightly away from the stream of bullets, then he swung hard the opposite way and as the armoured car turned to follow him he ducked neatly behind the troop-carrier, screened by its high unstable bulk from the deadly machine gun. The Ethiopian kept firing.
As the solid hose of fire tore through the canvas hood of the truck, ripping and shredding the men crowded shoulder to shoulder beneath it, the Rolls was pulling away swiftly in its lee. Suddenly, it was out of the dust clouds into the crystal desert air, with a vista of open land stretching away to the horizon a horizon which was the passionate destination of every man in the Rolls. The lumbering troop carriers were left behind, and the Rolls could make a clean run of it.
The way the Count felt at that moment, they would only stop once he was safely into his defensive positions above the Wells of Chaldi.
Then quite suddenly, he was aware of the guns on the open plain ahead of him. They were drawn up neatly in spaced-out triangular batteries, three vees of three guns each, with the gunners grouped about them and the long fit barrels covering the approaching mass of fleeing vehicles.
There was a parade-ground feeling of calm and good order about them that made the Count blubber with relief after the nightmare from which he had just emerged.
"Giuseppe, you have saved us," he sobbed. "I am going to give you a medal. "The threat of capital punishment made a few minutes earlier was forgotten. "Drive for the guns, my brave boy. You have done good work and you'll find me grateful." At that moment, emboldened by talk of safety, Gino lifted himself from the floorboards where he had been resting these last few minutes. He looked cautiously over the rear of the Rolls, and what he saw caused him to let out a single strangled cry and to drop once more into his original position on the floor.
Behind them the Ethiopian armoured car had burst out of the dust clouds and was bounding determinedly after them.
The Count took one look also, and immediately resumed his encouragement of Giuseppe, beating on his head with a fist like a judge's gavel.
"Faster, Giuseppe!" he shrieked. "If he kills us, I'll have you shot." And the Rolls raced for the protection of the guns. ready now!" intoned Major Castelani gravely, trying by the tone of his voice to quiet their nerves.
"Steady, my lads. Hold your fire. Hold your fire.
"Remember your drill," he said. "Just remember your range drill, soldier." He paused a moment beside the nearest gun layer lifting his binoculars and sweeping the field ahead.
The dust cloud was rolling rapidly towards them, but all the action was confused and indistinct.
"You are loaded with high explosive?" the Major asked quietly, and the gun-layer gulped nervously and nodded.
"Remember, the first shot is the only one you can aim with care.
Make it count."
"Sir." The man's voice was unsteady, and Castelani felt a stab of anger and contempt. They were all un blooded boys, unsteady and nervous. He had been forced to push them to their places and put the trails of the guns in their hands.
He turned abruptly, and strode to the next battery.
"Steady now, lads. Hold your fire until it counts." They turned strained, pale faces to him; one of the layers looked as though he would burst into tears at any moment.
"The only thing you have to be afraid of is me! growled Castelani. "Let one of you open fire before I give the order and you'll-" A cry interrupted him, as one of the loaders stood up and pointed out on to the field.
"Take that man's name," snapped Castelani, and turned with dignity, making a show of polishing the lens of his binoculars on his sleeve before raising them to his eyes.
Colonel Count Aldo Belli was leading his men back so enthusiastically that he had outstripped them by half a mile, and every moment was widening the gap. He was driving directly at the centre of the artillery batteries, and he was standing tall in the back seat of the Rolls, with both arms waving and gesticulating as though he was being attacked by a swarm of bees.
Even as Castelani watched, from out of the brown curtains of dust beyond the Rolls burst a machine that he recognized instantly, despite its new camouflage paint and the unfamiliar weapon in the turret. It did not need the gay pennant that flew above it to identify his enemy.
"Very well, lads," he said quietly. "Here they come. High explosive, and wait for the order. Not a moment before." The speeding armoured car fired, a long tearing ripping burst. Much too long, Castelani thought with grim satisfaction. That gun would be overheating, and they could expect a jam. An experienced gunner laid down short, spaced bursts of fire the enemy were green also, Castelani decided.
"Steady, lads, "he snapped, watching his men stir restlessly at the sound of gunfire and exchange nervous glances.
The car fired again, and he saw the fall of shot around the Rolls, kicking up swift jumping spurts of dust and earth another long ripping hail of fire. That ended abruptly and was not repeated.
"Ha!" snorted Castelani, with satisfaction. "She has jammed." His wavering gunners would not have to receive fire. It was good. It would steel them, give them confidence to shoot, without being shot at.
"Steady now. All steady. Not long to wait. Nice and steady now." His voice lost its jagged, emery-paper tone and became soothing and crooning like a mother at the cradle.
"Wait for it, lads. Easy now." The Ras did not understand what had happened, why the gun remained silent, despite all the strength of both his hands on pistol grip and triggers. The long canvas belt of ammunition still drooped from the bins and fed into the breech of the Vickers but it no longer moved.
The Ras swore at the gun, such an oath that, had he hurled it at another man, would have led immediately to a duel to the death, but the gun remained silent.
Armed with his two-handed battle sword, the Ras climbed half out of the turret and brandished it about his head.
It is doubtful if he would have realized what three batteries of modern 100 men field guns would have looked like from the business end, or, if he had recognized them, whether they would have daunted his determined pursuit of the fleeing Rolls. As it was, his reason and vision were clouded with the red mists of battle rage. He did not see the waiting guns.