This single decision was one of many made that day by the new commander, and signalled the change from De Bono's humbling, but not unkindly civilizing invasion, to the new concept of total war war with only one objective.
MUSSOlini had wanted a hawk, and he had chosen well.
The hawk stood in the centre of the lofty second-storey headquarters office at Asmara, He was too consumed with furious impatience to sit at the wide desk, and when he paced the tiled floor, his heels cracked on the ceramic like drum beats. The elasticity of his stride was that of a man far younger than sixty-five.
He carried his head low on boxer's shoulders, thrusting his chin forward a heavy chin below a big shapeless round nose, a short-cropped grey mustache and a wide hard mouth.
His eyes were deep sunken into dark cavities, like those of a corpse, but their glitter was alive and aware as he worked swiftly through the lists of his divisional and regimental commanders, assessing each by one criterion only, "Is he a fighting man?" Too often the answer was "no,", or at the least uncertain, so it was with a fierce pleasure that he recognized one who was without question a hard-fighting man on whom he could rely.
"Yes," he nodded vehemently. "He is the only field commander who has displayed any initiative, who has made any attempt to come to grips with the enemy." He paused to lift his reading glasses to his eyes and glance again at the reports he held in his other hand. "He has fought one decisive action, inflicting almost thirty thousand casualties without loss himself. That in itself is an achievement that seems to have gone without suitable recognition. The man should have had a decoration, the order of St. Maurice and St. Lazarus at the least.
Good men must be singled out and rewarded. Look at this this is typical!
When he was aware that the enemy had armoured resources, he was soldier enough to lure that armour into a baited trap, to lead it skilfully and with cool courage on to his entrenched artillery. It was a bold and resourceful stroke for an infantry commander to make and it deserved to succeed. If only his artillery commander had been a man of equally steely nerves, he would have succeeded in luring the entire enemy armoured column to its total destruction. It was no fault of his that the artillery lost their nerve and opened fire prematurely." The General paused to focus his reading glasses on the large glossy photographic print which depicted Colonel Count Aldo Belli standing like a successful big game hunter on the carcass of the Hump. The shattered hull was pierced by shot and in the background lay half a dozen corpses in tattered shammas. These had been collected from the battlefield and tastefully arranged by Gino to give the photograph authenticity. Against his better judgement and his strong instincts of survival, Count Aldo Belli had returned to make these photographic records only after Major Castelani had assured him that the enemy had deserted the field. The Count had not wasted too much time about it, but had his photographs taken, urging Gino to haste, and when it had been done he had returned swiftly to his fortified position above the Wells of Chaldi and had not moved from there since. However, the photographs were an impressive addendum to his official report of the action.
Now Badoglic, growled like an angry old lion. "Despite the incompetence of his junior officers, and there my heart aches for him, this man has wiped out half the enemy armour as well as half the opposing army." He hit the report fiercely with his reading glasses.
"The man's a fire eater no question about it. I know one when I see one. A fire-eater. This kind of example must be encouraged good work must be rewarded. Send for him. Radio him to come in to headquarters immediately." As far as Count Aldo Belli was concerned, the campaign had come upon a not unpleasant hiatus.
The camp at the Wells of Chaldi had been transformed by his engineers from an outpost of hell into a rather pleasant refuge, with functional amenities, such as ice making machines and a water-borne sewerage system. The de fences were now of sufficient strength to give him a feeling of security. The engineering as always was of the highest quality with extensive covered earthworks, and Castelani had laid out carefully over-lapping fields of fire, and barbed-wire de fences in depth.
The hunting in the area was excellent by any standards, with game drawn to the water in the Wells from miles around. The sand-grouse in the evenings filled the heavens with the whistle of their wings, and wheeled in great dark flocks across the setting sun, affording magnificent sport.
The bag was measured in grain bags of dead birds.
In the midst of this pleasantly relaxed atmosphere, the new commanding officer's summons exploded like a 100 kilo aerial bomb.
General Badoglio's reputation had preceded him. He was a notorious martinet, a man who could not be sidetracked from single-minded purpose by excuse or fabrication. He was insensitive to political influence or power considerations so much so that it was rumoured that he would have crushed the very Fascist movement itself with force if the issue had been put into his hands back in 1922. He had an almost psychic power to detect subterfuge, and to place a finger squarely on malingerers or lack-guts.
They said his justice was swift and merciless.
The shock to the Count's system was considerable. He had been singled out from thousands of brother officers to face this ogre's wrath for he could not convince himself that the small deviations from reality, the small artistic licences contained in his long, illustrated reports to De Bono had not been instantly discovered. He felt like a guilty schoolboy summoned to dire retribution behind the closed doors of the headmaster's study. The shock hit him squarely in the bowels, always his weak spot, bringing on a fresh onslaught of the malady first caused by the waters of Chaldi Wells, from which he had believed himself completely cured.
It was twelve hours before he could summon the strength to be helped by his concerned underlings into the RollsRoyce and to lie wan and palely resigned upon the soft leather seat.
"Drive on, Giuseppe," he murmured, like an aristocrat giving the order to the driver of the tumbril.
On the long hot dusty drive into Asmara, the Count lay without interest in his surroundings, without even attempting to marshal his defence against the charges he knew he must soon face. He was resigned, abject his only solace was the considerable damage he would do this upstart, ill bred peasant, once he returned to Rome, as he was certain he was about to. He knew that he could ruin the man politically and it gave him a jot of sour pleasure.
Giuseppe, the driver, knowing his man as he did, made the first stop outside the casino in Asmara's main street.
Here, at least, Count Aldo Belli was treated as a hero, and he perked up visibly as the young hostesses rushed out on to the sidewalk to welcome him.
Some hours later, freshly shaven, his uniform sponged and pressed, his hair pomaded, and buoyed UP on a fragrant cloud of expensive eau de cologne, the Count was ready to face his tormentor. He kissed the girls, tossed back a last glass of cognac, laughed that gay reckless laugh, snapped his fingers once to show what he thought of the peasant who now ran this army, clenched his buttocks tightly together to control his fear and marched out of the casino into the sunlight and across the street into the military headquarters.