"My Captain, I could shoot it with the Spandau," urged the gunner anxiously. He had not enjoyed the chase.
"No! No!" The Captain was delighted.
"He is a very angry, dangerous and ferocious animal," the gunner pointed out.
"SO" the Captain laughed happily, rubbing his hands together with glee.
"He is my very special gift to the Count." After the fifth approach by the tanks, the old bull grew bored with the unrewarding effort of chasing after them.
With his belly rumbling protestingly, his stubby tail twitching irritably, and the musk from the glands behind his eyes weeping in a long, wet smear down his dusty cheeks, he allowed himself to be shepherded towards the west by the following line of cavalry tanks but he was still a very angry elephant.
You're not going to believe this," said Gareth Swales softly. "I'm not even sure I believe it myself. But it's an elephant, and it's leading a full squadron of Eyetie tanks straight to us."
"I don't believe it," said Jake. "I can see it happening but I don't believe it. They must have trained it like a bloodhound. Is that possible, or am I going crazy?"
"Both," said Gareth. "May I suggest we get ready to move.
They are getting frightfully close, old son." Jake jumped down to the crank handle, while Gareth dropped into the driver's hatch and swiftly adjusted the ignition and throttle setting.
"All set," he said, glancing anxiously over his shoulder.
The great elephant was less than a thousand yards away.
Coming on steadily, in that long driving stride, a pace between a walk and a trot that an elephant can keep up for thirty miles without check or rest.
"You might hurry it up, at that," he added, and Jake spun the crank.
Priscilla made no response, not even a cough to encourage Jake as he wound the crank frantically.
After a full minute, Jake staggered back gasping, and doubled over with hands on his knees as he sucked for air.
"This bloody infernal machine-" Gareth began, but Jake straightened up with genuine alarm.
"Don't start swearing at her, or she'll never start," he cautioned Gareth, and he stooped to the crank handle again. "Come along now, my darling," he whispered, and threw his weight on the crank.
Gareth took another quick glance over his shoulder. The bizarre procession was closer, much closer. He leaned out of the driver's hatch and patted Priscilla's engine-cowling tenderly.
"There's my love," he crooned. "Come along, my beauty." The Count's hunting party sat out in collapsible camp chairs under the screens, double canvas to protect them from the cruel sun. The mess servants served iced drinks and light refreshments, and a random breeze that flapped the canvas occasionally was sufficient to keep the temperature bearable.
The Count was in an expansive mood, host to half a dozen of his officers, all of them dressed in casual hunting clothes, armed with a selection of sporting rifles and the occasional service rifle.
"I think we can rely on better sport today. I believe that our beaters will be trying harder, after my gentle admonitions." He smiled and winked, and his officers laughed dutifully. "Indeed, I am hoping-" "My Count. My Count." Gino rushed breathlessly into the tent like a frenzied gnome. "They are coming. We have seen them from the ridge."
"Ah!" said the Count with deep satisfaction. "Shall we go down and see what our gallant Captain of tanks has for us this time?" And he drained the glass of white Wine in his hand, while Gino rushed over to help him to his feet, and then backed away in front of him, leading him to where Giuseppe was hastily removing the dust covers from the Rolls.
The small procession, headed by the Count's Rolls, Royce, wound down the slope of the low ridge to where the blinds had been sited in a line across the width of the shallow valley. The blinds had been built by the battalion engineers, dug into the red earth so as not to stand too high above the low desert scrub. They were neatly thatched, covered against the sun, with loopholes from which to fire upon the driven game. There were comfortable camp chairs for those long waits between drives, a small but well-stocked bar, ice in insulated buckets, a separate screened latrine in fact all the comforts to make the day's sport more enjoyable.
The Count's blind was in the centre of the line. It was the largest and most luxuriously appointed, situated so that the great majority of driven game would bunch upon this point. His junior officers had earlier learned the folly of exceeding the Colonel's" personal bag or of firing at any animal which was swinging across their front towards the Count. The first offender in this respect had found himself reduced from Captain to Lieutenant, and no longer invited to the hunt, and the second was already back in Massawa writing out requisition forms in the quartermaster's division.
Gino handed the Count from the Rolls, and helped him down the steps into the sunken shelter. Giuseppe saluted and climbed back into the Rolls, swung away and bumped back up the ridge and over the skyline.
The Count settled himself comfortably in the canvas chair. With a sigh, he unbuttoned the front of his jacket, and accepted the damp face cloth that Gino handed him.
While the Count wiped the film of sweat from his forehead with the cool cloth, Gino opened a bottle of Lacrima Cristi from the ice bucket and placed a tall frosted crystal glass of the wine on the folding table at the Count's elbow. Next, he loaded the Marmlicher with shiny new brass cartridges from a freshly opened packet.
The Count tossed the cloth aside and leaned forward in his chair to peer through the loophole in front of him, out across the shimmering plain where the small dark desert scrub danced in the heat.
"I have a feeling we shall have extraordinary sport today, Gino."
I hope so indeed, my Count, said the little sergeant and stood to attention behind his chair with the loaded Mannlicher held at the ready across his chest.
ome on, darling," croaked Jake, sweat dripping from his chin on to his shirt front as he stooped over the crank handle and spun it for the hundredth time.
"Don't let us down now, sweetheart." Gareth scrambled up on to the sponson of Priscilla and took a long despairing glance back over the turret. He felt something freeze in his belly, and his breath caught.
The elephant was a hundred paces away, coming directly down on top of them at a loose shambling walk, the great black ears flapping sullenly and the little piggy eyes alight with malevolence.
Right behind it, fanned out on each side, pressing closely on the great beast's heels, came the full squadron of Italian tanks. The sun glittered on the smoothly rounded frontal armour, and caught the bright festival flutter of their cavalry pennants. From each hatch protruded the black-helmeted head of the tank commander. Through the binoculars Gareth could make out the individual features of each commander, they were that close.
Within minutes they would be overrun, and there was no chance that they could escape detection. The elephant was leading the Italians directly to the ravine, and their scanty camouflage of scrub branches would not stand scrutiny at less than a hundred yards.
They could not even protect themselves, the Vickers machine gun was pointed away from the approaching enemy, and the limited traverse of the ball mounting was not sufficient to bring it to bear. Gareth was engulfed suddenly by a black and burning rage for the stubborn piece of machinery beneath his feet. He took a vicious heartfelt kick at the steel turret.
"You treacherous bitch, he snarled, and at that moment the engine fired and, without preliminary gulping and popping, roared angrily.