The next shell burst beyond the crest, out of sight in the trough.
"The first one under, and the second over," muttered Gareth, struggling to control the Ras's wild lunges. "Where does the next one go?" They had almost reached the car when it came in, arcing across the wide lioncoloured plain, through the low grey cloud, howling and rattling the heavens; it plunged down at an acute angle, going in through the thin plating behind the turret of the car, and it burst against the steel floor of the cab.
The car burst like a paper bag. The entire turret was lifted from its seating and went high in the air in a flash of crimson flame and sooty smoke.
Gareth dragged the Ras down on to the sand and held him there while scraps of flying steel and other debris splattered around them.
It lasted only seconds and the Ras tried to rise again, but Gareth held him down while the shattered hull of the car brewed up into a fiery explosion of burning gasoline and the Vickers ammunition in the bins began popping and flying like fireworks.
It lasted a long time, and when at last the crackle of ammunition died away, Gareth lifted his head cautiously; immediately another belt caught and rattled away with white tracer flying and spluttering, forcing them flat again.
"Come on, Rassey," sighed Gareth at last. "Let's see if we can beg a ride home." At that moment, the ugly, well beloved shape of Priscilla the Pig roared abruptly over the crest of the dune and slewed to a halt above them.
"God," Jake shouted from the driver's hatch. "I thought you were in it when she blew. I came to pick up the pieces." Dragging the Ras, Gareth climbed up the side of the tall hull.
"This is becoming a habit," Gareth grunted. "That's two I owe you.
"I'll send you an account," Jake promised, and then ducked instinctively as the next shell came shrieking in to burst so close that dust and smoke blew into their faces.
"I get this strange feeling we should move on now," suggested Gareth mildly. "That is, if you have no other plans." Jake sent the car plunging steeply down the face of the dune, turning hard as he hit the firmer earth of the plain and setting a running course for where the mouth of the gorge was hidden by the smoky writhing curtains of cloud and rain.
Vicky Camberwell saw them coming and swung Miss Wobbly and gunned her on to a parallel course. Wheel to wheel, the two elderly machines bounded across the flat land, and the rain began to crackle against the steel hulls in minute white bursts that blurred their outlines as the next Italian shell burst fifty feet ahead of them, forcing them to swerve to avoid the fuming crater.
"Can you see where the battery is?" yelled Jake, and Gareth answered him, clinging to one of the welded brackets above the hatch, rain streaming down his face and soaking the front of his white shirt.
"They are in the ground that the Gallas deserted, they've probably taken over the trenches I dug with such loving care."
"Could we have a go at them? "Jake suggested.
"No we can't, old son. I sited those positions myself.
They're tight. You just keep going for the gorge. Our only hope is to get into the second line of positions that I have prepared at the first waterfall." Then he shook his head sorrowfully, screwing up his eyes against the stinging raindrops. "You and this crazy old bastard," he turned his head to the Ras beside him, "you'll be the death of me, you two will The Ras grinned happily at him, convinced that they were charging into a battle again, and deliriously happy at the prospect.
"How do you do?" he cackled, and punched Gareth's shoulder gleefully.
"Could be better, old boy," Gareth assured him. "Could be a lot better," and they both ducked as the next shell came howling low over their heads.
"Those fellows are improving Gareth observed mildly.
"God knows they've had plenty of practice recently, "Jake shouted, and Gareth rolled his eyes upwards to the heavy bruised cloud banks.
"Let there be rain," he intoned, and instantly the thunder cracked and the clouds lit internally with a brilliant electric burst of light.
The splattering drops increased their tempo, and the air turned milky with slanting drumming lances of rain.
"Amazing, Major Swales. I would not have believed it," said Gregorius Maryam from the turret above Gareth's head, and his voice was hushed with awe.
"Nothing to it, my lad," Gareth disclaimed. "Just a direct line to the top." Rain filled the air in a white teeming fog, so that Jake had to screw up his eyes against the driving needles, and his black curls clung in a sodden mass to his scalp.
Rain wiped out the mountains and the rocky portals of the gorge, so that Jake steered by instinct alone. It roared against the racing steel hull, and closed down visibility to a circle of twenty yards.
The Italian shellfire stopped abruptly, as the gunners were unsighted.
Rain pounded every inch of exposed skin, striking with a force that stung painfully, snapping against their faces with a jarring impact that made the teeth ache in their jaws, and sent them crouching for what little cover there was on the exposed hull.
"Good Lord, how long does this go on for?" protested Gareth, and he spat the sodden butt of his cheroot over the side.
"Four months," shouted Gregorius. "It rains for four months now."
"Or until you tell it to stop." Jake grinned wryly, and glanced across at the other machine.
Sara waved reassuringly from the turret of Miss Wobbly, her face screwed up against the driving raindrops and the thick mane of hair plastered to her shoulders and face. Icy rain had soaked the silken sharnma she wore and it clung transparently to her body, and her fat little breasts showed through as though they were naked, bouncing to each exaggerated movement of the car.
Suddenly the mist of rain ahead of them was filled with hurrying figures, all of them clad in the long sodden sharnmas of the Harari; carrying their weapons, they were running and staggering forward through the rain towards the mouth of the gorge.
Gregorius shouted encouragement to them as they sped past, and then translated quickly.
"I have told them we will hold the enemy at the first waterfall they are to spread the word." And he turned back to shout again when suddenly with a startled oath Jake braked and swung the car violently to avoid a pile of human bodies strewn in their path.
"This is where the Italian machine-gunners caught them," Sara yelled across the gap, and as if in confirmation there came the tearing ripping sound of the machine guns off in the rain mist.
Jake threaded the car past the piles of bodies and then looked around to make sure Vicky was following.
"Now what the hell!" He realized they were alone. "That woman.
That crazy woman," and he braked, slammed Priscilla into reverse and roared back into the fog until the dark shape of Miss Wobbly loomed up again.
"No," said Gareth. "I can't bear it." Vicky and Sara were out of the parked car, hurrying amongst the piles of bodies, stooping over a wounded warrior and between them dragging him upright and thrusting him through the open rear doors of the cab. Others, less gravely wounded, were limping and crawling towards the machine, and dragging themselves aboard.
"Come on, Vicky, "Jake yelled.
"We can't leave them here, she yelled back.
"We've got to get to the waterfall," he tried to explain.
"We've got to stop the retreat." But he might not have spoken, for the two women turned back to their task.