Another option was to radically alter his dispositions in a set of ravines and a folding gully that obviously extended a long way, by seeking a better, more camouflaged position from which to launch an initial attack, then using a series of short, sharp engagements allied to partial pullbacks to draw his enemy into the kind of sapping and continuous losses necessary to clear the route, which would remain blocked, with the caravan stuck and thirsty for an indefinite amount of time. If that could be extended long enough, they would have to head back for the coast and the job would be done.
Now he was staying put when falling back was a sounder tactic, given the amount of cover available on these boulder-strewn, scrub-covered hillsides, that being the best way to confuse the opposition. All this thinking was predicated on them being Italian, or at least local Somali recruits led by one or more officers of Mussolini’s army, who did not seem too blessed with brains.
The aim was blockage, yet he had elected for carnage, which, while no doubt satisfying, rendered complex what should have been simple. He was now in a firefight with a force greater than his own, in terrain that made them, in effect, equal, albeit the man in command would think they, in the defensive position, had the upper hand.
‘He knew we were coming by this route,’ Ras Kassa said.
‘You came this way with a hundred empty camels and the same number of Shewan warriors, so there is a very high chance you were seen. Word was picked up about the landing of a cargo at Zeila, where this slave route ends. What would an Ethiopian caravan be on its way to collect with an invasion imminent? Sherlock Holmes it’s not.’
‘Ah, the great detective; I had his stories read to me.’
‘Ras, we need half your men to get higher up the hillside unseen, the rest to keep up a slow rate of fire to pin the enemy and keep him thinking we are stuck. I want us above them when that mortar comes into play, ready to inflict casualties when they break cover.’
‘And if they do not?’
‘Then we’ll mortar them till they do.’
‘We are running out of daylight, Captain Jardine, would it not be better just to attack?’
‘Once we have shifted this lot we can go on in starlight, or, if we must, the caravan can camp where they are overnight.’ Jardine looked the older man right in the eye. ‘This is your show, not mine, but I am advising you that exposing your men will get many of them killed, and it is not a course I would recommend.’
‘And if darkness comes and our enemies are still before us?’
‘Then I expect him to withdraw, but I would wait until dawn to find out.’
‘My men are good fighters in the dark.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Ras, but if they are askaris holding the ground before us, they will be that too. Of course, if you order an attack, I am not going to interfere, these are your men.’
‘I will wait till darkness falls, but when that happens, Captain Jardine, I suspect I will have more fighting knowledge than you, and it is I who will personally lead my men using nothing but knives. We will clear the way by stealth.’
‘Your decision.’
The scrabbling sound to their rear showed a Shewan with a skin of water, for which Jardine especially was grateful; he also brought a message for his ras.
‘Your man has set up the mortar on flat ground and needs someone to range for him.’
That was not going to be easy from where he was, and damned difficult if he moved: thanks to those mounds at the entrance, the higher he went the less Vince could see of him; sending messages back and forth was too slow and he was too far away to hear a shout. Mortar fire was most effective when it was quick and continuous, while it was also true it was not the most accurate weapon in creation, that oddly adding to its effect: you never knew where the next incoming round was going to land.
‘I need your red cloak, Ras, or part of it,’ Jardine said, unwrapping his own white headdress. ‘And a stick long enough to signal. The message that should go back to Vince is up fifty for white, drop fifty for red, multiply by times shown, bang on with both, and I still need your men getting elevation to pour in volley fire when they break cover.’
The red cloak came off to be handed over, though finding a stick long enough was harder: not much grew to a height in this barren place. How the ras managed to convey that message to his men he did not know, he could only hope it was done accurately. The sun was dropping and, at the speed it does near the equator, the intense heat easing with it.
Up ahead the enemy commander must be feeling content: his tactics would seem to be producing the intended result, if not in the anticipated manner. The caravan was static, as were those attacking his position, and he could anticipate no change the next day.
Jardine was worried that the sun would disappear before they were ready, because he could not range-find for Vince in the dark, and if they did get some rounds off they were not going to have much time to dislodge the enemy. Finally ready, he raised both colours to tell Vince to commence firing, an act that proved his opponent, whatever else he had, exercised control over his men: there was no useless firing at a flapping cloth.
He was too far off to hear the odd plop a mortar round makes when it is dropped for detonation, but he could imagine Vince, having dropped the shell, sticking his fingers in his ears and ducking to get clear, then he heard the ‘whoosh’ it made as it passed overhead, which required him to time the point at which he must expose himself to observe the fall. Vince had to be careful, had to fire at near maximum range, afraid of being too short and dropping a round on his own side, but in his caution he was excessive.
Set as it was and at low elevation, the round landed way beyond the target, so far that it was a guess how much it had to be reduced, with Jardine jabbing up the red cloak three times, on the last attracting fire, which at least showed how alarmed the enemy was at the introduction of the weapon.
Frustration followed as Vince made the necessary adjustment, sacrificing length of range for increased elevation in a weapon that was short on that anyway, five to six hundred yards being about the limits of effectiveness for a 50 mm model. The second round showed Jardine had overdone his signals: it landed between the enemy position and him, which made very dangerous his looking out from cover to observe, and it was only just in time that he got his head back to avoid a fusillade of dislodged stones and earth.
The white flag went up, with Jardine wondering if those ahead would think he was trying to surrender; what came next disabused them if they thought that. It seemed to Jardine to be right on the button and he raised both signals to a torrent of enemy rifle fire.
Vince was profligate, firing off ten rounds inside two minutes, a measure of drift due to spinning and a bit of breeze ensuring none of the high-explosive shells landed in the same place, and that was how long it took to break the defence, brought home to Jardine as Ras Kassa’s men opened fire from above him, pouring rifle rounds into an enemy forced to make themselves a target in order to retreat.
Both the signals went up again to tell Vince to cease fire, and if the remainder of the Ethiopian warriors did not understand what he shouted out, they knew to follow him once he stood up and rushed forward, his weapon burping in short three-round bursts. Even with the noise of guns going off he could hear the Shewan war cries; high, controlled keening screams designed to strike fear into an enemy heart. Magazine empty, Jardine stopped to reload, which let those following him pass. By the time he made the enemy position it was overrun, and lacking bayonets or more ammunition, rifle butts were raining down on the heads of what were, by their greenish uniforms, Italian askaris.