‘An unusual and attractive name it is too.’ The pilot, having delivered that over-egged compliment, finally deigned to acknowledge she was not alone. ‘And your amis are also American?’
‘No bloody fear,’ said Vince, which got him a look from Alverson, who was quick to reply.
‘I am. Tyler Alverson,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘If he kisses the back of that, I’m leaving,’ Vince added, which got him another hard look.
‘You I would suspect to be English by your voice, but such dark skin is-’
Unaware that he was on the edge of an insult, and quite possibly a belt on the nose, for Vince was close to looking like a native now, the pilot was saved by Jardine interrupting and introducing both himself and Vince, explaining that his friend was half-Italian, that information responded to with a raised eyebrow.
‘The right half,’ Vince snarled. ‘You know, the one on your side.’
‘And you are?’ Jardine enquired.
‘Count Henri de Billancourt, monsieur, serving in the air force of His Imperial Majesty, Haile Selassie.’
‘Count Henri?’ asked Corrie Littleton, in a voice that was not only high but had a trace of simper.
‘Not a very large air force,’ Jardine interjected, not quite knowing why he felt the need to deflate the man’s air of self-importance. ‘And, sadly, with out-of-date equipment.’
De Billancourt did not quite bristle, but he let Jardine know he was aware of the diminishing nature of the comment. ‘Monsieur, we make up in elan what we lack in numbers and modernity.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Alverson said, favouring Jardine with an annoying grin. ‘Can I ask what you are doing here?’
‘Why, I am looking out for the enemy, but when I see such a car on the roadside it tickles my curiosity, so I must come and look.’
‘You speak very good English, Count,’ said Corrie Littleton, who then added, in a tone of faux fluster, ‘Do I call you “Count”, or what?’
‘Mademoiselle,’ the pilot said, in a voice too oily for all three of her companions, who were forced to look away, ‘you must call me Henri.’
‘How close are the Italians to Aksum?’ asked Jardine, in a voice a bit too sharp, and one that got him a narrow-eyed look from those green eyes.
‘Only, my mother is there, we think, and I fear for her safety,’ explained Corrie Littleton.
‘Then perhaps, mademoiselle, you would care to come with me and have a look, to see where those Italian sons-of-whores are.’
‘Am I allowed to clock him one, guv?’
‘No, Vince,’ Jardine replied, aware that what had been said was too colloquial for even this French aristocrat to understand. ‘It might be of more use if I come with you, monsieur?’
‘Pourquoi?’ he demanded.
Tempted to reply in French, Jardine stopped himself, either through pique or precaution, he was unsure. The only certainty was that his intervention was not appreciated by Corrie Littleton.
‘I am an ex-soldier, Count Henri, and I think I would make a better observer than Miss Littleton. In fact, I am surprised you are flying alone.’
‘Airspeed, monsieur, the Italian Fiats are faster than the Potez. However …’ de Billancourt shrugged. ‘I hope you can manage a pair of Vickers machine guns.’
‘The captain can,’ snapped Vince, ‘and better than you think, Froggie.’
After a nod at the rank, the green eyes turned slowly to Vince, who was sure the man’s nostrils flared. ‘Perhaps you will be good enough to spin the propeller for me?’
For all the courtesy of the way that sounded, this Frenchman was telling Vince he could spot a member of the other ranks. Vince’s fists tightened, his shoulders stiffened and his feet moved for the balance needed to deliver a punch.
‘If you don’t mind, Vince,’ Cal Jardine said.
‘For you, guv,’ Vince replied, slowly relaxing.
Count Henri was already on his way back to his plane. Jardine observed the way he expertly back-jumped onto the lower wing before spinning round and up like a ballet dancer to make his cockpit in one smooth manoeuvre. Jardine needed a hand up from Vince, the rear cockpit not being accessible from the wing, and as he settled in to the cramped space, a leather helmet and a pair of gloves were flicked back into his lap. By the time he had strapped himself in, Vince was on the propeller, and at a signal from de Billancourt he swung hard as the Frenchman pressed the ignition, the engine firing immediately and the exhaust pipes emitting smelly clouds of black smoke and a strong smell of kerosene.
Swinging round into the wind, the engine was gunned and the Potez picked up speed, eventually slipping into the air with a degree of grace that told Jardine whatever else this snooty French bastard might be he was a good pilot. Below, thanks to the recent rains, the landscape was generally green, near-black where the soil had been tilled, broken up by high, conical mounds of pale-brown hills.
Within minutes they were over the town of Aksum, able to see the outlines of the ancient ruins of castles, as well as the obelisks that dotted the landscape. More importantly, for all the pointing fingers, there was no gunfire: the place was not yet taken. De Billancourt continued north-east, gaining altitude, no doubt seeking both safety and the ability to see into the distance, heading for Adowa and the Italian positions.
His hand pointing down was not necessary: Jardine could see clearly the evidence of the enemy positions, most tellingly that they were static, which was odd given that there was no force opposing them. The Italians should be moving, using their mechanised forces to punch into and through any resistance, never mind the odd broken-down vehicle or footsore Blackshirt.
Jardine wondered what Geoffrey Amherst would say if he could see this. Many times in his company he had heard the older man expound his theories on how the next war should be fought: fast-moving tanks supported by trucked infantry, with aircraft acting as flying artillery to soften up resistance, which if it held its ground, should be bypassed and left, as he said, ‘to wither on the vine’.
He could hear his voice in his head and imagine the table pounding that accompanied his damnation of the military boneheads of his home country who would not listen to him, while his writings were openly admired by people he called ‘the nation’s enemies’; he had never been invited to lecture at Sandhurst — most of his invitations to do that came from Hitler’s Germany.
De Billancourt was waving his hand; if he was shouting, Jardine could not hear it, but he got the message by the way the Frenchman was casting his eyes around the sky, telling him to look out for enemy fighters, this as he banked to fly along the front lines of the army below, until they were over what looked like a motor park by a series of very large tents. Winking shots showed, even in the sunlight, as ground fire came in their direction, with de Billancourt jinking to put off the gunners, as puffs of black smoke burst all around them.
Jardine had to ignore the anti-aircraft fire: he was looking around the sky above, for, if he was not a pilot, he knew, having drunk with many ex-members of the Royal Flying Corps, which had morphed into the RAF, that the most dangerous type of air attacks came from above, out of the sun.
It was a flash of reflected sunlight that fixed his gaze, a glint as the golden light bounced off an aeroplane windscreen perhaps. He tapped de Billancourt’s shoulder and pointed up in the general direction, receiving a nod in return, and once he was sure the Frenchman understood, he spun round to kneel on his seat rather than sit, using a second strap to secure himself in. The twin Vickers were just a double version of a machine gun he had fired many times before, and he checked the belt feed was clear to run before he cocked both. Only then did he look out for an enemy.