These were cut in such a way as to preserve as much as possible of the water that would cascade down the hills in a land that was short on irrigation and subject to torrential rainfall. Once past those, the hill was too steep, meaning the donkeys had to be led, and by the time they got to the summit, sweating profusely and cursing the loose earth underneath, the sun was dipping towards the horizon.
The monastery, with only slits to let in any light, was an ancient structure in a state of some dilapidation, the walls stained with age and the mortar loose or missing on the walls, but the monks were welcoming, if utterly incomprehensible in their greetings. No matter, sign language and a gift of a couple of thalers made sure they had a cell to sleep in and, when they took off their boots, a monk came to wash and dry their feet as an act of Christ-like humility.
‘I haven’t had this kind of treatment since I was in a Manchurian bordello,’ Alverson proclaimed.
‘Let’s hope you don’t get offered the other bits, guv,’ Vince joked. ‘They’re all blokes up here and you can guess what that means.’
‘You have a twisted mind, Vince.’
‘And a virgin arse. I know about places like these, ’cause the Italian mountains are full of ’em — supposed holy men who seem to spend all their time drinking hooch and rogering each other.’
‘And praying for forgiveness for their sins.’
‘Sleep, gents,’ Jardine said. ‘We are up with the lark.’
They were up before that, even, woken by the gentle chanting of the Ethiopian monks, breakfasting on dates and unleavened bread before emerging to overlook, in moon and starlight, the still-dark landscape to the north, with Jardine focusing on the fires and lanterns of the Italian front lines.
‘They’re up and about early.’
‘Let’s have a look-see.’
The field glasses were handed over just as the sun tinged the eastern horizon, with Alverson still as he examined the encampment, reciting what he would write in a semi-jocular way …
‘Your reporter has tramped alongside the peasant defender of Ethiopia, his feet raw from toiling through the rocks and dust of a terrain that would tax the most intrepid explorer. But how can he not follow the example of these sturdy farmer-warriors, who have marched with their out-of-date weaponry to get close to a powerful enemy equipped with the most modern of munitions …?’
‘Did I explain to you what “bollocks” means, given you are in good boots?’
‘No need, Vince, I am just setting the scene, giving it a bit of colour. To continue: Fearless, I have come close to the lines of the invaders, an army half a million or more strong, to bring to you, my readers, some sense of what these under-equipped … dammit,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve used “equipped” once already.’
‘Does it matter?’ Jardine asked.
‘Sure does, brother, never use the same word in the same paragraph unless it’s a name. Basic journalism.’
‘Do go on, I’m fascinated.’
‘Was that a yawn I just saw out of the corner of my eye?’
‘Don’t take it personally.’
Alverson dropped the field glasses and slowly passed them to Jardine. ‘You might want to take this personally, old buddy. I think our friends over yonder are getting ready to pull out.’
Jardine was issuing orders to Vince before he had the binoculars to his eyes. ‘Donkeys ready to leave. Get armed, Vince, and fetch my weapon too.’
There was no need to tell Vince to top up the water canteens, that was standard, and he concentrated on looking at the Italian lines. What he could see, as the morning light increased, was numerous khaki-clad soldiers clambering into lorries. Small tankettes were moving through gaps which had only just been created in the line of defensive sandbags he had seen from the air. Behind them, other troops were forming up in what he suspected to be preparatory to an order to march; those he could stay ahead of, it was the trucked infantry and the tracked vehicles that were the problem.
‘Your despatch is going to be more exciting than you thought, Tyler; that is, unless they catch us.’
‘Will they?’
‘Depends on the speed they want to advance, and the ground, which should hold them up some.’
‘Ready, guv.’
‘Then let’s get the bloody hell out of here.’
They went down the hill fast, the donkeys, sure-footed as they were, occasionally splaying their feet at some particularly dangerous spot, forcing Jardine to seek out an alternative route, and all the while they could see less and less of what they would need to avoid until all it became was a dust cloud on the edge of their horizon. On even ground they started to jog, even Alverson, who was far from as fit as Vince and Jardine, their kitbags bouncing against their backs.
It was not tanks and trucks that presented a problem to the fleeing trio, but the cavalry screen General De Bono had sent out in the hours of darkness to warn him of any potential threat to his measured advance. Thankfully, because of their higher profile, added to the direction of their concentration, Jardine spotted them before they saw him, yet that was not of much use: he could seek cover, but not with donkeys, and together they were at more risk than separate, while to just let the animals go would only create curiosity and most certainly initiate a search.
‘Vince,’ Jardine called softly, as they crouched down, passing over his sub-machine gun. ‘Give me your knife.’ That was passed over swiftly and unquestioningly. ‘Use the gullies and irrigation ditches to try to stay out of sight. Get Tyler back to Aksum and get the hell out of there with or without the Littletons. Wherever the Ethiopian lines are, get to the rear of them.’
‘You, guv?’
‘Distraction, Vince; we can’t all get away.’
‘Hold the phone here-’
Jardine rounded on Alverson then, his voice a furious hiss. ‘Do as you’re bloody well told. Now get down and crawl for cover.’
Waiting till they were out of sight, he crouched to discard two of the bedrolls, jammed Vince’s knife into his own so it was out of sight, then taking the lead ropes of their donkeys, Jardine stood up and began to walk towards the cavalry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
He was soon spotted. Closer to the mounted men he could see they were askaris, their shouting communication in their own tongue. Those closest detached themselves to surround him, all jabbering away, while another had gone to fetch an officer, who was not long in arriving on a snorting, pawing charger that could not be less than seventeen hands, the stream of Italian he aimed at Jardine not much more comprehensible than what his excitable native horsemen had been shouting. More important to Jardine, there was no cry of discovery; Vince and Tyler Alverson might just get away.
‘Do you speak English?’ he enquired.
Receiving a negative response, he tried French, then German, which was the one that worked — not fluently, but many Italians knew some: for centuries a large part of northern Italy had been either connected to, or part of, the Austrian Empire, the Trentino region and Trieste integral till 1919. The stilted interrogation was enough to allow him to establish his own nationality, though he was unsure if the Italian officer quite got a hold of his story as to why he was where he was.
The man fired off a series of rapid orders to two of his men, one of them, by his badges, a junior NCO, who dismounted and stripped him of his Colt Automatic and his kitbag and searched him for more weapons. The officer then informed Jardine he was being taken back to be interrogated at the base camp.
As they had been conversing — if it could be called that — the noise of moving armour had been growing, the sound of tracked vehicles unmistakeable, and the first of the small Carro Veloce 33 tankettes came into view, sending up clouds of dust as it bounced its way across the uneven terrain, the long snout of its machine gun waving to and fro threateningly. That set the horses prancing and his donkeys braying- no equine creature likes to be near the noise of armour — which hurried his departure, the officer leading his men back to what they had been doing before, providing a reconnaissance screen at the very forefront of the advance.