He was thanking God, and he was a deeply religious man, that he was in command of native troops, for when it came to forbearance they were streets ahead of his fellow Italians. Those tankers’ heads, thrown in amongst European soldiers, might have induced panic; in his Eritreans it got a response of loud whistles, which he hoped his enemies understood to be derision.
He had been attacked at dawn and his withdrawal had occupied no more than two hours, so he knew there would be no shade for a long time, but his men were used to the heat and being thirsty; his officers, being Italian, less so. He told them to get some kind of shelter constructed where they could take turns in getting out of the sun, and to drink small amounts frequently; they would be no good to him woolly and confused with dehydration.
Up above him Cal Jardine was seeking him out through his field glasses — decapitate the enemy and they are more easily overcome — but Critini was too wily a bird to expose himself to either another wound or death. Visible, though, was the long sliver of the antenna of his radio, sticking up above a rock and waving slightly in the gentle breeze. Then it disappeared, indicating the transmission was over, which had Jardine cursing his lack of mortars.
Calling over Shalwe he sent him to Yoannis with a request, one that was answered in the shape of four warriors younger than most of their fellows. In fact, they looked to be hardly meaningfully into their teens, but they had the eagerness and gaiety of youth added to their natural warrior spirit, and once it was made plain what was wanted they seemed to vie to be the one to do it alone. What Jardine was asking for was potentially suicidal and he wanted them to be gifted what safety was possible by numbers: as long as one succeeded, that would suffice.
It is one of the burdens of command that you accept some of your men might die and Jardine had no time for the nonsense spouted by others that you should never ask your men to do what you would not do yourself. Yes, in extreme circumstances, you must share the same risks, but in battle proper command is vital; only idiots threw their lives away with the kind of foolhardy bravery that left their men leaderless.
It took time to explain to these youths what he wanted, and he had to make sure they knew how to use a grenade and how to time the gap between pulling the pin, throwing it and making certain they were not caught by the blast. Most of all, he stressed they had time and they should take it — the last thing he wanted was a stupid rush that would result in utter failure.
‘Think you are hunting the lion,’ he had Shalwe tell them, pleased at the eager nods such an allusion received: they knew a thing like that required stealth and that was the easiest way of explaining to them the need for that now.
The hardest thing to do was to persuade them to relinquish their shammas: it seemed to be seen as a mark of shame to discard it, but Jardine had already observed how the white garment made every man he was with an easy target if they exposed themselves; divested of those, in just loincloths and with their coffee-coloured skin, the boys blended more with their surroundings. He was tempted to tell them not to smile either: they had very good white teeth, as well as a ready propensity to show them.
For those on the hillsides water and ammunition were plentiful, given the mouth of the pass was under the control of the Ethiopians. Food came too, though less welcome was Tyler Alverson, his Leica camera round his neck. He arrived, with an escorting regular officer and a pair of bearers carrying his tripod as well as a kitbag, in such a useless fashion he drew fire from below. He then went on to complain the Italians were too far away and too well camouflaged by nature to get a good picture.
‘Well, forgive me,’ Jardine responded. ‘I’ll just nip down and ask them to stand up and come closer.’
‘Pity they chucked away all those heads,’ Vince remarked. ‘That would have made for a good snap.’
That was explained to Alverson, who, if he was fazed by the thought of it, did not let on. ‘No prisoners, eh?’ Jardine just shook his head. ‘You know what that means? The Italians won’t take any either.’
‘What makes you think they would have anyway, Tyler? How are our boys doing, Vince?’
‘They’re stuck and need some help.’
Jardine got onto one knee and spayed a whole magazine into the enemy position, aware, through his peripheral vision, that his boys used that wisely. The defenders’ heads being kept down, they had taken the opportunity to dart forward, but one exposed himself too long, bullets pinging around him as Jardine changed his magazine. It was Vince who saved him, firing off five rounds rapidly.
Having concentrated on what they could see, the askaris missed one of the others. He was close to his target and threw, as Alverson later described it in print, like a World Series pitcher. The grenade hit the top of the rocks behind which the radio was situated, but the bounce took it on. By the time the operator moved it was too late for him, he was blown away like a thrown sack of spuds, but more important, the Italians were now very likely without communications, so they could no longer keep their Divisional HQ aware of their situation.
‘Captain Jardine,’ Shalwe shouted from beside a chest-heaving, sweating messenger. ‘More tanks, bigger tanks are coming.’
‘Take charge here again, Vince — same drill. Shalwe, tell Yoannis to get half his men following and you come too.’ Jardine was moving before he realised Alverson was on his heels. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I gotta see this.’
‘See what?’
‘Whatever it is you’re planning.’
‘I don’t have a plan, I’m reacting.’
‘And I thought you were a military genius.’
‘Take my advice, Tyler, if you ever come across one, stay clear — they tend to get themselves killed.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘On your head be it.’
Even in his elevated position, Jardine could not move without attracting rifle fire, but being dressed in khaki clothing he at least blended with the surrounding features. Not Alverson in his white linen suit, which got him a string of loud curses. But it was not his fault, really: the two bearers he had brought along just saw their job as following wherever Alverson led. What they did not do was see any need to crawl like the man they were serving, and they had stood up to tag along. It was almost as if the Italian commander guessed such activity was important: he used his mortars again, which he had being doing sparingly to conserve rounds, the first projectile bursting too close for comfort and showering both Jardine and the American with bits of rock, one of which cut Jardine’s cheek.
‘You’re bleeding,’ Alverson said.
‘And you are a bleeding nuisance.’
‘Don’t hold back, bud, tell me what you really think.’
Dabbing at his dust-covered cheek, Jardine had to laugh. ‘Why do you do this, Tyler, risk getting yourself killed?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
‘So we’re both stupid.’
‘And then some, brother.’
‘Tell those bloody bearers of yours to keep their heads down.’
‘You speak the lingo?’ Jardine’s head shake was superfluous. ‘No, neither do I, but I can tell you this, those guys can run, so we won’t lose them.’
Jardine was up and off like a greyhound out of trap 6, which left Alverson struggling to follow, so he waved his bearers forward and they showed a nice turn of speed as they swept past him, with him crawling in their wake to a point where he could stand up and walk.
‘So what we got?’ he gasped.
‘Tanks, probably Fiat 3000s.’
‘That bad?’
‘They have turrets, Tyler.’
‘Explain.’
‘The tanks we destroyed before only had forward-firing machine guns. Turreted tanks, and these have 37 mm cannon, can bombard the hills, both sides. They have good power sources too, and can get over obstacles those little CV35s had to try and get round. We can’t stop them the same way and I doubt we can do it without incurring losses.’