Whoever commanded the Italians was not going to be deterred: he kept them on their original flight path and the first stick of bombs began to emerge from the bays. Within less than a minute from sighting the biplanes, the leading pair of Potez 25s engaged the front SM73, the other pair going after number two in the bombing line, the crunch of ground explosions mixing with the rattle of the Vickers, much muted by being aerial.
‘Fighter screen coming in,’ Alverson said, his field glasses raised high into the sunlit sky.
‘This could be a massacre,’ Jardine grunted.
The Fiat CR30s were dropping fast, the commander of the Italian bombers relying on them to allow him to release his stick; clearly he was prepared to risk damage to deliver. For the attacking biplanes, hitting something vital on a much larger plane made of plywood was a chancy affair, though from the ground it was possible to see bits of wood flying off the fuselages of the two bombers being attacked. But it could not last: with the Italian fighters coming in fast, the Ethiopian pilots broke off and ran, the Fiats on their tail and closing, with the rear-firing machine gunners seeking to keep them at bay.
‘Got it!’ Jardine cried, for to him the air attack made little sense. The Potez 25s were too lightly armed and slow to have any real hope of downing a bomber. ‘They want to suck them into a pursuit.’
It had to have been planned in advance, for the anti-aircraft guns were manned and ready, with their barrels pointed forty-five degrees north. The Fiats, closing, had opened up on four aircraft losing the little height they had to get maximum speed heading for the safety of their own lines.
As soon as they were out of the target area, the quick-firing Oerlikons opened up on the lead Italian fighters, firing at a rate of 450 rounds per minute. Three of the pursuit planes immediately spun away and began a fast climb, but one fighter pilot obviously had only a kill as an object, for he flew through the ground fire, which now included machine guns and rifles, intent on destroying one enemy.
He had picked out his target and he stuck to its tail, guns blazing, now no longer the popping sound of distant aerial bullets, but the harsh crack of projectiles so close, people were ducking their heads. The bullets ripped through the doped canvas of the slower biplane, but the pursuing fighter was taking hits too, one of which must have been on the pilot, for the nose of the Fiat suddenly dropped, bringing it down to skim overhead and plough into the ground well to the rear of the Ethiopian positions, exploding in a great ball of orange fire and black smoke, which produced massed cheering for the whole encampment.
‘Our boy is in trouble, I think,’ Alverson said.
He was pointing to the biplane which had been the object of the Fiat’s foolhardy pursuit, now turning to make a forced landing on the flattest piece of ground it could find, which was near the casualty clearing station where Corrie Littleton laboured. Jardine was already moving towards the spot, with the American shouting he would catch up: hard running was not his style.
The loose and curly blond hair told him who the pilot was before Jardine got really close, while the inert body on the ground was enough to indicate who had suffered in the attack: the observer-gunner was either seriously wounded or dead, while Henri de Billancourt, on his knees, was covered in blood, he having dragged the man out.
Jardine was angered by the sight, even as he knew, deep down, he had no right to be: in combat you took risks and sometimes people got killed. Pointing the finger was generally useless unless someone had been outright stupid. Had the whole thing been de Billancourt’s idea? Unfairly, he was thinking it was typical of the man, yet on balance it had been successfuclass="underline" a modern Italian fighter had been destroyed and its pilot killed, which was an exceedingly rare outcome in this war.
They had got a stretcher to the observer-gunner, while someone was doing first aid, and by the time Jardine could see he was an Ethiopian they were lifting him on to it, with the seemingly unaffected Frenchman taking a handle. Jardine grabbed another and they made as much speed as they could to the medical tents, crossing paths with Alverson and his ubiquitous camera, always slung round his neck, snapping away at what was really, if you excepted the flying overalls, a commonplace picture.
Corrie Littleton was at her usual task; the present attack had been blunted by the usual methods of mass artillery, backed up by machine guns firing on fixed arcs, while the bombing and strafing aircraft were now free to roam at will once more, inflicting death and destruction on men falling back. The casualties were being brought in on makeshift stretchers, while out on the battlefield there would be many dead and wounded, remaining there until darkness fell. As soon as she saw the Frenchman she rushed over, no doubt, Jardine suspected, to see if the blood on his overalls was his, to be greeted with a smile.
‘I think this fellow,’ Jardine growled, nodding to the man on the stretcher, ‘needs your attention.’
The American girl was quick then; a few weeks spent dealing with the effects of war had taught her much in a short space of time. Her examination was precise, professional almost, and she addressed Henri de Billancourt, not Jardine, her head shaking as she did so.
‘With these wounds I doubt he can be saved, and there are people here who will benefit more from attention than he. The doctor can only deal with those cases that warrant his time. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s pretty harsh, Corrie,’ Alverson said, as the stretcher was laid on the ground.
The reply was weary and resigned. ‘It stops being that, Tyler, after the first few hundred cases.’
‘I must look to my aircraft,’ said de Billancourt, before turning to walk away.
The fact that he was not as indifferent as he at first appeared was evident in the stiffness of his gait, which had in it an attitude that Cal Jardine recognised from the times he had seen men of his own killed in situations where to show your feelings was not permitted; that made him castigate himself for being a bit of a bastard.
The casualty clearing station was within walking distance of where Alverson, Jardine and Vince had a tent, one to which the American girl came to take what little release she allowed herself. Vince Castellano being an expert scrounger, they ate well, he having the depth of Alverson’s pocket as an aid, as well as what was left in Jardine’s money belt.
Whatever things this peasant army lacked, an active black market in little luxuries was not one of them, while those who supplied their needs also provided the route by which Alverson got out his despatches — both those approved by the censors and his own less cheerleading account — back to Gondar for transmission on to the Sudan, his Rolls-Royce now acting as a temporary ambulance.
A rather morose and uncommunicative Henri de Billancourt was there when she arrived — his plane was damaged and he was waiting for people to arrive from his base and fix it, and it was a testimony to the pressure she was putting herself under that, this time, she barely acknowledged the Frenchman, instead more interested in the bottle Alverson was holding out. It was also an indication of how low de Billancourt was feeling that he did not seem to care.
‘Whisky, Tyler, for the love of God.’
‘Makes life tolerable, honey.’
Corrie Littleton had ceased to be rangy and was now thin, while her face had that drawn look which comes from continuous exhaustion brought on by relentless toil. If Jardine admired her spirit, and he did, he was not inclined to show it much: they still sparred like two fighting cocks, much to Alverson’s continued amusement and Vince’s rising irritation. She had taken to occasionally calling him ‘Doc Savage’ after some ridiculous American comic book hero.