Jardine had no need to depress his weapons, the angle of the plane did that for him, and he began his primary burst just before they came level with the lead vehicle, aiming for the driver, then raking the canvas covering in the hope it was carrying infantry. There was no return fire at all; all the drivers did was swing their steering wheels in an attempt to lessen the impact — pretty futile given that Jardine only had to lift or drop his muzzles to compensate.
To the rear of the last truck the Potez swooped up, then made a tight turn so de Billancourt could run down the line of trucks, still close enough to form one because, on both sides of the engineers’ roadway, the ground was so broken that to seek to pull off was to invite disaster. The Frenchman was now strafing through his propeller, and as they flew by, Jardine could see that some drivers were abandoning their trucks and running for cover, while others were seeking to accelerate out of trouble.
One was ablaze, while another had left the road, either through terror or wounding, and tipped onto its side. Obviously, whatever they were carrying, it was not troops, given no bodies were either emerging or being flung clear, and while it had to be a pleasure to do what he was about, de Billancourt was also conscious of the need to preserve ammunition for his own defence.
He did one more non-firing run, getting not even a rifle bullet in response, before banking away, heading for some low hills in the distance, this while Jardine observed the remaining trucks re-forming and continuing on their way at as much speed as they could muster; if there was anyone hurt, they were not hanging about to find out.
Facing forward again and curious, Jardine tapped the Frenchman and indicated downwards with his hand, the response a drop in the aircraft speed as de Billancourt acknowledged the message; he was flying a plane that could land anywhere and very likely he, too, was wondering the same as his temporary observer-gunner: what were those trucks carrying if not troops?
It wasn’t ammunition, since no explosions were coming from the burning truck now sending a plume of black smoke skywards. What was it? If they landed, some information might be gleaned from the contents.
It was necessary to stay behind those low hills and jink about for a while to let the remaining trucks get clear, but after a short while they re-emerged to see the plume of smoke still rising, now to a point that made watching the sky paramount: if they could see it miles away, an Italian fighter scouting at higher altitude could see it as well, so there was a degree of caution in the approach. Finally thinking it safe, de Billancourt lined up on the roadway and brought the bouncing Potez in to land past the blazing truck, so that Jardine could provide cover in case they were shot at.
There was one inert body on the road but no sign of movement. The plane was taken far enough away to provide room for an emergency take-off, before the Frenchman spun it round and, with a feathering propeller, bumped along the less-than-even surface, taking them closer to the wrecked truck before turning back again to face the way he had come. Jardine was ready to jump out, his pistol in one hand, but he took a last searching look skywards before he executed it: if he was out of the plane and an enemy appeared, any pilot — and quite rightly — would take off, even if he could not get back aboard in time.
His feet had only just hit the ground when two very sad-eyed and dust-covered Italian soldiers emerged from behind the rolled-over truck, with their hands in the air. Searching and failing to see any weapons, he heard them both babbling away in what he took to be a plea to surrender.
A wave of his Colt had them on their knees, while behind him, even with an idling aircraft engine, he could hear de Billancourt laughing, albeit the Frenchman had his pistol out and aimed at the two men who were now looking skywards but praying.
Ignoring them, Jardine pushed past to the turned-over truck, to examine the boxes which had been thrown out, one of which had broken open, scattering its contents. There were no rifles or pistols, which he had half-expected, nor was it food.
The item Jardine picked up was something he had not seen for a long time; still the mere sight of it made him shudder and that made him climb into the truck. There he saw that all the containers were like the one he had found split open.
Back out again, he picked one of the items up; he took it back to the two kneeling Italians, a pair of badly uniformed unshaven louts who could only be drivers, and conscripted ones at that, both with that look in their eye that told him they were sure they were going to die.
He held up the gas mask and used the few Italian words he hoped would make sense, all from a trio of operas, wishing Vince was here now, because to get this wrong was not a good idea. Pointing hard at the mask, he barked his question.
‘Maschera! Tutti camion maschera?’
The eager nods chilled him instead of pleasing him.
‘Cappa impermeable,’ one of the drivers shouted in a desperate tone, he too pointing after the trucks, before gesturing something covering his body.
Gas masks and capes! He tried to calculate the number of these things that truck convoy must have been carrying and what it meant. Walking over to de Billancourt he showed the gas mask to him and the effect on the Frenchman was equally profound. He was also sharp enough to state an obvious act, which had not occurred to Jardine.
‘Gather up as many as you can, mon ami. We can fill the cockpits around us.’
That got the two drivers working, carrying gas masks under the threat of Jardine’s pistol and dropping the entire contents of the broken container into the cockpits. They had to leave room to fly and fight, but Jardine’s last act was to search one Italian and find some matches. He then unscrewed the turned-over lorry’s fuel tank cover and let some petrol spill out onto another mask till it was soaked. This was then stuffed into the pipe and lit, before running for the plane, its engine note already at a higher pitch.
The two drivers were running away as they took off and, with the flames taking rapid hold, the lorry went up with a whoosh as the wheels lifted and de Billancourt took them once more into the air.
‘This does not mean they even have brought such a thing to Ethiopia, Captain Jardine,’ Ras Kassa insisted, holding up one of the masks. ‘Or if they have it, they would be so insensitive to world opinion as to use it.’
‘Sir, the first thing you must make sure of when using mustard gas as a weapon is that your own troops are protected, and I would remind you that the Italians used it against the rebellious tribesmen in Libya. As for world opinion, that is something they have been happy to ignore up till now. It’s over a month since the League of Nations condemned the invasion of your country and what has changed? Nothing.’
‘The emperor will not make peace, will not see his country torn apart to salve the conscience of France and Britain.’
‘It shames me that they should even suggest it.’
Ras Kassa was referring to a sell-out plan cooked up by the two democracies, or rather the British foreign minister, Samuel Hoare and the French premier, Pierre Laval, to give the most fertile bits of Abyssinia to the Italians, with the sop of a corridor to the Red Sea for the Ethiopians. Leaked to the press, it had been roundly denounced by the public, while the two governments had bowed to the resultant pressure, forcing the politicians who had proposed it to resign.
‘Sir, it is not my intention to argue with you, that is not my place, but I suggest you have not seen the effect of this weapon …’