There were three armies left in the field after the destruction of the one facing Mek’ele: forty thousand men under Ras Kassa, another, some thirty thousand strong, under Ras Seyoum, and the same on the eastern flank. The first two were spread out through the kind of terrain in which Geoffrey Amherst had advised that they fight: fast-flowing rivers, deep ravines and thick forest, spreading west from the road to Gondar.
‘I have been given permission from the emperor to withdraw, Captain Jardine.’
‘If it were not for the gas, sir, I would advise against that, but-’
The older man smiled even as he interrupted. ‘That, I think, is the first time you have said it is even possible to make a stand.’
‘Maybe you can,’ Jardine replied, wanting to be positive. ‘The terrain is perfect for defence, and provided you don’t put large concentrations of men in the open, the gas ceases to be such a potent weapon. The Italians can’t sit still, Rome won’t let them, and so they have only the option of attack. In such country tanks will be near to useless, the field artillery difficult to move in the mountains, and with the deep forest cover their air force won’t know where you are. Not even they have enough bombs to drop them everywhere.’
‘And you would advise Ras Seyoum to do the same?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I have just received a despatch telling me that he intends to come out of the mountains and launch an attack northwards to throw back the Italians on Aksum.’
Cal Jardine tried not to shake his head, but he could not resist it. ‘Can you override him?’
‘Only the King of Kings can do that and he will not interfere.’
‘Yet you don’t agree with him — Ras Seyoum, I mean.’
‘I have yet to decide.’
‘You should withdraw immediately, sir. If Ras Seyoum is defeated, you will be attacked at once with the full enemy strength. With your left flank exposed not even the terrain can save you. Your fellow commander is not being foolish, he’s being stupid.’
‘But do you not recall telling me that, at Adowa, King Menelik was foolish, or was it stupid?’ Jardine knew what was coming. ‘But what you do not acknowledge is that the Italians did not expect him to attack for the very reasons he was advised against it, yet in doing that he won a surprise victory. Perhaps Ras Seyoum will achieve something similar.’
Their eyes locked, with Ras Kassa determined to look as if he meant what he said; the glacial stare more than hinted to Cal Jardine he was trying to convince himself of something he knew to be fundamentally untrue.
‘So you will wait?’
‘I must, and if he shows any sign of beating the Italian devils I will support him.’
‘I take it, by the bustle, the orders for that have already gone out.’
‘They have.’
Making his way back to the tent, Jardine was thinking about national myths and the dangers they presented. The Ethiopians had lived off the legend of Adowa for forty years, a whole generation had grown up convinced they were unbeatable, and they were close to right if you took the poison gas out of the mix, while the Italians, or at least the Fascists, prated on about being the new Roman Empire. They were both trapped in national self-deception; men had already died for it and more would follow. He spoke as he entered the tent, and abruptly.
‘Tyler, if anyone asks you for the use of your car, say no.’
Surprised as he was, he did not ask the obvious question, given that if the car was required, it would be for a humanitarian need again. ‘How, brother?’
‘Take out the distributor cap, tell them it’s not working; and before you say they will not believe you, ask yourself how many people there are around here who know what a distributor is.’
‘What has rattled your cage, tiger?’
‘Stupid generals!’
‘The car?’
‘Might be our only way out.’
What came to be called the Second Battle of Tembien — the title was, as is common, coined by the victors — was nothing short of an unmitigated disaster. Ras Seyoum debouched with his entire force onto the plains, an army with more bows and arrows than rifles, no artillery or armour and hardly any machine guns, relying on sheer weight of numbers and the brio of his assault to overwhelm the enemy. The Italians did not need poison gas to blunt that: they had everything they required in conventional arms.
The white-cloaked warriors ran into a hail of shellfire — fighters, bombers and artillery that cut their numbers in half within one hour. Stunned and static, surrounded by the dead and dying, their spirit waned and the retreat began. But now the terrain at their rear became as much of an enemy as the Italians, and any weapons they had possessed which might have given their enemies pause were on the battlefield with the corpses of their fellows.
The Italians streamed into the ravines and valleys in hot pursuit, because the obstacles that would have hampered them in the first instance now became bottlenecks for the Ethiopians. Seeking to get to and cross the Tekeze fords along a single road that canalised the flight, those trying to flee lost all cohesion. Artillery set alight the forested hillsides, for the gunners knew where to aim, and every raging river spewing white water from the surrounding mountains, which would once have taxed the invaders, was now a hazard the defeated could not cross. They became a milling, easy target, doubly so when unable to cross the fords, and forming a heaving, easily spotted mass, they were bombed into a bloody pulp.
Instead of advancing to aid Ras Seyoum, the army of Ras Kassa was forced into a hurried retreat, seeking and failing to avoid annihilation. Right behind the Dodge of Ras Kassa came Alverson’s Rolls-Royce, now carrying many of the personal followers of the commander, those that could hanging onto the running boards, avoiding the strafing fighters only by sheer luck, manoeuvring round bomb craters, staying ahead of gas attacks only because of those wheels. Behind them the army of Ras Kassa fell apart, dead, collapsed with massive burns to their body, or just dispersed to become useless.
Thousands survived the carnage that ensued, but no one knew how many: they were left only with the claims of the enemy. Those who got away did not join any other army, they went home, their fortitude broken like a dried reed. They had lived the myth and it had either killed them or their spirit. By the time they reached the headquarters of the reserve army, the only men Ras Kassa still commanded were his personal bodyguards.
Haile Selassie now took command, gathering all his forces for a final battle, forty years to the day since his predecessor won at Adowa, and he brought with him, to parade before the rest of his warriors, the six battalions of the Imperial Guard, men in smart green uniforms, proper boots, steel helmets, and each with a modern rifle that Cal Jardine suspected were those he had brought into the country, weapons that should have been at the front long ago.
So should the rest of what he had preserved: there was a mobile mortar section, truck-towed 75 mm field guns, twenty in number, the fast-firing, highly mobile French weapon that had been so effective in the Great War as well as an anti-aircraft unit with up-to-date Oerlikons to make sure the King of Kings was protected from the air.
‘Where the hell was this lot when we needed them, Vince?’
The bitterness of tone and the fact that it was loudly proclaimed — it had to be, given the cheering — made Tyler Alverson turn to look at Cal Jardine. His eyes were fixed on the tiny, bearded figure of the Emperor of Ethiopia, who, even in ceremonial garb, on a platform that raised him well above the ground, could not even begin to look impressive. Vince said he looked like a doorstop not a figurehead.