Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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the lips drawn back from his teeth in a fixed snarl and his eyes

rolling in their sockets until the whites showed, and the tears of pain

poured freely down his cheeks, glinting in the firelight like dew on

the yellow petals of a rose.

Vicky cut the rawhide bindings at the Italians" wrists and elbows,

and they massaged the circulation back into their arms, huddling

together, their pale faces still smeared with dirt and dried blood and

their eyes terrified and ... uncomprehending.

Quickly, Vicky crossed back to Jake and stood close beside him.

Somehow there was safety and security when she was near to him. She

stayed beside him as Jake forced Ras Kullah, step by step, across the

open ground to where the maimed, half-destroyed thing still moved

weakly and drew each agonized breath of air with a bubbling sigh.

Jake stooped slightly away from Ras Kullah, but still holding him,

and Vicky saw the compassion alter the fierce expression in his eyes

for a moment, She did not realize what he was going to do until he

dropped the pistol from Ras Kullah's face, and extended his arm at full

stretch.

The crack of the pistol was sharp and cutting in the stillness,

and the bullet hit the mutilated Italian in the centre of his

forehead,

leavin a dark blue hole in the gleaming "9 white skin of the brow. His

eyelids fluttered like the wings of a dying dove, and the arched

straining body sagged and relaxed. A long gusty sigh came up the

tortured throat, the sigh a man might make at the very edge of sleep

and then he was still.

Without another look at the man to whom he had given peace, Jake lifted

the pistol to Ras Kullah's face again, and with fresh pressure on his

arm he forced him to turn and walk slowly back.

With a curt inclination of the head, he signalled the three

Italians to move. They went first, moving slowly, still shrinking

together, then Vicky followed them, one hand for comfort reaching back

to touch Jake's shoulder. Jake held Ras Kullah twisted off balance,

and forced him step by step onwards. He knew they must not hurry, must

not Show weakness, for the flimsy bonds which held the Gallas frozen

would snap at the least strain, and they would be upon them down under

them in a pack, bearing the press of bodies, and hacking and tearing

them to pieces.

Pace after slow steady pace, they moved forward. Time and again their

way was blocked by sullen groups of tall dark Gallas, who stood

shoulder to shoulder fingering their weapons, then Jake twisted the

muzzle of the pistol into Ras Kullah's soft skin. The man cried out

and reluctantly the way opened, the dark warriors moving aside just

sufficiently to let them pass, and then falling in behind them and

following closely, so closely the leaders were always within arm's

length.

Once they were clear of the pack, Jake could increase the pace and he

moved steadily up the path through the camel-thorn, shepherding the

terrified Italians ahead of him and dragging Ras Kullah bodily along.

"What are we going to do with them?" Vicky asked breathlessly.

"We can't keep Kullah at gun point much longer." Jake did not

answer;

he did not want the closely following Gallas to hear the uncertainty in

his voice, yet he didn't want the girl to show signs of fear.

She was right, of course, the Gallas followed them now with an

implacable malevolence, pressing closely in an avenging throng that

filled the darkness.

the cars-" said Jake, as inspiration came to him. "Get them into one

of the cars."

"And then?"

"One thing at a time," growled Jake.

"Let's get them into the car first." And they moved steadily up the

path, the Gallas pressing them more closely. One of the tall cloaked

figures jostled Jake roughly, trying him, beginning to push harder,

and

Jake moved smoothly, swinging his weight across and swivelling a

quarter of a turn. It was so swift that the Galla could not avoid the

blow; even if he had seen it, he was hemmed in and constrained by the

press of his comrades" bodies.

Jake hit him with a forearm chop, and the barrel of the pistol caught

him in the mouth, snapping off his front teeth cleanly from the upper

gum, and the shock of the blow was transferred directly through the

frontal sinuses to the brain.

The man dropped without a sound and was immediately hidden from view by

the men who stumbled over him as they followed. But they did not press

so hard now, and Jake switched the pistol back to Ras

Kullah's head. The entire incident was over before Kullah could cry

out or squirm in the punishing grip that had bruised and twisted his

upper arm.

Jake shifted his grip again, forcing the man farther off balance,

and hustled him on more urgently. Ahead of them, through the trees, he

could make out the ugly humped shapes of the cars, silver grey in the

moonlight and silhouetted by the dying ash heaps of the camp fires.

"Vicky, we'll use Miss Wobbly. I'm not taking a chance on

Priscilla starting first kick," he grated. "Use the driver's hatch.

Don't worry about anything else but getting behind that wheel."

"What about the prisoners?"

"Do what you're told, don't argue, damn it." They were within twenty

feet of the car now, and he told her, "Now, go, fast as you can." She

darted away, reaching the high side of Miss Wobbly before any of the

Gallas could intervene and she went up it with a single agile bound.

"Close down," Jake shouted after her, and felt a quick lift of relief

as the hatch clanged shut. The ( gal las growled like the wolf-pack

denied its prey and they swarmed forward, pressing hard and surrounding

the car.

Jake fired a single shot in the air, and Ras Kullah screamed a command.

The Gallas drew back fractionally and fell into a sullen silence.

"Vicky, can you hear me?" Jake called, as he shepherded the

Italian prisoners close in against the hull.

Her voice was muffled and remote from behind the steel plate as she

acknowledged.

"The rear doors," he told her urgently. "Get them open but not before

I tell you." He pushed the Italians around towards the rear of the

car, but it was slow work, for they were confused and stupid with

terror.

Now, "Jake shouted and knocked impatiently against the hull with the

pistol. The lock grated and the doors swung outwards, and came up

against the packed bodies outside.

"Goddamn it," growled Jake, an got his shoulder to one leaf of the

door. He shoved it open, knocking down two Of the closest Gallas and

in the same movement boosted one of the Italians through the opening

into the dark interior of the car. In a panicky scramble, the other

two followed him and Jake swung the door closed on them and put his

back flat against it, and heard the bolts shot closed on the inside,

facing the hating dark faces, and the surging press of their hundreds

of bodies. Voices were raised at the rear of the crowd and violence

was seconds away they had seen most of their prey escape, and it needed

little more to trigger the mob reflex.

Jake found he was panting as though he had run a long way, and his

heart pounded, so that he could feel it jump against his rib cage but

he held Ras Kullah, changing his grip from the pudgy upper arm to the

thick wiry bush of his hair, twining his fingers deeply into the

stiff,

dark halo at the back of his skull and twisting the head so that Ras

Kullah faced his men. With the other hand Jake thrust the pistol

deeply into the aperture of the man's ear hole

"Speak to them, sweet lips He made his voice vicious and menacing.

"Otherwise I'm going to push this piece right out through the other

ear." Ras Kullah understood the tone, if not the words, and he gabbled

out a few hysterical words Of Amharic; the front warriors drew back a

pace and Jake slid slowly along the hull, keeping his back to the steel

and Ras Kullah pinned helplessly by his hair to cover his front. The

crowd moved with them, keeping station with them, their faces glowering

in the moonlight, cruel and angry, balancing critically on the pinnacle

of violence. A voice rang out from the darkness, an authoritative

voice urging action, the crowd growled, and Ras Kullah whimpered in

Jake's grip.

The sound of Ras Kullah's terror warned Jake that they would be

frustrated no longer, the moment was upon them.

"Vicky, are you ready to start?" he called urgently, and her voice was

just audible.

"Ready to start." He felt the fixed crank handle catch him in the back

of the legs, and at that instant a woman's voice shrilled and echoed

through the grove of camel-thorn trees. In that heart-stopping

ululation of the blood trill, the invocation to violence that the heart

of the African warrior cannot resist, the sound struck the jostling

press of Gallas like a whip, stroke and their bodies convulsed and

their voices rose in an answering blood roar.

"Oh Jesus, here they come," thought Jake, and put all his strength into

the arm and shoulder that took Ras Kullah between the shoulder blades

and hurled him forward into the front rank of his own men. He crashed

into them, bringing down half a dozen of them in a sprawling tangle

over which the next rank tumbled and fell.

Jake turned swiftly and stooped to the crank handle. He had chosen

Miss Wobbly for this moment, knowing that she was the most gentle and

well-intentioned of all the cars.

He would have trembled to put the same trust in Priscilla and as it

was, even she coughed and hesitated at the first swing.

"Please, my darling, please, "Jake pleaded desperately, and at the next

swing of the handle she hacked, choked and fired then suddenly she was

running sweetly. Jake jumped for the sponson, just as a great

two-handed sword swung down at him from on high.

He heard the hiss of the blade, passing like the flight of a bat in the

darkness, and he ducked under it. The sword struck the steel hull of

the car and sprayed a fiery burst of sparks, and Jake rolled and fired

the Beretta as the Galla raised the sword to swing again.

He heard the bullet slog into flesh, a meaty thump, and the man

collapsed backwards, the sword spinning from his hand as he went down

but from every direction, robed figures were swarming up the hull of

the car, like safari ants over the carcass of a helpless scarab

beetle,

and the roar of voices was a storm surf of anger.

Drive, Vicky for God's sake, drive," he yelled and slammed the pistol

over the woolly head of a Galla as it rose beside him. The man fell

away and the engine bellowed, the car bounded forward with a jerk that

threw most of the Gallas from the hull, and Jake was himself thrown

half clear, snatching at one of the welded brackets as he went over and

saving himself from falling into the swarming pack of Gallas but the

pistol dropped out of his hand as he clung grimly to his precarious

hold.

Miss Wobbly, under Vicky's thrusting foot, roared into the thick wall

of men ahead of her and few of them had a chance to avoid her charge.

Their bodies went down before her, thudding against the frontal plate

of the car, their blood roar changing swiftly to yells and shrieks of

consternation as they scattered away into the darkness and the car

burst free of the press and tore on down the slope.

Jake draiwed himself back on board and steadied himself against the

turret, as he rose to his knees. Beside him a Galla clung like a tick

to the back of an ox, wailing in terror while his sham ma swirled over

his head in the stream of racing air. Jake put one foot against the

man's raised buttocks and thrust hard. The man shot head first over

the side of the speeding car, and hit the earth with a crunch that was

audible even above the roaring engine.

Jake crawled back along the heaving, violently rocking hull and with

fist and foot he threw over side one at a time her deck cargo of

terrified Gallas. Vicky took the car down the slope under full

throttle, weaving wildly through the trees of the grove and at last out

on to the open moonlit plain.

Here at last, by pounding with his fist on the driver's hatch,

Jake managed to arrest Vicky's wild drive, and she braked the car to a

cautious halt.

She came out through the hatch and embraced him with both arms wound

tightly around his neck. Jake made no attempt to avoid the circle of

her arms, and a silence settled over them disturbed only by their

breathing. They had both almost forgotten about their prisoners in the

pleasure of the moment, but were reminded by the scuffling and

muttering in the depths of the car. Slowly they drew apart, and

Vicky's eyes were soft and lustrous in the moonlight.

"The poor things," she whispered. "You saved them from that-" and

words failed her as she remembered the one they had been too late to

save.

Yes, "Jake agreed. "But what the hell do we do with them now!"

"We could take them up to the Harari Camp the Ras would treat them

fairly."

"Don't bet money on it." Jake shook his head. "They are all

Ethiopians and their rules of the game are different from ours. I

wouldn't like to take a chance on it."

"Oh Jake, I'm sure he wouldn't allow them to be-, "Anyway," Jake

interrupted, "if we handed them over to the Hararil Ras Kullah would be

there the next minute demanding them back for his fun and if they

didn't agree, we'd all be in the middle of a tribal war. No, it won't

do."

"We'll have to turn them loose, "said Vicky at last.

"They'd never make it back to the Wells of Chaldi." Jake looked to the

east, across the brooding midnight plain. "The ground out there is

crawling with Ethiopian scouts. They would have their throats slit

before they'd gone a mile."

"We'll have to take them," said Vicky,

and Jake looked sharply at her.

"Take them?"

"In the car drive out to the Wells of Chaldi."

"The

Eyeties would love that," he grunted. "Have you forgotten those

flaming great cannons of theirs?"

"Under a flag of truce," said Vicky.

"There is no other way, Jake. Truly there isn't." Jake thought about

it silently for a full minute and then he -sighed wearily.

"It's a long drive. Let's get going." They drove without headlights,

not wanting to attract the attention of the Ethiopian scouts or the

Italians, but the moon was bright enough to light their way and define

the ravines and rougher ground with crisp black shadows,

although occasionally the wheels would crash painfully into one of the

deep round holes dug by the aardvarks, the nocturnal long-nosed beasts

which burrowed for the subterranean colonies of termites.

The three half-naked Italian survivors huddled down in the rear

compartment of the car, so exhausted by fear and the day's adventures

that they passed swiftly into sleep, a sleep so deep that neither the

noisy roar of the engine within the metal hull nor the bouncing over

rough ground could disturb them. They lay like dead men in an untidy

heap.

Vicky Camberwell climbed down out of the turret to escape the flow of

cool night air, and squeezed into the space beside the driver's seat.

For a while she spoke quietly with Jake, but soon her voice became

drowsy and finally dried up. Then slowly she toppled sideways against

him, and he smiled tenderly and eased her golden head down on to his

shoulder and held her like that, warm against him in the noisy hull, as

he drove on into the eastern night.

The Italian sentries were sweeping the perimeter of their camp at

regular intervals with a pair of powerful anti-aircraft searchlights,

probably in anticipation of a night attack by the Ethiopians, and the

glow of the beams burned up in a tall white cone of light into the

desert sky. Jake homed in upon it, gradually reducing his throttle

setting as he closed in. He knew that the engine beat would carry many

miles in the stillness, but that at lower revs it would be diffused and

impossible to pinpoint.

He guessed he was within two or three miles of the Italian camp when in

confirmation that the sentries had heard his approach, and that after

their recent experiences they were highly sensitive to the sound of a

Bentley engine, a star shell sailed upwards a thousand feet into the

sky and burst with a fierce blue-white light that lit the desert like a

stage for miles beneath it. Jake hit the brakes hard, and waited for

the shell to sink slowly to earth. He did not want movement to attract

attention. The light died away and left the night blacker than before,

but beside him the abrupt change of motion had woken Vicky and she sat

up groggily, pushing the hair out of her eyes and muttering sleepily.

"What is it?"

"We are here," he said, and another star shell rose in a high arc and

burst in brilliance that paled the moon.

"There." Jake pointed out the ridge above the Wells of Chaldi.

The dark shapes of the Italian vehicles were laagered in orderly

lines,

clearly silhouetted by the star shell. They hall let were two miles

ahead. Suddenly there was the distant ripping sound of a machine gun,

a sentry firing at shadows, and immediately after, a scattered

fusillade of rifle shots which petered out into a sheepish silence.

"It seems that everybody is awake, and jumpy as hell," Jake remarked

drily. "This is about as close as we can go." He crawled out of the

driver's seat and went back to where the prisoners were still piled

upon each other like a litter of sleeping puppies. One of them was

snoring like an asthmatic lion, and Jake had to put his boot amongst

them to stir them back to consciousness. They came awake slowly and

resentfully, and Jake swung open the rear doors and pushed them out

into the darkness. They stood dejectedly, clasping their naked trunks

against the chill of the night and peering about them fearfully to

discover what new unpleasantness awaited them. At that instant another

star shell burst almost overhead, and they exclaimed and blinked

owlishly without immediate comprehension as Jake made shooing gestures,

trying to drive them like a flock of chickens towards the ridge.

Finally Jake grabbed one of them by the scruff of the neck,

pointed his face at the ridge and gave him a shove that sent him

tottering the first few paces. Suddenly the man recognized his own

camp and the lines of big Fiat trucks in the light of the star shell.

He let out a heartfelt cry of relief and broke into a shambling run.

The other two stared for a moment in disbelief and then set out after

him at the top of their speed. When they had gone twenty yards,

one of them turned back and came to Jake, seized his hand and pumped it

vigorously, a huge smile splitting his face; then he turned to Vicky

and covered both her hands with wet noisy kisses. The man was

weeping,

tears streaming down his cheeks.

"That's enough of that," growled Jake. "On your way, friend," and he

turned the Italian and once more pointed him at the horizon and helped

him on his way.

The unaffected joy of the released Italians was contagious. Jake and

Vicky drove back in a high good mood, laughing together secretly in the

dark and noisy hull of the car. They had covered half of the forty

miles back to the Sardi Gorge, and behind them the lights of the

Italian camp were a mere suggestion of lesser darkness low on the

eastern horizon, but still their mood was light and joyous and at some

fresh sally of Jake's Vicky leaned across to kiss him on the soft pulse

of his throat beneath his ear.

As if of her own accord, Miss Wobbly's speed bled away and she rocked

to a gentle standstill in the centre of a wide open area of soft sandy

soil and low dark scrub.

Jake earthed the magneto, and the engine note died away into silence.

He turned in the seat and took Vicky fully in his arms,

crushing her to him with sudden strength that made her gasp aloud.

"Jake!" she protested, half in pain, but his lips covered hers,

and her protests were forgotten at the taste of his mouth.

His jaw and cheeks were rough with new beard, the same strong wiry

growth of dark hair which curled out of his shirt front, and the man

smell of him was like the taste of his mouth. She felt the softness of

her own body crave the hardness of his and she pressed herself to

him,

finding pleasure in the pain of contact, in the bruising pressure of

his mouth against her lips.

She knew she was arousing emotions that soon would be beyond either of

their control, and the knowledge made her reckless and bold.

The thought occurred to her that she had it in her power to drive him

demented with passion, and the idea aroused her further, and

immediately she wanted to exercise that power.

She heard his breathing roaring in her ears, then realized that it was

not his it was her own, and each gust of it seemed to swell her chest

until it must burst.

It was so cramped in the cockpit of the car, and their movements were

becoming wild and unrestrained. Vicky felt restricted and itching with

constraint. She had never known this wildness before, and for a

fleeting instant she remembered the skilful, gentle minuet of formal

movements which had been her loving with Gareth Swales, and she

compared it to this stormy meeting of passions; then the thought was

borne away on the flood, on the need to be free of confinement.

Outside the car, the chill of the desert night prickled the skin of her

back and flanks and thighs, and she felt the fine golden hairs come

erect on her forearms. He flapped out the bed-roll and spread it on

the earth. Then he returned to get her, and the heat of his body was a

physical shock. It seemed to burn with all the pent-up fires of his

soul, and she pressed herself to it with complete abandon, delighting

in the contrast of his burning flesh and the cool desert breeze upon

her bare skin.

Now at last there was nothing to prevent the range of her hands and she

knew they were cold as ghost fingers on him, delighting to hear his

gasp again at their touch. She laughed then, a hoarse throaty

chuckle.

"Yes." She laughed again, as he lifted her easily and dropped to his

knees on the bed-roll, holding her against his chest.

"Yes, Jake." She let the last restraint fly. "Quickly, quickly my

darling: It was a raging, a roaring of all her senses. It was an

aching, tumultuous storm that ended at last and afterwards the vast

hissing silence of the desert was so frightening that she clung to him

like a child and found to her amazement that she was weeping. the

tears scalded her eyes and yet were as icy as the touch of frost upon

her cheeks.

General De Bono's first cautious but ponderous thrust across the

Mareb River, into Ethiopia, met with a success that left him stunned.

Ras Muguletul the Ethiopian commander in the north, offered only token

resistance then withdrew his forty thousand men southwards to the

natural mountain fortress of Ambo Aradam. Unopposed, De Bono drove the

seventy miles to Adowa and found it deserted. Triumphantly he erected

the monument to the fallin Italian warriors and thereby expunged the

stain of defeat from the arms of Italy.

The great civilizing mission had begun. The savage was being tamed,

and introduced to the miracles of modern man amongst them the aerial

bomb.

The Royal Italian Air Force ranged the skies above the towering

Ambas, reporting all troop movements and swooping down to bomb and

machine-gun any concentrations. The Ethiopian forces were confused and

scattered under their tribal commanders. There were half a dozen

breaches in their line that a forceful commander could have exploited

indeed even General De Bono sensed this and made another convulsive

leap forward as far as Makale. However, here he stopped appalled at

his own audacity, stunned by his own achievement.

Ras Muguletu was skulking on Ambo Aradam with his forty thousand,

while Ras Kassa and Ras Seyoum were struggling to move the great

unwieldy masses of their two armies through the mountain passes to link

up with the army of the Emperor on the shores of Lake Tona.

They were disordered, vulnerable, ripe to be cut down like wheat and

General De Bono closed his eyes, covered his brow with one hand and

turned his head aside.

History would never accuse him of recklessness and impetuosity.

ROM GENERAL DE BONO COMMANDER OF THE ITALIAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE

AT MA KALE TO BENITO MUSSOLINI PRIME MINISTER OF ITALY HAVING

CAPTURED

ADO WA AND MA KALE I CONSIDER MY IMMEDIATE OBJECTS HAVE BEEN ATTAINED

STOP IT IS NOW VITALLY NECESSARY TO CONSOLIDATE THESE SUCCESSES' TO

FORTIFY MY POSITION AGAINST ENEMY COUNTER ATTACK AND TO SECURE MY

LINES

OF SUPPLY AND COMMUNICATIONS." ROM BENITO MUSSOLINI PRIME MINISTER

OF

ITALY MINISTER OF WAR TO GENERAL DE BONO OFFICER COMMANDING THE

ITALIAN

EXPEDITIONARY FORCE IN AFRICA HIS MAJESTY WISHES AND I COMMAND YOU TO

ADVANCE WITHOUT HESITATION ON AMBA ARA DAM AND BRING THE MAIN BODY OF

THE ENENMY TO BATTLE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE STOP REPLY TO ME." ROM

GENERAL DE BONO TO THE PRIME MINISTER OF ITALY GREETINGS AND

FELICITATIONS I WISH TO POINT OUT TO YOUR EXELLENCY THAT THE

OBJECTIVE

AMBA ARA DAM IS TACTICALLY UNDESIRABLE ... THE TERRAIN FAVOURS AMBUSH

CONDITION OF ROADS VERY POOR ... TRUST MY JUDGEMENT ... URGE YOUR

EXCELLENCY TO RECONSIDER AND TO TAKE COGNIZANCE OF THE FACT THAT THE

MILITARY SITUATION MUST TAKE PRECEDENCE OVER ALL POLITICAL

CONSIDERATION." FROM BENITO MUSSOLINI TO MARSHAL DE BONO PREVIOUSLY

OFFICER COMMANDING THE ITALIAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE IN AFRICA HIS

MAJESTY ORDERS ME TO CONVEY HIS FELICITATIONS ON YOUR ELEVATION TO

THE

RANK OF MARSHAL OF THE ARMY AND TO THANK YOU FOR THE IMPECCABLE

EXECUTION OF YOUR DUTY IN RECAPTURING ADO WA STOP WITH THE ATTAINMENT

OF

THIS OBJECTIVE I CONSIDER THAT YOUR MISSION IN EASTERN AFRICA HAS

BEEN

COMPLETED STOP YOU HAVE EARNED THE GRATITUDE OF THE NATION BY YOUR

OBVIOUS MERITS AS A SOLDIER AND YOUR STEADFAST DISCHARGE OF YOUR DUTY

AS A COMMANDER STOP YOU ARE REQUESTED TO HAND OVER YOUR COMMAND TO

GENERAL PIE TRO BADOGLIO ON HIS IMMINENT ARRIVAL IN AFRICA..

Marshal De Bono accepted both his promotion and his recall with such

good grace that it could have been mistaken, by an uninformed observer,

for profound relief. His departure for Rome was completed with such

despatch as to avoid by a hair's breadth the semblance of indecorous

haste.

General Pietro Badoglio was a fighting soldier. He had staffed the

headquarters before Adowa, although he had played no part in that

debacle, and he was a veteran of Caporetto and Vittorio Veneto. He

believed that the purpose of war was to crush the enemy as swiftly and

as ruthlessly as was possible, with the use of any weapon at his

disposal.

He came ashore at Massawa with a furious impatience, angry with

everything he found, and impatient of the policies and concepts of his

predecessor, although in truth seldom had an incoming commander been

handed such an enviable strategic situation.

He inherited a huge, well-equipped army with a buoyant morale, in a

commanding tactical position and backed by a magnificent network of

communications and a logistics inventory that was alpine in

proportions.

The small but magnificently equipped airforce of the expedition was

flying unopposed over the Ambo mountains, observing all troop movements

and pouncing immediately on any Ethiopian concentrations.

During one of the first dinners at the new headquarters, Lieutenant

Vittorio Mussolini, the younger of the Duce's two sons, one of the

dashing Regia Aeronautica aces, regaled his new commander with accounts

of his sorties over the enemy highlands and Badoglio, who had not had

close aerial support in any of his previous campaigns, was delighted

with this new and deadly weapon. He listened transfixed to the young

flier's descriptions of the effect of aerial bombardment particularly

an account of an attack on a group of three hundred or more enemy

horsemen led by a tall, dark-robed figure. The young Mussolini told

him, "I released a single hundred-kilo bomb from an altitude of less

than a hundred metres, and it fell precisely in the centre of the

galloping horsemen. They opened like the petals of a flowering rose,

and the dark-robed leader was thrown so high by the blast that he

seemed to almost touch my wing-tip as I passed. It was a spectacle of

great beauty and magnificence." Badoglio was happy that his new

command included young men with such fire in their veins, and he leaned

forward in his seat at the head of the table to peer down over the

glittering silver and sparkling leaded crystal at the flier in his

handsome blue uniform. The classical features and dark curly head of

hair were the artist's conception of young Mars. Then he turned to the

airforce

Colonel who sat beside him.

"Colonel, what is the opinion of your young men in the Regia

Aeronautica? I have heard much argument for and against but I would be

interested to have your opinion.

Should we use the nitrogen mustard?"

"I think I speak for all my young men." The Colonel sipped his wine

and glanced for confirmation at the young ace who was not yet twenty

years of age. "I think the answer must be yes, we must use every

weapon available to us." Badoglio nodded. The thinking agreed with

his own, and the next morning he ordered the canisters of mustard gas

shipped from the warehouses of

Massawa, where De Bono had been content to let them lie, and despatched

them to every airfield where flights of the Regia Aeronautica were

based. Thousands upon thousands of the wild tribesmen of Ethiopia

would come to know the corrosive dew when later they endured

bombardment by artillery and aerial attack with a stoicism greater than

most European troops were able to muster yet they could never come to

terms with this terrible substance that turned the open pastures of

their mountain fastness to fields of terror. Barefoot, as most of them

were, they were pathetically vulnerable to the silent insidious weapon

that flayed the skin from their bodies, and then stripped the living

flesh from the bone.

This single decision was one of many made that day by the new

commander, and signalled the change from De Bono's humbling, but not

unkindly civilizing invasion, to the new concept of total war war with

only one objective.

MUSSOlini had wanted a hawk, and he had chosen well.

The hawk stood in the centre of the lofty second-storey headquarters

office at Asmara, He was too consumed with furious impatience to sit at