Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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She had explained the background, the clear intent of Benito Mussolini

to annex the sovereign territories of Ethiopia, the world's

indifference, the arms embargo. "Do not delude yourselves" she had

written, "into the belief that I am crying wolf. The wolf of Rome is

already hunting.

What is about to happen in the mountains of northern Africa will shame

the civilized world." And then she had gone on to expose the intention

of the great nations to prevent her reaching the embattled empire and

reporting its plight. She had ended the despatch, "Your correspondent

has rejected this restriction placed upon her movements and her

integrity. Tonight

I have joined a group of intrepid men who are risking their lives to

defy the embargo, and to carry through the closed territories a

quantity of arms and supplies desperately needed by the beleaguered

nation. By the time you read this, we shall have failed and have died

upon the desert coast of Africa, which the natives fearfully call the

"Great Burn" or we shall have succeeded. We shall have landed by night

from a small coasting vessel and trekked through hundreds of miles of

savage and hostile territory to a meeting with an Ethiopian prince. I

hope that in my next despatch, I shall be able to describe our journey

to you, but if the gods of chance decree otherwise at least we shall

have tried." Vicky was very pleased with the first article. In her

usual flamboyant style, she particularly liked the

"trekking" bit which gave a touch of local colour. It had

everything:

drama, mystery, the little guy taking on the big.

She knew that the completed series would be a giant and she was excited

and aglow with anticipation.

Behind her Jake Barton followed. He listened with half his attention

to the engine beat of the Pig. For no apparent reason,

except perhaps a premonition of what awaited her, the car had that

night refused to start. Jake had cranked her until his arm was cramped

and aching. He had blown through the fuel system, checked the plugs,

magneto and every other moving part that could possibly be at fault.

Then, after another hour of tinkering, she had started and run sweetly,

without giving the slightest hint of what had prevented her doing so

earlier.

With the other half of his attention, he was mentally in the mountains

checking out his preparations knowing that this was his last chance to

fill any gaps in his list. It was one hell of a long trail from Month

to the Wells of Chaldi and not many service stations on the road. The

pontoon raft of drums had been stowed aboard the HirondeUe that

afternoon, and each car carried its own means of sustenance and

survival a load which taxed their ancient suspensions and body work

Thus Jake's conscious mind was fully occupied, but below that level was

a gut memory that tightened his nerves and charged his blood with

adrenaline There had been another night like this, moving in column in

the darkness, with the throttled-back engine beat drumming softly in

his ears but then there had been the glow of star shell in the sky

ahead, the distant juddering of a Maxim firing at a gap in the wire and

the smell of death and mud in his nostrils. Unlike Gregorius

Maryam in the car ahead, Jake Barton knew about war and all its

glories.

apadopoulos was waiting for them on the wharf, carrying a hurricane

lamp and dressed in an ankle, length greatcoat that gave him the air of

a down-at, heel gnome. He signalled the column forward,

waving the lamp, and his ragged crew swarmed off the deck of the

Hirondelle on to the stone wharf.

It was clear that they were accustomed to loading unusual cargo in the

middle of the night. As each car was driven forward, it was stripped

of its burden of drums and crates.

These were stowed separately in cargo nets. Then they thrust sturdy

wooden pallets under the chassis of the car and fixed the heavy hemp

lines. At a signal from Papadopoulos, the men at the winches started

the donkey engines and the lines ran through the blocks on the booms of

the derricks.

The bulky cars rose slowly and then swung inboard.

The whole operation was carried out swiftly, with no raised voices or

unnecessary noise. Only a muttered command, the grunt of straining

men, the muted clatter of the donkey engines and then the thump of the

cars settling on the deck.

"These fellows know their business." Gareth watched approvingly,

then turned to Jake. "I'll go down to the.

harbour master and clear the bills of lading. We'll be ready to sail

in an hour or so." He sauntered away and disappeared into the

shadows.

"Let's inspect the accommodation," Jake suggested, and took

Vicky's arm. "It looks like a regular Cunarder." They climbed the

gangplank to the deck and only then did they get the first whiff of the

slave stench. By the time Gareth returned from his nefarious

negotiations with bills of lading showing a consignment of four

ambulances and medical supplies to the International Red Cross

Association at Alexandria, the others had made a brief examination of

the single tiny odoriferous cabin which Papadopoulos had put at their

disposal and decided to leave it to the cockroaches and bed bugs which

were already in residence.

"It's only a few days" sailing. I think I prefer the open deck.

If it rains, we can take shelter in the cars." Jake spoke for all of

them as they stood in a group at the rail, watching the lights of Dares

Salaam glide away into the night, while the diesel engine of the

schooner thumped under their feet and the sweet cool sea breeze washed

over the deck, cleansing their nostrils and mouths of the slave

stench.

Vicky was awakened by the brilliance of the starlight shining into her

face and she opened her eyes and stared up at a sky that blazed with

the splendours Of the universe, as fields and seas of pearly light

swirled across the heavens.

Quietly she slipped out of her blankets and went to the ship's rail.

The sea was lustrous glittering sable; each wave seemed to be carved

from some solid and precious metal, bejewelled by the reflections of

the starlight and through it the ship's wake glowed with

phosphorescence like a trail of green fire.

The sea wind was the touch of lovers" hands against her skin and in her

hair, the great mainsail whispered above her head, and there was an

almost physical ache in her chest at the beauty of this night.

When Gareth came up silently behind her and slipped his arms about her

waist, she did not even turn her head, but lay back against him.

She did not want to argue and tease. As she herself had written, she

might soon be dead and the night was too beautiful to let it pass.

Neither of them spoke, but Vicky sighed and shuddered voluptuously as

she felt his hands, smooth and skilful, slide up under the light cotton

blouse. His touch, like the wind, was softly caressing.

Through their thin clothing she could feel the warmth and resilience of

his flesh pressed against her, feel his chest surge and subside to the

urgency of his breathing.

She turned slowly within the circle of his arms and lifted her face to

his as he stooped, meeting his body with a forward thrust of her hips.

The taste of his mouth and the musky male smell of his body hastened

her own arousal.

It took all her determination to tear her lips loose from his, and to

draw away from his embrace. She crossed quickly to where her blankets

lay and picked them up with hands that shook.

She spread them again between the dark supine forms of Jake and

Gregorius, and only when she rolled herself into their coarse folds and

lay upon her back trying to control her ragged breathing was she aware

that Jake Barton was awake.

His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and even, but she knew

with complete certainty that he was awake.

eneral Emilio De Bono stood at the window of his office and looked

across the squalid roofs of the town of Asmara towards the great

brooding massif of the Ethiopian highlands. It looked like the

backbone of a dragon, he thought, and suppressed a shudder.

The General was seventy years of age, so he recalled vividly the last

Italian army that had ventured into that mountain fastness. The name

Adowa was a dark blot on the history of Italian arms, and after forty

years, that terrible bloody defeat of a modern European army was still

unavenged.

Now destiny had chosen him as the avenger and Emilio De Bono was not

certain that the role suited him. It would be much more to his liking

if wars could be fought without anybody getting hurt. The

General would go to great lengths to avoid inflicting pain or even

discomfort. Orders that might be distasteful. to the recipient were

avoided. Operations that might place anybody in jeopardy were frowned

upon severely by the commanding General and his officers had learned

not to suggest such extravagances.

The General was at heart a diplomat and a politician not a warrior. He

liked to see smiling faces, so he smiled a great deal himself. He

resembled a sprightly, wizened little goat, with the pointed white

beard that gave him the nickname of "Little Beard'. And he addressed

his officers as

"Caro', and his men as "Bambino'. He just wanted to be loved. So he

smiled and smiled.

However, the General was not smiling now. This morning he had received

from Rome another one of those importunate coded telegrams signed

Benito Mussolini. The wording had been even more peremptory than

usual. "The King of Italy wishes, and I, Benito Mussolini,

Minister of the armed forces, order that-" Suddenly he struck himself a

blow on his medal-bedecked chest which startled Captain Crespi, his

aide-decamp.

"They do not understand," cried De Bono bitterly. "It is all very

beautiful to sit in Rome and urge haste. To cry "Strike!" But they do

not see the picture as we do, who stand here looking across the Mareb

River at the swarming multitudes of the enemy." The Captain came to

the

General's side and he also stared out of the window. The building that

housed the expeditionary army headquarters in Asmara was double

storied

and the General's office on the top floor commanded a sweeping view to

the foot of the mountains. The Captain observed wryly that the

swarming multitudes were not readily apparent. The land was a vast

emptiness slumbering in the brilliant sunlight. Air reconnaissance in

depth had descried no concentrations of Ethiopian troops, and reliable

intelligence reported that the Emperor Baile Selassie had ordered that

none of his rudimentary military units approach the border as close as

fifty kilometres, to avoid giving the Italians an excuse to march.

"They do not understand that I must consolidate my position here in

Eritrea. That I must have a firm base and supply train," cried De

Bono pitifully. For over a year he had been consolidating his position

and assembling his supplies.

The crude little harbour of Massawa, which once had lazily served the

needs of an occasional tramp steamer or one of the little Japanese

salt-traders, had been reconstructed completely. Magnificent stone

piers ran out into the sea, great wharves bustled with steam cranes,

and busy locomotives shuttled the incredible array of warlike stores

that poured ashore by the thousands of tons a day for month after

month. The Suez Canal remained open to the transports of the Italian

adventure, and a constant stream of them poured southwards, unaffected

by the embargo that the League of Nations had declared on the

importation of military materials into Eastern Africa.

Up to the present time, over three million tons of stores had been

landed, and this did not include the five thousand vehicles of war

troop transports, armoured cars, tanks and aircraft that had come

ashore. To distribute this vast assembly of vehicles and stores, a

road system had been constructed fanning into the interior, a system so

magnificent as to recall that of the Caesars of ancient Rome.

General De Bono smote his chest again, startling his aide. "They urge

me to untimely endeavour. They do not seem to realize that my "

force is insufficient." The force which the General lamented was the

greatest and most powerful army ever assembled on the African

continent. He commanded three hundred and sixty thousand men, armed

with the most sophisticated tools of destruction the world had yet

devised from the Caproni CA.133 three-engined monoplane which could

carry two tons of high explosive and poison gas a range of nine hundred

miles, to the most modern armoured cars and heavily armoured CV.3 tanks

with their 50 men. guns, and supporting units of heavy artillery.

This great assembly was encamped about Asmara and upon the cliffs

overlooking the Mareb River. It was made up of distinct elements, the

green-clad regular army formations with their wide-brimmed tropical

helmets, the black shirt r Fascist militia with their high boots and

cross-straps, their deaths head and thunderbolt badges and their

glittering daggers, the regular colonial units of black Somalis and

Eritreans in their tall tasselled red fezes and baggy shirts, their

gaily coloured regimental sashes and put teed legs above bare feet.

Lastly, the irregular volunteers or ban da who were a. group of desert

bandits and cut-throat cattle thieves attracted by the possibility of

war in the way that the taint of blood gathers sharks.

De Bono knew but did not ponder the fact that nearly seventy years

previously, the British General Napier had marched on Magdala with less

than fifty thousand men, meeting and defeating the entire Ethiopian

army on the way, storming the mountain fortress and releasing the

British prisoners held there, before retiring in good order.

Such heroics were outside the realms of the General's imagination.

"Caro."

"The General placed an arm about the gold, braided shoulders of his

aide. "We must compose a reply to the Duce. He must be made to

realize my difficulties." He patted the shoulder affectionately and

his face lightened once more into its habitual expression as he began

composing.

"My dear and respected leader, please be assured of my loyalty to you

and to the glorious fatherland of Italy." The Captain hastened to take

up a message pad and scribble industriously. "Be assured also that I

never cease to toil by night and by day towards–" It took almost two

hours of creative effort before the General was satisfied with his

flowery and rambling refusal to carry out his orders.

"Now," he ceased his pacing and smiled tenderly at the Captain,

"although we are not yet ready for an advance in force, it will serve

to placate Il Duce if we initiate the opening phases of the southern

offensive."

The General's plans for the invasion, when it was finally put in hand,

had been laid with as ponderous regard to detail as his earlier

preparations. Historical necessity dictated that the main attack

should be centred on Adowa.

Already a marble monument, brought from Italy and engraved with the

words "The dead of Adowa avenged with the date left open, lay amongst

the huge mountains of his stores.

ndary flanking attack However, the plan called for a secc, farther

south through one of the very few gateways to the central highlands,

This was the Sardi Gorge. A narrow opening that was riven up from the

desert floor, splitting like an axe-stroke the precipitous mountain

ranges, and forming a pass through which an army might reach the

plateau that reared seven thousand feet above the desert.

The first phase of this plan entailed the seizure of the approaches to

the Sardi Gorge and particularly important 1: in this dry and scalded

desert would be the water supplies of the attacking army.

The General crossed the floor to the large-scale map, of Eastern

Africa which covered one wall, and he picked up the ivory pointer to

touch an isolated spot in the emptiness below the mountains.

"The Wells of Chaldi, he read the name aloud. "Whom shall we send?"

The Captain looked up from his pad, and observed how the spot was

surrounded by the forbidding yellow of the desert.

He had been in Africa long enough to know what that meant, and there

was only one person who he would wish were there.

"Belli," he said.

"Ah," said the General. "Count Aldo Belli the fire eater

"The clown, "said the Captain.

"Come, caro," the General admonished his aide mildly.

"You are too harsh. The Count is a distinguished diplomat, he was for

three years ambassador to the court of St. James in London. His

family is old and noble and very very rich."

"He is a blow-hard,"

said the Captain stubbornly, and the General sighed.

"He is a personal friend of Benito Mussolini. II Duce is a constant

guest at his castle. He has great political power-"

"He would be well out of harm's way at this desolate spot," said the

Captain, and the General sighed again.

"Perhaps you are correct, caro. Send for the good Count if you

please." Captain Crespi stood on the steps of the headquarters

building,

beneath the portico with its imitation marble columns and the clumsily

painted fresco depicting a heroic band of heavily muscled Italians

defeating heathens, ploughing the earth, harvesting the corn, and

generally building an empire.

The Captain watched sourly as the huge Rolls-Royce open tourer bumped

down the dusty, pot-holed main street.

Its headlights glared like monstrously startled eyes, and its burnished

sky-blue paintwork was dulled by a light flouring of pale dust. The

purchase price of this vehicle would have consumed five years of his

service pay, which accounted for much of the Captain's sourness.

Count Aldo Belli, as one of the nation's great landowners and amongst

the five most wealthy men in Italy, did not rely on the army for his

transportation. The Rolls had been adapted and designed to his

personal specifications by the makers.

As it slid to a graceful halt beneath the portico, the k Captain

noticed the Count's personal arms blazoned on the front door. – a

rampant golden wolf supporting a shield with a quartered device of

scarlet and silver. The legend unfurled beneath it read, "Courage arms

me." As the car stopped, a small wiry sun-blackened little man in the

uniform of a black shirt sergeant leaped from the seat be-side the

driver and dropped on one knee in the roadway with a bulky camera at

the ready to capture the moment when the figure in the wide rear seat

of the Rolls should descend.

Count Aldo Belli adjusted his black beret carefully, sucked in his

belly and rose to his feet as the driver scurried around to hold open

the door. The Count smiled. It was a smile of flashing white teeth

and powerful charisma. His eyes were dark and romantic with the

sweeping lashes of a lady of fashion, his skin was lightly tanned to a

golden olive and the lustrous curls of his hair that escaped from under

the black beret shone in the sunlight. Although he was almost

thirty-five years of age, not a single grey strand adulterated that

splendid mane.

From his commanding position his height was exaggerated, so he seemed

to tower god-like above the men who scampered about him. The highly

polished cross-straps glittered across his chest as did the silver

deaths head cap badges. The short regimental dagger on his hip set

with small diamonds and seed pearls was to the Count's own design,

and the ivory-handled revolver had been hand-made for him by Beretta;

the holster was belted in tightly to subdue a waistline that was

showing signs of rebellion.

The Count paused and glanced down at the little sergeant.

"Yes, Gino?"he asked.

"Good, my Count. just a little up with the chin." The Count's chin

caused them both much concern. At certain angles, it showed an

alarming tendency to duplicate itself like the ripples on a pond. The

Count threw up his chin sternly, rather like 11 Duce, and the gesture

ironed out the jowls below.

"Bellissimo," cried Gino, and tripped the shutter. The Count stepped

down from the Rolls, enjoying the way the soft sparkling leather of his

high boots gave like the bellows of a concertina above his instep as he

moved, and he hooked the thumb of his gloved left hand into the belt

above his dagger as he flung his right arm up and outwards in the

Fascist salute.

"The General awaits you, Colonel,"Crespi greeted him.

"I came the moment I received the summons." The Captain made a move.

He knew the summons had been delivered at ten o'clock that morning and

it was now almost three in the afternoon. The Count's primping had

taken most of the day, and now he glowed from bathing and shaving and

massaging and smelled like a rose garden in full bloom.

"Clown," thought the Captain again. It had taken Crespi ten years of

unswerving service and dedication to reach his rank, while this man had

opened his purse, invited Mussolini for a week of hunting and carousal

to his estates at the foot of the Apennines, and had in return been

given the colonelcy of a full battalion. The man had never fired a

shot at anything larger than a boar, and until six months ago had

commanded nothing more formidable than a squad of accountants, a troop

of gardeners or a platoon of strumpets to his bed.

"Clown," thought the Captain bitterly, bowing over the hand and

grinning ingratiatingly. "Have your photograph taken swatting flies in

the Danakil desert, or sniffing camel dung beside the Wells of

Chaldi,"

he thought, and backed away through the wide doors into the relative

cool of the administrative building. "This way, Colonel, if you would

be so kind." A General De Bono lowered the binoculars through which

with brooding disquiet he had been studying the Ethiopian massif, and

almost with relief turned to greet the Colonel.

"Caro," smiled the General, extending both hands as he crossed the

uncarpeted hand-painted tiles. "My dear Count, it is so good of you to

come." The Count drew himself up at the threshold and flung the

Fascist salute at the advancing General, stopping him in confusion.

"In the services of my country and my king, I would count no sacrifice

too dear." Aldo Belli was stirred by his own words. He must remember

them. They could be used again.

"Yes, of course," De Bono agreed hurriedly. "I'm sure we all feel that

way."

"General De Bono, you have only to command me."

"Thank you, caro mio. But a glass of Madeira and a biscuit first?"

suggested the

General. A little sweetmeat to take away the taste of the medicine.

The General felt very bad about sending anyone down into the Danakil

country it was hot here in Asmara, God alone knew what it would be like

down there, and the General felt a pang of dismay that he had allowed

Crespi to select anyone with such political influence as the Count. He

would not further insult the good Count by too hurriedly coming to the

business in hand.

"I hoped that you might have had an opportunity to hear the new

production of La Traviata before leaving Rome?"

"Indeed, General. I

was fortunate enough to be included in the Duce's party for the opening

night." The Count relaxed a little, smiling that flashing smile.

The General sighed as he poured the wine. "Ha! The civilized life, so

far a cry from this land of thorns and savages .

It was late afternoon before the General had steeled himself to

approach the painful subject of the interview and, smiling

apologetically, he gave his orders.

"The Wells of Chaldi," repeated the Count, and immediately a change

came over him. He leapt to his feet, knocking over the Madeira glass,

and strode majestically back and forth, his heels cracking on the

tiles, belly sucked in and noble chin on high.

"Death before dishonour," cried Aldo Belli, the Madeira warming his

ardour.

"I hope not, caro," murmured the General. "All I want you to do is

take up a guard position on an untenanted water-hole." But the Count

seemed not to hear him. His eyes were dark and glowing.

"I am greatly indebted to you for this opportunity to distinguish my

command. You can count on me to the death." The Count stopped short

as a fresh thought occurred to him. "You will support my advance with

armour and aircraft? "he asked anxiously.

"I don't really think that will be necessary, caro." The General spoke

mildly. All this talk of death and honour troubled him, but he did not

want to give offence. "I don't think you will meet any resistance."

"But if I do?" the Count demanded with mounting agitation,

so that the General went to stroke his arm placatingly.

"You have a radio, caro. Call on me for any assistance you need

The Count thought about that for a moment and clearly found it

acceptable. Once more the patriotic fervour returned to the glowing

eyes.

"Ours is the victory," he cried, and the General echoed him

vigorously.

"I hope so, caro. Indeed I hope so." Suddenly the Count swirled and

strode to the door. He flung it open and called.

"Gino!" The little black-shirted sergeant hurried into the room,

frantically adjusting the huge camera that hung about his neck.

"The General does not mind?" asked Aldo Belli leading him to the

window. "The light is better here." The slanting rays of the dying

sun poured in to light the two men theatrically as the Count seized

De

Bono's hand.

"Closer together, please. Back a trifle, General, you are covering the

Count. That's excellent. Chin up a little, my Count.

Ha! Bello!" cried Gino, and recorded faithfully the startled

expression above the General's little white goatee.

The senior major of the Blackshirt "Africa" Battalion was a hard

professional soldier of thirty years" experience, a veteran of

Vittorio

Veneto and Caporetto, where he had been commissioned in the field.

He was a fighting man and he reacted with disgust to his posting from

his prestigious regiment in the regular army to this rabble of

political militia. He had protested at length and with all the power

at his command, but the order came from on high, from divisional

headquarters itself. The divisional General was a friend of Count

Aldo

Belli, and He also knew the Count intimately and owed favours decided

that he needed a real soldier to guide and counsel him. Major

Castelani was probably one of the most real soldiers in the entire army

of Italy. Once he realized that his posting was inevitable, he had

resigned himself and settled to his new duties whipping and bullying

his new command into order.

He was a big man with a close-cropped skull of grey bristle, and a

hound-dog, heavily lined face burned and eroded by the weathering of a

dozen campaigns. He walked with the rolling gait of a sailor or a

horseman, though he was neither, and his voice could carry a mile into

a moderate wind.

Almost entirely due to his single-handed efforts, the battalion was

drawn up in marching order an hour before dawn. Six hundred and ninety

men with their motorized transports strung out down the main street of

Asmara. The lorries were crammed with silent men huddling in their

greatcoats against the mild morning chill. The motorcycle outriders

were sitting astride their machines flanking the newly polished but

passenger-less Rolls-Royce command car, with its gay pennants and its

driver sitting lugubriously at the wheel. A charged sense of

apprehension and uncertainty gripped the entire assembly of warriors.

There had been wild rumours flying about the battalion for the last

twelve hours they had been selected for some desperate and dangerous

mission. The previous evening the mess sergeant had actually witnessed

the Colonel Count Aldo Belli weeping with emotion as he toasted his

junior officers with the fighting slogan of the regiment,

"Death before dishonour," which might sound fine on a bellyful of

chianti, but left a hollow feeling at five in the morning on top of a

breakfast of black bread and weak coffee.

The Third Battalion was in a collectively sombre mood as the sun came

up in a blaze of hot scarlet, forcing them almost immediately to

discard the greatcoats. The sun climbed into a sky of burning blue and

the men waited as patiently as oxen in the traces. Someone once

observed that war is ninety-nine per cent boredom and one per cent

unmitigated terror. The Third Battalion was learning the ninety-nine

per cent.

Major Luigi Castelani sent yet another messenger to the Colonel's

quarters a little before noon, and this time received a reply that

the

Count was now actually out of bed and had almost completed his toilet.

He would join the battalion shortly. The Major swore with the practice

of an old campaigner and set off with his rolling swagger down the

column to quell the mutinous mutterings from the half mile-long column

of canvas-covered lorries sweltering in the midday sun.

The Count came like the rising sun itself, glowing and glorious,

flanked by two captains and preceded by a trooper carrying the battle

standard which the Count had personally designed. It was based on the

eagles of a Roman legion, complete with shrieking birds of prey and

dangling silken tassels.

The Count floated on a cloud of bonhomie and expensive eau de cologne.

Gino got a few good shots of him embracing his junior officers, and

slapping the backs of the senior NCOs. At the common soldiers he

smiled like a father and spurred their spleens with a few apt homilies

on duty and sacrifice as he strode down the column.

"What a fine body of warriors," he told the Major. "I am moved to

song." Luigi Castelani winced. The Colonel was frequently moved to

song. He had taken lessons with the most famous teachers in Italy and

as a younger man he had seriously considered a career in opera.

Now he halted and spread his arms, threw back his head and let the song

flow in a deep ringing baritone. Dutifully, his officers joined in the

stirring chorus of "La Giovinezza', the Fascist marching song.

The Colonel moved slowly back along the patient column in the sunlight,

pausing to strike a pose as he went for a high note, lifting his right

hand with the tip of the second finger lightly touching the thumb,

while the other hand grasped the beiewelled dagger at his waist.

The song ended and the Colonel cried, "Enough! It is time to march

where are the maps?" and one of his subalterns hurried forward with

the map case.

"Colonel, sir," Luigi Castelani intervened tactfully. "The road is