Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur (книги онлайн без регистрации полностью .TXT) 📗

"How do you do?" he said, and with another hoot of glee thrust it in

to the her.

The Colonel and all the officers of the Third Battalion were exhausted

from long hours of forced march and, by the time they reached the Wells

of Chaldi, were anxious only to see their tents erected and their cots

made up after that they were quite content that the Major be left to

use his own initiative.

Castelani sited his twelve machine guns in the sides of the valley

where they commanded a full arc of fire, and below them he placed his

rifle trenches. The men sank the earthworks swiftly and with little

noise in the loose sandy soil, and they buttressed their trenches and

machine-gun nests with sandbags.

The mortar company he held well back, protected by both rifle trenches

and machine-gun nests, from where they could drop their mortar bombs

across the whole area of the wells with complete impunity.

While his men worked, Castelani personally paced out distances in front

of his de fences and supervised the placing of the painted metal

markers, so that his gunners would be able to fire over accurately

ranged sights. Then he hurried back to chivvy along the ammunition

parties who staggered up in the darkness, slipping in the sandy soil

and cursing softly, but with feeling, under the burden of the heavy

wooden cases.

All that night he was tireless, and any man who laid down his shovel

for a few minutes of rest took the risk of being pounced upon by that

looming figure, the stentorian voice restrained to a husky but

ferocious whisper, and the rolling swagger tense with suppressed

outrage.

At last, the squat machine guns with their thick water jacketed barrels

were lowered down into the new excavaWm and set up on their tripods.

Only after Castelani had checked the traverse of each and sighted down

through the high sliding rear-sight into the moonlit valley was he

satisfied. The men flung themselves down to rest and the

Major allowed the kitchen parties to come up with canteens of hot soup

and bags of hard black bread.

Gareth Swales felt bloated with food and slightly bleary with the large

quantities of lukewarm champagne which Lij Mikhael had pressed upon

him.

On one side, the Ras and Jake had established a rapport that overcame

the language barrier. The Ras had convinced himself that as

Americans spoke English they were English, and that Jake as a

lion-killer was clearly a member of the upper stratum of society in

short a kind of honorary aristocrat. Every time the Ras drained

another pint of tej, Jake became more socially acceptable and the Ras

had drained many pints of tej by this stage.

The atmosphere was indeed so jovial and aflame with bonhomie and

camaraderie that Gareth felt emboldened to ask, on behalf of the

partnership, the question that had been burning his tongue for the last

many hours.

"Toffee, (old lad, have you got the money ready for us?" The Prince

seemed not to have heard, but refilled Gareth's glass with champagne,

and leaned across to translate one of Jake's remarks for his father,

and Gareth had to take his arm firmly.

"If it's all right by you, we'll take our wages and trouble you no

more. Ride off into the sunset with violins playing, and all that

rot."

"I'm glad you raised the point." Toffee nodded thoughtfully,

looking anything but glad. "There are some things we have to

discuss."

"Listen, Toffee old son, there is absolutely nothing to discuss. All

the discussing was done long ago."

"Now, don't upset yourself, my dear fellow." It was, however, in

Gareth's nature to become very agitated when someone who owed him money

wanted to discuss things.

The usual subject of discussion was how to avoid making payment,

and Gareth was about to protest volubly and loudly when the Ras chose

that moment to rise to his feet and make a speech.

This caused a certain amount of consternation, for the Ras's legs had

been turned by large quantities of tej to the consistency of rubber,

and it required the efforts of two of his guardsmen to get him to his

feet and keep him there.

However, once up, he spoke with clarity and force while Lij

Mikhael translated for the benefit of the white guests.

At first, the Ras seemed to wander. He spoke of the first rays of the

sun touching the peaks of the mountains, and the feel of the desert

wind in a man's face at noon, he reminded them of the sound of the

birth cry of a man's firstborn child and the smell of the earth turning

under the plough. Gradually an attentive silence fell upon his unruly

audience, for the old man had still a power and force that demanded

complete respect.

As he went on, so a greater dignity invested him; he shrugged off the

supporting hands of his guard and seemed to grow in stature. His voice

lost the querulous tremor of age and took on a more compelling ring.

Jake did not need the Prince's translation to know that he was speaking

of mans pride, and the rights of a free man. The duty of a man to

defend that freedom with life itself, to preserve it for his sons and

their children.

"And now there comes a powerful enemy to challenge our rights as free

men. An enemy so powerful, armed with such terrible weapons, that even

the hearts of the warriors of Tigre and Shoo shrivelled in their

breasts like diseased fruit." The old Ras was panting now, and a

scanty sweat trickled from under the tall lion headdress and ran down

the wrinkled black cheeks.

"But now, my children, powerful friends have come to stand beside us.

They have brought to us weapons as powerful as those of our enemies. No

longer must we fear." Jake realized suddenly what pathetic store the

Ras had placed in the worn and obsolete war materials they had brought

him. He talked now of meeting the mighty armies of Italy on even

terms.

Abruptly, Jake felt a choking sense of guilt. He knew that a week

after he left, the four armoured cars would be piles of junk. There

was no man in all the Ras's following who could keep their elderly and

temperamental engines running.

Even if they were brought into action before the engines expired,

they would present a threat only to unsupported infantry. The moment

they engaged with Italian armour they would be instantly and hopelessly

out-classed. Even the light Italian CV.3 tanks would be immune to the

fire of the Vickers guns that the cars mounted, while in return the

thin steel of the cars would offer no protection from the 50 men.

armour-piercing shell that the enemy fired. There would be no one to

explain all this to the Ras and teach him how to achieve the best from

the puny weapons he commanded.

Jake visualized the first and probably the last battle that Ras

Golam would fight. Scorning manoeuvre and strategy, he would certainly

throw in all his force armoured cars, Vickers machine guns, obsolete

rifles and swords in a single frontal attack. This was the way he had

fought all his battles and the way he would fight the last.

Jake Barton felt his heart go out to the gallant ancient, who stood now

shouting a challenge to a modern military power, prepared to defend to

the death what was his and Jake felt a curious sense of recklessness.

It was a reaction that he knew well and usually it led him into

positions of acute discomfort and danger.