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

credit in this game," Gareth explained, as he shoved the money

across.

"Cash on the nail, or you get your arm broken. This old bastard Gareth

glanced again at Gregorius, I no offence, of course.

But this old bastard wouldn't trust his own mother, probably with good

reason. I'm absolutely appalled! I've met some shockers in my time

but this chap takes the biscuit." There was a deep respect in

Gareth's tone, which changed to mild alarm as the Ras gathered the

cards preparatory to the next deal, and he turned to Gregorius.

"Please explain to your dear grandfather that, though I'd be delighted

to accommodate him at a future date, I do think he should now

concentrate a little of his skills on confounding the common enemy.

The armies of Italy are waiting. Reluctantly, the Ras laid the cards

aside and, with a sharp speech in Amharic, put the war council into

session, then immediately turned to Jake Barton.

"My grandfather wishes to know the state of his armoured squadron.

He is impressed with the cars, and is certain that they can be used to

great advantage."

"Tell him that he has wrecked a quarter of his armoured squadron. We've

got three runners left." The Ras showed no remorse at this rebuke, but

turned to his commanders and launched into a long vivid account of his

exploits as a driver, his wide gestures describing the speed and dash

of his evolutions. The account was punctuated by loyal exclamations of

wonder from his officers, and it was some minutes before he turned back

to Jake.

"My grandfather says that three of these wonderful machines will be

enough to send the Italians running back into the sea."

"I wish I

shared his confidence," remarked Gareth, and Jake went on, "There is

one other small problem, we are short of crews drivers and gunners for

the cars. We'll need a week or two to train your men." The Ras

interrupted fiercely, almost as though he had understood Jake, and

there was a fierce murmur of agreement from his commanders.

"My grandfather intends to attack the Italian positions at the

Wells of Chaldi. He intends to attack immediately." Jake glanced at

Gareth, who rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Give him the word, old

son," he said, but Jake shook his head.

"It'll come better from you." Gareth drew a deep breath and launched

into a long explanation as to the suicidal futility of a frontal

attack, even with armoured support, against guns dug into a commanding

position.

"The Italians must advance. That is when our chance will come."

It took all Gareth's eloquence to make the Ras agree, albeit

reluctantly, to wait for the enemy to make the first move, to watch

with his forward scouts for the moment when the Italians left their

fortified positions above the Wells and moved out into the open

grassland where they would be more vulnerable.

Once the Ras had agreed, scowling and muttering, to cool his ardour

that long, then Jake could take over from Gareth and suggest the

tactics that might best be employed.

"Please tell your grandfather that we come back to my original warning

we do not have crews for all three cars."

"I can drive,"

interrupted Vicky Camberwell, suddenly aware that she was being

squeezed out of consideration.

Gareth and Jake exchanged glances again, and were both instantly in

complete agreement, but it was Gareth who spoke for them.

"It's one thing acting as a ferry driver, and another as a combatant,

my dear. You are here to write about the fighting, not get mixed up in

it." Vicky flashed a scornful glance at him and turned to

Jake.

Jake she began.

"Gareth's right." He cut her short. "I agree with that all the way."

Vicky subsided angrily, knowing there was no profit in arguing now not

accepting their lordly decrees, but willing to bide her time.

She listened quietly as the discussion flowed back and forth. Jake

explained how the cars should be used to shock the enemy and punch open

the Italian de fences so that the Ethiopian cavalry could stream

through and exploit the disordered infantry.

The Ras's scowls smoothed away, and an unholy grin replaced them.

His eyes glowed like black coals in their beds of dark wrinkled

flesh,

and when at last he gave his orders, he spoke with the ringing and

final authority of a royal warrior that brooked no further argument.

"My grandfather decrees that the first attack will be made upon the

enemy as soon as they advance beyond the caves of Chaldi. It will be

made by all the horsemen of both Harari and Galla, and led by two

armoured cars. The infantry, the Vickers guns and one armoured car

will be held in reserve here at the Sardi Gorge."

"What about the crews for the cars?" asked Jake.

"You and I, Jake, in one car, and in the other car Major

Swales will be the driver and my grandfather will be the gunner."

"I

can't believe it's happening to me," groaned Gareth.

"That old bastard is stark raving bloody mad. He's a menace to himself

and everyone within a fifty-mile range."

"Including the

Italians," agreed Jake.

"It's all very well for you to grin like that you won't be locked up in

a tin can with a maniac. Gregorius, tell him-"

"No, Major

Swales." Gregorius shook his head, and his expression was remote and

frosty. "My grandfather has given his orders. I will not translate

your objections though if you insist I will give him an exact

translation of what you have just said about him."

"My dear chap."

Gareth held up his hands in a gesture of capitulation. "I count it an

honour to be selected by your grandfather and my remarks were made in

fun, I assure you. No offence, old chap, no offence at all." And he

watched helplessly, as the Ras picked up the pack of playing cards and

began to deal the next hand.

"I just hope the jolly old Eyeties get a move on. I can't afford much

more of this." Major Luigi Castelani saluted from the entrance of the

tent.

"As you ordered, my Colonel." Count Aldo Belli nodded to him in the

full-length mirror a brief acknowledgement before he switched his

attention back to his own image.

"Gino," he snapped. "Is that a mark on the toecap of my left boot?"

and the little sergeant dropped to his knees at the Count's feet and

breathed heavily on the boot, dulling the glossy surface before

polishing it lovingly with his own sleeve. The Count glanced up and

saw that Castelani still lingered in the entrance. His expression was

so lugubrious and doom-laden that the Count felt his anger return.

"Your face is enough to sour the wine, Castelani."

"The Count knows my misgivings."

"Indeed," he thundered. "I have heard nothing but your whines since I

gave my orders to advance."

"May I point out once more that those orders are in direct-"

"You may not. 11 Duce,

Benito Mussolini himself, has placed a sacred trust upon me. I will

not fail that trust."

"My Colonel, the enemy-"

"Bah!" Scorn flashed from the dark, heavily fringed eyes.

"Bah, I say. Enemy, you say savages, I say. Soldiers, you say rabble,