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

the artillery lost their nerve and opened fire prematurely." The

General paused to focus his reading glasses on the large glossy

photographic print which depicted Colonel Count Aldo Belli standing

like a successful big game hunter on the carcass of the Hump. The

shattered hull was pierced by shot and in the background lay half a

dozen corpses in tattered shammas. These had been collected from the

battlefield and tastefully arranged by Gino to give the photograph

authenticity. Against his better judgement and his strong instincts of

survival, Count Aldo Belli had returned to make these photographic

records only after Major Castelani had assured him that the enemy had

deserted the field. The Count had not wasted too much time about it,

but had his photographs taken, urging Gino to haste, and when it had

been done he had returned swiftly to his fortified position above the

Wells of Chaldi and had not moved from there since. However, the

photographs were an impressive addendum to his official report of the

action.

Now Badoglic, growled like an angry old lion. "Despite the

incompetence of his junior officers, and there my heart aches for

him,

this man has wiped out half the enemy armour as well as half the

opposing army." He hit the report fiercely with his reading glasses.

"The man's a fire eater no question about it. I know one when I see

one. A fire-eater. This kind of example must be encouraged good work

must be rewarded. Send for him. Radio him to come in to headquarters

immediately." As far as Count Aldo Belli was concerned, the campaign

had come upon a not unpleasant hiatus.

The camp at the Wells of Chaldi had been transformed by his engineers

from an outpost of hell into a rather pleasant refuge, with functional

amenities, such as ice making machines and a water-borne sewerage

system. The de fences were now of sufficient strength to give him a

feeling of security. The engineering as always was of the highest

quality with extensive covered earthworks, and Castelani had laid out

carefully over-lapping fields of fire, and barbed-wire de fences in

depth.

The hunting in the area was excellent by any standards, with game drawn

to the water in the Wells from miles around. The sand-grouse in the

evenings filled the heavens with the whistle of their wings, and

wheeled in great dark flocks across the setting sun, affording

magnificent sport.

The bag was measured in grain bags of dead birds.

In the midst of this pleasantly relaxed atmosphere, the new commanding

officer's summons exploded like a 100 kilo aerial bomb.

General Badoglio's reputation had preceded him. He was a notorious

martinet, a man who could not be sidetracked from single-minded purpose

by excuse or fabrication. He was insensitive to political influence or

power considerations so much so that it was rumoured that he would have

crushed the very Fascist movement itself with force if the issue had

been put into his hands back in 1922. He had an almost psychic power

to detect subterfuge, and to place a finger squarely on malingerers or

lack-guts.

They said his justice was swift and merciless.

The shock to the Count's system was considerable. He had been singled

out from thousands of brother officers to face this ogre's wrath for he

could not convince himself that the small deviations from reality, the

small artistic licences contained in his long,

illustrated reports to De Bono had not been instantly discovered. He

felt like a guilty schoolboy summoned to dire retribution behind the

closed doors of the headmaster's study. The shock hit him squarely in

the bowels, always his weak spot, bringing on a fresh onslaught of the

malady first caused by the waters of Chaldi Wells, from which he had

believed himself completely cured.

It was twelve hours before he could summon the strength to be helped by

his concerned underlings into the RollsRoyce and to lie wan and palely

resigned upon the soft leather seat.

"Drive on, Giuseppe," he murmured, like an aristocrat giving the order

to the driver of the tumbril.

On the long hot dusty drive into Asmara, the Count lay without interest

in his surroundings, without even attempting to marshal his defence

against the charges he knew he must soon face. He was resigned, abject

his only solace was the considerable damage he would do this upstart,

ill bred peasant, once he returned to Rome, as he was certain he was

about to. He knew that he could ruin the man politically and it gave

him a jot of sour pleasure.

Giuseppe, the driver, knowing his man as he did, made the first stop

outside the casino in Asmara's main street.

Here, at least, Count Aldo Belli was treated as a hero, and he perked

up visibly as the young hostesses rushed out on to the sidewalk to

welcome him.

Some hours later, freshly shaven, his uniform sponged and pressed,

his hair pomaded, and buoyed UP on a fragrant cloud of expensive eau de

cologne, the Count was ready to face his tormentor. He kissed the

girls, tossed back a last glass of cognac, laughed that gay reckless

laugh, snapped his fingers once to show what he thought of the peasant

who now ran this army, clenched his buttocks tightly together to

control his fear and marched out of the casino into the sunlight and

across the street into the military headquarters.

His appointment to meet General Badoglio was for four o'clock and the

town hall clock struck the hour as he marched resolutely down the long

gloomy corridor, following a young aide-de-camp. They reached the end

of the corridor and the aide-de-camp threw open the big double mahogany

doors and stood aside for the Count to enter.

His knees felt like boiled macaroni, his stomach gurgled and seethed,

the palms of his hands were hot and moist, and tears were not far

behind his quivering eyelids as he stepped forward into the huge room

with its lofty moulded ceiling.

He saw that it was filled with officers from both the army and the

airforce. His disgrace was to be made public, then, and he quailed.

Seeming to shrivel, his shoulders slumping, his chest caving and the

big handsome head drooping, the Count stood in the doorway. He could

not bear to look at them, and miserably he studied his gleaming toe

caps

Suddenly, he was assailed by a strange, a completely alien sound and he

looked up startled, ready to defend himself against physical attack.

The roomful of officers were applauding, beaming and grinning,

slapping palm to palm and the Count gaped at them, then glanced quickly

over his shoulder to be certain there was no one standing behind him,

and that this completely unexpected welcome was being directed at

him.

When he looked back he found a stocky, broad, shouldered figure in the

uniform of a general advancing upon him. His face was hard and

unforgiving, with a fierce grey mustache over the grim trap of his

mouth and glittering eyes in deep dark sockets.

If the Count had been in command of his legs and his voice, he might

have run screaming from the room, but before he could move the

General seized him in a grip of iron, and the mustache raking his

cheeks was as rank and rough as the foliage of the trees of the Danakil

desert.

"Colonel, I am always honoured to embrace a brave man," growled the

General, hugging him close, his breath smelling pleasantly of garlic