Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 21
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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
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