Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 40
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"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.
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