Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 21

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