Cry Wolf Part 29

The Captain who commanded the Italian tank squadron was an angry, disgruntled and horribly disillusioned man a man burdened by a soul corroding grudge.

Like so many officers of the cavalry tradition, the anne blanche of the army, he was a romantic, obsessed by the image of himself as a dashing, reckless warrior. The dress uniform of his regiment still included skin-tight breeches with a scarlet silk stripe down the outside of the leg, soft black riding boots and silver spurs, a tightly fitting b.u.m freezer jacket encrusted with thick gold lace and heavy epaulets, a short cloak worn carelessly over one shoulder and a tall black shako. This was the picture he cherished of himself all Man and swagger.

Here he was in some devil-conceived, G.o.d-cursed desert, where day after day he and his beloved fighting machines were sent out to find wild animals and drive them in on a set point, where a mad megalomaniac waited to shoot them down.

The damage it was doing his tanks, the grinding wear on tracks running hard over rough terrain and through diamond-hard abrasive sand, was as nothing compared to the damage his pride was suffering.

He had been reduced to nothing but a gamekeeper, a beater, a peasant beater. The Captain spent much of each day at the very edge of tears, the tears of deep humiliation.

Every evening he protested to the mad Count in the strongest possible terms and the following day found him once more pursuing wild animals over the desert.

So far the bag had consisted of a dozen lions and wild dogs, and many scores of large antelope. By the time these were delivered to where the Count waited, they were almost exhausted, lathered with sweat, and with a froth of saliva drooling from their jaws, barely able to trot after the long chase across the plains.

The condition of the game detracted not at all from the Count's pleasure. Indeed, the Captain had been given specific orders to run the game hard so that it came to the guns docile and winded. After his alarming experience with the beisa oryx, the Count was not eager to take foolhardy risks. An easy shot and a good photograph were his yardsticks of the day's sport.

The greater the bag, the greater the pleasure and the Count had enjoyed himself immensely since the arrival of the tanks. However, the wastes of the Danakil desert could not support endless quant.i.ties of animal life, and the bag had fallen off sharply in the last few days as the herds were scattered and annihilated. The Count was displeased.

He told the Captain of tanks so forcibly, adding to the man's discontent and sense of grudge.

The Captain of tanks found the old bull elephant standing alone, like a tall granite monument, upon the open plain. He was enormous, with tattered ears like the sails of an ancient schooner, and tiny hating eyes in their webs of deep wrinkles. One of his tusks was broken off near the lip, but the other was thick and long and yellow, worn to a blunt-rounded tip at the end of its curve.

The Captain stopped his tank a quarter of a mile from where the elephant stood, and examined him through his binoculars while he got over the shock of his size then the Captain began to smile, a wicked twist of the mouth under his handsome mustache, and his dark eyes sparkled.

"So, my dear Colonel, you want game, much game," he whispered.

"You will have it. I a.s.sure you." He approached the elephant carefully from the east, crawling the tank in gingerly towards the animal, and the old bull turned and watched them come. His ears were spread wide and his long trunk sucked and coiled into his mouth as he tested the air, breathing it onto the olfactory glands in his top lip as he groped for the scent of this strange creature.

He was a bad-tempered old bull, who had been harried and hunted for thousands of miles across the African continent, and beneath his scarred and creased old hide were the spear-heads, the pot legs fired from mule-loading guns, and the jacketed slugs from modern rifled firearms. All he wanted now in his great age was to be left alone he wanted neither the demanding company of the breeding cows, the importunate noisy play of the calves, nor the single-minded pursuit of the men who hunted him. He had come into the desert, to the burning days and coa.r.s.e vegetation to find that solitude, and now he was moving slowly down to the Wells of Chaldi, water which he had last tasted as a young breeding bull twenty-five years before.

He watched the buzzing growling things creeping in towards him, and he tasted their rank oily smell, and he did not like it. He shook his head, flapping his ears like the crash of canvas taking the wind on a new tack, and he squealed a warning.

The growling humming things crept closer and he rolled his trunk up against his chest, he c.o.c.ked his ears half back and curled the tips but the tank Captain did not recognize the danger signals and he kept on coming.

Then the elephant charged, fast and ma.s.sive, the fall of his huge pads thumping against the earth like the beat of a ba.s.s drum, and he was so fast, so quick off the mark that he almost caught the tank. If he had he would have flicked it over on its back without having to exert all his mountainous strength. But the driver was as quick as he, and he swung away right under the outstretched trunk, and held his best speed for half a mile before the bull gave up the pursuit.

"My Captain, I could shoot it with the Spandau," urged the gunner anxiously. He had not enjoyed the chase.

"No! No!" The Captain was delighted.

"He is a very angry, dangerous and ferocious animal," the gunner pointed out.

"SO" the Captain laughed happily, rubbing his hands together with glee. "He is my very special gift to the Count." After the fifth approach by the tanks, the old bull grew bored with the unrewarding effort of chasing after them.

With his belly rumbling protestingly, his stubby tail twitching irritably, and the musk from the glands behind his eyes weeping in a long, wet smear down his dusty cheeks, he allowed himself to be shepherded towards the west by the following line of cavalry tanks but he was still a very angry elephant.

You're not going to believe this," said Gareth Swales softly. "I'm not even sure I believe it myself. But it's an elephant, and it's leading a full squadron of Eyetie tanks straight to us."

"I don't believe it," said Jake. "I can see it happening but I don't believe it. They must have trained it like a bloodhound. Is that possible, or am I going crazy?"

"Both," said Gareth. "May I suggest we get ready to move.

They are getting frightfully close, old son." Jake jumped down to the crank handle, while Gareth dropped into the driver's hatch and swiftly adjusted the ignition and throttle setting.

"All set," he said, glancing anxiously over his shoulder.

The great elephant was less than a thousand yards away.

Coming on steadily, in that long driving stride, a pace between a walk and a trot that an elephant can keep up for thirty miles without check or rest.

"You might hurry it up, at that," he added, and Jake spun the crank. Priscilla made no response, not even a cough to encourage Jake as he wound the crank frantically.

After a full minute, Jake staggered back gasping, and doubled over with hands on his knees as he sucked for air.

"This b.l.o.o.d.y infernal machine-" Gareth began, but Jake straightened up with genuine alarm.

"Don't start swearing at her, or she'll never start," he cautioned Gareth, and he stooped to the crank handle again. "Come along now, my darling," he whispered, and threw his weight on the crank.

Gareth took another quick glance over his shoulder. The bizarre procession was closer, much closer. He leaned out of the driver's hatch and patted Priscilla's engine-cowling tenderly.

"There's my love," he crooned. "Come along, my beauty." The Count's hunting party sat out in collapsible camp chairs under the screens, double canvas to protect them from the cruel sun. The mess servants served iced drinks and light refreshments, and a random breeze that flapped the canvas occasionally was sufficient to keep the temperature bearable.

The Count was in an expansive mood, host to half a dozen of his officers, all of them dressed in casual hunting clothes, armed with a selection of sporting rifles and the occasional service rifle.

"I think we can rely on better sport today. I believe that our beaters will be trying harder, after my gentle admonitions." He smiled and winked, and his officers laughed dutifully. "Indeed, I am hoping-"

"My Count. My Count." Gino rushed breathlessly into the tent like a frenzied gnome. "They are coming. We have seen them from the ridge."

"Ah!" said the Count with deep satisfaction. "Shall we go down and see what our gallant Captain of tanks has for us this time?" And he drained the gla.s.s of white Wine in his hand, while Gino rushed over to help him to his feet, and then backed away in front of him, leading him to where Giuseppe was hastily removing the dust covers from the Rolls.

The small procession, headed by the Count's Rolls, Royce, wound down the slope of the low ridge to where the blinds had been sited in a line across the width of the shallow valley. The blinds had been built by the battalion engineers, dug into the red earth so as not to stand too high above the low desert scrub. They were neatly thatched, covered against the sun, with loopholes from which to fire upon the driven game. There were comfortable camp chairs for those long waits between drives, a small but well-stocked bar, ice in insulated buckets, a separate screened latrine in fact all the comforts to make the day's sport more enjoyable.

The Count's blind was in the centre of the line. It was the largest and most luxuriously appointed, situated so that the great majority of driven game would bunch upon this point. His junior officers had earlier learned the folly of exceeding the Colonel's"

personal bag or of firing at any animal which was swinging across their front towards the Count. The first offender in this respect had found himself reduced from Captain to Lieutenant, and no longer invited to the hunt, and the second was already back in Ma.s.sawa writing out requisition forms in the quartermaster's division.

Gino handed the Count from the Rolls, and helped him down the steps into the sunken shelter. Giuseppe saluted and climbed back into the Rolls, swung away and b.u.mped back up the ridge and over the skyline.

The Count settled himself comfortably in the canvas chair. With a sigh, he unb.u.t.toned the front of his jacket, and accepted the damp face cloth that Gino handed him.

While the Count wiped the film of sweat from his forehead with the cool cloth, Gino opened a bottle of Lacrima Cristi from the ice bucket and placed a tall frosted crystal gla.s.s of the wine on the folding table at the Count's elbow. Next, he loaded the Marmlicher with shiny new bra.s.s cartridges from a freshly opened packet.

The Count tossed the cloth aside and leaned forward in his chair to peer through the loophole in front of him, out across the shimmering plain where the small dark desert scrub danced in the heat.

"I have a feeling we shall have extraordinary sport today, Gino."

I hope so indeed, my Count, said the little sergeant and stood to attention behind his chair with the loaded Mannlicher held at the ready across his chest.

ome on, darling," croaked Jake, sweat dripping from his chin on to his shirt front as he stooped over the crank handle and spun it for the hundredth time.

"Don't let us down now, sweetheart." Gareth scrambled up on to the sponson of Priscilla and took a long despairing glance back over the turret. He felt something freeze in his belly, and his breath caught.

The elephant was a hundred paces away, coming directly down on top of them at a loose shambling walk, the great black ears flapping sullenly and the little piggy eyes alight with malevolence.

Right behind it, fanned out on each side, pressing closely on the great beast's heels, came the full squadron of Italian tanks. The sun glittered on the smoothly rounded frontal armour, and caught the bright festival flutter of their cavalry pennants. From each hatch protruded the black-helmeted head of the tank commander. Through the binoculars Gareth could make out the individual features of each commander, they were that close.

Within minutes they would be overrun, and there was no chance that they could escape detection. The elephant was leading the Italians directly to the ravine, and their scanty camouflage of scrub branches would not stand scrutiny at less than a hundred yards.

They could not even protect themselves, the Vickers machine gun was pointed away from the approaching enemy, and the limited traverse of the ball mounting was not sufficient to bring it to bear. Gareth was engulfed suddenly by a black and burning rage for the stubborn piece of machinery beneath his feet. He took a vicious heartfelt kick at the steel turret.

"You treacherous b.i.t.c.h, he snarled, and at that moment the engine fired and, without preliminary gulping and popping, roared angrily.

Jake bounded up the side of the hull, droplets of sweat flying from his sodden hair, red-faced as he gasped at Gareth.

"You've got the gentle touch."

"With all women there is the psychological moment, old son, "Gareth explained, grinning with relief as he scrambled into the turret and Jake dropped behind the controls.

Jake gunned the motor, and Priscilla threw off her covering, of cut thorn branches. Her wheels spun in the loose sand of the ravine, blowing up a cloud of red dust, and she tore up the steep bank and lunged out into the open directly under the startled outstretched trunk of the elephant.

The old bull had by this stage suffered provocation sufficient to take him to the edge of a blind, black rage. It needed only this new buzzing frightfulness to launch him over the edge. The leisurely pace that he had set up until now left his mountainous strength and endurance untouched, and now he trumpeted, a ringing ear-splitting challenge that rolled across the vast silences of the desert like the trumpet of doom. His ears curled back against his skull and with his trunk coiled against his chest, he crashed forward into a terrible ground-shaking charge.

His speed over the broken ground was greater than that of Priscilla the Pig, and he bore down upon her like a cliff of grey granite huge, menacing and indestructible.

The Captain of tanks had been shepherding the old elephant along gently. He did not want him to tax his strength. He wanted to deliver to his commanding officer an animal in the peak of its anger and destructive capabilities.

He was sitting up in his turret, chuckling and shaking his head with antic.i.p.ation and growing delight, for the hunter's lines were only a mile or so ahead when suddenly, directly ahead of him, the ground erupted and an armoUred car roared out in a cloud of red dust. It was of a model that the Captain had seen only in ill.u.s.trated books of military history like an apparition out of the remote past.

It took him some seconds to believe what he was seeing, then with a jarring impact on his already highly strung nerve ends, he recognized the enemy colours that the ancient machine was flying.

"Advance!" he screamed. "Squadron, advance!" and he groped instinctively at his side for his sword. "Engage the enemy." On each side of him his tanks roared forward, and for want of a sword, the Captain tore his helmet off and waved it over his head.

"Charge!" he screamed. "Forward into battle!" Now at last he was not a mere game-beater. Now he was a warrior leading his men into action. His excitement was So contagious and the dust thrown up by the car, the elephant and the steel tracks so thick, that the first two tanks did not even see the fifteen-foot-deep sheer-sided ravine.

Running side by side, they went into it at the top of their speed and were destroyed effectively as though they had been demolished by a 100 kilo, aerial bomb, the riding wheels ripped away by the impact and the heavy steel tracks flying loose and snaking viciously into the air like living angry cobras. The revolving turrets were torn from their seatings, neatly bisecting the men at the waist, who stood in the hatches, as though with a gigantic pair of scissors.

Clinging to the rim of his own turret and peering backwards, Gareth saw the two machines disappear into the earth, and the great leaping towers of dust that rose high into the air to mark their destruction.

"Two down" he shouted.

"But another four to go," Jake shouted back grimly, fighting Priscilla over the rough earth. "And how about that jumbo?"

"How indeed!" The elephant, goaded on by the roar of engines and crash of steel behind and by the buzzing bouncing car ahead of it, was making incredible speed over the broken scrubby plain.

"He's right here with us," Gareth told Jake anxiously. So close was the great beast that Gareth had to look up at it, and he saw the thick grey. trunk uncoiling from its chest and reaching out to pluck him from the turret.

"As fast as you like, old son, or you'll have him sitting on your head."

"I have told that idiot not to run the game down on the guns so hard," snapped the Count petulantly. "I -have told him a dozen times, have I not, Gino?"

"Indeed, my Count."

"Run them hard at the beginning, then bring them in gently for the last mile or so. "The Count took an angry gulp at his gla.s.s. "The man is a fool, an insufferable fool and I can't abide fools around me." "Indeed not, my Count. I shall send him back to Ma.s.sawa-" the rest of the threat trailed away, and the Count sat suddenly upright, the canvas chair creaking under his weight.

"Gino," he murmured uneasily. "There is something very strange taking place out there." Both of them peered anxiously out through the rifle slots in the thatched wall of the blind at the billowing dust clouds that raced down upon them with quite alarming speed.

"Gino, is it possible?" asked the Count.

"No, my Count," Gino a.s.sured him, but without any true conviction.

"It is the mirage. It is not possible."

"Are you certain, Gino?" The Count's voice "took on a strident edge.

"No, my Count."

"Nor am I, Gino. What does it look like to you?"

"It looks like,- Geno's voice choked off. "I do not like to say, my Count," he whispered. "I think I am going mad." At that moment the Captain of tanks, whose efforts to catch up with the fleeing armoured car and stampeding elephant were unavailing, opened fire with the 50 men.

Spandau upon them. More accurately, he opened fire in the general direction of the rolling dust cloud which obscured his forward vision, and through which he caught only occasional glimpses of beast and machine. To confound further the aim of his gunner, the range was rapidly increasing, the manoeuvres with which the armoured car was trying to throw off the close pursuit of the elephant were violent and erratic, and the cavalry tank itself was plunging and leaping wildly over the rough ground.

Fire!" shouted the Captain. "Keep firing," and his gunner sent half a dozen high-explosive sh.e.l.ls screeching low over the plain. The other tanks heard the banging of their Captain's cannon and immediately and enthusiastically followed his example.

One of the first sh.e.l.ls struck the thatched front wall of the blind in which the Count and Gino cowered in horrified fascination.

The flimsy wall of gra.s.s did not trigger the fuse of the sh.e.l.l so there was no explosion, but nevertheless the high-velocity sh.e.l.l pa.s.sed not eighteen inches from the Count's left ear, with a crack of disrupted air that stunned him, before exiting through the rear wall of the blind and howling onwards to burst a mile out in the empty desert.

"If the Count no longer needs me-" Gino snapped a hasty salute and before the Count had recovered his wits enough to forbid it, he had dived through the sh.e.l.l hole in the rear wall of the blind and hit the ground on the far side, already running.

Gino was not alone. From each of the blinds along the line leapt the figures of the other hunters, the sound of their hysterical cries almost drowned by the roar of engines, the trumpeting of an angry bull elephant and the continuous thudding roar of cannon fire.

The Count tried to rise from his chair, but his legs betrayed him and he managed only a series of convulsive leaps. His mouth gaped wide in his deathly pale face, but no sound came out of it. The Count was beyond speech, almost beyond movement just the strength for one more desperate heave, and the chair toppled forward, throwing the Count face down upon the sunken earth floor of the blind, where he covered his head with both arms.

At that instant, the armoured car, still under full throttle, came in through the front wall. The thatched blind exploded around it, but the impetus of the car's charge was sufficient to carry it in a single leap over the dugout. The spinning wheels hurled inches over the Count's prostrate form, showering him with a stinging barrage of sand and loose gravel. Then it was gone.

The Count struggled to sit up, and had almost succeeded when the huge enraged form of the bull elephant pounded over the blind. One of its great feet struck the Count a glancing blow on the shoulder and he screamed like a hand-saw and once again flung himself flat on the floor of the dugout while the elephant pounded onwards towards the far horizon, still in pursuit of the flying car.

The earth shook beneath the approach of another heavy body, and the Count flattened himself to the floor of the dugout deafened, dazed and paralysed with terror, until the commander of tanks stood over him and asked solicitously, "Was the game to your liking, my Colonel?" Even after Gino returned and Helped the Count to his feet, dusted him down and helped him into the back seat of the Rolls, the threats and insults still poured from the Count's choked throat in a high-pitched stream.

"You are a degenerate and a coward. You are guilty of dereliction of duty, of gross irresponsibility. You allowed them to escape, sir and you placed me in deadly peril-" They eased the Count down on the cushions of the Rolls, but as the car pulled away he jumped up to hurl a parting salvo at the Captain of tanks.

"You are an irresponsible degenerate, sir! - a coward and a Bolshevik and I shall personally command your firing squad-" His voice faded into the distance as the Rolls drew away up the ridge in the direction of the camp, but the Count's good arm was still waving and gesticulating as they crossed the skyline.

The elephant followed them far out across the desert, long after the pursuing tank squadron had been left behind and abandoned the chase. The old bull lost ground steadily over the last mile or so, until at last he also gave up and stood swaying with exhaustion but still shaking out his ears and throwing up his trunk in that truculent, almost human gesture of challenge and defiance.

Gareth saluted him with respect as they drew away and left him, like a tall black monolith, out on the dry pale plains. Then he lit two cheroots, crouching down into the turret out of the wind, and pa.s.sed one down to Jake in the driver's compartment.

"A good day's work, (old son. We p.r.o.nged two of the G.o.dless ones, and we have put the others in the right frame of mind."