Time and again, our forces were able to withstand the onslaught. The Ethiopian soldiers were mowed down and thwarted by our concentrated machine gun fire.
Zeri paused. He did not write that the Italians had dropped two hundred tons of high explosives on the Ethiopian forming up zones, nor that threatened with encirclement by Italy’s advancing infantry, Ras Seyoum’s warriors decided they had had enough.
“Finally, when the attacks seemed to be less frequent and less fanatic, General Pirzio Birolli attacked. By evening, the encircling maneuver was complete and the Second Battle of Tembien was over.
These faithful defenders of civilization have given their lives for our new Empire. Now, thanks to the Fascist regime, the dead of Adowa have at last been revenged.
Zeri knew that the few thousand Ethiopians who were trapped had put up a desperate resistance earning even Badoglio’s admiration. But they could do nothing to change the course of the battle. Some eight thousand Ethiopians were killed. The Italian forces lost less than six hundred, most of them the Eritrean native Askaris. Steep odds, Zeri calculated. At this rate, we will exterminate the entire population.
The news of victory at Tembien was received in Italy with the same frenzy that had characterized the news that Adowa had been taken. Zeri knew that the timing of these victories was not exactly unexpected. Il Duce had told Badoglio that he would replace him with General Rudolfo Graziani, commander in Italian Somaliland, unless he achieved some glittering coup.
Badoglio had pulled off the victory and he was elated. He summed it up saying: “The curtain has fallen on the second act, gentlemen. Now we must think of the third. The enemy has suffered such a shattering defeat that for the first time in its history, it has lost all desire to continue.”
Zeri consulted the rest of his notes. He knew that as the retreating Ethiopians straggled back along the only road they were bombed repeatedly. For people who had never seen an aircraft, the effect was devastating, and the rocky ravine where they were to cross the river became a mortal bottleneck.
To the Italian aviators, the solid mass of defeated Ethiopians was a bomber’s dream. For the next few days, every pilot on the northern front took part in the bombing of the hapless fugitives, including Mussolini’s own two sons.
Zeri was certain that this was the sort of battle that was best suited to Badoglio’s taste: a modern industrial nation’s war of annihilation. He was using clubs to kill fleas.
The Ethiopian armies were disintegrating and Haile Sellassie was well aware of the gravity of the situation. He had become a desperate man, a man who had held out for five months against an enemy infinitely more powerful still hoping that the League of Nations would come to his aid.
From his headquarters in Dessie, he was vainly trying to coordinate the actions of his four armies on the northern front. He studied the map spread out on his desk. The main aim of the Ethiopians’ plan was to cut the Italian army in two and isolate Makalle. The Minister of War, Mulugeta now found himself in a vulnerable position.
“It’s Mulugeta,” Yifru said, handing Haile Sellassie the bulky radiophone.
The Neguse listened while Mulugeta described his position. The emperor put his pen down on the spot that Mulugeta was indicating.
“We will send a telegram to Ras Kassa ordering him to go to your aid,” he said, indicating to Yifru that this be done. Yifru knew that although there was not a great deal of jealousy among rases, one was usually loath to ask another for assistance. The fact that Mulugeta had done so only confirmed the urgency of his situation.
“What’s happening?” Ceseli asked Yifru later that day.
“Mulugeta is surrounded. He has asked for help.”
“What about the emperor?”
“He is planning one last battle. We are moving up to the Agumberta Pass. It is the decisive battle. At times like this I can see only blackness. I wish I had more faith,” he said, lowering his eyes.
“It’s not always a question of faith. There is such a thing as reality.”
“But we will go to Maytchaw. Perhaps our luck will change,” he said, unconvinced. “Now I must return to the emperor.”
It was not for several days that the emperor learned that his faithful and courageous Minister of War, Ras Mulugeta, and his son had been killed during his retreat by the strafing of the Royal Italian Air Force. His other leaders, Ras Kassa and Ras Seyoum, were in full retreat.
CHAPTER 43
CESELI LOOKED OUT OVER the valley noting the spectacular beauty of what would be the last battlefield. It was a pleasant, almost smiling countryside with lush green plains watered by thermal springs and the Mekan torrent. It was March 23rd.
It was hard to believe that the fate of the emperor and of his empire would be decided here at Maytchaw. Yet, contrary to his own better judgment and that of his foreign advisers, the Neguse had bowed to the power of his chiefs. He would lead his army for one great daylong battle.
Haile Sellassie, from his cave on Mount Aia, looked through his field glasses across the lush green valley. Before him, across the endless expanse some forty thousand Italians and Eritreans were dug in. The emperor knew that behind them another forty thousand were distributed between the neighboring Belago and Alagi passes.
Haile Sellassie had come to Maytchaw with the finest of his troops. His army of thirty-one thousand included the yet untried Imperial Guard, of which Yohannes was a part. The guards were solid units, trained to European standards of high moral and aggressive spirit. With them were also the survivors of the armies of Ras Kassa and Ras Seyoum.
Two days before, the emperor had sent his Russian military advisor, Colonel Konovaloff, through the Italian lines to reconnoiter. Yohannes went with him. When he reported to the emperor the next day, Konovaloff noted that the Italian defenses were flimsy and that there was only a thin veil of Eritrean Askaris on the left flank. The colonel was adamant in his advice: Attack at once while the Italians are still unprepared.
The Neguse decided instead to launch his offensive on March 24, believing that by then the local population would be in full revolt against the Italians.
Again the battle was postponed. It was now March 27. Yifru turned to listen to his nephew.
“I know they are high dignitaries, but these generals are not trained in the military tradition. Ras Kassa and Ras Seyoum have already suffered crushing defeats. We have officers trained at St. Cyr. Surely, the emperor will listen to them.”
“Yohannes, the emperor understands what you are saying. But tradition compels him to lead the army himself. He thinks that if we wait a bit, the Azebu Galla tribe will destroy the left flank. He’s been giving them thousands of Austrian Thalers. All will go well. Have faith.”
“But you know the Galla hate the Shoans. I would not trust them to do anything. I bet they are being paid by the Italians as well.”
But even as he consoled his nephew, Yifru was growing desperate. The emperor seemed unable to make decisions. Yifru was upset, but not surprised, when the attack was put off again and again and again.
“I don’t understand the delay, Yifru,” Ceseli finally asked in exasperation. “What’s happening?”
“There are many different war plans being discussed.”
“I need to know what medical help we are going to get. Where is the nearest Red Cross Unit?”
“I think it’s up there,” he said, turning to point at a hilltop out to the left. “If I am not totally wrong, that is where your Italian doctor friend might be.”
“On the top of that plateau?” she questioned, following his finger. Marco was right over there. It wasn’t very far at all and she was upset that she was only hearing this now. Doesn’t Yifru know what Marco means to me, she thought. “We should warn them. If the doctors are going to be of any help, they should be ready.”
Yifru looked at Ceseli knowing it was sound advice. It was not far and it was not dangerous if she traveled after the bombers left for the day.
“Go ahead. But make
sure you’re back by eight in the morning. The Italian bombers don’t fly before that.”
Ceseli turned, and walked back to the makeshift dispensary and started to arrange the medicine the doctors would need for the following day. Marco was right over there. Damn what a waste these four days had been. If she had only known before. Don’t worry about what I didn’t know, she thought, concentrate on what I can do now.
CHAPTER 44
“THIS IS THE LAST person for today. Go home, Fikerte. See you in the morning.” Marco turned to the Ethiopian nurse working beside him. She was young and pretty, and just as tired. It was difficult working surrounded by so much death. Both of them deserved a rest.
The girl smiled, her eyes meeting his over the cloth she wore over her mouth.
Marco was exhausted. He couldn’t remember when he had last really slept. He had already seen so much death he had ceased to count. He had lived with the dead and now wondered whether he could ever be a civilian again. He remembered his conversation with Ceseli on whether you grow immune to death. There was something sure: he hadn’t.
He walked outside looking at the people who were waiting for his help. He could see the horrible suppurating burns on their feet and on their emaciated limbs. They looked at him with begging eyes and raised their plight-filled voices. The sound was a low, moaning wave of misery–Abeit! Abeit! Abeit! Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!
He saw that a brown mule was coming up along the winding path. The rider was shrouded by a dark gray burnoose. The animal drew abreast and stopped.
“Ceseli!” he almost yelled. “Ceseli!”
“Marco!”
He didn’t need to know why she had come. It was sufficient that she was here and with a smile only for her, he helped her down from the saddle and into his arms. Their eyes met and held for a long time. She had come a long way for him and now in the middle of a battlefield, hidden from anyone who knew them, they realized they were there for each other, for as long as it was possible, for as long as they had.
He kissed her warmly and then turned holding her tightly. The coarse wool of the burnoose was so different from the soft skin of her arms. “I thought you were in Addis? Or home,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I thought you were safe.”
“I know. I got your letters. No, I’m with the doctors attached to the emperor.”
“I guess it’s stupid for me to tell you that you’re in great danger.”
“It was something I needed to do. You of all people can understand that.”
He continued to look at her, his voice muted, but not the expression in his eyes. “The Italians are going to attack. And they will win. You know that.”
“That’s why we came to Maytchaw. For one great battle. As custom demands, the emperor will lead it himself. But for the last week there have been nothing but delays. Yifru is very worried. He’s convinced that these delays are killing the emperor’s chances. That the Italians have had more time to dig in.”
“He’s right,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the only small tree on the plateau. He took her saddlebags off the mule. “I’ll get him some water.”
“He’s afraid of the bombs, but I’m sure he’d like some water.”
“How did you find me?”
“Yifru told me he thought you were here.”
Ceseli took off the heavy burnoose and sat down. While she waited she took her camera from the satchel. She looked out across the peaceful valley. It was almost twilight, but in the far distance she could just see the emperor’s campfires. They seemed so far away.
She looked around at the men who were waiting patiently on the other side of the tent. They were almost lifeless automatons in their acceptance of life and death. It reminded her of a recurring nightmare of battle where the severed limbs started a grotesque dance. She remembered the childhood verse that had been going through her mind for weeks. “Early in the morning in the middle of the night, two dead boys got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other.” She shuddered.
After a bit, Marco returned. “I’ve put him down near the spring. There’s a pretty deep cave. It could hide a whole herd of animals. He’ll be fine there.”
“It’s the mustard gas, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the white splotches on the dark skins.
“The planes come every day. These are peasants from the area. There’s no food. The crops are poisoned. The livestock are dead.” Marco touched her hair caressing it and forming little curls with his fingers. “There’s not much to eat here.”
“I wasn’t expecting a feast,” she smiled.
“Good, because you’re not going to get one,” he grinned. “No special pasta. But we can have some soup. And the villagers bring me injera. That’s their way of thanking me.”
“You know I didn’t come for the food,” she said. “It’s funny how our concept of food changes. There is food and Yifru looks after me. And while we were at Dessie, there was a little boy named Habtu. He brought me eggs and other treasures one takes for granted. I showed him the mirror of my compact. I don’t think he’d ever seen himself before. He was smiling and moving his head from side to side. It reminded me of when I would sit at my grandmother’s dressing table and try out her powders and rouge.” Ceseli smiled. “I didn’t know you were so close. I thought the Red Cross hospital was all the way on the other side of the valley.”
“That’s the British one. How did you find out?”
“I needed to warn the doctors to expect a great many wounded tomorrow. Yifru showed me where you were. But I had to promise I’d be back by early morning. He doesn’t want me to be bombed along the way.”
“You’re safe here. See that,” he said, pointing to the huge Red Cross on the top of the tent. It was a large square American army tent. The camp was marked by five Red Cross flags: three on the tent and two more, ten to twelve feet wide ground covers.
“We were bombed in Dessie, almost immediately after the emperor arrived. I was really afraid. It’s something so completely out of one’s control.”
“You learn to live with it. The planes come here every day. They don’t bomb. They’re just trying to intimidate us. You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it,” Ceseli smiled. “Have you heard anything from your family?”
“Not in a long time. When you think of it, we’d need those famous messenger pigeons you were joking about.”
“On the train. I remember. It seems like another lifetime.”
“So will this one day.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Zeri’s here you know. With Badoglio. He came to see me the other day. He left me a pack of his Tuscan cigars.”
“That you don’t smoke.”
“It was a gesture. He’s a thoughtful person. Those cigars are precious to him. He took a letter that I had written to my family. It isn’t hard for him to get it mailed. He has a secret reef of papers. Musical sheets. He told me he’d tell me about it when this is over. He’s not very fond of Badoglio. I asked him why he didn’t leave.”
“And?”
“Said he needed to watch him.”
“Badoglio?”
“Yes. Says he made a pact with the devil.”
Later that evening, she sat leaning back against him. She had taken pictures of the men with their white scarring burns and a few of Marco, pantomiming in front of the hospital tent. A timed one of the two of them. She hoped that they’d come out.
The soup was good and so was the injera. The night was very still now. Below, across the valley, the bonfires were covered by the mist, but the stars were gleaming overhead. The crickets were vibrant in their chatter.
“Funny,” Marco said. “I was just thinking about a badly injured Muslim soldier. He was just sitting and waiting for me. There was a green parrot overhead in the tree and he was studying it. He said, ‘You know that we have a belief in our religion, that all of us who are killed in battle for our faith
go at once to heaven.’
“But, you’re not fighting for your faith in Ethiopia,” I told him.
“I’m cheating just a little,” he smiled. “Our belief is that until the Day of Judgment, the souls of the faithful go into the crops of green birds, which eat the fruits of paradise and drink from its rivers. Look at that beautiful green bird,” he said. “I wonder if it will please Allah that I shall be killed and my soul take its flight to paradise in its crop.”
“What happened to him?” Ceseli asked.
“He didn’t die.”
“I’m glad. Green is a sacred color for the Muslims. It’s the green of grass and fertility.” She turned to study him. “You know, you’re like that warrior.”
Marco studied her quietly. “You, too.” They looked at each other, not needing words. Marco took the chain from around his neck. “Now that you’ve come all this way, I want you to have this. I think you need it more than I do.”
“I can’t take it,” she said, fingering the delicate gold chain with its small medal.
“Of course you can. It’s the patron saint of Florence. I want you to keep it. I’ll come and retrieve it.”
“On loan then. That’s a promise, and I’d like to give you this,” she said, undoing the dog tag she wore around her neck and handing it to him. “It was my father’s.”
“I would be honored to wear it,” he said, kissing her lightly, then more tenderly as she moved into his embrace. They kissed urgently both understanding what little time they had to be together. From deep within, from her soul and her heart, she felt she knew everything about him.
“Shhh,” he said, covering her mouth with a finger, and then without another word, he lay down next to her and took her in his arms. As they lay in each other’s arms, her kisses were as passionate as his. And there was something very sweet about the way they felt about each other physically and emotionally. It was at the same time romantic and old fashioned.
Early the next morning, a summer fog cast a lacy mantel and the grass lay like a white bed of clouds. Birds floated on the wind sunning themselves, or alighted on the wet limbs that looked like a gigantic spider’s web casting knitted shadows on the ground. As she sat looking out over the valley, minute crystals of moisture hung to her hair like seed pearls.
Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers Page 21