“Good morning,” she whispered as he sat down next to her.
“You look like some kind of fairy,” Marco said, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You should make a wish.”
“I have. I can’t tell you what it is because otherwise it won’t come true. Will this ever end?” she asked, continuing to stare out over the valley.
“It will end. You must go, now. It’s getting late.” He continued to hold her to him. “Yifru will get worried.”
“I know. It’s just . . .” her voice trailed off. “I know.”
“And I must begin my work. By the time I have tried to help these people there will be many more. I don’t mind. I just wish there were more of us. But it won’t be for long.”
Ceseli clung to him as if to a raft in a stormy sea. She didn’t want to leave him, but she had made a promise to Yifru and she needed to keep it. She hoped Marco couldn’t see the tears that were beginning to sting behind her eyes. Then he pulled away from her and Ceseli watched as he went back into the Red Cross tent. He returned with her canteen bottle. “I’ll just be a minute. I’ll get you fresh water from the spring.”
Returning from the spring, he saw the first white Caproni bombers flying in formation, approaching along the rim of the valley. It was very early. He watched fascinated as they neared, their silver bodies glistening like a polished sword. He continued to watch mesmerized like a deer at night with a light flashed into its eyes.
Marco turned to make sure the large Red Cross lettering on the tent was clearly visible. Relieved, he ran back up the steep incline looking around him. The planes were approaching now. Ceseli was standing near the tent her camera bag next to her and ready to start back.
“I should have brought the mule,” Marco said, as she turned to look at him. The menacing planes were approaching. Suddenly, Marco realized that the planes were headed directly for the tent. The tent was the target. They were the target. He could do nothing. Even as he looked around for cover, Marco knew there was none.
He ran to her, grabbing her and then instinctively crushing her headlong to the ground beneath him, holding her to him. His body was hard on top of her, like a protective shield, covering her. “I’m here. It’s okay.”
She held his hands feeling him on top of her, holding on to him for dear life. “Pretend it’s a beautiful display of fireworks,” Marco whispered. “Remember the emperor’s party.”
“I’ll try.”
He could feel her relax under him. Then he lifted his head to watch as the first of the planes began dipping toward the tent, letting loose its deadly load of bombs. Around him the men started to wail.
Abeit!
Abeit!
Abeit!
“This one is blue. Do you remember?”
“Yes. It was beautiful.”
The next three planes were releasing the spray of gas.
“The next is green. It’s beautiful, too.”
“Yes.”
“We’re missing only the yellow and the red?”
Ceseli was hardly breathing.
“Everything will be over in a minute.”
She could hear the planes going over them very low. Bombs were dropping all around them. The noise was crescendoing. The bombs like firecrackers, ptut, ptut, ptut. The smell of the gas was nauseating. Then they were past. Both the yellow, and the red. Thank God. She could hear the planes leaving. She waited a moment, needing to control her breathing. “Marco?”
She moved her hand in front of her looking out from her clasped hands. The tent was a shambles, the iron bars bent like matchsticks. The tarpaulin was smoldering. From under him she could see the bodies of the men like sacks of feathers. She could feel his dead weight on her. She struggled to free herself. “Marco. It’s okay. They’ve gone.”
The silence was louder than the pounding in her heart. She struggled out from under him. Then she looked at him as her hair suffocated her scream. Up his back, against the white of his shirt, was a little red picket fence. Blood burst from the back of his head where the curls of the Renaissance angel had once been.
CHAPTER 45
ON THE NIGHT BEFORE the battle, while Ceseli and Marco slept together and made plans for the future, Yifru accompanied the emperor to meet with his generals and inspect the forward positions. Haile Sellassie gave his rases orders for the positions of the artillery and mortars.
As the soldiers prepared for what might be their last battle, priests passed along the lines with their hand crosses hearing confession from these very religious people, granting absolutions and offering blessings.
By four the next morning, the thirty thousand Ethiopian soldiers were formed into three columns. Under cover of darkness, the columns moved within a few hundred yards of the enemy trenches, set up their machine guns and waited for the signal to attack. It came at dawn. A Mausser fired twice and two red rockets soared into the still dark sky.
In time with the thudding war drums, wave after wave of Ethiopians fell on the enemy trenches with that fanatical courage described in the Italian troop manuals. The sound of battle became unearthly: blood curdling yells and the low booming of the war drums. The sky was stagnated by the yells that seemed to rebound off the enemy as if waves were piling up along some rugged shore.
Crouched down with others of the imperial guard, Yohannes took the silver filigree cross which hung around his neck and polished it nervously with his fingers. To his right, he could see endless waves of amber and white, like so many puppets jerked and faltering on twisted cords. The men were running, falling, being replaced, and continuing to run as they headed for the storm.
The Italian artillery fire intensified. The sound of the machine guns was interrupted by the crack of snipers and the barrage in front of them.
Haile Sellassie’s men kept up a furious onslaught supported by the fire of a few machine guns. Then the Ethiopians switched their attack to the Mekan Pass and the left flank of the Italian army where they were hoping for less stubborn resistance from the Eritreans troops.
Pitter patter, pitter patter.
Yohannes now saw the squadrons of the Italian Royal Air Force overhead. Having earlier bombed all the Red Cross units, the same Caproni bombers had refueled and were once more on the attack. The emperor, with his only Oerilikon antiaircraft, shot into the air.
By noon, the sun was scorching. There were no clouds to hide it. No wind, not even a breeze to bring relief. Yohannes felt his tongue engorged by thirst and his khaki uniform was wet with sweat. If only night would come.
Still waiting for the guards to be called, Yohannes saw the pitted land where lumps of bodies were now obstacles. He could see the suicidal scruffy lines still struggling forward only to be driven by some divine purpose into the death-dealing guns. To his left, a man fell and a companion stopped to help him. As he watched, the man was hit again and his head opened up like a sword slashing open a melon.
At this point, Haile Sellassie ordered the Imperial Guard to attack the Italian left flank. As he ran forward, Yohannes’s whole being was now controlled by some automatic determination.
For three hours, the guard struggled to roll back the Italian flank. But despite their gallantry, the accuracy of their fire, and the fury of their onslaught, the Ethiopians were unable to break through. By 4 p.m., it was apparent that the guard was not going to capture its objective.
Although the emperor now knew that his chances of success were poor, he ordered his troops to attack along the full front. The sky was ominously overcast and it had started to rain when the three main columns stood up and surged forward one last time to attack the trenches held by the crack Italian Alpine troops.
Pitter patter, pitter patter.
Once more, the ragged suicidal line raced toward the guns. Death meant nothing as Yohannes ran on and on across the plain into the cocoon of death.
Soon night did come. As the guns grew quiet, Haile Sellassie ordered his army to fall back. It was not an orderly retreat. The soldiers were tired
and demoralized. Discipline had broken down in many of the units in which the commanders had been killed.
Close to exhaustion, Yohannes staggered to the water he had craved since noon. He put his rifle on the shore and started to wade into the water. By the light of the full moon, he could see the floating corpses of animals that had come to drink from the contaminated water. He fell to his knees. For what seemed to him an eternity, he knelt there, neither praying nor thinking, letting the tiredness wash over him. Finally, he rose and started to walk back, as if sleepwalking, to the emperor’s cave on the mountainside. All around him the earth began to move. Bent and crippled, the wounded crawled back to the other side of the valley.
After the defeat, the emperor retreated to the cave at Mount Aia. An officer approached the cave and not recognizing the man, Yifru went to intercede.
“I’ve come from the Red Cross Hospital,” he said, turning to speak to the emperor. “The field hospitals have all been bombed. The doctors and all their staff are dead.”
The emperor looked at him with tired brooding eyes. “Bombed? The Red Cross?” he asked. “The League must hear of this,” the emperor said, shaking his head as he retreated into the protection of his cave.
“There was one Italian doctor,” Yifru interrupted. “Over there,” he said, pointing up to the hill where he had sent Ceseli.
“All of the hospitals were bombed early this morning. There is nobody left alive.”
“There was a white woman,” Yifru interrupted.
“I just came from there. There is no white woman,” the officer said. “There was one doctor who was burned on a pyre, but he was already dead.”
Yifru stared at him. No, he wanted to say. It can’t be, but somehow he knew in his heart that it was. He lowered his head to hide the pain. Where was Ceseli? Was she too dead?
When the emperor withdrew for the night, Yifru looked out over the vast valley. The plight of the wounded was pitiful. Thousands were crying out to their emperor. “Abeit! Abeit! Abeit!”
The women who moved with the army to cook and care for their men, were keening. The low wailing sound of their ululations filled the night with grief. From the mountaintop cave, Yifru could see the tiny glimmer of the torches that seemed like fireflies as the women tried to rescue the wounded. According to the direction of the Coptic priests, the dead were burned.
As soon as he knew that the emperor was sleeping, Yifru left the cave and went in search of his nephew. He had a very urgent assignment for him.
CHAPTER 46
AT FIRST THE CARRION birds were just specks against the sky. Then, in circles, they lay on the imperceptible currents of air. They approached in the same orderly way, as had the Italian bombers. They turned circling on their wide wings and then descended. There was no one left to beat them back.
Bruno Zeri, following the vultures, looked around, the enormity of what he saw registering slowly in his mind. There were bodies in various stages of decomposition everywhere around the tent. The vultures had torn open some of the bodies and their feathers were red from the blood and meat they ripped away.
On the right side of the plateau, were the remnants of Marco’s Red Cross tent, its metal structure twisted and burned and the canvas charred and blackened. Zeri took his camera and began to photograph.
He walked toward the tent. The body of the Ethiopian nurse he had seen three days before lay on the ground. Her dark face had huge patches of whitish-yellow and her eyes were wide in horror. Zeri knelt beside her and closed her eyes. He found a bloodied sheet and covered her.
He hurried through the sea of bodies, hoping to find someone alive. Finally, he found the white skin he did not want to find. He walked to the body, knelt down and said a prayer. Then he unfastened the dog tag from around Marco’s neck and turned it over in his hand. H. Larson. He squeezed it and put it in his pocket. Ceseli Larson, he thought. Where was Marco’s gold chain? Had someone already stolen it?
Zeri looked for something to cover the body. Working quickly he dragged a branch over and heaped it on the body. He found two wooden chairs, already in pieces, and some small tree branches. He went back into the tent. With a precious bottle of alcohol in his hand, he approached the body and doused the wood. Then with the tip of his Tuscan cigar he lit the funeral pyre. Zeri watched until he was sure that it would burn.
Turning back to the remnants of the tent, he noticed the papers strewn about. From the charred papers, he rescued the well-worn sepia photograph. The eyes of the Afar girl seemed to have changed from mirth to profound sadness. Next to what had been a makeshift table, he found Marco’s diary.
Outside, his eye caught the metal canteen with a bullet through the side. He picked it up noticing that it was smeared with blood. Whose blood, he wondered? Looking at the ground, he saw a consistent trickle of blood that led down the hill. The well, he thought.
Zeri drew his pistol and followed the blood. There was more of it on the ground in front of the trickle of water that came over the lip of the rocks. He turned and looked warily around him. In front of him was what looked like the entrance to a large cave. Pistol in hand, he slid along the wall of rock, inching forward. The rock felt hard against his back. As he turned to peer into the cave, a mule came bolting toward him. Instinctively, he grabbed for it and caught onto the stirrup. He was dragged along with the frightened animal, almost falling before he could regain his balance. His pistol fell to the ground clattering across the rocks.
He grabbed the leg of the rider pinning it against his side and blocking the path of the mule. He grabbed the reins and weighted them against him halting the scared animal. In the dim light, he could see the rider stiffen. He pulled and the rider fell off against him. Bruno was too astonished to speak immediately. “Miss Larson!”
Ceseli looked at him, her eyes large in terror. Then she started to cry. Great heaving spasms of sound that were strangely erupting as from a wounded animal.
“Please,” Bruno Zeri said as he held her to him. It was a long time before the heaving gradually subsided. “Are you all right?” he asked with apprehension.
“I feel very dizzy. My arm hurts a lot.”
“Let me look,” he said, easing the burnoose off her shoulder. The arm was red and badly swollen, but he was sure there was no bullet inside. He noticed the thin gold chain around her neck. “You were there when they bombed?”
Ceseli Larson hesitated only for a moment. Then she threw back her tear stained face defiantly. “You bombed the Red Cross tent. That’s against every League of Nation dictate. Marco saved my life. He wouldn’t be dead except for you. He shouldn’t be dead,” she repeated, fighting back the spasms of tears that were now like a dry retching noise.
Zeri waited, holding her while her breathing returned slowly to normal. “Miss Larson,” he said, pausing. “I agree with you. Nor should thousands of others. I’m truly, truly sorry.”
Ceseli looked up into his troubled eyes. Eyes so black she almost could not see the color. Kind eyes, despite everything.
“I ask your forgiveness. I despise this war. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Marco. But remember him as the hero he was. He would have saved you again, if need be.”
Ceseli looked again into those eyes. She nodded, imperceptibly. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said, taking the reins as he led the mule back into the cave and tied it securely. “I have a jeep down on the other side of the hill. I’ll need to take it back to the Italian headquarters. I don’t want to arouse any suspicion. But I need to get you to safety before they come up here.”
“Safety? Where could that be? Marco told me you came to see him. Brought him your cigars. He doesn’t smoke,” she added, forlornly.
She’s speaking in the present tense, he thought. He stopped and looked at her more closely. “I need to get my jeep back to camp, then I’ll come back to get you.” Zeri looked at Ceseli. “I promise you, Miss Larson. I’ll be back.”
“Then wh
at?” she asked, trying to regain her composure.
“I’m going to take you somewhere where you’ll be safe. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
Ceseli looked up at him. “Whatever.”
“Now take care of the mule. We’re going to need it. It’s dark at around six, I should be back here soon after. Do you have a gun?”
“Yes. And I know how to use it.”
“Good. Try to rest. I’ll be back.”
“Won’t they miss you?”
“I’m a journalist, not a soldier. They won’t miss me.”
“If you say so. It’s not that I’m going to go anywhere else.”
“Miss Larson, please trust me. Don’t go off on your own. Promise?”
The silence was disconcerting. But it didn’t last long. “I promise.”
When Zeri had gone, Ceseli looked out at the well before sneaking out to get some water. Should she trust him, she wondered. Or should she take her chances and try to get back to Yifru. One thing she was sure of, although Zeri had not mentioned it, if they had bombed the Red Cross, what was her life worth? He could turn me in, she thought, but if he were going to do that, he would have taken me now. She filled a small terracotta cup with water and went back into the cave.
She curled up in the corner near the mule and thought about Marco. It seemed like a horrible nightmare. Through her tears she looked around her. She was hiccupping with sobs and tears. Marco was dead and there were dead people all around her. There was a deep wound just above her elbow. She was briefly mesmerized at the sight of her own blood dripping down her arm. She needed to staunch its flow. She thought of the train ride. She needed a tourniquet.
In the distance she saw the planes banking and then returning. She struggled to her feet. She looked around her as if the planes were chasing her. She ran headlong down the path to the well. Looking around her frantically she noticed the entrance to the cave. She was barely inside when the planes were back. She slid to the ground in a huddle and held her head in her arms trying to keep the hum and blasts from penetrating her brain.
Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers Page 22