Cry Wolf

by Wilbur Smith

  Priscilla's hull hot as a wood stove.

  "Look out for Number One," he murmured, and took a leisurely sweep of

  the land with the glasses. There was no way that an Italian patrol

  could surprise them here. He had selected the stake-out with a

  soldier's eye for ground, and he congratulated himself again, as he

  slumped in relaxation against the turret and lit a cheroot.

  "Now," he thought. "Just how do you take on a squadron of cavalry

  tanks, without artillery, mine-fields or armour-piercing guns ?" and

  he let his mind tease and worry the problem. A couple of hours later

  he had decided that there were ways, but all of them depended on having

  the tanks come in at the right place, from the right direction at the

  right time. "Which, of course, is an animal of a completely different

  breed," and that took a lot more thought. Another hour later he knew

  there was only one way the Italian armoured squadron could be made to

  co-operate in its own destruction. "The jolly old donkey and the

  carrot trick again," he thought. "Now all we need is a carrot."

  Instinctively he looked down at where Jake lay curled. Jake had not

  moved once in all the hours, only the deep soft rumble of his breathing

  showed he was still alive. Gareth felt a prickle of irritation that he

  should be enjoying such undisturbed rest.

  The heat was a heavy oppressive pall, pressing down upon the earth,

  beating like a gong upon Gareth's head.

  The sweat dried almost instantly upon his skin, leaving a rime of salt

  crystals, and he screwed up his eyes as he swept the horizon with the

  glasses.

  The glare and the mirage had obscured the horizon, blotted out even the

  nearest ridges behind a shifting throbbing curtain of hot air that

  seemed thick as water, swirling and spiralling in wavering columns and

  sluggish eddies.

  Gareth blinked his eyes, and shook the drops of sweat from his

  eyebrows. He glanced at his watch. It was still another hour until

  Jake's shift, and he contemplated putting his watch forward. It was

  distinctly uncomfortable up on the hull in the sun, and he glanced

  again at the sleeping form in the shade.

  Just then he caught a sound on the thick heated air, a soft quiver of

  sound, like the hive murmur of bees. There was no way in which to tell

  the direction of the sound, and Gareth crouched attentively,

  straining for it. It faded and returned, faded and returned again, but

  this time stronger and more definite. The configuration of the land

  and the flawed and heat-faulted air were playing tricks on the ear.

  Suddenly the volume of sound climbed swiftly, becoming a humming growl

  that shook in the. heat.

  Gareth swung the glasses to the east; it seemed to emanate from the

  whole curve of the eastern horizon, like the animal growl of the

  surf.

  For an instant the glare and swirling mirage opened enough for him to

  see a huge darkly distorted shape, a grotesque lumbering monster on

  four stilt-like legs, seeming as tall as a double-storey building.

  Then the mirage closed down again swiftly, leaving Gareth blinking with

  doubt and alarm at what he had seen. But now the growl of sound beat

  steadily in the air.

  Jake," he called urgently, and was answered by a snort and a changed

  volume of snore. Gareth broke off a branch from the layer of

  camouflage and tossed it at the reclining figure. It caught Jake in

  the back of the neck and he came angrily awake, one fist bunched and

  ready to punch.

  "What the hell-'he snarled.

  "Come up here, "called Gareth.

  "I can't see a damned thing," muttered Jake, standing high on the

  turret and peering eastwards through his glasses. The sound was now a

  deep drumming growl, but the wall of glare and mirage was close and

  impenetrable.

  "There!" shouted Gareth.

  "Oh my God!" cried Jake.

  The huge shape leaped out at them suddenly. Very close, very black and

  tall, blown up by distortion and mirage to gargantuan proportions. Its

  shape changed constantly, so at one moment it looked like a four-masted

  ship under a full suit of black sails then it altered swiftly into a

  towering black tadpole shape that wriggled and swam through the soupy

  air.

  "What the hell is it? "Gareth demanded.

  "I don't know, but it's making a noise like a squadron of Italian tanks

  and it's coming straight at us."

  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 bum

  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, god-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 quantities 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.
<
br />   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 assure 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 coarse 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 cocked 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 massive, the fall of his huge pads

  thumping against the earth like the beat of a bass 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 bloody 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 glass 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 Massawa 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 bumped back up the ridge and over the skyline.

  The Count settled himself comfortably in the canvas chair. With a

  sigh, he unbuttoned 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 glass of the wine on the folding table at

  the Count's elbow. Next, he loaded the

  Marmlicher with shiny new brass 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.