Cry Wolf
Page 46
"Until later," whispered Jake. "Now get out of here!" and he turned
her away and pushed her towards the car. He turned himself and ran
lightly back into the dunes, with his heart singing.
"Oh, Miss Camberwell, I am so pleased for you." Sara reached down to
help Vicky up on to the hull. "I knew it was going to be Mr. Barton.
I picked him for you long ago, but I wanted you to find out for
yourself."
"Sara, my dear. Please don't say any more." Vicky hugged her briefly
before dropping into the driver's hatch. "Or the whole thing will turn
upside down again." Ras Golam was so tired and drained that he could
move only at a creaking walk up the dune, even though
Gareth tried to prod him into a trot. He plodded on up the dune
dragging the sword behind him.
Suddenly there was a sound in the sky above them, as though the heavens
had been split by all the winds of hell.
A rising, rattling shriek that passed and then erupted in a towering
column of sand and yellow swirling fumes against the side of the dune
ahead of them, fifty paces below the car that was silhouetted upon the
crest.
"Guns,"said Gareth unnecessarily. "Time to go, Grandpa," and he would
have prodded the Ras again, but there was no need. The sound of
gunfire had rejuvenated the Ras instantly; he leaped high in the air,
uttering that dreadful screech of a challenge and hunting frantically
for his teeth in the folds of his sham ma
"Oh no, you don't." Grimly, Gareth forestalled the next wild suicidal
charge by grabbing the Ras and dragging him protestingly towards the
car. The Ras had tasted blood now, and he wanted to go in on foot with
the sword the way a real warrior fights and he was frantically
searching the open horizons for the enemy, as Gareth towed him away
backwards.
The next shell burst beyond the crest, out of sight in the trough.
"The first one under, and the second over," muttered Gareth,
struggling to control the Ras's wild lunges. "Where does the next one
go?" They had almost reached the car when it came in, arcing across
the wide lioncoloured plain, through the low grey cloud, howling and
rattling the heavens; it plunged down at an acute angle, going in
through the thin plating behind the turret of the car, and it burst
against the steel floor of the cab.
The car burst like a paper bag. The entire turret was lifted from its
seating and went high in the air in a flash of crimson flame and sooty
smoke.
Gareth dragged the Ras down on to the sand and held him there while
scraps of flying steel and other debris splattered around them.
It lasted only seconds and the Ras tried to rise again, but Gareth held
him down while the shattered hull of the car brewed up into a fiery
explosion of burning gasoline and the Vickers ammunition in the bins
began popping and flying like fireworks.
It lasted a long time, and when at last the crackle of ammunition died
away, Gareth lifted his head cautiously; immediately another belt
caught and rattled away with white tracer flying and spluttering,
forcing them flat again.
"Come on, Rassey," sighed Gareth at last. "Let's see if we can beg a
ride home." At that moment, the ugly, well beloved shape of
Priscilla the Pig roared abruptly over the crest of the dune and slewed
to a halt above them.
"God," Jake shouted from the driver's hatch. "I thought you were in it
when she blew. I came to pick up the pieces." Dragging the Ras,
Gareth climbed up the side of the tall hull.
"This is becoming a habit," Gareth grunted. "That's two I owe you.
"I'll send you an account," Jake promised, and then ducked
instinctively as the next shell came shrieking in to burst so close
that dust and smoke blew into their faces.
"I get this strange feeling we should move on now," suggested
Gareth mildly. "That is, if you have no other plans." Jake sent the
car plunging steeply down the face of the dune, turning hard as he hit
the firmer earth of the plain and setting a running course for where
the mouth of the gorge was hidden by the smoky writhing curtains of
cloud and rain.
Vicky Camberwell saw them coming and swung Miss Wobbly and gunned her
on to a parallel course. Wheel to wheel, the two elderly machines
bounded across the flat land, and the rain began to crackle against the
steel hulls in minute white bursts that blurred their outlines as the
next Italian shell burst fifty feet ahead of them,
forcing them to swerve to avoid the fuming crater.
"Can you see where the battery is?" yelled Jake, and Gareth answered
him, clinging to one of the welded brackets above the hatch,
rain streaming down his face and soaking the front of his white
shirt.
"They are in the ground that the Gallas deserted, they've probably
taken over the trenches I dug with such loving care."
"Could we have a go at them? "Jake suggested.
"No we can't, old son. I sited those positions myself.
They're tight. You just keep going for the gorge. Our only hope is to
get into the second line of positions that I have prepared at the first
waterfall." Then he shook his head sorrowfully, screwing up his eyes
against the stinging raindrops. "You and this crazy old bastard,"
he turned his head to the Ras beside him, "you'll be the death of me,
you two will The Ras grinned happily at him, convinced that they were
charging into a battle again, and deliriously happy at the prospect.
"How do you do?" he cackled, and punched Gareth's shoulder
gleefully.
"Could be better, old boy," Gareth assured him. "Could be a lot
better," and they both ducked as the next shell came howling low over
their heads.
"Those fellows are improving Gareth observed mildly.
"God knows they've had plenty of practice recently, "Jake shouted,
and Gareth rolled his eyes upwards to the heavy bruised cloud banks.
"Let there be rain," he intoned, and instantly the thunder cracked and
the clouds lit internally with a brilliant electric burst of light.
The splattering drops increased their tempo, and the air turned milky
with slanting drumming lances of rain.
"Amazing, Major Swales. I would not have believed it," said
Gregorius Maryam from the turret above Gareth's head, and his voice was
hushed with awe.
"Nothing to it, my lad," Gareth disclaimed. "Just a direct line to the
top." Rain filled the air in a white teeming fog, so that Jake had to
screw up his eyes against the driving needles, and his black curls
clung in a sodden mass to his scalp.
Rain wiped out the mountains and the rocky portals of the gorge,
so that Jake steered by instinct alone. It roared against the racing
steel hull, and closed down visibility to a circle of twenty yards.
The Italian shellfire stopped abruptly, as the gunners were
unsighted.
Rain pounded every inch of exposed skin, striking with a force that
stung painfully, snapping against their faces with a jarring impact
that made the teeth ache in their jaws, and sent them c
rouching for
what little cover there was on the exposed hull.
"Good Lord, how long does this go on for?" protested Gareth, and he
spat the sodden butt of his cheroot over the side.
"Four months," shouted Gregorius. "It rains for four months now."
"Or until you tell it to stop." Jake grinned wryly, and glanced across
at the other machine.
Sara waved reassuringly from the turret of Miss Wobbly, her face
screwed up against the driving raindrops and the thick mane of hair
plastered to her shoulders and face. Icy rain had soaked the silken
sharnma she wore and it clung transparently to her body, and her fat
little breasts showed through as though they were naked, bouncing to
each exaggerated movement of the car.
Suddenly the mist of rain ahead of them was filled with hurrying
figures, all of them clad in the long sodden sharnmas of the Harari;
carrying their weapons, they were running and staggering forward
through the rain towards the mouth of the gorge.
Gregorius shouted encouragement to them as they sped past, and then
translated quickly.
"I have told them we will hold the enemy at the first waterfall they
are to spread the word." And he turned back to shout again when
suddenly with a startled oath Jake braked and swung the car violently
to avoid a pile of human bodies strewn in their path.
"This is where the Italian machine-gunners caught them," Sara yelled
across the gap, and as if in confirmation there came the tearing
ripping sound of the machine guns off in the rain mist.
Jake threaded the car past the piles of bodies and then looked around
to make sure Vicky was following.
"Now what the hell!" He realized they were alone. "That woman.
That crazy woman," and he braked, slammed Priscilla into reverse and
roared back into the fog until the dark shape of Miss Wobbly loomed up
again.
"No," said Gareth. "I can't bear it." Vicky and Sara were out of the
parked car, hurrying amongst the piles of bodies, stooping over a
wounded warrior and between them dragging him upright and thrusting him
through the open rear doors of the cab. Others, less gravely
wounded,
were limping and crawling towards the machine, and dragging themselves
aboard.
"Come on, Vicky, "Jake yelled.
"We can't leave them here, she yelled back.
"We've got to get to the waterfall," he tried to explain.
"We've got to stop the retreat." But he might not have spoken, for the
two women turned back to their task.
"Vicky!" Jake shouted again.
"If you help it won't take so long, "she called obstinately, and
Jake shrugged helplessly before climbing down out of the hatch.
Both cars were crammed with dreadfully wounded and dying Harari,
and the hulls were thick with those who still had strength to hold
on,
before Vicky was satisfied.
"We've lost fifteen minutes. "Gareth glanced at his pocket watch in
the rain that still poured down with unabated fury.
"And that could be enough to get us all killed, and lose us the
gorge."
"It was worth it," Vicky told him stubbornly, and ran to her car. Again
the heavily burdened machines ground on towards the mountain pass, and
now they had to ignore the pitiful appeals of the wounded they passed.
They lay in huddles of rags soaked with rain and diluted pink blood, or
they crawled painfully and doggedly on towards the mountain, lifting
brown, agonized faces and pleading, clawlike hands,
hands as the two machines roared past in the mist.
Once a freak gap in the rain opened visibility to a mile around them,
and a pale shaft of watery sunlight slanted down to strike the cars
like a stage light, glistening on the wet steel hulls.
Immediately the Italian machine guns opened on them from a range of a
mere two hundred yards, and the bullets cut into the clinging mass of
humanity, knocking a dozen of them shrieking from their perch before
the rain closed in again, hiding them in its soft white protective
bosom.
They ran into the main camp below the gorge, and found that it was
plunged into terrible confusion. It had been heavily shelled and
machine-gunned, and then the rain had turned it all into a deep muddy
soup of broken flattened tents, and scattered equipment.
Dead horses and human corpses were half buried in the mud, here and
there a terrified dog or a lost child scurried through the rain.
Spasmodic fighting was still taking place in the rocky ground around
the camp, and they caught glimpses of Italian uniforms on the slopes
and muzzle-flashes in the gloom.
Every few seconds a shell would howl in through the rain and cloud and
burst with sullen fury somewhere out of sight.
"Head for the gorge," shouted Gareth. "Don't stop here," and Jake took
the path that skirted the grove of camel thorns the direct path that
passed below and out of sight of the fighting on the slopes,
crossed the Sardi River and plunged into the gaping maw of the gorge.
"My men are holding them," Gregorius shouted proudly.
"They are holding the gorge. We must go to their aid."
"Our place is at the first waterfall. "Gareth raised his voice for the
first time.
"They can't hold here not when the Eyetie brings up his guns. We've
got to get set at the first waterfall to have a chance." He looked
back to where the other car should have been following them, and he
groaned.
"No! Oh, please God, no."
"What is it? "jake head popped out of the driver's hatch with alarm.
"They've done it again."
"Who ?" But Jake need not have asked.
The following car had swung off the direct track, and was now storming
up through the rain-blurred camel-Thorn trees, heading for the old
tented camp in the grove, and only incidentally running directly into
the area where the heavy fighting was still rattling and crackling in
the rain.
"Catch her," Gareth said. "Head her off." Jake swung off the track
and went zigzagging up through the grove with the rear wheels spinning
and spraying red mud and slush. But Miss Wobbly had a clear start and
a straight run up the secondary track directly into the enemy advance;
she disappeared amongst the trees and curtains of rain.
Jake brought the car bellowing out into the camp to find Miss
Wobbly parked in the open clearing. The tents had been flattened and
the whole area trodden and looted, cases of rations and clothing burst
open and soaked with rain; the muddy red canvas of the tents hung
flapping in the trees or lay half buried.
From the turret, Sara was firing the Vickers into the trees of the
grove, and answering fire whined and crackled around the car. Jake
glimpsed running Italian figures, and turned the car so that his own
gun would bear.
"Get into them, Greg," he yelled, and the boy crouched down behind the
gun and fired a long thunderous burst that tore shreds of bark off the
trees and dropped at least one of the running Italians. Jake lifted
hims
elf out of the driver's hatch, and then froze and stared in
disbelief.
Victoria Camberwell was out of the armoured car, plodding around in the
soup of red mud, oblivious to the gunfire that whickered and crackled
about her.
"Vicky!" he cried in despair, and she stooped and snatched something
out of the mud with a cry of triumph. Now at last she turned and
scampered back to Miss Wobbly, crossing a few feet in front of
Jake.
"What the hell-" he protested.
"My typewriter and my toilet bag," she explained reasonably,
holding her muddy trophies aloft. "One has got my make-up in it, and
I
can't do my job without the other," and then she smiled like a wet
bedraggled puppy.
"We can go now, "she said.
The track up the gorge was crowded with men and "animals, toiling
wearily upwards in the icy rain.
The pack animals slipped and slithered in the loose footing.
Gareth's relief was intense when he saw the bulky shapes of the Vickers
strapped to the humpy backs of a dozen camels, and the cases of
ammunition riding high in the panniers. His men had done their work
and saved the guns.
"Go with them, Greg," he ordered. "See them safely up to the first
waterfall," and the boy jumped down to take command, while the two cars
ploughed on slowly through the sea of humanity.
"There's no fight left in them," said Jake, looking down into the
dispirited brown faces, running with rainwater and shivering in the
cold.
"They'll fight," answered Gareth, and he nudged the Ras.
"What do you say, Grandpa?" The Ras grinned a weary toothless grin,
but his wet clothing clung to the gaunt old frame like the rags of a
scarecrow, as Jake brought the car round the slippery, glassy hairpin
bend below the first waterfall.
"Pull in here," Gareth told him, and then scrambled down beside the
hull, drawing the Ras down with him.
"Thanks, old son." He looked up at Jake. "Take the cars up to
Sardi, and get rid of these-" He indicated the sorry cargo of
wounded.
"Try and find a suitable building for a hospital. Leave that to Vicky
it'll keep her out of mischief.
Either that or we'll have to tie her up--2 he grinned, and then was
serious. "Try and contact Lij Mikhael. Tell him the position here.
Tell him the Gallas have deserted and I'll be hard pressed to hold the