Cry Wolf

by Wilbur Smith

firing all the time now. So very close."

  "Miss Camberwell, can you get a message to Major Swales?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell him I need another eighteen hours. If he can hold the Italians

  until noon tomorrow, then they cannot reach the crossroads before it is

  dark tomorrow night. It will give me another day and two nights. If

  he can hold until noon, he will have discharged with honour all his

  obligations to me, and you will all have earned the undying gratitude

  of the Emperor and all the peoples of Ethiopia. You, Mr. Barton and

  Major Swales."

  "Yes," said

  Vicky. Each word was an effort.

  "Tell him that at noon tomorrow I shall have made the best arrangements

  I can for your evacuation from Sardi. Tell him to hold hard until

  noon, and then I will spare no effort to get all of you out of

  there."

  "I will tell him."

  "Tell him that at noon tomorrow he is to order all the remaining

  Ethiopian troops to disperse into the mountains, and I will speak to

  you again on this telephone to tell you what arrangements I have been

  able to make for your safety." Lij

  Mikhael, what about the wounded, the ones who cannot disperse into the

  hills?" The silence again, and then the Prince's voice, quiet but

  heavy with grief.

  "It would be best if they fell into the hands of the Italians rather

  than the Gallas."

  "Yes,"she agreed quietly.

  "There is one other thing, Miss Camberwell." The Prince hesitated,

  and then went on firmly, "Under no circumstances are you to surrender

  yourselves to the Italians. Even in the most extreme circumstances.

  Anything-" he emphasized the word, "anything is preferable to that."

  ?

  "I have learned from our agents that sentence of death has been passed

  on you, Mr. Barton and Major Swales. You have been declared agents

  provocateurs and terrorists. You are to be handed over to Ras

  Kullah for execution of sentence. Anything would be better than

  that."

  "I understand," said Vicky softly, and she shuddered as she thought

  of

  Ras Kullah's thick pink lips, and the soft bloated hands.

  "If everything else fails, I will send an-" his voice was cut off

  abruptly, and now there was no hiss of static across the wires, only

  the dead silence of lost contact.

  For another minute Vicky tried to re-establish contact, but the handset

  was mute and the silence complete. She replaced it on its cradle, and

  closed her eyes tightly for a moment to steady herself. She had never

  felt so lonely and tired and afraid in her entire life.

  Vicky paused as she crossed the yard to the warehouse, and she looked

  up at the sky. She had not realized how late it was. There were only

  a few hours of daylight left but the cloud seemed to be breaking up.

  The sombre grey roof was higher, just on the peaks, and there were

  light patches where the sun tried to penetrate the cloud.

  She prayed quietly that it would not happen. Twice during these last

  desperate days, the cloud had lifted briefly, and each time the

  Italian bombers had come roaring at low level up the gorge. On both

  occasions, the terrible damage they had inflicted had forced Gareth to

  abandon his trenches and pull back to the next prepared position, and a

  flood of wounded and dying had engulfed them here at the hospital.

  "Let it rain," she prayed. "Please God, let it rain and rain."

  She bowed her head and hurried on into the shed, into the stench and

  the low hubbub of groans and wails. She saw that Sara was still

  assisting at the plain wooden table, inadequately screened by a

  tattered curtain of canvas, and lit by a pair of Petromax lamps.

  The German doctor was removing a shattered limb, cutting below the knee

  while the young Harari warrior thrashed weakly under the weight of the

  four orderlies who held him down.

  Vicky waited until they carried the patient away and she called to

  Sara. The two of them went out and stood breathing the sweet mountain

  air with relief as they leant close together under the overhanging roof

  of the veranda while Vicky repeated the conversation she had held

  with

  Lij Mikhael.

  "Then we were cut off. The line just went dead."

  "Yes," Sara nodded. "They have cut the wires. It is only a surprise

  that Ras

  Kullah did not do so before. The wires cross over the top of Ambo

  Sacal. Perhaps it has taken this long for them to reach it."

  "Will you go down the gorge, Sara, and give the message to Major

  Swales? I would go down in Miss Wobbly, but there is almost no fuel in

  the tank, and I

  have promised Jake not to waste it. We will need every drop later--2

  "It will be quicker on horseback anyway," Sara smiled, and I will be

  able to see Gregorius."

  "No, it won't take long," Vicky agreed.

  "They are very close." Both of them paused to listen to the Italian

  guns. The thumping detonations of the high explosive reverberated

  against the mountains, close enough to make the ground tremble under

  their feet.

  "Don't you want me to give a message to Mr. Bartonr Sara demanded

  archly. "Shall I tell him that your body crave, "No," Vicky cut her

  short, her alarm obvious. "For goodness sake don't go giving him one

  of your salacious inventions."

  "What does "salacious" mean, Miss

  Camberwell?" Sara's interest was aroused immediately.

  "It means lecherous, lustful."

  "Salacious," Sara repeated,

  memorizing it. "It's a fine word," and with gusto she tried it out.

  "My body craves you with a great salacious yearning."

  "Sara, if you tell Jake that I said that, I will murder you with my

  bare hands,"

  Vicky warned her, laughing for the first time in many days, and her

  laughter was cut off in mid flight by the single ringing scream of

  terror, and the wild animal roar that followed it.

  Suddenly the goods yard was filled with racing figures; they poured out

  of the thick stand of cedar trees that flanked the railway line, and

  they crossed the tracks in a few leaping bounds. There were hundreds

  of them and they poured into the warehouse and fell like a pack of

  wolves on the rows of helpless wounded.

  "The Gallas," whispered Sara huskily, and for a moment they stood

  paralysed with horror, staring into the gloomy cavern of the shed.

  Vicky saw the old German doctor run to meet the Galla wave, with his

  arms spread in a gesture of appeal, trying to prevent the slaughter. He

  took the thrust of a broadsword full in the centre of his chest, and a

  foot of the blade appeared magically from between his

  shoulder-blades.

  She saw a Galla, armed with a magazine-loaded rifle, run down a line of

  wounded, pausing to fire a single shot at pointblank range into each

  head.

  She saw another with a long dagger in his hand, not bothering even to

  slit the throat of the Harari wounded, before he jerked aside the

  covering of coarse jute bags and his dagger swept in a single cutting

  stroke across the exposed lower belly.

 
; She saw the shed filled with frenzied figures, their sword-arms rising

  and falling, their gunfire crashing into the supine bodies, and the

  screams of their victims ringing against the high roof, blending with

  the high excited laughter and the wild cries of the Galla.

  Sara dragged Vicky away, pulling her back behind the sheltering wall of

  the shed. It broke the spell of horror which had mesmerized

  Vicky and she ran beside the girl on flying feet.

  The car," she panted. "If we can reach the car." Miss Wobbly was

  parked beyond the station buildings under the lean-to of the loco shed

  where it was protected from the rain. Running side by side, Vicky

  and

  Sara turned the corner of the shed and ran almost into the arms of a

  dozen Gallas coming at a run in the opposite direction.

  Vicky had a glimpse of their dark faces, shining with rain and sweat,

  of the open mouths and flashing wolf-like teeth, the mad staring eyes,

  and she smelt them, the hot excited animal smell of their sweat.

  Then she was twisting away, like a hare jinking out of the track of a

  hound. A hand clutched at her shoulder, and she felt her blouse tear,

  then she was free and running, but she could hear the pounding of their

  feet close behind her, and the crazy loolooing of excitement as they

  chased.

  Sara ran with her, drawing slightly ahead as they reached the corner of

  the station building. There was the flash and the crack of a

  rifle-shot out on their left, and the bullet slammed into the wall

  beside them. From the corner of her eye Vicky saw other running

  Gallas,

  racing in from the main road of the village, their long shammas

  flapping about them as they ran to head them off.

  Sara was drawing away from her. The girl ran with the grace and speed

  of a gazelle, and Vicky could not keep pace with her. She rounded the

  corner of the station building ten paces ahead of Vicky, and stopped

  abruptly.

  Under the lean-to shelter, the angular shape of Miss Wobbly was

  wreathed in furious petals of crimson flame, and the black oily smoke

  poured from her hatches. The Gallas had reached her first. She had

  clearly been one of their first targets, and dozens of them pranced

  around her as she burned and then scattered as the Vickers ammunition

  in the bins began exploding.

  Sara had halted for only a second, but it was long enough for

  Vicky to reach her.

  "The cedar forest," gasped Sara, a hand on Vicky's arm as they changed

  direction.

  The forest was two hundred yards away across the tracks, but it was

  dense and dark, covering the broken ground along the river. They raced

  out into the open, and immediately twenty other Gallas took up the

  chase, their voices raised in the pack clamour.

  The open yard seemed to stretch to eternity as Vicky ran on ahead of

  the Gallas. The ground was slushy, so that she sank to the ankles with

  each step, and the clinging red mud sucked one of the shoes off her

  foot. So she ran on lopsidedly her feet sliding and her knees turning

  weak under her.

  Sara raced on lightly ahead, leaping the steel railway track, and her

  feet flying lightly over the muddy ground.

  The edge of the forest was fifty feet away.

  Vicky felt a foot catch as she tried to jump the tracks and she went

  down sprawling in the mud. She dragged herself to her knees. On the

  edge of the forest Sara looked back, hesitating, her eyes huge and

  glistening white in her smooth dark face.

  "Run," screamed Vicky. "Run. Tell Jake," and the girl was gone into

  the dark forest, with only a flicker of her passing like a forest

  doe.

  The butt of a rifle struck Vicky in the side, below the ribs, and she

  went down with an explosive grunt of pain into the cold red mud.

  Then there were hands tearing at her clothing, and she tried to

  fight,

  but she was blinded by the clinging wet tresses of her hair, and

  crippled with the pain of the blow. They hoisted her to her feet, and

  suddenly a new authoritative voice cracked like a whiplash, and the

  hands released her.

  She lifted her head, hunched up over her bruised belly and side.

  Through eyes blurred with tears and mud, she recognized the scarred

  face of the Galla Captain. He still wore the blue sham ma sodden now

  with rain, and the scar twisted his grin, making it seem even more

  cruel and vicious.

  The front edge of the trench had been reinforced with sandbags and

  screened with brush, and through the square observation aperture the

  view down the gorge was uninterrupted.

  Gareth propped one shoulder against the sandbags and peered down into

  the gathering gloom. Jake Barton squatted on the firing step beside

  him and studied the Englishman's face. Gareth Swales's usually

  immaculate turnout was now red with dried mud, and stained with

  sweat,

  rainwater and filth.

  A thick golden stubble of beard covered his jaw like the pelt of an

  otter, and his mustache was ragged and untrimmed. There had been no

  opportunity to change clothing or bathe in the last week. There were

  new lines etched deeply into the corners of his mouth, his forehead,

  and around his eyes, lines of pain and worry, but when he glanced up

  and caught Jake's scrutiny, he grinned and lifted an eyebrow, and the

  old devilish gleam was in his eyes. He was about to speak when from

  below them another shell came howling up through the deep shades of the

  gorge, and both of them ducked instinctively as it burst in close, but

  neither of them remarked. There had been hundreds of bursts that close

  in the last days.

  "It's breaking for certain," Gareth observed instead, and they both

  looked up at the strip of sky that showed between the mountains.

  "Yes," Jake agreed. "But it's too late. It will be dark in twenty

  minutes." It would be too late for the bombers, even if the cloud

  lifted completely. From bitter experience they knew how long it took

  for the aircraft to reach them from the airfield at Chaldi.

  "It will clear again tomorrow Gareth answered.

  "Tomorrow is another day," Jake said, but his mind dwelt on the big

  black machines. The Italian artillery fired smoke markers on to their

  trenches just as soon as they heard the drone of approaching engines in

  the open cloudless sky. The Capronis came in very low,

  their wing-tips seeming to scrape the rocky walls on each side of the

  gorge. The beat of their engines rose to an unbearable, ear-shattering

  roar, and they were so close that they could make out the features of

  the helmeted heads of the airmen in the round glass cockpits.

  Then, as they flashed overhead, the black objects detached from under

  their fuselage. The 100, kilo bombs dropped straight, their flight

  controlled by the fins, and when they struck, the explosion shocked the

  mind and numbed the body. In comparison the burst of an artillery

  shell was a squib.

  The canisters of nitrogen mustard were not aerodynamically stable,

  and they tumbled end over end and burst against the rocky slopes in a />
  splash of yellow, jellylike liquid that sprayed for hundreds of feet in

  all directions.

  Each time the bombers had come one after the other, endlessly hour

  after hour, they left the defence so broken that the wave of infantry

  that followed them could not be repelled. Each time they had been

  driven out of their trenches, to toil back, upwards to the next line of

  defence.

  This was the last line, two miles behind them stood the granite portals

  that headed the gorge, and beyond them, the town of Sardi and the open

  way to the Dessie road.

  "Why don't you try and get a little sleep, "Jake suggested, and

  involuntarily glanced down at Gareth's arm. It was swathed in strips

  of torn shirt, and suspended in a makeshift sling from around his

  neck.

  The discharge of lymph and pus and the coating of engine grease had

  soaked through the crude bandage. It was an ugly sight covered, but

  Jake remembered what it looked like without the bandage. The nitrogen

  mustard had flayed it from shoulder to wrist, as though it had been

  plunged into a pot of boiling water and Jake wondered how much good the

  coating of greene was doing it. There was no other treatment,

  however,

  and at least it kept the air from the terrible injury.

  "I'll wait until dark," Gareth murmured, and with his good hand lifted

  the binoculars to his eyes. "I've got a funny feeling. It's too quiet

  down there." They were silent again, the silence of extreme

  exhaustion.

  "It's too quiet, said Gareth again, and winced as he moved the arm.

  "They haven't got time to sit around like this. They've got to keep

  pushing pushing." And then, irrelevantly, "God, I'd give one testicle

  for a cheroot. A Romeo y Juliette-" He broke off abruptly,

  and then both of them straightened up.

  "Do you hear what I think I hear?" asked Gareth.

  "I think I do."

  "it had to come, of course, said Gareth. "I'm only surprised it took

  this long. But it's a long, hard ride from

  Asmara to here. So that's what they were waiting for." The sound was

  unmistakable in the brooding silence of the gorge, tunnelled up to them

  by the rock walls. It was faint still, but there was no doubting the

  clanking clatter, and the shrill squeak of turning steel tracks. Each

  second it grew nearer, and now they could hear the soft growl of the

  engines.

  "That has got to be the most unholy sound in the world," said