by Jack Ludlow
‘Where in the name of sweet Jesus did you get this?’ Jardine demanded.
‘A French coffee dealer had it,’ Alverson replied with a lopsided grin. ‘Thinks business will not be so good right now, so was keen to cash in, especially since Kassa commandeered his lorry, and every donkey in Harar is on the way to war, which leaves him no way of getting his coffee to the railhead even if it is harvested. My guess is he’s planning to skedaddle to Djibouti till he sees which way the wind blows.’
‘You bought it?’
‘With dollars, which speak louder to a Frenchman than thalers, Jardine. You coming?’
‘Vince?’
‘I ain’t never been in a Roller, guv, but I suppose you have.’
‘Weddings and funerals, Vince, that’s all.’
‘Both to be avoided,’ said Corrie Littleton.
‘Don’t build up your hopes of the former,’ Jardine replied, as he slung his kitbag into the back seat, Vince doing the same, both piled on top of the luggage already loaded. ‘Now, are you going to get out so Vince and I can get in?’
Both seated in the back, albeit cramped, it was Vince who called out to Tyler Alverson in a parody of a cut-glass upper-class accent that sounded very like Peter Lanchester. ‘Chop-chop, James, let’s get a move on, there’s a good chap.’
The route they needed to take led through the modern town of Dire Dawa, up into the highlands and Addis Ababa, but that was a place Tyler Alverson wanted to slip through on the very good grounds that, identified as a reporter, he could be held back from the front — he had no idea if that sanction was still in place — so it was Jardine who drove when they approached the capital, Vince in the passenger seat with his weapon prominent to keep trouble at bay, while the two Americans slunk down in the rear.
At night they set up tents and slept by the roadside, up with the lark and back on their way. The roads were crowded — thousands of the men and women of Ethiopia moving to repel the invaders — growing even more dense as more and more farmer-warriors and their wives and daughters joined the throng on the highway that led from Addis, down past Lake Tana, to the lines on the northern front.
The quartet was now part of a staggering mass movement of human bodies and animals, and not just donkeys. Oxen, either herded or pulling laden carts, mingled with sheep and goats, while spearmen dressed in that loose, white and ubiquitous cloak of the Ethiopian peasant bore, along with their weapons, baskets containing live fowl; their women carried water pots and bales of fodder high on their heads.
This was an army that carried its supplies on its back and they were cheerful, waving as they responded to the klaxon of the Rolls-Royce, and moving aside to let them through in what was, of necessity, a slow progress, even if the road was downhill the whole way. If he could not understand what was being said, Cal Jardine knew they were looking forward to the fight, but, given there were so few guns, it was the lack of weaponry that bothered him.
‘Spears, bows and arrows, Vince! I don’t know whether to be impressed or depressed.’ Jardine said this as yet another man close by the running board jabbed his spear in the air and treated the farangs to a stream of incomprehensible but happy anticipation. ‘How many of these poor sods will see their fields again?’
‘You tried to tell them, guv,’ Vince replied. ‘Don’t go getting upset because they won’t listen.’
It took the best part of three days to get to Gondar, where they heard De Bono’s forces had occupied the battlefield site of Adowa, though not by any kind of victory: the pullback from the border had let the Italians come on unopposed. The one person less comforted, once she found her mother was not in Gondar, was Corrie Littleton, something quickly established given the lady was well known.
She had spent much time in the Gondar forts and talking to local scholars but she had gone on to Aksum precisely because it was the next place the invaders would try to take, and she apparently wanted to make sure they respected the historical sites containing obelisks and ancient stelae, as well as any ancient documents.
Corrie Littleton did not have to say that was typical of her mother: the impression created by anyone who had met her was of a formidable matron who seemed to have no fear of taking on the entire invading army. There was no doubt she was in some danger, that made worse when it emerged the commander of the army of Tigray, Ras Seyoum, the man tasked with repelling De Bono, had no intention of defending the ancient capital city either.
‘We can’t just go charging up to the front lines without permission, quite apart from the fact that it’s bloody dangerous.’
If the tiled interior of the building in which they were accommodated, the only decent hotel in Gondar, was cool, she was not. ‘To hell with you, Jardine, I’ll get Tyler to let me take the car and I’ll go on my own.’
‘I said permission, idiot, which means you ask.’
‘Did my mother bother with that?’
‘Do be quiet,’ Jardine sighed, waving the pass from Ras Kassa, ‘while I go and be nice to the chaps at the local army headquarters.’
Her face lost its angry glare. ‘Sorry, Jardine, I’m worried.’
‘Wish me luck.’
‘That, and thanks.’
The local commander was a captain in a regular part of the Imperial Army, occupying a large house outside the walls of the old medieval city. The guards in their green uniforms were smart and punctilious in giving him a salute, while inside Jardine recognised that this was a building that could be quickly turned into an operational military HQ. There were numerous phones, unusual in this part of the world, desks and wall maps, which he spent some time studying while waiting to be seen. Naturally they were bereft of any military dispositions.
The captain had ‘staff’ written all over him; he reminded Cal Jardine of the kind of nattily dressed sods who had come up from Brigade HQ in 1918 to purse their lips at the lack of progress, before returning from the dirty trenches to some comfortable chateau to eat and drink of the best France had to offer. This captain was handsome, smooth, his uniform pressed and creased in all the right places, and that was allied to an air of superiority that might have hinted at high birth in a force led by aristocratic commanders; he also, fortunately, spoke good French.
When he saw who had written and signed the pass Jardine produced, his arrogance evaporated. He became positively fawning and also very forthcoming about the Italian positions, according to what intelligence he possessed, so powerful was Ras Kassa Meghoum’s name. De Bono was advancing with caution, and some of his equipment, as well as the less professional Arditi units, were causing concern in what was harsh terrain, so he had halted to consolidate; they could not be expected in Aksum for several days.
He was also not an idiot: he had been educated at the French School in Addis, hence his facility with the language, and he had learnt more than that. Before he issued written instructions to the guard posts on the road south to let Jardine and his companions pass, he also demanded, and got, the request to proceed in writing, so that he could not be held responsible for any unfortunate outcomes. Emerging to meet Vince, Jardine was smiling.
‘Don’t go thinking these chaps are all primitive, Vince. The bloke I’ve just been with is as sharp as a tack. Now let’s find Alverson, because he will most definitely want to come too.’
That proved quite a task and involved a search of the city and lots of sign language as they sought to describe an American in a pale-linen suit and a big straw hat, quite possibly chomping on a cigar. They were in receipt of many pointed directions, which either by omission or commission led nowhere. Eventually they found him by the walls of the dome-turreted castle of Fasiledes, deep in conversation with a disreputable-looking fellow who reminded Jardine of the treacherous Xasan of Zeila. Seeing them approach, Alverson waved to them to stay back and wait. It was Vince who spotted and pointed out that money was being exchanged.
‘What is he up to, guv?’
‘Maybe he’ll tell us,’ Jardine replied, as Alverson detac
hed himself and came to join them.
‘Now, that is one creepy bastard.’
‘So why are you doing business with him?’
‘To get my story out, Jardine, that’s why. No point in getting the low-down if I can’t tell the world. That sonofabitch is my way out with the news, and boy, did it take time to find him.’
Mutual explanations were exchanged as they made their way back to the hotel. It seemed Alverson’s sonofabitch was either a smuggler or maybe even a slaver. Whatever, he had a route over the Sudanese border by which the American could send out his reports to be telegraphed back to the US, thus avoiding the local censors.
‘All those lushes in Addis will get is what the Ethiopians want to tell them. My aim is to get the truth out and be ahead of the game.’ Then he smiled and rubbed his finger and thumb together. ‘No matter where you go in the world, gentlemen, there are people who will do what you want for a little grease, or in his case, Austrian thalers.’
‘You trust him? He looked like a real crook to me.’
‘I’m no patsy, brother. I have paid him some upfront money, but he only gets the real dough by return when he has sent in my copy. And as for him being a crook, don’t tell me you’ve never done a deal with a guy like that.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Definite, more like,’ Vince hooted.
Cal Jardine smiled. ‘You ever been to Hamburg, Alverson?’
‘Nope.’
‘Maybe I’ll tell you a story sometime, a good one. Now let’s stock up on some supplies, a full tank of juice, and get going before Corrie Littleton blows a gasket.’
At checkpoint after checkpoint on the rough road their papers were examined and, passed through each time, they drove on into the gathering gloom, until the great headlamps of the Rolls were all they had to light up a road still thronged with fighters; moving in the dark, this close to an enemy with air power, was sensible.
They dropped in numbers, until eventually the road was deserted, so they knew they must be passing through the front lines of the Ethiopian army; somewhere out in the darkness on either side were thousands upon thousands of silent warriors, and ahead of them, in the distance, a potent and well-equipped enemy.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Entering a place like Aksum in darkness was not a good idea, regardless of what Jardine had been told about the slow Italian advance. They spent the last hours of darkness near a military checkpoint, and it was only when daylight came that they saw they had stopped beside the ruins of what looked to have been an extensive palace. Interested as Corrie Littleton was — it was likely to be the one-time palace of the Queen of Sheba — ruins could wait; Jardine had his field glasses out, looking over the fertile fields and low hills of the plateau for signs of the Italians, and he was just about to pronounce it safe when they heard the drone of an aircraft overhead.
‘Everyone away from the car,’ he yelled. ‘Now!’
He was cursing himself as he ran: the checkpoint was heavily camouflaged and such an obvious vehicle as the silver Rolls-Royce should have been hidden from view under one of the roadside trees; he was losing his touch and that was underlined when the aircraft, a biplane, banked and came in low to have a look, showing on its tail the green, yellow and red colours of the Ethiopian air force. Having made one pass, it executed a tight turn to have another.
‘Jesus Christ, a Potez 25,’ Alverson pronounced. ‘How many of those fellas have we seen, Jardine?’
He had a point: the Potez 25 was one of those two-seater biplanes, highly manoeuvrable and infinitely adaptable, that tended to appear in a lot of conflict locations; Jardine had seen them in their homeland of France, in Paraguay, and Alverson admitted he had come across them in China. The Potez 25 was a real workhorse used for everything: light bombing, as a nippy fighter, as well as a good reconnaissance plane, though, a product of the twenties, it was sadly out of date now.
The aircraft was coming in very low and it was only the dying note of the engine that indicated it was going to land. The party on the ground watched as the wings swayed slightly, the Potez losing airspeed till its wheels touched down on the surface of the road, billowing dust mixing with a trace of smoke as the brakes were applied, the engine dropping down to a steady throb as it taxied close to them, then no more than the whisper of a dying propeller as the power was switched off.
The pilot clambered out onto the wing, then jumped to the ground, whipping off his leather flying helmet as he walked towards them to reveal a mass of blond curls over an absurdly handsome face, graced with a wide smile. His eyes, which turned out to be green close to, flicked over the quartet but settled immediately on Corrie Littleton, and there was no doubting the nature of the look he was giving her, or that those eyes had time to take in her left hand in order to know what to say.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’
The pilot effectively cut the three men out of the exchange, then added to their exclusion by taking Corrie’s hand and lifting it to his lips, without, Jardine noticed, much in the way of resistance.
‘Hi,’ she replied feebly, while his lips were still connected to her flesh. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Ah, you are American,’ he cried, with that seductive and delicious accent the French were able to give to the English language.
‘I sure am,’ Corrie said, her own voice, for all it had that habitual crack, carrying no hint of reproach at his obvious gallantry; her stance of militant womanhood seemed to have been put in abeyance. ‘Corrine Littleton is the name.’
‘An unusual and attractive name it is too.’ The pilot, having delivered that over-egged compliment, finally deigned to acknowledge she was not alone. ‘And your amis are also American?’
‘No bloody fear,’ said Vince, which got him a look from Alverson, who was quick to reply.
‘I am. Tyler Alverson,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘If he kisses the back of that, I’m leaving,’ Vince added, which got him another hard look.
‘You I would suspect to be English by your voice, but such dark skin is-’
Unaware that he was on the edge of an insult, and quite possibly a belt on the nose, for Vince was close to looking like a native now, the pilot was saved by Jardine interrupting and introducing both himself and Vince, explaining that his friend was half-Italian, that information responded to with a raised eyebrow.
‘The right half,’ Vince snarled. ‘You know, the one on your side.’
‘And you are?’ Jardine enquired.
‘Count Henri de Billancourt, monsieur, serving in the air force of His Imperial Majesty, Haile Selassie.’
‘Count Henri?’ asked Corrie Littleton, in a voice that was not only high but had a trace of simper.
‘Not a very large air force,’ Jardine interjected, not quite knowing why he felt the need to deflate the man’s air of self-importance. ‘And, sadly, with out-of-date equipment.’
De Billancourt did not quite bristle, but he let Jardine know he was aware of the diminishing nature of the comment. ‘Monsieur, we make up in elan what we lack in numbers and modernity.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Alverson said, favouring Jardine with an annoying grin. ‘Can I ask what you are doing here?’
‘Why, I am looking out for the enemy, but when I see such a car on the roadside it tickles my curiosity, so I must come and look.’
‘You speak very good English, Count,’ said Corrie Littleton, who then added, in a tone of faux fluster, ‘Do I call you “Count”, or what?’
‘Mademoiselle,’ the pilot said, in a voice too oily for all three of her companions, who were forced to look away, ‘you must call me Henri.’
‘How close are the Italians to Aksum?’ asked Jardine, in a voice a bit too sharp, and one that got him a narrow-eyed look from those green eyes.
‘Only, my mother is there, we think, and I fear for her safety,’ explained Corrie Littleton.
‘Then perhaps, mademoiselle, you would care to come with me and have a
look, to see where those Italian sons-of-whores are.’
‘Am I allowed to clock him one, guv?’
‘No, Vince,’ Jardine replied, aware that what had been said was too colloquial for even this French aristocrat to understand. ‘It might be of more use if I come with you, monsieur?’
‘Pourquoi?’ he demanded.
Tempted to reply in French, Jardine stopped himself, either through pique or precaution, he was unsure. The only certainty was that his intervention was not appreciated by Corrie Littleton.
‘I am an ex-soldier, Count Henri, and I think I would make a better observer than Miss Littleton. In fact, I am surprised you are flying alone.’
‘Airspeed, monsieur, the Italian Fiats are faster than the Potez. However …’ de Billancourt shrugged. ‘I hope you can manage a pair of Vickers machine guns.’
‘The captain can,’ snapped Vince, ‘and better than you think, Froggie.’
After a nod at the rank, the green eyes turned slowly to Vince, who was sure the man’s nostrils flared. ‘Perhaps you will be good enough to spin the propeller for me?’
For all the courtesy of the way that sounded, this Frenchman was telling Vince he could spot a member of the other ranks. Vince’s fists tightened, his shoulders stiffened and his feet moved for the balance needed to deliver a punch.
‘If you don’t mind, Vince,’ Cal Jardine said.
‘For you, guv,’ Vince replied, slowly relaxing.
Count Henri was already on his way back to his plane. Jardine observed the way he expertly back-jumped onto the lower wing before spinning round and up like a ballet dancer to make his cockpit in one smooth manoeuvre. Jardine needed a hand up from Vince, the rear cockpit not being accessible from the wing, and as he settled in to the cramped space, a leather helmet and a pair of gloves were flicked back into his lap. By the time he had strapped himself in, Vince was on the propeller, and at a signal from de Billancourt he swung hard as the Frenchman pressed the ignition, the engine firing immediately and the exhaust pipes emitting smelly clouds of black smoke and a strong smell of kerosene.
