by Jack Ludlow
When it came to the weapons and boxes of ammunition Vince took care of the loading end with Peter Lanchester’s very obvious Colt pistol in his belt. Jardine, likewise armed, escorted each consignment to shore and saw it handed over to Ras Kassa. Camels were being led to the shoreline in strings of ten at a time to have panniers strapped on under his supervision, then taken back to the wells to be unloaded, given they would be rested there overnight.
It was slow going and hard work under a hot sun, so when, escorted by Mason, Tyler Alverson and Corrie Littleton arrived and issued cheerful greetings, they got the sharper end of Jardine’s tongue and were told to stay out of the way.
It was near to night when they got to the last crates, and once Vince’s baggage was on board the time came for he and Jardine to say farewell, which included rewarding the captain and spreading a few gratuities to the crew and the cook. The Suez Canal tonnage fees for the return were paid, as well as the cost of refuelling at Port Said.
Such a parting, especially for Vince, was not without a degree of sentiment, for this lot had not only accepted the risk but had behaved with real credit, so cheerful waves and cries of good luck in several languages marked the final parting.
There was trouble with Xasan, not that it came as a surprise, given the look of the man and his previous hard bargaining: Jardine expected he would demand extra payment, citing a list of imagined tasks over and above those previously agreed. He had to be bought off, though not without an argument.
If the ugly old bugger had not been told what the cargo was beforehand, it took no genius, given the presence of Ethiopians, even if he had no way of deciphering the German markings, to work out what the wooden crates contained. The border with French Somalia was not far off, and any talk of this contraband in the bazaars and tea shops of Djibouti could easily reach Italian ears, not much further up the coast.
The two Americans had bought a pair of donkeys, which were now burdened by a serious amount of baggage, not least Alverson’s typewriter and camera tripod. The American set up his Leica on that so he could take a photograph as a memento of Zeila and the story he would write, once the weapons were safely delivered, without, of course, using any names.
Vince was introduced and, easily identified as an ex-boxer, he found an immediate soulmate in the middle-aged newspaperman. The two of them were soon locked in what seemed like a competition to name the greatest number of famous pugilists, which lasted all the way to the wells, not, in truth, more than a mile distant, an oasis of verdant green in what was a barren landscape of sand and coastal scrub.
The weapons were in a pile surrounded by the squatting camels and their drovers, while Ras Kassa’s warriors formed a circular guard around the encampment, several of them armed with ancient rifles, most with spears, some with bows and arrows.
They were tall willowy men in very white shammas, a sort of paletot garment that was wrapped round the body with a part thrown over the shoulder, all lean muscle and supple movement. In a sense, it was Jardine’s first look at what made up the bulk of the Ethiopian army, though it was too soon to make a judgement on their discipline or ability; but if the weaponry was standard, then they were in for a hard fight.
The ras had set up a tent and it was to that Mason took them, with Jardine wondering what Kassa would say about the two Americans tagging along, a worry soon laid to rest: the Ethiopian was delighted when he found out Alverson was a reporter. He thought telling the world about Italian intentions a good thing, that it was a badly mistaken notion to keep correspondents from abroad away from the front lines. With Corrie Littleton he was such a perfect gentleman that she was immediately smitten.
Soon food was cooking on spits – they were strong on meat in this part of the world – while one of the drovers was crouched over a large flat stone, that too on burning wood, cooking great roundels of unleavened bread. While they were eating, more tents were put up, one for the Caucasian men, plus another small one for Corrie Littleton, as Ras Kassa, already photographed, answered a stream of questions posed by Alverson. Jardine did not interject: the American was asking the questions he would have put himself.
‘We have pulled back our forces fifty miles on the Eritrean front to avoid giving our enemies the excuse of an incident. Also, it is near desert, so crossing it will weaken them, for the road they have built ends at the border and they must drive their vehicles across bad open country. The infantry, too, will suffer before they meet our fighters.’
Alverson next asked what the force levels were, a question, when it came to the Italians, Jardine answered from memory, a feat that much impressed his host. The reverse was not the case: the way Ras Kassa boasted of an Ethiopian army of over a million men rang a little false. Jardine was in no position to argue, he just thought the claim smacked of exaggeration, or perhaps to be kinder, wishful thinking, rather than the truth.
‘What about tanks and aircraft, Ras?’ Jardine asked.
For the first time the gentlemanly Ethiopian looked irritated, only a flash across the face but enough to tell Jardine the question was unwelcome; his army had a few First World War tanks and, according to what was known, less than thirty aircraft, against an enemy who numbered those assets in the hundreds.
‘We will beat them even if they do have many of these things, for God is on our side, and I am bound to ask again why the democratic nations do not send us such weapons.’
That, in effect, killed the conversation stone dead, moving it to more general topics and, after a hard day, it was time for everyone to sleep, barring those set to guard the encampment.
At dawn the trio formed to say goodbye to Conrad Mason, a man who had risked his career in aiding this enterprise, as well as turning a blind eye to the wishes of the two Americans, though he waited until the Ethiopians finished their prayers so he could have a quiet talk with Ras Kassa.
The last act, just before he mounted the horse that would take him back to Berbera, was a quiet word with Cal Jardine, who, while insisting his own influence was nil, intimated he knew certain people – he was thinking of Peter Lanchester and perhaps even Monty Redfern – who might be able to put in a word and get the man a better posting.
Mason was not looking at him as he made the offer, seemingly intent on the drovers carrying out their ritual morning task of combing their camels for their moulting hair, a saleable commodity once enough was gathered.
‘No thanks, Jardine. Odd as it seems, I am rather fond of this part of the world, don’t you know?’
He was no longer looking away, indeed the stare that accompanied those words was direct and challenging, as if Mason was daring him to allude to the real reason he was happy to remain in Somaliland; it was an invitation declined, but Jardine was determined to test the colonial officer as well, even if, in his heart, he knew it to be both unwise and potentially a cause of trouble.
‘Give my regards and thanks to your wife, for everything.’
‘Ah yes, Margery,’ Mason said absent-mindedly, as if she were a distant person suddenly recalled. ‘She is not the finest hostess in the world, but she does her best.’
‘On the contrary, I found her very accommodating.’
The last word hung in the air, but Mason was not to be drawn, though it was noticeable his farewell handshake was a little firmer. Jardine was tempted to add that, while Mason was content to stay here, he doubted if that applied to her, but he put such a comment aside too, on the very good grounds that it was really none of his business: you never knew the secrets of a marriage – God only knew how that applied to him – and it was something best to steer clear of.
Mason’s departure combined with the arrival of a troop of women leading camels, which set up one of those vocal matches between their beasts and the Ethiopian animals, who voiced their resentment at the intrusion while the Somalis’ camels responded in kind. It seemed they had come to fetch water, Zeila having none, so every drop had to be carried in on a daily basis and no doubt sold, a thriving and everlasting bu
siness. Though the visitors could not understand what was being said, it was apparent the Ethiopian fighting men were making lewd suggestions to these women, offers that were being rudely rejected.
‘I noticed some of your men are armed,’ Jardine said, as, with the water ladies gone, he rejoined Ras Kassa. ‘How safe are we travelling back to your homeland?’
‘Less safe than coming, Mr Jardine, given we will have much worth stealing and we will need to go by a different route to that by which caravans normally travel to and from the coast.’
Seeing an explanation was required he carried on speaking.
‘We are, as you know, landlocked, and since our easiest routes to the sea have been blocked by our enemies we must trade through the only major port left to us. With Massawa and Mogadishu in Italian hands that only leaves Djibouti, and not everything goes by rail – the ancient methods are very much still in use. Normally our caravans travel by a more southerly route that would take us through your British capital of Hargeisa, where we enjoy protection from your Camel Corps, but that, for obvious reasons, given what we are carrying, is not open to us.’
‘So the route we will use is?’
‘The one by which we came here, an old slavers’ route along the border with French Somaliland.’
‘Dangerous.’
‘The French are only really interested in Djibouti, and inland is not fertile, it is barren, waterless and hot, which allows the local Somali tribesmen who live by selling salt to be lawless if they choose, but we are numerous, so we should be safe.’
‘Nevertheless, I think it would be an idea to issue some modern weapons here and now and make sure your men know how to use them. Those ancient pieces are not likely to be accurate and there are, in truth, not many of them.’
‘You say that before you have seen these men use them.’
‘I’m sure they are good shots. They will be even more deadly with more modern arms.’
That exchange left a question hanging in the air. Now the guns were off the ship, who was in charge of getting them to where they were needed? It was all very well for Cal Jardine to see his task as delivery to the source of the conflict, but all he had was himself, Vince and his military experience; Ras Kassa had a hundred warriors, albeit poorly armed, and was close to his home turf. If the old man insisted on taking charge he would not get an argument: they were, after all, on the same side.
Ras Kassa waved at the pile of crates. ‘Mr Jardine, they are yours to do with as you wish.’
Appreciating the courtesy, there was only one reply. ‘Not so, Ras. My task may be to get them to Addis Ababa but even here they are the property of your emperor, and since you represent him …’
The smile was as slow as the nod. ‘Then I think your suggestion a good one.’
‘Then select ten of your men – we do not have time to work with them all.’
‘Ah, the jealousies that will cause.’
Jardine grinned: that would happen with any group of young warriors. ‘We’ll do ten a day, tell them.’
‘You know, Vince,’ Jardine said, as he leant over what should be a box of rifles with a jemmy in his hand, ‘I have just had a notion it might have been us who were diddled. These boxes might be full of nothing but stones.’
‘Not to worry, guv, everyone keeps telling me this here fight we’re heading for is between David and Goliath, so that might be no bad thing.’
‘Did you bring a catapult?’
‘I knew I’d forgotten something.’
The act of opening a box got everyone’s attention and a crowd had gathered by the time Jardine had wrenched it open to reveal the top layer of Karabiner 98s, heavily greased on the metal parts, the whole layered by oiled paper, with another tier underneath. The first task was to get them cleaned, prior to opening a box of M88 ammunition.
Jardine set up a rough target on a tree trunk and personally tested each weapon, filling the oasis with the sound of single gunshots, adjusting the sights as he went. He then handed the rifles over to the selected warriors and had them aim and fire in dumb show before allowing them one bullet each, with he and Vince supervising the way they held and aimed them to contain the recoil: broken shoulders were not a good idea.
He knew that Ras Kassa was dying to get his hands on one of them, but his dignity and quite possibly his rank forbade him to ask. Jardine was teasing him, for amongst the cases was a much better weapon for a man who ranked as a high aristocrat; if no one else could read the case markings he could, and the second box he opened contained, according to the lettering, M35 sub-machine guns.
These were weapons he had heard of but never seen, the very latest kit issued to the German army, but a gun is a gun – this one the successor to several previous versions – and once you have learnt how to take apart and reassemble one, you pretty much know how to do them all.
Equally well-greased on the metal parts, the first one he prepared and assembled himself, a task that he had not undertaken since Palestine days. Vince did not have to be asked: he just got on with opening a box of 9 mm bullets and slotting them into a magazine. Jardine set it to single shot to adjust the sights, then fired off a burst that removed several branches of a palm tree. Happy it was working properly, he reloaded it with a second magazine and presented it to a beaming Ras Kassa.
‘A weapon that befits your rank, sir.’
‘Does that come under the heading of sweet talk?’ Corrie Littleton asked, in a voice sugary but false, as the ras went to test his weapon.
‘Always be nice to the natives, something you Americans never quite got hold of.’
‘Like you Limeys did?’ Alverson demanded. ‘Remind me to a have a word with Mahatma Ghandi.’
‘Spare us the pieties, buster,’ Corrie Littleton said, ‘when do I get a weapon?’
‘Can you use one?’
‘Try me.’
Jardine nodded and fetched a rifle, checked the bolt to make sure the chamber was clear and handed it over. He knew immediately that this was a woman who had handled guns: she made sure the muzzle was pointed safely up in the air, then worked the bolt before asking, ‘Do I get a stripper clip?’ There was a moment then when Jardine had to make sense of that; not long, for he realised she meant a speed loader.
‘Maybe, when we find out if we have any and where they are; right now stick to a single shot.’
Corrie Littleton, having loaded the weapon, stepped up and took aim, screwing the stock into the crook of her shoulder, with a slight twist on her left leading hand, the twin acts that seated the weapon properly and allowed her to cope with the recoil. All around the men had stopped and were watching her, feet planted for balance, leaning very slightly forward. Squinting along the barrel her pull on the trigger was controlled and she put her shot about six inches from the middle of the target.
‘Damn, I’m out of practice.’
‘That should stop anyone creeping into your tent, honey,’ Alverson said.
‘Who would want to?’ Jardine replied, which got him a good sight of her tongue. ‘I have to get some more weapons ready, but it’s time to load up.’
Such a thing was easier said than done, camels being awkward beasts, much given to biting even the men they knew well. They were not in the least willing to cooperate as their double panniers were lashed onto their backs, before being tied together in lines of ten, which would be fronted by a lead male and rider.
Moving between them, wary of being kicked or bitten, which many of them tried to do, Cal Jardine carried two flat pieces of wood, taken from the one now broken-up wooden crate. Beside each loaded camel he stopped, then cracked the two pieces of wood close to their ears. If they jumped away, he walked on; for those that seemed indifferent, he had a word with the drover who would lead them.
‘What are you up to, guv?’
‘I wondered if we might rustle up a couple of zamburaks, Vince.’
‘As long as you don’t want me to work one of them! I don’t want to mount a camel, never mind on
e with a machine gun on its hump.’
‘We probably won’t have time. For now we have to get moving, so get your head and mouth covered.’
The need for that was obvious once they emerged from the shade of the oasis trees: a great cloud of dust kicked up by the camels’ hooves. That was picked up and blown about by a wind that came off the now-invisible Indian Ocean. Ras Kassa, sitting on a donkey, his feet near to touching the ground, led the two Americans, likewise mounted, to the front of the line where they were able to stay ahead of the beasts of burden, while their warrior escort lined up on both sides.
Wrapped in the kind of desert gear they had not worn since Iraq, a turban round both head and mouth and square kitbags on their backs, Jardine and Vince walked ahead of the whole caravan, M36s slung over their shoulders and their eyes scanning the landscape for possible threats. The sun beat down, which meant frequent trips to the female camel bearing the water skins, though care was taken: this was not the worst they would face, and the habit of conservation of liquid was a good one to employ.
The men leading the camel strings seemed to be asleep, gently rocking on the backs of their animals, and it was only if you got close you could hear them singing softly to themselves, dirges that probably went back to ancient times. Jardine was thinking that his fellow Britons would see this, a camel caravan, as romantic; he knew better – it was stinking because they stank, and even with a covered mouth he was spitting dust and cursing the annoying cloud of flies around his head. He also ruminated on another hazard, the sheer danger of the landscape itself, this being a place where a scratch from a thorn bush could give you fatal blood poisoning, as could the bite from any number of insects.
